IN A SPRING GARDEN.

Otago Witness, Issue 2545, 24 December 1902, Page 67

IN A SPRING GARDEN.

I. ««> By Nicholson.

L Lydie Hill lounged comfortably in the biggest hammock on the homestead verandah and watched the distant form of her brother till it disappeared below a slight rise half a mile along the dim, winding road. September had almost gone, and the pulse of spring beat full in all the wide, grey land ; and Lydia, too, felt it throbbing in heart and brain with a new, strange intensity that she had never known before. Two days ago she had left ihe wet, windy town, where winter still held sway, and here, on her brother's inland farm, the joy of the waiting springtime stood revealed in suddenly contrasted splendour. To the right of the homestead, beyond the road, across half a mile or so of yellow level tussock, the girl could see where, the river" glinted silverly amongst the tender,, feathery -green of weeping willows.; 5 whileto "the" left, a row of peach' trees In "full bloom showed pink, against the .great snow.. streaked range that overshadowed' the plain two miles away. Directly before, the house, beyond the "garden, al'thicka I 'thick .plantation- of pines- and poplars' cut brokenly into the pale primrose sky. The sun jiad justset, and Lydie could' hear the sweeping swish of the cleud-like- flocks of birds that swept in from all quarters to this, the only resting-place the barren plains offeredthem. Hidden amongst the pines a little creek, swelled with melted snow from l the Ellis, filled all the clean, crisp air with its insistent chatter, and the girl lay still and drifted in heart and soul upon the incoming tide of the magic of the spring. Presently the garden gate clicked. A step sounded upon the gravel, and Lydie awoke from her dreaming with a start. "Why, it's you, Dick," she said, flushing. "I'd forgotten you were coming this evening. John has gone .to the township on some business ir other. I'm sorry you missed him." "Are you? I'm not," said her cousin frankly, as he came towards her. "I'm only too glad to have you to myself for an hour. It seems to me you have been away since the Flood." Still holding her hand, he led her back to the hammock, and then propped himself on the balustrade beside if, clicking his heels together boyishly and looking dbwtt> at her half quizzically, half- questioningly. " Well, it's*very good to &se you again," he went on presently. "When~ you went away, you know, I didn't think I would miss you \half as much as I did. Seriously, though, Lydie^ the- whole district has been counting the days till you; should come again. Ma M'Carthy held on to my stirrupiron for a good half hour yesterday, and poured out her woes steadily all tile time. The muscles of my neck are stiff still, with nodding my head up and down and saying 'Yes,' 'No,' 'Really?' I was trying fec-«Iy to intimate by such means that I was still there, and would- like to get a word now and then, but she didn't think of it in that light at all. Her six kiddies, it seems, have grown to some extent since you were here last, and, faith, they've all got such different temperatures she cannot make head nor tail of half of them. Miss Lydie was the only person that could do anything with Ada and Min — and so on. Poor old Connell, too, is still intent upon converting Bert, their eldest boy, and Mrs M'Garthy described, with tears, how that very morning he, had chased Bert round the cowshed for goodness knows how long, and eventually, upon capturing him, he 4iad forced him down upon his knees, roaring out — 'Pray, you young divil — pray.' And,* as the poor woman remarked piously, ' One doesn't mind him bein' religious, but he has no right to be profane at the same time.' " Lydie laughed, and Dick went 'on — "By the way, I came across poor old Willis the day you came up, and he asked after you too, and said he would run over some time this week." "Oh," Mark Willis?" said Lydie indifferently. "He's going .to Australia- soon, isn't he? Tell me, l»as he been — been keeping straight lately?' "As a die — lately. Soon after you went away, though, he had a rare old time. I sat up with -him one night when he was very much' so-so. There was a small piece of paper on the floor, I remember, and the draught from under the door made it rise up and down, and I'm such a dull idiot — it was ages before I discovered that that was the devil which was putting out his tongue at him. ... I say, Miladi. don't look at me like that. I haven't paid anything I shouldn't, have I? Pleasp, dear, I'm sorry. . . . Look here, you're not cryii •%, are you? Of all the rough brutes!" He stood up. six'feet of quick d.'smay, looking down at her, and struggling with a mad longing to stoop and touch her hair — to take hold of the hands that had suddenly covered her face. But she look them away in a moment, and looked up with a half laugh. "Don't be idiotic, Dick," she said. "Why on earth should Ibe crvinp? But don't you know that it's perfectly horrid of you to tell a woman a thing likp that? If ever do so again. I'll never speak to you as long as I live, so there." She struggled to her feet and faced him with flaming cheeks for a moment, and then began t. laugh a little. "My dear, are we both mad?'' she said. "What has happened? Do you remember that I asked you over this evening to plan my spring garden? And here we are doing amateur hysterics instead. We ere a bright pair. (Dick, I forbid you .to look at me in that tone of voice, and I've told you so before.) It's that plot by tbe corner of the conservatory that I'm bothered about. It becomes a pond if the weather is even grey. Don't you think it would be a good plan to grow irises and reedy things Uiieifis«' 4

But he flung oujt liis .hands exaspera* tingly. "Miladi," he said, slowly, "by all means? grow reedy things— irises — sponges, if you like — in your precious plot, only let me say; my say low. You've stopped me more times than I can count, but you're not going to do fio this time — no, not if I know it." The garden gate creaked upon its rusty hinges" once more, and Lydie at the sight" of her brother breathed • a bi'ief thanksgiving. "Why, John," she called briskly, "wT were just wondering how much longer you would be!"

, n. Two days later. Again the violet-scented garden, md Lydie, with spade and "trowel," toiling in it, her sweet face beneath tha big sun hat, pink end damp with 'exertion. She felt Mark Willis' coming before she saw him walking down the long gravel path to where she knelt, planting the. last' two or three seedlings in a border of lobelia — and just because at sight of hij face she knew suddenly that-\here was th-j key to .this new wonder, of the spring, -she*, affected not to see him -coming,, but knelt ; :on,.' hammering" lustily* at" a big' recalcitrant' . clod, -which ref-ased"tb:be;pulverised.'under. - tthe vigorous trowel.'-* ■.'..■"■ "» ■ • . When 1 she looked up, at last lie was stands ing beside her, the. sunshine bn his v kindlyV ' worn face and ' prematurely grey" hair; aifd*?*^ -she- realised- with a sudden^ sharp pity tha x !; ten* years had passed 1 for ( £im sinee 1 they had last met. ' - , They strolled round the garden, together,., Lydie pausing before a -laurel hedge, to point out just how the nasturtiums— bronze, and crimson, and yellow — would climb and, play > at hide-and-seek amongst it* tinkling, glossy, leaves ir the good .summer days that were to be. And farther o.n, past, the daffodil bed, they saw where a row of stately, nodding sunflowers was to. glow goldenly against . the dusky pine plantation behind... Here , was to be a long screen of trailing ■ sweet peas, and here a broad patch of mignonette, while here, on a chance grey dayj the ■ dainty nemophyila must bear witness to the colour all properly behaved- skies stould be. * -. „ - But all the girl's bright chatter and en* ■ thusiasm failed to rouse Mark Willis irom the sombre mood in which he had first greeted her. "Don't be quite sure that your spring has really come," he said ai last gravely, i "I saw snow in the clouds three days "ago. and you surely know the vagaries- of this wonderful' Otago- climate by thiS'time.- Eor,-*> ,my part,\B never ,knew-the v spring -yet- that? '• fulfilled gne-third , of . its . promise— and' Fnv > older, if- not so -wise as you, Miss- -Hill." '• > He saw the quick saddening of her brigh'fc - face, and went on gently-^ ■ „. "Buff that's my own ' f ault,.isn't it?.. For us— -' we' of" the ruck; 'who .have- failed'—^ - there is always ' the joy in which we cannot rejoice — tbe glory we shall not find,' and I'm afraid most^of us more than envy those who do find it. To us, a day like this only brings an acuter consciousness of the loss of all that makes life in any way worth the living." He hesitated f~'- a moment, and then — "You know that I leave for the other : side to-morrow, don't you? I hated \coming to say good-bye, but I- wanted just one more glimpse of my little chum. I thought perhaps it might help to make a man of' me in the new life over there." His halting speech stopped ' suddenly. They were standing by the little garden gate. He held out his hand shyly — dumbly. But the girl clasped her own "behind her back. - y , "You are not going to say good-bye like this — to me?" she said with white lips.. "Do ' you remember what you said when I went ' to town six months ago? You did not write or send one message to me while I was away — but, still, do you remember?" His eyes met hers full for a moment. "I remember, little woman," he said gently, "but you must forget. I was mad that day — I have come to my senses now. What am I worth in myself? With this curse of drink upon me I am not fit to' touch, your—any woman's— shoe. I ' know what X am doing, fit's hard now, but you'll \Jbe, glad' . some day — and soon, too. And we both know »f some one who cares for you "nearly as much as — f-Lvdie— little girl— don"t. look. j like' that. It's, death for me In any oase-7-don't make it hell too !" , For one moment the pain of^ his grey; face' came upon her, never, to be "forgotten.'.. Then she heard the gate shut with its' „ familiar click and his footsteps, swift and decided, dying into the distance. And the storm came, as Mark Willis had predicted. Before evening the big clouds swept down, thick and black, upon the ranges, and the plains lay sullen and cowed beneath the fury of the mountain winds. All night long darkness and desolation raged together, and in the morning the garden stood, stripped and bare, snow -covered. But snow must pass, and seeds, once sowHj ever spring to life and sunshine, and whu lias ever heard of one night's .storm lelay ing the summer that awaits us all?

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