A SHORT STORY.

Waipawa Mail, Volume XXXV, Issue 6161, 5 March 1914, Page 4

A SHORT STORY.

(All Rights Reserved.) WE’D BETTER BIDE A WEE.

By 51. C. ltnmsay,

Author of “James Ogilvy’s Experiment,” “Stephen Martin, M.D.,” “With Aimless Feet,” etc.

PART 11. He paid no farewell visits, though to Mrs. Gordon he sent a curt note of apology, of thanks for all her kindness in the past, making no mention whatever of Molly, for one s : ngle gliippse of whom the strong man was longing night and day. Yet he knew his weakness, too, and felt sure if he saw her even once his resolution to put her out of his life would melt “like snaw aff a dyke,” and he would perchance shame ms manhood without altering the situation in the least. But the great liner was not a day out from Glasgow before he was tortured by regrets, and he would fain have returned if he only could. His face, however, as he told himself, was set to the great new land, and it was better, wiser, in every way not to cast a single look back .

For the first few months, with so much to see, learn, and to do, it was comparatively easy to keep his resolu'.ion to let the dead past bury its dead. But when he had finally settled down on his own farm, away out in the great silent places, and a large part of his life was spent alone with Nature and Nature’s God, the softer, higher, better side of the man got full play; and at last he came—as near as a mere man ever could do—to see, and more wonderful still, accept the girl's point of view. And, somehow, after that, it became strangely easy to put his pride in his pocket and send her a long, loving letter, which came to her as a gifi from heaven itself. But her answer was that of a lifelong friend merely, for his love she had put from her with her own hand, and he must be made to understand that he was entirely free. And, growing rapidly out there in the glorious West—far out,“where you run clean out of fences and a man has elbow room T —Jim clearly saw that jhc only manly course was thus to accept her decree, and to make the most of what was left. The letters which came at regular fortnightly intervals, the frequent papers, the occasional books, the birthday and New Year box of “bannocks’ made by her own hand, meant more, far more, to the self-exiled man than his halting tongue could ever tell. The first named, carefully preserved, were his unfailing solace when the homesickness grew too strong. Thoroughly fittod for the pioneer’s life he certa'nly was; yet he was a true Scot, which meant that every now and then the longing for “the sicht o’ some kent face; but a glimpse o’ his ain countree” swept over him in an overflowing flood Long years afterwards, with no false sense of shame, he was wont to tell that when first she sent h m a box of purple heather, with the one white sprig under all, he scattered the priceless gift upon his rough deal table and gloated over it for a while, then suddenly flung his arms across it, and, bowing his head upon them, sobbed like a little child For, wander where they will, return or not as they may, Auld Mithcr Scotland ever keeps her tenacious grip on the hearts of her sons and daughters, whose . , . deep, deep love for the auld, auld hame Is its source o’ sang, and its fount o' fame! And so five busy years went by, not unhappily for cither of them, and then, quietly, painlessly, Mrs. Gordon was “called Home,” and from the very depths of his heart Jim was able to write: “I am thanking Heaven, dear heart, that when I would have tempted you away you provcu strong to do your

duty. I would fain come home and seek to comfort you, yet I think it is better not—just yet. Next year, perhaps, all being well, we shall meet.” And this time Molly, mourning an irreparable loss and clinging the closer to the dear ones who remained, did not rebuke him for the old yet new lovenote. After that it became surprisingly easy to slip back to the old-time relationship—though it was never formally resumed in so many words; the more so that East Mains, whose one great longing was to follow his wife, “if it were but the Lord’s will,” began to talk of the comfort it was to know that Jim would be both able and willing to take care of her when the father himself had “wonawaL”

Yet another bitter grief was to fall upon them ere East Mains’ own race was completely run. The well-beloved only son, who had married his cousin Meg, the happy union being crowned with three bonnic bairns, who were the apple of the grandfather’s eye, got a chill while conducting a funeral service on a bitter autumn day, neglected it as was his wont, till pneumonia caught him in its fell grip, to release him only at the bidding of King Death.”

They had-been a careless, thriftless couple, only too well matched in that respect, and Fairhaven and Knowehead shook grave, disapproving heads, and surmised, not unjustly, that “she was gey puirly left,” and offered much good advice, as well, in numerous cases, as more substantial help. But the Gordons had their full share of the old Scots pride, and apart from the tombstone erected by public subscription and the memorial window placed in his own church, the eager townsfolk he had served so well were allowed to do naught to prove their gratitude. There was no need, so long as his father had a roof to cover them, a bite for them to share And so Meg and her fatherless bairns cam e home to East Ma ; ns, and Molly’s cares and anxieties—but, above all, joys—were doubled, yea, trebled, at one stroke.

Their coming, by bringing him an m interest, gave East Mains himself a new lease of life. The firstborn, j Will, unlike his father, had the farming j instinct in his blood, as became in- | crcasingly evident as the months and j years slipped by, and to be spared till j the laddie was fit to take his place j to continue the long line of Gordons, 1 who had been in East Mains well nigh as long as there had been Frasers — lords of the soil—in Knowehead House became his heart’s desire. But that was not to be, and he was gathered to his fathers ten years, to a day, after his wife, and to Molly entirely fell the task of keeping things going, with but little aid, even in household matters, from “fashionless Meg,” yet with more help than could have seemed possible from Will—wise and manly beyond his fourteen years, and her own name-daughter, Mamie, who had just turned thirteen She was as certainly “auntie’s girl,” alike in looks and ways, as the baby, Madge, a spoilt miss of nine, was Meg s daughter through and through. It may be that Meg did not really understand that the old engagement had been tacitly renewed; for she saw no reason to protest against Molly sacrificing herself as she proposed to do. But if it had been exceedingly difficult to convince Jim that she was still needed when Meg and her family had come to keep the old man company, he absolutely refused to see that her duty now lay anywhere but with herself and him, and many a jarring note was struck, many a hard, cruel word written, many a sleepless night spent, before they compromised upon another three years’ waiting-time, at the end of which he would come home—for the first time in eighteen weary years—and carry her off, with or without consent. And then, and only then, did Molly fully realise that she was already within sight of middle age (eight and thirty to be exact), and that Jim himself, three years her senior, must have been in earnest when he had told her about his first grey hairs There were none, however, in her glossy hair, she rejoiced to find after a careful search, but she must begin to

give more thought to her own appearance and looks, so that he would not find the change in her too great. She began to pave the way “for the shock,” as she put it, in a half-laugh-ing. half-wistful way, but he only answered:

“You were beautiful to me in youth, darling; with your last photograph before me I see you are beautiful now. If Heaven spares us to reach it, you will be beautiful in old age. Don’t dare to say any such thing again!” And then—and then he came; a grave, silent Jim, who was strangely ill at ease among them, and found it, so it seemed, impossible .to catch up the broken threads. And Molly herself slipped into her shell, and only the bairns saw no reason for treating him otherwise than as an ordinary guest—only one so much of a stranger that they must be even more attentive than to most. Mamie, in paticular—sweet, charming Mamie, quite as capable, moreover, as Aunt Molly had been, at sixteen—set herself to the task of making him feel thoroughly at home, and to a certain extent succeeded so well that he was wonderfully talkative and merry with her when they were alone, but lapsed into an awkward silence when Molly or anyone else appeared.

At last she confessed her wonder at this to her aunt, and of a sudden, Molly thought, the matter became clear. He had come home, thinking he knew what to expect concerning the woman to whom he was in honour bound, only to be keenly disappointed at finding a faded, toil-and-care-worn woman in the place- of the fair maid he had left beh nd; and in Mamie he saw again the sweetheart he had first wooicj and won all those long, weary years ago. and, manlike, had transferred her affections to her. Ah, surely that was the bitterest moment of Molly Gordon’s life! It certainly was the hour of her greatest temptation. Why should she, who had given up so much for her family, be called upon to offer up this supreme sacrifice of all ? Mamie’s life lay all | before her; she was too young to be ; a helpmate to such a man, even after I several more years of waiting. And j oh! surely if they were married and j in their far-away home he would turn | back to her, finding in her whole--1 hearted devotion and service something of amends for the lonely years she had forced upon him. So why not hold her peace, seem to see and hear nothing, and let things take their proposed course.

Aye, that was indeed her dark hour; but the end of ’ll found her on her knees praying for strength to do the right—for the needed aid from on High, which duly came. And after supper that night for the first time she showed her desire to be alone with their guest, openly saying:

“Jim, shall we have a little walk together? It is a beautiful night.” He assented eagerly, and, after he had carefully wrapped a shawl round her head and shoulders, they left the dining-room together, while Mamie smiled tenderly to herself, for she was a romantic young lady, and had been wondering when the two “dear old stupids” were to come to their senses.

As they silently strolled along the loaning where they had first tasted the sweets of “Love’s Young Dream,” Molly breathed an earnest prayer for help, and at length found strength to say:

“Jim—oh, Jim!” but got no further, for of a sudden he had caught her to his breast, and was saying, hoarsely:

“Molly, Molly, I can’t stand this a moment longer! You must tell me if I have indeed come too late—if you have entirely ceased to love me! I know you must be disappointed in me, for you have grown far more than I have done, maybe because you have lived for others while I have lived for myself. It was selfish shrinking from pain which kept me away', and now—and now— It is killing me, lassie, driving me mad, and you must tell me this very moment if for me there is any hope!”

“Jim —oh, Jim,” she half-laughed half-sobbed. “Is that what it means, you silly, silly laddie? And —l—actually thought that you had fallen in love with Mamie, and—and I asked you to come out. with me that I might give you up to her, though it was going to break my heart!” “Molly, Molly, you foolish child! As if I had ever room in my heart for anyone but you!” His clasp tightened, while her face was hidden for one blissful moment against h : s breast, arvd then she slowly raised her head, and each read the wonderful old yet ever-new story in the other’s eyes ere their tremulous lips met in one long kiss. (The End.)