BOB’S PAL.

Otago Witness, Issue 3196, 16 June 1915, Page 86

BOB’S PAL.

By A. MacGlttre Warnock

(Copyright.)

“It’s just this way, Miss Merton: I'm off to Canada next -week to take charge of a store out west. It’s a pretty good billet with ;a decent screw, and I’ve followed you here to tell you that I love you, and to ask you to —to be my wife.” They were standing by the little churchyard gate, he. Bob Hales, assistant to the chief grocer in the village, and she, Grace Merton, beautiful, proud, nenniless, her face stamped with the dignity of sorrow for the mother who had yesterday been laid to rest a few yards from where they stood. Too dumbfounded for speech, she simply stared- helplessly at the insignificant common-place young {man who had so suddenly accosted her. ■ “I know I’m not your equal,” he went on humbly. “Your father was a gentleman, mine was an innkeeper. But I—l’ve loved you for months. I’d do anything to serve you. I’ll work my fingers to the bone to make you happy. I’ll ” “But I don’t love you. I never have cared for you. I never could. It—it’s all so—so impossible.”

She could have bitten her tongue • out the next moment, so miserable and crestfallen did he look. Poor fellow! he had loved her in secret for months. Only her recent sorrow and her lonely situation had given him courage to confess his passion. After all, what prospect had she before her save that of a drab existence as nursery governess at (be vicarage, This man was ready to offer her all he had. “Perhaps,” she went on desperately, as though urged in spite of herself, “perhaps if in two years’ time you still care for me I- —I might—might join you out there.”

He stooped, and humbly kissed her hands. He -was ready to accept any crumb of hope. Ehen he looked long and reassuringly into her beautiful fair face. 'Oh, go!” she murmured at last, “please go. I wmnt to be alone—with mother.” And without another word he turned and went.

Some two and a-half years later a stranger made his way slowly up the lane that led to the vicarage, where Miss Merton had served her time of weary drudgery under a hard taskmistress. He was a tall man, bronzed and handsome, with deep-set, keen blue eyes, an erect bearing, and the stamp of race and breeding in every look and gesture. A certain freedom of movement suggested a possible sojourn in the colonies, and he had the hard, weather-beaten look of a man who spent most of his life in the open air. As ho filmed a bend in the lane a pretty picture met his view. In the background was the vicarage, its brick ■walls mellowed with age; in the foreground, standing at the gate of an old-fashioned garden, was a tall, lissom girl with a crown of bronze hair and a pair of the sweetest eyes a man had ever looked upon. Tire stranger advanced, hat in hand. “I am looking for a Miss Merton,” he said, in his pleasant, well-bred voice. “I understand she is living here.”

“I am Grace Merton,” she answered, with a smile.

The stranger was astonished. This girl Grace Merton! This lovely, gracious, stately maiden! But Max Lefere belonged to the vclass than can conceal amazement as well as most other emotions.

“Then I am fortunate,” he answered. “My name is Lefere.” It was Grace Merton’s turn to feel amazed. She held out her hand with a charming blush. “Bob's pal!” she exclaimed. “How often he has written of you! You—you’ve come to ” she paused, her blush deepening. “To carry you off,” he supplied with a laugh. “Poor old Bob! He’s fairly counting the hours. I thought it would save a lot of bother if I just came along and made arrangements about our journey.” She led the way into the old-fashioned, low-rafted schoolroom. Her charges had gone out with their mother to a children’s party, and she was free for the afternoon. So they sat by the open window and talked, while the roses, nodded in at them, and the birds sang in the branches i outside. She made “schoolroom tea,” for which she laughingly apologised, but which he thought delicious, and the more he looked at her the more he wondered, and the more he envied Bob. He told her of the life out in the “Wild West”; how Bob was now the proprietor of a store; how the two “pals” lived on Bob’s premises, Lefere having bought out some land in the neighbourhood. It was late before he at last rose to leave. He would never forget that hour in the vicarage schoolroom with the roses peeping in at the window and a girl’s grey eyes, now wistful, now hopeful, always brave, looking into his. Yes, decidedly Bob Hales was to be envied. A month later Grace Merton and Mas Lefere started for Montreal, where Bob was to meet them. The voyage was a delightful experience for Grace. There were glorious star-lit nights when she and Lefere paced the decks, exchanging ideas on everything under the sun; for a strong bond of friendship was rapidly forming between these two people—friendship born of similarity of taste, class, breeding; and many an eye was turned on the young pair, on the fine, stalwart man and the fair girl, with her brave eyes and her gallant bearing. Ah! She needed all her courage, did Grace Merton, for something was stealing imperceptibly into her heart —something that, with every knot the vessel brought her nearer to Bob. was driving her farther from him. “Hard to realise that to-morrow we’re in port,” muttered Lefere on the last even-

ing as he and Grace leant on the bulwarks staring into the silent depths. He had been curiously morose all day, and his companion’s spirits, too, seemed to have fallen.

Grace Merton was silent. A terrible sense of helplessness was stealing over her. Before to-morrow’s sun had set she would be Bob Hales’s wife. She would belong irrevocably to another man for whom she cared nothing, for whom she knew now she never could care. Suddenly Lefere drew near, so near that his arm touched hers.

“ Are—are you sorry it—it’s over— Grace?” His voice was low and hoarse with a passion that was unmistakable. She lifted her face to his. It was white and strained. “ Don’t,” she murmured piteously—“oh, don’t!” But his eyes, full of hungry yearning, were burning into hers. “ Grace ! Grace ! If—if you weren’t going to marry Bob; if—if only things were different. My God!” he broke off hoarsely. “What have I said ? And he—he trusted me to bring you to him I” If only things were different! It was the yearning cry of the woman’s heart, too, as it has been of many another’s. But they were in the grip of fate, these two, tossed as helplessly as a ball would have been in the surging -waters beneath them.

At last Grace Merton spoke, slowly and carefully as though weighing each word, “I'am going to marry Bob Hales tomorrow, and I am going, with God’s help, to be a leal and faithful wife to him, and I—l want Bob’s pal to help me, too.” ■She had appealed to his sense of chivalry and honour, and he knew that he was beaten. _ He caught her two hands in his, and looked solemnly into her eyes. “So help me God—l will,” he said. Hext day Grace Merton and Bob Hales were made man and wife, and- a, week later Grace entered her hew home. Here a surprise awaited Bob, when his pal quietly took him off, and showed him a newly-constructed little log cabin. “Thought I’d best clear out, old man,” he said, laying a hand on Bob’s arm. “You and Grace don’t want an old bachelor hanging around.” Bob protested, but his friend was firm. Grace uttered secret thanksgiving. She could not have borne Before’s constant presence. The contrast between the two men was so terribly unflattering to her insignificant, commonplace, mediocre husband. The first few months passed quickly. Grace was busy from morning till night, and she blessed the work that sent her to bed too tired to think. Of Lefere she saw but little. Yet it was he who rode fifteen miles to the nearest town to fetch her, books, picked up little odds and ends of furniture or ornaments to decorate her house, and brought an element of beauty into a life that would otherwise have been a drab and dreary round of drudgery. One evening towards the beginning of winter Grace was sitting by the kitchen fire enjoying the unwonted luxury of solitude. Bob had gone over to Everitt’s, their nearest neighbour, five miles away. With a guilty hope that he might be delayed Grace plunged into a book. Suddenly a knock sounded. Bob already ! But it was not Bob. It was a tall stalwart figure in a great-coat.

“You!” The joy and relief in her voice were unmistakable.

“Why, it’s begun to snow,’’ she added, “and the whole country’s white! How beautiful it looks!”

Lefere came towards the fire, stamping the snow from his boots.

“Where’s Bob?” he asked abruptly, “Gone over to Everitt’s on foot. I expect him back every minute. Won’t—won’t you sit down?” Her voice sounded unsteady. “Fact is, I was feeling beastly homesick, and it’s going to be a devil of a night, and I wanted to talk.”

He dragged forward a chair to the fire, and they talked. Grace was wearing a dress of some soft blue woollen stuff, and with her golden brown hair glistening in the lamplight and her grey eyes alight with shy pleasure she was a joy to look upon. To her the mere sight of Lefere was as manna to a hungry soul. It was only when a tremendous gust of wind shook the house that they realised how absorbed they had been.

“Ten o’clock, by Jove!” exclaimed Lefere. “Surely Boh ought to be back by this time !”

He rose and drew aside the window curtains. A howling blizzard was driving across the country. Quietly he reached for his . coat and cap.

“What are you going to do?” she asked in sudden uneasiness. ‘‘Find Bob —if I can. See if I can fight my 'way to Everitt’s somehow to make sure he left.”

But she caught him by the shoulders, her face white and terror-stricken.

“Oh, I know—l know you’re keeping something from me. You think it’s certain death to be out in that blizzard. Well, if it’s death to Bob it—it’s death to you.” ' Lofere’s arms hung stiffly by his side, his whole soul tortured with the struggle for strength and self-control. Her arms pressed him; her breath was on his check. He adored her.

“If you love me you will stay,” she cried in a stifled voice. But at that moment there flashed before him a vision of a pair of earnest grey eyes upturned to his as he stood on the deck of a liner one starlit night, and the sound of a girl’s voice rang in his ears: “I am going to be a leal and faithful wife to Bob, and I wan* Bob’s pal to help me.”

“ Nothing yon can say or do will turn me from my purpose, Grace.” His voice was cold and bard. Not a muscle of his body relaxed. She shrank back. “You love Bob more than yon love me!” she cried, struggling with her sobs. Then he told her the first and only

lie of his life. “I do,” he said. “He's my pal !” All through that wretched night Grace wrestled in prayer, agonising for strength to face the issues of life or death. The morning found her calm but triumphant. She knew now that, even if Lefere lost his life in the effort to save his friend, she would still find strength to forgive her husband—nay; more, to be true and steadfast to him while life should last.

But it was not Max Lefere’s, but poor Bob Hales’s frozen body that was carried in an hour or so after dawn. By dint of almost superhuman efforts Lefere had struggled to Everitt’s farm, to learn that Bob had left hours before. A search party was hastily formed, and Halos was found at last, almost buried in a snowdrift a few fields from his own door.

For hours they worked—Grace and the men—rubbing, chafing, inducing artificial respiration, forcing brandy through the clenched teeth. At last the poor halffrozen body relaxed, and Bob Hales opened his eyes and recognised his wife. Almost at the same moment the doctor entered, followed by Max Lefere, the latter looking a haggard wreck after his terrible experience. The doctor did his best, but gave little hope. “ All depends on the heart,” he said “ and the heart’s' not to be depended on.” The sick man, now fully conscious, would allow no one but his wife and Lefere near him. His eyes followed every movement of Grace with that silent admiration which she now reproached herself for having often found so trying. Dusk was setting down over the snowburned world, when Bob, who had been dozing, suddenly woke, and saw Grace and Lefere, one on either side of his bed. His gaze fixed itself on Lefere. “ Old pal ” —his voice was so weak that they had to bend down to catch his words —“it—it was game of you to—to try tb save me ; and—l’m glad—you did it; for it—it’s given me a chance to—to tell you—something—-and Grace too.” Ilis eyes travelled to his wife’s face, and lingered there with the old, longing, faithful look. “It was game of you, too, old girl, to —to love me—as you did. I’ve often wondered —bow you could. Max, bid chap, you’ll take care of her. won’t you—when I’m gone? May he she —she might learn to love you too, eh, Grace? Will you for —for my sake?” The man and the woman on either side of the deathbed stared across at each other with eyes in which lay a mixture of love and shame. Then Grace silently pressed her lips to her husband’s brow, and as she did so, Bob Hales’s soul, with its wealth of love, passed out into the Great Unknown. “Thank God! Oh, thank God! He never knew!” whispered Grace, as she gently closed the sightless eyes. Her gaze held Lefere’s for one solemn second. “ Thank God, you .were strong!” she added. Then she fell on her knees, and burying her head in her hands she wept. And Lefere went quietly out; for the time to comfort her was not yet.