LADIES’ COLUMN.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 2674, 30 December 1899, Page 2 (Supplement)

LADIES’ COLUMN.

A MAN’S HAND.

(By ADELINE SERGEANT.)

(Woman at Homo.) CHAPTER I.

“ My dear lady,” said the vicar of St Mildred's, " boys will be boys.” Mrs Kelland sighed and looked out of the window. She did not seem to derive much comfort from the assertion. The vicar was a comparative stranger; she had known him jidy a month or two. He could not possibly understand her boy, who was so dilferent irom other boys. ■ „ “Heis a charming little fellow, Mr Le.traime went on pleasantly. “I have no xault'to find with iiim” (the vicar took private pupils), "save that of idleness and a touch :oi—well, insubordination now and -lien. • He will soon get over that, my dear Mrs Kelland; - only he wants a hand over Mm a hand of authority —a man s hand, in Kelland turned round sharply. “ H perry will nofdo right for love, he will not do it for fear,” she said. “A mans hand! Tou assured me, Air Lestrange, that your boys were most gently treated, and now you .am of—a man’s hand !” - She choked a little over the words, ana ~ut ner -handkerchief to her eyes ihe wem m St Mildred’s was startled and rather dis--1 Mr Lestrange probably guessed what she abstained from saying, for Ms grey-whiskered xace assumed an appearance o: disapproval graV L t ’nope, indeed, that Terence will not play truant again, he mid ; but, arter ail, Ls offence is not so heinous that it cannot oe forgiven.” And he took lus leave, with a .mile, lor he was an easy-tempered man. Mrs Kelland said good-bye to him verj cololy. There was a Hush on her cheek, a ight hi her dark eyes, which gave almost a dangerous air to her beauty. bhe could not oe much more than thirty, and did not look iicr a»-e : yet u o keen observer glanced at her SW knowing that she, had weathered some heavy storms in the course o a very long career. She was very we 1 die sea -often in white of pink, with plenty oi lace and chiffon—so that people who knew hen uut slightly would regam her sometimes with a disapproving countenance, and say m > ■ for a widow, she was veiy_ fond of r 0 •■olours.” Bub then, Nora Kelland was noo I widow, and that made all the difference. . She was walking about the room in a perturbed, excited way, when fresh visitors were announced. She turned round to greet hei ister-in-iaw, Mrs Elliston, .and Airs Elhsxon’s husband. Lucy Elliston, small, round, xair-liaired and plump, formed a complete contrast to Nora’s dark and slender type of beauty ; while Alajor Elliston was a itduaired, uptight, broad-shouldered individual, !vih theii/of a martinet and the heart of a child. Ncra. was fond ol .them both, and made uo attempt to hide her agitation as sh met them. . , ',. Wiiy, Nora, what is tlie mattei. Vv hat’s up, Nora I" , Tne questions came in a breath, and No . answered proudly, though with a quiver n D only Air Lestrange, where Terry goes-for his’.Latin every day, He —he tells me Terry mis been away three 'mornings, and 1 sent him each day, and he xiiust have gone down to the beach to p ay. Oh, Lucy, it is hard, when one has done all one can for one’s boy r , to find "Gome, come, Nora,’ said the nuj •Don't'take a little freak of this kind so much to heart. I know 1 played truant in my day sometimes, and so, I expect, did if the truth were told. ’ “I thought,” said Nora, who was now crying unreservedly, “that Terry would haVe told me everything ! ’ ' _ , She broke dowq here completely, and the major looked mystified. But Lucy, quick-witted and sympathetic, came to the i'6SCU6. “Of course, dear, we quite understand. Jack understands perfectly, only he is so silly. Yes, you are, Jack, and you do understand.” “ Bless me if I do!” said -the major beneath his breath. “ Don’t.you see,” said his wife, in a lower tone, while Nora was still sobbing lather angrily, “ that as Philip and Nora live apart, at Nora’s own wish, it is unkind to remind her that poor little Terence lias no father to look after him. In fact, it is a •reproach to poor Nora, and, of course, she feels it.”

Nora looked up, her cheek still wet, her bosom heaving as she spoke. “ You forget one ‘tiling, Lucy : the separation was by mutual consent. Philip wished to leave me—”

“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, with great simplicity of manner. “ But sometimes people change their minds.” “What do'you mean?” “ I mean that poor Philip is very tired of his loneliness, dear. He would give anything to see you again.” “He would have to be very much changed, Lucy, before I could feel any respbet or affection for him,” said Nora, beginning to tremble a little, in spite of a great struggle for composure. “He is changed,” said Mrs Elliston, stolidly. Then she kept silence, leaving her words to produce their own effect. Nora half rose, but what she meant to say was never known by anybody, for at that moment the door was burst open by an exceedingly handsome and engaging boy of ten or twelve years of age, who showed no signs of repentance in his shining eyes and beaming smiles for the misdemeanours with which he was credited.

Nora turned, opened her arms, then let them sink by her side, while she carefully made her face assume the severest expression in her power. It made no difference to Terry. He ran straight into her arms, kissing the severity out of her face, and mumbling sweet words in her ear —“ Darling mummy ! don’t be cross with me! Mummy, dear, I won’t do it again.” And Nora’s arm went round his neck in just its accustomed way, while Major Elliston solemnly shook his head.

“You’ve been playing truant from your lessons, I hear, Terence,” he said at last, standing with his stiffest and most military air upon the hearthrug. Terry raised his head from Ids mother’s shoulder with a droll look of contrition.

“ I know I have, uncle. It was so jolly out of doors, and so stuffy in the schoolroom. And I met a man—a gentleman, you know , —who was awfully kind to me.” “A gentleman?” said Nora. There was a. curious little catch in her voice.

“ Yes; and I asked him to call,” remarked Terence triumphantly. “ 1 said I was sure you would like to see him. Ho sent me flack this afternoon, and told me to say I was sorry.” For a moment the bright head drooped. “He did not know before that 1 had been out without leave.”

There was a moment’s silence. Lucy and ber husband exchanged glances; Nora’s focc turned white.

“Did he tell you his name?” she asked in a low voice.

“No, but he sent you something—perhaps his name’s inside,” said Terry, tugging at his pocket. I’d forgotten it. lie said you would know who lie was when you saw that.”

He brought out a packet, roughly tied up -in brown paper, and placed it in her lap. Nora sat looking at it, as if she were afraid lo touch I he thing. The boy rallied on, with his arm round her neck. “J)o open it, mummy. I want to know his name. His initials arc I’.K. ; I could not help seeing them on his handkerchief. He’s awfully nice, mother. Vmi should have heard him talking lo me ahont .school, and —and not going back on Mr LeMrange, and always doing what yon wauled, mummy deal’. Aren’t you going to open his parcel V” With trembling fingers Nora nnl.ied I lie string and folded back the brown paper, with its lining of tissue paper and little bed of cotton wool. Terry, peering over her arm, uttered a cry of astonishment, h was merely a, Hat stone, heart-shaped, polished on one side and shelving unsuspected vgin-

lugs of red and brown; rough on the other. But upon the rough side some one had cut the initials “P” and “N.”

Nora bowed her face upon her bands ana burst into tears. Alajor Elliston hustled the hoy out of the room, telling him that his mother and aunt were best left alone ; unu he did not see his wife until dinner-time, when she came to him with rather a rueful face.

“ Oh, Jack,” she said, “ she is iso upset! It was Philip all the time ! And the stuns was one which -they flicked up when they were on their honeymoon. Poc r Phil luui their initials engraved on the back, and no doubt studs it to her to remind her of the old days. What a pity that they can’t be happy together! For Phil is evidently as much in love with her us ever, and Terence will lie ruined without a father’c hand upon the reins!”

“Isn't Nora fond of him after all?’ asked the major, pulling his red mi ustache. “Nora, a little fool!” raid Lucy, with great scorn. ‘ I don’t know whaifc she wants or what she doesn’t want. But I think Phil means to find out.” CHAPTER 11. Nothing was wrong but what is usually known as “temper.” Nora was a spirited, impetuous, inexperienced gki of seventeen when sue married Philip Kelland, five years older than, herself, and of a somewhat demand masterful nature. At first they were happy enough; but soon after the birth ol Terence clouds rose on the domestic horizon and darkened all the sky. She developed fads of every conceivable kind, from vegetarianism to rational dress and a distaste for public worship. Philip hated these developments, and told her so. She in return reproached him for bin extravagance, for his kve of the turf, for the “ little gamble” on the Exchange by which he sometimes lost and sometimes gained. _ He pul the crowning touch to these offences by coming home .one evening slightly exhilarated—one could not call it more—by wine. Nora declared that she could not live with a drunkard! Philip had been bitterly hurt by the epithet; and the consequence was that, when Terence was barely five years eld, the husband and wife had separated, saying that they would never willingly look upon each other’s face again.

Philip had been generous in money matters, and never claimed the boy, as he might -legally have done when Terence was six years old. His sister Luty had pleaded in vain with Nora on his benaii. Nora was inexorable. She could -not bear the idea that Terence should be brought up in the companionship of a man who smoked, drank, betted, raced, speculated in stocks and shares, and read the “Sporting Tinum’ She could bring up the boy in her own way if she were free. Hitherto the plan hau worked well; but lately Terry had given her trouble, in spite ol his winning ways, and the oft-repeated expression that he wanted “ a man’s hand,” " a man’s authority,” over him, was beginning to tell upon her nerves.

It was partly in order to get rid of the unwelcome memories that were crowding upon her thick and fast that she agreed with Terry to take " a whole holiday ” next day, and spent it on Beachy H-eud. Bhe loved the wide expanse of grassy down, overlooking the sparkling waves ; she liked to walk the entire length of the headland, and to talk with the coast-guardsmen upon the furthest height. In the afternoon she sat on a natural seat formed by ridges oi earth, close to a gap which dipped aown to the narrow bench below, wmle Terry darted about seeking for butterflies and blackberries after the manner of small boys, and (sitting beside her only for an occasional five minutes at a time.

The sea and sky were blue and calm; a little wind rustled among the dry grasses at her back ; a white sea bird swept across the surface cf the bay. So calm, so tranquil—ah, what a pity that life could not go on like this!

There was a shout, a sound of running footeteps, a whirlwind of a boy beside her, and—a man !

“I’ve found him, mummy,” cried Terry breathlessly, “ and I’ve brought him to see you. (It is the gentleman I told you -about, you know. Why don’t you shake hands?”) Nora lifted her eyes silently to her husband’s face, and Philip Kelland quietly lifted his hat. Each had changed very greatly, and each was a little puzzled by the change. “ Alay I stay for a few minutes?” said the man. ,

“ Certainly. Terry, dear, get us some blackberries. I want to —thank this gentleman ”—it was very hard to speak—“ for his kindness to you.” “All right, mummy.”’ And the boy was off to the blackberry bushes at the top of his speed. “Won’t you sit down?” said Nora.

Philip took a seat beside her. He was thinner than he used to be—brown, too, with the look of a man who lived much in the open air. She was handsomer than in her first girlhood ; but there was a wistful, unsatisfied look in her large dark eyes, which no man who loved her could have liked to see. “He is a fine fellow,” the husband said at length. “ Yes.” “ I have not encroached, Nora ” “ You don’t mean that you want now to take him away from me?” she asked sharply. “ Nob for my own pleasure. I should like to see more of him than I have done, certainly ; but I only meant to speak to you about a school. It surely will soon be time to send him to Rugby.” " I suppose so,” she replied with a sigh. "You used to plead for home education, but ”

“ Oh, no, I think a school is best; I have chanqed my views.” “Your friend, Mrs Brett was strong against public schools, I remember.” “ Yes, I don’t know Mrs Brett any more, nor Miss CTeunand. I have dropped out of the sea”

Philip’s eyes brightened. It was tire sot to which he had objected in former days. "You would have some difficulty in escaping from Mi's Brett, 1 should think.” “ 1 have been living chiefly in the country —near Tunoridgc—it was so good for the buy.” “ Yes, a country life is best after all,” “ Do you say so?” “I live in the country myself. I .have taken a farm, and am trying agricultural experiments in Warwickshire.” "Horses?” she said, half suspiciously. He laughed a little. “ Cart horses. Nothing to cIo with racing.” She reflected, and sighed. “I suppose you have a great many men to stay with you, ami you have card parties- and ” " No, said the mam "I live alone, and seldom Lave visitors. Burchell takes pity on me now and then. My old set has dropped me too. You see”—with some hesitation “ I don't play cards now ; and—you may laugh if you Jilce—l’ve turned teetotaller, and am a J.'P. and a churchwarden. Quite a reformation in my old age, isn’t it?” " PmJip, ale you serious?” Perfectly serious, Nora. The old careless life lies far behind me—thank Cod! A mist came over Nora’s eyes, a lump to her throat. She had been part of his old me, and she, too, lay behind! He thanked Cod for it! And they had loved each other not so many years ago! “ There is one thing wanting, certainly,” sa.id Philip, in a quiet tone. “ 1 feel that I have a duly to my boy. 1 want to be at his sidu now and then as he grows up ; I "aid, if I can, to save him from the follies of which I was so often guilty; 1 want to give him, if necessary, a helping hand. Will yon let me do that, Nora?” Her heart hardened. >Snc looked slohdly ;l ay. " Tile man’s hand how the phrase I'aim in her ears! As if a woman could mil being up her son without a man’s help! It was 100 absurd ! tie wailed ; but still she did not speak. On dm blue stillness and silence of sea aim skv there broke a cry, an agonised cry for help, a, erv —in Terry’s voice. t Mother! Help! I’m falling! leant bold on!” n They si aided to their feel. Terry had scrambled a little way down Hie cliff, and the earth had given way beneath Ills feet. Now he was clubbing the. roots of a bush, which seemed to be slowly dislodging itself,

in, his hands, and beneath him lay the fils' taiice, and the rough boulders, and the sea.

Philip measured the distance with his eye. His face whitened in the sun. A moment and help might be too late. Bur. he was not far away—not altogether out of reach ; a strong hand might still avail to draw him up. “ Stand back,” he said, almost sternly, to his wife. “ Gall aloud, if you like, to the coastguardsmen. Now”—he Hung himself flat on the earth—“ hold on to me—hold my feet like grim death if you can. 1 think I can reach him if I try."

The men ’from the coastguard station came running, but Philip had already begun his task. , ,

“ Terry, look up,” he said. _ “ Aly hand would meet yours if you lifted it; you must lek go of the bush with one hand, and raise it as high as yon can. Then I will pull you U P-” It was an enormous strain. If the coastguardsmen had nut arrived in time to give nelp, the strain might have been too much, and Philip would perhaps have gone down with his boy, before liis wife’s eyes, into, the abyss. But he was strong, and the boy was light; and, with one prodigious effort, the father pulled the boy back into safety. “ Oh, Phil, Phil!” Nora cried, half laughing, half weeping, a few moments later. “ They have talked to me about a man’s hand until I’m sick of the word; but what should we have done without it now? And I shall never, never be able te. do without it- again.” “Do you mean that you will forgive me everything, and come back to me, my wife?”

“ Dear Philip, it is you that have so much to forgive!” “Are you my father?” said Master Terry, beaming at the pair. “Well, that was why I liked you so much, you know. And I’ve got a father norv, like other people. Hoordo!”

“ A father’s authority—a father’s hand,” murmured the major, who had unexpectedly appeared upon the scene. “ A guiding hand —a loving, protecting, saving hand,” said Nora. And then and there she raised it te. her lips. Life is a parable sometimes.