Mavourneen

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17223, 14 December 1923, Page 6 (Supplement)

Mavourneen

Story of An Anonymous Courtship.

(Written for the Christmas “ Star,’* by

MISS' E. ISHERWOOD

Purau).

The farmhouse of Daleford looked very pleasant and restful one sunny day in October Jt lay in a curve of the i valley, fields spread before it. and f downs that, merged into rooky hills rising in billowy greenness behind. All was eiient, within and without. Even the usually noisy yard was quiet, * for the farmer. Mr Gareston. with his : boys and all their ranine accessories. (was far up the long gulley, mustering for “tailing.” 1 That meant, of course, that the household had risen almost before daylight, so that the men might get an early start. Breakfast was eaten before th© hour at which they rose on other days, and now. after the activities of the morning, Mrs Gaveston was peacefully sleeping m her room, while l Dons, her only daughter, was resting :on the verandah. She was a pretty. ; dark-haired girl of twenty-two, but her | face at present was spoiled by a petui lant shade, and her usually expressive f grey eyes wore a look of discontent. | Doris thought she had full cause for I discontent. Her life seemed to have l reached th© full tide of irksomeness. * She had risen early this morning, rcJ signing th© last few alluring moments i' of sleep ; she bad helped to prepare th© | breakfast for six men ; out lunches and j sorted out satchels in which to carry f them; filled bottles with beer and i packed the big billy with th© neces- | saries for lunch. She had hunted up | odd spurs, found reins for extra bridles, loosed th© dogs, and finally helped her father to arrange the multitudinous fjear on his saddle. Then, when the ast hors© had vanished into the gulley, she had hurried in to help her mother dispose of breakfast dishes. There was still outside work to complete—cows to milk (how she wished she had never pestered her father to teach her that novel accomplishment when she was a little girl of six or seven!), calves and fowls to feed, vegetables to get from the garden and prepare for the evening dinner. Even the necessary log >of mutton still hung upon its parentsheep. and must some means or other be detached. Little wonder that, when afternoon cajne, both mother and daughter needed an hour of rest. Vet Doris, lounging in a chair, with the newspaper in her hand, and a pile of unmended socks beside her. wondered discontentedly why she should have to sit and sew on such a lovely day. when most girls in her position could go riding. She had begged her father to let her hare a horse, a lady’s hack, well-bred and handsome, but he bad laughinglyreplied that she could use old i “ Darkey ” w henever she liked, and I what more could she need? “Darkey” ! was the equine prop and stay of her \ father, and was put to many* uses, even carting the posts for the gulley fences. [ He was a most reliable horse, and Doris’s chief complaint was that he looked it. while she longed for a more •howy steed. Then again, she had proposed a riding suit of coat and breeches, instead

of the divided skirt that hung heavily from her waist when riding, and encumbered her steps when walking. Her father raised his hands in old-fashioned horror, and even her mother, who usually showed some support to all her proposals, was dubiously afraid of such a forward step. Doris felt dissatisfaction take root and grow within her. and one day she inquired desperately why they could not have a car like most other well-to-do farmers. Her father replied that perhaps, by and by, if wool kept up. lie might think of one. but meanwhile the “ ehandrydan ” did very well. “ Yes.” Doris reflected, it carried them to and from the station, ! with all the luggage, and in addition i any goods that had to he transported. such as .skins, fowls, implements, and 1 even the barrel of beer for shearing ! tipie. No wonder that her thoughts were discontented ami a little bitter. Although her home life was pleasant and kind, and she had all she needed in the way of dress, she longed for something more, to soothe her when her daily work was most trying, and to occupy her few' hours of leisure. Unlike most girls, site had few friends. Her father had allowed her one year at a good finishing school, but she was slow to form friendships, and that year was passed in testing and judging the capacity of her schoolmates for steady and loyal comradeship. The friends she made then were still her friends, though severed from her by distance and the changes of occupation . In her own valley affection was limited. There were her cousins. Dora and Phyllis, who came regularly twice a week to sec her. Dora, pretty and I shallow-brained, talked incessantly and giggled as she related the grammatical comedies ot‘ their latest cowman, who was, she averred. “ killingly funny.” while Phyllis,, silent, approved with large dark eyes. Then another cousin from a near valley occasionally rode over to air her views on fashion, and left Doris with a limp feeling of dowdiness. Her brothers were good sports, but all sufficient unto themselves, possessing few’ boy friends. Stanley Martin, whoso land adjoined theirs on the hilltop. was their . closest neighbour and i most frequent visitor, byt he treated Doris as her brothers did—teased her, gave her duty dances when they went out, or often forgot her, if pretty girls were a-plenty. Besides, Stanley had red hair and freckles. I Doris yawned and glanced idly at the paper. A small paragraph—inset between • an advertisement for Artistic Portraiture and another setting forth the merits of an undertaker, caught her eye. Jt read : T ONF.T.Y Farmer (30) of moderate J J moans, desires to correspond with Tonne: Lady with view to friendship. Confidential. Lonely Denis, “Star" Office. Such paragraphs appeared often in a

daily paper, ami Doris seldom troubled to read them. Yet to-day it seemed j to affect her at what learned moderns would term the “ psychological moHere was n distraction to give her food for thought. Why not answer th© lonely one’s cry? If nothing came of it, he need never know her identity and no harm would be done. Doris wrote to *' Lonely Denis,”, and gave as her chief excuse her own loneliness. She told him she was a farmer’s daughter who worked hard and had few friends. If her letters would giro him any pleasure she would be pleased to correspond. She stipulated that neither should disclose his or her identity till at least three months had passed, and each was satisfied that the other had proved, as far as letters could, a congenial friend. She got a j reply, well-written and interesting, in which “Denis” expressed his pleasure at her letter, and was quite agreeable to comply with the stipulations imposed by “Mavourneen.” as Doris had signed herself. So the pen-and-paper friendship began, and soon Doris looked eagerly for the clear, bold “ Mavourneen,” re-ad-dressed from the newspaper office. Little was written about her immediate homo life and family. for she had an instinctive feeling that this topic was too sacred to he used when writing to a stranger. But of likes and dislikes, especially in the great world of books, of travel, and all everyday events—here was plenty of food for discussion. Not stories only- hut into books of deeper matter did she venture, and found there a new and delightful field. “ Denis.” like herself, spoke little of his home life, but she gathered that lie was an only son. with married sisters his seniors bv some years. She felt, as the friendship grew apace, that his letters enabled him to voice many thoughts that were lying dormant. As the three months drew to an end. “Denis’* suggested an exchange of portraits. indeed, his own arrived with the suggestion, and as Doris looked at it critically she decided that his looks matched his mind. for the eyes were honest, and the whole face frank, yet thoughtful. He was in soldier's garb, and Doris had a feeling that at some time she had met the original. .When “spring-cleaning.” she found j a “snap.” taken some years before, when first she bad proudly displayed a bobbed head. Her hair now had lost some of its waywardness and was gathered in serene fashion to a. coil behind, while her face had lost something of its youthful roundness. With some hesitation. she enclosed the “snap.” and in duo time received a note of thanks and appreciation. Christmas was near at- hand, and one evening the boys at Daleford, with Stanley’s help, were arranging a New Year’s dance, in fancy dress, where they would watch the Old Year out and the New Year in. Doris was appealed to to assist- with the commissariat, the boys declaring that a woman should know how many sandwiches could be cut from one sandwich loaf, etc. Stanley. in replacing his note-hook, dropped a bulky letter. Tt fell at the girl’s feet and he bent hastily to pick it up. but. in a flash, Doris had seen the address “ Mavourneen.” When, after some moments, she controlled herself enough to look at Stanley, as he stood beneath the electric light, she recognised those clear-cut. almost severe features —and the face of the photograph. Often and earnestly she gazed, feeling sure that she could forgive both hair and freckles

for the sake of the now-treasured letters, for the sake of the divine flame they had inspired. All the evening she was rather abstracted, and when she went to her room she took out several letters of “ Lonely Denis.” In reading them again she felt that - she was very close to the soul of Stanley Martin. New Year's Eve and th© dance arrived. Doris, at the last moment, acting on an impulse that would not be denied, laid aside the dress she had chosen, and went in the short striped skirt, simple blouse and neckerchief of an Irish girl—her hair done in oldfashioned stylo and adorned by a red Stanley looked at her often, for never had lie seen her look so youthful and alluring, yet ever, as he looked, .she recalled to his mind the face on the cherished photograph. “Mavourneen.” Once or twice he found the likeness almost bewildering, as her face grew radiant with excitement and pleasure. lie little guessed that her secret was the cause of her shining eyes and sweet tremulous looks. She had determined that evening to test “ Denis,” to find if the relationship which had grown to such an extent by means of mere letters was worthy of a place in everyday life. He sought her frequently and she felt his puzzled yet commending gaze upon her. Midnight drew near. “Denis” and Doris stood in a shadowed corner waiting for the mystic moment when the New Y'ear should enter. As he looked down at her the resemblance to “Mavourneen” made his heart throb strangely. “ What are you supposed to represent to-night?” he asked. Doi*is looked him in the eyes for one second —a glance he somehow longed to meet again—then turned her head, so that he heard but on© whispered word. “Mavourneen.” Neither moved. She felt her pulso beating as if to burst from her throat, and her eyes burned with unshed tears. Then she felt her hand gently lifted to his lips. That, she knew, sealed th© compact, and her eyes met his with answering happiness.