THE SHOWING -UP OF STEPHEN.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7569, 29 November 1902, Page 2

THE SHOWING -UP OF STEPHEN.

(By DOROTHEA DEAKIN.) The November Wakes were in full swing. The hobby-horses pursued their mad career to the inspiriting tune of " The Soldiers in tho Park," cocoanuts were being stormed and won, thick and fast, and poor Aunt Sally of the bruised and battered countenance was, as usual, the unresisting victim of the hour. Everybody was very iioisy, very happy, and more than a. little tipsy, and thaair was full of song and cheap patriotism,, for it was at the very beginning of the war in Africa, ; ard when no one doubted a speedy and victorious end to it. | A girl with a pale face and unhappy brown eyes was leaning against one of the gorgeous scarlet and gold supports of the swing-boats, and presently a tall young felj low crossed the green, brilliant with flaring "naphtha lights, and began to talk to ber in a low, eager voice. ! "Can't you make up your mind to let Stephen go?" he said. The girl's eyes had been fixed on the ground, but, at the sound of his voice, she raised them, and they spoke of the despair in her heart. "I can't," she said, "I can't. I've given my word, an' a promise is a promise, an' anust be kept. If you go on askingvjae^ from how*o Judgment Day, I can't ""answer you* no different, Will Kelly. There's no luck comes with a broken promise, let alone father bein' crossed, and the house not bein' fit to live in." " Betty," Kelly said gravely " can't you see what you've "done? It's black enough to break ft. promise, but it's White when you 1 put it beside the sin of weddin' one matt •when you care for another." Betty !&ook her head. , She had a simpler and a narrower creed, and so far she had found that the thing she wanted the most was th© thing to be given- Up. "You've always good reasons for gettin' what you want," she answered quietly. " But, you may talk, an' you may talk. I've given my word to Stephen, an' to father, an' I shall keep it." The young man groaned- impatiently. " It's poor work reasonin' with a woman, when shfe's set. I tell you, once for all, that this chap's after your father's money. He doesn't care a t-tto-penny— a straw for you. It's the money he wants; not you. There's nobody wants you,> Betty, but me, and you're throwing me away as if I was al worn-oUt shoe." * This was tbo much. Betty's sad eyes blazed with a moment's anger. " Whatever he wants, you've no right to come tryin' to set me against hini. Ah' wbat's tmore, I don't believe a word of it. I know Stephen Joves rile true, whatever you say — so there. He's a better man than you, for. all your coaxing ways, an' I don't doubt he'll make a better hUßband. You think too much Of yourself, Will Kelly." Kelly turned 1 to go, and his handsome face grew hard. " Well," he said, " you'll take your own way, I can see, an' I hope it'll be a pleasanter one than I think for. As for me, I must get on as best I can without you, 1 suppose. It's a good thing we've been called in. I Was swearin' at everything this mornin' when I heard, but I'm glad now that there's a fair chance of finishing things up with a Mauser bullet." . The white face he was watching so intently grew still, whiter, and the brown eyes widened with terror, so Kelly went on, pleased with tho effect of his words. " Yes," be said slowly., " They've called in the first-class reserve} an' we've 6ailin' orders for Monday three weeks." He took a few steps .forward, and pretended to go, but Betty, stopped him, as he knew she would, withAt-a frightened little. cry of appeal. { "Will!" she said. !"It's not true! It can't be true." She '.buried her face in her hands for a moment, 1 but her thoughts could give her no comfort, and she turned to go homo. " I could go with a light heart if I'd got your promise first," Kelly continued, but Betty shook her head again. " I can't give my word to you," she said with a choking sob. " When Stephen's got it an' — an' — I'd best be gettin' home. It's late, an' father will be wantin' to lock up." Kelly watched her go slowly down the road to the long red brick farmnouge at the corner where she lived, and as she opened the yard gate and went through, a sudden idea' brought a smile to his downcast face. | " It's a risky job," he said softly. " A deuced risky job. But it's Tyortn tryin'. I'm sorry for that Stephen, though, if it comes off." Betty put her tragedy on one side while she got her father's supper ready, and shut the fowls up for the night, but when she went upstairs she flung herself on the hard flock bed and cried as if her heart would break. "I Wish I was dead," she sobbed. "I wish I was out of it all. Oh why couldn't God have let me see Kelly before I'd promised Stephen. Ifc wouldn't have been any jrood though," she went on in despair. r ' Father would never havo lot me merry him. There's Stephen with the farm and the new furniture an' all, only wait-in' for me to say when. And there's Will, earnin' a poor eighteen shillin's a week and no hope of betterin' himself. But it's him that I want, an' now he's goin' to the war to be killed, and me able to do nothin' but muddle about tho house as if nothin' had happened, workin' all day an' cryin' all night — readin' the list* in tho newspapers an' pretendin' to be fond of Stephen " It was grey morning before poor Betty cried herself to sleep, and she had hardly slept two hours when she awoke with a start, and sprang to the little window to see what could.be the matter. Something alarming seemed to be happening outside, and when she had "raised I one corner of the spotted muslin blind to \ look out, she saw that her father was standing in the middle of the yard, storming and swearing with purple face and staring ' eyes at William, the farm man. William had put down the heavy buckets of pig swill and was leaning against the ehippen door, gazing at the farmer with his usual expression of vacant wonder. --■*•- " It's no good puttin' yerself out so early in th' day as this," he remarked consolingly. "If th' moneys gone — it's gone, though it beats me how it was took. It must 'a' bin a clever chap as fun out where it was kep ; Ah've bin 'ere six years mysel—an' ah never knowed 1 .".. "Don't stand there g&pin' you great chuckle-headfed gawby," roared the farmer. " You never found nothin' wi'out tumblin' on it. Go an' fetch th' policeman an' get out o' my sight quick or I'll break yer thick head wi' this pikel," and William, seeing that discretion/ 1 was the better part of valour, went. So presently tho policeman came, and the grocer, and the butcher and the man from the Bluebell, and everybody else who had heard of the robbery. _ They asked a good many questions and talked a good dieal, but, of course, came to no conclusion of any kind ; while the farmer raged and swore, William hung about the door« t and wondered and made objections to any definite proposal z and Betty crept quietly aboufc getting endless refreshments and saying nothing, half hoping in her heart of hearts that the wretched money would never be found. She told herself , rather sadly, that if she had to marry Stephen after all ifc would be a satisfaction to know that Kelly's accusation had been false, and that he really did want her for herself. There was no doubt about it, the money was certainly gone, and not a footmark or a clue of any kind to help to trace the thing. All the farmer's savings, Betty's wedding portion of three hundred pounds, had been carried off in the little ironclamped safe from under the corner table in the best parlour, which had held ifc safely so many years, and bad vanished as if ,

it had never been, and Betty was penniless. " You'd 1 n d<?al better have sent it to the bank," said the market gardener's wife from next door. " A sillier way of keepin' money I never heard. It were bound to get took sooner or later, and you can't expect no pity ffom no one." This was too much for the farmer. It was worse even than William^ and he drove all his visitors out of the yard, with an outburst of strong language which made even William remonstrate, and poor Betty was left alone to bear the full brttnt 6i his wrath, until he realised quite suddenly how much greater her loss was. than his. "I don't know what Stephen 'ull say," be remarked gloomily. "I promised him faithful that you should! have that three hundred pound paid down fair an' square on the wedding day, an' I can't for the life of me think what to say to him now." " Stephen 'ull have me," said Betty, with & sudden flush of pink in hep pale face. " He'll be down to-morrow, I dent doubt, and tben you'll see what he thinks about the robbery. He's always ready with good advice, is Stephen." "Ay," grunted the (farmer, "an' a deal too ready sometimes. You see that there's a nice bit o' supper ready when, he comes* and smarten yersel up a bit; If you want Stephen to fancy you without yer money you'd best look a bit more cheerful, and not go about like a bit o' chewed rag." Betty did as she was told, and even went to the length of putting on her best frock with the pink ribbon round her throat, but in her own heart she felt quite 6ure that if Stephen really loved her as he did, these things would make no <7 *&6«*^ice. Aibout seven o'clock Stephen came. He was very quiet and sympathetic, and seemed more eager, than any of them to discover the thing. He asked all kinds of questions which the policeman, of course, had not tb blight bf t and suggested having a detective down from* London. But here the farmer proved obstinate. "No," he said. "I'm spendin' no money I can help. It's gone now, an' I must make the best bf it. After all, I should hay' had to part with it when Betty got married, and it's only losin' it a bit sooner." . Strange to say, Stephen did not find the same consolation in this idea, but he made no remark, and the farmer went on. "As if I wasn't bothered enough," he grabbled. "They've called on me to give a horse to th' Yeomanry. It's got to be done, too. There's no. gettin' out of it without fallin' out with, the Colonel an' gettin' notice to quit." "Ay, it's an awkward thing crossin' yer landlord. Send 'em Kitty," suggested !hia son-in-law elect. The old man's face brightened. " I will !" he said. " That's the first eomfortin' word I've 'card this day. Stephen^ you're a wonder." "Father," eried 1 Betty, "you'll never be so wicked. Kitty '11 kill the man that rides her. William says she's Worse than a roarin' lion io the stable." "William! William's a fine darin' ebon to talk. He'll not go within a mile of .anythin' fiercer than an old sheep. Kitty's a bit naughty, but she'll be all right if they don't f rabbit 'er. If they frabbit 'er she'll go through them Boers whether him as rides her wants to or not." Stephen did not come the next night, no* the next, to Betty's great relief, for ber conscience pricked her when she thought of Kelly ; but when the two days' absence increased to three and four, and a week went by, she began to wonder and to feel a little hurt. Perhaps he was looking for the thief, she told herself, or perhaps he was too busy with the potatoes to waste time in courting her, but in spite of these excellent reasons for his absence she couldn't help wishing that his interest mi the lost money had been a little less keen, and she couldn't- help feeling that the village people would say things about his . keeping away so long. Afc the end of a fortnight William, told her that 'he had seen Stephen walking out "that girl of Hudson's," arid poor Betty began to say to herself that Will Kelly had been right after all, andl that it was the three hundred pounds Stephen wanted, and not Betty at all. > "It's only natural," said the fanner, "Stephen's always bin a careful lad, and you've nothin' to speak of in the way of looks to keep 'im to 'is bargain. ' You've lost a good 'usband wi' that there money wench." A little feeling of wounded pride at this open desertion began to creep into Iher hsarfc. Kelly Was poor and hot-tempered, but he loved her faithfully she was sure. He had told her that he would rather she came to him without a penny. He was young, and good-looking, and, above all, he was going away in a few weeks to the war. Her promise to Stephen still held good, but/when William came to her a second time and told her that Stephen was down at Hudson's regular, she made up her mind to have it out with him, and bring this uncertainty to an ejid. She wrote a stiff little note on the pink scented parper he had given her on her birthday, and told him that she had heard things about .him, whioh made her feel it was best they should part. Stephen's reply was short; but very much to the point. He said that if she felt that way, no doubt she was right, and Betty sat down and cried with wounded vanity at his desertion. The last straw came when the market gardener's wife dropped. im in a friendly wav to offer her sympathy for her lover's neglect. • > " You're a deal better without him," she said, consolingly. " Any fool could see that it was the money he wanted, an' not you. He's after that Hudson- girl already, an' she's a long way plainer lookin' than you. Don't you fret about him, he's not worth it." "Who is frettin'?" Betty cried indignantly. " You can keep your pity for them as wonts it. There's nothing between Sne an' Stephen now, an' it's me 'as 'as broken it off." The market gardener's wife left hastily, after telling Betty, in a €ew, well-chosen words, what she thought of her, and went to buy in things for the week-end at the village shop, so, befoT© ten o'clock, the wholo village had heard the news, and poor Betty was the subject of much hlame and a pity. The r£xt morning, Will Kelly came. He carried a large/square brown paper parcel in his hands and lie walked boldly into the kitchen, and banged it heavily down on the snowy table under t^e window. The fanner was smoking his pipe in the red-cushioned rocking chair. He laid it down and stared, and Betty waited with a white face for him to explain. " There 1" he said. " There's the money, just as it was took. Count it farmer, an' see if it's not all there 1" Bub the farmer was speechless, and so was Betty, and Kelly went on : " I took it," be said. " I got in through the back kitchen window. That William of voui-s 'adi left it open, an' I wish killin' Boers was as easy. I didn't steal the money. I only borrowed it for a week or two. I don't want yfcur money, fanner, an* you can keep it, but I do want your Betty, an' I meant to have her, one way or another. It's shown up that Stephen of yours in his true colours quicker than I thought." He went up to Betty and put his arm round' her, and the farmer was still speechless. "You see I was right," Kelly said, smiling into her wondering eyes. " I've got to start for the front on Monday week, an' I must have your promise before I go." Still Betty did not answer, but the farmer found his voice at last. "Wait till I get hold o' that William," he said slowly. " l^he back kitchen, winder— an' he swore he'd opened it that very morning. I'll be jiggered if I'd risk, gettin' a year in gaol for any wench' livin , let alone a plain, 'little thing like our Betty. Lord! If you go on gettin' what you want in this fashion you'll be in Pretoria in- a month, and' Betty 'ull end up by marryin' a Ser-geant-Major an' a Victoria Cross." , L

He burst into a roar of hoarse laughter,, i and Betty ran out of the kitchen. Then | tho farmer held out his hand, and Kelly saw at once that the battle was won. " If you can't get a promise from Betty," said Betty's father, "you shall have one from me. You go on wipin' out them Boera with a light 'cart. I'll see you get the girl wh«n you come back." m.mam.mmmmammmmmmmmmmmmmmm