A SHORT STORY

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 25, 21 April 1927, Page 11

A SHORT STORY

BROWN STUDY By VIOLET M. METHLEY. Over the contours of a “Tennessee Treasure” Sheila’s wide, brown eyes gazed tragically at her companion. Pegeen, her own sundae, reduced to its last preserved cherry, caressed the remnant lingeringly with her longhandled spoon. “I'm beginning to wish that I'd had a 'Knickerbocker Glory,’ ” she said pensively. “It might have lasted longer.” “Pegeen, you're a pig!” Sheila declared aggrievedly. “I don't believe you’ve listened to a word I said.” “I have, but I don’t quite see why you’re making such a fuss. Grandfathers can’t expect to And grandchildren made to measure: they’ve got to put up with us as we are, that’s all.” “But it’s so horrible being put up with,” sighed Sheila. “It’s a frightful pity you can't take my place, Pegeen; you’re just grandfather’s ideal, according to this,” The girl extracted a letter on thin, foreign paper from her bag, and read aloud: “ ‘I am getting quite excited at the thought of my unknown grandchild. I feel sure you’re like your father—a big, fine, English girl, healthy and sunburnt, with no hideous make-up to hide her own pretty skin.’ ” “Heavens. She! I never knew your father was a happy, healthy, sunburnt girl!” ejaculated Pegeen. “Don’t be an idiot—you know what grandfather means. And I’m not a bit like dad—l’m the image of mother; she was small and pale and dark, with hair and eyes like mine.” “And jolly nice, too!” Pegeen consumed her cherry lingeringly. “I’ve often wished I was like you—not such a hefty, beefy wench as I am. It’s much more fashionable!” “I wish we could change!” Sheila sighed. “Well, we can’t. Of course, in a book I’d meet Sir Michael and pass myself off as you—go with him to India and marry a viceroy or something. And nobody would ever suspect. These people in stories never seem to have any relations or friends either, apparently. Now, I ask you! What would dad and mum say if you turned up to-night at Selham and said you were in my place. They’d simply go stark, staring mad, and accuse your grandfather of being a white slaver or something.” “Don’t be such an idiot,- Pegeen,” Sheila interrupted the flow of her friend’s language. “I wasn’t asking you to do anything of the kind, only wishing—why, I can’t even get sunburnt. I sat out in the blazing sun on the beach at Mardown for hours at a time without an umbrella or anything, as you know. And you’re a gorgeous colour, while I haven’t got a single tiny freckle!” It was true. Sheila’s cleai*, pale skin resisted tan and freckles alike. Her hair and eyes were of the same shade of dark sepia brown, her features small and dainty, like her hands and feet. . “All the same, you’re as pretty as a poster picure,” Pegeen remarked frankly, surveying her friend across the little table. “And I think your grandfather will be jolly hard to please if he doesn’t like you frightfully.” But Sheila was not comforted. “You can tell from the letter that I’m not his sort of girl,” she said sadly. “I look delicate, though I’m not really, and —and . Oh, Pegeen. Ido so want him to like me! I shall be simply sick with fear that he won’t when I meet him at the station.’ “Goodness! That reminds me—l must simply fly for my train,” Pegeen glanced at the clock. “Come on, She! ” The pair raced along Victoria Street to the station, with no time or breath for conversation, till Pegeen was safely in her carriage leaning out of the window for last farewells. “I shall come up before you sail again, anyway—l’m dying to see your grandfather,” she remarked. “Of course you must —and it’s only a fortnight, you know. I’ve had a ripping time with you, Pegeen—l’ve loved it.” “That’s all right, old thing. We’ve loved having you, and I only wish—” Pegeen hesitated, then leant perilously farther out to whisper confidentially. “Sheila, did you have a real row with Con ?” Sheila’s smile vanished, and she spoke with the extreme dignity of the very young. “Your brother* wqs exceedingly rude and —and maddening. I told him so. Yes—we did have a row; anyone would. He treated me like a baby, and refused to do what I wished, and —and I shall never ask him to do anything again, or speak to him either. You can tell him so.” “I certainly shan’t. Con’s a dear, and I expect you were perfectly piggish to him,” Pegeen said candidly. "After all, you’re not so frightfully old —only eighteen—and I expect he had a jolly good reason for refusing. . . . Never mind, old thing, I don’t mean to be horrid, and I daresay Con was piggish, too . Good-bye!” The pair embraced, and Sheila drew back from the window. “I wish you weren’t going, Peg,” she said wistfully. “I wish you could have stayed to meet grandfather with “Buck up! I’m certain he’ll adore you, even if you are not a hefty, sunburnt wench. Oh —that reminds me—if you really want to look tanned — Fanny Bertram told me something. She’s been staying at Dinard, and it’s fashionable there to be sunburnt —so she told me how they did it, the French women—because they wouldn’t risk getting their skins really burnt, of course.” “Oh, Pegeen—how?” Sheila questioned eagerly, as the train began to move. "Tell me—quick.” _ “Permanganate of potash!” Dong after the vanishing Pegeen had dwindled to a fluttering lemon-col-oured handkerchief Sheila remained staring after the train. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes had grown bright; if French women did it, why shouldn’t she —and there was no doubt that a good coat of sunburn would bring her immensely nearer to her grandfather’s ideal. Why, she had even been toying with the idea of going to a beauty specialist in order to acquire the desired complexion—only beauty specialists were so fearfully expensive. But permanganate of potash—why you could buy quantities for sixpence! Sheila proceeded to do so, speeding from the station and seeking the nearest chemist’s shop. With the little white packet in her hand she hastened back to the hotel where she and Pegeen had spent the previous night, for time was growing very limited. It was six o’clock, and her grandfather’s I train was due at 20 minutes to 8 o’clock. , Within ten minutes, robed in a rosered dressing-gown, Sheila was hurrying j along the hotel corridor, bathroomwards. still with the little white packet clasped in her hand. As the hot water ran steaming into the bath the girl contemplated her j small, pale face in the misty clouded looking-glass. Y'es—she would look quite different if she were nicely tanned j —that was just what she needed, j "I wonder how much to put i n.” i Shiela thought, opening the small i j packet and looking at the dark crystals. "I should think all that’s here—it j doesn't look much when you compare ! it with bath-salts. I'd better not fill the bath too full, either ” She emptied in the crystals, watched < the steaming water turn to a rich j purple, then slipped off the dressing- j gown and plunged in herself. Im- j patient as -she was she -had .resolved i

to stay at least ten minutes in the bath. She must give the permanganate a chance. It took the chance —enthusiastically. When Sheila emerged and wrapped herself in a huge bath towel the transformation was complete. She wiped the mist from the looking-glass and stared in consternation. The permanganate was certainly efficacious. She was brown —much browner than she had expected, a deep, whole-hearted brown. “I’ll rub some of it off,” Sheila decided ,and proceeded to splash hot water over her face and neck and had no effect; the colour seemed a most definitely fast one—and her wrist watch told the girl that she had barely time to dress and reach the station. “Oh. dear, I wish I hadn’t put in so much!” Sheila thought distractedly. “And I daren’t use powder to tone it down, after what grandfather said in his letter about make-up—he’s so fearfully against it. Perhaps it will tone down while I’m dressing.” It didn't. It was a most realistically sunburnt Sheila who tore frantically towards Victoria Station aquarter of an hour later. Meanwhile, Sheila’s grandfather himself was in a scarcely less distracted state. All the way from. Dover he had been fidgeting and fuming, unable to read, unable to sit still, pulling up the window and letting it down again, with fierce glares at his fellowpassengers if they appeared to resent his restlessness. General Sir Michael Everest, in fact, was thoroughly nervous. He was about to meet his only grandchild, and he had never seen her before. That situation had resulted from his own quick temper, and his son’s, which was quicker. Jack had married out in India, without his father’s consent, and against his father’s wishes, when he was only a captain—and Sir Michael had refused to meet his wife. Jack had sworn, consequently, that neither he nor his wife would ever meet his father again—and died of heat stroke, five years later, before he had time to reconsider his oath. That was fifteen years ago, when Sheila had been barely four years old. She and her mother had come to England, but Mrs. Everest had made no attempt to see Sir Michael, or to write to him, and he, sore and miserable still, had not tried to seek her out. The greater part of those years he had spent ruling under the Empire in distant countries, almost too busy to realise how time passed. He was abroad when a letter came from his lawyers a year ago, telling him of Mrs. Everest’s death, and giving him the address of the school where Sheila was finishing her education. Straightaway Sir Michael swung over to the opposite extreme. He wrote to Sheila very affectionately and very simply, regretting the past and planning a different future, and the girl, desperately lonely as she was, responded as simply. They had corresponded since then, and Sir Michael had sent most generous presents, in money and otherwise —the accumulation of nineteen Christmases and birthdays, as he told himself ruefully. But he had been tied to the Gold Coast until now, when he was returning for a few weeks in England, before departing to take up another appointment as Governor of a province in India. And Sheila was to go with him. Her passage was taken; they were to spend the next few day, in town buying outfits, and they were to sail in less than a fortnight. It was a dazzling prospect for any girl; rather too dazzling for Sheila, whose shyness grew and grew at the very thought of new people and new places—most of all, at the thought of Sir Michael himself. The train steamed slowly into* Victoria; Sir Michael jumped up and thrust his head out of the window like a schoolboy, then subsided into his corner, telling himself sternly not to be an old fool. “I’ve never even seen a photograph of the girl,” he thought. “What was it she said she’s wear—rose-colour and white? Sounds rather like a sugar-stick. I don’t see anybody—yes, there she is—that must be—Good gad! It can’t be ” Sir Michael drew back, from the window, stood staring unseemingly at the row of coloured photographs of “beauty-spots,” his florid face whitenHe whispered under his breath—“So that was why Jack refused to meet me—he’s married a native—and this is my granddaughter! ” That one glimpse had been enough. Sheila’s dainty smallness, her dark hair and eyes only needed the rich, brown skin to make her the very picture of a pretty Eurasian girl. No wonder the old soldier and law-giver was convinced. Sir Michael pulled himself together. With the air of one who takes a cold plunge, he descended from the train and strode along the platform. He addressed the girl abruptly. “Hullo! Vou Sheila?” ‘A e-es.” All Sheila’s remnants of courage oozed , away under that keen, brilliantly blue glance. He was a splen-did-looking man—he was very like her father, but . . . there was no welcome in those keen eyes; he did not even offer to kiss her. Plainly, he had taken a dislike to her at first sight. Sir Michael, meanwhile, blamed himself fiercely for the omission of that same kiss. But—he could not bring himself to it. He strode off to attend to his luggage, Sheila following him meekly; that disposed of, he barked at his grandchild again. “Well —dinner-time! Let’s go to the hotel.” To do the general justice, he had no notion how much his parade-ground manner terrified the girl: he took refuge in it himself, to hide his disappointment, his dismay. Take this Sirl out to India as his granddaughter -—this—this brown girl. It was appalling—it was unthinkable! Half an hour later the sight of Sheila, opposite to him at the dinnertable, bare-necked, bare-armed, almost took away Sir Michael’s appetite. She looked browner than ever; he could hardly bear to look at her. And Sheila knew it —knew that he averted his eyes after each glance. Consequently, every moment she grew more tonguetied, more incapable of speaking. A miserable dinner—and a miserable breakfast next morning. In the bright sunlight,, the general imagined —and with a certain amount of truth — that the whole hotel dining-room was staring at them. And Sheila was more wretched than ever.

While dressing she had resolved to tell her grandfather at breakfast about the permanganate adventure —to make a joke of it. But when she saw him the very idea of a joke was unthinkable, and the question of her brownness receded to the back of her mind, for she imagined some much more deep-seated reason than that for Sir Michael’s obvious aversion. “Come an, Sheila!” the general barked suddenly; “we must be off to the stores; there's none too much time to see to our —” he gulped and finished with an effort, “outfits.” A taxi took them to the stores. Sir Michael shyed at the thought of the walk down Victoria Street Avith Sheila beside him. In the vestibule, he turned on her sharply. “Well, what about your things? What do you need?” “I —I really don’t know,” Sheila stammered. "Don't know. Come, come, you must know what you want. Don't be so silly, Sheila!” The general’s temper and nerves were alike on edge. Well, come along: after all. it’s the creature’s business—the woman who sell the things.” A competent saleswoman improved matters decidedly- *She was used to

Indian outfits, and knew precisely what was needed. She found everything placed in her hands —and proceeded to put her own foot into it. It was over the matter of evening dresses; she surveyed Shelia critically, her head on one side. t “Moddom can wear brilliant colours, she told Sir Michael, smilingly. “Moddom has such decided brunette colouring.”

Brunette! Did the woman mean an insvlt? Sir Michael turned away with a furious snort, and, to Sheila’s nervous misery, declined to take any more interest in'the subject. She gave deprecating orders, with side-glances at her grandfather's uncompromising back, and finished by leaving things recklessly to the saleswoman, and declaring that there was nothing more to be done. Shopping lost all its savour in such circumstances. And she had looked forward so mucn to the purchase of this outfit for India; it was almost as good as a trousseau, she and Pegeen had decided. Pegeen! Oh! if only Pegeen were here, Sheila sighed hopelessly; Pegeen was never afraid or shy or nervous; even Sir Michael himself would not daunt her. But it was no use wishing—and he was barking at her again. “Well, if you’ve quite finished, we d better go and get some tiffin. We seem to have been hanging about here for hours.” _ , . In the luncheon-room Sir Michael devoured curry, which seemed to have the effect of heaping fuel upon his smouldering temper. He ate in silence, only pausing to cast furious glances at any of the other lunchers who gave signs of looking in their direction. “Unmannerly cads!” he growled. “Never saw anything like the way people stare nowadays—can’t think what things are coming to in England. Nothing like it in my young days—we were taught to keep our eyes to ourselves, by gad! There’s a young whelp over there —I should like to kick him—he can’t take his eyes off us—if I have much more of it I shall go and ask him what he means — voung bounder’.” Whilst her grandfather fumed Sheila shot one sideways glance at the table ! where the culprit in question sat —-one I glance, which drew from her a little gasping exclamation. Then she fixed her eyes on h*r plate, and the colour in her cheeks deepened.

Con Murrogh! It was Pegeen’s brother against whom her grandfather's wrath was directed —the brother with whom Sheila had quarrelled. and to whom she had declared that she never wished to speak again. But now she felt differently. The cause of their quarrel seemed so unimportant. After all, perhaps he had had a good reason for refusing to take her to the Clematis Club —it was supposed to be rathar—only she -hated to

be treated like a baby when she was nearly nineteen .

But she had been horrid to Con. She had said the nastiest things to him, and, naturally, he didn’t intend to take any notice of her. It was only what she deserved for being such a pig, Sheila thought penitently; but — how nice and friendly and homely Con’s reddish hair and freckles looked. And she was feeling so desperately lonely. “The young cad is still staring!” ejaculated Sir Michael. “Confound his impudence—l’ll go and tell him ” He was beginning to rise, when Sheila spoke desperately. “Oh, don’t, grandfather, it’s all right, I —l know him quite well—it isn’t rudeness ” “Then, hang it all, why didn’t you bow to him in the ordinary way directly you saw him, girl?” Sir Michael demanded. * “Haven’t you youngsters any manners at all—don’t they teach you any at school?” “Yes, but I —I —I can’t ” Sheila said desperately. “He’s —he’s —I mean I ” “And why doesn’t he show his recognition in the proper way, if you're friends ” “We—we’re not friends,” Sheila interrupted. “Oh, please, don’t say anything to him ” For Sir Michael seemed on the point of rising again—and Con was standing up, too. Poor Sheila, staring at her plate, prayed that he would go before Sir Michael could say anything. But he wasn’t going: he was coming towards their table, he “Good Lord, Sheila, what have you been doing to yourself?” Con’s voice demanded. “I couldn’t be sure that it was you at all, until just now—that’s why I was staring so—l beg your pardon, sir, but you see it gave me a bit of a shock.” “A shock! Well, upon my word! What do you mean, sir 1 ?" Sir Michael spoke in a series of explosives, but Con Murrogh was quite unmoved. “Sheila turning brown, I mean,” he explained. “You see, she left our place a couple of days ago with her usual complexion, which is quite a nice one, although perhaps I says it as shouldn’t. And now —well. I ask you, sir! Js it jaundice, or what?” It was then that Sheila, in the sudden reaction, disgraced herself most thoroughly.

“No, it’s p—p —permanganate!” she gasped. “And—and—. Oh, Con, you are a darling!”

The explanations which followed turned out to be the easiest thing in

the world. Sir Michael, in his delight and relief, received them hilariously, and Sheila wondered how she could ever have been afraid of him. They sat at the luncheon table until it was almost time for tea, talking of everything and anything, until Sir Michael glanced at his watch. “Bless me soul —l’ve an appointment at three!” he cried. “Look after the child, will you, Murrogh, and give her tea somewhere. I’ll see you both at dinner ” He departed, and the pair were left alone—alone with an odd kind of shyness between them, which had never been there before. Sheila, believing it to be the result of her own uneasy conscience, spoke timidly. “Con, are you angry with me still?” Because—l’m sorry.” “Never was angry,” Con answered gruffly. “Ccujdn’t be —Sheila—did you mean it just now, when you called me—what you did?” Sheila looked across at him frankly. “Yes, Con,” she said. “I meant it.” —“Australasian.”