NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVIII, Issue 19, 6 November 1912, Page 55

NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

The Editor desires to state that New Zealand Stories by New 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 bright eketches of Dominion life and people, woven in short story form, are required,, and should be headed “New Zealand Stories.’’ Stamps for return of MS. must be enclosed

C ONQUEST

By

A. WHITAKER, Tauranga.

TTA 0 doctor yet,” muttered Jim, “and I 1 two days since Bill took the mesI f sage. Twenty miles from a J township. Cuss it!” Jim looked anxiously -within the whare at the sick man, and then turned again to look down the road through the bush .dealings. He heard the sound of horses’ hoofs on the road at last, and up to the door eame the doctor and with him a boy of about sixteen years of age. ‘The crisis will be to-night,” said the doctor, after examining his patient. “It would be as well to let this boy stay and help you. You look worn out, man.” » "Oh! never mind that,” said Jim bru-ipielv. “Wili Martin get better?” •Certainly, with care,” replied the doctor. I'he boy now eame forward, and in a singularly soft, low voice, said: “I want a job up' in the bush. Can I stay with you for a while? I could help you with your mate.” "Anything if it will help film,” and Jim's hard face softened. Next morning, very early, the sick man opined his eyes and gazed around him. Jim was preparing breakfast, whilst the boy slept in the inner room, after staying with the patient nearly all the night. "I thought someone was here,” he said. “Someone 1 know.” This very feebly and wistfully. Ih'aring the voice, Jim sprang forward with a smile upon his plain f.tee. "Now, old chap, no talk. I’m str gliyde the worst isover. Here's yoiy medicine; A and we’ll soon have you felling trees again. The doctor'came and has gone pft'as soon as it wa< light. He says all'you need is a goldnurse.” "But who has been here?” feebly inquired Sidney Martin again. "Oh, the doctor and a young lad who Ims strayed up here in search of work—-' and found if, by Jove! He’s going to muse you better than I can I do believe. Such a handy little man he is. He cleared up this room and waited on you like a woman. But I must be off to milk Betty. Just lie quiet now'. I won’t be long.” Jim went off. firn door of the inner room opened, and the boy came softly forward to the bedside. "So i/oiz are the boy! Why, why I in earned of someone I knew.” Don’t —don’t talk, please,” urged the buy. interrupting him. "Her voice, too!” muttered the man. ’lhen raising himself with an effort ho commanded sternly: “Come here, boy! Kneel down.” The boy obediently fell on his knees, his face whitening, fiis lips quivering, his eyes dark and shining with excitement, whilst Sidney held his chin upwards and looked into iis face earnestly ami searehingly. Dearest, dearest,” the boy whispered, you know me!” And the voice was full of quiet exultation. I he sick man smiled gladly, and lying '■irk on the pillow calmly once more, said; "So you came when I called you. ly love; My love!” and tears filled his as the boy covered his feeble hands with kisses. es ; and you must get better quickly.” Oh, I shall do that now, and I’m too happy to care how you came and, Clarice, 1 hull t ask you why you did this, in fact, why—’ nn< J j lO p 0111 t C( i f 0 j ler ■uiire ami shorn head”—l will just bo “ il< * tllH t I have you, whilst 1 may, and a-k no.questions. But you won’t leilve 11,1 ■ ou are real?” he continued.

bor answer the real womanly Clarice, Will the boyish face,, closed his mouth with her fingers first, and kissed him a eiwardsi, playfully and yet lovingly. Then with a brisk air she took command

and began her duties of nursing this man whom she loved and for whom she was risking so much. She forbade him to talk, she sang softly and went about the room, cleaning it, and making ready tho next meal, whilst the man’s eyes smiled upon her watchfully. It was wonderful how well the boy character suited her. She was 20, but now looked rtj. Her slim form was trim and neat in the knickers and Norfolk suit she had managed to procure. Her hair was cut quite nicely. Sidney even wondered who had been a party to robbing his darling of her beautiful dark brown hair, and he was resentful. But her face, clear cut and firm, was sweet, and tho eyes wide-set and frank in their innocent gaze, were beautiful to behold. And so the days passed very happily 7. Jim suspected nothing, but often speculated about this wonderfully clever boy with the refined manners and speech. Sidney' had said: “We shall hear his story soon, only wait.” And he himself recovered with wonderful rapidity, so Jim was content. It was a week later. The patient was seated in the big wicker chair, fully dressed. He had been very particular that Jim should officiate very often when his nurse was out and around the settlement, and so she was to have the great surprise of seeing him sitting up and dressed when she returned. It gave Jim a shock to see her when she entered and looked at Sidney with a sudden joyous smile and greeting, half fear, too, as she ran forward to his chair.

Are you sure you are well enough?” and she gazed anxiously at him. Jim muttered as he went out: “Strange boy; he fairly loves Sidney already. So do I. One can’t help it. But still, I’ve known him two years now', and /to only a week.” Late in the afternoon Clarice and Sidney were alone. Jim had left them to visit some other camp about ten miles away and would not be back till late in the evening. “Now 7 , dear,” said Clarice, “I must confess. Shall I?” “I suppose you must, and this cannot go on long, I know,” and Sidney sighed deeply and stroked the cropped head of “Boy,” as he called her now resting between his knees. She was squatting on the rug and looking abstractedly into the burning Jogs, clasping her knees with both hands. Suddenly she turned round and, kneeling on the floor, reached her hands up to Sidney’s shoulders and looking into his eyes said: “Remember, I’m not going away. You shan’t send me away. 'Where thou goest I will go, and where thou dwellest 1 will dwell.’” She said these last words in a low whisper and with adoring eyes. “You need me. 1 need you. Now say it shall be so. Say it, dear.” And she pleaded with agony of apprehension in her voice. Then breaking off, she suddenly said: “No, you shan’t even give an opinion; just wait until I have finished my story.” She returned to her former position—the man trembling with the sudden wave

of temptation to accept—this girl—(<# throw away convention. Ah! how he loved her. And he was weak yet from his illness. He closed his lips firmly, glad sh« had turned away her pleading face an I prepared himself to listen to her story, reserving his decision. Ah, no, it inusl not be. He had decided. “When you left me,” she began, “that night, and 1 had listened speechless t»> your confession, 1 was broken-hearted. You said it was good-bye forever; you said, ‘1 have done you an injury which I van never efface; but. God helping me, It shall end here.’ I knew it was little Ellie, your father’s good name, and your pun honour which muM: stand first, with’ roti. I could not have wished you to act otherwise. No. \«> indeed. 1 went away to my uncle’s home and went on with my life as if I had never met you on the voyage out from England. And somehow, a year passed—but 1 could not forget. My uncle died. I was left absolutely ylonv, with just a small income. A' friend of uncle’s who had gone from Canterbury to Auckland inxited me to visit her for a while and there in her houso was little Ellie. Ah! the joy* of meeting} the darling! ’ Clarice’s voice trembled- “ She was staying with my friend awaiting the new term at school, and what news she had for me of her father! I listened to it eagerly. That you should lead this life, convinced me that not only; were you seeking consolation and comfort in hard work out in tin- beautiful bush/ but that you must be—anxious about n. means of support. "S ou had told me that your lather disapproved <>f emigration, and, in fact, disapproved of all you had done since your marriage.” At this word Clarice's voice broke, amt she put her head on her knees, and her. form shook with sobs. Ihc man leaned forward. “Dear, 1 know. 1 know 7 you feel full of pity for me. J know that's how it all 1 began ’ ” “Yes. ’ Ami Clarice looked up once morrf at the logs burning. “Then came news your illness. .Jim had to write the weekly; letter to Ellie, and this was the first sign. J had expressly forbidden Ellie io mention me in her letters to you. f used to go to the school to visit the child and to take her out. It used to please niq asi much as it pleased her. One day I left' Mrs. Bailey to stay in Tauranga. A reia« tion of Mrs. Bailey’s wanted a companfoip help there, ami I thought it would be bet* ter to absorb myself in work. I wasf anxious about you, and had coaxed Eflio to write a little letter telling mo how, you wore getting on.

“Biit a few days after I had settled in my new quarters 1 was walking back to the farm from town when I was suddenly attacked by some ruffian in the semiAarkness. 1 was seized and gagged. I struggled fiercely, when suddenly the man flung me on the ground and left, and there coming along on horseback was the non of the lady for whom I now work. He is only a boy, but probably the ruffian never thought of that, and was neared. The lad was much concerned to see my sorry plight. We reached home, and his mother gave me wine, and insist--ed 1 .should go at once to bed. They Iboth sought to rally my spirits. The boy said, with a smile: ‘You would be safe dressed as a boy. You must (borrow my clothes next time.’ “All night I tossed and turned on my narrow bed. 1 was not so much concerned with my adventure, strange to say. as 1 was tortured with the thought of Sidney Martin.” Here she looked up Jmd smiled wistfully. “Sidney, alone, perhaps; ill —perhaps dying. The boy's clothes. Why not’ I could visit you. No one would know me. I had always been told I had a boyish face. We had ’Offen played theatricals when father was alive. 1 was always Rosalind, and loved the part. 1 resolved to fry, and made |ny plans. I told Mrs. Taylor I would go away, back to Auckland, for a’ few Weeks, to recover from the shock of the night attack. I would go to a hairdresser and sell my long hair, and I would immediately set out with a boy's outfit. “It took four days of my time—and much of my money—to get here. I had to borrow a horse from the doctor, Whom I visited. But he was glad of my company the 20 miles out. .Strange he Should have been coming up to yott just as I called to ask his help. I knew if you were worse this doctor, being the only one, would be sent for. And I was right. And, now that 1 have come, I •have decided I shall stay. I am not needed by anyone but you. My work is here.” She sighed softly, and leaned back Against Sidnev's knees once more. looking up quietly into his face as if for her now the whole matter had been settled. Sidney dare not return her gaze. He shunned the inevitable. Yet lie knew he must shatter her assurance. “Dearest, listen! You know I love you —you know that early marriage was turned to mockery by the mother of my child. You know how for three years I have striven for Effie's sake to live so that she should never know what a Another I had given her. You know Effie thinks her dead, and has no remembrance of the woman who deserted her in infancy for a light love. And you knowhow you came into my life, and when we met we each understood that we belonged io each other- married or not! Bound us I am hand and foot, you are mine and I am yours, darling. Suffering disgrace and dishonour through the woman whom I so early had become infatuated with, the disillusion and bitterness of those fust years of married life! Can anyone wonder what it was to me to meet you? To be loved by- one whom I recognized at once as my other self? Can anyone wqnder I fell into the temptation of basking in the sunshine of her presence for a few weeks? Ah, C larice, I'm trying to excuse myself for my weakness. But now. now once more vou come into mv life!” ‘A es, dear; and always I shall be here!” Bae said firmly. “I know-. 1 know— in spirit, yes. Yet the conditions are the same—honour, my father's good name, and Effie, mv child. Clarice! vou know what she is to me. The winsome, curly-haired baby, who loved her ,iad.lv always so devotedly. How can 1 bring her to shame!" < lariee put her head forward once more, her chin on her palm, meditatingly. e can say I'm her mother, as I will be. Iler new mother. You are a widower apparently, and your wife is really dead to you.” •Sidney groaned. ‘Aon make it hard for me.” he replied. ‘Hard.’ said Clarice, “some sacrifice must be made, and mine is willing! v made. Bo you not love me sufficientlyshe *»id reproachfully. \\ilh sudden passion the man took the girl into his arms and kissed her, and then, drawing in his breath quickly, said: •The sa. ritice of your good name, too. dear. So. no, I cannot accept it. I raniiot always remain here,” he continued. "Some day there* is the estate, I am my father heir. Ellie must lw taken home. Oli, Clarice! Can’t you see? It *• hard for US both. Dear one, be brave, take up your life again. At least I shall n»t have accepted your unselfish offer, your good name—your good name too.

A oil have pulled me through this difficulty and cheered me. We have had these few weeks together, and in the future we must just live in thought with each other. We could not be happylong—in dishonour, you know.”

“Am I to leave you in this desolate •spot, working away for Effie's support and with only Jim for a companion?" she said.

“Yes, dear. It is not all desolation. There is something alluring about bushclearing, something fascinating. It is a healthy life. In a few years this land will sell for twice its present value, and who knows —we may meet again. But yc>u—l am anxious about vou," he added.

“I am helpless, God know s, where you are concerned—helpless! And yet you are peculiarly solitary now.” Clarice sobbed as he spoke, but sprang up quickly and went into the small inner room as Jim opened the outer door of the whare. "Hello! sitting in darkness,” he said. “Only burning logs for a light; it looks cosy and snug, and so pleasant to see you sitting up. Here’s news of some kind," and he placed a telegram in Sidney’s hand. “Hope it's not bad news,” he added. There was a pause, then a rustling of paper. “Hold up, man! hold up!” and Jim rushed to pour brandy out for the fainting man in the chair. “Boy! Boy!” he shouted, ’come here.” They read the telegram together: “Motor accident ; Effie injured." Sidney recovering, said, "1 must go early.” “1 will come with you." said Boy quickly. They made preparations. Jim rose with the dawn and had the light cart ready at the door. They drove to the cross roads, eight miles, in fear and trembling for their invalid, and there the coach came along at eight o'clock, and they said good-bye hurriedly to Jim. All day and all night they- travelled, “Boy” and Sidney silently, yet with fear gripping their hearts. Next day. with wonderful strength and fortitude, the father looked upon his fair little daughter in the hospital cot —smiling her last at him. “Poor Daddy!" said Effie, her face like an angel’s, her curls ruffled about her; “who will comfort you now?” “Bov" stood hidden behind Sidney, overcome with emotion for a moment, then she vanished. Sidney took the child's face between his and kissed her. "The motor car came so quickly.” whispered Effie, “and I was pushing my pram out of the way. But don't grieve, don't. Daddy. Courage, you said, and Honour were the words of our shield. I tried to be brave, and I'm not afraid now. I did want you so badly.” She clasped his hands feebly. The blue eyes glazed for a moment. “Where’s Clarice? Daddy, she is my- darling too. Yours, you said once. She will comfort you, perhaps, if vou can find her. She told me not to tell."” The words began to come more faintly —“find her, find her." The nurse stepped forward and gave her a stimulant. •Sidney leaned heavily back in the chair. His child. Oh God! Everything going! What next? And so he sat dazed and stunned with grief, watching the dying child, and wondering blindly, madly wha it all meant. The nurse gazed at the white-faced, stricken man pityingly. Half an hour passed—an hour. Soon the medicine was once more administered. and another form stood by the nurse’s. A sweet-faced, pale girl, with dear eyes and broad brow, a hat low over her hair—Clarice! in her own dress. She knelt by the bed and watched for a glimmer of returning consciousness in tire small face upou the pillow. Effie raised her eyes, and seeing Clarice said: “Here you are, my little mother." and she smiled beaaitifully. “I always call her that. Daddy! I wanted a mother, although I had you. Diok after him.” she whispered. “Kiss me, both of you!” So saying she closed her eyes and peacefully slept former. And afterwards. For the two stricken bereaved ones. Clarice, nerved and strengthened by some strange insight into the inner life of things, and into Death, which Effie had met bo bravely, said “Good-bye* firmly. Sidney returned to the bush—-she to her lonely furrow. And what can the future hold?