Bush Innocence and TOwn Guile.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume 1, Issue 12, 1 September 1900, Page 932

Bush Innocence and TOwn Guile.

By Charles Owen

Illustrated by W. Wright,

ifp^lAß Glenfinnan came from Heaven Siyi! knows w hat outlandish place, but > IPD 1) sne brought two certain passports to 4ssr society — plenty of money and a beautiful face. In addition to this she was twenty-two yeai-s of age, and her own mistress. For the sake of appearances, she kept a hired chaperon, but to all intents and purposes, she did what she liked, and all the men knew that, when the time came for marriage, she would marry whom she liked. Bab Glenfinnan was a somewhat unusual girl. She was fresh and unsophisticated, and had been brought up entirely in the backwoods by a father, who had recently died, and by a governess, who was in a high sense a lady. The consequence was that she found the upper class society of . — a complete revelation to her, and learntthings of which she had never dreamed. Put Bab Glenfinuan on a horse, with a sidesaddle or without, .set her to do outrageous country things that civilised people had never heard of, and she was perfectly at home. She was not at home in the etiquette of afternoon teas, and she was so open that she acknowledged that the society of most other women bored her. Other women therefore dubbed her an abominable flirt, and seized every opportunity of showing their opinion of her in the delicate way of their own that women h«.ve. For three months she was decidedly, so far as meu were concerned, the reigning attraction of . It is an unfortunate rule in the tangled system of things, where you hardly expect rules, that no woman ever becomes an attraction without deposing another woman. This means complications, and oftentimes war of a bitter and deadly kind. It was war in this instance, and the history of it is

writ in very large letters on Bab Glenfinnan's heart. Not that she wittingly entered into the spirit of it, but she was forced sometimes to repel attacks, and to take notice of what people were saying aud doing. To her it was a matter of course that there should always be a cluster of men round her, aud she never realised that she was depriving anyone else of the pleasure of. life. " Why does Miss Carfoyle treat me with such contempt?" she asked her paid chaperon, a Mrs Hart, who had been her governess, and was still her counsellor. " Does she ?" "Horribly," said Bab. " I asked her today where she got that heliotrope dress she wears. You know, the one all flounced, with lace trimmings. She looks just lovely in it. She stuck her nose in the air, and suggested I should use my brains to discover a creation for myself." "My dear child," answered Mrs Hart, " you have taken the position here which Miss Carfoyle held, and she is slightly jealous. You can do without creations." Bab Glenfinnan lifted her clearly-marked eyebrows. " How small of her," she said, " I did not want to crib her dress. I only admired it. She ought to come up to the station for a bit, and learn that these thing don't matter much. After all, I'd sooner be dressed in my old blue habit, riding Sennacherib over the hills, than making a fool of myself with all this society humbug. Don't know why I came to town for the winter." Nevertheless, she looked supremely happy and unconscious that night at a dance, where she had as many as four dances with Ashton Moberly, the lion for the time being of the district, and not young. That is to say he

was thirty-five at least. He was a bird of passage, wintering in New Zealand for the sake of his health, and nobody knew much about him except that he had plenty of money, and was a wondrously amusing companion, either to man or woman. He had been an appendage of Constance Carfoyle's at first, and she watched Bab with black envy when that innocent young lady annexed

OR WITHOUT

him. Circumstances ultimately helped her to a form of revenge, which was satisfactory to her.

" You don't live here altogether," said Moborly to Bab, in one of the intervals. "Live here," answered Bab, " Oh, dear, no. Horrid hole this." " And where do you livo?" ho asked. "Up in the bush," she said, "among the hills and the sheep, whero you can iind a Maori who isn't always drunk. Don't judgo New Zealand by this!" She gave her

fan a sweep, indicating the room, and Mobe r1 y laughed. "Have you lived in the bush always?" ho questioned. "Always," she said. "Ah, I must sou the bush," lie said, looking at her with eyes full of admiration. " But what do you find toiunuseyour self in those outlandish places ?" "Amuse!" she echoed, " amuse ! We don't think of that there. You see it's my station since Dad died, and I have to look after it bo long as I'm responsible for it. There's plenty to do. Directly wintor's over I'm off. up there again, and a nice picnic it will be after being away so long." It was this sort of spontaneous openness in Bab that fascinated the men and filled Constance Carfoyle with black

malice and envy. Human material varies, but in this instance, if she had chosen it for herself, Constance Oarf oyle couldn't have had better for her purpose than that which came to her hand. The winter passed, and then just when the westerly gales began to blow fiercely Bab packed up, and took her departure by an early train for the station. The men mourned, but forgot her in fortyeight hours, and most of them again did homage to Constance Carfoyle. That young lady, however, had not forgotten, and she * had overheard Bab promise to be back for the next winter, a thing she by no means desired, and she did not intend it should happen if if was possible to prevent it. Bab, when she got home, found the picnic she expected, and for a week she was too busy to think. The second week, however, there came a reaction, and she began to miss the frivolities. She took to dressing herself in some of her prettiest blouses of an evening— she said to keep in touch with the outer world. Somehow, now that it was far away, it did not seem such humbug, and certainly the station was more lonely than she had thought it. The hills, too, had got stale, and Bab began to long for new rides. The fever of unrest was upon her. Then one night there came a telegram for her, which she opened with great expectations. It was as follows :— « Have to return to England. I want to ask you something first. May I come to you. ASHTON MOBEELT." Out of fairyland there had come a great o-ift to Bab. She sat down and answered to her telegram at once. « Come to me.— Bab Olenfinnan." She sang about the house, and the country seemed less stale after all. It was strange, but on this occasion she confided in nobody, and she did not show the telegram or her reply to Mrs Hart. Moberly got her telegram at night. He packed up what he required, and caught

the morning train, which took him within fifteen miles of the station. He had to drive the rest of the way, and Bab, calculating when he could arrive, had sent a trap to meet him. It was gathering dusk when he reached the homestead. Bab had taken great care with her appearance. She waited for him to be shown to her in the sittingroom, which she called her own especial den. She had lighted it softly with a carefully shaded lamp. Bab had excellent taste, and the room gave Moberly a thrill as he entered it. Bab advanced to him, with her hands outstretched. " Here you are," she said. "I got your telegram last night, Miss Glenfinnan," he answered, "can I do anything for you ?" Bab's hands dropped, and her face went pale. " I sent it in answer to yours," she said. "My what?" he asked. " Your telegram," she said, " the telegram you sent to me the day before yesterday." " Shew it to me," he demanded. Her hand took it from the bosom of her dress and gave it to him half mechanically. Then she sat down in a chair and watched him read it. He knitted his brows, and anger gathered over his face. " What did you understand by this telegram, Miss G-lenfinnan ?" he asked. Bab did not answer. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, and her hands were clenched. " I did not send this telegram," Moberly went on. "I am afraid it is a very low practical joke that someone has played on you, Miss Glenfinnan. I cannot, of course, help knowing in what way you understood it. It is partly true. I am going home within a month, and I am going to be married to a lady I have been engaged to for three years. You cannot think how sorry I am " Don't," cried Bab. " I must say lam sorry," he said. "It is painful to me to have to explain to you that I never dreamed of sending that telegram. I came when you asked me, as I thought you did, because I fancied you were

in want of some help that I miglit give you, and we had been friends in . There is still one way in which I can serve

you, and rob the person who sent the telegram of a portion of her satisfaction." "Yes?" enquired Bab. "I shall return from here," said Moberly, "and everyone will know where I liave been, and speculate on my object. It shall be tactily understood that I, asked you to marry me, and that you refused me." Bab rose from her seat. Her face was white and drawn, but her eyes were brave and her mouth set firmly. "Mr Moberly," she said, "I, too, am Vol. I.— No. 12.— 06.

sorry that you should bo put to tho pain of this interview with me. Let us burn those telegrams, and forget once and for all that this episode has happened. Tho porson who has played this practical joke on mo is weleomo to all tho satisfaction that thero is to bo got out of it. Tho greatest kindness you can do to me is to

give out in town that you camo up here to say good-bye to mo and Mrs Hart before you loft for England." Moborly bowed. He understood that her pride forbade the lie ho had suggested, and in hits heart ho thought she was right, though ho would gladly" havo made any sacrifice for hor. Just for a moment a tinge of regret touched him that he was not a man free to take advantage of all that ho had discovered.

Bab made a great effort, and acted hostess to Ashton Moberly for the first and last time. Mrs Hart never suspected the truth, though she wondered at Bab's thoughtfulness, which lasted many days. She wondered also why she would never return, when the winters came, to the brightness of the society of . It was a thing between Bab and Moberly, and never to be told toothers, that Constance Carfoyle's spiteful joke blocked the way, and had left Bab's heart a written and cancelled page.