THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE;

Otago Witness, Issue 2929, 4 May 1910, Page 70

THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE;

THE HOVELIST.

oBy Ethel Turner.

OR A CHANGED HORIZON.

"SLiS? "tiGHTP Reserved.' CHAPTER V.—AT JONATHAN'S.

FIRST- CLASS passenger, Munro by name, a man of great wealth, and an ardent believer in the exhaust-less resources of Australia, took much interest in the immigrants at the other end of the vessel, and spent many a day talking to them, answering their endless questions about the new land, and giving advice and the best information in his power. Scott was not exactly an immigrant for he had paid hie full third-class fare, but he was glad to avail himself »* Munro s kindly advice. Munro on his part becamw greatly interested in the sombre-eyed, self-contained young Englishman, who seemed applying himself almost savagely to the task ot acquiring all information possible about soils and temperatures and irrigation and so on. Munro's particular enthusiasm waii rhe possibility of turning New South Wales into the richest wheat-growing district in the world. He believed that with the greatest ease she could entirely transcend with wheat the reputation she had in the world's ear for wool-growing. "Only, mind you," he said to Scott, "it's got to be a certain kind of wheat, and wheat without rust. That's the little task I've set myself to accomplish before I'm called to judgment up above. I've got to produce a wheat that will stand a test where all other wheats have failed. Do you know how many kinds of wheat there are—do vou know anything at all of wheat?" "No," said Scott, 'but I should like to —if there is anything in it. See here, Mr Munro, I'm not a- brilliant chap, but I've got fairly good- powers of grafting at anything. Suppose I took this up — this experiment business —do you think, as a man of business, that I could make a livelihood at it? I'll confess I'm attracted to it from your accounts." "Let me show you a little further" said Munro. And now the long days in the tropics saw the two men seated in a quiet corner of the deck, intent on the contents of one of Munro's boxes. Children gathered near when first the contents were brought out, their imagination soaring at the sight of dozens of tiny bags securely fastened at the neck. But when on these being opened nothing appeared but grains of common wheat, such as were daily flung to the fowls in the pens —why, then they no longer made little nuisances of themselves but let the two men alone.

Scott soon learned to discriminate between bearded and beardless wheats, red and white wheats, woolly wheats. He could pick out the coarse Polish wheat at a glance; the rarer wheat carried his thoughts over the centuries ; this was what the Swiss lake-dwellers and ancient Romans had cultivated and what still was grown ir many mountainous parts of Europe. Monro was enthusiastic over mummy wheat. The original mummy wheat, he told Scott, had been grown from seeds found, in the Egyptian mummy cases—or, ■at all events, such was the story Wheat from these grains had "jeen grown in England with ears having ten or eleven branches, and as many as a hundred and fifty grains in one ear; whilst sixty ears have been produced from one single seed. Scott wanted to know why any other sorts were ever planted, and Munro was forced to acknowledge that despite this prolific quality this wheat did not serve the purposes of the farmers a? veil as many others. Th.it was the problem—to find a wheat that would serve all the purposes of the farmer, that would resist disease, grow in a hot climate, not be too particular about soil, and produce a large number of bushels to the acre. Munro's enthusiasm communicated itself to Scott: the latter felt it might bo a not unworthy life work to devote himself to the object. Only would it pay? Could he make a livelihood? Nearing Perth, Munro made him an offer. The proximity to the sroldfields sent an electric tingle of Restlessness among the immigrants. Why go to further States and labour from dawn to dusk for countless years when nuggets might—just might—be picked up for the stooping? A certain percentage decided to "step off" and take their chance when the vessel reached the city; the steadier heads, and the married men. persuaded by fearful wives, reluctantly overcame the temptation. Scott was balancing the notion himself when Munro made his offer. Munro already had three experimental farms of his own, where his wheat theories were undergoing tests. Would Sheldon undertake a fourth? In short, if he, Munro, hired a. place in a locality he had in mind, would Sfeeldon. undetake for two years—two seasons were the very least they might make suffice —to devote himself to the experiments? Scott's heart, leaped at the idea. Hearing land his old boyish fear of plunging into th=; fighting world without a, weapon had returned. "I should like it of all things," he said. "I propose to take a place somewhere to tho west/' Munro continued; "quite a

} small place will do. Doubtless I can get j such a one as I have in my mind for £SO j a. year. I should allow you fifty for working expenses and fifty for your own ! salary. How does that strike you?" "It strikes me as uncommonly generous,'" said Scott impetuously; 'you know nothing of me. unless it is to know I am quite ignorant of the work. But I'll do my best to see you are not sorry." Munro became a little more cautious; he was wealthy because he had never forgotten in his life to be first of all a good man of business. As a matter of fact he allowed his other three experimenters salaries of a hundred and fifty a year, and none of them had displayed the grasp and ability that Scott did. Still, af course, some offset must be made for ignorance of land matters. He looked keenly at the young man. •'Of course, Ave will have the matter en a people, I notice, but doubtless you can have never talked of yourself or your people, I notice, but doubtless you can give me quite satisfactory accounts. For instance, what have you been doing since you left school?" The colour dropped clean out of Scott's face. j : 'Eh?" Gaid Munro, looking at him more ] sharply. j Soott looked him full in the face. "I was three years at Oxford," he said, j "six months walking the hospitals, ! eighteen months in a merchant's office, three years in Dartmoor —they were up a week before I came aw'ay.' ; Munro got up and flung tempestuously back to his own class ; but nearing Adelaide, eight days later, he returned. "See here," he said, "I've been thinking that over. I recognise that you were not compelled to tell me. Most men would have kept it to themselves." Scott merely looked out to sea. 'l've decided to let it make no differ- ■ ence. What waa it for?" "Forgery," 1 said Scott, and looked physically sick for a moment. "Hum!" Well, have you got any money at all?'' "Thirty pounds." "Better than nothing; I neednt give you anything on trust in that case. I'll find the farm, and send in just the necessary implements. At the end o f each three months I'll pay you % visit, and if all is satisfactory, pay you vour salary. Will that do?" "That will do, thank you." Munro recollected that the salary for that length of time would amount to £l2 10s. An incredibly paltry sum it seemed to himself at that moment. "At the same time." he added, and a little more genially "I have no objection to you making whatever you can for yourself out of the farm, after all the wheat experiments are seen to. You will naturally have much time ovei. I'd advise you 'to try a little dairying or poultry. You might even run a few sheep. It will all be experience to you." "Thank you," said Scott, 'l'm more than satisfied." He swallowed a lump in his throat -You shan't regret, Mr Munro."

"I hope not, i hope not." said Munro, and hastened back to the first-class deck. He might be employing Sheldon, but he felt diffident about lingering any longer for those long talks with a man who had been in Dartmoor three years. Landed in Sydney. Munro cast around for his new farm, and settled upon Wyama. The Whartons were friends of his of many years' standing; and the country around was country upon which he had long cast an approving eye. When he found Jonathan's farm was tc let, a place with just the soi] and slope to suit his experiments, he at once took it upon lease. At Wendovei House he could always count upon pleasant hospitality when he ran up to see how the experiment was working. Nothing could have been arranged more comfortably, he considered. There was even an excellent Government farm in an adjacent town where his new disciple could go once or twice a week fov the agricultural lectures that were delivered there by an expert. He returned to Sydney within two days, and presenting Scott "with his railway ticket—with only just a shade of doubt in his eyes—he urged him to get away and begin operations without any further delay. And so Pate, who had been sitting aloft holding the separate threads of two lives so wide apart for so many years, now brought them close, close together. There was nothing any longer but a low stone wall dividing them from actual union. CHAPTER VII.—HYACINTH. Scott himself, however, at this period would as soon have thought of crossing that low stone wall and entering into communication with the bright-haired girl on the other side of it as of hammering on the doors of heaven and demanding . speech with the angels within. | It was Hyacinth who arranged the whole matter. Ines had refused to have a competent j servant installed in her cottage. "We I really can't afford it," she said to Mrs ! Beattie, who Avas demonstrating the im- ■ possibility of the girl managing her own work. "Can't afford it!" repeated V s Beattie, j "and you've just sent an order for four j pounds to the florist's for bulbs and seeds I and plants! And all those frightfully ! expensive art books in there that have i just come! Why, you must have more ' money than you know what to do with!" Ines was used to Mrs Beattie's wellI intentioned, penetrating ways by this time. "Ah, but," she said gravely, "those j are luxuries. Father and I. have aiwavs been able to supply ourselves with t.le luxuries of life bjf going without the I necessities." j Mrs Beattie stiffened, as she always did at irreverence. ] "That is simple nonsense, of course,"

she said; "there are some things every 5 one must have." "But who is to 'Jecide what those things must be? ' said Ines. "One's neighbours or one's self?" "What i-i an actual necessity for me must be the same for you. The things themselves decide," said Mrs Beattie. "Sideboards with canopy tops?" saidi Ines, mischievously. Mrs Beattie continually bemoaned the loss of that bargain at the sale. "Ah, well, you will live to regret missing that yet. It woidd have filled up that long, bare wall, and think of the things it would hdve held.'" "But then I couldn't have afforded anything for it to hold!" protested Ines.: "No,' no. Father's motto for ever." "Ani what is that, pray?" "Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves." Mrs Beattie sighed patiently, and attacked the question of a servant again. A strong woman from a farm ten minutes' w'alk away came in night and morning to assist Mr Erwin, and move him from his bedroom to the sunny verandah or the sitting room. She also did the scrubbing and laundry work of the cottage. , Mrs Beattie was much opposed to the employment of this woman, who added to her crime of not coming to church that of drink. "It would be money into your pocket to give her up -and take a strong, capable general, who would manage everything for you, and help your father, too." But Ines had come to lean on the woman who drank and never went to church. She was a bior, tender-hearted creature, who had nursed a crippled hurband devotedly for years, and worked nobly for his support. It was only after his death that her loneliness had betrayed her into drink. Since David's cottage had been taken and the wide eye of its lamp looked down all through the long, ■dark evenings on her little home at the foot of the hill she had pulled up remarkably. It reminded her that someone was depending upon her again. "She suits father so wonderfully," said Ines: "no capable general could have the knack of those bia\ bony hands of hers. No, no you must leave me Mrs Shore !" But. in addition to Mrs Shore's salary, the girl felt quite unable to take a servant in the house. "Apart from the fourteen or fifteen shillings a week for her wages, she would double my bills, and never let me into my own kitchen," she said, "and father loves my cooking." In the end. however, she consented to having a "State girl" to heln her, for she grew to grudge the time the household tasks took her awav from her invalid. It was Mrs Beattie who. in her oost of district visitor for the State children drafted, into homes in the locality, suggested this means of help. Ines listened to the details with profound attention. She might, she learned, become possessed of an able-bodied girl of twelve to sixteen who was one of the many hundreds of orphans fathered and mothered by the State. The girl would come to her with a good stock of clothing, but when that was worn out the clothing would be the employer's own charge.

"Unbleached calico is good enough, and strong lilac prints—you would have some old. clothes of your own also." commented Mrs Beattie;" ' 'that question need not trouble you." No actual wages were to be paid, it seemed, though Ines must send a sum of seven or eight shillings a month for the State co bank to the account of its orphan, which sum at the ond of thfl period of orphanhood—namely, sixteen would be handed to the girl, together with her freedom. Also a trifle of weekly pocket-money must be paid, and doctors' bills met ip. case of illness. The other items on the great blue document sont by the State for signature need not worry them, Mrs Beattie assured father and daughter. A good home with respectable people, that was the main point upon which the would-be fatherly State insisted. "My only fear is that Ines will be too lax, Mr Erwin," Mrs Beattie said, shaking her head at Ines. "They want keeping up to the mark, these girls—little wretches some of them are. Kindness seems to demoralise them, but with a strict hand I have seen *ome of them turn out quits well." Still, it was not without misgivings Ines awaited the arrival of the gir] who. after some months' delay, was assigned to her. She was 13. stated the document, and her name was Eliza Hopper. When one stood on the verandah and looked out at dusk with wide eyes on the* world that lay stretched out in billows to the horizon line, and reflected that one had consented to take an entity from that world, a flesh-and-blood girl—Eliza Hopper, aged 13.—and be responsible for her welfare, moral and physical, one felt a sudden shinking of courage. Suppose one failed ? Suppose some day, somewhere, a deep voice asked. "What did you with Eliza Hopper, aged 13?" Ines began to wish she had not been so much in haste to get a somebody for whom she must be responsible to wash her dishes. But then through the dusky garden came the form of Mrs Beattie, followed close behind by a small square figure dragging a telescope basket. At the gate twinkled the lights of the yellow sulky, that had cheerfully added to its day's duties the task of calling

at the station, for the State orphan and delivering her into the hands of hei future mistress. "So very good of you; thank you so much," Ines said, kissing the grim rectory lady with much warmth. The rectory lady liked the young girl's kisses; there was a. warmth and spontaneity about them that appealed to a long-chilled heart. Ines never seemed to take for granted the kindnesses done to her •" they always seemed to her lovely things, and when done by someone whose life was congested with such services, touching things. "But you will come in and have dinner. Do, dear; there are some lovely quail Mr Wharton sent, done on toast and with buttered breadcrumbs." The girl urged her towards the verandah. "No, no—choir practice night; and I must see JBobbie and Fred started at their home lessons. Couldn't possibly waste the time. She's small, but may answer." Ines had taken a small, rough hand in hers in the darkness; that was the only welcome she had yet had time' to give to the State orphan. But now she drew bar forward. "And this is little Eliza," she said. "I am so glad you have come to help me, dear. Are you tired? Was the journey ve'rj long?" "No," said a sullen voice. "No, Miss Ines!" corrected Mrs Beattie sharply. ".No, Miss Ines," muttered the girl. Ines gave the rough, cold hand another gentle little pressure. "See, dear; you sit on the step a minute," she said. "I want to take Mrs Beattie to the gate." Tucked in the sulky, Mrs Beattie seemed too anxious to start. "A nasty sullen little wretch, I'm afraid," ■(she said. "I'm so sorry. I particularly asked the matron to select a nice one. I suppose she was the only one. Still, I'll do my best to exchange her for you if she doesn't answer. Bemember, a strict hand—that is what they want. They say she can work well, and she's past the school age, so you won't have to send her away for half a day." "You have been very, very good,'' said Ines, "and I daresay she is not sullen at all—just shy. I should be desperately shy myself in her place, poor little soul." The yellow sulky bumped away. "Eemember, a strict hand," floated through the dark. "A strict hand!" assented the young launghing voice. And at .Jonathan's, Scott went in, content, to his tea. He had heard her voice yet another time. _ Ines took the little girl into the pleasant light of the cottage, and up to the sofa where the invalid Jay. "Here is my little" helper come out of the darkness, father," she said. Erwin land his well hand over the red

one that still grasped firmly the handle e of the Japanese basket. He looked at her compassionately, she w.as such a plain, dull, sulky-lookins atom. "Out of the darkness- into the light, like a- little .moth," he said whimsically. "Well, I hcpc we shan't burn your -wings. You have wings, haven't you, tucked away somewhere under that grey cloak?" The girl lifted sullen eyes. "No," ehe said. Then she looked half aggressively at Ines. "I mean, no. sir." "Oh, yes you have," smiled Ines ; "they are folded just now. that is all. Nice gauzy wings that will let you float anywhere you like. I will show'you them some day." The girl sighed. She was used to all sorts of people, kind people, cruel people, people who were indifferent. But she had not come across people mad before. "Come along and have some tea," said Ines, and swept her off to the kitchen. There on a small table that held pretty china and a vase of pansies was spread a. pleasant meal that caught the girl's eyes instantly. "But you must take your hat off first, and put down the basket," said Ines, and led the way across the passage to a little room. A dainty . little room, with the bedstead enamelled pale blue, and the box dressing table and washstand covered in a soft cretonne patterned in big blue daisies. Pictures on the wall, happy, refreshing things, not just crude almanacs. On the dressing table a blue vase filled with pink roses. "Now wash, and take off your hat, and then come out to your tea," Ines sadd. "Aren't you 'fraid I'll mess your room?" said the girl fearfully. "I can go out to the tap or to me own room." "This is your room," smiled Ines. The girl looked disbelievingly at the flowery bedspread and the pink roses, then distrustfully at the pictures, but said nothing at all. When Ines came back she found the girl had carefully put her hat and grey cloak \mder the bed' to save "messing the? counterpane." She had also unstrapped the telescope basket that held all her possessions, and she directed Ines's attention to the written list that was pasted inside the lid. "Matron said for you to look through straight off," she said. "But not when there are two hot little birds waiting for you in the kitchen," said Ines. "Straight off," said Eliza. " Here, I'll sing out, and tick them off. One best dress—under there, the plaid one: two working dresses, four nightgowns " "Nonsense, nonsense, to-morrow will do." said Ines. "Come to tea." "It's the rule," said Eliza sulkily. "Not my rule," said Ines; "come along at once. But they did their duty by the institution's rule the next day, and all _ the orphan's wardrobe was laid out in stacks ou the bed. The underclothing was of serviceable unbleached calico, made without a vestige of trimming. "Some of the girls crocket lovely, and put it on their best things," Eliza said. "There was one going to teach me, but she left." The State did not harrow the feelings of the orphans it sent away by insisting on a uniform, but the matron could not think of beauty when she went to select

' materials while the demands of serviceability nressed so hard. Yet she not infrequently was liberal with colour in the matter of best dresses, reckoning that the grey woof of life for her charges demanded an occasional brilliant thread. But she had no discrimination. Eliza was a sallow, peak-faced creature, with inkv hair cut quite short and dull grey eye's. And her best frock was a creation of green and red plaid, the material so thick and stout that when set in gathers round the waist, as was the customary pattern in the institution, it stuck out in clumsy folds and made the '■. child look as broad as she was long. She gave the dress a savage tweak as she held it for ines's inspection "'Twos bought for .Jess Jenkins," she said, "on'y. Jess didn't like it, and she could always get round matron. So they said it could do for me. I wanted vi'let , like Lucy's. Now I've got to wear it two years. I like my workings better." The "workings" were dark lilac prints, made in ,a shapeless fashion, straight from the neck. Stout aprons of holland were i supplied in good number. The boots seemed the sorest spot, howI ever, in ■ the outfit. There was one stout pair of calf boots, in no wise different from boys' bluchers. "They make your feet tnat tired.' saidEliza, with a sigh ; "I'd much rather be barefoot." And there was another pair, also cab, but cut a little more with regard to the shape of the foot. "Ale Sunday ones." said Eliza. 'Tela goin' to do like Jess Jenkins. She saved her sixpence:—you got to give me sixpence a. week pocket, it's the rule—and she got a pair o' tans, just lovely. t\f(j straps and a buckle, four and six." I "Put them all away, quickly.' li.es. The crude, ugly garments positively hurt her eyes. Eliza laid them on the shelves that a carpenter had nut up foi the purpose. i She looked' admiringly at ths said \ shelves. Ines had treated them *a*t as ; she did her own—covered them with a ; pale blue wall paper, and put pale blue I bags of lavender here and there. The | whole was hidden by a cv.rt?ir>. of the ■daisied cretonne. "It's a real shame to cover 'em up with • : my ugly things," the girl said.

"Do you like pretty things?" Ines said, though she knew she might- just, as well have asked did she like, flowers and sunlight and rainbows and the colours on the breasts of birdjs. The instinct '"s God-given and universal. The girl began to cry. 'T never get none," she said—"everythink I get's ugly. Matron she thinks anything does for me 'cause I'm bad looking. Lucy, her hair curls, and they give heir blue ribbon—matron's sister did. Christmas I wanted the box with shells on it off the tree — all lined with pale blue. And I got a frog that was a pin-cushion. Threw it away next day, so I did. Jess, she got the shell box, and she got a. hankicher sashy, too." Ines put her arm round the poor little ugly thing. "See here, dear," she said, "I'm going to look after you now. I'll make you a new lot of clothes, and you shall help choose the stuffs yourself. I told you I was going; to find your wings for you, didn't I?" Mrs Beattie wais shut up with a cold for a. fortnight, and unable to do anything to effect the change she had spoken of. But when at last she knocked at David's cottage she imagined Ines had managed the exchange herself. For the door was answered by a smilingfaced girl who wore the neatest of pink frocks, with a white muslin apron made with frills, and white muslin collar and cuffs. Ines had gone down to the village to the pest, but the little maid was quite equal to the event. She ushered the visitor in to wait, and she offered a "new book and a magazine to while awav the time, reappearing after a few minutes with the tea tray, just as Ines always had' it. "When did you come?" demanded Mrs Beattie. Eliza smiled. "You brunged me yourself," she said. "You are not Eliza Hopper," said Mrs Bentlie decisively. "No, ma'am," said Eliza happily. "Miss Ines said, as I could choose a new name, and I moosed Hyacinth." "What absurd folly!" ejaculated Mrs Beattie. and, Ines returning at the moment and Eliza withdrawing,, sh 9 proceeded to dilate on the excessive folly of unsuitable names. "Yes, I know it sounds a little absurd," said Ines penitently, "and I did suggest less fantastic ones. I hoped she might like Rosie or Eva or Lily or Beryl —something pretty and simple. But I found she had such a. frantic passion for the name of Hyacinth that I yielded. I told her. though, I should probably call her Cynthia before people, and we would keen Hyacinth for private use." r: lt will entirely unfit her for life," protested Mrs Beattie. "I think not," said . Ines gently. "There's a pink hyacinth out in the garden, and she's got an idea that she would) like to make herself iust as fresh and clean and fragrant as that. It is a pathetic little ambition, but it won't do any harm." "My dear." said Mrs Beattie. "you are hopeless. When you have lived in the world as long as I have done you will find this sort of thing does not wear." "Shall I?" said Ines, with wistful eyes. "I wonder shall I?" (To be continued.)