THE LOVE PASSAGE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3414, 20 August 1919, Page 65

THE LOVE PASSAGE.

By Graham Brown. Alice was the girl's name. She was as gentle and as fragile a soul as ever drew a breath of life—one of those quiet, delicate, timid natures who seem to come into this rough-and-tumble world by some mistake. Those who knew her prophesied that Alice Melville, before she slipped from this hard world, would know the meaning of tragedy. So long as her father and mother lived all was well with the child. She might have been a stronger nature had she had a few years at a girls' school, but Mr Melville entrusted her education to a series of governesses. Hers was a quiet, unperturbed existence. When she was not in the schoolroom at the Hill she was wandering hi the shrubbery dreaming away her life, and when she was neither in the schoolroom nor among the shrubs she was most likely in her little bedroom, for Alice was a delicate child.

She was beautiful with that > pale, rare beauty whioh reminds one of lilies. Everybody petted her. and even when she was woman grown they looked on her as but a child. Her chief feature was her eyeslarge and blue, and questioning,—and it seemed as if she could read messages from Nature which are never heard by grosser ears. She loved to be alone with the birds and the flowers and the growing things, and in her imagination she peopled her little world with friendly spirits all her own. Alice—child, girl, woman —was a being of imagination. Before she was eighteen one or two little poems and sketches had appeared from her pen, and her mother was beginning to dream that Alice, their only child, would be a genius, startling the world some day. George Melville was a merchant. His thoughts were all of bales and bundles and cargoes, and he used to laugh when the older Alice, his wife, spoke of the fame that was coming to the girl. Mrs Melville was of the same dreamy, imaginative nature, arid it had come to nothing." So her husband was sceptical. But then he forgot that his Alice had never allowed her imagination' to play havoc with her common sense.

And then the crushing blow came. Twice in one year Alice, white-eyed and tearless, watched a coffin go out of the great, silent house. First her father went with a suddenness that was appalling; and in a few months her mother, feeling that life for her was over and done with, said "good-bye " to her daughter, and took her noiseless journey to knock at the gates of an unopened future; and Alice was left alone, without a relative in all the wide world. At the time of the calamity she was twenty-five, but in spite of her years she was a baby in worldly wisdom. She was left to face the problems of life alone. Many advised her, but her friends turned away with a hopeless sigh. To add to her perplexity, Alice found that she was no more a daughter of a fairly wealthy man, but possessed, after the business "was wound up, little more than eight hundred pounds in all. Another girl might have gone into some employment but with Alice that was impossible. Eight hundred pounds! An annual income of little more than thirty pounds a year! Jim Lockhart, her father's lifelong friend, told her that an investment would bring her six per cent., and she promptly handed him the money. He put the money in his bank account, and every three months sent her a registered letter containing twelve pounds. _ For a year Alice Melville lived with friends.--, She listened languidly to their friendly advice, but at the end of the year was as much in a maze of perplexity as ever. At last, quite suddenly, her mind was made up for her. None of her friends had any hand in the new move. It was the outcome of the visit of an old woman with a kindlv face and braided hair. When Alice saw her all her curiously gentle reserve broke down, and she fell into the outstretched arms, her head buried in the snow-white shawl. "Martin!" she cried. "Oh, Martin!" I knew you would come." And the kindly-faced old woman patted the head of the sobbing girl. 'Yes, dearie, and I would have come long ago, but I couldn't find you. How white you look!" " Martin," I think I can face the world now when you are with me. They, say that it's a hard world." 'Til never leave you, dearie, though I'm an old woman now. I never thought it would come to this when I held you in my arms, a wee, tiny infant." They were in the drawing room at Jim Lockhart's. The old nurse prattled on till the shy smiles were beginning to come again. ( "Now, dearie," she crooned, T m never, never going to leave you any more"; and the girl kissed her on the lips. " But I've only a little monev now. I don't know how" it happened, but father

"Never, mind, dearie, I think I've enough for two." Alice took a little cottage of two rooms, standing alone in that sparsely-populated part of the country, about five miles from her old home, new, alas 1 in the hands of strangers. Jim Lpckhart deducted the amount of the rent, from his quarterly remittances —one pound every quarter. To this he added another when he paid the landlord, but this Alice did not know. She did not even think the cottage was absurdly cheap. She learned to smile again, and her old nurse had her reward. There was a large garden, and to Alice this was its chief attra-ction —that and the fact that it was only a few miles to the

little kirk-yard where her father and mother lay so peacefully. She felt that, even though dead, their sheltering cara was round about her, and she never wearied. For a year her garden was her chief delight, and she- never trred of watching the lilies and roses grow, and of hearing the message of the thrushes and blackbirds. Also she used to wander down to the vailejr through the beech wood, talking to the bluebells and wood-hyacinths, and even nodding to the birds that hopped at her feet. was still vocal to her, and Alice was still listening to the wondering tale that no man can write. Another little poem, accepted without payment by some kind-hearted editor, kept her for a whole month in a delicious excitement. Jim Lockhart had seen it, and he had suggested that she should try a ghost story. She might get, so he said, a few guineas for it. Alice thought he spoke in fun. It seemed a monstrous sum. But in another month the short story waa finished, and she posted it to Jim, her father's friend. The old nurse thought it was the finest thing she had ever read, Jim read it —it was utterly hopelesa. Not that it was lacking in imagination, but that it was too full of that ne'cessary quality. Sparkling thoughts were scat* tered through the story with a profusion that was bewildering. H'e could not very, well tell what it lacked, but the first editor to whom he submitted it promptly enlightened him. "It is too imaginative," he wrote, "and has absolutely no coherence.- Your friend has a long way to travel before she could make a good story-writer. I should say she never will. There is no magazine i, know that publishes this kind of atuff, though, mark you, the central idea ia good, even brilliant. What your friend needs is a collaborator." Jim Lockhart said he sold the story for a oouple of guineas, and said nothing about the letter. Alice bought bulbs with the money. Then the girl, afraid that she was burdening her father's friend, sent her stories direct to the editors. They came back every time ; mostly accompanied by « printed notice, once or twice with a blunt letter, which was even more hopeless than the stereotyped formula. "I think I shall write a long story," she said to herself one night as she was slipping into bed. "There doesn't seem to be a niche for me among short-story writers." For a time she dreamed, and the story grew—the story that no man can tell. She wrote little, • only snatches as they came to her. All the winter she lived in the atmosphere of that story. Sha wept over the woes of the heroine, and as she took her Avalks abroad she would talk with her characters, and ask then? questions as if they were by her side. At last she resolutely sat down to write the first chapter. On this she laboured for a month, 'but in the end she was as far off saying the thoughts that were in, her heart as at the beginning. She did not know it was the story that never was penned. At the month's end she was in despair, and laid the manuscript away in a drawer with a weary sigh: The spring had now come once again, and the quiet of the glen, which was its chief charm to the meek-souled Alice, was invaded by- a horde of rough, swearing men in fustian and mole* skin, with their picks and shovels. Thd great track for the water to supply the town of Mellington passed along just afc the foot of the garden, arid now they had attacked that section. Alice was terrified. She knew it would be a matter of a year at the least befora the quietness would come again, and for that time she would have to endure pandemonium. At first she feared to go beyond the bounds of the garden, even under the care of her old, faithful nurse; but as the spring came, with its bursting leaf and singing birds, she was lured to longer walks by the wood path towards the stream. The navvies, all so rough and boisterous among themselves, seemed to look upon her as a visiting angel. She was not once molested; indeed, she was respectfully saluted wherever sha went. She grew bolder. She was getting quite interested in the rough men, but a sadness oppressed her, as she saw the lives they were leading, huddled together l in huts not fit for a pig to live in. By and by Alice began to take an interest in the navvies as men and human beings of the same world as herself. When the Rev. Jenkyn Mortlake came along from Learningham on a Sunday afternoon she went with him to the open-air meeting. The tired navvies lolled on the grass, smoking their short clay pipes, and she thought she could detect an unutterable sadness in every eye. Her heart went out to them. Her imagination ran riot. She saw every one of these rough men as little children running about chasing butterflies or lisping their little questions to meek-eyed mothers. They had all gentle mothers, like her- own. Sha thought of those mothers with then- white, braided hair, perhaps at that very moment oraying each in her little room; for the wandering boy. A great sadness filled her heart, and the tears were in' her big blue eyes. One of the navvies sat a little apart. He was smoking a cigarette, and it looked odd. His clothes were as rough and hia, hands as horny as the others, but his facs was cleaner, and, yes, he was wearing a collar. There was a sadness in his face, too, that moved her simple soul. Wha was he? Perhaps—and again her imagination ran riot. At the close of the service she tooK some of the leaflets from the minister and went down to this pale-faced navvy with the large, Intellectual forehead, "Thank you, miss," he said, taking the tract. "Is your work very hard?" she stammered. "I think it must be very hard. When I have to dig the garden I am tired at night." "Yes, it is hard, miss," the man ain

swered, rieing. "But when a man mates his bed he has to lie on it." She did not know what that meant, and was a little frightened, but tho minister was close at hand. "Can't youi get-better employment?" she asked. "It's good enough for the likes of mo. You know I'm a waster, miss." "I'm so sorry," sho said, still as timorous as a fluttering bird. Perhaps Mr Mortlako can help you." "No, miss, it's too late, unless—unless " "Yes." "You try your hand." "Oh, I don't know what to do. Shall I write to your mother?" "My mother 1 Why do you mention her name?" She shuddered at his intensity. "I—l thought you would like to hear about your mother. Mine is dead, you know, and I live with my old nurse in the cottage yonder." "I know, miss." " I am very happy, though," she answered, "exceot when I think of all the men here who 3o not seem to have any mothers." "We've all had one at one time of our lives," he said.* "I. think you should go home to your mother, you know." "But there's no going back along the road I've come." "Oh, I'm sure there is. Is it such a long way I could give you money for your train fare if that is it." "I was thinking of a different road, miss."" That was the beginning. When next she saw him, after the lapse of days, he was seated on a bank eating his meal — thick slices of bread and a little cold tea in a flask. " Do you know," she said, as if greeting an old friend, " I've often thought about you since Sunday. I have been wondering if you have written to your mother." " Perhaps ycu don't understand, miss," he returned. He had risen and was standing with his cap in his hand. "May I come to see you on Sunday afternoon? I want to tell you all my story, and then you can—well, chuck me over as a bad lot." "Oh, I will never do that." "Wait till you hear." On the Sunday afternoon he came. Apparently he had spent a considerable time on his toilet. His collar was spotlessly white, and he had a black tie. His hair was carefully brushed, and although his hands were tanned and horny his nails were beautifully clean. Ever since that first Sunday he had been improving in his outward appearance. She sat him on a deck-chair beneath the lilac bushes. " I promised to tell you my . story, miss," he began, "and I've been thinking about it since Wednesday. It made a difference to me last night." "A difference?" v " Yes, for the first time for many years I went to bed sober." , ." Oh, I did not think "she cried. "Drink and the devil—l beg your pardon. Listen to my story." He told her his tale, concealing only his identity. It was a common story, but to Alice it was a tragedy too deep for tears. She sat silent. - " You see now why I cannot go back the road I've come. I have had longings in my time, but nothing like the longings I have now since—since you. spoke to me about my mother." " I'll go and see your people if you like." "All! I couldn't face the disgrace. I must get a little better first." "And all the time your mother is yearning —perhaps at this very moment she is needing your help. The man was crying beneath the lilac bushes, and she did not know what to do. Her tears fell in silent sympathy. That was the first interview of many. Every Sunday afternoon he took tea with her and Nurse Martin. The girl grew to look for his coming, and little by little she told him her life story. She spoke of . the novel she was trving. to write. He was interested at once. " Would you mind my seeing what you have done? I think you ought to be able to Avrite a good story." "Oh, I have only written a few chapters, and they don't please me at all. But I made a synopsis of the story, which I will show you." He read the written pages very carefully, and looked up. Tense anxiety was on her face as she asked: "What do you think of it?" And this man was a navvy! " You want me to be straight with you, miss, I suppose?" "Yes, of course—tell me the truth." " Well, the idee —the motif is excellent. If the story such as you outline could be written it would create Quite a stir in Fleet street. There are dozens of men eager for such stuff." "Then I will persevere." " But you will pardon me, Miss Melville? I have read these opening chapters; they are beautifully penned, by the way, but it is when you come to write down your ideas in the King's English that you fail miserablv." He was speaking in a masterful way now, as if he were to the manner born. " You have not a trained mind, if you will pardon the criticism, not a sense of proportion. That you have a dramatic instinct I admit, but the difficulty is to reduce it to artistic order." Alice was not a bit surprised at the way the man was speAkin;'. Neither was she a bit hurt. " I do not understand how you are able t»o understand these things. But I feel that your criticism is just." Ho pointed out the defects of the opening chapters, and encouraged her to make a fresh start. "Don't despair," be said; "you will come out on top yet." That was the beginning of the collaboration. Alice Melville and a iiavvy! Week after week they met to talk over

the story and to plan out developments, and even Nurse Martin became interested, and volunteered suggestions. Somehow the girl saw the force of every criticism as soon as it was made, and while hocused the pick and shovel in the cutting" she laboriously rewrote that part of the story that had been criticised and passed. She forgot that her companion was a navvy. Sne forgot in her excitement that ho was a wanderer from home ; She lived and moved in her story. Alice Melville had a quick perception, and as the sheets were multiplied he found less and less to criticise. " You are an apt student," he said one day, laughing gaily. "I don't think you can improve this chapter by a single comma." And the girl's flushed face revealed her pleasure at the compliment. Once or twice she felt a little shyness as she 'sat waiting his verdict. That was when they had come to a love passage in which she had poured out her whole virgin heart. She saw as she looked that he was turning white and red by turns, but before he was done with his reading •he had assumed the professional again. As gradually as the morning sun-rays love came tapping at the door, so gradually that it never startled her. Indeed, she did not know that it was love, she who had written so beautifully about it. She only knew that she looked forward to these nightly visits as 'the chief events in her life. Summer passed like a tale when it is told, and in the days when shadows were growing longer the story was finished. He got it typed for her, and when the manuscript was ready he said : '"l'm going to take it to London myself. I think we-will save time that way." " But it is a long way—and the tram fare ?" "I think I can. mai.age that," he answered. " I have to go to London, at any rate." That was a pure fiction. Her navvy was away three weeks —long, weary weeks —but he wrote to her everyday. "It was in the.hand of the reader." "The head of the firm had got it." "He had a note asking him to call on Monday," and, finally, a telegram: "Congratulations—story accepted—returning today." With impatience she waited for him at the garden gate, and when he made his appearance she greeted him like an old and 'trusted friend returning from a far land. The fire was burning brightly, the table was laid for tea, and the old nurse beamed upou him as ho entered. "Oh, let tea wait." He almost said "dear. "I have good news for you. Mr Downs eagerly snapped up 3-our story and asked for more. He's given me quite a lot for a first story, I reckon." She had not been thinking about the money, but she said 1 "How much? Twenty pounds?" "Exactly ten times twenty, and cheap at that." "What! Two hundred pounds?" ; "I told him it ought to have been five, and he only laughed." '"Alice eat silent during the tea. There was a look of perplexity on her fair face, and he guessed what was coming. "Mr Smith," said said at last, "you must take half of the money. It is yours by right." "Not at all. What I did was a labour of love. I only wish I had to do it all over again"; and the girl wondered at the words. She pleaded with him, but he was adamant. "Some day, perhaps, I'll get an equivalent" ; and ohce more Alice wondered. Three weeks later ishe received her cheque. Alice did not know what to do with it. "Take it to Learningham, put it in the bank, open an account, you know, and get a cheque-book." "I think I will tell Jim Lockhart about it." The young man sat up with a start, and his face turned suddenly pale. "Jim Lockhart —who's he?" "Oh, an old friend of father's. Ho looks after my money affairs, you know. I'm so silly." ' The colour came back to his face. "Lucky Jim!" he muttered; but she did not hear, neither did Nurse Martin. At last it" was time to leave, and yet he lingered at the door. "Miss Melville," he said, "I have made up my mind to go away from here." "What! Go away! Oh, what shall I do?" "It's been on my mind for a long time now. You don't need me any more, so I'm going." "Oh 1" she cried, clasping her hands, '"I do need you, but, but —yes, you ought to go to your mother now. How lonely I shall feel when yon are gone!" fe Will you, Miss Melville?" "I can't tell you how lonely. And I thought we would start a new book. I have a plot in my mind already. It all came to me when you Were in London." "Ah, well—" he sighed. "But you will come to see me, and bring your mother. I would like to see your mother.'' "I promise you I will bring my mother if she will come." "I want to tell her all you have done for me." "Perhaps sho won't believe you. I am good for nothing, you know." Ho was holding* out his hand. "And this is tho last good-bye," the girl murmured.

"I'll see you on Friday afternoon, if you don't mind," he said ? trying to speak calmly. "I don't leave till Saturday, you know."

"Yea, come early, and let us have a long, nice time for the last. I will tell you about that other story." On Friday afternoon they sat in the deck-chairs in the garden, for it was warm. Nurse Martin was preparing tea. Mr Smith talked Incessantly, but Alice was dumb with tho thought that this was their last meeting. The girl looked at hex watch and started.

"Four o'clock! Oh, I forgot to tell you that Jim Lockhart is coming at four, along with a gentleman who has been inspecting the waterworks." "It'll be a pleasure to meet your friend," he returned lightly. She handed him a letter. He had- read only a few lines when he started up in consternation. "Sir Ernest Vere! Oh, Miss Melville, why didn't you tell me sooner?" he cried. "Why, I thought " '■'But he mustn't see me. Oh, heavens! There he is at the gatel" "But do you know him?" "Hide me somewhere. Ah, it is too late I" Two men were walking down the path. Jim Lockhart was one of them. He espied the two figures through the trees and came forward with his companion. "Ah," Alice, how do you do? This is Sir Ernest Vere, the Mayor of Aldenborough—Miss Melville." And, as one in a dream, she shook hands with the distinguished stranger. z "You have a friend, Alice?" asked Jim Lockhart.' "Yes," she stammered, "I met him— Mr Smith." At the name the navvy, who had been sitting in a deck-chair with his back to them, could not help but turn. His face was paie as ivory. "Harry!" The exclamation came from the lips of the Mayor of Aldenborough, who was standing before the man that was a navvy. ' "Father!" And the young man sank to hi 3 knees on the turf. That same night, as Alice was thinking of putting up the shutters, she heard a tap at the door. "Oh, I knew it would be you," she cried. "I am so glad. I believe I have been crying with the joy of it. What a romance! Your father——" "Is going to take me.home to-morrow." "Ah!" "But I could not go without " But he stopped suddenly. "You do not know how glad I am," said Alice. "It is better than our book." "It has only one defect—a fatal one." "What i 3 that?" "There no love passages in it—as yet.'; Alice did not hear the last two words; they were not meant for her to hear. She felt a quick tightening round and she cast her eyes down. "But, perhaps," he continued, "that defect can be remedied. Alice, I love you. You have saved my soul from death. I cannot live without you. Dear, tell me I may come back and claim you for my.wife. "Harry !" And her head found a pillow on his breast. It was profoundly dark before he left the cottage door. Only the September moths saw the parting. Nurse Martin was weeping for joy in the kitchen. "Our story has a love passage in it now, darling," he whispered. "The sweetest of all."