A PERILOUS ENTERPRISE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3101, 20 August 1913, Page 81

A PERILOUS ENTERPRISE.

By Ida M. Battex

It was Mrs East-off's day at home. In her carefully-shaded drawing room the scent of flowers, the fragrance of freshlyinfused tea, and the low hum of conversation produced a pleasant sense of luxury one hot afternoon in* November.

After assuring herself that her guests were apparently enjoying themselves, chatting gaily to each other, Mrs Eastoff leaned back in her low chair with a sigh of relief. “Dear, dear, it is hot. I think we are going to have a trying summer.” Several began to reply, when the door was opened, and a well-dressed woman, entered. She greeted her hostess, and seated herself with the air of one who had at least accomplished her intention. “I thought I should, never get here,” she said, in well-modulated tones. “Of cours® you have heard the news?”

<( don’t think so,” replied Mrs Eastoff j “nothing of very particular interest. What is it?”

’Won haven’t heard about Leslie Steele? Surely!—oh, well, at least I shall have the pleasure of telling you all something fresh.” Everybody looked up at her words, and Mrs Verner, the wife of a doctor, who had been envying the blouse her neighbour was wearing, asked eagerly, “What about her? Some new prank?” "Well, one could hardly call it a prank. She is married to Paul Drury.” “Paul Drury!” -..“-You can’t mean it!**. “I always said there was something between those two!- ’ “The silly girl!” These were a few of the exclamations that greeted the news. “My dear,” said Mrs Eastoff, taking the lead, “are you sure it’s true? Who told you ? Oh, what a terrible pity!” “Well, I always said that girl would come to no good. Her parents spoiled her, and gave her such notions, sending her to England to be educated; although I did hear that their object' was to keep her awav from him,” observed one, “Evidently- it didn’t have the desired effect,” replied the hostess. “Xo. she’s simply infatuated. Her people have turned against her; hut that can’t make any difference now ; they may as well forgive her, for the mischief’* done ?” “But what on earth,” questioned a hlneeyed woman, “jiossessed Leslie Steele, of all girls, to marry Paul Drury?” “I don’t know—says she loves him, and is going to reform him; or some such romantic nonsense.” “Poor girl!”" sighed the hlne-eyed woman. “She little knows what it means.” “Well, she’ll learn soon enough,” laughed the informant. “Marrying a man to save him may he all very well in novels, hut in real life —well ”’ She shrugged her shoulders. “TtV- none of my business, but I thought you’d like to know.” “What do her parents say?” “I heard there was a terrible scene, and afterwards Leslie packed her trnnke, caught the morning train to Wellington, ‘and married him. and now they’re going to the Kin? Country to star) farming ” “Leslie Steele on a farm? Well, that i* comical!” So Urn talk drifted on. remarks, conjectures. shrugs, and not a few “I told von so’s” mingled with the conversation. And Leslie, who had gone against everyone's judgment, cut herself off from her own neople, from the life in which she had been an exquisite and alluring figure, ponnlar hevond belief, and f"ll of humour, still held to her purpose. SV might have made a brilliant match with a man in

Wellington, twenty years her, senior; and there were at least five other aspirants for her hand of whom her set knew, and some others of whom she alone knew.

Of course, there were women who said that she would flirt with any man from six to sixty ; but no man ever said so, and there was none, from first to last, but smiled at the mention of,,her name, so had her vivacity, humour, and fine intelligence conquered them. She had the rare knack of drawing from a man the beet that was in him. Jealous women said that she chattered; but the truth was she made others talk by swift suggestion and oehcate interrogation. After the blow fell GeraM Lacour, a constant visitor at Government House, told the truth-when he said, “The first time I met Leslie Steele I told her everything—my hopes, my failures, the things I had done, and the things I had left undone. I don’t know how she did it, but she drew out all I ha 3 in me. and after I had talked for a solid hour I thought that she was the most brilliant conversationalist I had ever met. And most men who knew her shared Gerald Lacour's view.

Among her most faithful admirers was a member of the Legislative Council, the Hon. John Vachell. Of all the wond except her parents in New Plymouth, she had told him alone ■what she meant to do before she did it, and, taking advantage of his long friendship with the girl, he had tried to dissuade her from the step. At last, realising that he had encountered an iron will beneath the sunny surface, he had ceased to protest, only making ber premise that he might bo with her on the day that she was to give her life to Paul Drury, the drunken, disowned son of one of the most brilliant and wealthy lawyers in New Zealand, who had never, for four years, permitted his son’s name to be mentioned in his presence.

Paul had nothing but a tiny income left him bv his mother when he went to Leslie Steele, after having been sober for three weeks, and begged her to marry him. Ten years ago, before drink had laid its searing seal upon him, Paul Drury was one *of the handsomest young men in the Dominion. Even now he had an exceptional face, dark brown eyes, and wavy black hair streaked with grey —grey, although he was but thirty-five years of age. When Leslie was sixteen they had loved «ach other, and their love tale had been told in beautiful New Plymouth, Leslie** home. Often their stolen walks had J#d them on the seashore, or to the lovely Recreation Grounds, and his handsome face and tender ways captured her young imagination, and had fastened his image on her heart. Nothing had broken the early romance. Her people, seeing the drift of things, had sent her to school in England, and the two had not met for some vears. Then a stolen interview on Leslie’s return, and a fastening of the rivets of attraction, for Paul had gifts of a wonderful kind. He had been trained as a lawyer, and his father’s dearest wish had been that he should take the reins of business when his own advancing years demanded rest. Paul had a strong, clear head for business, and this made his father all the mere unforgiving when he gave way to drink. He had so set his heart on his only son and that son’s achievements, but he had been disappointed beyond belief. When Paul began to neglect his work high words had been spoken ; then came the strife between two proud, unrelenting natures, and at last the separation—nainful and irrevocable, and Paul had been flung upon the world—a hopeless drunkard. Society ceased to recognise him, and he had drifted to ruin. He had intermittent sober intervals when he vowed to “ pull himself together,” but. alas! when temptation came there would be a spree with some low companion, then inevitable, unavailing remorse. During one of these intervals he had met Leslie Steele on the beach near the Henui River for the first time in five years, for, shame being in his heart, he had avoided her. Yet the memory of those old days was always with her, for he had struck a responsive chord in her nature, and in all her happy life, when men had told her their tale of love, her mind had gone back to Paul and his words by the lake in the Recreation Ground, and his voic* had drowned all others. She knew well to what depths he had fallen, but she also knew and felt that she and she alone could save him. She guessed what others would think about it. how wild and perilous an undertaking it sometimes seemed even to herself, yet she seemed drawn to him in some remote and inexplicable way, for banish his image from her heart she could not do. So, when they met on the black, flittering iron sand beach old memories had rushed upon them both, and for a moment there was a silence, violet eyes gazing questioning!v into dark brown ones: then words had come, and together they had strolled as in davs of old. the grassy, pine-clad hill on Ihe one side, the ocean on the other, nod little children, who shrieked with delight as the impudent waves kissed thew tinv feet.

Then Paul had told her. as slip had honed a:id villed. that she must he his salvation ; and without hesitation she had placed her hand in his. and. gasping a prayer, bad given her life to him. As she had expected, her warents turned against ,her. and even her girl friends showed that they deemed her an hysterical fool: Thus the Only nerson who stood at the alia’ - with her and Paul was John Vacheli. who would not he denied, and who lectured Paul so severely before 'fie ceremony that Paul began to think tint he had committer! a crime in asking Leslie to he his wife. He realised, a-s she kmdt beside him. in her pure young beauty, his selfishness in asking her to link her life with his; hut then it was too late for regret, and he vowed that a new life must begin.

Leslie’s idea was to buv a small farm far away from evil associations in the King -Country, and she hoped and nraved Ihat the onen-air life and hard work •would assist Paul in his great fight with temptation.

Beiore they left Wellington, however, Leslie received a letter from Paul’s father demanding an explanation of “ her idiotic behaviour in marrying Paul.” She went to fee him, and he told her that she was ma£. “ What in the name of reason possessed you tt> do it?” he almost shouted. “ You knew all about him. There is no excuse for you to marry a drunken sot ! “Your own son,” she answered quietly. >She looked so lovely and so courageous standing there facing him that he was moved, but he determined n'ot to show it “He was my son,” he retorted.

“ And the son of the woman you loved,” she answered. “ What have said to your behaviour to Paul He turned away. Her thrust had gone home. “ She was an angel, he said gruffly. “ Leave her out of it. * . “That is impossible. His temperament is hereditary—from your grandfather, from her brother. Arc you not responsible in some way?” He was silent for a moment, but still angry. “Oh, why have you done it?’ he said. “What’s* between him and me can’t be. ffP^ed —we are father and son ; but you—you had no reason, absolutely no responsibility.”, “I love Paul—have always loved him for as long as I can remember. I see my way, and will not desert him. He has no one but me to care for him. Your love would not stand the strain ; mine will.” “Your people have disowned 5 7 0 u; you have practically nothing to live upon. What, as a matter of curiosity, do you see in the future?”

“Pau!—only Paul—and' God.” Her violet eyes were shining, her hands clenched in the tenseness of her feeling; her unconquerable spirit spoke in her face. Suddenly the old man started to his feet. “It’s a crime,” he cried, banging his fist upon the table. “It’s a crime. You are not responsible for your actions; a female Quixote! You cannot realise what a fearful hash you have made of vonr life.”

“Listen,” she said quietly. “I know the risk, I have thought it all out, on the beach where we often met, in the “ Rec,” where we dreamed our love dream. Do you think I could have lived, feeling that I could have saved him, but was too cowardly to try? To save the man I love, would not my life be well spent in doing it?” “ Love is not all-powerful,” said the old man. “ I will show you that mine is,” she continued. ‘ If I can save him—and 1 will—shan’t I have my heaven on earth ? I am ambitious —who is not?—but my ambition includes Paul, is nothing without him. I want the things you want — money, fame, —but Paul first—always— your disowned son —my husband—Paul. ’ Her eloquence had won. He rose slowly to his feet. “ You are wonderful. If you win you will gain what money cannot- buy; if you fail ” “ I shall not fail,” she interrupted. “ Let us hope not,’’ he said. “ But listen- Keep him straight for five years, and I’ll believe you and forgive him.” His voice failed, and the tears rushed to Leslie’s eyes. »

She looked up and kissed him. “ God bless you,” he murmured brokenly. “And Paul,’’ sbe concluded, and left him. He sank into a chair, and as the breath caught in his throat he said indignantly, “I’m an old fool,” then “By heaven, I will.” In a few minutes ho sealed a letter, and said, “ That will smooth the wav for her, the brave lassie.”

And so it came to pass that difficulties magically vanished from Paul and Leslie’s way, and a farm was bought near that owned by William Todd, an old friend of Paul’s father, who advised and guided Paul in his dealings, and who kept his father posted in concerning him.

Leslie and Paul were ideally happy in their little home. Their chief friends were Mrs and William Todd. Mrs Todd advised Leslie an to housekeeping matters, and her husband gave Paul all the information he required, and had it not been for his wise counsel their little capital must have been lost. A word or two during the quiet evenings was enough to save Paul from many a pitfall into which his inexperience must have led him. and Paul formed the habit of asking William Todd’s advice about all matters concerning his farm, and it was always good, and always freely given. Leslie and the Maori girl she engaged from a neighbouring pa kept the little house in exquisite order, and Leslie’s dainty taete was evidenced everywhere—in the frilled window curtains, the howls of ferns, and the vases of rata blossom or other bush flowers, which were placed in every available corner. .The story of Paul’s attempted reformation leaked out, and. with the delicacy and tact of country people, alcoholic drinks were never offered when Paul was present. For two years Paul had won—with what fightings and wrestlings of the spirit only Leslie and he knew. She always saw the* storm coming—a restlessness, then a moodiness, then a hungry, helpless look, and afterwards an agony of longing, a feverish desire to break away and secure the thrilling drink that would still the demon withip him. There had been moments when defeat seemed certain. They both realised that if he gave way again he would fall never to rise—humiliation would break his spirit. He had been dangerously near defeat one memorable evening. He was riding home from a cattle sale with several other settlers. All but he had etayod at a wayside hotel for a drink. Paul rode slowly on, and, when the rest rode up, one young man—a stranger in the district—held an open flask to him. Paul took it, and the odour came to his nostrils. Instantly a mad, uncontrollable bvngiiic; gripped him ; he raised the flask / but just as lie was goinsr to drink his horse shied, nearly unseating him. The sudden danger brought him to his senses. With an oath he flung the ilask away;

then looked at the man with such a shamed, appealing look in his dark eyes that the other was abashed. That was the only time that it was really offered to Paul". When he reached home Paul, in trembling, broken words, told Leslie. “ Oh ! my love,” she cried, “ thank God you were saved. I can’t bear to think of it,” and, bursting into sobs, she hid her face on his shoulder.

Again and again he promised her that he would be* strong, that he would never disappoint her. “ You cannot know, darling, how it gets me. If it were something tangible that I could fight and slay with my fists it would be easier, but this silent, insistent thing—Ah! I can t explain.’’ “ I know, I know. I feel it through you. Oh! you must be strong. Try, for ray sake; think of me, dear, when temptation comes. I almost pray that it will always be kept from you; yi without temptation there is nothing to resist. Paul,” she concluded, “ oh! Paul, I’m so frightened for you.” Seeing her helplessness, and the shadow of a terrible fear on the beloved face, he comforted her. “ I will overcome it by God, I tvill. You shall never have cause to bo ashamed of me, my darling.” Reassured by his words, and by the iron determination depicted on his face, she became herself again—strong, brave, and self-reliant. But for weeks after this episode, when Paul was away on some distant part of the farm, Leslie would almost unconsciously pray for him; and who shall say that these whispered prayers to the Almighty were not frequently the means of saving Paul from himself?

Often, in the golden summer afternoons, Leslie and Rewa, the ’ Maori servant, would walk to the pa, there to talk to the Maoris, and Leslie became quite friendly with the women of the tribe. Haeata, Rewa’g sister, tho proud mother of a month-old baby, was very fond of Leslie, for she often brought a brightly coloured drees for the little thing, and once, when it was ailing, she took it home with her and nursed it back to health. This act won her the undying gratitude of Haeata and Rang, her husband, who worked on the farm for Paul. In every way they tried to show their gratitude, for Maoris never forget a kindness. One day Paul told Leslie that he wanted to attend a sale, forty miles distant, of choice cattle, and that he would be absent for about a week. As he told her, he saw the lurking fear creep into her violet eyes. “Don’t worry, sweetheart/’ he said tenderly; “I’ll keep straight, 1 promise.” “Oh, love, do,” she returned eagerlv. “it is nearly five years now. Don’t break away; think of me all the time and remember that I shall be praying for vou.” “I will, darling.” he said, solemnly; and, kissing her he went to make his preparations. Then a thought came to Leslie. She hurried to the potato-field, where she knew Rang! was working. “Rangi.” she said impulsively, “the master is going away—a long, long ride to Te Awamutu, —you go. too. Rangi.” The Maori looked surprised, and Leslie hastened to explain. “You go with him.'' clasping her hands, “and keen the whisky from him: the waipirP, the firewater, you know.” “Ave,” returned the Maori, a light dawning on him.

‘‘Don’t let him drink it.” she implored, “it make him mad, make him die and me too,” she added. “You save him for me, Rangi.” He nodded and drew a deep breath. She saw that he understood, and turned away, a great weight lifted from her heart. When Paul saw Rangi mounted and waiting to start, he smiled whimsically at Leslie.

“Mv keeper?” he queried. “No, darling,” she answered Mny proxy. He understood her tender forethought, and kissing her, rode away. Her eves filled with tears. So near the limit his father had sot, and of which she had not told him, and yet. even now, without her influence, he might give way. Ah ! it

was maddening to think of. She must not brood over it. She had done all she could; the rest she must leave to a higher Power.

Paul and Rangi rode off, and that night stayed to dinner at the self-same hotel near which Paul had encountered his worst temptation. All night Raimi slept at his master’s door, with nothing but his coat for a pillow. They started before the dawn, as their way now led them through a lonelv bush track. In places the bush is so thick that the saw cannot penetrate, the consequence being that water lies on the track, making deep mud-holes which are extremelv dangerous to horsemen. Paul was in excellent spirits, chatting in Maori to Rangi. and. admiring the dense growth of the bush through which thev were passing.

By 2 o’clock they reached the gorge, the most difficult part of their journey. A narrow path was cut in the face of the cliff, and below on the other side was the swollen, rushing river. A false step, and horse and rider must be dashed to nieces tin the rocks below. Paul rode in front and Pangi watched him with his heart in his month. He called out instructions and advice to his master, who laughingly reassured him. “All right. Pangi. I’m no spring chicken, you know ” Suddenly Paul stopped. “Bv Jove,” he shouted, “how are we to crcas?”

The path was practically impassable. A landslip bad occurred, and the path was blocked by a tremendous heap of debris which bad fallen Over it, and which reached down to the river, mnnv feet below. The precipice prevented their climbing over the rocky heap, and there was no fonting below, even if they urged their horses down the side of the ravine “What shall we do?” said Paid. .

“No good,” answered Pangi, shaking his head, “we go back. I think.” “No, we must keep on now that wo have come so far.” said Paul. “Ah! no good.” said Pangi again, “we get the neck all broke; we go back.”

‘No, Rangi, let’s trust to luck. The horses are sure-footed; they can pick their way. I wonder when this slip happened Well, here goes,” and giving his horse a loose rein, he urged him forward. In vain Rang! implored him to desist; then, seeing that his words were useless, he begged to be allowed to go first, or to dismount and lead the horses; but Paul had set his mind on going on, and almost angrily ordered Rangi to keep behind. The Maori’s face became ashen, but Paul seemed unable to realise the danger. They were about halfway across when the accident happened. There was a shout from Paul, and horse and rider fell over and over down the mountainous slope to the riverbed beneath. “He’s killed ! he’s killed. What shall I do?” wailed the terrified Maori, as he saw the motionless body at the bottom of the ravine. Then his natural bravery drove the fear away. He dismounted, and with infiinite care clambered down to his master. He twisted his ankle, tore his- hands and feet on the sharp stones; but he felt no pain, nothing but an overwhelming desire to reach that still form below. He could never face his mistress without his charge; better, far better, to die too. At last he bent over bis master and with trembling fingers felt his heart. A faint, faint flutter, nothing more. He breathed a sigh of relief, and was endeavouring to force some brandy between the clenched teeth, when a voice seemed to hiss in his ear, ‘‘Keep him from the firewater, Rangi, you understand.” With an exclamation of horror he started to his feet, and all the superstitious awe of his race rushed to his mind. In the stillness of the noonday no sound reached him but the rush of the water, and no human being was visible. “Taniwha,” he, muttered, and stood there struggling with his terror and the temptation to administer the stimulant. Again he saw Leslie’s wide imploring eyes looking into his. and heard her beseeching voice telliqg him to take care of her loved one. Ah ! but without the waipiro he must die. What should he do ? She would never know. He must give it to his master. Then, again, the memory of Leslie’s kindness to his wife and baby returned to him. She had saved his darkeyed baby ; he would not fail in his trust. He stumbled to the river, and, filling his hat with the water, he bathed Paul’s face and forced a few drops between his lips, all the while muttering an incantation his old mother had taught him. He was at his wit’s end, when Paul’s eyes opened. “Rangi, give me brandy,” he murmured faintly. “No,” said the Maori, setting his teeth. “No brandy; take this.” But Paul had fainted again. Then Rangi saw that ho must secure help. Paul’s horse was killed. What could he do? He ground his teeth and stamped in rage at his impotence. Then he quickly tore his shirt in strips, soaked them in water, and laid the dripping cloths on Paul’s head. Then he lifted him in his arms and placed him under the shade of some bushes, and so left him. He turned away, and how ho reached his horse he never knew. Every step was agony. At last he mounted, and, clear of the bush, he put his horse to a gallop, and finally reached the hotel they had left the night before. He told Lis story, and willing hands prepai'ed a stretcher, and a party started to the rescue.

The landlord, seeing Rangi’s exhausted condition, implored him to stay behind; but this advice maddened Rangi. He remounted, and insisted upon accompanying them. As they neared the slip Rangi’s brain swam ae he thought of the probability of finding his master dead. “Oh, why had he left him?” A darkness descended on him, and he knew no more. When he opened his eyes he was on the river-bed. He gasped feebly, “MrDrury?” “It’s all right, Rangi. He’ll pull through, thanks to you.”

The exquisite relief nearly sent Rangi' again into unconsciousness. Then fear brought him to his senses. He struggled to his feet "and reached Paul’s side. Two men were bending over him, holding a flask cup to his lips. With the fury of a wild beast Rangi rushed up and dashed the cup away. “No brandy; me promise no fire-water,” he shouted, “Hold him ; lie’s gone mad!” But Rangi, with his enormous strength, held them off, standing over Paul like a lioness defending her cub. “Give him a chance,” said one of the party. “What’s the row. Rangi?” Rangi turned his dark, bright eyes gratefully on the speaker. “The missus, the wabbie, she told me to take care of him; keep the waipiro from him; no whisky, no fire-water; she say it kill him —kill her, too.” A look of understanding parsed between the men. “All right, Rangi, we will manage without.

“Only water?” questioned Rangi. ‘Yon sav so.”

“Only •water,” they agreed, and held a consultation. They decided to get Paul home. Once or twice during the difficult ionrney Paul moaned feebly,, and opened his eyes. Pangi insisted on taking Paul right to his own home. As they neared the farm Pangi rode on to prepare Leslie. She and a handsome old man were in the sitting room. “Why. Pangi,” began Leslie. “Pie fell off his horse, down the slip.” nan ted Pangi. “Mo got him safe; me bring him homo to yon,” and be fell senseless at her feet. “Good God!” exclaimed the old man as he saw the stretcher. Then, putting hie arm round Leslie, he said. “Bear up, lassie: please God, it’s nothing serious: Now ho brave, my girl.”

Explanations wero made, and willing hands attended to Paul and Pangi, while a messenger was sent for the doctor. Leslie sat by her husband’s side waiting for the verdict. “Only a broken leg and collar bone. He’ll soon pull through.” Leslie thanked God in her heart, and went to Pangi. The dark eyes were open. He smiled as he saw her. “Me save him : me no give him the waipiro.” “Oh, Pangi! you dear, faithful creature. I can never repay you,” sobbed Leslie.

After the effects of the shock passed away Paul made rapid strides towards convalescence. Then one evening, about sunset, as husband and wife were chatting together, Paul said ; ‘‘Leslie, what is the matter with you? Tour eyes are shining, and vou seem so nervous. What is it, love?”' For answer, Leslie moved to the bedroom window and called softly. In a few seconds the door was opened, and Paul’s father entered.

“My son,’’ he said, and sank into a chair.

“Father,” said Paul; and a lump came into his throat.

‘God ! ’ but I’m proud of you, my boy,” the old man said brokenly, as the tears coursed down his cheeks.

'Father, dear old man, it’s worth all the struggle for this,” said Paul; “but it’s all Leslie’s doing.” “I know, I know; she’s a marvel, a pearl among women. Make haste and get well, Paul, and bring her to Wellington to the old home. I’m lonely, my boy. I want you, and my daughter. Say you will come to me.”

“Of course we will; eh, Leslie?” Aes, gladly, gladly,” ,-is she took the old man’s hand; “but Rargi and his wife must come, too.”