SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3035, 15 May 1912, Page 81

SHORT STORIES.

By Angela Hastixcs

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

The Athenic was leaving port. On board stood dozens of men and women, even children, that would never again behoid the shores of England, home wept, grief-stricken at leaving the only home they knew and all their dear ones; others laughed, overjoyed at going forth to meet the only hope life held, and all the glorious future possibilities. Some pictured to themselves a life of affluence in the land of promise towards which they were sailing; in imagination others saw themselves returning laden with earth's greatest riches, returning home again to England —to the land they loved. "Yet as the great ship went out slowly there were few eyes undimmed by tears as the brave for-tune-seekers waved a last piteous goodbye to those they left behind them. Leaning against the railing near where the gangway had been taken down stood a tall, broad-shouldered Englishman, calmly watching this emotional scene. Apparently no friends of his stood on the wharf, for he waved to no one and no one waved to him. Even the pleasure-seeking tourists wept a little for it was a long way to New Zealand; and many things might happen ere they again set foot in England. The man by the railing watched them all—tourists and emigrants—with a strange mixture of amusement, pity, and contempt. Near the Englishman stood a slight, bojish, young fellow, evidently another mere onlooker of those tearful nartings. "Poor beggars," said the young fellow, nodding towards perhaps the most pathetic group "It's hard luck for them." The Englishman glanced over towards them, and nodded in response. "Yes, hard luck, but," he added slowly, "other people have luck just as hard, and don't parade their feelings." "You mean," said the younger man, "the rich have troubles?" The Englishman nodded. "Yes." "Well," answered the other as he came nearer, "I daresay they have, but there are few troubles in life so hard to bear as want of money." "You think so?" "I'm pretty sure of it." "Perhaps so. Money's a curse," the Englishman said bitterly. His companion laughed. "May that curse fall on me," he said merrily. "And may it fall heavily at that." "Do j'ou come from • New Zealand?" asked the Englishman, abruptly changing the subject. "Yes; I've been Home to get my degree. London's a great place. I wish I'd been born there, but, as it is, give me our own little New Zealand. My name's Allan M'Donald." "A Scotchman unmistakably." "Yes, most certainly, though, mind you, we colonials—we New Zealanders, I mean to say—don't bother much about the nationality of'our grandfathers." "No? My name is Hilldon. I am bound for your country. You have good scenery there, I understand." "So they they, but to tell you the truth I haven't seen much of it. Rotorua is a great place, T believe, and there are the Sounds and the Lakes. You see, I've been swatting most of my time. I had to ~et through my exams before I went touring the country." "Exams?" "Yes, medical." "Oh, I see. You're a doctor?" M'Donald nodded. "Yes, a captain without a ship—a- doctor without a practice." "Do you intend to set up in New Zealand?" "Yes. in Dunedin." "What sort of a place 16 that?" asked Hilldon. "The prettiest city I've ever seen !" cried M'Donald enthusiastically, and glancing at him Hilldon saw the boyish face light up with pleasure. He was the only friend whom Hilldon made on board, for Hilldon was typically English—reserved and quiet. Allan's frank, honest face attracted him, and he liked to hear the New Zealander speak of his native city and to watch his brown eyes shine. They had been three weeks on board, when one evening Hilldon rose suddenly from the dining table and staggered towards the door. A heavy sea was running and as Hilldon reached the door he reeled and fell back into M'Donald's arms, who, seeing his friend's evident distress, had risen almost simultaneously. The ship's doctor hurried in, and he and Allan carried the sick man to his cabin . Hilldon had been violently attacked by that great modern enemy, appendicitis. "You'll operate at once?" asked M'Donald. turning to the other doctor. "I don't think so. It would be impos- ' sible in a sea like this." "Then he won't last. The man's in' agony." "I'll inject morphia, and " "Will you allow me to operate? I take all risks. I think that I can save him." "You?" The doctor glanced at M'Donold's slender, clever fingers. "Well, yes; but, mind you, if he dies the responsibility is your own." In a few moments Allan's Instruments were spread out upon a white cloth on the table, and, calling to the stewardess, he ordered her to boil them, while he prepared Hilldon for the operation. Only once the sick man spoke. " You aie operating, M'Donald?" " It is unavoidable." "You yourself are operating?" ." Yes. * You trust me?" The Englishman put out his hand slowly and'Allan pressed it. "I trust you." The ship's doctor watched Allan in ad-

miration as the thin, active hand performed its work so skilfully, holding: the knife bo firmly, yet seemingly so lightly, and as if by instinct knowing when to rise to avoid the rolling of the ship. The passengers gazed in wonder on the young boyish doctor when he went on deck next day, and whispered to one another of the great operation he had so successfully performed. • " You saved my life, M'Donald," Hilldon said to him in a weak voice. "Tako these, and it's little enough," he added as he pressed into .Allan's hand a pile of notes. The doctor dropped them on the bed. "No, thanks, Hilldon." "But I can spare them." "I daresay, but I'd rather not accept them." " Then how can I thank you?" "By getting well. I tell you what, Hilldon, come home with me to Dunedin. Mona will look after you." "Is she your sister? I thought you hadn't one?" " Neither I have. She Well, she's the girl whom I intend to marry." "lo marry?" Hilldon was frowning at the waves. " You might be happier single, M'Donald." "I doubt it," laughed Allan. "Wait till you see Mona. You'll be wanting her yourself, Hilldon." " I do not think so," said the Englishman quietly. 11. "You'd think the Prince of Wales was coming!" said the neighbours, but probably if he were he would not have received half so royal a reception as Allan and his English friend- Allan's room had been repapered, and the best spare room liad been done out —in fact, the whole house had been so thoroughly overhauled that you would have thought that the arrival of two most exacting professors of domestic science was anticipated. What a home-coming it was! Allan's mother cluing to her only child. His father shook Hilldon warmly by the hand saying his boy's friend Avas. his, and Mona, a beautiful, sweet-faced girl, whom Hilldon thought the loveliest Woman he had ever seen, hovered round them all. Allan had explained to him the girl's relationship. She was really a distant cousin of his mother's, but had lived with them from childhood. And the days that followed! Hilldon'.s face Ifegam to lose its sternness, and th 9 sadness of hi.s former life seemed fading. Allan was eager to begin his work, and soon put up his brass plate on the gate. Thus Moria and Hilldon were left alone — indeed, the young doctor bade his cousin show Hilldon all ' the beauties of the .town. Did not the girl bear on her hand a shininnr diamond talisman, and is not an Englishman the soul of honour?. Mona did not daire to analyse the strange emotions of her heart, and as the days went On grew to love Hilldon more and more. And he? To be with her made him forget all he had suffered,, and to look forward" to a dazzling gift of happiness. A month, six weeks flew by, and still he lingered. It was a glorious summer's morning, and he and Mona were climbing up the steep, rough cliff at Tomahawk. A joyous breeze was Blowing, and life seemed well worth living. The sea air deepened the colour on the girl's soft cheeks, and she spi'ang nimbly up the hillside, calling to Hilldon, and beckoning to him to follow her. Then came a wild, breathless scramble, and together they reached the top. Below them fathoms deep the ocean lay in all its soft, blue loveliness. The great white-crested waves came rushing in, triumphant in undisputed freedom, and the sunlight danced to their hoarse music. "Mona!" The joy of life thrilled Hilldon's being, and she turned to him with shining eyes. The whole world was forgotten as they stood together on the runlit cliff. The sunliaht flashed upon the diamonds on her Hand, and both read their silent message. "But Allan' Oh, I dare not tell them!" " We shall go to-night—together. You will travel as my sister. G->d. why should I miss such hanpines as this?" Yet when Hilldon sat alone that nicht in his own room the baseness of his action came to him. He saw himself about to enact a part he had conden ned when acted by another. His fr : "n«* had brought him home, and he rum s*ou{rl ' :o rob him. He clenched his hands. U'r<i was a chance of happiness. All's fail in love and war; but yet "My do*''' he muttered to himself, " I am a JpA"«i. Rob the man who gave me life! And vet she loves me. It would be no sin. I will —but no, I cannot!" The big town clock chimed slowly, and then struck 11 He put up his window cautiously and climbed out on to the balcony. He went down the rustic staircase leading to the garden. In the summerhoute he found Mona waiting, wrapped in a heavy cloak. She ran to meet him, and held her hands towards him. "I'm glad you came. It was so dark in there. I was afraid." He did not answer. "Arthur! W do you not answer me? How cold yu are!" "Mona, ehiid, for God's .sake do net touch me. I cannot take you with me. Go, do not tempt me. Marry Allan and forget me!" "Forget you? I—l never loved him. He is only "as my brother. Arthur, tell me, Is there some reason why I must not come?" " I am married to a woman now in England!" She started back and gazed at him in horror. "Mona, do not look at me like that. I never loved her. The old house needed money. She had the dollars, I the title." "Then you are not Arthur Hilldon?" " I am Arthur Daynton, Earl of Hilldnn. Mona, AUdt loves you. Be his wife —forget me—lovfr him." Not till long years after did Mona

M'Donald learn the truth: how the wife whom Hilldon .spoke of was in England, dead, killed in the pursuit of her own folly j how his wife had left him, fleeing with a mian, a pinner like herself, and God in his wrath had dashed their car to pieces. Hilldon had lied to Mona, but the lie was noble, and she readily forgave him.

But as she rocks her child and Allan's on her knee she often shut* her eyes and dreams that it is and he, in his great lonely home, looks often on the photo of a sweet-faced girl, and softly whispers to. the smiling face, "My own lost Mona."