THE SLOW ONE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3828, 26 July 1927, Page 80

THE SLOW ONE.

By

Mary Matin.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.) She sat in her great rocker by the fire, and scolded the solemn little girl that brought in the coal. “That piece went near my foot.” Her tone hinted at sacrilege. “ I pay you to be careful, don’t I. Don’t I?” “ Yes, Mis’ Hayward,” said the child dutifully. She was paid 10s a week, and this was pay-day. She would have said yes to anything, provided she could slip out across the paddocks to lay her pay before her grateful mother. Mrs Hayward was not sorry she was going. She had asked the lawyer to come round that evening to discuss the sale of a portion of her great farm out back, where a manager end his wife she felt ■were cheating her. Just as well to have no little pitchers in the house while that was going on.

There was another thing, too —the hated matter of tho will. The lawyer, a young man and very kind-hearted, had conveyed a hint to her, that any person, however able-bodied, should consider the matter of a will. She was 60, though she did not tell him so. There were few wrinkles on her smooth red face. She had kept her colouring. Her hair was what New Zealanders call tow-colourcd, and that type of hz.ir changes little. Her husband had called her flaxy. She found herself thinking now of the will. It was the grief of her life that she had had no children, and up till now she had taken a perverse pleasure in living alone and having a maid to break the utter loneliness. It pleased her, too. to have the family, or what was left of it, on both sides court its head, its most moneyed member. She played no favourites. None of them could boast a gift from Aunt Frances. Queen Elizabeth could not have taken a greater pleasure in fooling her suitors than she in mystifying her kin. One day one family seemed ahead. She had Christmas dinner with the Nortons, and they boasted of it to the Fentons, but Easter found her eating the Fentons’ chickens, and saying she didn’t know when she had had a better dinner. Mrs Fenton was her own first cousin. Mrs Horton was her husband’s. Nearer relatives they had none. And the presents she received. Woollen scarves were knitted regularly by Mary Fenton, who was of a domestic turn of mind, and pretty little ornaments of frilly powder boxes and scent sprays arrived from Lucy Horton, who was a town-dweller with a town-dweller’s tastes. She had straight black hair, very shiny, very thick, cut in a bang across her brow. Her eyes had flecks of yellow in the grey, and her frock had just the right swing. Mrs Hayward worshipped smartness. Her own dresses were heavily rich, much beaded when beads were the fashion, much embroidered when embroidery was in. She used the powder, too, with a faint fear of what John would say. if he could see her.

“Everybody does it. Times change.” She could not look his picture in the eye the day Lucy brought her the lipsalve, and she consented to try it just for fun. “ Y’ou don’t need it, Aunt Frances. It spoils you,” said Lucy truthfully. It did. She looked blowsy and raddled. Lucy brought her next the newest kind of vanishing cream, and she tried it with the eagerness of a child. In fact, she got to look for Lucy’s gifts, and would view the little reticule to see what it might hold.

Mary Fenton came in driving in their high gig. They were just as comfortably off as the Hortons, she reflected, yet Mary never thought of securing even a Ford car. And her dresses were turned. Such meanness sickened her. Minna Fenton had always been a close-fisted woman, and the way she dressed the girl was disgraceful. After Lucy’s trigness Mary’s shapelessness was almost intolerable. But the thing she held most against the girl was a flaring likeness to herself. The girl was large-boned and tall, an Amazon of a woman. Beside Lucy she looked as a Leghorn hen might look beside a fantail. She had Frances Hayward’s own pale silvery hair, and her own apple blossom tints—a torturing reminder of girlhood long since flown. Her eyes were grey, | too—green in some lights. She had no animation—a larfffe, still woman, verv hard ’ to talk small talk with and very slow to rouse to mirth or anger. Aunt Frances carefully concealed her opinion of Mary from the Horton side Blood was thicker than water, and besides the game would lose interest to all if she showed her hand too early. But it was significant that Lucy was taken to teas in town, never Mary. Who could take pride in Mary, and why should Frances Hayward smarten up Minna Fenton's child?

To-night, however, after the lawyer’s visit, she came to a decision. She would invite both the girls for a visit. She would leave them both something, but Lucy would get the larger share. How much larger that share would be would depend on Mary’s behaviour. She did not want to be unfair to her kin, but there seemed to her to be almost a want in Majv. She’d never in all their years of visiting heard her volunteer a statementunsolicited. The girl was dumb or lacking or something. Anyway she would see.

So she had them both up, and she was not better off. Lucy came flying in: “ Weren’t you a darling to ask us? I’m just worn out from the office, and I was longing for a spell,” then with one of her endearing little gestures she took Mrs Hayward’s face in her two cool little hands

“Do you still love me?” They both looked up to catch a aueer expression on Mary’s face, -and both looked away quickly. Nor did Mary advance her position in the days that followed. They were allowed to go to dances, but Lucy went alone and drew escorts like moths. Mary sat at home and knitted or sewed.

“ It’s unnatural for you. Why don’t you fly round like Lucy? Do you the world of good,” said Mrs Hayward. “ I’d sooner be here, Aunt Frances, and besides, you’d be alone.” “ No, I wouldn’t. My little maid is paid to stay with me.” “Well, I’m giving her a. great holiday, ain’t I?” said Mary innocently. Always the wrong word in the wrong place.

“ I wasn’t aware that she found it so hard to stay here,” said Mrs Hayward huffily. She did her best, but she was wounded.

“’Aunt Frances—” said Mary, and then stopped. “Yes—yes?” said Mrs Hayward eagerly. Perhaps she was going to get a clue to this strange girl. “ I was going to say something, but it wasn’t worth while,” said Mary heavily. “Oh!” Deadlock again.

That wasn’t the only instance. Mrs Hayward was very proud of her recipe for gooseberry jam. Lucy ate and praised, licked her bread daintily, and asked for more with such unfeigned delight that it was another score in her favour.

“We put a few strawberries in ours at home,” said Mary eagerly. “ Y’ou try it, Aunt Frances. It’s such an improvement.” “ I’m sure it is,” said Mrs Hayward sweetly, but her lip was well bitten.

And worse still was the incident of the evening. Lucy was not going out that night, and they sat together, the three of them, near the tall lamp that Mary admired so.

“ I’m dying for something to do. Let me give you a manicure, Aunt Frances, do! I love manicuring.” Lucy’s face, tiptilted in the lamplight, was a joy to look at. She manicured industriously for a long time, clipping, filing, polishing, and Mrs Hayward admired and praised. “ I think I’ll get you to do it every night, Lucy. It makes a wonderful difference. Look 'at the shine on my nails, Mary.”

“ I don’t like ’em so shiny,” said Marr.

On the whole a most exasperating girl, thought Mrs Hayward. They were due to go in another week, but that week was not needed in so far as her decision went. She took Lucy out on the Monday to see some folk who, like herself, were rich and prosperous. Lucy dressed for tho event in palest grey. She looked as pretty as a silvery moth. Her hat was grey, her shoes were grey, and her gloves were grey. Mrs Hayward herself was in a much-beaded navy frock with tight, expensive shoes. She was buttressed stiffly and powdered lavishly. Alary said, “ Oh, leave me at home! I don’t want to go.”

“ I don’t like a sulky girl,” said Airs Hayward, ami then tried to cover up the remark by saying she must tell Minna to dress Alary better. No wonder the girl felt ashamed when she saw lovely frocks. Lucy listened sympathetically. “Yes! She’d be good looking if she dressed well. She’s a bit like you, Aunt Frances.” Put so, the resemblance was not so objectionable. Luey was the kindest little thing. And Mary was so sulky with her. She had turned even the little maid, Nellie, against her, and Nellie had worshipped “the pretty one” at first. They had a long exciting afternoon, and Lucy was invited to a dance that night. They promised to give her more partners than a week would hold. Only one mishap marred the outing. Airs Hayward’s motor broke down, and they had to walk home. That night after tea they were sitting admiring Lucy in her finery, when Mrs Hayward suddenly slipped’ forward in her chair. “ Run and get the neighbours, Lucy. Nellie’s mother—get her and Nellie. I’ve been fearing this for days.” Lucy fled to change her shoes. When she came back Airs Hayward was coining “What happened?” ’ You fainted, Aunt Frances,” said Lucy, clinging to her. “It was only a faint. Go to bed now. I’ll look in on my way home and see if you want anything.” “ You’re going to a dance when aunt’s like this?” Alary’s voice expressed utter wonder.

“ It’s only a fa int, and what could I do, anyway? I’d be iu your way.” There was no trace of inferiority about Alary now. “Do this much for her, anyway. Heat the kettle while I put her to bed.” Mrs Hayward looked straight ahead, too sick to heed them. Mary half supported, half carried her to her bed. The hours that followed were nightmares. Fainting fit followed fainting fit till the doctor arrived. Nellie’s mother helped all she could, but the brunt fell on Mary. Lucy, in the weeks that followed, flitted in and out with flowers and fruit, and Mrs Hayward’s eyes followed her lovingly. “ She a ray of sunshine,” she said to the doctor. “And nothing else,” he said rather sharply. “ The other girl is worn out. That’s the type of woman for you—nursing, cooking, cleaning, all without a word. I thought we’d lost that calm, capable type altogether, hut, thank God, there are a few left.” He paused. “If you d seen her the two days you were unconscious—the battle she put up was stupendous. You’re lucky to have the devotion of a girl like that.

After he went, Airs Smith, Nellie’s mother, came in. “ Oh, you do look better. What a score for Miss Fenton. If you was her own mother she couldn’t have done more. Nellie says the other one never lifts a finger, but admires herself in the glass all dav.” °

She sent for her lawyer after Mrs Smith left, and she called Mary in. “They tell me you saved me, Mary. I I never thought you liked me so much.”

“Oh, Aunt Frances, don’t you go exciting yourself. Ive always thought you nei e the smartest 'woman in the world, but I felt such a fool and afraid of you’ There seemed nothing I could do ’ for you, and—we always hid from vou that we were poor for fear you’d think we wanted your money.” Mary’s eyes were full of tears.