TO DO A GREAT RIGHT.

Otago Witness, Issue 3148, 15 July 1914, Page 82

TO DO A GREAT RIGHT.

By Angela Hastings.

“ It’s a burden, Elsie, but you will take care of him? Poor Willie!” ‘‘Yes, I will take care of him,” answered Elsie MacDonald in a low voice—- “ always.” . “ You have been good to me, iAsie—good, yes, very' good, while he—but he is my only boy, Elsie—your only brother.” “I will take care of him, mother,” repeated the girl. “I will never leave him.” “Poor Willie. Perhaps h& may mend his ways when I am dead.” “ Perhaps ! But, oh, mother, you cannot be dying 1” “Itis my time to go. Your father was right, Elsie, to leave the farm to you; but you will take good care of willie?” pleaded the dying mother. “ Mother,. what shall I say? I swear to take care of him always.” ‘“You are good—good to him and to me. Clive me a drink of water, Elsie. I am tired.” Elsie held the glass to the narched lips, and then carefully laid her - mother back upon the pillows. With a sigh Jean MacDonald closed her eyes, and fell asleep. As she AV.atched the tired face Elsie clenched her hands, and told herself she dare not cay. Outside it was a dreary world. The sky was dark, the air cold, the hedges bare, and the roads covered with mud and water." It wak June—the June of a most dismal winter. Elsie shivered, and went softly over to mend the fire. The wood fell from her hand as she caught the4ound of unsteady* footsteps coming up the path, and heard the rough words of a drunken song. “He will wake her 1” she gasped, and she hurried out. “Hullo; Elsie!’ he shouted ,yvhen he saw her. “Willie, for heaven’s sake stop!” she cried piteously. “ Mother’s dying ! She is asleep. Oh, Willie! Willie! Are you too drunk to realise what I am saying?” “Drunk, Elsie? I’m not drunk,” he laughed. “Drunk! You’re an awful goose, Elsie.” “Willie, mother is dying.” He gave her a puzzled look. “ Gammon,” he said with another laugh. “ Willie !” —she seized him by the shoulders —“she will not live another hour.” “Elsie, I ” His face went ghastly white, and he sank down upon the sofa. “Elsie,” he whispered in a terrified voice, “is she dying?” The'girl nodded. “ I—l’m not drunk, Elsie. You’ll let me go in,” he pleaded. “Yes; but”—the girl’s voice was hard —“remember, Willie, she is dying.” As they entered the sick room the dying woman’s eyes opened, and she feebly stretched her hands towards him. “Willie” —her dim eyes brightened,—“l have waited for ymu. I —a —drink,” she gasped, and Elsie hold the water to her lips. “ Let—let Willie p-ive it to me,” and the man took the glass in his unsteady hand. A little fell upon the coverlet, and the girl, with a quivering mouth and tear-filled eyes, drew back a little from the bedside. It was hard indeed to be supplanted by a drunken brother, in her son’s, arms Jean MacDonald died. Forgotten, bv the bedside, stood Elsie, wdw had so long served her mother with such unceasing devotion. Almost timorously the neighbours came to proffer their assistance, for they stood in awe of the silent, white-faced girl. In the kitchen they gathered in little groups, whispering to one another of tfie dead woman’s illness, and the probable arrangements for the funeral.

There was a low,, quick knock upon the duter door, and a man whose coat was white with snow came into the warm, lamp-lit room. ‘‘lt’s an awful nicht,” said an old neighbour. ‘‘Terrible,” replied the newcomer as he shook the snow from his coat -which he tossed upon a chair. “Where is Elsie?” Someone nodded towards the dining room. “Anyone with her?” » “Nae —only him, and he’s no’ sober.”

“ Not drunk to-night, surely ?” “ Faith thin,” cried old Mrs O’Brien, “I’d be askin’ ye, Mr Bland, the spalpeen wus otherwise ?” Without replying Henry Bland went down the passage to the (lining room, ae knocked, pushed the door open, and went in. In an armchair by the fire sat Elsie, her head drooping hopelessly upon the high arm of the chair; on the couch lay her brother, sleeping heavily. The lamp was low, but the dancing flames threw a bright, uncertain light around the room. She did not look up until Bland spoke to her. “ Elsie,” he said as he lightly touched the shining hair. Her tired brown eyes gazed up at 'him. “ I knew you would come,” she .said, standing up and holding out her hand. Bland held it in both of his. “Elsie, what shall I do for vou?”

“Everything. I have no one else. Henry, look!” She pointed towards the couch. “And—and mother preferred him to me —asked that he and not I should hold the glass to her dying lips. Henry, it is more than I can bear. I had waited on her day and night, and he—it is not fair.”

“ She knew you cared for her, Elsie, and she loved you, too It was only because she doubted him that she seemed to prefer him at the last.” “ No. He was more to her than I was. Oh, it is hard to bear, Henry!” Her eyes filled with terror. “Will you tire of me, too, and prefer someone—someone who does not care for you?” “ Elsie, you know that is impossible. You are tired—worn out. Tell me what I can do, and then you must rest, Elsie—you must. Is all your bravery going to desert you?” “No, no! I will not be a coward. Listen, Henry 1 What was it I wanted

you to do ? I remember now. Cables must be sent to mothers sisters in America.” The neighbours seemed to understand that it was right that Henry Bland should make all necessary arrangements. No one was more capable, and as Elsie’s future husband it was his duty to assist the girlBesides, was he not president of all their local societies? And Rumour said that in the coming election he -would be a successful candidate for Parliament. He was wealthy, well-educated, conscientious —the man the country needed. What a .contrast between this man and Willie MacDonald—weak, helpless, and yet, in spite of all, his mother's idol! Why she loved him it was impossible to say, for many an hour’s sorrow he bad caused her. Mrs O’Brien thought him a useless spalpeen, wd expressed her opinion to an old Scotch neighbour, who argued that he was a gae idle buddie. At Bland’s coming Elsie’s burden lightened. It was a relief to know that ■nothing would be forgotten, and that she could rest. Willie, even when sober, had but little idea of business. He slunk about, a poor miserable creature, with a white face and terrified eyes. At last came the afternoon when the long, dismal 'procession went down the leaf-strewn path, up_ the steep road towards the high iron' jxa-tes upon the hill.. There, beside her husband, they laid Elsie’s mother. With a strangely calm face the girl watched them, saw them lower the black, narrow coffin, and heap the-yellow sods above it. Surely they interred within that grave some part of her own being. That night, after Willie had drunk himself to sleep, she and Bland talked together at the fireside. “ Elsie, you will not live in this lonely house?” he said. “ You are free.” “ Henry, you forget.” She turned towards the couch. “ There is Willie.” »“He!” Bland’s voice was filled with scorn. “He! What claim has he upon you?”. “ Every claim. I promised mother to take care of Trim.” “ She had no right to exact such a promise. Is there not your life to be considered as well as his? And, Elsie, is there not mine?” “ I have promised. You know, Henry, the farm, everything, is mine. Father left it to me; and what would, become of him if I deserted him?” “ You need not desert him. We will make over the farm to him, and get him married.” “No ! No ! And there is another reason why I must not!” “ Another reason, Elsie?” “ Yes. You are a public man—a candidate for Parliament. I could not allow it to be said that your wife’s brother was a disgrace—that—that he had even been in gaol!” “Elsie, what do I care what they say? Neither 1 nor you are responsible for the poor wretch’s weakness.” “ Henry, it is useless to argue—and 1 am so tired.” ■ - “ There, I was' a brute to worry you to-night, Elsie. Go to bed. I will watch hirir.” ■ • “Bland,” said the member for Waimona, “ why don’t you get married?” “Why should I, Kingston?” “ Well, that’s easily explained. A man in your position needs a wife—an intelligent woman, able to entertain, and—and —all that sort of thing, you know.” - Bland laughed. “Do you wish me to give a supper to my friends, Kingston?” “ Certainly, if you will. But, seriously, as a friend, I advise you to marry. Now, there’s Grant’s daughter. Why not marry her?”

“ My good fellow, I should be obliged to obtain the young lady’s consent.’ 5 “I’ll guarantee you’d obtain that, and, well, I shouldn't object to being Grant's son-in-law myself. A public Minister needs a wife. What possible objection could you raise to such a marriage?” “ None that I know of, Kingston, except—a private one.” “ A private one? You’re not a married man already, are you, Bland, living, as it were, incog.?” “ If so, do you imagine that for sixteen years—years that have seen the turmoil of many an election—the secret would not have been revealed by some opponent?” ‘‘Hardly. Well, I must be off if I’m to keep my appointment. Think over what I have said. Remember, Bland, there’s no place like home; but.it seems to me you’ve never had much of a chance to realise how true the old song is.” “No place like home —no place like home,” said Bland to himself as he sat in his private sitting room at his hotel. “ And he said I’ve never enjoyed one. Kingston’s right. I never have, not even when a kid. And yet White Ridge—the old run—is home. I’d sooner lose my seat in Parliament than the old place. Fifteen years—yes, it’s all that since Elsie refused to marry me. I wonder—l wonder —1 shall go back and ask her. Yes, I’ll go back to Ruawera to-morrow. They tell me I have won many a victory for my party. Nov/ one for myself!” It"was a bleak, stormy afternoon when Bland reached his destination, the lonely, wayside township of Ruawera. The manager of White Ridge -was waiting to drive him homo; but, having seen his luggage safely placed in the trap, Bland quietly announced his intention of walking home.

“ There’s going to be a storm,” said Reid, the manager, looking up at the ominous sky. “ I’m weather-proof,” replied Bland. “ I want to call in to see a friend. Don’t be alarmed if I’m late.” It was Tuesday, Elsie’s ironing day. A huge basketful of snow-white cloth stood on°the kitchen floor; a sheet was folded upon the table; a’ great fire was burning in the range, upon which the irons were heating. The clothes had all been damped, and one by one each crumpled mass was being transformed into a thing of beauty. In the armchair by the fireside lay the

unfolded paper Willie had been reading. Leaving her iron to cool upon the stand for a moment, Elsie took up the untidy newspaper and folded it carefully. There was a sharp knock upon tlie outer door. Having paused a moment to put back the iron upon the stove, she hurried out. How her eyes shone as she beheld her visitor. “Henry! You! This is an unexpected pleasure!” “ Yes, unexpected to me, too. I’ll explain in a moment, Elsie. Let’s look at y°u.”

“ No, Henry.” She was blushing like a schoolgirl. “ I can no longer stand inspection. See!” She pointed to her hair, still soft and wavy. “ See, Henry! Time has begun his ravages. . I am grey.” “ Nonsense, Elsie. How beautifully warm in here. Ironing! Elsie, can’t you get a woman to do it?” he asked with a slight frown. « “ So I do,” she answered with a happy laugh.

“ Where is she?” he demanded. “Here,” she replied, pointing to herself.

He scowled at the unoffending irons. “ Where’s Willie?” he asked abruptly. “He has gone down to the store, i am surprised you did not meet him.” “ Elsie, is be—l mean ” “Poor, Willie! Yoii were always inclined to be bard on him,” she said pushing aside the irons, and placing the kettle on to boil. “ And have T not reason to be so? Elsie, will you never give in to me?”

“ Henry, it is impossible. But remember—remember ” —it was difficult to say the words —“ you are in no way bound to me. You are free.”

. “ Elsie, I do not wish to be free.,- r came here to ask you again to marry me," “Henry! Henry! Will you neveT understand I cannot?” ‘ Never! I could easily overcome every obstacle you raise. I have waited fifteen years —yeays that should have been mine, but which . you refused me—giving them ” —his voice was almost angry—- ! giving them to a drunken— —” “Henry!” ' The words quivered with emotion. “To mv brother!”

“And,you still refuse me?” She turned away; but Bland heard the almost inaudible reply, “ I must.” “ Elsie, think ! I can five you a home —not like White Ridge, but a hundred times more beautiful. I can .offer you a position that half the women 'in Wellington, in New Zealand, would not dream of refnsing. Elsie, I would give you all I have, and you will not corner I have never in all my life —no, not even to my own mother —given such love as I offer you, and you refuse me !” She did not answer.

“Look out that window, Elsie. Do you see what a bare, cold-world this is? See how the trees are shivering; look at the great pools upon the road. It is a place of desolation. And, .instead, what could you have? A garden filled with flowers even in the depth of winter ! Lawns of soft, green grass. At night a city, the streets of which are bright as fairyland ! A home —I swear it, Elsie—fit for a fairy princess!” “ Henry, it is impossible!” “ Elsie, are you made of stone? Have you become heartless?” She clasped her hands behind her, and turned towards him. “It is impossible. I cannot —will not, if you like —leave my brother. Neither will I ever allow him to burden you.” “He need be no burden, Else. I must marry. My parliamentary friends advise it. and, besides, I am yearning for a home. Elsie, you know I never had one,”. “Henry! Oh, how hard you make it! You are free. I cannot marry you: but some other woman—perhaps rich, with an honourable name, young, beautiful, Henry, not grey-haired; will marry you.” “ Elsie,” he said hoarsely as he stared at her with incredulous eyes, ' do you mean—do you mean you wish to give me up altogether?” “Yes.” The word sounded almost like a sob. “ I ask you to choose between that waster and'me, and you choose him.” “I choose my brother,” she answered quietly. “You are sure?”

“ Yes, I am sure. I will never leave him.”

“Good-night! I shall scarcely reach White Ridge before the dark sets in.” “ Good-bye,” said Elsie, holding out her hand. ”Itis a dreary road.” “A dreary road—to walk alone.”

“ Congratulations, my friend,” said David Kingston, slapping Bland upon the shoulder. “Lucky fellow! Would that I were to be Grant’s son-in-law. Henceforth thou art among the exalted.” “Have I not been a most apt pupil?”

“Exemplary; but, my good fellow, you look more like a Jacques -ban a triumnhant Bassanio. Miss Mabel must catch no glimpse of that rueful countenance.” “ Pooh ! You are jealous, Kingston, and want to describe me as an unworthy suitor. Were you to see me half an hour hence you would bo still more envious?” “Will you explain, Sir Oracle?” “ I am going motoring,” laughed Bland. “May I ask with whom?”

“ With Mabel.” “ Then, for heaven’s sake get that mute’s expression off vour face. I don’t think many girls would enjoy a drive with a death’s head.” ‘‘Your complexion is green,” retorted Bland. It was a glorious moonlight night, and as the car sped along the white, shadowy road Bland felt the charm of Mabel’s presence. Yet, when at the crossroads the chauffeur turned, asking, “Which road, sir?” he had unhesitatingly answered, “To Ruawera.” Mabel was wonderfully beautiful tonight. The wind blew delicious tendrils from beneath the velvet bonnet, and wafted to Bland the soft, sweet perfume of the violets fastened to her muff. She laughed and talked, and even sang to him snatches of gay operatic music. She flashed her diamond ring, and commanded him to admire it. On rushed the car until just

below‘them lay the scattered lights cf Rua. wera. Away on the right was White Ridge; on the left the old home c f the MacDonalds. On sped the car, round the sharp bend, and with a bound went over a- terrible yielding something. “My God!’’ The chauffeur turned the wheel back wildly. ‘* I have killed, a man! ” .“Sit still, Mabel,” said Bland'to the girl, who, terrified, clung to hm. “It may die only a dog.” They flashed the light upon the prostrate form, and Bland recognised ’the death-like face of Willie MacDonald. They carried him home, and laid him on the couch, where so many times he had lain in a drunken sleep. For a few seconds he regained consciousness, called feebly for Elsie, and caught her hands in his blood-stained ones. Before the doctor reached him he was dead. In the kitchen Mabel crouched before the fire. “Oh, Henry!” she cried, as Bland appeared, “ take me from this terrible place !” “ The chauffeur will take you over to White Ridge, Mabel,” he answered. “It’s only three miles.” “ I will not go with him!’’ “ You must. I shall write a note Jto Reid.” “ I am afraid.” “ Mabel, would you leave Elsje—l mean a sister alone with a dead' brother whom we have killed? You must go.” - Hearing the car move off, Elsie came out to the kitchen. “ I thought you were gone,” she said to Biand. “Gone! Do you thing I would leave you alone—alone with him?” “Why not? Tell me! Was that—is that the girl whom you are to marry?” “Yes, but .” he began. “ She is very beautiful and young. Do you really love her?” “No!”, The word broke from him.- “ It is you 1 love!” • “Me!” she laughed in a strange, quiet way. “ You! . Elsie, you are free. I have liberated you! I love you. ilt is not too date! Say you will marry me!” " “My God! What madness is this? Would you ruin her life and yours?” “Elsie, say it! Say you will marry, me! ” “Henry! I say that it is madness — ruin. -You cannot marry me.” “You love me! Elsie, you know you do!” “Love you!” Her voice was shrill. “Love you! Who .killed my brother! Go. I hate you!” “Elsie! It is unfair!”. “Go! I say! Go!” She flushed him from her * Go! Send me seme woman from the township; but for the love of heaven leave me!” With unsteady footsteps Bland went down the garden path, while in thfi old farm kitchen the woman stretched her hands to heaven, crying in her anguish: “My God! Why am I thus forsaken! Willie, my poor brother, what have you cost me? Henry, had I loved you less, I would have kept you! ”