SHORT STORIES. THE CHANGING WINDS.

Otago Witness, Issue 2578, 12 August 1903, Page 74

SHORT STORIES. THE CHANGING WINDS.

- By Thos. J. Pembeutojt.

- (For the Witness.) The song of tfie moko-moko, , with its rtrange evening notes, awakens a train of pleasant thought in my mind, and carries me back to the lotns land, co dear to the hearts of ;those that knew its charms. The very air breathes romance, and what many we expect but the oft-repeated story which can never die while yet ths flowers bloom, the birds sing, and th& sun shines? I was seated before my tent smoking placidly and listening to the music of the -'bush. The summer day was closing. Perhaps I was beginning to weary of my lonely life among, the hills, and Jong for a glimpse of the -town and a chat with my dear old comrade Hilliard. Three- months ihad passed ' since" I had- seen "him— three months since we helped each other into y difficulties s and lost, our billets. Of course 1 blamed him,, and he blamed me»; but we ifinaUy decided'that it was the management -*hafe was' at fa'dlt, and that 'our. names' 'would 6e. hdniled down to. posterity as blessed martyrs" to "the cause of truth. I remember we drank -success to one an-, other, . aiid that it would be for the benefit of us' both to take different roads, and so,»,we parted. I had spent" three years amidst the hum and bustle and dissipations of city life, bo I decided that a rest in the wilds with no one.but,nature as a companion would be both beneficial and economical. Perhaps it was necessity *; I will not deny it. " Town "life without work requires' capital-; moreover, the hearts of unpaid tradesmen do not bubble with sympathy.

So I had found my way to my lotus land. Some distance from my camp a patch of fallen bush several acres in extent showed where, -my destroying axe had passed qver,- for- it was thus "I employed my time ; and I hoped- to save enough to keep me in town during the winter until such time as I could again settle down' to my accustomed work. Musing there in the evening twilight, where no other sound but the songs of the birds and the language of the trees was wont -to greet my ears, I was surprised to hear in the distance the familiar strains of a comic opera. He had come,' then ; something told me that he

would. ..-,.. . • / . - . r r '"" "Your 'story?" I asked when he had finished his meal of cold mutton and bread • and lea, and had helped himself to my tobacco. ' \'l came,"-he began, 'after taking two' or' 'three deep draws at his pipe,' "because you -minted me, because pur lives are not worth living apart ; and I .came to show you the way to make a fortune." ' "Which all means," I added, "that you're ' ■broke." ' "I am not broke. I have three blankets, some eld clothes, a hat I borrowed, and • this suit I am wearing, which still belongs to the tailor who made it. . I suggested' that he should use "my name "as a recommendation in lieu of payment, but he declined the offer." "And your life since I left you — what ha^ it been?" I asked. "Sadness without 'you ;' hopes deferred,' ambitions blighted: Got a position as tutor to some. 'juvenile lunatics — thought I was losing/ my own mental balance, so left. 3fow, let me tell you why I came here. As soon as I heard where you were I saw that Fate had had a hand in the game. Do you know who owns three-quarters of this bay?" "Yes," I replied, "Maxwell, the man I am working for." "Then you don't know, so I'll tell you. It's only>hy chance I heard, but I paid a {hilling to look up. the will, and I've got th* whole thing written out in my pocket book here. . - No ; . Miss Maxwell, the niece of - this man, is Hole heir to the estate. Maxwell is a trustee, and is managing the property. The girl was in town ivhen I i left, and though I didn't see her myself, I lieard all about her. She tfas to return shortly, and, I think, should now be 1 home. Three weeks ago she celebrated her j twenty-first birthday, and came into full. f ossession of her rights. All this I can : iirove." "Well?" ' "Do you think these things happen by chance? Why, don't you undeistand that you are blesstd of heaven, sent here at the psychological moment- to reap the harvest that iras meant for you to reap? You've got to win that girl, and these hills, or else you are throwing away the opportunities that God has given you." "Well, go on," I said — "the details : let's have the details." "Details, man! There are no details. You've got as decent a looking plu'z as I've seen ; yon'v-3 got somp sense when you like to use it ; and you know as much about women as any man I've met. ' What mojje do you want? And, when you've got the hills, I've paid you back what I owe you, and I shall" go on my way thanking heaven that I've been the means of saving a brother anortal from starvation." "And your commission?" "Send me a, box of cigars, ask me to Spend a week at the homestead occasionally -that's all I ask." "If you've finished talking rot I'll tell you what I intend to do. To-morrow I " knock off bush-felling and start on my patch of grass-seed up the valley a bit. We won't need to shift camp. You'll probably cut three fingers off to-morrow, perhaps two the next day, and one the next, but that will leave you four, so it will be all right." "But the girl? — you're not going to let her slip through your fingers, are you?" "I'm here to work, not to carry out a huge swindling concern^ so let's drop the business. ~

We. talked on of -old times, of future hopes, and lived in the glamour that only the friendship of kindred souls can produce. The candle burned down lower and lower, and it was not until long past midnight that tlie warning splutterings told us that the first happy hours of our reunion had gone.

The next day we settled down to our work. Hilliard knew what work was, and each other's company made our long day a pleasure. , A week went by, the endless acres of grass-seed began to go down before our sickles, and in the evenings, smoking before our camp fire, we speculated on the mysteries of life, rehearsed the future, lived again the past, and forgot that we were wanderers toiling for our daily bread.

It was Sunday night. All day the scorching nor' -west wind had been thundering down the valley; the hillside was an undulating sea of waving grass seed-, which ths hoardes of workers who had been gathering through the week had scarce begun to reap ; through the bush the howling wind swept with ruthless force, tearing off the branches as it ..went ; and all iday long the sky had vorn that gruesome copper hue* which told of ruin in other parts and meant so .much to" the .owners of those oceans of precious seed. We strengthened our lent ropes, and then prepared for what we knew might be an anxious, sleepless night. The air seemed ■like the blast from ia, furnace, and the smell of smoke came mors strongly as the hours went by. At midnight we heard the clatter of horse hoofs on the valley-road, and presently Maxwell made 'his way through, the bush.

"There's work to-night, boys !" he shouted above- the howling of the wind; "all hands to the northern ridge. The grass seed is on fire in the next bay, and W3 may be able to stop it before it reaches the top. There are' horses down in the yards ; you'll find rope there to make bridles, and sreks, as many as you can carry, bring up with you. You know the track up," he added to me; "follow as quickly as possible."

In a few minutes we were down at the homestead, had procured a couple of horses, and, taking as many sacks as we could conveniently carry before us, started up the valley again. Striking away from the road we took the track which led up ia spur to the northern ridge of the bay. By this time the sky was lit up a brilliant red, and from spur to spur the shouts of the gangs of campers could he heard as they hailed one another to the work in hand. After half an hour's climb we arrived at the top, and could look down at the flames licking up the golden grain as they leapt up the face ' of the hill, seemingly with resistless speed. The men. had already got to work, and' while 'some were down -the hill battling with the ouruslung flames others were burning la track along the top. "This last precaution, however, was futile, fdr on rushed the flames, leaving no time for strategy. Then all went desperately to work, and for hours we solidly fought, each wielding a sack or a branch. No sooner was one portion put out than back again we would rush to check another wave of fire. The' smoke was suffocating at times, and one by one the men dropped back for a moment's breathing space; then on to the desperate fight again. Hilliard fought by my side most of the time ; he never seemed to rest, for whatever he' took up he did like a madman. Earliei in the Slight he had thrown his burning shirt aside, and now he stood, bared to the waist, streaming with perspiration, his body blackened with the smoke and ash. Back and back the fire- drove us. Then the cry of water rose. Hilliard turned to me for a moment. "I'd give my hat for a quart of beer!" "You forget it's only a borrowed one," I reminded him.

Those who have fought with the flames, and have breathed for an, horn* or two the smoke from a grass fire, may know the desperate overpowering thirst it brings. We had, been for three hours in the Jieat and smoke, and now our tongues and mouths were parched. Hilliard was chewing desperately at a piece of wood, and still wielding his sack with almost as much energy as at the beginning, hut there were others 'whose, stamina was giving out. Maxwell came along the line of men, speaking to each and encouraging them all. "If you save my seed to-night, boys, I'll see that you're weli paid for your woik. There's water coming up the hill now, so come back one by one." These words seemed to put new life into all, and we set to ag"ain with renewed vigour. Then from that line of smoke-bagriined men there went" up a feeble cheer. "Feeble though it was, for it was difficult to even speak with throats like ours, it was the most heaitfelt sound we heard that night. Over the brow of the hill behind us we could just distinguish a caravan of three horses. The first two heavy pack horses canned in huge milk cans hung to the saddles that for which we all cravtd, and riding behind we could make out through the smoke the figure of a woman. One by one from the right the men rushed back and drank their fill. It seemed almost hours before my turn came. I was on the right of Hilliard, and it never struck me to «&k him to go first. It was water that I was thinking of, and as I drank the first pannikin which the girl handed me I took no note of who she was. As I had my nose buried deep in the second I glanced afc her for a moment. I was surprised to see standing before me, smiling at my intense appreciation of the pannikin's contents, not a homely farm maid, as I expected, but a girl who should have been far away from such scenes as these on eucu a night. Her beautiful long waving hair was loo*e and uncovered, and flowing wildly over her neck and shoulders, driven by the fierce gusts of the scorching wind. A close-fitting white jersey displayed the contour of a perfect figure. I almost made up mv mind to drink another pint of water, so that I might study more closely the exquisite harmony of her features, but I remembered Hilliard, and thanked her and returned to my post, i "I don't think lam thirsty," said Hd-

Hard when I returned ; "better let the nexfc man go."

"What the deuce is the matter with you mtv?" And then it dawned. on me. I pulled my bhekened shirt off, and threw it to him.

"Thanks," he said; "I'm proud of my figure, but one must use discretion at all times." .

By this time our efforts had proved of some avail, for the lower portion of the spur we had found it possible to leave, knowing that it wis safe, and if we could drive the fire up to tb'e top of the hill, although the seed on the higher parts might be destroyed, the valley would be saved, and the people over the range and in the next bay could battle for themselves, for there the wind must drive the ruthless flames. Occupied as we had been by our own section of the work, wo had not noticed how those further up the spur had fared. Suddenly from some four hundred yards liigher up there came a cry for more (help, and as we looked we saw the danger. Prom the top of the spur,, running halfway down into the home valley, was a bolt of fallen bush of about a- hundred and fifty yards wide. TFie summer sun had already dried it in readiness for the burning in the late autumn, but if once this got a start now most of the gra?s of the" bay must jbe destro}'ed, for the sparks from the burning busli, would start the seed in a hundred places. The fire seemed to have gained most at that point, and it wanted, bub another hundred yards and all would be lost. Maxwell came along the line and picked out half of us to make for the weak point. The remainder extended upward, thus supplying greater numbers still to man the critical point. Through the long grass at the back of the line of men we- xan, ever and again stumbling over the fallen -tree trunks, all that remained of the giants of the past. It was well that reinforcements had been called, for the men here had not tasted water since the struggle began, and their strength was fast giving out.

It was a desperate fight. Seventy yards more, and the bush would go; but we fought for that seventy yards with all the strength that was left us. Little by little we conquered. At the lower corner we had the flames out at fifty yards away from tli9 fatal trees, and nearer and nearer the black line drew as we ascended the spur to the higher .corner of the belt of fallen timber. Could we stave it off? Another desperate quarter of an- hour, and we were fighting with our backs almost against the outer scrub, and the sparks were lighting dangerously on the dried timber. Five more minutes, and we liad swept the flames clear of _tli3 bush;, and the word came from MaxwelJ to let the fire have its own way. Then a group of wont-out, blackened men watched the destroyer leap on its way unchecked-; up, the spur towards the top of the range it almost flew, licking up hundreds ox pounds' worth of seed on its fearful.way. Here and there the flames crept down into the home valley, but fortunately the seed on these north-eastern, higher and steeper slopes was yet green, though that above on the brow of the spur had already had the full benefit of the sun. ' Just as the copper light <of approaching day began to appear in the east w% saw the last of the flames pass over the ridge, and we breathed a word of sympathy for those whose work was yet before them. The broken string of men and horses that wearily picked their way down the track that morning formed a stiange picture.

When I reached my tent I bathed in the beautifully cold waters of the creek, and put on fresh clothes befoie going down to the homestead, for all had been invited there tp refresh themselves. It struck me it was strange that Hilliard had not waited for me at the hill-lop, or, at least, at the camp ; but as I had stayed almost till the last, I had no doubt that he was already at the house. As I entered the yard, some 40 men were scattered about in groups, eating and drinking, and fighting their battle over again. The women folk were kept bubily employed cutting up meat and bread, and serving the ale, and I noticed that the ghl who had brought the water to the scene of the fire was conducting the operations. I looked round to find Hilliard, but lie was nowhere to be seen. I went round again, and still could see nothing of him. Then something seemed to strike me like a skdge-hammer. Something must have happened. I went hastily over to the girl who had been with us on the. hill. "When you handed me water earlier this morning I was blacker than I am now, but do you remember me?" She looked at me for a moment, and then (■he said :

"You have been working in the main creek bush for a month or two, have j-ou not?" '■''

"Yes, yes."' I said, almost impatiently I fear ; "but do you remember seeing me this morning on the hill?" "I think 1 do, but why do you a^k?" "Do you remember the man that followed me, a handsome fellow, with a felfc hat on, a little too new to be worn for such woik as ours this morning? Ah ! I ?ee you remember. Have you seen him since?" Then a light almost of terror came into her eyes.

"Quick !" she said, moving away towards the stable*. "Wasn't he with you •when you saved the bush?" "No." "Then he is up" there .still, for when he left me he .started straight up for the bush. I saw him trip over a hidden log, and, although I did iiot see him get up, I thought he must have done so, so I took no move notice, for I was too busy. My horse is in the stable, and I think there are two others."

In a minute I had one of the animals saddled and led out into the open. My companion followed with hers saddled and bridled.

"But you are not coming up that liill again?' 1 I said when I saw her intention. "I know the exact place, and while you are looking for it he may bz suffering." "You are tired," I said - t "jou have not

slept since yesterday morning. I can go alone."

The only reply she gave was to ask me to help her to her saddle. I followed in a moment, and we were out of the gate "and off up the valley at a gallop before anyone knew of our departure. Another twenty minutes saw us on the brow of ' the spur. By this time the , first rays of the sun were showing, over the eastern, range, and the wind had dropped at the approach~of sunrise. It was a weird sight after the brilliance of a few hours before. The valley thaA lay before us was a sea of black, where tEe previous day had besn a smiling paradise. I looked for a moment down into the home valley, and thought of what it might Lave been by now. We left the horses with their bridles dragging, and I followed my companion down through the long grass to where she had seen Hilliard stumble. My worst anticipations* wore realised. Hilliard was lying at the bottom of a slip, half stupid with pain. He was not a coward, and he tried to rousehimself and speak cheerfully when he saw that help had arrived, but I could see that it was with a. fearful effort, and I realised what he must have suffered during those two hours alone. It was quite evident what had happened. He had tripped over a small tree-trunk at the edge of the slip, and, before he could recover himself,' he had fallen into the crevasse, at the bottom, of which the hard rock had been left exposed. He was badly cut about the face, and a glance showed. me that his right leg was fractured. We tied the broken limb in position as best we could, and tried to mount him on the back of one of the horses, but the pain was too great for him to bear. To improvise a stretcher was out of the question. At last, recognising that it was futile to attempt anything further without aid, and cursing my foolishness for not bringing help in the first place, I left my companion to look after Hilliard while I rode down to the valley for 1 the second time that morning. Within an- hour j I was back again. Miss Maxwell (for I concluded this- must be the girl of whom Hilliard had spoken) was tenderly supporting the patient's head when we arrived, j and the two were chatting quite cheerfully ' together. We carried him down the hill, and Maxwell insisted on taking him, tc«.his I house. Hilliard, on account of the exertions of the previous night and the intense pain that he had undergone, succumbed to nervous exhaustion before midday, and for the few hours previous to the doctor's arrival I spent most of my time muttering oaths and cursing his tardiness. Miss Maxwell smiled at my impatience.

'•He should be here very" soon," .she. said. "Wouldn't you like to go and get "a. little skep yourself? I can look after your friond.'J " s

~"I have be«n. wondering, Miss Maxwell," I said, "how much longer you can,- stick to your guns, and still look as fresh and bright as you did when I saw you over the top of that pannikin last night. I can't sleep, but I'll go and have a pipe outside and sooth my feelings a bit. . Hilliard won't die while you're looking aftev him ; he's got more sense." 4

To my intense relief the doctor did arrive at last. That night I lay on a< sofa in Hilliard's room, but- neither of us slept much. Towards morning a reaction set in, and the patient became feverish, so I sat up and watched him anxiously until 5 o'clock. At that time Miss Maxwell came in looking bright and beautiful. She questioned .me aDout poor Hilliard, and then sent me off to a room that had been prepared for me. "Both of us are strangers," I said before I went, "and yet you sacrifice yourself like this for us. You .have my thanks," and I pressed her hand" warmly.

Three weeks later I was sitting at Hilliard's bedside smoking a pipe with him. I had charge of a grass-seed gang, but it had been raining hard for two days, and, as we had suspended work for the time being, I had taken the opportunity of spending the afternoon with my friend. "You must think I'm a nuisance," he said after we - had puffed silently for a minute. "For the last year I've" been your greatest burden, and here I am again." "Burdens, my boy, are sometimes pleasant to bear, so don't begin to get sentimental."

"Sentimental, be hanged! I was going to talk common 'sense. £ hat was merely an introductory remark."

"Go on, then."

"Well, the fact of the matter is there's something wrong. I've sponged on these people enough, and I can't stand their kindness any longer. Who the deuce am I that they should treat me like they have? Can't you get me out to your camp? Surely I'll be able to walk in a day or two."

"You've got three weeks more on your back, I'm afraid. Aren't you •enjoying yourself -with such a charming nurse to talk to half the day?"

I looked straight intc his eyes to see whether the shot struck. For a. few moments he kept a perfectly rigid countenance. "You're a clever old beast, aren't you?" he said at last. "You think I've been caught in my own trap, ehV "I don"t think— l know. If you haven t you must be as tough as I am. By-the-bye, the commission holds good for me, I pre-

sume?" "You brute! If I could get up, Id kick you through that window and throw all the furniture in the room at you. Do you think I'm a cad? If only that cursed money were at the bottom of the sea !" "Poor old beggar. As bad as that? You once had a desire for these hills ; your accident must have turned your head."

" ifou— you callous old scoundrel ; don't s,it there grinning like a jackanapes. Get me out of this."

"And lose my commission? not a bit of it. You stay here and don't let your conscience- trouble you .so much. "You don't want to spend your life bush-whacking, do you? Man, don't you recognise adispensation of Providence when it- comes?" -' ]S\o, 1 don't ; and I won't. I've got, a

grain- of honour left, though since Tv& known you I've lost most of it." "• Here "we ended our friendly quarrel, but; I had heard enougn to know that Hilliard was rather in earnest, and I understood woman's nature well enough 'to see that a" change was coming over ' Miss Maxwell., Another four weeks went by. The last of my seed had been threshed, riddled, .and; bagged, and. I was spending an" afternoon) . with my friend in Maxwell's orchard. H© was now able-fo hobble; and day by day ' \he was gaining strength. " Though his health was improving rapidly, 'he seemed! far from being the same old Hilliard that he wti3 before his accident. He Iliad vouchsafed to me nothing concerning Miss Maxwell ; but I knew that she iwas the cause of His melancholy moods, and! at last I 'broached the subject. , , : " The fact of the matter is," at last he said, "I'm about as miserable as- -I"canr;pot£ ' sibly be. I've got a doctor's bill as long' a? my arm, and I owe a debt of gratitude -which I can never repay. I've been a nuisance to everybody,! and it's about time I disappeared for good and all. I'm a useless brute, without an aim in life. As a last favour, the last I shall ever ask you, lend me enough to gel me back to town, and I'll go by to-morrow's coach." "Podr old boy," I said as kindly, as I' could, "you have my sympathy. - If it\were a few we.eks.ago,l should hare; laughed at; you'; 'but now I think for once- .yoir.have ( cause to complain ; but, after al£ we get, over these things and -we ; forget- these .little heartaches-^forget the girls who caused them." ' , - , " You might ; you've found it convenient to forget them all your life." I "Forget what— the girk or the heartaches?" "You forget heartaches? You never *ha<T one to forget." Just then Miss Maxwell, looking the brightest and the sweetest flower in •that" summer garden, came down the path to- v wards us. !A.s' we watched her approaching, * Hilliard seemed to be torn in an agony of indecision. " Can I go?" he said, bitterly. ''Why on, earlh did I ever come here? Tell me what co do. Bah ! I'm going mad. Tell her I have to go to-morrow." " Miss Maxwell," I said as she joined us, "■here is a poor fellow bemoaning his fate that he has to leave this paradise to-mor-row. I think I shall be going, too, so' we shall both have to say good-bye to you today. It is hard to find words to thank you for your kindness to my poor* old' brokenu]»» friend here; but perhaps you will understand our gratitude, f or ten that une said- speaks more thanVwords".". • , -•'» ' ■'- -'My. words seejned to stun "her.' For .several moments .she. wa'« unable- to. reoly. 'I • turned my face aivay arid -Rretended T did. not -.see* her embarrassment.- To fiiake the position worse still, ' Hilliard was staring ' into space like a fool. At last; with an effort, she recovered herself and spoke with apparent .composure : ■ • ; /' But you will stay to the big dance we are having next' week? You know my cousin is coining home-, and I'm sure-father counts on both" of jon being there;" ' -"-' "Father, cousin!" Hilliard bhnted put. "You never told me Mr Maxwell was your father." I remembered I had .to see Mr Maxwell on business, and Lleft the two there. When I got out of earshot I ' let out a , lbng whistle and etarted up the road for my camp. That- evening, as I was strolling quietly down to the homestead ag-ain, wondering what would be the upshot of it all, I suddenly came upon Hilliard and Miss Maxwell laughing and talking like two happy children. ; " I suppose you have got your things packed up," I said quite solemnly to Hilliard. " Things ! what thiugs?" " Why, your blankets and clothes, ready to start in the morning." " Oh! look here, old man," he said, coaxingly, "I don't think my leg's fit to' go for a day or two yet ; let's stay." " Yes, you are both going to stay until after the dance," added' Miss Maxwell, looking sweetly up into my face. "Look here!" said I, "there's'somemystery about this business. I want- £o know it all or else *' "And so you shall, old man," broke in Hilliard, taking my hand in both his and leading me aside. Miss Maxwell smiled and walked slowly up the road. " You know what's happened, I sup--pose," he continued. "There is no cursed moiiey to trouble my conscience now, and I know the cousin that owns it is as ugly as sin, or if she isn't, she ought to be. I've been a fool, 'but I'll prove that I've got something in me after all. We'll go back to town ; it won't be long before we are in harness again, and then we'll show them what we are worth. Say you'll help me, eld man. And then perhaps two years, perhaps less Do you think I can do it in that time?'' I knew if once Hilliard could grasp himself firmly he was brilliant enough to be at the head' of his profession, nd a leader of men. " You have stolen from me something that I hold very dear," I said to Miss Maxwell when we joined her ; "but I- am happy in the thought that, where I failed to ennoble a great nature, you have already succeeded." " I have made you none the poorer," she replied. "You had one true friend, now 3*ou have two.*' "I believe it," I said. "Now, Hilliard, we've stuck together in dissipation and adversity, let us stick together to the end.^ Here, and now, we'll pledge ourselves to go back and work aud live, not for our own mad follies as -we have done, but soberly and earnestly for the betterment of our positions, until such a time as you may return and claim your heart's desire." " 'The old order changeth, yielding place to new,' !> quoted Hilliaid, as he took my hand. "We can do it." And we did.

WOLFE'S SCHNAPPS the purest spirit ia the woild. A^k for Woljb's,