CHAPTER VII.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 February 1901, Page 349

CHAPTER VII.

-.**< RETURNING BOATS. nTHK outward visible sign of Ruth Opie's happiness made itself moro manifest every day. She grew younger, gayer, busier, smarter. , She never sat at night in her shop now, watching folk go by in envy of those who went by two and two. Her jealousy of Pakeha, with other jealousies, was a past tense, for she knew the hour "The Lad's " gratitude and esteem changed to affection, She had taken up a wrong idea she told herself severely.

When she had concluded " He " was not on the face of the earth, this was " He "— made flesh, and in the most exquisite form a woman's ideal of a man can come to her — in the form of a son ; with all a lover's tenderness and revei'ence, but none of his demand. Nothing to undo, no pride to break or keep — no penance.

For the first time Ruth Opie was taken care of, and where she would have sunk herself in taking care ! Once only she intruded on the reserve which Frank kept about his past. " Lad, have 'c a mother 'ome ?" " She died when I was a lad," he answered, and her heart was at rest. No old woman could claim him, and there seemed no other woman at all. The first night that he took her out on his arm compensated for all her lonely years. She walked with a confident, almost jaunty step, and compared him to every woman's man on the road. There was not one like him. She registered her viotory step by step, and pitied the poor miserable women who had to put up with different sort of men. Once she ti'ipped, and in an abstracted fashion he held her up. " Take care, wahine," he said. Then suddenly the light dimmed in the gardens through which they walked. She became conscious of the rustle of women's garments, of young fair faces passing by — who was wahine ? But her trouble was for a moment ; let her be content. She had done very ill in deceiving the world, yet spite of it, she had been given at least for a time, all that she had ever dreamed. Voice, touch, eyes, words, ways, were all in her dream, but infinitely more, he was here, with countless personalities she had not counted. His pride for one thing, which she learned to appease by numberless pretences. First, that his board money saved her privation (she put it by each week and saved it for him in case of need). She was too genei'ous to wound his sensitiveness by any apparent aid or help, but in the kindliness of real self-giving made it seem that he helped her. And after a time he did. But at the first his evident poverty, his search for employment renewed day after day, as she guessed, without success, troubled her. One night he surprised her in tears. " Why, Ruth, dear, what is it ?" She lifted her quivering tear-stained face, and added the lie to her list : "I be troubled,

lad, 'bout business. It be all agoin' to rack an' ruin weth me. It wants a young man to et, looken braave an' smart, tell cc truth, an' what with the 'ouse and one thing an' nuther, I reckon I've bin muddlin'." " Could I be of any assistance ?" " Plaise sure, lad, and thank cc kindly." The next morning Frank set to work over the accounts and catalogues, and quite unexpectedly got interested. The queer little shop, with its appropriate name, had been shrewdly managed. " Why, Ruth, cheer up," said Frank, after a week's work, " there's nothing the matter with the business, you know. It's a little behind the times perhaps, and would bear some new life in it. If you don't object I might attend sales for you while I'm idle ? Do you mind a few innovations? Ruth Opie's stratagem worked better than she expected, and her jubilation showed in her face. She insisted that the labourer was worthy of his hire, and for the time being solved a problem for Frank that had not hitherto found a solution — how he was to remain under the roof of his humble friend without imposing upon her kindness. He would have starved sooner than eat the bread of dependence — especially dependence upon a woman, and one on whom he had no claim. As weeks went by, he began to take real pride in the success of his innovations, thus finding, as many another has done, selfforgetfulness and an opening to the highway by a narrow path. A. fresh set of customers began to visit the small shop, and among them some of literary taste and pretention, and Ruth Opie, her cares and labours lessened, would sit with her afternoon gown on in the parlour behind the shop — the door of which was open — listening in profound wonder and admiration to discussions and opinions which dazed her, or shaking her fist metaphorically at " they hussies," who tormented her by their arts and artifices, as they sought to attract undue attention from the handsome young salesman, whose voice was not local to Little Burke Street, and whose dark eyes were so sad.

The situation was a strange one certainly, and Ruth, the more she knew of Frank, the more she wondered, and the more fearful she became that the existing conditions would be broken by " the lad " coming into his own. That he had been defrauded and ill treated she believed. "Aw I do kuaw it," she would affirm to herself. " Ess." Some day he would tell her all the story. Some days he was restless and irritable, the matters of tin shop would become repugnant to him, and he would disappear for hours at a stretch, losing himself in the crowd of the gay city, or plunging into the labyrinth of the Chinese slums, study its darker side, and the wreck that life could make of humanity. He made many stray acquaintances in this fashion, and came upon some odd stories at first hand. As the spring came on he haunted the public gardens and the suburbs, and one day, at Toorak, there emerged from a villa a man so like Howard Grey in figure and bearing that a smart shock of remembrance pulled him up somewhat suddenly. But the man, whoever he was, wore the conventional morning suit of a well-dressed man, which greatly altered his appearance. Frank could have made sure by a call at the address given, but he recoiled sensitively from the ordeal. If his world ever heard of him again, it must not be still as a failure. The incident, however, set him thinking of his MS., and as he walked back something in the stir of the city, with its teeming life softly glowing under the evening lamps, stirred his pulses. He stood on a bridge which spanned the Yarra, flowing silently and stee dily seaward, reflecting every glint of lamp-light that touched its surface. The soft splash of returning oars, the voices of the boatmen, their blurred forms, the distant glare of the city, and the spanning evening Australian sky, with the lurid west redsplashed still agaiust the silver-grey, all got into the picture which fixed in his brain.

Almost before Ruth had cleared the supper table he was busy transcribing ifc. With a flush on his cheeks and a light in his

eyes, Ruth had not seen there boforo, ho wrote for several hours. Several times ho looked up dreamily with a half smile on his lips, but Ruth knew he did not see her. She was satisfied it was not a love lettor by the size of the paper. Besides love lottors were written on both sides of the paper. At last the busy pen ceased scratching. " I'll call it Returning Boats," Frank said out loud, then put it inan*nvelope, addressed, and went out to post it. For a brief few hours there had been a return of that inward liberty which in a past day had given him his power. Personal feeling, criticism, had not existed to him. He had been but a supplement, to his own thought. Ah ! the freedom, the joy of it — it was his first tustu of happiness sinee — — ! And his happiness had been self-evolved, It was from no outside source. Would it return to him again, this magic exhilaration ? Of the MS. he had given Howard Grey, he could not judge. It was all a confused memory of horrible pain, with which he had been shut in and encompassed till brain and heart burned with one consuming lire. But to-night, he knew not how or why, there was a new spontaneity in thought and imagination. A week later he and' Ruth sat at the breakfast table together, and the little old lady, who was peering into the pages of tho An/us, suddenly began to choke. Looking at her in surprise, which changed to alarm as Frank noted her paling cheeks and shaking hands, he got up hastily and went to her side. She pushed the paper under his nose, and too close to his eyes for him to see, and gasped : " Boats ! Returnin' Boats !" Frank's hands crunched the paper, and then steadied it, his eyes devouring the page. Yes ; there was his article. Confused and confusing sensations, as one coming back from death catches broken accents of familiar voices, and with eyes yet dim, sees little flickers of light, so Frank heard and saw fleeting suggestions, bright possibilities. He staggered to his seat, weak and faint, not able in this first moment of

resurrection to bear the light. His head went down on his arms. For the first time in her life Ruth Opie heard a man's sobs. Each one struck her like a blow. " Don't 'cc cry now, dearie, don't 'cc now!" And bending over him, she cried herself. He lifted his head with a look that Ruth saw always. It thrilled her with communicated life. " There was once a story written," he said, quietly, " about a man called Lazarus, who died and was buried, and friends wept, and pub him out of their life for ever. After he had lain in the graye — given over to silence and darkness — a voice called him: ' Ootne forth !' I am a Lazarus." "Aw, dearie," she answered, with her brow all wi'inked and furrowed with anxiety and awe. "Tez ole rite," she touched his cheek timidly with her hand. " There's me an' the Lord; not but I've smirched things with thumb and forefinger, handlin', but when the Lord be good to a body, Be's more than middlin', sure enough! Tedun fitty fur a man to be puffin' and blawen, but I do think 'tes a shame fur un to .be rout bout like cc es, saame as me. 'Owsuinevvur, Lord will do it, so there 'tes."

"Awthees allus back un up," answered Frank, putting his arm round her waist, and mimicking her broad accent affectionately : " I tell cc wat tes, I'm fosed think sometimes theert biggest man."

The vanity which this remark produced worked on her like wine, and affected her head. She had quite an idea of her own importance — nobody in the neighbourhood was quite good enough for her. Frank went out early, and left the shop to her care. Her first act was to fold each Argus, with Frank's article displayed. She knew it was his — hadn't she seen him write it? Her expectations for him flowed full and fast. It was with something of surprise she noted that the external aspect of the world was aot ohanged. The dingy street, lit with brilliant sunshine, wore the same aspect as of any other fine day. In her first leisure

she read the article, and while she read forgot the author. Then the second time she read, and the second time saw only the word picture. When she found the shop was not crowded with eager purchasers of the newspaper, she took to canvassing. Had he or she read the article : " Returning Boats? Not?"

" I tell cc wat tes. I caan't for the life ay me see what ole the trash in the paapers es printed fur, but, my dear, I am fosed tell cc truth, when I did raid that I was maazed !"

By noon she had sold out. Still nothing occurred, and she began to hope that even as a man of consequence, Frank might abide with her still for a time as parlour-boarder.

That evidently was Frank's intention. He returned to supper, pale and tired, but with an expression that meant not only anticipation, but realised good. The. next day he applied himself with fresh energy to the business, contriving to write at odd hours. With a delicious excitement Ruth watched him from day to day — he ions different, bless him ! But the difference added to his manliness and charm. His eyes and gestures were expressive, the languor and drooping of his bearing were less pronounced, his manner less apologetic and more commanding, his actions more decisive. Resolved on a plan, he carried it through. He was still a riddle to his loyal friend, but of one thing she was sure — he was feeling his feet ; the ground no longer crumbled beneath him. His nervous depression lifted, and when one day he gaily suggested that they should go to the theatre in the evening as he was becoming quite a moneyed man, she was thrown into a bewilderment of amaze and excitement. Her eyes grew wider and wider with joy till the evening ; all the day she feverishly anticipated some prevention of the great scheme; Providence would never wink at so much ecstasy. But nothing transpired, and when Ruth Opie found herself actually in a cab, beside her idol, bowling through the fashionable and brilliantly-lighted portions of the city, she wondered if perhaps Providence may have ceased to take account

of her having spat her out of its mouth as neither hot nor cold. But even that consideration failed to damp her spirits for more than a moment, with Frank beside her chatting away, and treating her with as much courtesy as though she had been a duchess. Work was solving the problem for him which Frank Osmond had failed to solve for himself. Overlooking that phase of his life at a later period, he compared himself to one climbing a mountain without any thought of the top ; he just caught dim glances of the path near. He had no hope of abiding authorship ; it seemed to him that his productions must be superficial, and lacked the abiding qualities of power and charm, because of the ease of their production. But he was earning his living, his restless wanderings had served a purpose in supplying material for this use at least ; the humiliation that had overshadowed him "if ted as his unsigned articles drew attention ; the impression of uselessness gradually faded from his mind, and unconsciously the admh'ation of his daily companion calmed his sore nerves. All the summer and autumn he was busy, and without idealising it, happy. Sometimes he was carried on almost a tide of ardour, which would ebb, but recur again. Sometimes even the affairs of " The Little Dustpan " would seem enormously important, and the business would be carried along briskly as though under the spell of his enthusiasm. Ruth Opie had long understood that those days of absence when " the lad " went out alone with Pakeha were days of burdenbearing. But they occurred less seldom with each month, and her "outings" so frequently that she felt justified in the purchase of a black silk gown for these occasions, thus to do honour to her escort. This, worn with a cobwebby white shawl that Frank presented to her made her "as handsome as Amy " he declared, and brought a soft pink tinge into the fair old face, and light into the blue eyes which looked out under shining grey hair, uncovered by spectacles.

Frank's thoughts wont often back to Caroline ; an humbling consciousness of his desertion troubled him. But ho could do no other, he affirmed. Out of tho incoherence of that time, one idea was clear — it had been impossible longer to ovorshadovv her by his weakness, or bear the overshadowing of her strength. The contrast had been too painful, too enervating. He had always had a convincing sense- of Caroline's self-sufficiency. At any time, ho knew, he could trace her through the solicitor who managed her small affairs. But the longing for her surprised him by the frequency and strength of its recurrence. Tho wholesome life of the past nine months with its natural activities and interests had quickened his heart as well as brain. It was now a year since he had left Matamata and Now Zealand, lie reminded himself as he walked beside tho Yarra one evening in May, and he had heard nothing either of Caroline or Howard Grey. Ho could bear the thought of both bettor since his uplifting. He walked with his arms behind him ruminating. " Strange that 1 never camo across him in this place, but then I've lived such a queer sort of existence, and the places I frequent are not exactly where one would expect to find him. How should I. feel if he put in an appearance at the ' Littlo Dust Pan ?' " He faced the question, and answered it. " Almost glad, I believe ! But I won't hunt him up yet. 1 wonder if he burnt that MS.?" He winced, then brought himself with firmness to another question. Should ho, or should he not, abandon the hack, hasty work, and make one effort the business of his life for the next year? This ephemeral production was not his limit. He thought of the master of style — Howard Grey — with moved, almost passionate admiration. Ho could not do the same ; what he did must be done involuntarily. Could he — with a sigh of longing — could he put his soul into that perfect correspondence with its audience which meant art? He thrilled with the

thought. Could labour become to him that sacred, purifying virtue which religion had once been ? The . infinite strength which might lift him above littleness, and restore his soul — aye, even his honour?

Grod might forgive the repentant, but man only forgave the penitent who achieved.

He went into the little parlour with a glow in his eyes. Ruth gave him his tea, then he plunged into the evening newspapers which were ready folded at his side. His eyes were immediately attracted by the name that had been so much in his thoughts — Howard Grey. The words stood out so vividly, and the picture they conjured was so distinct that if the man instead of his name had faced Frank, his sensations could not have been keener. His pulses beat with a very real pleasure ; in his affectionate, impulsive way he smiled. Then he devoured the written page that followed. From the commencement of the popular author's new book, eutitled Under the Goad, to the last word of the sheet, he heard none of Ruth Opie's chatter.

At length he looked up, his eyes and face stern. " Damn him — the cowardly robber !" he said, in a voice his companion had never heard before. Rut he did not see her as he strode past her and out through the shop.

When the quick footsteps died away, quaking and trembling, her face strangely scared, Ruth stooped down and lifted the newspaper sheet, where it had fallen from Frank's hand. She sat down in the chair he had vacated, her knees too weak to support her slight body.

" Aw, dear ! Aw, dear !" was all she could say. What dreadful thing had happened ? Was retribution come at last ? " 'Ee's turned round from me," she said, addressing the unknown with some defiance. " Twaden purty toal," by which she meant that the Almighty had turned upon her, and it was not at all becoming.

After scanning the newspaper page that had caused Frank's anger she found nothing that accounted to her for the agitation witnessed. She read a long review of almost passionate praise — with many

quotations from British journals — of the book published in London in March. There was a short synopsis of the plot, the whole concluding with the sentence : "We have to congratulate Howard Grey upon the accomplishment of work that will live. The power, the pathos, the literary finish of every page holds the reader from first to last, and stamps the book with the hall mark of genius. Under the Goad is a masterpieoe of art."