THE Novelist

Otago Witness, Issue 3673, 5 August 1924, Page 58

THE Novelist

Heather of the South.

By

ROSEMARY REES,

Author of “April’s Sowing.”

CHAPTER lII.—THE MARANUI HOMESTEAD. When the car passed Heather on the road, Gillespie fell once more to discussinoner. ‘Yes, she’s one of the high and mighty sort,” he repeated. ‘‘Thinks no one’s good enough for her, and her mother. And who are they I’d like to know?” He paused for a moment, but Creed made no attempt to give him the required information, he was forced to reply to his question himself. ‘ The wife and daughter of a New Zealand doctor, that’s all. _ iNothing very grand about that is there ? Nothing to put on side about anyhow. I wonder how long she’ll be able to Keep the place going—she’s bound to be beaten in the end.” His tone held some sort of gloating anticipation, and Creed glanced at him shrewdly. ‘‘You’ll find some satisfaction in that?” he asked dryly. | a f j a il ■ ’ protested Gillespie quickt a 6 8 & o *’ Pi uc k> I’m not denying that. And the queer thing is, that though she was pretty well town-bred—if yen can call Wairiri a town—she’3 got the hang of this work all right; but I think as a icid, she sjient a lot of time in the country. f'C'Ctor Burnside’s people owned a station, and he always had an eye for a -good horse.” ’Tim girl s a- born horsewoman—wonderful hands—l suppose it’s in the blood, yhe was working in a remount depot in England, they say, during the war. But it isn’t possible for any girl to run a place of that size by herself; she’s bound to come a cropper in the end.” ‘‘Hasn’t she any help, at all?” There s o d Scotty, who was with Phillip and Tom, at the whare out near the sheep yards. He does a bit of work with the sheep—but not much—and then of course she gets help from her devoted admirer, Winter.” Again Gillespie’s voice caused his employer to glance at him. There was a litt’e ironical gleam in Creed’s eyes. Why need hiK manager speak of Miss Burnside’s admirer in this savagely sneering manner? "Anything wrong with Winter?” ne asked casually. “Wrong? Not that I know of,” returned Gillespie. “You don’t seem to care much about him. ‘‘Oh, he’s a conceited young fool I don t botner my head about him, one way or the other.” “Who is he?” “His people live up the coast somewhere He bought Tennent’s place, over the hills at the back there. He’s head over ears in love with Heather Burn=ide anyone can see that.” him?” d ' S She head CVCI 6alS in love with Giliespie’s light eves narrowed in a sudden frown. “I shouldn’t think she could be soft enough for that. She thinks more oi her music than anything else, I believ?,\ you’re passing there at night, you li often hear her knocking fireworks out of the pianc—they brought that out from the old country with them. Notice the big gloves she were to-day. Wears them most of the time. Trying to keep her hands right for her music, °they say Wonder she doesn’t milk in ’em ” He laughed unpleasantly, and during the remainder of the drive to Maranud Creed realised, that though the tone his manager employed in speaking of Heather was one of repressed bitterness, yet his interest in her apparently never flagged. Whatever subject Creed introduced, the conversation seemed in some way always to work round to the Burnsides—or rather to Heather Burnside. It was quite obvious to Creed, that whether Gil lespie was aware of it op not, his mind was greatly occupied with the girl. It may have been a ma'.icioiis interest only—engendered by what Gillespie called her “side” and “swank” . but it was certainly a quite absorbing interest. The idea that Gillespie—who was nearing fifty, and who, as far as Creed knew had always been a model husband —should be attracted by the girl, in the ordinary way in which men were attracted my women, seemed absurd; and yet Stephen Crped had seen quite enough' of Uie woo rid to realise, that in matters of sex, nothing was impossible. .. a ere the road turned at a right, angle awav from the river, and gradually mounted into the hills, the car pulled up beside a big, white painted gate. This was the entrance to Maranui, and the house—a rambling, white painted dwelling could he dimly seen on a bluff overlooking a hend of the river, a quarter of a mile away, among the wees. Originally a small cottage, the homestead had been added to at various times, and it now presented the appearance of a roomy and picturesque bungalow, set in a well laid out garden. Flowering creepers, and climbing roses, now a mass of bloom, encircled the pillars of the wide verandahs ; and so quickly do the plants grow in this genial climate,

that even the French windows of the wing which oteplien had added three years previously, were framed with flowers. A sheltering plantation of pines, and bluegums, lay behind the house, but, with the exception of a few oaks, and silver birches, the view lay clear in front, over the tennis lawn to the river. Across the deep gorge, on the opposite side, the steeply rising hills were covered with native bush—the lace-like, delicate green fronds of the giant tree ferns, being easily discernable among the darker massed foliage of the forest trees. Stephen Creed’s father, though hardheaded, and hard-working, with apparently no artistic tendencies, had possesed one non-utilitarian quality; he loved his garden, and though he looked upon time spent in cultivating any accomplishments -which could not be turned to the making of money, as time wasted, vet he never grudged the hours he stole from his station work to spend among his flowers. He had married somewhat late in life, and Stephen, the only child, was not born until some years afterwards. From his mother who had died when he was a bov of fourteen—Stephen had probably inherited all that was artistic in his nature. Mary Creed painted far better than the average amateur, and played and sang, with real musical ability, though she had never seriously cultivated either of her talents. Indeed during the first years cl marriage, she had had no time' to devote to study of any kind, for life in the five-roomed cottage had not been the easy leisured existence which her son now enjoyed. Stephen’s earliest memories of his mother, were of one whose well-shaped hands were often soft and puckered with a long day’s washing; or whose pretty face was flushed with hours spent in bending over the wood fire burning in the kitchen stove, as she baked the bread and cooked the meals, not only for her husband and her son, but often for men working on the station also. Always, in looking back on those days, Stephen felt in his heart, some sort of aching, and rebellious protest; he could not bear to remember, that life which ran so smoothly now for him, had been so filled with toil for the being, whom in his childhood he had worshipped. He failed to realise that his mother had never regarded rough existence, as anything of a°hard- , P- She was a country-girl who loved her husband, her child, and her home—and the word home, included not only the little cottage, but the bushed hills, and the river, and the open valleys surroundmg it -and her days had been so fully occupied, that boredom, or regret, had never entered into them. If the cooking, and the washing and the housework, were not pleasant in themselves, they were merely regarded as the necessary duties which very few women m new countries can hope to escape : and the days spent out in the sunshine—mustering sheep on the hills with her husband ; riding together on some mission, far away to the back of the run; swimming in the river below the garden on hot summer afternoons ; and the occasional gaieties which Wairiri offered,—more than compensated her for the less pleasant tasks, mdispensab-e to the management of astation homestead in the back-blocks. though there was very real affection between the two men, and though it had been 'V ! 1 ' !! (1 shock to Stephen—when out of the Line for a few days—to receive the cable which announced his father’s death yet lather and son had never been able to be altogether tolerant of the other’s point ot view. If Mary Creed had been alive, no doubt things would have been different for she—beloved by both—would have been the medium through which each might, more readily have reached the sympathy and understanding of the other. Practical, and unsentimental, as “Old Creed was, he had one vulnerable point —the memory of his wife. He had never allowed the little drawing-room which had been hers, in the original five-roomed cottage, to be altered in any way. Her simple treasures, still remained ’ as she had lett them. The room was used by himselt or his son, occasionally, but it was never a general sitting-room; the big ounge hall and the dining-room, which had been built on together with other rooms, some years before Mrs Creed’s death, were the only living rooms for practical purposes at Maranui. To these were now added, in the newly erected wing another sitting-room, which with a big bedroop and a bathroom, Stephen reserved exclusively for himself, and which had been built according to his own plans, ihis sitting..room,—a mixture of smoking room, gun room, music room, and library —was panelled with rimu, and on the dark wooden background hung the pictures, which Creed had brought back with him from France, after the war. The curtains at the French windows, the big bookcases, the piano—one of Brcadwood’s latest models—and the handsome and Amfortable furniture, made the room a pleasant and happy resting place, and a “living room” in the best sense of the word. It was at the verandah steps, opposite the entrance to this wing, that the motor now halted. Gillespie and Stephen together carried in what baggage they had managed to pack into the back of the car, and then Gillespie, once more climbed into the driving seat. “The missus has probably got tea ready for you in the dining-room,” he remarked, as lie started the engine again. “I’ll take the car round to the garage, and meet you there in a few minutes.”

Creed, walking into his bedroom, found everything prepared for him, but in the big sitting-room—though it also wore the air of awaiting the advent of some new occupant—with a flash of intuition, ne seemed to sense the fact that it had rict remained unused during his absence. Gillespie and his wife had been making this 100 m their living room, and he was unable to repress a slight feeling of annoyance. It had never been understood that Gillespie should take up his residence at the homestead. The manager s cottage was hidden bv the rising ground behind the house, and was situated about three quarters of a mile away, near to the woolshed and the men’s ivhares. j Creed decided to look into the matter of the leaking roof without delay; he had not the slightest intention of sharing his home with Mr and Mrs Gillespie! The latter—who had been a domestic servant at Maranui, before his mother died—he had never attempted to understand. She was a plain, dark, little woman, thin lipped, and silent, with curiously alert and intelligent eyes—curious because she gave no sign of intelligence in any other way—and though Creed had known her for many years, he had no more idea of her likes and dislikes (if she had any) ct the processes of her mind in any direction, than if she were a moving wax figure. Probably it was an absolutely colourless, and commonplace mind, Stephen reflected ; and yet he had never bee., able to rid himself of the impression, that under her silence lay, as under the dark waters of some deep, and sluggishly moving stream, strangely stirring currents, and curious forms of life. She was in the dining-room as he entered it. “How are you Mrs Gillespie?” he asked. “Very well thank you,” she returned; and then putting down the tea pot on the table, left the room. There was no expression of pleasure, or the reverse, or of surprise, at his unexpected return. “A cheerful sort of companion!” thought Creed. I wonder if she ever speaks to her husband?” Gillespie, entering at this moment, pulled up his chair to the table, and sat down beside his employer. “He’s quite at home!” reflected the latter with a touch of grim humour. “I needn’t ask him to have tea ; that’s quite superfluous. Yes, I thought so! He’s helped himself!” Aloud he said. “How are the Dicksons getting on?” “I had to fire them, some time ago. I’ve got another married couple coming to-morrow.” “Fire them! What for?” “Dickson was getting above himself. Loafing here wasn’t too good for him. He was doing nothing much besides drink.” “That’s a pity. I thought the place would have suited them, and that he could at least have kept the garden in order. It isn’t easy for these disabled men to get work. We were in the same C.C.S. after Messines.” “Lots of returned men trade on their disablement, in order to loaf.” “Couldn’t his wife keep him up to the mark ?” Gillespie grunted. “ She turned out as badly as he did. She was drinking too.” Creed looked at him in surprise. A sudden picture of Mrs Dickson-—plump, highly coloured, and inclined to a somewhat startling taste in clothes—rose m his mind ; but surely in spite of her ftambuoyant personality, at heart a goodnatured, sober, honest creature? Still one never could tell, and appearances were apt to be deceptive. “ She seemed a decent enough woman, and she was working well enough before I left,” he said. “Ah! ‘When the cat’s away—quote Gillespie with a knowing smile. “ Sihe had nothing to do but to look after the house when you were gone. They were in clover here, those two. But that was the trouble—they’d too little to do. That was why I decided to come up and live here.” “I thought it was because the roof of the cottago leaked.” “ .Oh, yes, partly for that reason too. ’ Stephen Creed began to suspect that he might be stumbling on an explanation tor the trouble with' the Dicksons, whom he ieft as jr-iretakers at Maranui in nis absence. It was quite pi'obable that diev had resented the transference of the Gillespie menage, from the cottage to the bigger house; and he wondered if iris manager had expected the returned soldier and his wife to act as his personal servants. He, Creed, had not given the Dicksons to understand that this might be their duty; still as be had engaged them as caretakers merely in order to provide them with a situation, and the position they occupied was, in fact, practically as insecure, he thought they might have put up with some additional work, for his sake. And in any case they had no excuse for drinking. Stephen. like his father before him, never employed a drunkard if he could help it. He believed in efficiency, and that was incompatible with drunkenness. Well, if you tried to give people a helping hand they very often turned out like this, he reflected. Ingratitude was, perhaps, the normal reaction to kindness. He dismissed the Dicksons from his mind, and talked on station matters to nis manager for the following half-hour. Shearing was to begin within the next few weeks, and from this time on to Christmas life would be somewhat strenuous on all the big sheep stations in ii.e district. Stephen, having discussed Maranui affairs for some time, betook himself back to bis own room, and to the unpacking of his personal luggage. The work of turning out his trunks filled in the interval before dinner, and it was only after this meal—which' Airs Gillespie’ liad prepared, and to which both she and her husband sat down in the dining room with Creed —that the latter made a tour of the other rooms of the house. The door of his mother’s sitting room was unlocked, and on passing into it the

annoyance that he had been conscious of when ho realised that the Gillespies had been making use of his own room was now increased to downright anger. It was evident that this room also had been used quite frequently. The oldfashioned lustres which had stood on the mantelpiece had been removed, and various other ornaments had taken their place; the furniture —the arrangement of which had never been altered since Mary Creed's death—was now in a different position; the glass shielding a laded framed photograph of his father was cracked; some of the books had" been pulled from the bookcase, and the covers soiled. Creed passed out into the nail and called to Gillespie. His manager came to him from the kitchen where he had evidently been sitting. “I thought you understood that this room was always to be left unoccupied,” he said in a very quiet voice. “ The Dicksons I’m afraid used it. That was one of the reasons that made me decide to get rid of them.” “ Then what’s this ? ” Creed had pulled open the writing bureau, and he now pointed to a writing pad, a pen and ink, an old meerschaum pipe, and a bag of mending. “ The missus came in here to clean up after the Dicksons left,” answered Gillespie quickly; “ but she must have overlooked those things.” Creed said no more. He had recognised the pipe as one belonging to his manager, and as he continued his peregrinations through the house he was more than ever determined that the Gillespies should return to the cottage as soon as possible. He was convinced that they had also made use of his father's old bedroom for their own, and had bundled out of it hurriedly after he himself had rung up that day to announce his return. He began to wonder whether the delay in the arrival of the car at the railway station was really due to a puncture; Mrs Gillespie must have had some difficulty in getting all their belongings cleared out of the rooms they had been occupying, and the rooms themselves prepared for him in the time which nad elapsed since his telephone message at noon that day. And yet, as Stephen returned to his own quarters in the new wing, he told himself it was foolish to allow such a very small matter to ruffle his temper. Gillespie had served both 1 liis father and himself quite faithfully for many years, and it would be ridiculous to quarrel with a good servant on account of a trifle of this sort. Life held too many problems of a far more serious nature. He’d been facing one of the latter now for the past 18 months —no, for a much longer period than that, for he’d met her first many years ago. He was filling his pipe, leaning against the mantelpiece in his own room, and his eyes rested on the pile of photographs he had thrown there from one of his trunks. On the top of the pile iay a well-worn leather frame. Creed had carried that frame and the photograph within it in his kit in I ranee for many months before the armistice. He’d meant to destroy it when he returned to -New Zealand a year later; he had believed that the affair was over then. But are these affairs ever over until either death or possession and satiety end them, he asked himself? Absence liadnT ended this one. They met again on his return to England, and now he wondered, with a somewhat twisted smile, if she meant to come out or not. She had left him in doubt —she generally managed to do that—it was a way she had ! Had poor Merrick-Stroud ever known, even when he married her, how much or how little she cared? She looked up at Creed now out of the worn leather frame, a baffling smile — half mocking and half tragic—in her dark deep-set eyes, and in the wide sensitive mouth. Not beautiful by any means, and yet a face that would always attract and hold attention by the sheer force of its personality. Twenty-six when that was taken ; she must be" 32 now! But in the eight years he’d known lver she hadn’t changed. She was one of those women who ° never seem to alter —ageless, and yet as old as all the stars; mysterious, elusive, hut, at the same time, damnably human! Creed turned away restlessly from the mantelpiece. The thought of her, and the sight of her face, had always this effect upon him—an odd stirring of discontent, of desire, of unhappy longing. Would she bring peace if she ever came to him? That "was a question he had never been able to answer. He walked across to the open French windows, and passed out into the garden, where the flowers, distinct and definite in the bright moonlight, were gently stirred by a soft warm wind. And if she decided to come to New Zealand would Merrick-Stroud accompany her? Or would she com© alone? Poor Merrick-Stroud! One insensibly called him that. He was a doomed man, and yet he might linger on for years! Stephen Creed passed through the garden and down the paddocks toward the road. He knew now that he shouldn’t sleep unless he walked for an hour or two, and so tired himself out physically. If only that particular photograph hadn’t fallen face upwards on the mantelpiece his chances of sleep would have been at least 50 per cent, better. He reached the big gate leading into the road, swung it open, passed through, and then set off walking at a sharp pace along the road—winding white and lonely beside the shining river—with very little thought in his mind of the direction in which he was moving. (To be Continued.)