SHORT STORIES,

Otago Witness, Issue 2692, 18 October 1905, Page 90

SHORT STORIES,

JACK. By^N. Startup.

(For the Witness.) ([See' Picture in Illustrated Pages.) ~f .—OLD MR BRADFORD. Dinner, is /over at Bank -House, and as :.'. _ old Mr Bradford crosses from t!he dinung '"' room to the library for his coffee and - _ niter-dinner smoke a weary sigh escapes \ iiim. .What a dull, wretched day it has * J>eenj * BaW House stands on the lower Side, of the Remuera road, overlooking the ~ iharbotir. What, a- view ! — the foreground '„:sormedby the beautiful garden, where the " : EDgl^h;. "trees "are, shedding fch'eir_.leaves'' in ' -sjnany^colours"; J .aw'ay'oxit' across the water Birkenheadi," North .Shore, and" 1 J^orth^ Head, while, farther fo~"the right -^ -j£apgitqto., v Thds "evening the last rays, from J\^ibe .sunset touch ths clouds" piled along ,' x '*be-lf6ri?onvwith ros'e^ giving,.. a.> strange - '.'jgreyacoitrast'to th© land .across.Jlhe water. ■ißank , House is old-fashioned, and the library -charming. In" these days, when so Wfteji' Jthe personality _of the owner is absolutely, 'Ic&t in -the furnishing of a home, /when people follow a, craze of the moment "—Tudor rose patterns and gaol furnitiire, — il room.- like the library at' Bank Hoiise is « po-sitivo relief. The "room has been x used iior years—^in fact, since it was built — by - its~ .present- pecupant. \ Thirty' years ago 3rtr r-Brad'fora bought the site, and four year?' 'after, built the house.. It wao here he brought- his bride — poor Margaret Brad- ■ ford;, a delicate woman always. ' It was down' this broad drive that - she passed 25 years, ago for the last time, when; she went to bei'i-iong rest; in the little Tamaki churchyard. -The old', man— not an old aratf^theri — wa>s broken-hearted, left •wifei .'childless.^ As he sits- to-night •withe Ins slippered/ feet- on the "library Sender ;hi3 thoughts wander back over the 1 years ■- to her, and! to what anight have^ lieenr, ■" How often the- sensitive -man ,is ', made Ito appear what others think him, l~ .simply, because he -does* -not. trouble ''to '; .disprove a false impression '"; 'oi possibly he>. '''] dcesjoot' '-even know- iKat "such, an, impres- • „ . For reports goes ■jthat-.old .'Mr f 3Jra'dfoTd- is- a. hard, man "aid. a, <imseiv4that' f- he 'wouldn't, spenci .'.a' ' permy 1 ". he_ could help. S'' Somei^Qther^,, in^fact^'wh^liy^-not jfar, '-■from;; Him .-.friglrfcenr^tJipjr.pcnildreQ. 'wßen' DVTissy..byr' thrVa^niog r j'old ! Mr^Brad-^ ford." ' AhA:,^yt\as\'}yetSLV.si&-"aih' 'oldr^ihan) f '"■ "Ae^ms'hls life, away .trying always/to keep the past present ! .- \ , This is not the face of a "hard man" "^ or a -"miser" that th& firelight, nickel's over. 'And his caxeful old, houseKeepe-r — possibly it is through her careful management that ilie earns thejianie for meanness — has left ' ']lris reading-lamp^ turned down, and' m the Bickering light the lines of the pldr fac-a-eeem strangely deep. There is a sad droop to' the mouth,., the. '-cheeks 'are; high,, and ihe eyes' sunken. This is the face of a dreamer— a disappointed dreamer — who 'takes life patiently. \ .- , *,_ So ho sits watching with sads- old eyes the smoke curl up from his pipe. And of' .■what is, he thinking? He i^ wishing, as oh ! he' so .often does, that he Had! had a. - child: a child to .haya giveii him- an in-, teresfc in life; a child' to 1 have played in ♦ ibis </!& house and garden, to have grown up in. bis charge and-umd-er 'has care; and then, when^ his call came) to go and rest by Margaret, to "havo had an .heir to tho old home and his wealth.., Ah, well! it ,was not to be But why? Why, when so naany have children — children mor© than thsy want or can support, children 'thatmany look upon' only .as an encumbrance, 'vHhy ehould he never have' had a son? All the tenderness that underlies that crippled; -.aiaHure' has.-nsverr had --an- outlet.-' Yes; just to think of bringing up iiboy,.likethe little curly^H'ead ' next, deter ; i>he- "little ■ bay; ■who only this" evening' had run ,to "shim at> the. gate, and, .with bright .eyes 'sparkling ."with excitement, ' had -rshown, with i such a,' '.jrcud air' th-a gap, where- the first-drawn - troth tad,beeiT. / ' -Some children have-a way'j ' of steaimg^tfaight to; the heart ; andjhero /was an old -heart fairly lc-nging for just such a little boy.to-bteal into it. Whaf would b-e do if he liad such a little 3boy in th© house now — now, this minute? ! Supposing he were sleeping in a little white bed in that room opening off his own: think of, how quiet he would have' to he so as not to- wake him. . But he would have to carry_ the caudle through ' to sco if he were comfortable and sleeping soundly. And there would -be that little curly head on the pillow, and one strong, < round little arm thrown put on the quilt. Would he cover it up or not? No, he •wouldn't^ it might wake him, and ihat T/ould never do. Ah ; then*, there ! What *n old fool it is — what an old fool!

H— THE SUMMER-HOUSE. The' morning is one of brilliant sunshine, and' in the little cottage below Bank HoTtse. three 'little' boys have- just had - ireakfast, and are standing in a row looking _ down on the harbour. The 'Frisco snarl boat has, just rounded North Head amd<"is steaming up between North -Jlead , »nd North Shore, and three pairs of bro.wn t-yes ,are . watching it with.' greatest interest. ""- j '•"Wouldn't you like to be on her, Jack?" The second -boy, the most talkative and the gayest of tine "three,, breaks silence. "Rather!" And as Jack turns to Ms toother- he shows a gap in .his lower row of teeth. - - "Me would, too! Me would blow big whistle!" And Babs, the baby, blows outSiis cheeks, and in all seriousness makes the sound of a steamer's horn. His eyes suddenly catch sijriit of a little creen jnMh

•-thai "is wending its way- in and' out through the grass. "Oob !" Babs pounces, and soon the three little curly heads are together watching the antics of the moth as it crawls about on Babs's outstretched palm. "I say, Jack, do let's go to the summerhouse again !" and Dick, the gay boy, slips his arm coaiingly round his brother's neck. "No, we mustn't; you know dad said we weren't to." "Augh! do, Jack; no one'U know. We oin get through the hole in the hedge and play at 'desert island,' like we did last time." "No! If we go I know what it'll be: Bab's'll want apples, and bawl if he doesn't get them ; and dad says taking them that's stealing." "Me won't — no, me won't, Jack!" And Babs looks like all the virtues as he turns big, appealing eyes on his brother. "Well, come on, then, Babs! Me and you'll go. Jack can stay here if he likes" ; and hand in hand! the pair start towards the back of tihe house and the hole in the hedge. Jack- Snow follows them, and by the time they have scrambled through, scruples are thrown to the wind. Jack, stick in tiand, is .Robinson Crusoe with a gun, Dick is Friday, and Babs. after much persuasion, consents to be", "the old he-goat." . At the othW end of the garden an old gentleman is- enjoying sunshine and nicotine ; ' pipe in mouth ( he comes strolling down the path towards' the summer-house. The ichrysantnemunis make a fair show and take all his attention ' as he approaches. Suddenly he hears voices ! " -At the sariie instant- the children hear his steps, and silence reigns as he »enters th-e. summer-house. Three guilty little faces look up at him from the surrounding seat. Jack is the first to speak. "Dad said we weren't to come and we did:',' The "old man is racking his brain for something to say to show that he is- not displeased, and is quite as much taken aback as the^children. "It was wrong of you boys to come when dad said, you weren't to; but I'm g\id to see you." . , 1 ■ "You won't put" us in gaol, you?" Jack's- face looks very anxious. "We haven't taken any apples 11 this time.*' , . A\. smile lurks about the corners of the "sad old' mouth. , "No, Jack, and, l wouldn't put you in gaol for anything, and whenever you^like you -can, take any of the' apples that- lie- on"* the grass. 4 But I' don't want youu'to climb vt-he., trees. --Now, will yyout .promise me?" ' \*; 1 . 1 "Yes;"/ a"ch6rus^f rom , all three: ' ,. v ;"N6w;T>oysj' what Veref you doing?" ' •„ Half an hour later the confidence" of the ■' childrenj;Aas '.been"' completely 7 vfqii,! ymd 'Robinso^i; Crusoe' Is.'bein'gvplayeddh a new and Wonderful, manner. ' ' -. "• . ?\<| . , The is'-fortified,.- two. large -boxes "act) as; tha palisade -on the path. Jack, .who has had a spear made for him from' the handle-of an old garden broom, approaches as a savage should, cautiously, through the chrysanthemums. Inside the summer-house the three ar.e on the alert. Robinson Crusoe, with a real gun — he has brought it from the house ; Dick (Friday),' - armed with ' a club ; and "the old he-goat," w^io. insists now on sticking, to- -his part, though all sorts of other tempting ones hav.e been offered. 1 As the morning advances, Babs shows signs of wearying, and "the. old he-goat," to the o great distress- of the other boys, keeps saying, "Me so tired," or "Me's sespy," instead^of the "Baa, baa," which is all he is allowed. ' "Now, boys, I think we've played enough for v±his morning," and old Mr Bradford takes Babs's hand and steps out of the j 'summer-house into the "sunshine. "What do you 'boys all say to coming and having : some dinner with me?" I "Oh, but I'd have to ask dad first," and, like a flash, Jack turns and makes for the gap in the hedge. _ " In a very few minutes he is- back again, his face all smiles. "Dad says we can ; ha didn't think you meant it at first" (the i smile dies). "Be. said we were so dirty. But," brightening- again, "I told him you had been playing Robinson Crusoe with us, and ' really- truly asked us, and then he said,^ 'Oh, very well.'"" » As they turn to the- house Dick dashes ahead, astride -the spear of the savage. .It "seems tqjma&e a", strangely restive steed, by the -'number of jiimps and bounds it causes 'its rider. There is an amused light in the old eyes that follow that little prancing figure. Babs is- sleepy, and walks with slightly dragging steps, his little chubby hand inclosed in that other old wrinkled one. Jack is strangely quiet ; the responsibility of the elder brother rests heavily upon him. He is also sligiitly awed by tb.e> prospect of dinner at Bank House. III.— A NIGHT OF STORM. The night is a mild one ; in a few hours j rolling clouds have gathered, the wind has risen, and now wails mournfully round the cottage. The children came home at sunset, tired after a happy day, and were put to bed — everything being done for them by their father. Poor- man, for months his health has been failing. Since the loss of his wife, whom he passionately loved, 12 ' months before, everything has gone .against him. 'Now^ that he is unable to leave home, he has had to dismiss the woman who cared for ths children. Every penny that could be saved has been saved, and now — what now? A lingering death stares him in the face, and what does the future hold for those three boys? The dim light of the little lamp in the bare cottage living-room, the sough of the wind through the trees, and the monotonous pattering of the rain, all> lead-en the senses of this man beside himself with grief and despair. As he draws a chair forward and places writing materials upon the table, his face shows clearly in the lamplight. Madness is plainly written in the abandoned hopelessness of those Irilliant eyes. The man is wildly excited. The face is dark, the eyes and cheeks sunken, the nose hijjh, and the trembling

lips soft and curving. It is the mouth 0: a man who should always live at ease; utterly incapable of combating the rougr side of life. With quivering, nervoui fingers he places* what he has written ir an envelope, and then seems strangely uncertain of how to addr-ess it. At lengtl: . he bends suddenly forward and wrifes on< line across the cover. Leaving the lettei lying on the pad, he takes the lamp and crosses to the children's room. There arc tears in those wild eyes as he stands in the doorway, holding the lamp above his head. "God — if there be a God — care for you always," he mutters. "Good-bye, my dearies . . . good-bye for ever . . ." Then, blowing out the lamp, with uncertain steps he feels his way to the outside door. What a night it is — wind and driving rain ! And what is that so steely cold that the nervous hand starts from as it touches it.

TV.— DAWN. m It 16 nearly midnight when a sudden p,eal of rolling thunder awakes little Jack [.with a start of fear. Slipping out of bed, j he gropes his way to his father's room, • meaning to get in beside "dad," as 'he often does when awakened from a bad dream. The little hands feel the bed all ! over. Pad is not there; whera can lie be? — never out on such a night: A great feeling of fear kikes hold of the child. "Why isn't he there? They are in the house alone !" He must not Avake die others ; ihey would only h& more fright - , ened than he. If he only knew where tho matches were! Going to the window he lels the blind fly up, startling himself more than ever. Oh ! there is a light in one of the Bank House windows — he can see it shining through the hedge. "I'll I put something round me and go and tell Mr Bradford." An old dressing-gown of 'his father's thrown over the bed-end is ihfl first warm tiling his hand --touches. Wrapping himself in this, the tobaccoey smell of it giving him a wonderful sense of security, .he opens the do6r and dis1 appears towards the hole in the hedge. Old Mr Bradford is lying awake, listening to the wind and rain, and thinking over the events of the day, w'h-sn' hfe is startled to hear the front door bell 'r ing. , Who can want to see him at this hour of night? 1 Ann has been in bed foi hours: he must go to the door himself. "Is- that" ' the cry of- a jcliild?" Without waiting to dress he snatches- up the- lamp and harries to the door. * The little weeping figure standing on the 1 mat) 'in "the" old; wet dressing-gown, makes a< sorry little picture. Picking ' Jack up in his arfns/ l he carries .'hd'm into his room and 'seats him 911! .a fender stool T - . , , ~ "Whatever is the meaning,, of "this, Jack?" X For; a, moment the" old' man has thought- the cihi'ld might be walking in his. I sleep. ' ' ' "Oh, I was so frightened !" — Jack gives a long-drawn sob — "and dad wasn't home ; he's not in ouir hquse." "Don't cry, old ' ohap ! We'll soon find 'him. Are t4ie other boys asleep?" "Yes ; but oh ! if they wake ur they'll be dying too. And you were so kind to us to-day,- so I thought I'd come to you. I couldn't find the matches." 1 "Well," you pop into my warm bed. No, you mustn't come back with me. I'll put some clothes on, and when I find dad I'll coime and let you know. Now, will you be a good boy and stay heare, Jack?" An hour later Mr Bradford, stepping eoftly into his bedroom, sees just the picture he had imagined the night before. Ann. has been wakened and sent to the cottage to stay till morning, if the children sleep; if they wake she is to biing them ■ over. Mv Bradford has been doing a lot of talking at the telephone. And now there on his pillow lies that dear little curly head, just as he had thought of it. Stepping to the bedside he looks down at the delicate little profile, the in-and-out curves of the lips, the eyelashes resting on the cheeks, and the altogether baby, innocent expression. "Poor, poor little chap ! However shall I tell xiiesi. But my mind's made up, and I'll risk it : I'll take them all three. God help me to bring "them up as I should! I feel as if they were my own already."

V.— CHRISTMAS MORNING (SEVEN MONTHS LATER). Dawn is just stealing in through the nursery windows at Bank House. The light touches dimly the two little white beds of Jack and Dick, while in a more shadowy corner stands Babs's little railed cot. * Santa Claus has been moving about tho room mysteriously through the night, and | has certainly worked well. Two carts filled with toys, and each surmounted by a Union Jack, stand by the bedside of Jack and Dick : while a brilliantly-coloured • wheelbarrow, also full, and flaunting, a flag, gleams through the shades by the cot in the corner. The sun has been up some time before the sound of twittering conies from the nursery. "Oh, Jack! just look! We've both got carts and all sorts of things !" "Me's got a hallow" — from, the cot in the corner-— "and me's got a fag!" Then the sound of hurrying little feet and a rumble of wheels, as all three run through the hall to "grandpapa's" room "to just show him." Two old ears have been straining to 'catch all the sounds of joy from Fluffieland, and as tho three little-

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f curly heads ' dash ' for the .bed he stoop! forward and gathers them into his arms. s