HER NIECE'S STRATEGY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2988, 21 June 1911, Page 114

HER NIECE'S STRATEGY.

By Mary Grover. "Oh, Jim! what shall we do? "ThLs is from Aunt Maria to say she is coming to see us to-day on her way from Scotland. Oh! what shall we do? "Do just listen : "My dear Niece, —As it is some time since I saw you and your husband, I am arranging to stay with you for three days on my way to Devonshire. I leave Edinburgh at 10.10 and get to Grantham

at 4.17. Kindly have a closed conveyance to meet me. —Your affectionate "Aunt Maria." Poor little Dots looked quite white with anxiety, and certainly Jim looked almost £U3 worried ! "What a wretched nuisance," he said. "What shall we do? The 10.10 from Edinburgh ! Then it's too late for a telegram to reach her, or I'd wire to say we were both dead." "Oh! Jim, don't joke! How can you! Oh! .isn't it dreadful! If only he wasn't here it would have been so nice, because I know Aunt Maria would like you if she saw more of you, and we'd have everything so nice, and then she wouldn't be vexed with me any more." "And then your fortune's made, eh, little girl?" said Jim. "As it is, she's bound to know, and she'll bs in a perfect fury at the mess I've got you into, and she'll take you off with her, and, oh! hang ft all! what a brute I've been to you!" "Now, Jim, net another word of that. You know quite well that if I died in the workhouse I should still be glad I had married vcu, and that nothing would induce me to go and live with Aunt Maria —not ail her fortune seven times over." "Well, I'll go and see Ferguson this morning," Jim said, "I'll see if he can let me have some of the money he owes me. If so, I'll run hack at once and pack the bailiff off before Aunt Maria comes. By the way, how are you off for house ! money?" "I haven't a halfpenny left, Jim. I do hate to bother you, but what can we do? Aunt Maria is too substantial and matter of fact to live on air?" "Well! here's five shillings, and I'll bring back more for food, and if I can I'll come back and settle that beo-o-ar —if not —well, there's an end to everything." Poor fellow, he felt pretty down-hearted as he turned away. They had been married four years, and had had a very rough time of it. He had not meant to do anything dishonourable, but had not paused to think how very precarious his income was, and how much this little household was goMig to cost him to keep up! He was an artist—and a young and struggling one, and they had fallen desperately in love with each other while on a trip to Norway, where Dots had gope with some friends. She was a Girton girl, and since her parents' death until her marriage she had supported herself 'by teaching. It had been well known that Aunt Maria intended heir to have her money at her death. But Aunt Maria was exacting and touchy, and had been known to alter her intentions before, and Dots had argued to herself that money was not everything, and love was, if not everything, at least much more satisfying. Besides, she was a girl with deeply true home instincts, and, after all, fond as she was of her work, and popular as she was with her pupils, hers was a somewhat lonely life, and the years ahead looked dark and emnty. So she had braved Aunt Maria's wrath and had spent near!- all her savings on her trousseau and house linen, and Jim had spent nearly all his on the furniture, and then they had settled down. Certainly it had proved no bed of roses, and it spoke well for the characters of both of them that the love had not grown less—nay, rather more —with the manifold difficulties. The first two years had been marked by a great economy. That was nothing—and otherwise, they were fairly uneventful years. Then their baby, so brightly and eagerly expected, had come and gone in a flash —it lived only six weeks, —leaving a very sore-hearted but brave little mother behind it. And the trouble had drawn them closer together. Then other troubles, all money losse and money worries had followed, and their love was nearly shipwrecked then. Not that sh 9 minded the thorny path for herself, but he did for her—and the pain it gave him, brave, true man, as he was. ,to see her wanting actual necessaries, and to feel he had brought her to it, made him curt and harsh in his manner to her, and when she asked for money he would answer sharply—not vexed with her, as she thought, and as it seemed, but vexed he could not gratify her every whim, let alone grant a reasonable request. And she grew to hate to ask him, and yet it was for food, coal, rent —and she had to. The.i she sold all her jewels, one by one, rather than apply to him for money that he could so ill spare, rather, too, than have him vexed with her. And all the time- she did not mindi the sacrifice, or the screwing and slaving and the poverty—only she minded because she thought he was changed towards her. Anld he was only harsh because it hurt him for her sake. And then one day he found all her jewels had gone, and he spoke more sharply than he had ever done before. It was just before he went to the studio one morning. But his console .100 smote him, and about an hour after he hurried home. He could not wait until evening to tell her what a cur he was. And he found her —a poor, dark-eyed, ill-looking little wife, curled up on the bed. He had never seen her give way before (except when her baby had died), and so he had never realised that perhaps she had only kept bright and brave when he was about, and that the strain made her break down when alone. He stood aghast at the sight. And then . . . The angels rejoiced—for it it was given to him to speak and for both to understand. She- learnt what agony and fret for her had brought the rasp into his voice, and he learnt that the fragile little woman he had married had a heart of iron, and cared nought for the loss of absence of things dear to her sex—only for his love—only that he did not change. After that it was a deeper, stronger tie that bound them, and somehow both of them looked younger and better for the clearing away of all the misunderstandings. « • • • • All the same, things were very trying this morning, and Jim went off decidedly

ruffled, and mentally muttering anathemas against himself at the "confounded hole he'd got her into." However, he disposed of a small sketch, 1 and with enough in his pocket to give Au'it Maria a decent feed—at least, before the game was up, he went home to give the necessary to Dots, and then hunied off to meet the dread visitor. As he tore away again Dots whispered eagerly, " And it's all right about him, Jim. I've told him all about it, and he's promised to stay in the box-room, and I've made it quite comfortable for him." "Good," was Jim's rejoinder, while his face lost some of its harassed look. Aunt Maria was a character, and Jim had much ado to preserve his quiet, courteous bearing. First he was accosted with: " Well, young man, and how are you? I hope you've been treating her well. I've come to see." This in the caustic-exposure tone you would adopt to a profession.il wife-beater, and this, too, in the hearing of several people with whom he was famiHir. However, for Dots's sake, he would be all he should, and, after all, he was feeling rather conscious of the fact that' the old lady .had a very well-grounded grudge against him, for he knew if the Erivations and struggles of their little ome, dear though it was to them both, could be revealed to Aunt Maria, she would denounce him in no mean language as not having treated her niece well. ' He paid the driver without haggling, thereby provoking from Aunt Maria a muttered "Extravagant! Well! I'm glad for her sake there's plenty to fling about." , This loud enough to reach the ears of the driver, the husband of the washerwoman, whose account was mounting up. However, Jim's annoyance was momentary, and his eyes lighted up with pride as their front door was flung open and there was a bright, smiling, daintilydressed, little Dots to give the Dragon a hearty welcome. For a second he almost loved Aunt Maria, for a softer look came into the old woman's hard face and eyes. There was a suspicion of tears in her eyes, as she said harshly to cover her inward emotion : "You're looking thin. I expect it's starving and slaving. Well, I told you what to expect!" > But Dots's smile was bright, and her only reply a merry laugh, as she preceded Aunt Maria to her room. Jim made himself very agreeable that evening, and was really most forbearing and considerate towards the old lady—not for the sake of her money, but because he hated to feel he had cut Dots adrift from her people. And the feed he had struggled so hard to get for Aunt Maria was a great success. Dots's dainty cooking was much appreciated, and the charwoman, who had been a parlourmaid, waited as if there were at least three resident ladies in the kitchen. After the simple little dinner Aunt Maria was pleased to ask Dots to sing, and the old lady unbent wondrously (thawed, Jim termed it) as the girl rendered very sweetly song after song that she remembered had been favourites In the old days. "Humph! he might- be worse!" was Aunt Maria's gruff appreciation of Jim that evening. " But there, it's too soon to say. I've only just come, you know." With a suggestion in look and tone that there might be worlds of evil to be discovered in Jim and their little menage before she had dona with them. And instead of a happy bright rejoinder Dots shivered —Why? Was there a skeleton in some garret cupboard? Not a skeleton, but a very huge, fat, red-nosed visitor, who was reposing in an annchair by a little fire—just above Aunt Maria's head —puffing clouds of evil-smell-ing tobacco. Would any of the fumes reach the delicate nose lying just underneath? So wondered poor Jim, as, after having been assured by Dots that Aunt Maria, was safe for the night, he cautiously mounted the top stairs armed with a tray with cold meat, bread and cheese, and a glass of beer. The next morning Aunt Maria was pleased to say she had slept well, and expressed herself very satisfied with the tour of inspection which she and Dots made after they had seen Jim off safely for the day. They went for a drive after that, and, to Dots's amazement, the old lady, in peremptory tones, bade the coachman stop at a tobacconist's and get down and purchase a box of the " best cigarettes." "For your husband, my dear," she said, passing the box on to Dots. " Don't thank me —it's for my own sake. Anything to prevent the odious tobacco smoke that found it 3 way into my room last .night." j " But, Aunt Maria, Jim never smokes " Tobacco, she was going to add, but stopped short, as a ghastly thought entered her head. " Never mind, old girl," said Jim, to whom with trembling lips she had confided her fears that Aunt Maria would find out. I "After all she won't know; there's no. chance. Ferguson gave meohis cheque to- ; right, and as soon as the bank is open I'll get it cashed." And peacefully and thankfully they slept. Not so Aunt Maria. There was no horrid tobacco smoke to-night, but creak, creak, creak overhead, and then a low mumbling noise, and the banging to and fro of a casement window. She lay awake for a couple of hours, and then she could stand it no longer, and, donning her wrapper and slippers, opened her bedroom door. She listened. Yes, it was from the room over hers—a box-room Dots had told her it was. She was sleepless and annoyed. Whatever this noise was she would stop it. So, candle in hand, she mounted the stairs. A pause to listen. Yes, that was the room, and she opened the door quietly. She was not alarmed—it took a very great deal to alarm Aunt Maria, but she

was amazed. A big, burly, red-faced man sprawled in an armchair by a little grate where a fire stili burned. But he started as she entered, and was at once awake and alert ' Good-evening, mum!" he said politely —" good-evening! I was just 'aving a little nap." " So I see," said Aunt Maria, curtly. ''May I ask you to explain your presence in my niece's house?" "Well, mum—'it's difficult to tell you, mum. Yes, sure it is very difficult, but, you see, mum, it's this way. I'm very rich, mum—ycu might not think ©o, lady, to see W they keep me. I made all me money in mines. But, you see, it's this .way, mum. I've got a wicked rievvy, and he's after me money. So he is, mum. So he pays to 'ave me hep up 'ere, and they 'opes as I shall die 'ere, mum. So they do." And there was a shake in the man's voice that spoke of emotion. "And then, mum, when I dies they'll be as rich as rich." "And do you mean to say my niece and her husband lend themselves to that iniquitous scheme ?" "Yes, mum—that's the size of it. Yes, mum, they does, not as I wish to say a word again' 'em, net to set, least of all, yourself again' 'em, mum." "But couldn't a solicitor take the matter up and get you out?" said Aunt .Maria sternly. The feebleness of the man in. submitting to it annoyed her. "Yes, mum, maybe, but I 'aven't been able to get at one sinoe I oame 'ere. You see, I'm paralysed in me legs." "Well, I must fix that window now, and I'll do what I can in the morning," said Aunt Maria, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. To do justice at all costs. With that she beat a somewhat informal retreat. She had just remembered her long plait in her drawer, and that her teeth were on the washstand in her room. . "Something's annoyed Aunt Maria!" said Dots, anxiously, to Jim next morning. "Didn't you notice she was fearfully monosyllabic at breakfast, and just now I met her coming downstairs to go out, and she said so sharply that she'd prefer to go alone." "Never mind; let hex go. We'll get our little business done while she's out. I'm off to the bank now. I'll be back in a few minutes." So happy they both were as they mounted to the attic together, and Jim, as he counted, out the gold pieces, and added half a crown, said: "We're grateful to you, my mam, for making yourself as sca.ree as for yourself." And Dot said very prettily: "Yes, thank you so much for staying up here. You see, it's my aunt —she is here for a day or two, and she would not understand." "No, mum ! She dofci't look 'saotly the sort who would—l could tell as 'owe she were a real lady for all she'd got so little on," and at the recollection he chuckled. "She was up 'ere last night—'eard the winder rattle, —but I never let on who I was—no fear! Why, I'd give you my word I wouldn't." Poor things—after all their trouble! It was hard ! "That's what has upset her, then," said Dots; ''l knew something was wrong." But they could get no more out of their attic friend, except winks, and a knowing "I did 'er —she didn't never suspect—not she!" So they hurried him off and awaited developments. The first development was Aunt Maria, enveloped in a dark veil of mystery. The next development arrived half an hour later, in the form of the leading solicitor in the town*. He knew Jim personally, and was very apologetic, but repeated the tale Aunt Maria had told him. Jim made a clean breast of it to him. He said it was the first time (lucky Jim) it had happened, but it was the rent and that. He was paid now—a,nd really both men had to have a hearty Laugh. Mr Lawrence saw Aunt Maria alone. She had never heard of a bailiff man before. The solicitor not only explained the whole episode to her, but he told her much about Jim's sterling qualities, and the way he was admired and respected by all who knew him. adding that his work was very good, and that he was considered to be a rising artist. And when Aunt Maria had got over the first shock, the little incident did the young people no harm. Anyway, five years after, when the old lady died, the bulk of her property was left to Dots.—M. A. P.