A Short Story.

Waipa Post, Volume VIII, Issue 345, 1 September 1914, Page 6

A Short Story.

(All Rights Reserved )

In Three Parts.

THE BLUE CORNUCOPIA,

By KATHARINE TYNAN. Author of “The Way of a Maid,” “Oh! What a Plague is Love,” “The Handsome Quaker,” “For Maisie,” “Peggy the Daughter,” &c.

PART I. Cecilia Wade was very fond of her Aunt Jane, a sweet-natured creature, and apt to be disproportionately grateful for kindnesses small or great Seeing that she had had it drummed into her from babyhood that her aunt was her best friend, having done more for her than could be expected in giving her food and shelter from the world, she might well believe it. Her father, Robert Wade, had broken the hearts of all his family, according to Miss Jane Wade, bv marrying a little French governess whom he had met accidentally on the Dover and Calais boat.

Other people might have thought that Miss Wade owed something to Cecilia for youth chained to her sofa and tender service most wilfingly rendered. But that point of view had not occurred to Miss Wade. Nor to Cecilia, for the matter of that. Cecilia acted as an unpaid nurse and maid to her Aunt Jane, read to her, wrote her letters, did her shopping and paid her bills, superintended the gardener, looked after the cats and dogs and the canary—in fact, did a hundred things, and had in return just food and shelter, the clothes she stood up in, and the tiniest allowance of pocket money. A good many people would have been glad to be kind to Cecilia, who was a charming girl to look at tall, slender, with brown eves at once gentle and vivacious, a fine, colorless skin, a delightful smile, and the French politeness, The latter was something Aunt Jane never approved of in her niece. Cecilia had few people to show politeness to beyond the servants and the tradespeople, with whom Miss Wade thought her niece’s manners sadly out of place. Miss Wade did not welcome casual acquaintances, she said. She had her own old friends — not one under seventy years of age. Living in London, she was not troubled by callers. When any acquaintance was offered to her she rejected it. What did she want with new people at her time of life ? She never thought of Cecilia. Cecilia was quite well aware, and had not grumbled over it, that Miss Wade s money had been spent in the purchase of an annuity, so that when the old lady was gone there would be no provision for her. To do Miss AA ade justice, the money had been so. invested before Cecilia had come to her—a little black-clad, white-faced orphan of seven. It had not seemed to trouble her that death would leave the girl unprovided for, beyond what her furniture and jewels and lace and other possessions might bring. She had not thought to cut down any expenses—to do without a carriage, for instance, as she might well have done in a London square. She would have said that she was Admiral Wade’s daughter, and that she owed it to her father’s memory to live in the way he had accustomed her to live. If Robert had wasted his subtance in riotous living instead of providing for his daughter, that was not to be laid at his sister’s door. In her own estimation she had done more than anyone could have expected of her when she took in the orphan child and gave her a home.

So far Miss Jane Wade in the days of health. She was a -cry strong old lady, who had seldom suffered ache or pain, and was intolerant of such weakness in others. She had such a tradition of health that people who knew her were accustomed to say that she would die as she had lived, unacquainted or with the barest nodding acquaintance with pain.

But, quite suactemy ns it seemed, Miss Wade’s age began to find her out. 'lt was a long time before she would call in a doctor, looking on the suggestion when it was first made to her in the light of an affront. But presently pain and weakness made her more amenable. Like most people who have had a long period of health and strength, when she failed she failed rapidly. With illness her nature seemed to alter. She grew amazingly gentle and considerate as she became dependent. For the first time in those days of illness Miss Wade became lovable. Cecilia, whose love fed on very little, like the plants that gain life and health in the interstices of rocks would have always said and believed that she loved Aunt Jane. Now at last it' was possible really to love her; and that was a compensation to Cecilia’s kind heart for the sorrow it was to see the strong, self-reliant old woman reduced to the state' that she asked humbly for things to be done for her and apologised for the trouble she gave. Cecilia was so touched by this, new aspect of Aunt Jane that she could not do enough for her. She was so chained to the sick woman’s room all one winter that Dr. Crispin was moved to protest. Cecilia would lose her own health if she did not get exercise and open air. lie looked compassionately at the charming face which, of late, had begun to show its age. Cecilia was thirty. After a few hours in the open air with the dogs she would have pass-

cd for twenty-five. She was surn a delightful creature, so gay and gentle and humble and devoted, that Cecilia, looking her thirty years and over, affected Dr. Crispin with an odd sense of vexation and pain. He had given Miss Wade a very gentle hint about her testamentary dispositions as regarded Cecilia.

“Cecilia will have all I have,” Miss Wade had responded; and the doctor was satisfied. He had no idea that all Miss Wade had was her household furniture and personal effects. Cecilia knew, and was satisfied. She would have to work for a living after Aunt Jane was taken from her, which she prayed might not be for a long time yet. She was not uneasy. Aunt Jane had said to her one day, surprisingly, unexpectedly: “When I am gone, Cecilia, I should not like you to go to Caroline Wells as companion, for Caroline Wells would be a hard- task-mistress, harder than I have been. Mary Moir would be glad to have you. to be sure, she is half blind, and sits in a darkened room nearly all the year. But she would be very fond of you, and very Kind to you; and you are so fond of animals that you would not mind being shut up with so many of them.” Cecilia did hot protest, had not the faintest temptation to protest.

It came, indeed, as a relief to her to think that if sorrowful time came when she must do without Aunt Jane she would have someone to turn to.. She was fond of Mrs. Moir, who was a gentle old lady. She found it easy to be good to the old, as she did to children and animals. Not a word of complaint, even in her hidden heart, of her sacrificed youth. Of the dreary outlook for her future. She had already in her own mind written herself down old maid, gaily and gently, with no lurking pity for herself.

Confined to her room, her sofa, presently her bed, Aunt Jane’s memory went back to the days of her. youth. All the intervening years seemed to have dropped out. It was of Ardlewv, the old home of her childhood, she talked incessantly. Cecilia listening and putting in a word now and then, came to feel that she knew Ardlewy by heart. To be sure there were pictures and photographs to assist her. There were Aunt Jane’s woolly water-colors, mainly concerned with the scenes of her youth; Miss Wade had never been a globe-trotter. There were portfolios of pencildrawings, of faded photographs. The long, white house with its golden thatch, the green-trellised porch, the drawing-room opening on to the garden, the garden with its apple trees, its summer-house and privet-hedges and box-borders—she seemed to know them all intimately by heart.

At another time Miss Wade would have out her Indian shawls, her old lace, her trinkets, and go over them with Cecilia, recalling this and that happy association. “They will be all yours when lam gone, Cecilia,” she would say; and Cecilia would smile gratefully through her tears, never thinking that she might have had some of them while still she was young.

Another time it would be the china 1 and silver. Miss Wade had some beautiful possessions of that kind. “Better send them to Christie’s when. I am gone. You will need the money.” she said; and having said it she turned her face to the wall and was inconsolable till she forgot. (To be Continued.)