“THE LITTLE GREY HOME.”

Otago Witness, Issue 3215, 27 October 1915, Page 78

“THE LITTLE GREY HOME.”

By Leitha Yaxley.

Though the way may he long. In the lilt of a song, I forget I was weary before. Clear and strong rang the young voice through the belt ot trees, and the waiting girl gave a sigh of relief. “Robert,” she called softly, rising from the verandah steps, “You have come at last; how late you are!” She moved down to the old pine-tree stump, where she knew Robert Haigh -would be tying his mare. The waning light w T as still strong enough to show her Robert’s tall figure among the deepening shadows, and her sweet, patient face brightened into a smile as Robert took her two hands in his and sang again in his soft colonial drawl, with just the slightest Scotch accent redeeming it: And the toils of the day will be all charmed away In my little grey home in ' the west. Then, torching the girl’s hand within his arm, he walked with her towards the house. “How are things, Elsie?” he asked. “Did Jack go to town?” “Everything is just the same, Robert. Jack rode in to see the city, and I sat on the verandah waiting for you, and thinking what a fine farm ours could be made if fatner could be roused from his studies. Sometimes I do wish I were a man.” “I don’t,” came from the smiling lips of the young man. “Why do you wish that, Elsie mine?” “Because of this farm,” said Elsie almost passionately, “We are not well off, yet father will neither lease the land nor work it himself. It could be made one of the first in the district if it were properly worked. First I wmuld sell all the timber on that gully and on the long hill; it could be cleared and ready for grazing in two years, and with the money I woiuld buy stock and go in for scientific dairy-farming, and have a good steady income. Oh, I have thought it out a hundred times. Barry would clear the land and give a splendid price for those giant cedars and pines—there are none like them in the country, he says,—and then with a dozen milking cows of a good strain and a separator I would do well. Oh, Robert, don’t laugh _at me like that!” For Robert was laughing heartily over Elsie’s plan. “Suppose we speak to your father, Elsie,” Ipe said, “and get his consent to turn you into a dairymaid?” “But, Robert, it will be two years before the land is even cleared, and by that time ” She stopped in sudden shyness. “By that time,” finished Robert, drawing her closer to him, “Robert will be

through his examinations, and will be wanting the sweetest girlie in the world to come and make a Lome for him—eh, sweetheart 7” There was silence for a minute or two between them; then Elsie raised her clear eyes to the merry black ones above her. “Robert,” she said thoughtfully, “are you quite certain that is your feeling towards me? I am afraid sometimes, and there seems a veil between us separating our two inmost selves.” Robert Haigh had moved impatiently as Elsie said this, but he laughed in his light-hearted manner, and as the girl felt his strong arms around her, and as she laid her head on his shoulder, she forgot the instinctive voice warning her that Robert Haigh, whom she had raised to be her ideal, was not possessed of the strength of character with which she had endowed him as her hero.” “Where is the papa?” asked Haigh after another silence. “In his study surrounded by his books. Poor daddy, I wish his dreams would come time,” said the girl mournfully, “I cannot understand,” began Robert, “how in all the world a man can waste ’ ’ “Robert, dear, we are not in my father’s secrets; we do not know how near he may be to success,” interrupted Elsie with quick loyalty. “Have you heard from your home?” she added, changing the subject. The young mairs face darkened. “Not a word,” he said; “I wish now that 1 had not written,” and again Elsie felt a thrill of disappointment. “You did what was right, dear,” she said quietly. “An answer will come. There is Jack; I hear Kitchener bark. Let ns go and meet them.” The two strolled down the path together, and met Jack Homes and his dog Kitchener returning from the city, and after exchanging greetings they reentered the house for supper, and talked late into the night of the boy’s future. “Two more days. Bob, and you will be back at columns of figures, and I will be just as busy,” said Jack, rising. “We will have our last ride on horseback tomorrow, Haigh; Elsie and I can meet you at Long’s corner at ten, and we can ride into Waira, and be back in time to catch the late train.” “Right you are, Jack—Long’s corner at ten. No, do not bother coming out; Elsie will see me off the premises,” and Robert shook Jack’s hand and followed the girl outside. “Good-night, sweetheart,” ho said softly a few minutes later to Elsie. “You are a brave little woman, Elsie, and far too good for me. Five miles to ride and it is past ten now; I must go, dear.” &he clung to him for a moment, and then stood back as he mounted, and waited until the ring of his horse’s hoofs died away, “ A short farewell and sweet,” grinned Jack as she returned. ‘‘l had settled myself to wait for an hour at least.” Elsie laughed. “You had better go to bed, dear,” she said. “ You look tired, Jack. I will do your packing in the morning.” “ Thanks, Elsie. You are a good sister, and deserve more than you wifi ever get. Good-night, dear old girl.” Next morning Elsie was stirring early, helping to pack Jack’s treasures, and doing a thousand little things which fell to her care in spite of the two maids; but by nine o’clock she was waiting, a trim little figure in her short riding skirts and white jacket, while Jack brought round the horses, and before ten minutes were past Kitchener’s joyous bark and the sound of the galloping hoofs of eager horses died away, and the little grey homestead slept on in the sunlight. The day passed too quickly for Elsie, and every moment brought her impending loneliness nearer, and at last the time came for her to say good-bye to Robert. She moved very close to him when Jack went out to see about his bag, and he put his arm about her. “Elsie,” he whispered, “I wish that you could come, too. You have such an influence over me, dear.” The girl’s eyes flashed in sudden tears. “Do the next best thing, Robert,” she said earnestly. “Write to me regularly evei’y week. You cannot know how disappointed I am when your letters do not come.” “I will write. I meant to write, but when football and things are on I have so little time; hut I promise you* that T will write every week this year. Jack is coming. Kiss me, Eisie,' my little sweetheart. I will not forget.” “Good-bye, Jack. You will write a lonely sister sometimes.” “ Yes, I will write, old girl. Keep cheery. and look after Kitchener. Goodbye, Sis —good-bye.” The girl stood by the gate until the horses turned the corner, and then walked sorrowfully hack to the house, her lonely year, after three weeks’ happiness had begun. The months passed slowly. T7p to several weeks ago Robert’s letters had been regular and cheery; but then there had been a blank space with only a short, unsatisfactory epistle to reward Elsie’s many trips to the post office. One day there came a bulky one in Jack’s scrawl, and the lonely girl carried it to her favourite seat by the creek. It was mostly a boisterous account of a yachting race in which he was interested: hut the last page filled the girl’s heart with pain. “ I am sorry to tell yon,” he wrote, “ that Haigh and T are not such good chums as wo were. I do not like the lads ho goes with, and his foolish mother sends him far too much money. Robert is a good fellow, hut weak, and, as T am not too clean in my own morals, I drew hack, and he quarrelled with me. If anyone can make a saint out of a fellow on the downhill track it is a good woman like yourself, so do your best, dear. I have found someone to help me, hut will tell you all about her in my next. She is a very pretty girl.” Elsie sighed and smiled in a breath. Her fears about Robert were bitterly

realised, but it was amusing to think of her harum-scarum brother trying to reform, because he had found one whom he loved better than himself. The girl wandered slowly back to the house again, musing over the letter. Her father w T as pacing the verandah. “Elsie, child,” he called when he saw her, “come here.” She came at once, and placed her arm affectionately through his. “ Daddy,” she said playfully, “ what on earth brings you out in broad daylight? You have been such a night-owl lately. Were you wanting me, dear?” “ Elsie, listen to me. Would you mind being left to yourself for a few months. I must go over to Australia to consult Professor Bird, and perhaps I may have to travel in the interior; but there are Mr and Mrs Conner and Betty and Jim on the place, so you would not be lonely, and the lasvyer and Jack to apply to in money matters. “Oh, daddy!” gasped Elsie in dismay. “ Could I not come with you? It is very lonely here.” “ Lonely ! Nonsense, child. I could not possibly take you. You could take rooms and keep house for Jack in town, perhaps, if you would rather.” Elsie’s brain was working rapidly. “Daddy, dear,” she said, “can you give me some money before you so, and give me leave to make some changes on the farm?” “ Anything you like, my dear. If it is only a new flower garden, work away, and it will amuse you; but get Jack’s and the lawyer’s approval in big matters. You will see to my things, Elsie. I must be away by Friday.” Elsie slipped away to her room to write the news to Jack, and to tell him of the scheme she had discussed with Robert nine months ago. “If I could sell the timber,” she wrote, “ and with part of the money, buy a dozen good cows and lease Long’s twenty-acre paddock until the grass grows. The management would do me good, and T am certain that the Conners will he glad of something to do. The profits would pay their wages, anyway.” Friday morning came and went, and Elsie bade her father a quiet farewell at the little station, and watched the train puffing its way over the saddle of the hill to the city beyond until the very sound died away, and once more she felt miserably alone. Mr and Mrs Conner fell in with Elsie’s plan very amiably, and through the long weeks that followed, when no letters came from Robert, Elsie could turn her eyes proudly to the re-established byre, and in the distance could hear the ringing stroke of the axe as the timber was gradually felled and hauled by the slow oxen to Barry's sawmill. Jack’s answer to her letter had been short and to the point. “Do what you like to the old place. It does not interest me. My lot is in the cities. The scheme you ha /e seems workable, and perhaps it will do you more good than mojjing in town with me.” So the girl rose every morning at five o’clock to prepare breakfast for the workers, and to set up the separator and to have the water boiling for the cans. Her sweet face became more set in its sorrowful lines as the space between Robert’s letters grew ; but she threw herself into her work and did it well. The last can was scalded, and set away by nine, and until that time every moment was filled. Then her work began again at four in the afternoon. She filled up the rest of the day by working in the gar den, or riding far and wide over the countryside with Kitchener galloping by her side. She still wrote her regular letters to Robert and Jack, and Tack answered at long intervals, and Robert at longer ones, and one day there came a letter from him that made Elsie cry out like a wounded bird and creep away to her room, feeling sick and faint. “I love yon now,” wrote Robert, “better than I ever did, Elsie; but now that this disgrace has come I cannot be a coward and ask you to share it. I do not ask you to wait for me, for I am going away, and if you ever see me again I will have clone my best to wipe out the stain for your sake. If I do not come hack I will never forget the little grey home in the west.” The months and then the years passed quietly away, and still there was no change at the little grev home. Jack was married and doing well in the city; hut Elsie still clung to the old farm in the hopes that some day Robert would return. Stie filled her life -with labour, numbing as best she could the pain heavy on her heart. Her father had not been heard of for over a year, and report was current that he had lost his life in Austalia, so the sad-faced woman struggled on alone, praying for her loved ones and working for herself. The summer-time had come twice and faded and come again, and now the outlook on the farm was cheery. The gully in which the giant nines had moaned their dark secrets was mantled with the vivid green of a voung spring on virgin soil, and over two dozen cattle browsed contentedly on the fresh, tender gra§s. The deep-toned tnis and belihirds had found a shelter in the hush near the house, and in the evenings the air rang with their sweet harmony. Elsie usually finished the scalding of cans early, and came out to the front verandah to listen to the thousand swelling notes from the green home of the birds, and to read the evening news; and, as tlie light faded, to lie hack in her chair and dream o p a dears wandering cue; and one night hr-Yre the glory of the sunset had changed to the grev of twilight she found in her magazine her long lost Robert —not the careless, laughing hoy of years ago, hut a stern, resolute man who had come out of a hard fight hearing the scars of his battle; and. as the girl read the glowing account of the young hero from a northern town, she knew that, if Robert were unchanged to her, he would now come speeding hack to the little grev home in the far west; for now lie had wined awav the stain of defeat, and had arisen and conquered after years of hard fighting. So the light came back to Elsie’s eyes

and the old song to her lips as she went about her work, still patiently waiting. Then one glorious summer evening he came, straight and broad-shouldered with labour, riding out of the shadows of the trees as of old ; and as he saw the girl’s figure on the verandah he called, “ Still waiting for me, little girl?” and she knew from the new manliness and tenderness of his voice that it was her dream Robert come true. “Was it a hard fight?” she asked him when the silent greetings were over. ‘‘Tire hardest, Elsie,” he answered. ‘‘lf it had not been for you waking and, I know, praying for me, I would have gone under long ago; but I thought of you, and buried myself far from temptations, and when I felt strong began life anew in a northern town. I would not have come home for another six months if it had not been that I could not stay to hear all these congratulations and the praise for the little thing I did when I knew you were still waiting for me here.” “ Why did you not write to me, Robert, dear?” asked Elsie. “ But for seeing your photograph in the paper I might not have known.” “ I was never sure of myself, dearest, and I promised your brother not to write to you until I had made enough to keep us both. I have enough now, and I am going to take you away from this little grey home to a new home in the north.”