NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVII, Issue 5, 31 January 1912, Page 55

NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

2’Ae Editor desires to state that Hew Zealand Stories by Hew Zealand writers, are published on this page regularly. The page is open to any contributor, and all accepted stories will be paid for at current .rates. Terse blight sketches of Dominion life and people, woven in short story form, are required,, and should be headed “Hew Zealand Stories.” Stamps for return of MS. mu st be enclosed

The Man who Slid

By

ALAN E. MULGAN.

gTHEL! There’s the Marquis coming up the avenue!” •What!” The tone of the reply was that of a Roman told that the Volssians were coming over the wall. The girl addressed stood up, shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked out from the verandah. "So it is; I’m off.” She and her sister ran inside and up the stairs to their bedroom, From a window there Ethel looked out down the avenue. "The little beast!” she said contemptuously. “He’s dirtier than ever! I say, suppose he stays to lunch, 'to-day of all days!” “You bet he will,” said her sister. “Did you ever know him come here and not stay to a meal? We’re cowards, Ethel. Somebody’s gqt to see him, and now we’ve run away, it will be mother.” "I’d forgotten that! Poor mother! She won’t send him away. Look here, we’ll wait here a bit on the off chance of his going away; if he doesn’t, we’ll go down.” The two girls remained at the window, standing at the side so that the new comer could not see them. Both were held by the beauty of a scene they saw every day. The house stood in a slope a few miles wide between mountains and sea, nestling comfortably in a grove of tall pines and bluegums. The deep verandah, embowered in dolyeos, honeysuckle and roses, faced a garden filled with a delightful tangle of shrubs and Howers, most of which were in their fullest glory of a summer morning. One looked out between tall magnolia trees, which made the air heavy with their scent, across fields to the blue and slumbrous sea. It was very hot, with the faintest of sea breezes. Cicadas buzzed unceasingly in the garden, and bees droned among the flowers that hung on the verandah. Up the avenue of pines that stretched from the garden to the Toad, which lay half a mile away, a man was walking. He was short, stoutish, and much the worse fqr wear. His features had once been good, but years of dusty work, dirty living, and little soap, had told on them. He looked, not exactly dissipated, but a member of the order of Bohemia (third-class) —a raffish, down-at-heels, frowsy kind o,f fellow. His flannel shirt, in which a very greasy tie was hanging askew, was dirty; his dungaree trousers were muddy and milkstained; his coat looked as if it had been used many times for a pillow in odd corners. His hat was greasy and ragged, and one of his boots was tied with string. Such Was the appearance “f Anthony Fitzherbert Faulkner, who, twenty years before, clothed in fine rainment and hope, pushed off from the home of a retired colonel at Brighton to seek a career in the colonies. J'aulkner knocked at the open front door. He considered himself an old friend and he had no doubt as to his Welcome. The girl’s mother, from a window at the side of the house, had seen him coming, and the crystalline purity oi her disposition had been darkened by a shade of annoyance. That he should < ome on this day of all days was most provoking, but to her the laws of hospitality were bound in steel. Whoever • amc to Fernhill was made welcome, were he-spruee or untidy,, interesting, dull, or Irving, and it is to be feared that somet mies she paid heavily for her rigid adherence to her code qf conduct. She had a smile for Faulkner when she 'went to the door. . How do you do, Mr Faulkner? Come *”• It’s quite a long time since we have Jeen you.” baulkner's hat had come oft with it flourish. v very well, thank you. I was just

walking frqm Potts’s to Fisher’s for the harvesters, and I really felt I must look in and see how you all are. How well you’re looking, Mrs Middleton!” Nothing about Faulkner was so surprising as his way of speaking. If one heard him without seeing him. one got a most curious impression of the beau sabreur, the man of culture, and the affected decadent, mingled together. He had the grand manner. One expected to see D’Artagnan with sword and plume coming 'through the door, and when an insignificant and disreputable Icpking little person appeared, who looked as if he had been sleeping under a haystack for a week, the shock was considerable. Strangers lounging in hotel bars would become attentive at the mere sound of Faulkner’s voice, but when at the end of five minutes he had said nothing worth listening to, they would return to their beer. Faulkner walked into the drawingroom, on the walls of which hung portraits of Middleton ancestors, and pictures of places in Old England. “I’m sure you’re busy, Mrs Middleton,”

Faulkner said. “Please don't let me interrupt you.” Mrs Middleton laughed. “Well, as ‘a matter of fact, I have a lot of cooking to do, so I'll have to take you at your word. There are some people coming to lunch. You can come into the kitchen, and talk to me while I cook if you like.” “Delighted, I’m sure.” Mrs Middletoil led the way to the kitchen. “Have you heard about Ben Tollon’s engagement?’ Mrs Middleton had not, so the floodgates were opened. “Ethel Strickland. Just fancy. His family is simply furious. 1 was at the Tollon’s a few days ago, and Mrs Tollon wept and begged me, as an old friend, to reason with the lad. I did, but I might as well have talked to the wall. He’s head over ears in love, isn’t of age yet, and hasn’t a blessed penny, and of course she isn’t in his set at all.” “That may be,” said Mrs Middleton. “But for all that she’s far too good for him.” “Perhaps so—perhaps so—but the Tollons are a good family you know. The Tollons of Somersetshire and of course the Stricklands are ” Faulkner threw his dirty hands out in an eloquent gesture. Faulkner wm sitting by the kitchen

table. Mrs Middleton was beginning to mix something in a basin. The girls were still upstairs, wrestling with their aversion. Mrs Middleton had groyvn used to Faulkner in this mood, so she merely smiled and said: “The Tollons may be a good family, Mr Faulkner, but Ben. Tollon is simply a lout. Harry Strickland is worth six of him, though we don't ask him to our dances.” “Oh, well, perhaps so. You’re becoming quite democratic, Mrs Middleton. Have you heard the gossip about Mr 5 Wyllie? They say she's carrying on outrageously with that youngest cadet; so much so that Wyllie’s mother has interfered and told Wyllie he must send the boy away.” "I don’t believe it. Mrs Wyllie’s a friend of mine, Mr Faulkner, and I know she’s quite incapable of doing anything like that.” The rebuke was heeded ami Faulkner changed the subject to the financial embarassments of the Middleton’s neighbours. Mrs Middleton let him wander on, contenting herself with putting in an

occasional "Yes,” or “No,” or '‘Really,” As she worked away and looked at him every now aild then, her thoughts dwelt as they had often done before, on the man’s past, and his utterly futile life. She remembered how he had come out with them in the emigrant ship twenty years before, lie had been for a year or two in a. Line regiment, but disaster to his father's fortunes had compelled him to leave the Army and seek bis fortune in the colonies. She recalled him as he appeared on board, a young fellow extremely particular about his appearance, but not a bad little chap at all for all his emp'ty-headedness and “side.” The men took his measure at once and treated him with good-humour-ed contempt, so he was driven to associate a good deal with the women and children. He fetched and Carried, flirted a little, and became a repository for tho gossip of the ship. He had not got on in the settlement. The little money he had brought with him had been frittered away in comfortable quarters at a hotel in the nearest town, and generally enjoying life in a harmless way, while ho “looked about him for something to do.” When his. money ran out ho cheerfully went to work with his hands, at first for people of his own set, then for

others. In twenty years he had Mt triad to better himself in any way. His father allowed him a trifle, and the deal old man spoke of “my son in the colonies” with touching pride. This and the little money he earned made enough to keep him. He went about the settlement doing the work of a farm labourer, taking wages from some, but being quite content to ait at the tables of others and gossip about their neighbours and connections at Home. The community was almost as sharply divided into social sets as it had been when it left England. There were the quality (for want of a better term) and the “quantity.” The friendliest relations existed between the two. Occasionally a daughter o.f "the people” may have longed to be asked to one of the quality’s dances, but that was all. Tho two sets mixed in the harvest field (where it was the custom for one farmer to help another), in the bar of thq township hotel, and in the fern paddock which was graced with the name of cricket field, but the quality did not call on the "quantity,” or ask them to their balls and parties. The “quantity” were much the more successful farmers, but the quality had their faded drawingrooms, their pictures, and their crested plate. Faulkner was the only man in the settlement who might be said to belong to .both classes. But he saw much more of the people than of the “first families”; indeed, most of the latter openly discouraged his visits. The men disliked) him and the women despised him. The man’s transition from one class to the other, and his descent from immaculateness to dirt and frowsiness, had been so gradual that few noticed it until the change was nearly complete. Faulkner himself had never noticed it. He had drifted along, growing less and less particular about his appearance,

his food, ami his surroundings, ami more and more partial to the society of men who, though they Mere far" superior to him in character and' ability, he would) not have of being friendly with in former days. He would work for a week with Tim Batter, who was a most estimable man. but whose household arrangements were rather trying to a person of relined habits. Tint ami his wife and seven little Batters lived in a tiny four roomed shanty, ami Mrs. Batter, never tidy at the best .of times, was far too busy to keep the house clean. Meals were slapped on jo the table of a very dirty kitchen, and eaten in view of a very maladorous yard). in the company of several hens and armies of flies. But Faulkner did not seem to mind at all. He ate his meals with gusto, gossiped with Tim and his wife about their neighbours-. and chaffed the young Batters. In the evening he would sit and talk to Tim. and then go to sleep in a little room off the stable? where they kept grain Kigu and harness. He would move on to the .lorn-.’, where the menage was little better, and to tho Smiths, who never tired of listening to hie stories of tho English aristocracy. Every Saturday ho would ride down to the township, anti foregather with choice spirits at the ho-

fol. He would lounge in the bar all afternoon, and drink beer and gossip, and in the evening play cribbage with boys of twenty or married men whose wives sat up for them in lonely farmhouses. He occasionally dropped in at the homes of the quality, but such visits •were becoming more infrequent. The quality no longer asked him to their dances and parties, and if he 'had been naked the lack of a white shirt would have kept him at home. He was not a dreadful example of the evils of drink, for he had never been intoxicated in his life. He had not fallen; he had merely slid. And poor, shiftless, dirty, down-at-hclls though he was, be was perfectly happy. There was no ‘•sorrow’s crown of sorrows” in Faulkner's thoughts. The rough people he mixed with he thought 110 end of good fellows, and so long ns he 'had three meals a day, a bunk to Bleep in, and a little money to buy beer, jday cribbage, and subscribe to “Modern Society,” what more could he want?

There was one thing about Faulkner, however, that Mrs Middleton did not know. If she had she would probably have received him so coldly that ho would have turned away from the door. He was thinking of getting married, and the girl he 'had in view was Ethel Middleton. Faulkner could hardly be said to be in love, which is a state reserved for men of a different stamp, .but he admired Ethel very much indeed, and was fonder of her than he had been of anyone. Three considerations besides (Ethel led him to contemplate making this tremendous change. He was getting old. He wanted a home of his own; and, as his father was dying, he would Boon come, in for a little money, with rahieh he could buy a little farm and settle down an comfort for the rest of his days. Ethel, just 21, was nice-look-ing. refined, very lovable in disposition, and capable in the house. He reflected that she was a lady, the sort of person a Faulkner ought to marry. He had contrived of late to see her fairly often, mid the more he saw the more he admired. Ethel detested him, but she had an unusually sensitive strain of sympathy in'her cliaraeter, wh'ch made it impossible for tier to hurt anybody unless he was positively offensive. She bore with Faulkner when he rode back with her from the post, or attached himeelf firmly to her after dinner at Fernhill; and Faulkner not realising the ■deptit of her kind-heartedness, thought that she was at least not indifferent.

A copy of “Modern Society” was sticking out of his pocket as he sat talking to Mrs Middleton. He had passed from local affairs to the gossip of English society, on which he was the highest authority in these parts. He knew whom the fifth daughter of Eord !A— had married, and why Lord and Lady Ji— had separated, and why Sir C— D—• had obtained that coveted appointment instead of the Hon. E— F—. “Modern Society” had been his favourite journal for many years, and the few visits he paid to the local reading-room Were to see copies of the “Queen.”

“Lord G—, of course, is a connection of mine. Colonel Faulkner, my father, you know, married his aunt. They say he is going the pace terribly, and if he doesn't pull up there will he no property at all in a few years.” The two girls came in. and shook hands with Faulkner, and began to help their mother. But before they set to work they washed their hands. Faulkner made one or two jocular remarks to Ethel, witli a suggestion of familiarity in them that made Olive, who had a much warmer temper, want to throw a saucepan at bis head. Looking at Ethel, «us she busied herself about the kitchen, pretty and cool in her print dress, Faulkner made up his mind that lie would propose to her that very afternoon. There would be an opportunity after lunch. Five minutes on the verandah or in the garden and the thing would be done. Mrs Middleton was still troubled •bout the lunoh. She had not asked him to stay, but she knew that he needed no invitation. But he was the last man she would have asked to meet the people who were coming. Would he take a hint?

.Semple and Colonel Halliburton are coming to lunch. 'Mr Faulkner. They are passing through on a tour of inspection. Did you know them when you were at home?” “Indeed? How very interesting! No, J don’t know General Semple, but I exret lie is a Leicestershire Semple. Halliirtoa? There wan a Halliburton in my old regiment. I wonder if at is the same, Do you know his initials?” ‘'Charles Gordon is hie Christian name.”

“You don’t mean to say so? Fancy meeting Charlie Halliburton again! He

was a sub. with me in the 'Loamshires, and my greatest friend. Many a good time we’ve had together, Charlie and I. It will tie interesting having a talk over old times.” Mrs Middleton felt sure it would be interesting to one person only. Chitrsl end the V.C., a perilous journey across Asia on diplomatic business, splendid service in South Africa and in Tibet. IVhat a record to place beside the drift of twenty years! Ethel came into the kitchen. “Mother, there’s a trap just turning into the avenue. I think it will be them.” Mrs Middleton turned to Faulkner. “I must make myself tidy. You'll excuse me." She went to the front of the house, and Ethel went upstairs. Faulkner was left with Olive, who replied to his lively conversation with monosyllables. A few minutes later the sound came of wheels on the gravel path outside. From the kitchen one could see straight through to the front door. Faulkner, from where he sat, saw two men come up the steps on to the verandah. The first, whose iron-grey moustache proclaimed ham the elder, was of medium height; tlie second was tall. Both men carried themselves with the easy self-confidence of men used to command. They were, dressed in wellfitting light tweed suits, and looked cool and comfortable. Mrs Middleton met them at the door. Their voices carried clearly to Faulkner in the kitehen. “How do you do, General Semple? Major Halliburton, is .it not? How do you do? I'm so pleaded you have !><"n able to come. I hope you had a pleasant drive?” “Well, yes,” said the General, with a laugh; “pleasant in a way. The scenery is so delightful. But what roads and what dust!” “The General is getting old, and likes comfort.” said the other, in a joking way. “I enjoyed every minute of it. What a wonderful view you have here, and a delightful garden! I could smell the honeysuckle half a mile away, and it reminded me of Home.” (Ethel came in then, and Mrs Middleton introduced her to the visitors. The men’s voices were clear, quiet, and well-bred—-with the indefinable accent of men who had done things. Faulkner stood up. The sight of these men had suddenly torn away the curtain that separated him from the old life. Their voices struck a note that had not sounded for many years. By some strange and rapid mental process he realised what he had lost, and that he had gained nothing to replace it. The sight and sound of these men brought back memories of mess, of sports, of Piccadilly at night, of pleasant company of the class he had been born in, of “the lordliest life on earth.” The recollection of .it struck him through and through with acute pain, and quickly on top of that pain came something sharper—the knowledge that he could not ask Ethel to marry him. He saw her talking easily and happily to the two soldiers, and realised that she had never favoured him in that way. Site was destined for a man like Halliburton, or some other man who had done something, and had not lost his self-respect. How could he have thought of asking her? For the first time his clothes were an offence to him. his poverty a disgrace. He had lost caste—not just because he had drifted from his old life, but because he had done nothing in his new one. In losing caste- he had lost her. and just then she was more to him than ever before. Faulkner rose and took up his hat. “Aak your mother to excuse me." he said to dive, who was busy with a salad. “I'm afraid I can’t stay to lunch. I forgot I had promised to be at Rivermew early in the afternoon." He went out by the -kitchen door, and made a detour to avoid being seen from the drawing-room. No one at Femhill rememliered him that afternoon save to express deep relief that he had gone.