NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 4, 22 January 1913, 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 sketches of Dominion life and people, woven in short story form, are required,.and should be headed “New Zealand Stories.’’ Stamps for return of MS. mutt be enclose?

The Gift

By

ANNIE WHITAKER, Tauranga.

z-fX ORA sighed wearily as she sank on I \ to the sand in a sheltered nook ,11 and leaned baek against the rocks. Cheltenham Beach was nearly deserted. It was mid-winter, yet the day was lovely. There was sunshine and cool breezes, shimmering water, and white-winged yachts out near where Rangitoto reared its dark head. Yet Dora was depressed and discontented ; life to her was just now disappointing. She was young, and wondered if this sort of thing would last. This “sort of thing” meant the ever-widening breach between herself and Jim—Jim, her husband. She took a letter from within the pages of the book which she was reading. It ran as follows:— The Bush. Dear Dora, lam glad.to hear you are well ana appear to be enjoying the change to city life. If you wish it, Susan will take you to Rotorua. I may be here three months yet, so that there will be plenty of time for you both. Will Bailey, the manager from Wellington, cannot relieve me just yet, and it is slow work building the mill short-handed. ' I may run over to Auckland soon. Your affect. husband, JIM. “And this is all,” thought Dora; “how cool and indifferent. What a mistake it was our marriage, and now we both seem unhappy.” She shivered and a kind of fear gripped her heart. Dora’s father wars a-well-to-do farmer, who believed in giving his children a good, sound education. Each of the seven had been in turn to the college in Auckland. Dora returned to the far distant farm in Dargaville with her small head full of new ideas. She found, however, no scope fpr them on the busy farm. She must share the work, and numerous household duties. The house was crowded; there were four men living there too, and Dora’s mother and two elder sisters were for ever busy, eooking, cleaning, and mending. Dora seemed different to the rest. She was dreamy and romantie. Her sisters often teased her, and she wept bitter tears at what she considered her hard Jot. Then Jim came. Jim loved Dora at once, calmly, firmly, and with a love unchangeable like himself. Jim was plain to look upon. Jim was fifteen years Dora’s senior; but Jim adored Ker. Jim meant freedom; Jim was going for a trip to England. So Dora listened wistfully, her b.ig eyes full of wonder as lie plainly! put the question, “Will you come away with me?” Dora tremblingly said, “Yes.” And later on during their brief engagement she had acknowledged that she really did not love him, and asked him to go away and forget her. Jim had said. “Do you dislike me?” No. “Is there anyone else?” No, with a little blush. “You wish to leave this place and see something of the world? And I can make you happy, you think?” “Oh, yes!” Dora had said; “but it is not fair to you.” "You will love me soon. That will come,” he had replied. And so they married, but tlm wedding trip to Rngland was indefinitely postponed, for Jun had a sad misfortune.' His sheep ..took . a disease and died off in dozens. He worked night and day, but nothing eouhl save them. Dora had a nice home, with every little luxury suited to no duinty a wife, and

Dora now was free, if she wished to dream, swinging in the garden hammock, on sunny afternoons under the acacias, with the books she was fond of reading beside her, and none reproached her.

Susan, Jim's sister, was an excellent housekeeper. She had kept house for Jim for years. Why should Dora trouble her head about it? But after a few months Dora found her new freedom was but a new bondage. She was almost as dissatisfied as ever. Jim’s kindness palled upon her; his; silent ways, his apparent cool indifference hurt

her, and Susanr's perfection in cooking and household ordering gave her pangs of jealousy. She was treated as a child —a pet child —not as mistress of the nice new home. Whereas Dora was developing fast and awakening from her girlish dreams, she was demanding the woman's share of life, her place, her rights. Two years had passed, and now Jim was out in the bush near the Wairoa, one hundred miles from Auckland. For three weeks now the holiday had passed pleasantly enough. Both Susan and Dora had enjoyed the change; the life of Queen Street, with its gay ehiqM, the Art Gallery and Die organ recitals, was a pleasure to both. Yet somehow Dora was strangely resiles*. She had tirno to think about Jim now that lie was away from her, time to wonder why he had grown so indifferent to her, and why hie calm, kind letter hurt her.' At least, her indifference wa« melting away. She did not use tv care that Jim did not love her.

And so she pondered, until a voice .roused her.

“What good fortune, Dora, to find you here,” and a young man of about 23 years stood smiling down upon her. He was handsome, and carried himself with a jaunty air. He was just a smart city youth with rather too much dash and assurance about him.

Dora looked up, and a sparkle of interest came into her face.' “Gome and sit down, Frank,” she said, making room in her sheltered nook. “I was feeling ‘blue.’ I’m so glad you came."

"What's up? More boredom? By Jove, jf you’d married me I guess you wouldn’t be here all alone for hours.” "Hush, hush, Frank; 1 won't hear you speak like that. You know it is my own ■wish, anil I don’t mind having a few hours alone a lovely day like this.” Dora rebuked Frank. "Well! Cousins are privileged, and I can’t help bub have an outburst at times; and how you endure living on that lonely sheep-farm with those two slow, elderly folk 1 don’t know.” Dora prepared to rise; she looked rather pale.

"Frank, I will not listen. I'm sorry I told you I was depressed. It was just a hsadache. and now 1 -will go home.” Frank looked gloomy. “Just a minute, Dora. I didn’t mown io talk like that. You know your owu business best, but we were such chums at Co)., and you told me all your thoughts, ami we are still staunch <riend«. Are wet**

'.‘Oh yes,” said Dora, rather indifferently, and then, as she bSw the “eyes beseeching her forgiveness, she said: “Yes,‘Frank, and I do enjoy your company still. But keep off the subject of my married life. You offend me.” And so they talked of the college days again, and the rare times they had had, ami of their numerous mutual friends. Dora waxed enthusiastic, and she liked to see Frank’s eager eyes and hear his glib remarks. He entertained her and amused her so much. She soon forgot her ead mood. If only Jim eould talk like this.

“I wish you would go with me to the play to-night. ‘Kismet’ is lovely, I hear.” said Frank, with studied carelceencee. “I can’t leave Susan alone,” said Dora, “and you know ehe thinks playa Frank controlled a rising oath. “Suean again, Dora,” sraid he under his breath and looking down. “Have I no claim upon you at all?” 1 ■ Dora ignored the question. “I should love to go. I wonder if she would mini} “Don’t aek her,” said Frank. “Really, Dora, is it fair that you should be treated like a child? It ie absurd.” Dora’e look rebuked him; yet she was sorry for Frank. What was the matter with’ the boy lately? He seemed out of temper and jealous of her thoughts of others. She laughed out: "Come and I will show you Susan does not always treat me as a child. You ehall ■ have the pleasure, the joy and felicity of taking your married cousin Dora to the play.”

Frank’s eyes shone with triumph and he did not mind the little 'banter in her tone. Susan received the news of the proposed visit to “Kismet” in grim silence and with a pursing of her thin lips.

Dora was hurriedly arranging her pretty dark hair and putting on her daintiest blouse before the mirror. But Dora needed little adornment; she was sweet, petite and very beautiful this evening.

"Will you-mind being left, Susan?” said Dora, in her anxiety to please everyone. “Not at a 11,”.. Sudan replied slowly; “but, if you want my opinion, I think you ought not to go.” “Why?” inquired Dora, wincing and turning pale. “That cousin of yours comes round here too often. You might consider Jim a little ” '

“Jim! Jim! What .does it matter to Jim where I go—or what I do?” and Dora’s voice broke with sudden passion. Then,’ turning, she hurriedly took her cloak from a peg and ran out into the road, meeting Frank on the way up to the house.

Just as they were going onto the deck of the smart Peregrine, which stood at the pier head, Jim landed from it and passed them unseen and unseeing. He was paying a flying visit to Auckland, and had been transacting business in the city all the day. Now he was coming across to see his little wife and his sister before returning to the bush. Jim s disappointment was bitter, though no one would have guessed it,.to find that Dora was out. He sat gripping the arms of the easy ehair at one side of the -hearth, where a bright fire burned, while Susan sat opposite working her crochet needle aapidly and telling her tale. Susan thought it her duty to explain what she considered the position of affairs. And when Susan knew her duty not all the forces in the Kingdom eould have turned her aside from it.

So Jim listened, sitting there quaking and trembling for love of little Doia, never doubting her for one moment, but deploring the fact that he could not protect her from such attention as Susan had hinted at. He had neyer deserved such a rare, sweet wife. He had not known how to win her; he eoqldr not even entertain her and ainiise her as another man could. Jim was fighting the ijemon of jealousy, too. Outwardly he looked unmoved.

"You are mistaken, I feel sure, Susan,” he said,.severely. Dora’s cousin is quite the proper man to take her to the theatre, and anywhere, in fact." “1 tell, you, Jim, he’s too flush, ’’ said Susan in the rapid colonial way. “Why, be worships the ground she walks on. Anvone with han an eye can see that, Mid if you take my advice, you’ll get u» out .of thus quickly”; and {Susan waved her arm »a if <0 denote—Devon port and Auckland. "I don’t think that neeesaary," said Jim, and he sighed Susan retired to bed at her usual hour. 9.30 which was as unalterable aa the law of the Medes and Persian*, and Jim Mt

on garfng Into the dying heart of the fire, his own heart faint within him. What could he do? Nothing; only trust Dora. He had never pleased Dora, he knew that. A great hulking, plain chap such as he was a fool to marry her. Then, his head on his hand, he thought of those dreams of his woven in silence and hidden deep in his big heart, of email children growing up around him on his big sheep farm, of a Swing in the orchard, of a small pony, Of a dear little miniature Dora carried about on his unwearying shoulders, merry voices, happy laughter, the patter Of little feet, lie groaned aloud. Was that not to be? Then, shaking himself, he went out into tire road. It was nearly midnight. He had heard the shriek of the steamer, the last from Auckland. He would go and meet the couple. Why not? His was the first claim.

Just at the end of the road he saw a couple stop suddenly. He stepped aside instinctively behind some bushes. He guessed they were lovers saying goodnight, for he saw the man seize the girl in his embrace and kiss her passionately. Then, to his astonishment, he recognised Doya flying past his retreat and along the road to her temporary home. Tie leaned heavily on the fence. He felt stunned and wounded. He could not at first grasp the significance of this. He roused himself quickly, and ran to the end of the road, -but the man had disappeared. lie had mad thoughts of running up to him and killing him; his heart was bursting with hatred and terrible rage. Suddenly he put his hand to his head.

Why. Dora perhaps consented. She loved him! Slowly returning to the house, Jim dragged his feet along. Revenge upon the man Dora loved would ibe no use—not at all. She must not be injured. The dear child-heart. Then he lay through the night on the comfortless couch in the little sitting-room, tossing about, quite sleepless, and wondering—wondering wliat it was best to do. He rose before dawn, and prepared a hasty meal for himself, as bushmen know well how to do, and then settled himself to write a note to his wife.

He sealed this, and pushed it under the closed door of Dora’s room. Then seizing his small bag, his hat and coat, the left the house to catch the first boat io Tauranga from Auckland. In the ibush he would have time to think the matter out. The only thought now that held him in its grip was that if Dora loved this man, she must be free to marry him, and Jim would have to disappear. There were ways and means. Out in the bush, who would know and who would eare? Only the faithful Susan.

Dora lay awake that night, too, staring with wide eyes at the darkness, a prey io conflicting emotions. The sudden revelation of the meaning of i’rank’s affection for her had taken her jby surprise, and Iter whole soul sickened at the thought of it. Indignation and disgust filled her thoughts, as she remembered how Frank had so misunderstood her good, frank fellowship. “Dora! Dora!” he had said as lie seized her suddenly that night at the end of the road, “what a mistake yo.u married Jim! We were made for each other”; and then he madly kissed her. And she in wild dismay had tom herself away, and had almost choked as she said in anger:

How dare you? Jim is mv husband, and I lose him! and then she had simply fled away.

Heating at her heart now with glad persistence was the echo of those last words to Frank: “I love him: I Jove him!" She lay in an ecstacy of feeling - -that this Jim. whom she now knew she really loved, was hers! What a happy revelation. At least Frank had shown her this! She could scarcely be indignant long, she was so happy. For deep in her heart was a secret, which had rather frightened and depressed her these last few weeks, but which now whispered -would unite them for ever. Ah! what a difference it made, now she loved him. And lie, why Jini would be won over; his indifference would fade sway, for now "I love him," she repeated to herself. Not thia love-sick boy-eounin, with the handsome face and jaunty air, the glib tongue; no. she lover! steady,' silent, {Hain .Irin. She smiled in the darkness. Would he be glad? Ami •he pictured to herself the joy of their re-uni on.

Slw heard someone moving about the house in the early dawn. >Suaaai was always up early, am! she firmly shut her ryes tight, hugging her secret and her

new-found love tightly to her bosom, and dreamed her dream. Susan knocked to say breakfast was ready, so Dora rose and began languidly to dress. She caught sight of the paper near the door, and, with d-azed, wondering eyes she read Jim’s note:

“Dear Wife, —I came to meet you last night, and saw—saw why you never have loved me. I do not doubt your honour, and I am going back to finish my work in the bush, where I may think of some way to bring you happiness.—Yours, Jim.”

Dora clutched the foot of the bed for support, and then, sinking to the floor, she read the note again. Jim had been here, and returned without seeing her! Jim. was wounded. Oh, what a tangle. She read his love and thoughtfulness for her in the note. His very humility made 'him assume she must love this cousin of hers. She read his despair. How could she have been blind so long, so idiotic not to know the value of Jim from the first. Oh! how she deplored her romantic, high-flown ideals, her dreamy visions of some inhuman angel for a husband. What nonsense she thought it now. Any other wife but she would be with Jim in the bush now, sharing any hardships there might be gladly. Ah! and so would she. She would go immediately. She would tell him all. Susan came again to the door, impatient. “tome in!” said Dora feebly. Susan was to be told. Susan opened the door to find Dora seated in a heap on the floor, pale, and with heavy eyes staring at a letter in her hand.

“Where’s Jim?” stammered Susan, astonished.

“Head this, Susan!” and Dora’s lips quivered. Susan read the letter with a hard look in her eyes.

“Oh! so I thought aS much!” she declared with emphasis. “That’s what’s driven Jim away without a word to me.”

“Susan, Susan!” pleaded Dora. “You don’t think that I Would be unfaithful to Jim for one moment, do you?” “That’s what your baby ways have brought you to, anyway!” said Susan. “That precious cousin of yours gave himself away last night, and Jim saw it, eh! Oh, I don’t think you meant any harm,” continued Susan in a softer tone.

“I have been very foolish, I know I have,” said Dora. “The worst of it is, Dora,” said Susan sternly, “you have never cared for Jim. Ay, the times I’ve noticed you as cold as ice to him, and such patience as he had with you. Ay, Jim’s worth any woman’s love!” And Susan’s voice rose indignantly.

“Susan, Susan, listen!” and Dora rose to her feet, and raised her head high, looking at Susan with a light in her eyes and a dignity quite new to her. “You are not the only •woman who loves Jim. I am Jim’s wife,” she added proudly, “and I tell you I do love him—and—• and ”

Dora threw her arms round Susan’s neck, and, burying her face on Susan’s shoulder, she whispered, with sobs, a few words.

Susan’s whole body relaxed, her face suddenly softened, a glad look came into her eyes, and tears of joy too. She clasped the small, shrinking form in her strong arms, and together they wept. Dora was indeed forgiven, for would she not bring to them at last the best gift. Happiness to Susan’s lonely old heart, as well as to that of her beloved brother, the only being on earth who really loved her.

After breakfast the two women began to plan how. Dora could Teach Jim as soon as possible. She was quite determined to go to him, and to go alone. It was Friday, and the next boat was Monday. How long the days were. But she readied sleepy little Tauranga at last early in the morning of Tuesday, and caught the coach for Wailii. After a drive of twelve miles the driver put her and her luggage down at the road which led off to the bush, and tbld llet that she might possibly find someone going up who would give her a lift.

So she sat by the roadside and waited. It was a very lovely cool sunny day, she could see for miles—over to the sea and the mount out in the harbour. The air was delicious. Dora felt quite elated. But she had to wait a long time before a cart rumbled along which turned up towards the bush. The man was pleased to find room for the lady and her luggage, and she chatted with him all the steep path upwards, and admired the wild grandeur of tire scenery. At last they were in the bush under the mighty trees, and on they went further and further to the source of the river. Here

was the clearing and the little whare which was pointed out to her as belonging to the Boss. What a desolate spot it was just here. Her heart ached for Jim’s loneliness now. The grey gaunt trees looked ghostly—left standing just where the fire had robbed them of life and beauty. Dora got down at the place where the track showed it led to the whare. She told the man she would leave her luggage on the roadside for her husband to fetch later. She knew it ■would be safe.

The door was open, and so was the curtainless window. The sun sent shafts of golden Ted light through them upon the bowed head of poor Jim. The work of the day over, he was sitting here disconsolate and inert—wondering, wondering! Dora was forever in his mind. What was he to do?

She softly stepped up liehind him and placed her cool fingers before his eyes. “Guess, guess,” she whispered playfully.

Jim’s heart stood still. Was he losing his senses? Then sitting immovable, the soft fingers upon his eyes, he let himself believe it. Yes, it was Dora —Dora— with a curious sweetness and tender feeling in that one word, “Guess.” His pulses beat more quickly—“ Dora!” He turned round sharply, grasped her hands in his, and then talcing her closely to him he covered her face with kisses. Suddenly he put her from him. “But what does it mean? I forgot, I forgot,” he said coldly. “Have you come to explain—to explain away—you know?”

“Now, Jim, dear,” said Dora, in her new, grown-up woman’s voice, “T’m tired. I want tea and a rest. I’ve travelled all this way, and as I’m not to leave you for ever so long—in fact, never—why, there’ll be plenty of time for explanations.”

“What a callous brute I am,” said Jim. “Come! Here’s the little bedroom; take off your hat. I’ll have tea in a jiffy. It’s all rough and comfortless here, you know, and you won’t like it,” and Jim laughed unsteadily, and with excitement.

He blew up the open fire and put on the kettle. He found a small white cloth (specially reserved), and soon had the bare wooden table spread. He drew up a chair for Dora, and kneeling before her he lifted her foot up to take off the dusty boots. And then Dora leaned over io him, and clasping him round tlie neck and blushing all over her face, she said, “I can’t wait, Jim. I’ve come to tell you that I’ve found out that I love you. Oh! so much, dear, and that I have always loved you. In fact, I could not remain away from you any longer, and I’m going to keep house for you in this dear little whare for three months. Won’t that be lovely?” ■“Come along, tea first,” said Jim joyously, a glad light in his eyes. He looked wonderfully young. What a happy meal they had. and Dora washed the dishes afterwards whilst Jim dried them, and he showed her where he kept tliem. She declared herself shocked at the untidy state of the little whare and its comfortless appearance, but she would alter that to-

morrow, she sai-i, with gleeful notes in her voice. Then Jim liad to fetch her portmanteau, and w-hilst he was absent she began her loving task of sweeping up the hearth, putting fresh logs on to the fire, lighting the lamps and arranging the bits of furniture. She dived into the dark recesses of a cupboard and fished out some old slippers and put them to warm—for Jim.

Jim could scarcely believe his eyes. Dora sat on the rough mat at his feet, whilst he smoked, her cheeks crimson, so unusually pale, her eyes dancing with delight and happiness. “And now I’ve to tell you all from the beginning.” And she did —all her thoughts and ideals of her girlish days, of which ehe had never spoken to him before. What a difference now she loved him, and Jim, too, could speak, it seemed, with sympathy and understanding. And then after the story was ended, and Frank’s misdeed was quickly passed over, Dora turned her face up to Jim and said:

“One more secret, Jim. The best is last.”

She pulled his head down, and putting her mouth to his ear she told him.

Dancing before the delighted gaze of Jim came once more the pictures he had often fancied and fondly pondered over—the swing in the orchard, the little pony, the little miniature Dora, the pattering feet and happy little baby voices. Oh! It -was coming true. What h.»npin.ess! And yet these visions quickly faded as he gazed at the real joy before him, the real gift of this new love. Here was a living, breathing Dora. He looked down into the sweet shy face of hie little wife, and with a grateful heart he thanked God she was his.

And so their honeymoon really began.