A FRIEND IN NEED.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10813, 5 July 1913, Page 5

A FRIEND IN NEED.

(By R. MURRAY GILCHRIST.) of " The First-Born," " Willow. ■ ( ford Woods," eto. [All Rights Resxbtkd.] It was May morning, and Matilda [Unwin was suddenly minded of the old song, " Jockey to the Fair," which sho liad not heard for afc least forty years. The earlier days of spring had been .soured with the east wind; for the first time a soft breeze stole from the [west. _ The skies were richly blue, flight billows of snowy-cloud moved :leisurely towards the "edge" of the distant moor. It lhay be written that Ithe appearance of old Matilda was not in harmony with the day. She wore a faded blaok skirt, a bodice of a colour midway between puce and violet, jand a man's rusty tweed cap that hung (perkily upon her grey top-knot. Her •shoulders were draped awkwardly with lan oft-washed scarlet shawl. Her feet I were large, covered with rubber shoes, [whose tops were fashioned of blue i,cloth; above each was visible a few | inches of snowy cotton stocking. She ■walked well, although somewhat slowly, and her head was carried almost as erectly as in the days of her youth. As may be gathered, Matilda was j»iot beautiful to the eye. Her face : was stern and cold, more like the face ,ofan old man accustomed to command [than the face of a lonely spinster who [had lived the simplest of lives. A [travelled person might have discovered tin her some resemblance to a pure and ?ascetic ecclesiastic of some southern (Country. She was deeply tanned; [her skin gleamed like copper. Her ! chin, projected—at first view one j wrote her down, as obstinate in the ; extreme.

! She carried between her right arm |*nd her hip a wooden tray piled with la mash, of sharps. This was destined j for twenty-four ducklings that lived in 'a pen at the end of tfLe second field. .Matilda loved her chickens and her (duoklings; indeed, for the first few | weeks of their brief existence she { talked to them as if they were rational : beings. " But when they reached the j fullness of,-their early prime she never I displayed the slightest reluctance to f wring; their necks and dress, or rather | undress, them for market, i Job Slack, the postman, came. by 'just as she unhasped the field-gate. !He had shouted to her from the disj tanoe, but of late she had become 1 deaf, and he had found it impossible to attract her attention. He reached' her side breathless, and held a letter 1 in front of her nose.

"Eh, dear, eh, dear I" he gasped. "I've nearly, burst my heart wi' running. Ay, and my lungs wi' bawlin' r'

"I'm sorry, Mr Slack," said the old woman; "but for sure I didn't hear. And so you've brought me a letter! Why, 'tis months and months since I've had aught but books about patent medicines I" "'Tis from the Woodlands,. Miss Unwin," said the postman. " A writin' as I don't remember to ha' seen before."

Matilda started slightly at the mention of the Woodlands, then she peered closely at the address. "Nor me, either," she said. "I reckon 'tis nought o' any importance." She slipped the letter into her skirt-pocket and passed through the gateway. "Good inornin' to you, Mister Slack, good morriin'. This sort o' weather it does Bet one thinkin' about the past. Good morninV

Slack, who was well known to be more curious than any woman, went away reluctantly, and Matilda crossed thf ground and. gave the ducklings their breakfast. She did not talk to tliem in her customary little language, and erven did not wait until they had gobbled up the food. A few minutes later she was sitting in her house-place looking anxiously upon the blotted writing on the cheap, highly-glazed envelope. "1 feel fair frighted o' opening it!" she said. "More like nor not it contains news as brother Hezekiall's passed way. And if so be as he has, 'twill be very hard to bear. Him and me's the only Unwins left. 'Tisn't as if I'd been in the wrong—'twas on him as ali the blame o' our quarrel lay. He ought for to ha' given me a share o' the property, 'stead o' saying 'twas his by law, being freehold and poor father dyin' wi'out a will. Howso er, 'tis no use rakin' up old troubles; let bygones be, bygones, an' let sleeping dogs lie I" She drew a pin from the little knot of grey hair that rose from her crown and carefully opened: the lappet. A closely covered sheet fell out; she •pread this open and read, with some difficulty, since at best she was no gcholar, the following letter from her niece:—

"My Dear Aunt Matilda,— Seeing 1 that you've never seen me and never . 'heard from me before, you're like to ( think that I'm taking a liberty in writing. , _ But I've gotten nobody to turn to—it seems as all our kin are either dead or gone to Canada or Australia. I am in great trouble of mind, and I don't know what to do. Father and stepmother have set their minds on me marrying Mr Ball, of Storksfoot Farm. He is & widower and aver fifty, and they say he could keep his carriage and pair if he liked. But I don't care for him the least bit in the world, though for sure lie's gentle and civil enough. I made up my mind when I ■was quite a little lass—l'm two-and-twenty that I'd marry none ntncf ftmn jliuico Shimwell, whoso father in those days owned tlio next farm to_ ours. Mr Shimwell took to speculating and lost every penny, and t Luke, when the old gentleman died, had to seek a place as farm bailiff. 'That's two years'ago, and he's been ! caving up so as to rent a little place of ,kis own, where he could ask me to ' share with him. And now that he's 1 money in the bank and is able to start in a small way, they want to send him about his business. But 'tisn'fc fair or i just, "and marry him I shall, having | given my word. - If I took the other I should never know a haj>py moment, no* should be able to give him one •ither. So though you don't know me, and maybe don t want to know me, I'M asking your -advice./ I'd take it as a favour if you'd write and Jet ma know what you think best.

Hoping, you are well, I remain, your affectionate niece, Matilda Unwin."

"Bless mo!" exclaimed tho ftpinster, " to think that she boars same name as me, and me not knowing it. "Well, after all, 'twas a kindly thought in my brother to call her Matilda. I wonder what tho lass is like—whether sho takes after our side of tho family? But, sure as there's a heaven above, I don't know what to advise. I've never had any love affairs to speak o'—save and except when butcher Spurr asked mo to be his third. That was out o' tho question. I couldn't bear t'lio sight <>' his hands it always seemed as if they wero waitin' to grab hold o' a knife!" The remainder of tho morning was spent in perplexity. It was so long since old Matilda had touched a pen that sho had almost forgotten how to write. After her frugal mid-day meal, a meal, to bo exact, of bread and eheeso and beer, sho opened a rosewood desk that stood on a woollen mat just in tho middle of the parlour table, and took out a sheet of pink notepaper with a scalloped edge, and a littlo envelope embossed with blue forget-me-nots. Tho ink in tho standish was thick as mud; she diluted it with water and stirred the contents with the end of tho penholder. At two o'clock, having dressed herself for tho afternoon, sho sat to tho table and stared for several minutes into vacancy. Thon she wrote:

"My dere neece,—l hope you are wel as this loaves mo at present." After tho full stop she was too perplexed to continue; at least half an hour passed before sho added another word.

Then, as she scrawled, "Your letter came this morning," she was interrupted by tho barking of her old sheep-dog, a woolly creature that never left the confines of the small farmyard. Tho noise was not such as ho made when tramps or other undesirable folk appeared ; it was rather the clamour of welcome reserved for familiar friends Matilda, with a sigh of relief because of any interruption to this unwonted mental exercise, rase and peered through tho brick-red geraniums that flourished on the window-sill. The dia-mond-framed glass was full of tiny bubbles ; she was only able to .see that the visitor was young and slender and tall, and that she carried a large brown paper parcel. The dog was bouncing up and down like an indiarubber ball, pretending to have great curiosity concerning what the bundle containod. It was not until Matilda went out to tho narrow garden, all bright with dustymillers and primroses, that sho realised that her visitor was the self-same person to whom she was writing so laboriously.

The girl was very pretty, prettier indeed than the old woman had been at the same age, although the latter declared to herself with an odd pang that sho was exactly liko what she herself had been forty years ago. Her face was oval, a somewhat warm colour glowed in her smooth cheeks. Her eyes were grey and bright and clear—honest, generous eyes that met one's without any mental reservation. She was dressed simply onough in grey, and the lower hem of her skirt was whitened with limestone dust. For a full minute aunt and niece stared at each other without speaking, then the former moved forward with outstretched hand.

" Its Matilda, there's no denving that!" she cried. "I'd ha' knowed you anywhere, that I would. Come inside, do; you look hot and tired to death. Howe'er did you get here?"

" I walked—l started soon after dawn," replied young Matilda. "J. thought it best to leave before the house was astir " " Why, 'tis twenty-five miles from here to the Woodlands 1 And you wi' a great parcel! Why did you come on Shanks' mare?"

"I started unbeknown, though I left a letter saying I was leaving. I didn't tell 'em aught else. Father's quite set on me marrying Mr Ball, and there's no peace at home. Last night he carried on fearful, and I made up my mind not to bide at home any longer. I hadn't a pennypiece, or I'd have come by train. I'm none so tired, though—l reckon I'm as strong as other lasses." '■ And so you've come to your old aunt, 'stead o' waitin' for her answer 1" said the old maid. "Well, you've done right, for I couldn't put things as I want on paper. I'm glad to see you, my dear, and don't go thinking you're not welcome." She kissed the girl almost timidly—it was so many years since she had had opportunity of displaying tenderness for anyone of her own race. Then, taking the heavy parcel in her own hands, she bade her come indoors out of the bright sun. Young Matilda laughed with content at the goodness of her reception. " Why, bless my soul, if I'd known you'd make me so welcome, I'd have come many a long year ago," she said. " But father always held as you'd not take any notice of me, you and him being at loggerheads." "He was to blame, and not me," said Aunt Matilda shortly. "He crabbed all the property, and if it hadn't been as my cousin Watkins of Grassbrook left me her fortune, why, I'd have had to go to a service-place. But bygones must be bygones, and I bear no malice. If I'd ha' thought you'd come to me, I'd have asked long ago. Howe'er here you are, and I'm vastly glad to' see_ you. Do you rest yourselt quiet awhile, and I'll look you summat to eat. You must be nearly clammed to death!"

In spite of her age, old Matilda was suprisingly alert: in an _ amazingly short time the table was laid and the girl sat partaking of the food with no fastidious effection of delicacy. Her aunt liked her all the better for this hearty enjoyment, and after she had filled her cup for the fourth time she felt as though she had known her all her life.

"Tell you what, my dear/' she said, " you'd best write to your father and tell him where you are. I don't believe in keepin' _ things secret, and happen folks in the Woodlands might begin to talk. He'll not meddle wi' you, knowin' as you're in my care." The girl had paled slightly on hearing thi3 suggestion. "If 'tis all the same to you, I'd liefer not," she replied. "Father's quite equal to fetchin' me back, and, to be plain, I can't stand him worryin' me any longer. If you knowed what I've had to put up wi' you'd understand. Besides, he'd bring iny stepmother, and belike Mr Ball, too." Let 'em come, let 'em come!" said Aunt Matilda, bravely. " | warrant I can hold out against 'em all, and it brother and me comes to words, I'll tell him sum-mat as he won't forget in a hurry. Besides, you're o' full ago, and he can't force you to do ought against your will. You don't mean to say as ho ill-uses you?" " Not in one manner o' speakin', aunt," said the girl. "He only threatens what he'll do if I wed wi' a poor man. Not a penny o' his money will ho leave to mo or mine, says he—everything'll go to stepmother's folk down in Staffordshire. And neither mo nor my husband must e'er look to darkening his doorstop!" "Deary me," said the aunt. "I'd ha' thought he'd gotten more sense wi' his old age. Then, if your sweetheart was comiortably _ off, same as the widower, he'd be just as welcome?" "Ho would so. 'Tis merely a question o' pounds, shillings and pence. I'd like you to see Luke, so as to judge for yourself whether I was right or wrong in fancying him. He's the handsomest lad I've over looked upon, and he's the truest, kindest heart. I'm certain you'd take to him!"

"Happen I'd fall in love myself," said old Matilda, with a merry laugh. " But. after all, handsome is as handsomo does, and some o' tho best-lookin' chaps I've known have been the worst in other ways. Hast, brought a'change in that great parcel, my dear? Ay, that's right, you'd best como wi'm© to tho sparo chamber and tidy yourself up; you're all fchfck wi' dust!" An hour later Matilda came downstairs looking fresh and charming in a gown of v,-ell-washed blue print. Tho

old woman wagged her head, remembering that in the late crinoline days sho had once gono to a village wedding in a thin silk of exactly the sanio colour. " .Sot me a-doing suinmat, Aunt Matilda," said Iho girl. ''l can't a'bear t.o bo idle—l'm used to risiii' betimes, and goiiv bedw.ard when the clock | strikes nine." " There's little enough T can find for you," said her aunt. " I'vo let the ■fifty acres belonging to this spot—let 'em till Michaelmas to tho next farmer, and all I've kept is the two crofts. But to-morrow we'll drive to Calton St Annes. I'm minded to got some new house-linen, and we'll hem it together. I'd lot you attend to my ducklings if 1 weren't too fond o' 'em myself, fly tho same token tho poor little things must bo wanting their snack." She left tho houso soon and made her way to tho croft. For tho second time she was interrupted as she unfastened tho gate. This time it was done by a young and sturdy stranger, who was mounted on a rough chestnut filly. At sight of tho spinster he touched his cap. " Does Miss Unwin live nigh? ho said. "I was directed to follow the hill-road." "Ay," sho replied. "I'm Matilda Unwin, and I reckon vou're Luko Shimwell, from tho description l'vo just had o' yon." Ho left tlio saddle and came to her side, his comely face glowing. " You'll bo a friend to us?" ho said. 'I can see as much in your eyes. Matilda told mo I wasn't to come till you gave leave —I'd a letter from her this morning. I didn't know lor bui'o as she meant to leavo home." " You did quite right to come, and I'm main glad to see you," said Aunt Matilda, with much heartiness. ' Go on to the house—you'll find my meco there. I don It know whether sho expects you or not. I'll follow as soon as I've fed my ducklings." She, watched him leading tho horse to the house; now and then she nodded appreciatively. "I don't wonder at the lass having a will o' her own, she murmured. "If I'd met a chap like him. when I was* youngj naught in tho world would o'er have come betwixt us!" An hour or so later —the ducklings had never before exacted so much attention—sho returned_ to tho house, and found the lovers sitting side by side in the porch. Luke was holding the girl's hand; both turned radiantly smiling faces. " I've gotten her to promise to wed mo forthright," he said triumphantly. " What matters it if we're ft bit poor some day I'll make my wife as rich as e'er she wishes. She's not afraid o work no more than I am. Old Matilda's heart was glowing warmly. "Happen 'twon't be such a struggle as you think," sho said. " My niece is the last o' the family, and, choose how, she'll heir what I've gotten. I'll find the nioney to stock as good a farm ns e'er you need—- ( "Nay," interrupted Luko, Ive surely got no claim on you, and you're not goin' to make yourself poor— — "Tho like o' that I" cried the old woman. " 'Tisn't commonly known as I'm far better off nor my brother. The fortune Cousin left me was more nor he got wi 1 grabbin' all the land. I've not been able to spend a quarter o' the income. 'Twill ease my _ mind for sure. You can write to him as you'll bo as well off as Mr Ball, ay, and you can go down to Parson's and bid him cry the banns." Then she kissed the girl again, this time with tears trickling down her cheeks. " 'Tis good to feel as I'm not | without kin," she murmured. j