SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3549, 28 March 1922, Page 57

SHORT STORIES.

[All Rights Reserved.] MISS RIC ill MiOWS THE WAY. By Jessie Pore. (Author of “Tracy Tubbses,” ‘'The Shy ; Age,” etc., etc.) Miss Richie, in her shv but gracious i manner, had passed the time of day with j the postman at the gate of her radiant ! little garden. He was an exuberant, loud- j voiced, young man, of socialistic tend- ! encies, but he always "knew himself’ , when speaking to the maiden lady of j Back brook Cottage. There were two letters this morning, and Miss Richie sat down in her sweetsmelling sitting-room to read them. The cramped, scratchy handwriting of the first brought a little flush of plea sure to 1 her delicately lined face. Ihe dear Rector! He not onlv thanked i her with unctuous and ecclesiastical grati- : tude for her really handsome donation to his pet Church Room, but added, in a postscript, that his wife trusted that she would take tea at the Rectory the following- Thursday. Miss Richie's faded blue eyes glowed with satisfaction. It was a handsome donation, but not too handsome. The dear Rector’s letter was evidence, not only of her parochial, but social standing, j for it was not everybody who was asked t to the Rectory to tea. Prompted by a sudden, enthusiastic impulse, Miss . Richie i was about to write her acceptance im- j mediately, when her eye fell upon the ! other letter. Ihe words "Excelsior Provident Society, ’ printed on the envelope. ! made her wonder mildly why thev were j writing, as the monthly instalment of her j annuity was not due for another ten days, j This intrusion of business at a moment when her mind was uplifted with a j delightful sense of gratified ambition, was \ a little annoying, and then the word ! "bonus flashed across her mind. Many | people, she had heard, were getting bonuses in consequence of the increased ! cost of living. Perhaps—it was just pos- j sible That—and with a sudden access of interest she opened the letter. Her eyes widened, the colour faded from J her cheeks as she read It through mediani- j callv. Then, putting it down, and staring j out through the open casement window ! across the green meadows to the church j spire rising from the rectory elms, she I understood, but failed to realise, that she. ! was a ruined woman. In rounded periods of the deepest regret I the typescript informed her that, owing to the defalcations of the treasurer, who had | since absconded, the “Excelsior Provident Society” had stopped payment, its affairs now being jn the hands of the Official Receiver. So the next instahn ot would not arrive, or the next after that, in fact there, would be no more instalments at all. Miss Richie blinked at the spire in the. elms: her little pedestal of parochial importance had collapsed, leaving her att object- of pitv, among the ruins. She shivered slightly, got up, and went to the open window.

tell vour aunt i shall not he wanting her to-dav,” she said to the round-eyed country girl, who had stopped at the gate. "Me a'nt says she can come o’ Thursday- to clean up and wash them curtains.” “Thank you, dear. I will let her know about that,” replied Miss Richie in her quiet, gracious way. Then she went back to her chintz settee and sat down heavilv. for the life seemed to go out of her at the sudden thought that she would not want the local charladv next Thursday-, or anv Thursday. Her half numbed senses seemed to be swaving backwards and forwards like a pendulum, reaching out and gripping nothing. The cat sprang up on her lap and curled round for a snooze, and the slender, rather shrivelled hand stroked it automatically. Time passed unheeded, and then there came a sound of bri k, but heavy footsteps outside, and her neohcw. Herbert Thorndvke. walked up the path and in at the open door. Herbert Thorndvke was a heartv, loudvoiced country-man, with a florid, jovial cast of countenance and' a calculating eve. “Well, well, well!" he said, glancing round the room, as his aunt rose to greit him. "This is a nrettv kettle of fish!” “You’ve heard, then,” she said. “Saw if in the uaoer-—-when did von know? Almost thought I might have to break the news.” She handed him the letter. “Tt came this morning,” she remarked. And he read it with many “tut, tuts” and upward jerks of his chin. “I can't realize it.” she said, “J've been trying to. but T can't." “I’m thundering glad I didn’t advise you to ) hi 1 vonr monev in it.” he said, or rather shouted. "However, its got to he faced, and there’s your future to think about. Let's see. how old are von—6o?” ITis aunt nodded and flushed faintly. He had given her the benefit of' four'years, and. woman-like, she left it at that. “Well, you’re good for another fifteen or twenty rears anyhow.” She shook her head. “Whv of course von are. You’ve got the family constitution. Sound as a hell. The question is—what are von going to do?” Site shook her head again, helplessly, hopelessly, and as she did so, the end of her “switch” (the coil of hair made of betown combings with grey hairs added) became loosened from it= hairpin ami stuck out in a comical little tail from the back of her small, smooth, iron-grey head. Rut her faded, blue eves were dim with desperate bewilderment. “Well you’ve got to live, haven't you?” “I suppose so,” she replied, with n faint, rueful smile. “It’s no laughing matter,” exclaimed her bluff nephew explosively, "and no

crying matter either—till after I've gone, anyhow. Have your cry out then, it you want to, but 1 m here to talk business, and I want you to pull course.t together. '' “That’s what 1 keep trying to no, she said, "but it's all so sudden.'’ "Now aunt, let us face the facts. You are penniless and you’ve got to live. How do you propose to do it-'; "Perhaps i could take a situation," she said with a doubtful litt:-■ quaver in her voice. "Pooh! Rubbish!" he retorted, "that’s out of the question at vour age. Now, the wife and 1 have been talking things over. Will you put vourself in mv hands? If so 1 11 do' Illy best for you. "Oh yes, Herbert, thank you.” “Then you must- sell up here— lock, stock and barrel.” and once more he glanced round. "These things will fetch a good price, as things are nowadays; they ought to sell for a sum which, if invested, will keep you m pocket money. But, as 1 keep telling you, you’ve got to live, and the wife and I have talked it over, and we offer you a home with us.” Miss Richie gave a little start—then she said : "Oh ! Thank you. Herbert —it is more than good of you. I am verv grateful.” "That’s all right," he -aid, "we couldn’t leave you alone in the world without a penny. —ln fact, public opinion, with an eye to his own war profits, would make such a proceeding indefensible. "But Herbert,’ she faltered, "would vou have room for me?” “Don’t you worry,” he bellowed jocosely, “it will be a squeeze now most of the youngsters have left school, but we ll make room for a little 'tin. Our Gladys will share her bedroom with you, and, as the wife says, there will he a chance of it being kept neat and tidy at last. We shall sack one of the . c wants, which will mean yen’ll have your . wit domestic duties —but you won't mind that. You never were one to sit idle." "No, indeed, Herbert," -Said- Miss Richie. "That’s settled, then. You can get out of hero as quickly as you like and come to us straight away.” "Thank you, HerVurt, d is indeed good of you all.” “Well, that’s settled then. You’ll find plenty of life at citr place, and plenty to do to keep your mind, front brooding. Nothing like occupation. I'll get Atkins to call in and value the Tuft. He'll do the best lie can with- it. You covered these chairs yourself? Verv nice. Yes, as the wife says you're very clever with your needle, and there’s many a little thing vou -tan make for her and the girls, and you'll come in for some of her clothes when she's done with them, and she doesn't wear her things as long as she used to—Ha! ha!” There was a moment's pause. “You are all verv good, said Miss Richie, and her chin puckered a little. "You know I'm grateful, Herbert, and I shall be only too glad to do what I can to make some little return for* your goodness.” “I’m sure!” blustered her nephew noisily. “Well, f must be getting on. Busy day, but 1 felt 1 must come round and fix things up for you. Looks like a shower. Now don’t be downhearted. You’ve got. a good home to come to, and that’s more than a good many ot the other poor devils can say." And with a brisk peck at her cheek Herbert Thorndvke stamped away through the radiant little garden, and left her alone once more. "Lock, stock, and barrel!” The phrase kept repeating itself in her mind, as she wandered about Iter dainty home, touching things lightly here and there- —her dear treasuieV She lingered longest over her bits of old .china rare and genuine, which had' riiiiie to her from her maternal grandmother. They had only known the delicate touch of her caressing fingers—soon to be old by the sharp-mannered auctioneer to the highest bidder among the crowd of neighbour* and omnii’erous SalomT dealers. Li her bedroom her glance fell upon a long brown paper parcel, an uncut dress length of blue foulard with a white sp-t. a pre-war purchase and de tiic -1 for a best dress this summer. A <■! nd. which had recently risen between her and the dressmaker, had rather complicated the making up of this foulard, and it had been a matter of serious cogitation witli the little old maid, bow she could make the necessary negotiations 'without loss of dignity. Now, however, the vexed uuestion was settled for her. “Perhaps Mrs Fames will buy it, though it might be a little to< dressy for her." she murmured. “It will never be made up for me. anyhow, and once more, with that frintoha.f-rueful smile on her face, she repeated-—'"Lock, stock, and barrel.” “I must find a good home for you, Tibbs.” she said to her purring companion who, tail erect, followed her from room to room, “and E won t tell them what a bad little thief vou are if there is any fish about.” Suddenly she caught the cat in her arms and pressed it against her face, and for the. first time the tears came well ; og up into her faded eyes. But she' forced them back and stood staring through the casement window, and discovered,; first- that the rain v as be ginning to -.fAll. and. secondly, that a motor car was hung up in the lam a few yards from her garden gate. If was so extraordinary for a car to choose the route of this remote by-road, that from sheer force of habit she approached the J« -w for closer inspection. Both the occupants of the car bad alighted—the chauffeur was investigating the interior of the bonnet, tlie passenger who was carrying a leather bag, stood by his side in the rain, glancing from t to dark clo-ud. to the cottage tvvenf- yards away. After a few words to his man who had set to work to repair the trouble—he turned in at the garden gate and walked up to the clematis-covered porch. Welcoming even the temporary respite from her thoughts, Miss Richie went to the door. “Can vou tell me,'’ tic said, raising hie hat, “if 1 am on the riybt road to Sal-

port?” He was a middle-aged man, tall, well-dressed, and distinguished-looking. His dark eyes were keen and kindly, there was a pleasant half-humorous turn about his smile, and he spoke with the easy courtesy of a gentleman. “Yes, straight on, but it’s rather a long way round by the lanes,” Miss Richie, in her shy', grave way. “But I like the lanes so much better than the high road,” he said—and his smile was very attractive —“that I can put up with an extra mile or two of them. We have had a slight break-down, and I thought I would make quite sure we were on the right road while my man puts things right-.” “But won’t you come in and shelter,” said Miss Richie, for the rain was coming down with a vengeance. “You are very kind, ’ he replied. “I shall be glad to.” “And your man —won’t he come in, too?” she queried. “Oh, no, thanks, he has a thick coat, and he must get on with his job.” “But wouldn’t he like an umbrella,” suggested the old maid solicitously. “Thanks, no,” replied the motorist without smiling. “I think it would only get in his way. He's used to the rain.” And he followed her into the sitting room. “That’s a nice piece,” he exclaimed, glancing at a bowl on the mantelshelf. “May I?” He rose and examined it. “Old Chelsea,” he said, “and a very good specimen.” Miss Richie’s eyes sparkled. Her trouble was side-tracked as he picked up her favourite pieces, and a pretty pink flush rose in her cheeks as he called them ail by name, and handled them with the delicate, caressing touch of a connoisseur. Shy with strangers, reticent and retiring even with her friends, the old maid responded almost eagerly to the easy, yet courteous manner of her guest. They chatted of “lustres” and “glazes” like old friends, and when, the downpour still continuing, Miss Richie asked with her oldfashioned hospitality if he would take a cup qf tea, he glanced through the window, and, seeing the chauffeur still busy, accepted with evident pleasure. There were two old Spode cups and saucers put away in the kitchen, which had never been used since her grandmother’s day. Her cheeks still pink, her faded eyes a little brighter and darker than usual with the flutter of excitement, Miss Richie glanced at the Spode cups. “I shall never ha*e another chance,” she said, “and I feel sure he will appreciate them.” He did; in fact, he waa-as delighted as a boy, and over the fragrant China tea the feeling of friendship ripened. “You have a charming home,” he said, adding half enviously, “your life runs on smoothly here without change.” Miss Richie put down her cup. “But the change is coming,” she said. “I am leaving here as soon as possible.” The motorist looked astonished. “That’s a pity,” he said, “but no doubt it is to your advantage.’ She shook her head, once more gazing through the window at the spire in the elms. “I heard this morning, she said simply, “that my annuity from the Excelsior Provident fund will not be paid any more. I have no other means.” So great was the contrast of this picture of inevitable penury with the tranquil comfort of her surroundings that no wonder the motorist looked shocked and dismayed. “Oh!—” he said, “that’s bad—that’s very bad.” “Yet it might be worse,” replied the little old maid with her faint, half rueful smile, “for my nephew has offered me a home with his family, and I have accepted.” "You will like that?” he asked, after a pause. To every other person in her circle of acquaintance who might put the question, Miss Richie’s natural discretion and reserve would prompt her to reply “Yes.” But here was a stranger, kindly, human, sympathetic. There could be no breach of confidence from him, for in a short time he would pass out of her life. His keen questioning eyes, and the sorrow and concern in his face seemed to reach to her heart, and her trouble suddenly brimmed over. “I shall hate it,” she replied, in a low voice, “I shall have no more independence, no more privacy. It is a large family. I am to share a room with the eldest girl. She is up-to-date, unlady-like. She sm-okes cigarettes in her bedroom. I am too old to take a position, but I must work and drudge, and wear cast off clothes, and efface myself, and change all my ways and habits. I •fehall be entirely dependent on people of my own* blood, but not of my generation, who lead a scrambling pleasure-seeking existence. But, I shall have a roof over 'mv head, and—oh—l am grateful. I will do my best to repay them in every way I can, but it has all come so suddenly, I cannot realise it.” “I understand,” he said, and the quick comfort of understanding and sympathy brought the hot tears to her eyes. She put her shrivelled hand to her face for just a few moments and then was a brave little ladv once more. “Y r ou must forgive me,” she said. “I should not have said so much. It is too bad of me to distress you with my troubles. This blow has fallen on others far worse off than I—poor creatures. Pray let me give you another cup of tea. The sun is trying to come out, but it is still raining.” The motorist took another cup of tea and they drank it almost in silence. He barely responded to her repeated efforts to bring the conversation back to normal subjects, and, rising, looked through the window. The chauffeur had finished his job and was smoking a cigarette. “Can you turn here?” he called—the man glanced at a widening of the grassbordered lane and nodded. “Then turn her round,” said the motorist. Miss Richie had also resell. “But you have made a mistake in the direction,” she said in her quiet, shy wav. “It is straight on to Salport.”

“I know,” he said, “but I have changed my mind. I am going back to London.” “Going back to London?” repeated Miss Richie, looking up at him in surprise. There was the trace of. a tear on her lined cheek, and the end of her “switch” was still sticking out from the back of her small, iron-grey head-. The motorist met her gaze in silence, then he said : “It’s a curious fate that brought me here. lam the Treasurer of the Excelsior Provident Fund. I was running for it. A boat is waiting for me at Salport. Now you can guess why I prefer the lanes, why I was glad tp accept your hospitality instead of waiting about outside.” A wan, bleached look had come over his handsome face, but his firm, humorous mouth twisted into the ghost of a smile. Miss Richie still gazed at him with wide eyes of consternation and dismay. “I can’t -ask you to forgive me,” ?Jd said quietly, “but I can pay the penalty. .1 am going to face the music, since 1 called the tune, and I am going .back to do my stretch.” Still she gazed at him dumbly—and then a great light came into the faded old face, as she put out her hand—- “ You are a brave man, she said. He shook his bowed head, as he took it. “Thank you,” he said, “at least you have saved me from being a coward. And I #el I should like to tell you that private speculation was the rock I split on. I hoped and believed I could tide it over, but the unexpected happened, and I’d no time to do anything but—take the usual course. I bolted with all I could gather from the wreck and here it is, in this bag. I’m going to take it all back. It wul help to square things a bit, and may possibly mitigate my sentence. In any case,” he added quietly. “I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that your instalments will be paid as usual, and you won’t have to- leave the cottage.” Two tears suddenly brimmed over and ran down Miss Richie’s lined cheeks. She tried to speak, but he just gripped her hand, and turning, walked down the path to the little garden gate. Long ter the car started back to London e old maid sat motionless on her chint. settee. Then she rose and carefully, almost reverently, washed the two Spode cups and saucers. “I will never use them again,” she said.