A Cheerful Giver

Otago Witness, Issue 3014, 20 December 1911, Page 80

A Cheerful Giver

[All Rights Reserved.]

Bv Capt. Frank H. Shaw,

%MJM%Jk R HIRAM JOHNSTONE settled himself comfortably in the corner of & first°i ass smoking carriage arid Ho had two and a-half hours 'of a journey before <®g|pE=a!ssff2 him before he reached Leytongate, which was the '^'o^'* l station for Loyton Manor, his destination. He smiled with anticipation, and looked out of the window at the .snow-covered landscape. Two days later it would be Christmas, and Sir Monty kept a heritable house at the festive season. There was every reason for Mr Johnstone to be cheerful. He loved the good things of life.- He loved sociability, rich feeding, the merriment and good fellowship that wers invariably associated with the season. In his kit bag, that occupied the opposite seat, he had a box of superfine cigars for his host, a bottle of rare perfume for his hostess ; he ha-d expended a five-pound note well. Mr Johnstone's income was somewhere between twenty and thirty thousand a year, and he had not a single relative in the world.

"Christmas." he said, cutting and jighting a cigar, "Christmas is really a most enjoyable time." His mind dwelt gladly on the coming days; he had pleasing memories of the Manor table and its Joad of good things; Sir Montague Beckwithshaw did the thing in ■ style. Mr Johnstone was not a miserly man, but forty-five years of single blessedness had taught him a little selfishness; indeed, it is probable that in the whole course of those years he had never denied himself a single thing he needed or wished -for.' Self-denial is almost unnecessary to a jnan with an inctome between twenty and thirty thousand a year. When he saw ft thing he desired he went in and bought •it, if it were for sale; if not he worked deviously and usually obtained his wish. And one great wish of his teemed likely to be fulfilled this Christmas time; he Jttad set his heart on possessing something that he both felt he needed and wanted. He was-conscious of a pleasurable tingling in bib veins now—he blew out thick clouds of fragrant smoke, and the columns of the encyalopasdic Time 6 failed to amuse. Instead of reading further he groped in a waistcoat pocket and produced a small morocco rase. It flew open to the pressure of his thumb and disclosed a ring.

"Any girl would be proud to possess that," he said half aloud. "Why, there isn't another ring like it in—in half England. There's a beautiful stone now — there's a glitter and a fire." He spoke ccaxingly, .as if he were persuading a child to see the ring's beauties. And it ■was undoubtedly a beautiful ring; in pxquisite good taste, without the slightest Suspicion of . vulgarity; a ring a lady might wear with pride—that a gentleman might give with satisfaction. "She won't refuse it—she can't," he said smilingly. "Trust a twentieth century" girl to icnow which side her bread's buttered on. ' And I know she likes me. I like her, too." He paused and seemed to stare at himself mentally. Some

strange new feeling had been born within him, something that caused him to flush and breathe heavily. "God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "why, this must be luve —I love her !" ,

Tt was eighteen months ago since he first met Carylle Lloyd, and he had been attracted to the girl from the first. To be sure, she might have been, his daughter —she ivas then twenty-one to his fortyfour ; but the difference in ages was on the right side. Normally a cautious man, Mr Johnstone had said nothing; did not even know himself at that date how much he yearned to pluck that fragrant flower of womanhood and call it his own. But it was really necessary that he should marry some day—the capital that provided that handsome income would be wasted otherwise. And he needed someone to grace his table— to order the wheels of his life to rotate with welloiled smoothness. Housekeepers at the best were unsatisfactory, and sometimes the evenings were long and lonely—clubs had lost their old charm—yes, he was assuredly needing a wife to cherish him. "I'll give her a little surprise—just as Christmas comes," he said. "I think it was uncommonly decent of Monty to invite her to spend Christmas at the Manor; but then Monty is decent. I expect he wanted to give me a chanoe, the gay old poime! Carylle Lloyd— Carylle is a pretty

Author of " The Love Tides," " A Life's Devotion." etc.

name. Caryile Johnstone." He blushed a little, although he was alone in the carriage. "Caryile Johnstone — \vn —er — well, no great improvement, perhaps, but —dear me! I can smell smoke." . He sniffed. There was a faint suspicion of burning somewhere; he looked down, but the match with which he had lighted his cigar was properly extinguished, lying on the linoleum and not on the carpet. He was a careful man. "I hmst have been mistaken. Let me see, where was I ? Oh. yes, about Caryile. Of course she must see that it's to her own interest to marry me-—she can't refuse. Bless her pretty face; I believe she like s me well enough to love me when she gets used, to me. I think it will be a good time to propose to her at midnight on Christmas Eve. Monty always stops the dancing then, and —yes, an excellent time. Hello! we seem to be stopping." The train had run on smoothly for close on an hour, but now there came a jarring of brakes, a sudden lurching. "I hope we're, not going to be snowed up," said Mr Johnstone. "That.would be most unfortunate." And as he spoke the train came to a standstill; the smell of smoke became mors pronounced ; a filmy vapour showed outside the window. A moment later the door was opened from outside, and the face of the guard—snow on his b ear d—sh o w e d. "Very sorry, sir; extremely sorry, sir; but I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to change, sir. The carriage is on fire—hot box, sir; I noticed the smoke, sir, and I stopped the train—a siding here, sir, we'll ; shunt the carriage off and——" He had I already gathered together Mr Johnstone's bags and wraps; there seemed no other course save to follow him into the snow. I Mr Johnstone shivered a little —with gratiI tade as much as anything else. He had | escaped a possible calamity; suppose the ; carriage had bursji into open flames and J the train had not stopped! He followed j the guard. i "Very sorry, sir—no more firsts, sir—only one carriage, sir. I'm afraid it will have to be a third, sir. The guard's I manner was anxious. Mr Johnstone was I impatient and inclined to be cross; he made a mental resolve to write to the company about it. "Why not go on as we are going?" he asked petulantly, and the stoker ap- ! proached to hasten the guard. He had | examined the carriage, and found that it | was a miracle there had been no accident; : the woodwork was already burnt away so much that it was a marvel that the axle I had not oome adrift. "I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to step into a third, sir," said the guard; here's one almost empty." Before Mr Johnstone could make an efficient protest he was handed into a third, his luggage was passed in after him, and the train began to move. He had never travelled third class before in his life \ and now he looked curiously about him. It was an ordinary compartment, deserted save for two small children, a boy and a, girl, who stared at him rqund-eyed. They sat very close together, were extremely self-consci-ous, and kept their hands on two small parcels which were guarded with jealous care. Mr Johnstone had no particular liking for children; he anticipated an unpleasant journey, and thanked his stars that it would be over in an hour and ahalf. The train was normally an express; it was hardly likely it would stop again before reaching its destination. Therefore he resigned himself to the situation and began to make himself coanfortable. He ensconced himself behind The Times as the train, having performed various juggling tricks, moved on with gathering speed. There was a heavy article which demanded close attention to be thoroughly understood; he was very quiet. "Would you like to look?" came the question in the boy's, voice. "It's a secret, mind, but I'll show you if you like." Mr. Johnstone was about to look over the top of his newspaper, but for some reason or other he refrained. There came the crackling of paper; a momenj tary silence, then an exclamation of awe i from, the girl. ! "My, it's beautiful! It would have cost an awful lot of money.. But it is pretty, Harry. I don't know how you bought it."

"Oh, it was easy enough. I just saved up. It was rather slow work, because—■ well, I got a catalogue, ancF—and " "How long did it take you to save

up?" "Threepence a week, it cost five shillings —twenty weeks. But it'll be worth it when mother sees it, won't it ?"

"My; what a lot of money; I don't know how you did it." Mr Johnstone peeped cautiously round the corner of his paper to see a flamboyant piece of china in the shape of a vase, which the boy was admiring somewhat regretfully. "I couldn't help it. Pater always says that Christmas isn't a time to receive? but to give. Of course, we get lots of presents ; but he says that we find more pleasure in giving than in taking, and—well, I don't know. But mother's always said she needed another vase for the drawing room overmantel; ,and—this is rather like one she has. And—five shillings wouldn't have bought very much, anyway." "I'd have spent it on dolls and sweets and things. You could buy an awful lot of chocs, for five shillings." "Yes, you could. But, you see, you wouldn't have the pleasure of giving in that case. It's the saving up and the looking in at windows and thinking what you'd buy if vou hadn't to save up that makes it really nice. And when mother sees this on Christmas morning—well, I'll

forget all about everything else." Mr Johnstone rustled his paper, and the vase was immediately and hurriedly encased in its wrappings again. Conscious of his shyness with children., the man made no attempt to speak, but his brain was wondering. Did people deny themselves for the mere sake of giving pleasure to others? It was almost incredible. And yet—that boy must have spoken truly, and the regret in his voice told that denial of this nature was no easy task. "Pater always says there's no good- in giving what you don't- want; you must give what it takes trouble to give. Give as much as ever you can, even if you go without ever so many things."

"Yes, I know, but I don't get threepence a week." The discussion ran on, but Mr Johnstone failed to hear further. Of course, it was an excellent plan to train children up in this way; taught them to be generous and unselfish; yes, really, an excellent plan. The article in The Times failed to attract him; he was thinking of that box of cigars and the bottle of perfume. Come to think of it, they were really 'somewhat inadequate, considering the kindness that would be lavished on him during the holiday. Why, he had bought them both with the loose change in his pocket and had never missed it!

"I must send a wire to Follarwith's," he thought. "They would be able to get me something out in time—and then . Yes, I must certainly send a wire."_ He was strongly tempted to give a brand new five-shilling piece that he knew rested in his pocket to the boy; but he hesitated. This would set a premium on self-denial —this lad would forget the pleasure of giving in the pleasure of receiving —and so the crown remained where it was. But Mr Johnstone still continued to think, and he was thinking when the

train drew up at Leytongate, and he was hailed by a big, bronzed man. "Come on, old stick-in-the-mud, the trap's waiting. Jolly glad to tee you. Compliments of the season. Hello, Harry ! Back from school?" "Yes-, sir. Merry Christmas, ' sir." Sir Monty felt in his pocket, and produced a half-crown.

"Same, to you, my boy, and many of them. Our vicar's son,-" he explained to Mr Johnstone. "Decent youngster ; got an invalid mother. Well, we've got Carylle Lloyd with us, to say nothing of a host of other people. Young Vereker's there, too —-you won't know him. He's in the navy—a lieutenant —on Christmas leave, you know. Nice boy." Mr Johnstone entered into an t animated discussion of the house-party assembled at the Manor, and shivered as the ramping ,mare between the shafts sped on like a racehorse over the snow-covered roads.' Then he thought of Carylle and grew warm; he tried to imagine .her greeting, and grew warmer. He forgot Harry Es■eombe completely.

11.

It was half-past 11 on Christmas Eye, and Mr Johnstone was in an appalling state of nervousness. The time was coming perilously near when he must put his fortune to the test and—Carylle looked very lovely to-night, even lovelier, ilf that were possible, than when he had arrived two days before. Then she had seemed the most delectable morsel of humanity that any man's eyes could linger on to-night, flushed and sparkling, she was an actual embodiment of love. Mr Johnstone watched her swinging round in a dreamy waltz, her flower-face upturned, her eyes shining, and felt a curious pang of jealousy. Her partner was the same young sailor his host had mentioned on the evening of his reaching the Manor; a tall, brown-faced youngster, firm-jawed, capable-looking, who was very serious, despite the lovely vision he held in his arms. Mr Johnstone had danced twice with Carylle conscious of his own limitations in the art—but he had enjoyed an excellent dinner, and several glasses of ancient port —he reluctantly admitted to himself that he was not a dancing man.

"In another half-hour," he said to him. self, fingering the morocco case in his vest pocket, "in another half-hour; and she—she has been very agreeable to me this time, very agreeable." He remembered how she had accompanied him on more than one walk, showing a marked preference for hia society; and, being selfish, he had not thought that all this

was engineered carefully. To his unconscious mind it seemed as though Carylle was desirous of sharing his society; he knew nothing of Carylle's mother pulling discreet strings in the background.

Mr Johnstone trembled. He was inexperienced in matters, of the heart, and the coming ordeal loomed more and more formidable as the minutes went by. Sir Monty endeavoured, to lure him to the billiard room, but failed, and went off grunting. Johnstone remained where he was, in the old picture gallery, hung with ancestors —large, well-tilled with a happy crowd. "I —I really think a brandy and soda would not be a bad idea," he said, and walked away in search of refreshment. When he, returned another dance was in full swing. Carylle had been claimed by another partner ; he heard her soft, low laugh as she swung past him; she flashed a glance in his direction, a dazzling smile. He had carefully reserved the dance immediately before midnight, because Sir Monty always made a point of stopping the gaieties as the clock struck 12, in order that the village waits might be granted a hearing. And Mr Johnstone had panned to entice Carylle away into a certain secret place he had in mind, and there offer himself and that wonderful diamond ring as a suitable Christmas present. But there was still another dance to be danced before his waltz was due, and the crash of music, the constant swish of skirts, the ring of voices was somewhat bewildering; the combined effect caused his thoughts to - stray from those careful lyi-thought-out sentences with which he must open his campaign. "I shall go where it is quieter," he said, and walked to a remote conservatory. Here the din was somewhat subdued. He sank into a wicker chair—

an old one that did not, even creak —and leaned back, thinking. Carylle was wonderful, charming. He found that he loved her more than he had ever imagined it possible for him to love . anything in the world. She was necessary to him, not only as an ornament to his home, but as something to fill his heart. And — she would not refuse him when the time came; within less than half an hour she would be his promised wife. He tried to rehearse his opening, speech, but could only repeat: "My God! I love her, I love her!" in a whisper of surprise. The high tension on, which he had been held began to relax a little ; he was convincing himself that the ordeal was not nearly so dreadful as he had believed it to be—his head began to droop on to his immaculate shirt front. Remember, he had dined well, and the old port was heavy He roused himself with a start; voices sounded near him. Rather, one voice, a man's, vibrant with passionate intensity. Ho understood awkwardly that he was an. unconscious eavesdropper, and wondeved for a half-wakening moment what was the best course to pursue. Should he disclose his presence there by a cough or a word of explanation? A look round showed him that his chair was screened by palms and other exotic plants—he i sat in 'a veritable bower of green, shut | off from the world. Yes, he must oerj tainly cough or do something, but " ! "I can't keep myself in hand any longer, little girl. Do you think I'm made of iron? I'm flesh and blood, and, oh! it must come out. I've done nothing but think of you, Carylle, ever since that day I met you. Is it too soon to speak? Sailors don't lose time; they j know when they're in love." j Mr Johnstone stiffened where he sat, ! and decided that to speak or to cough now were unwise. It never entered' into his head that he was playing* a dishonourable part. He must hear Carylle's | answer at any cost. His blood seemed to have frozen in his veins; but -it resumed its flow in the pause that followed the s-ailor's outburst. Of course Carylle would promptly check him for his presumption and show him wherein he bad been guilty of barefaced effrontery. Rut Carylle did not check him, she did not speak at all, only, as Mr Johnstone strained his ears he fancied he caught a sob. A sniff of contempt, naturally, and yet—was it? It sounded very much more like a sob, and here came Vereker's words I to confirm the suspicion. | "What is it, little girl? I've taken you by surprise! I'm a brute, and ought to be lucked. But, oh, CaTylle, it's Christmas Ere, and I'm hungry for a Christ- ! mas present; and I -can't put it off any

longer. Carylle, I love you with all mV heart and soul —I want you for my wife.' Mr Johnstone listened breathlessly now. The girl had not turned on this bold lover and bade him be silent.

"Tears, Carylle? Why are you crying? •' Oh. I'm all kinds of a brute to make yon cry like this, but I'm desperate. I love. S you." "And—and it's all so hopeless," came a muffled answer that was little more than g a whisper, but Mr Johnstone heard it. . 1 "Hopeless ! What; do you mean, Carylle ; M you wouldn't have said that if—if you | hadn't cared. Why is it hopeless?" "Can't you see for yourself?" There M was some spirit in her voice now. "Oh, I are men always blind? Don't you under • stand yet how it is with me ? I—l1 —I wish I you'd never told me; it hurts, you know." From the following rustling and the half- | sobbed remonstrances, Mr Johnstone was sure the sailor had possessed himself of \ her* hands and witlidrawn them from her fa-oc. "Why does sit hurt?"' he demanded masterfully. "Look here", Carylle, I love you, and I don't want to think that my love hurts you. Tell me the trouble, sweetheart." "Hush! You mustn't call me thai." "I'll call you what I like, in reason, you wonder-woman. I love you, and it's making me mad." | "Jack, listen to me; you mustn't. It's so—so impossible. You must think that you like of me, but I can't listen to you— ; I can't." There was a little silence, Mr - : Johnstone held kit breath. Wild horses would not have tern him from his place now; he seemed drawn taut and ready to snap gomewhere. "Do you mean, Carylle," came in a more sober voice, "that—that you don't love me ?" "Believe that —if you like. But, but—there's something else." Followed a low chuckle. "Lack of love would be reason enough, no need for more. As you're so keen on something else, you must love me. That's enough for me." "Jack, it isn't enough. Think me a mercenary beast if you like, but listen. I can't marry you because —because " "Because what?" Johnstone heard a sharply, indrawn breath and unconsciously leaned forward. "Because —well, because you're so poor. Now have you plumbed my miserable depths? That's what's the matter. I've to make a weathy marriage, Jack—-I must marry money. I've had it drilled into me ever since I came out. I must marry money to help them at home. We're so beastly poor,' you know, and mother-—" mother isn't used to it. It's a duty I owe to her to marry well; and then there are others, too. It's al la coil, ~ but —but—the mortgagees threaten to foreclose, and papa will go mad if he has to leave the Priory. Ano there are the boys ■ —-they must-have their chance —and the | girls. They'll soon be too old to wear my cut-down dresses. I've got to help them—it's my plain duty." | "Ah!" It was almost a groan. "You're to sell yourself, then? "My beautiful" darling, it's inhuman. And I'm—great ] God ! the injustice of things. I've hardly a stiver beyond my. pay. But I'll get promotion soon, Caiy'lle, to commander, you know, and we could live on that comfortably enough." •• "If a woman loves a man she'd live on nothing," said the girl, "so that she was with him. But we can't always think of ourselves —there are the- others. Oh, if you must have it, Jack, I do love you— I do love you, and. you may kks me once, just once as if you were saying good bye to someone who was dead. No, not again, dear, it would only make it the hai*der." "And—l can't bring myself to realise it yet; I won't give up hope. But, who's the buyer, may I ask?" "Don't be so cruel, dear. You are hurting me more than—more than " "Tel me—let me know who my gilded rival is. There must be someone in view." "Mr Johnstone. Mother says that he will propose to .me soon, and—and I've to accept him." "That pursey little chap! Why, he's old enough to be your father, and—and— Carylle, he's a selfish, pompous little aes. ; Why, that man's had everything in his jf life; he's never been denied a thnig he wanted and—now he's got to have you, just because he's got so much. It's too hard, it's too hard!"

"You mustn't call him names. He's not purse-proud, and lie's not pompous. He's very nice, and—and so kind. I like him immensely, and I'm .sure he's fond of me. I think—l think " "Who, wouldn't be fond of you?" It sounded as though the words had been grated out between clenched teeth. "Ca.rylle, I won't give up hope yet." "Now then, in there, when you've finished flirting perhaps you'll come oat and hear the waits." It" was Sir Monty's cheerful voice. The couple slid back their chairs and rose. Johnstone saw their faces. Presently a clear treble voice rose in the gallery' beyond : "God rest you, nuerry g-entletmen, let nothing you d,ismay."

Mr Johnstone felt suddenly old and weary. The carol annoyed him. He remembered a side exit from the conservatory that would bring him into an untenanted part, of the house, fiom whence he could slip up to his bedroom unobserved. . In that room's seclusion he sat down heavily, trying to separate facts. "She loves him," he thought. " She loves him, likes me. Ah! 6he is a good girl; she wouldn't let that young man call me bad names. What was it? Purse-proud, selfish? Am I that, I wonder?" He examined himself mentally. "Yes, she would defend me; and —she will marry me. What if 6he does love that young man? I can give her the things that will make her forget him, and she will love me in time. He thinks he is the only lover in the world; I love her as well as he does." He was hurt to his. deeps; never before had Carylle seemed so desirable. And he could help her to help her people out of

iheir difficulties; he would load her with She would be grateful to him., and ijfiit of gratitude would, grow love. ■He stared into the fire, and by some Rtrioacy of thought eaw not the face of pie girl but another face; a boyish face Soring over a jealously-guarded parcel. me seemed tt» hear worlds, too; what were •they ? Ah, he had them i ' 'Pater says ?that Christmas is a time to give." Well, ijwasn't ho about to give himself and his |ortune? Could any girl ask for more? f "It's the saving up and the thinking jjivhat you'd buy if you hadn't to save up ithat's .really nice."

I What did it all mean? Why should his jhemory be playing him such tricks? I "Why, that man's had everything in his ilife; he's never been denied a thing he wanted." It wasn't the boy who said that, it was the sailor. Was this a message from, a higher source? Had it come ithat he must learn a lesson from a school*boy and be generous ? He wrestled with [himself, knowing that he loved the girl. "Gave as much "as you can, even if you go without ever so many things." It was the boy who said that, though. And Gas-vile was the most precious thing in his life; was it demanded of him that he > should give her, give her to this young sailor ? "But—he couldn't marry her; he's poor, as she's poor, he wailed to the insistent I voice that clamoured in his heart. "She needn't be poor; you know a fway," came the answer. 111. Mr. Johnstone cleared his throat and I fumbled in his vest pocket. It was I Christmas afternoon, and a general lull h had fallen over the house. Mr Johnstone | had not slept the past night; but the s hours of darkness had brought him to a j solution. It. was more than Fate that [had sent him into the third-class carriage I and into the presence' of those children; it was the Christmas spirit, nothing less. f He had occupied himself after church in I conversing animatedly ' with Carylle's I mother, from whose lips had fallen pearls lof worldly wisdom. She had been arch I and <ioy with him; already she -viewed P him as a prospective son-in-law. ' 'Miss Lloyd, Miss Carylle, there is I something I want to say to you," he I began nervously. It was really very hard, | and'the flushed face with the suspicion !of redness about the eyes that was turned to him did not make matters easier. The girl's lips were set.; her bosom was heav"l—l have not given you a Christmas I present yet, Carylle. I had intended to I give you one, but—but>—l was in the ■ conservatory last night, just , before the I minstrels came." She looked at him, her %■ half parted, a shiver of fear shook I her. "Then yon beard?" she said slowly, I and he nodded. Silence fell, heavy with I portent, and Mr Johnstone's fingers once I more strayed towards his vest pocket. "Since hearing that I have decided to I alter my present to you," he said. "I—l ; think" I have learned something this : Christmas. I wonder if you would take I a present from me—no matter what it ' was. I was going to ask you to marry me, my dear; but—but two proposals - might unnerve you. But—it is rather awkward for me—only—well, I am older than you are; old enough to be your faither." She was> frankly bewildered; r-.be could not tell what he would be at. ; Relief wa s with her. but also some small ; dread. There would be her mother to jjj face afterwards. "And, will you accept my Christmas : present, Miss Carylle, no matter what it is?" "If it will give vou pleasure," she said : softly, "yes.". He dipped an envelope ; into her "hand. "It is really a wedding I present, too," he said .chokily. "Open it, : please." Carylle found herself staring incredulously at a cheque for fifty thou- [ 6and pounds! "I can't," she began, but Johnstone I placed his hands'on hers. "You.must —I I insist. And would you—will you ?" j His manner was very wistful. "Would I what? Oh!" He seemed to I reel where he sat as she kissed him on [ the lips. And later, seeing two glowing I faces near Mrs Lloyd's beaming face, he I decided that the boy was right.