THE STORY OF DAVEY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3195, 9 June 1915, Page 86

THE STORY OF DAVEY.

By Winifbed S. Tennant. »

A hardy- Scotch thistle blooming beside an exquisiie moss ro_e makes the latter appear more beautiful; likewise, with an eye to the value of comparison. Fate fashioned me plain and homely to add to the lo.eliness of my- sister Jean. From my- cradle I have looked upon Jer.n as the most wonderful creature in all this wcnJemil world; and justly so, I think, for she is gifted with eyes of a deep cornlfower blue, a peach-bloom complexion, and hair of the ruddiest gold. But such a flower is not usually destined to b.oom unseen in the quiet seclusion of a valley in the fastness of the hills, so that when Jean left New Zealand to begin her theatrical career in London we all smiled bravely and sought valiantly to assure each other that we were amply- satisfied with this latest twist of Fate.

Thereupon., a new responsibility fell upon my shoulders, and I dropped into the role of comforter and informant to Davey Jordan, who lives in the cutest of cute Swiss cottages a stone-throw from our own home. Davey is, in his way, something of a celebrity. He won the Marathon race from Timaru to Oamaru eighteen months ago, and was awarded the prize medal for throwing the hammer at the last show held in the village. Also, when Farmer Smythe’s bull fell into the bog at the foot of his orchard, and half a dozen men had exerted all their efforts in a vain attempt to release the unfortunate animal, Davey went plunging in and, after a short struggle, managed to extricate the brute single-handed.

Davey himself was mute on the subject. Sometimes I think he is almost afraid of his own supernatural strength; bub Rumour, which is ever busy in the smaller places of the world, held that with a single wrench he pulled the bull clear of the bog and tossed it unconcernedly over his shoulder on to the nearest bank. Still, Rupiour may be likened to a snowball rolling down a snow-clad hill: it increases in impetus and dimensh ns as it goes. On Sunday afternoons Davey, h-v-sh from the tub, and wearing the red silk tie that mother knitted for his twenty-first birthday, would invariably make his appearance and sit belt upright on the horsehair sofa in the parlour, while I endeavoured to supply him with the latest details of all that he had heard of Jean. During the course of my narrative he would be silent, with his big bandsloosely locked between his knees and his eyes gazing steadily through the/ window at the ( vio!et and brown hills beyond. On one occasion, fully a year after Jean’s departure from the valley, we were fitting side by side on the sofa turning over an album of views and portraits, when, chancing to glance up, I noticed something strange in Davey’s behaviour. The album was open. at a photograph of Jean and myself—Jean in a stately chair with her beautiful hands clasped in her lap; I at her feet, with a self-conscious smile twisting my large mouth, and my hair in a tcwsled 'mass all over my head. “I haven’t seen this before,’’ said Davey in a queer voice. “Haven’t you?” I answered politely. “Behold the value of contrast, DaVey—the ugly, but faithful poodle at its idol’s feet!” “ You’re not ugly,” he said slowly. “ Davey,” I said, in a shocked voice, “until this moment I deemed you a man of truth; but a woman’s mirror does not lie. I’m ugly, but I don’t care! I’m glad, glad, do you hear?” “Well/’ said Davey, looking down fixedly at his hands. “If you’re glad, Sis, why, so am I!” And then I did a foolish and unexpected thing—l began to cry. Davey sprang to his feet, took a turn up and down the room, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Then he came back to me. “Slop!” he said in a terrible voice, and —I stopped. He lifted the album from my lap, and slipped the ill-fated photograph from its page. “ I’m going to take this,” he announced calmly. “ Not that one, Davey,’ I demurred. “We have a better one. of Jean—by herself.” '

“ Oh!" he answered with a shrug, “I guess this one will do.” And he transferred it to his pocket. A week later a letter came from Jean to say that she was coming home for a holiday, having saved enough from her earnings to render the trip possible. The news flung the household into a flutter of delight and anticipation : but the_ conclusion of the enistle supplied me with food for serious thought. There was a man in London, an architect, and from her tone I judged that he wished to marry her. Why, then, was she coming home? Was she seeking to evade him, or did she wish to look once more on Bavey’s face before making her ultimate decision? Bavey found me at sunset in the cherry tree digesting the news—and incidentally the cherries. At his approach I scrambled down, and sought vainly to pull my skirt over a huge rent in one of my stockings, the unlooked-for result of my hasty descent.

“ Hello, Sis,” he said.

“ Good afternoon, Davey-,” I stammered. “Aunt Janet wants you to come over for tea; she's been baaing all the forenoon, so you mustn't disappoint her. Better cut and pull on a complete pair of stock.ngs, though, before you start. ’ “ No, thank you,” I retorted scathingly. ‘‘l won’t come!”

“ Oh, yes you will, if I have to drag veu there bv the hair!”

Davey usually has his way, and his Aunt Janet’s cakes are good; so, having completed my toilet, we set off side by side along the road to his home. Before we had gone a dozen yards I sought an opportunity to drop my bomb. “ Davey,” I said, “you’ve got a rival!” Da\ey stopped dead in his tracks, and looked as he must have looked during his tussle with Farmer Smythe’s bull. “Where?"’ he demanded. “In London. He san architect, a&d I guess he means to marry Jean; but she’s coming home for a while soon, so you’ll get a few points ahead of him if you’re smart! Anyway, I don’t suppose he ever won a Marathon race or -hauled a fullsized bull from a bog, and strength**-and endurance always tell with a woman.” “ Always?” asked Davey. “ Sure,” I answered feelingly. Davey gave vent to a curiously suppressed laugh; and, feeling that I unconsciously made myself the object of his derision, I averted my face, and we covered the remaining distance in silence. • The table was spread for tea when we entered, and Aunt Janet, who was lifting the kettle from the hob, came forward and kissed me affectionately on either cheek. She was fa-r too young to be an aunt to a big fellow like Dave}-, and evidently Farmer Smythe thought so, too, for he wanted to take her away and set her at the head of his big, comfortable, rambling house. She said she would marry him when she saw .Davey safely settled with a wife of his own; and although she protested that there was no cause for haste, she must have secretly cherished different feelings from those she openly acknowledged, for no sooner were we seated than she began to twit her nephew on the subject. “I’m going to take a wife soon,” Davey assured her, slicing vigorously at the ham.

“How soon?” “Quite soon.” “Where from?” “Oh, no great distance.” “Jean’s coming home. Aunt Janet,” I hastened to explain. “Jean won’t do,” said -Aunt Janet very decidedly. “Hear her, Davey!” I Protested. “A man would have to go far to find a sweeter woman than Jean. Don’t you like her, Aunt Janet?” “Of course I do, dear. She’s as pretty as a picture, and would make a good ornament for any man s house; but the lassie’s got not stamina, and would be no helpmate for my hoy. If it were you, now ” “Ham or tongue. Aunt Janet? asked Davey hurriedly, cutting her short. I finished the meal in silence; my heart was sore within me, and Aunt Janet’s cakes had turned to dust and ashes in my mouth. I seemed to he losing my grip of everything, idealistic and concrete; and, in spite of my earnest desire to repress the thought as traitorous to Jean, Aunt Janet’s ill-considered words stirred a latent something in my mind. What if she were right? Was Jean destined to grace this planet in a perfect, flower-like guise, with no material foundation for her beauty? Would she, shorn of her loveliness, still be at heart the woman that a man like Davey would seek for his wife? The thought of her shapely white hands immersed in dishwater was almost a desecration —Jean and a scrub-bing-brush seemed as far apart as the poles, and destined to remain so. It was late when Davey and I set out for home, and the moon was casting weird patches of light and shadow in our path. At the foot of the hill, before the ascent to my home, there is a small stream that winds in and out of the rushgrasses, until it flows through, a deep gulch in the hills and passes beyond our ken. On the bridge, toy mutual consent we paused, and leaned over the parapet to look at the water lilies, gleaming like reflected stars on the water below.

Davey’s hand slid along the rail until it rested on mine. “Sis,” he said huskily, “look at me!” 'I turned. The moonlight lay white on his face, and flung into relief his bare, rugged head ; but something that looked at me from his eyes awoke in me a nameless quivering fear. “You remember what Aunt Janet said at tea to-night?” he asked. “Yes, Davey, I remember; but you must’t take it so much to heart. You and I know Jean, and love her accordingly, and passing qpinions don’t count; and anyway, when she comes home ” “Stop !” said Davey roughly, “I wasn’t thinking of that at all. Sis, you know what I mean, what’s been on my mind this year past ” “Davey,” I stammered, “have you done some wrong, and are you about to make me your confidant? I don’t understand ”

“You don’t!” he cried. “Then, by heaven ! I’ll make you !”

It all happened in a moment—the kiss that showed me my heart in a blending light, that told me I loved Bavey better than anything else on earth. For a single instant he held me close, then I thrust him off, and ran like a hunted thing for cover.

Once in my room, I sank on my knees in a tense, quivering heap. No man had kissed me before, principally, I suppose, because no man had ever wanted to. I tried to calm myself and look at the matter in a rational light. Why had Bavey kissed me? Bid he still love Jean, or was it possible that he cared for me ? Men, 1 supposed, did sometimes kiss the little sisters of the women they loved, bub surely never as Bavey had kissed

A sound on the path beneath my window brought me to my feet with a start ; my heart was beating in sledge-hammer strokes; every nerve, every fibre in my being was strained to catch that which 1 longed, yet feared, to hear.

said Davey’s voice

It arew me as a magnet attracts steel. I slid- the window open, and instantly big hand closed over mine. “Sis,” he said in a troubled tone, “why did you run awav?”

‘‘Why did you kiss me?” I panted. ‘ Because”—his voice trembled —“because- I love you, dear. Little girl, tell ms the truth—-didn’t you guess?” ‘‘No, Davey,” I answered soberly. ‘1 didn t guess at all. There’s something wrong somewhere. Don’t you love Jean?”

. “I thought I did—once,” he answered simply. “She always -made me feel that I Wanted to lie down and let her walk over me, because she was so pretty, I suppose; but I never got within a mile of kissing her, and didn’t want to. I’d have been too mortally scared of messing her up. But lately. Sis, I’ve never given her a thought, and this long time I’ve wanted you harder than I’ve ever wanted anything before. Oh. Sis, dear, you can never, never understand how much I love you!” “Davey, are you sure?” I whispered. ‘‘Certain sure!” he answered feelingly. “But supposing, when Jean came home, you found you were wrong after all—found that you wanted her much more than you wanted me? Perhaps I couldn’t give you up; perhaps I can’t now; but, Davey, wo must wait, and rvhen you see her again you must decide ; she’ll be home in ten days, and during that time I’m not going to look .at you at all. If I see you coming I’ll just shut my eye/s “Sis!” he laughed. “You goose!” “No, Davey, I’m serious. It’s the only way.” “Is it?” he asked dubiously. “You’re hard on a fellow, little girl 1 You give him a taste of champagne, then empty out the glass, and say, ‘No more till you’re older and wiser’! Can’t I see you at all?” “Not once I Now go, Davey, please!” “Wait!” he said earnestly, as I turned to go. “Do you love me?” I slipped my arm about his neck and drew his face close. I looked long into his steady, searching eyes, and knew' that, whatever lay in the lap of the future for Davey and me, this moment was mine. “Yes, Davey,” I whispered, “I love you.” A moment later our clasped fingers fell apart, and I slid the window softly down, shutting him from my sight. Davey and I stood on the edge of the crowd at the gate, as the fly, piled high in front with Jean’s luggage, came crawling up the hill. Half the people of the village had congregated to witness her arrival, and they were all craning their nocks, jostling each other, and laughing like a pack of children let loose from school.

The vehicle stopped, and father handed mother out firct, then Jean, -a glorified Jean in a wonderful, shimmering gown, little high-heeled satin slippers, and a plumed hat that must have cost. her a whole month’s pay. A wave of awe seemed to sweep over the crowd, and somehow, at the sight of her, I found myself clinging tightly to Davey’s hand. Her eyes twinkled over the faces until they rested on mine, and she smiled; they travelled to Davey, and I held my breath, for I knew instinctively that this moment would decide; I felt the hot blood tingling in my cheeks, a fluttering panic in my throat; then slowly, like one in a dream, I turned' my head, and

Davey’s eyes were not focused on that vision of feminine perfection at all; with a smile of infinite tenderness lighting his face, he was looking—at me.