The House by the River
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Thirty short stories by Australian novelist, poet and short story writer Doris Boake Kerr, 1889-1944, who wrote under the name Capel Boake. They were all published in newspapers and magazines and are often quite short, They are mostly romances, but there are one or two hard stories as well. The book totals a little more than 70,000 words. Contents 1: The Chateau 2: The Necessary Third 3: Jenny 4: Finito I'Amore 5: Atavism 6: The House by the River 7: The Bookshop 8: Tiny Feet 9: The Amber Necklace 10: Rose Aylmer 11: The Contract 12: The Secret Garden 13: The Bend of the Road 14: Strawberry Fa

THE HOUSE

BY THE RIVER

and other stories

Capel Boake

(Doris Boake Kerr, 1889-1944)

Doris Boake Kerr c. 1927

This e-book produced and Edited by Terry Walker

June 2023

Contents

1: The Chateau

2: The Necessary Third

3: Jenny

4: Finito I'Amore

5: Atavism

6: The House by the River

7: The Bookshop

8: Tiny Feet

9: The Amber Necklace

10: Rose Aylmer

11: The Contract

12: The Secret Garden

13: The Bend of the Road

14: Strawberry Farm

15: Smith's George

16: The Wooden Buddha

17: The Green God

18: A Touch of the Sun

19: James

20: The Room Next Door

21: Quicksilver

22: The Brothers

23: Scarlet Hibiscus

24: The Wooing of Betty

25: The Redemption

26: "Doug."

27: A Matter of Business

28: The Making of a Star

29: Murray's Farm

30: The Sad Case of Miss Brown

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Australian Poet And Novelist Dies

Herald (Vic), Monday 5 June 1944

MISS DORIS BOAKE KERR, a leading Australian novelist and poet, died suddenly today.

A niece of the notable poet Barcroft Boake (author of "Where the Devil Men Lie"), Miss Kerr was born at Summer Hill (N.S.W.), in August, 1895, and moved to Melbourne at an early age. She attended a State school, but used to say that she was self-educated at the Prahran Public Library. Subsequently she worked as a typist, librarian and free-lance writer, and lately had been employed at a big city store.

In addition to many articles and much verse, Miss Kerr, using the pen-name of "Capel Boake," wrote four novels: "Painted Clay,","The Romany Mark." "The Dark Thread," and (under the auspices of the Commonwealth Literary Fund) a story of the Victorian gold era, which has not yet been published. Her death will be widely regretted, for, apart from her position in Australian literature, she was a warm-hearted woman who was ever ready to help acquaintances, and especially fellow writers, in distress.

___________

Deaths

The Argus, Melbourne, 6 June 1944

KERR.— On June 5 (suddenly), at Kuringai, Keeron street, Caulfield, Doris Boake (Capel Boake), loved elder daughter of Adelaide Eva and the late Gregory Kerr, and loved sister of Adelaide Violet (Mrs. Frank P. Hebbard).

____________

1: The Chateau

Australasian (Vic.), 12 April 1919

THE SOLDIER talked to an interested audience of three girls and two men, and as he talked he meditatively sucked his pipe, and gazed reflectively into the distance with a little smile on his lips, as though he saw something there which he could not put into words. He was a short, thickset man, with a hard-bitten, aggressive face, a square jaw, and rather ruddy complexion. HIs talk had not been of daring deeds he had performed, but of poor Dick, who went west  at Polygon Wood, or old Dave, left behind at Gallipoli. He wore the ribbon of a medal on his breast; but that was beside the question— merely a little affair not worth talking about. The girls pressed him closer to tell them something which be himself had done. They were longing to make him a hero in spite of himself, and with quiet dignity he was avoiding it. At last, however, with a cough and a self-conscious grin, as though he knew he was making a fool of himself, but couldn't help it, he told the following story. This is the gist of it as far as I remember:—

THEY had just come out of the trenches, and every man in the battalion was dog tired and wretched. Wearily they trudged along the muddy, rain-wet roads, with heads down and shoulders bent under the weight of their packs, a long, formless line tramping through the darkness, the rain pattering against their faces, and their feet splashing through the pools of water which were stretching across the road. No one spoke, or even thought; they were all too weary. Their minds were set on one thing— they must keep going. If once they stopped, or if once they acknowledged they could not go on, nothing on earth could make them, so, with lips set firmly, they tramped grimly on.

In front of them stretched the narrow road, long and unutterably dreary. As they passed, a few ghostly poplar-trees swayed restlessly in the night wind. In the fitful light and drifting rain the ruined farmhouses along the road— some of them still standing, though with broken windows and shattered walls— made a picture of desolation and despair. A long, shuddering sigh seemed to come from these places; such "a sigh as might have been wrung from a human heart which had drank deep from the cup of sorrow.

But the soldiers noticed none of these things. They had become too used to them, and they were now a part of their daily life. Even the most imaginative amongst them had ceased to find any special significance in a farmhouse broken by shell fire or the poplars swaying, ghostlike, along the road. They knew their job and would do it; outside of that they did not want to think. Even their people at home, whom they had once loved— whom, indeed, they still loved— had become of very little importance in their minds. The most important thing was to do one's job, and when that was done the only things that mattered were food, drink, and'sleep.

So they trudged along, steadily, wearily, and unthinkingly. The continued roar of the guns had died away somewhat, and now could almost be believed to be only the distant murmur of the surf on the Belgian coast, or— if the mind were elastic enough— the roar of the breakers on the Manly or Bondi sands or along the Sorrento beach.

It was nearly 12 o'clock when they reached the little village where they were to be billeted. The French population, or what was left of it, received them in a half-hostile fashion. They resented being aroused so late at night to provide for the needs of strange soldiers, and showed it in their louring glances and muttered words. For all the welcome the soldiers got they might have been conquerors in a conquered country. The officers were as tactful as possible; but their men had to be provided for, even though it did offend the susceptibilites of a few French peasants.

At last, after the expenditure of a great deal of nervous energy in talking, much shrugging of shoulders, and gesticulating, all the men were billeted, with the exception of twelve men belonging to Company A. As no other accommodation could be found for them, they were assigned to a ruined chateau, standing some little distance from the village, and which from its commanding position had evidently been often shelled the Germans on the suspicion that it was an observation post. Now the German lines had receded, and the chateau had long since been left to brood in solitude over its past grandeur and present desolation. Though the soldiers did not know it, since the first early days of the war no other feet but theirs had tramped along the gar den path or echoed through the old hall. The people of the village feared it, and would never pass it at night.

The men picked out the room least destroyed by shell-fire, and having been provided with dry straw, they threw them selves down to sleep. For 10 minutes or so they lay in perfect silence; a silence almost deathlike, broken only by the heavy breath ing of the weary soldiers and the soft but persistent beating of the rain against the walls. Then, as though the silence had called up something which had slept too long, a spirit of restlessness possessed the men. They sighed uneasily, and every now and then one would start up and stare in tently into the darkness. Each man was oppressed with the weight of some terrible sadness which hung over the place and forbade him to sleep. It was a sadness so terrible in its intensity that it left their nerves raw and quivering. The shadows on the wall grew into horrible shapes, which seemed to twist and turn as though tor mented by hideous pain. The rain broke harder with a sudden gust on the roof, and seemed to smother voices which sighed and called, trying to make themselves heard and understood.

"It's no use," exclaimed one of the men, suddenly sitting up and lighting a cigar ette. "I can't sleep."

There was a chorus of groans and curses; but all the men followed his example, and lit their cigarettes, with the exception of young O'Brien, a devout Roman Catholic, who knelt in his corner by the window, and murmured his prayers unceasingly. But no one took any notice of him. They were used to each other, these men, and tolerant of anything.

"Damn it all," exclaimed a short, thick set man, with a hard, aggressive face, popularly known as "Fighting Bill," because of his joy in any sort of contest. "Let's go outside and sleep. I'm fed up of this."

He went along the hall to the big door facing the garden and looked out. The night was dark, and the rain still pelting down. Before the door a large pool had spread, and the ruined garden sighed uncer tainly in the rain. Fighting Bill shivered, and, shutting the door quickly, hurried back to his companions. In anyone else it might have been a shiver of fear; but— Fighting Bill did not know the meaning of fear.

"Too wet?" asked the first man, laconically, though he looked keenly at Fighting Bill.

"Yes," answered the other shortly. "Here, give me a fag someone."

Someone threw him a cigarette, and he sat hunched up on his bed of straw with his chin resting on his knees, and his cigar ette held in no very steady hand. It was only the man who had spoken first who noticed that his usually ruddy face was pale.

"I wonder what's wrong with the damned place." muttered another man, looking round uneasily. "I'd sooner be in the trenches. There's something queer here, I'll swear it."

The others cursed him in impatient un dertones. He was giving voice to some thing which they all felt, but did not wish to acknowledge.

"It's all right, really," murmured the first speaker. He had a keen face, with hollow cheeks, and rather a cultured voice. It was this voice that had won him the nickname of Algy, though by this time it had become a term of affection rather than contempt, for he was both liked and respected. In real life he had been an actor, and had joined the A.I.F. in the first days of the war. He had been through every thing, and had come-out of it with a calm equanimity of feeling, which accepted everything, and nothing could upset.

"It's all right," he murmured again. "There's nothing to worry about; but I don't suppose we'll he able to sleep now, so we may as well think about something else."

He lit another cigarette, and closed his eyes, as though he were trying to shut out the present and bring up a mental picture of another place and scene. The men watched him eagerly, for by this time they knew all his mannerisms; then to their delight he started on the first verse of "The Sentimental Bloke." They all cheered and gathered closer round him. Even O'Brien left his prayers to hear again the story of Bill and Doreen—

"The young green leaves is shootin' on the trees,

The air is lite a long, cool swig o' beer.

The bonzer smell flow'rs is on the breeze,

An' 'ere's me 'ere."

Yes, it touched them all. Here was some thing simple and human, which they could still understand. It held them through the dreary morning hours, and when it was finished they wanted it again. And Algy gave it again. Nothing could try his patience, for he knew it brought their homes back again to these weary men, and it some of them, listening to it, sighed in voluntarily over things they might have done or words they might have spoken, or a girl they had deserted, well— it was so much to the better.

At last, when the first streaks of dawn showed faintly in the grey sky, Algy stopped abruptly.

'Now we must find out what's wrong with this place," he said.

Stretching themselves, and yawning dis mally, they all got up and followed him out, They searched through the rooms;- but could find no trace of anything unusual, except the broken windows and smashed furniture: but that was to be expected. It was Algy, Fighting Bill, and O'Brien who found the cellar. The entrance to it was blocked by the debris thrown up by a shell, which had evidently exploded close by. Fifteen minutes work and the three soldiers had cleared it away. Algy was the first to enter. He nodded his head slowly, as though he was not surprised at what he saw.

"So that was it," he said in a low voice.

"What is it?" asked Fighting Bill and thrust his way in, followed by O'Brien. Both men shrank back as they saw what lay within. Huddled together, as though for protection, lay the skeletons of six French soldiers. They were still clothed in their uniforms: these almost as good as the first day they put them on; but the bodies of the men had fallen to dust long since. They lay there as they had lain for three years or more, and the sightless eyes and fleshless mouths grinned up at the three staring soldiers. There was nothing dignified in death seen thus, only some thing grotesque and horrible; all the more horrible for being grotesque.

Fighting Bill looked at Algy. "Is that why we couldn't sleep?" he asked in a whisper.

Algy nodded.

"I wonder what happened?" said Fighting Bill, still in that low, hushed tone.

"I wonder."

Algy looked round the cellar, but there was no clue as to how they died or why. There was now nothing they could do for tbem, so turning on his heel he walked out, followed closely by Fighting Bill. Both of them had forgotten O'Brien. As the other two walked out he remained behind. He watched them go; then, with a deadly white face and a look of abject fear in his eyes, he bent over the skeleton figures and made the sign of the cross over each. When he had finished this rite the fear had disappeared from his face, and he looked happy and satisfied. He may have benefited their souls; he may have laid the spirit of pain and unrest that brooded over that lonely house— who amongst us is in a position to say?

THAT was the tale the soldier told, and when he had finished, he looked rather shamefacedly at his audience, as though he doubted whether they would believe him. I could see by their expression of polite interest that they suspected him of romancing. No one asked him for any more stories, and he did not volunteer any.

But, looking at him as he told his story, I knew that he was Fighting Bill.

______________

2: The Necessary Third

Australasian (Vic.), 28 Aug 1926

HE CAME IN early that night after a lonely dinner, and half an hour at a musical comedy which for some reason had vaguely annoyed him. As he slammed the door he was irritably conscious of the almost solemn hush that pervaded the great hotel. After the cold air of the night the room felt drowsily warm. His feet sank into the soft pile of the carpet; his bed was neatly turned down, and a luxurious armchair awaited him. On the dressing table were his silver-backed brushes and combs and a box of cigarettes with his monogram en graved on them. He looked round and a sardonic smile crossed his keen, dark face. It had taken him 10 years to achieve this luxury, and now that it was at his com mand he realised that he had been happier in his camp on the South African gold fields dreaming of the time when his for tune would be made. His return to Mel bourne had been something in the nature of an anticlimax. Those who would have benefited by his money were dead, while other people seemed chiefly interested in what they could get out of him. He had learnt, or thought he had learnt, quite a lot about human nature in South Africa.

Of course the trouble was that he missed Paula. It was amazing how he did miss her. At the confusion at the end she had given him no opportunity of saying what he felt. Her attitude had been that they were steamer friends only, and that a pleasant little episode was now ended. How she had enlivened the dull journey from Cape Town to Melbourne! With her vivid colouring she had bloomed like an exotic flower among the rather nondescript crowd on board. At first he bad admired her from a distance, alarmed at the obvious manoeuvres of her match-making mother to throw them together. He had no intention of being rushed into matrimony, and, though he was without personal vanity, he was quite well aware that to many women his money made him a prize worth having. It was Paula herself who had cleared the air and defined the position between them.

"You know," she said, looking at him with laughing eyes, "there's three weeks' solid boredom before us, and we could be quite good friends only you are afraid mother is determined you should many me. Well, you needn't be alarmed. Even if you wished it I wouldn't marry you. There's someone else. This trip is in the nature of a cure, but it hasn't acted. I'm more in love than ever. He's dreadfully hard up, poor darling. but I don't care, even if we do have to live in a couple of rooms and scrape along on five pounds a week. So that's that! Now we can be friends quite comfortably, can't we?"

Her candour had amused him, and he found her the most charming companion he had ever known. If sometimes her tact failed and she plied him with descriptions and reminiscences of Reggie— that was the fellow's objectionable name, he discovered— he grudgingly admitted that some allowance must be made for a woman in love.

Reggie did not come down to meet the boat— he was not one of the idle rich, she gaily informed him, but had to work hard in order to furnish their little nest— and he watched her drive off with an uncomfortable feeling at his heart. Was it possible that he felt jealous of Reggie?

The clock on the mantlepiece chimed the hour, and he stared at it dismally. Only 9 o'clock! What on earth was he to do? Impossible to go to bed, and no use going downstairs; there was no one in the hotel who stirred him to the remotest degree of interest. What was Paula doing? With Reggie, he supposed. At the thought he felt the same pang he had experienced before. Paula to marry a poor man! The idea was absurd. Only wealth could give her beauty the setting it required. What a fool he had been to acquiesce in the friendship she had given him. Why hadn't he made love to her while he had the chance? The setting had been ideal. Moonlit nights, and days of blue and gold. Long, long hours they had spent together, while she had talked of Reggie and he had listened to her. What a fool he had been!

As though his questionings had called her out of the silence, the telephone on his table shrilled loudly, and he heard her voice at the other end of the wire.

"We're here, John," she said, "on your trail still, you see." Did he imagine it, or was there a faint tinge of bitterness in her voice. "John Ramsay is quite an important person in his own home town. We saw your name in the list of guests, and established ourselves here at once. I thought I had better break the news to you so that you could escape if you wish. I rang up before, but you were out."

"Paula... escape! But you're joking, of course. It was strange how his hand was trembling. '"Where are you now?"

"In the lounge if you want to see us."

He heard the receiver click as she hung up.

She was sitting with her back turned to him as he entered the lounge, almost lost in the depths of a great arm chair. He could see the outline of her sleek, dark head resting against the orange cushion. For the first time he felt grateful to Mrs. Wainwright. It was her tactics that had brought them together again. Now that fate had given him another chance he was going to take it.

Mrs. Wainwright was the first to see him, and waved a carefully manicured hand in his direction.

"Why, Mr. Ramsay!" she exclaimed, as he threaded his way through the chairs to her side. "This is a surprise."

Paula flung down the paper she was read ing and smiled up at him. He thought she was looking a little pale, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. Worrying about the objectionable Reggie, he thought savagely.

"Yes, isn't it a surprise," she said wickedly. "We had no idea you were stay ing here."

"It's luck for me, anyway," he returned, beckoning a passing waiter and ordering coffee. "I was feeling so bored that I was just contemplating going to bed when I discovered you were here."

Mrs. Wainwright stifled a yawn behind an elegant hand, then gathering her paper together, rose. "It's just like old times, isn't it?" she smiled. "If you will excuse me I will leave you two together and go to bed myself. I haven't recovered from the voyage yet... Don't be late, dear," and she sailed off.

When she had gone silence fell between the two of them. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask her, but for some reason he felt tongue tied. The happy ease of their relation had been dis turbed. He stared at her hungrily, wish ing she would look at him, but she avoided his eyes. She, too, seemed self-conscious and uneasy as though she realised that things could no longer remain as they had been.

"I suppose it amuses you," she said at last. "But I hate it. I do wish mother wouldn't be so obvious."

"She knows we're friends," retorted Ram say. "Why shouldn't she leave us alone?"

"Because " She leant forward, her hands, loosely clapped together on her knee, "it makes me feel cheap. We're not on the boat now and things are differ ent."

"Of course," he interrupted harshly, "I had forgotten. There's Reggie to be considered now, and he mightn't like it."

"Yes— there's Reggie."

The waiter brought the tray, with the coffee, and he sat in gloomy silence while she poured out a cup and passed it to him. "I've always made a joke of it," she went on, "but it hurts sometimes— not on my account so much, but on hers. I would hate you to misjudge her, but I feel you do. It's for my sake she does it. She has always been haunted by the fear that when she is gone I will be left with nothing. You see, she has only an annuity, and I suppose we both have rather extravagant tastes, for we live up to every penny of it. Quite frankly, from my childhood I have been brought up with the idea that I must make a good match. Of course I could go to work as other girls do, but I've never learnt anything useful. What could I do? Nursery governess perhaps, or com panion to an invalid old lady with a pug dog. That's about the limit of my quali fications. In the meantime—" She looked up at him and laughed, "I sit and drink coffee in the lounge of an hotel and bore you to death with my woes."

"You've changed," he said suddenly. "On board you never talked like this."

"Changed?" Her lips twisted in a wry little smile. "Well, perhaps I have. On board ship one simply doesn't think. It's like another world altogether. But home again." She shrugged her shoulders. "One must face facts. It is rather galling to realise that you are an absolutely useless person."

He was puzzled by her manner, and won dered what had occurred to distress her. Was it possible that Reggie had failed her?

"You're forgetting Reggie, aren't you?" he said, a jealous note in his voice. "Surely he doesn't think you useless?"

"Reggie? We do seem to come back to him, don't we? He has made me realise what a useless creature I am. Poor darling. I'm sure to make a fearful mess of darning his socks."

He felt inclined to curse both Reggie and his socks, and looked so glum that she laughed outright.

"Now I've finished my monologue, so tell me about yourself. The papers have rather spread themselves about you, haven't they? I had no idea you were such a celebrity. From paper boy to mine owner! Tell me, is it true? Were you ever a paper boy? It quite upset mother for a time. She thought it tactless to mention the paper-boy part of the business, though the mine owner rather gilded the pill. Why don't you smile, John? I'm doing my best to be bright. On board you always found me amusing."

"As you reminded me yourself," he said curtly, "on the boat things were different."

"Why," she murmured, "you do sound cross. This is certainly not one of my successful nights."

"Paula," he said abruptly, "let's have done with this nonsense. On board ship I was a fool, but you disarmed me with your talk of friendship. I just let my self drift, and never thought— never real ised. Now things are different, Paula!

He leant forward, forcing her reluctant eyes to meet his. "I love you— isn't there a chance for me?"

The colour flooded her cheeks and her lips quivered, "Oh," she whispered, "why did you say it? Now you've spoilt every thing."

"You mean there is no hope for me? You are really going to marry this fellow?''

She bent her head for answer.

He sat quite still, trying to realise that he had failed. Until that moment he had not known how much he had hoped. He fancied that a man across the room stared at him curiously, and wondered if his defeat was written so plainly oil his face, or perhaps it was only that the other recognised him. His photograph had been in the paper that evening. From paper boy to mine owner! The ironical humour of it struck him, and he laughed suddenly.

"Don't!" exclaimed Paula, shrinking in voluntarily from the sound. "Don't laugh like that— it hurts."

"I can be amusing, too," he said bit terly. "It's quite a good joke if you have the right sense of humour. You asked me just now if I had ever been a paper boy. Well, I was! I used to hang around the door of this hotel with my bundle of papers, watching the people go in and out. I used to picture my mother living here in luxury instead of working her fingers to the bone to keep me in food and clothes. I swore I would be rich for her. She died just as my luck was about to turn. After that things lost their savour a bit, but I was interested in the game for its own sake and keen enough. Then— you came. My money has failed me there. You're poor, or comparatively so. You told me quite frankly that you had been brought up with the idea of making a good match, and yet, in spite of that, you'd sooner marry a man making £5 a week than have me with all my money thrown in. I'm not whining. I respect you for it. I had an idea once that money would buy anything. Now I know it won't give you what you really want. Well!" He rose as he spoke. "Good luck, Paula, and thanks for every thing. Even if I find it impossible to carry on the farce of friendship, I'm grateful. Send me—" He hesitated before uttering the hateful name. "Send me Reggie's address. I can put him on to something worth while. You'll let me do that at least?"

She did not answer. He stood looking down at her, wondering what she was thinking. Perhaps she was wishing he would go. He flushed at the thought. An awkward moment for both of them best to get it over.

"Good-bye, Paula," he said, hoarsely, "and don't worry about your mother. I will fix things with her."

The warm air of the hotel felt stifling as he turned away. He must get out some where— walk till he was too tired to feel anything but fatigue. He took his coat and hat and was about to swing open the big doors at the entrance, when the hall porter slopped him.

''Mr. Ramsay, sir? Miss Wainwright told me to tell you she would like to see you in the lounge."

He hesitated. Surely everything had been said between them. Still, it was hardly a message he could disregard.

"Thank you," he said, curtly. "Just take these things, will you."

He felt more at ease when he saw that, save for Paula, the lounge was deserted. If they had to have another parting he preferred it should be without onlookers. Or, perhaps, it was merely that she wished to give him Reggie's address? Yes, that must be it.

"I'm here," he said coldly and superfluously.

"So I see," she answered in a meek voice.

This meekness was so unlike Paula that he stared at her in astonishment. She looked nervous, rather like a small child expecting punishment, but he hardened his heart against her. Her haste to take advantage of his offer to help Reggie struck him as unseemly. Did she think he was likely to change his mind in the morning?

He waited. Still she did not speak. Then he glanced at his watch. "If it's about that address?" he suggested.

"That's just it." She twisted her hands together nervously. "John, I've lied and deceived you. I meant to let you go with out telling you the truth, but I can't. There isn't any Reggie."

"What!" he almost shouted. Then real ising where he was, lowered his voice. "Paula, you must be mad, or am I? Why, you've described him to me a dozen times. I believe I'd recognise the fellow in the street if I saw him. Blue eyes, fair hair, features like a Greek god, and the manners of a Sir Walter Raleigh. Paula, there must be a Reggie!"

She shook her head speechlessly.

"But why?" He passed a wondering hand across his brow. "Tell me why Reggie was necessary?"

"You made it necessary," she answered, half tearful, half angry. "When I met you on the boat I knew what you were thinking and hated you for it. Oh, I didn't blame you— mother was trying to throw us together— but I hated you all the same for daring to know it. That's why I had to have Reggie. I knew if you thought I loved another man I would be safe. Even if mother was too obvious you would know I didn't want to marry you, and we could treat it as a joke. It was the only possible way to save my self respect. And you were cynical-so hate ful. You believed— oh, yes, you did— that you had only to drop the handkerchief and any woman would fall into your arms. Your hateful money! I wish you were a man getting five pounds a week. You might have a little faith in human nature then."

She paused breathless.

"Heavens!" He checked a wild impulse to laugh. "Drop the handkerchief— any woman fall into my arms. Did I really give that impression? What an unutter able ass I must have seemed. You'll have to teach me better manners when we're married, Paula."

"Married?" She opened her eyes wide in apparent surprise. "I'm not going to marry you. What has given you that idea?"

"I thought it would be a nice surprise for your mother," he said cheerfully. "Ah, Paula," he added softly, "don't let us waste any more time. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"Excuse me!" He heard a discreet cough at his elbow and turned swiftly. It was the hall porter.

"Miss Wainwright is wanted on the telephone," he announced. His eyes, as they met Ramsay's were blank of any expres sion.

Ramsay thrust his hand into his pocket. A crisp note changed hands.

"Just say that Miss Wainwright is engaged," he said. "Permanently," he added, as the porter withdrew.

__________

3: Jenny

Weekly Times (Vic.),  21 June 1930

FROM his seat in the gallery, Cartwright watched her, bemused. Lovely, lovely thing, crystal clear as a mountain stream; fleet and swift and graceful as the flight of a swallow. His mind fumbled for words.... "The Spirit of Youth," they called her on the programmes, and perhaps to a feverish world that was the secret of her charm. Cartwright felt a sense of release as he watched her.

His memory, stumbling back, saw cool green glades and running water.... white forms glimmering through the trees... purple mountains fronting the sea, and heard the pipes of Pan shrilling through the scented air. Glancing at the absorbed faces around him, their parted lips and shining eyes, he saw she had the same effect on them. Release... release... their spirits were free for once from the tyranny of the mechanised age that had gripped the world with relentless lingers.

And it was he who had brought this thing to pass. He who had given this lovely creature to the world. Hard to believe she was the lonely girl he had met in that country hotel five years ago, waiting on the tables; a State child, so the proprietor had told him, her parentage unknown. Yet, even then, he had felt her charm; her pale pointed face— like a witch's, he had thought— her slender graceful body, and her dark absorbed eyes lost in dreams. He had made friends with her, yet something in her still eluded him. He remembered the moonlit night when he had followed her to the river, idly wondering what she was up to; his growing excitement as he watched her dancing among the trees.

He knew then that he had looked for her first time on the poetry of motion, that here before him was one of the great dancers of the world. He, who had never bothered to exert himself for his own sake, had gone to endless trouble for hers. The rebuffs he had accepted unflinchingly, upheld by his belief in her: the interview at last with the manager of a great dancer then in the country. The man's unconcealed impatience: "My dear sir, we are flooded with requests such as yours. I can't see every girl who thinks she can dance."

But at length his persistence won the day. The manager consented to see her, and as Cartwright knew, that had been enough. She went away with the company, a slender figure, shabbily dressed, her eyes bewildered, not understanding yet what had happened to her. Her last words to him:

"Don't forget me, Jimmy "

After that silence for a year or so, then her triumphs began. England... Europe... America He read of her in the papers, wondering now if was she who had forgotten him. And at last she was home again, reaching by her genius a world of beauty that touched even the dullest, most matter-of-fact spirits.

He left the theatre in a dream before the curtain had descended, and she fluttered out like a beautiful white moth to take the acclamations of the crowd. Reason told him not to approach her. She had gone far beyond him; her star glittered in a world he could never touch; yet the hunger in his heart, the desire to view her beauty closer, was too much for him. He sent in his name, his nervous sense of inferiority half expecting a re buff, and waited for her answer.

"Madame will see you."

A maid led him along passages to the dressing-room door, then disappeared. He had a confused impression of glittering lights, an enormous mirror and masses of flowers that filled the room.

A slender figure came forward to greet him. He saw the dark, sombre eyes, the small, pale, pointed face with the sensitive mouth, the black hair parted in the centre and coiled above the ears. Little Jenny... little Jenny of the mountain hotel. The years dropped away as he stared at her.

"Jimmy!" She took his hands in hers and held them against her cheek. "I've been waiting for you. I knew you would come. Are you pleased with me?"

His heart leapt at her touch, He knew then that he loved her. The mirror gave back his reflection; the worn face with the angular jaw, his shabby suit that badly needed pressing. No, their worlds could never meet. He, a clerk, a dreamer, content to let life drift with him, turning out his little bits of verse hardly enough yet to fill a book. While she— well, she belonged to the world.

"You've grown up, Jenny." he said gently. "You're a famous lady now."

"No, no. I'm just the same. To you I'm just the same."

Her voice caught a note of passionate urgency, impelled by his expression, "You believe me, Jimmy."

He looked at the luxury with which she was surrounded; he remembered her life, and shook his head. "You're a generous soul, Jenny." After that it was a torment to him to see her, but she sought him out. Often she came up to his little room, the windows of which looked over the tree-tops to the distant park, and made tea, listening to him reading what he called his "little bits of verse."

That was the only indulgence he al lowed himself. Sometimes strange silences fell between them, silences which he was unable to break for fear of his resolution snapping. She would sit, her head leaning on her hands, her dark eyes brooding, while dusk filled the little room and the scent of the flowers from the garden below drifted up. Then she would rise, and with a wistful look at him as though somehow he had disappointed her, she would go without speaking.

Of course there were other men. He saw her often when she was unaware of him. There was one whose company she seemed to prefer to the others. Tall, fair. with a charming boyish smile; an admirable foil to her delicate black and white. He tortured himself with the thought of this man; his mind found a sort of perverted pleasure in its own pain. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he spoke of him.

"I suppose you'll marry him?" He gave a twisted smile. "I'm a sort of father to you, so I'm interested."

She looked at him strangely. "What makes you think I will marry him?"

"He loves you, of course, and he has money— swags of it."

"Does money matter?" she asked. "No. Jimmy, I'll never marry him."

"You belong to the world," he muttered. "You should never marry anyone."

She turned very pale, her eyes avoided his.

"Thank you for arranging my life for me." The season was drawing to an end; the last days were announced. He never went to the theatre now to see her dance. She had asked him not to.

"I don't want you to think of me as a dancer. To you, I'm just Jenny. With others I'm temperamental... strange... Oh, you know." She waved her hands. "Very much the great dancer. I must live up to the part. But with you I'm — just human."

He smiled, his perverse mind re fusing to see that she meant what she said "Ah, no, Jenny, with me you're playing a part. too. You're living down to the unsuccessful bank clerk. I told you before you had a generous soul."

She gave him a baffled look, but I did not answer.

The last night came. Her contract was over, and two days later she was to leave for England. After the show her manager was giving a supper party. She asked him to come, but he refused. He wasn't going to hang on at the fringe of things, a sort of poor relation at the feast, grateful for the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table. He saw her in her dressing-room that night, just before she went on. As she had done that first time she took his hands and pressed them against her cheek.

"You won't say it, Jimmy?"

"Say what?" he asked harshly.

The call boy interrupted with his loud imperative knock. She turned to the mirror, one hand smoothing her hair. Looking up, he saw her dark eyes watching him.

"You're very cruel, Jimmy," she said gently. "Now I think you had better go."

Stumbling out, he dared not think what she meant. Thank God, in two days she would be gone.

Next day there were, screaming headlines in the papers... famous dancer injured... inexplicable accident... the ankle bone broken... serious injury feared...

They wouldn't let him in at the hospital, not for a week later, when the ship and the company had sailed without her, was he allowed to see her.

"Jenny!" He took her small white hand and held it fearfully as though afraid of doing it an in-jury. The fingers curved round his.

"Have they told you, Jimmy?" she asked. "The doctor says I will never dance again."

"Never dance again! All that beauty lost to the world! I can't believe it," he muttered.

"It's true. Does it mean so much to you, Jimmy? Do you only think of me as a dancer?"

"You know I don't." He knelt down by the side of the bed and gazed into her face. "Jenny, do you mind, very much?" She gave hint a gentle smile.

"Not if— not if you tell me what is in your heart, Jimmy."

"Oh my darling, you know I love you, but what have I to offer you?" She put her arm around his neck and drew his head against her breast.

"Enough." she whispered. "Oh, Jimmy, I was so tired of belonging to the world. I want to belong to you now."

Later, when the nurse coming in sent him away, Cartwright met the doctor in the hall and paused to speak to him.

"It's true?" he asked. "She'll never dance again?"

"No," said the doctor. "She'll never dance again."

"It's a tragedy." said Cartwright solemnly, "but," his face lit up with a sudden smile, "we're going to be married as soon as she's out of this. If it hadn't been for that accident I would have lost her."

"Um!" The doctor's grey eyes were inscrutable. "So I thought."

Well, he was used to the vagaries of women, he thought, but this was the most inexplicable thing by had ever come across. She had confessed that the fall had been deliberate, and she had begged him to allow her to say that she could never dance again. It was no business of his, and it was true enough, anyway. She never would dance again, simply because she did not wish to. The ankle was mending very nicely. His behaviour had been very irregular, of course, but one must be human sometimes. Besides, the little thing had been able to twist him around her finger. He sighed as he went about his work. No woman had ever made a such a sacrifice for him.

________________

4: Finito I'Amore

Bulletin, 31 Aug 1922

THE clock struck six as she left the station. The porter made a jocular remark, but she did not reply, though usually she was quite ready for a joke. She was late, and Peppino would be angry; that was, her only coherent thought as she hurried down the road towards the pier. Peppino was angry quite often lately; little things made him angry, such as too much color on her lips, the shape of her hat or the way her hair was done; then he was cruel! She drew in her breath with a sharp little sob. Until she had seen Peppino angry she had not known that anyone could be so cruel.

The ship was berthed at the further end of the pier, and it was a long walk down. She tried to run, but tripped on her high-heeled shoes, and her short flimsy skirt twisted about her legs. She pulled it up above her knees and ran on. There no one to see, but even if there had been she would not have cared. She must hurry, hurry, for Pepinno would be angry.

Under the thick coating of powder and rouge her insignificant little face wore a haunted expression. Some tinge of Spanish or Jewish blood had given her the large, dark, lustrous eyes which were her redeeming feature; given her too, the liking for cheap jewellery and garish colors. Her bare arms were fitted out with a number of imitation gold bracelets, and on her finger she wore a cheap little ring with blue and red stones. In her black dress, slashed with red and orange, and with her small red hat close fitting to her chalky-white face, she looked like a colored poster— artificial, common, except for her unhappy eyes.

It was quite dark on the pier, but ahead she could see the mast light of the cargo steamer City of Naples, and she kept her eyes fixed on that. She had been working late at the factory, and she was tired. Her quick fingers had out-distanced all the other girls that day, for she had needed the money urgently. Last night, as they sat together in the cafe, she had seen Peppino look at her stockings. They were of flesh-colored, artificial silk, and she had thought them pretty until Peppino had looked at them with that quick, merciless glance of his. He had said nothing, nor had she, but she followed his eyes. He was looking at a woman opposite; her stockings were of Milanese silk, grey, exquisite. She had resolved then that she, too, would wear grey Milanese stockings. It had been a bit of a rush to draw her money and get to the shop before it closed, but she had managed it. Now she had them on. She hoped Peppino would notice them and be pleased.

It was a nuisance, but to-morrow she would have to work again at the factory. Her bill at the café was mounting up, and they had spoken to her about it. She had never owed money there before, but since Peppino had come she had not been able to avoid it. He liked her to order wine when they were having dinner together, but he did not pay for it, as other men would have done. He left that to her. But then Peppino was an Italian, so perhaps that made the difference. Of course, there were other ways in which she could get money instead of working for it, but she had not reached that yet. She had been foolish many times, but it had always been for something that passed under the name of love.

A cold wind was blowing from the sea, and she could hear the wash of the waves against the pier. She shivered a little. Once she had dreamt she was adrift in the sea and had awakened with just that gentle, melancholy sound in her ears. She thrust the thought away. It must have been the long day at the factory that had made her feel so nervous and dispirited. But she must not let Peppino see it. Peppino hated unhappy women; he had often told her so. Always one must laugh and sing; that was the way to please Peppino. Lately, it was becoming more and more of an effort. She wished she could have had a vermouth before she left town, though one would not have been of much use; it took three or four now to produce the desired effect of careless gaiety.

There was a man standing at the head of the gangway as she stumbled up. He grinned as he saw her.

"Captain's in his cabin," he volunteered. "He's happy to-night— so happy!"

She wondered vaguely why, but did not stop to inquire. As she passed the saloon she heard the clatter of knives and forks and peeped in. The officers were at dinner; they all seemed very excited, but she thought nothing of that. Italians were always excited about something. Peppino was not among them, and her eyes brightened. Perhaps he was waiting to take her out to dinner. Outside his door she hesitated a moment. She could hear the twang of a guitar and his voice. He was singing an Italian love song, one of those songs she hated because she could not understand the words, and he mocked at her ignorance.

She opened the door timidly and stood half-cringing on the threshold. She expected a rebuff, but he took no notice of her entrance. Seated cross-legged on a chair, his head thrown back, and his eyes dancing, he trilled out his song. She caught the refrain, "Napoli, Napoli," and a tremor ran through her. Why should he sing of Naples tonight? Perhaps he was going away! But that was ridiculous; he had said nothing about it yesterday.

He finished the song, and she sidled towards him with an ingratiating smile.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Peppino," she said, "but I couldn't help it."

"Late, are you?" He tightened the strings of his guitar and tested them with his fingers. "I had not noticed."

Anger she could have met, but not this blank, utter indifference. He had not even looked at her; had not noticed her grey silk stockings, nor the hat she had made to please him, because he had said that red suited her. Tears came to her eyes, but she forced them back.

"You said to be here at five," she ventured, "but I—"

"Don't talk," he interrupted roughly. "I want to sing, and you sing, too. What shall we have? One of your charming English love-songs, eh?"

He spoke with a sneer, but she was used to that. She was grateful that he had noticed her at all. He struck a chord and she tried to sing, but her voice was tired and thin. He threw down the instrument with a scowl.

"What is the matter?" he demanded.

"You are— what is it you English say?— you are boring me."

"I'm sorry," she faltered.

His face bore the expression she dreaded, heavy, sullen with the underlip thrust out. He was going to be cruel; unless she could amuse and interest him he would be very cruel indeed.

"Let's go out to dinner, Peppino," she said gaily, putting her hand on his arm. "It's my shout."

He shook her off. "I dine on board tonight," he said. "We sail at nine o'clock."

She stared at him; she had not quite grasped the meaning of his words.

"You sail at nine," she repeated. "Why, that means" She glanced at the clock, then gave a sudden desperate cry. "Peppino, we have only two; more hours together."

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"Hardly that, my little Lola. You see," he indicated a bile of papers on the table, "I am busy. We will make our farewells now."

She was fighting for self-control. She must not give way; that would only annoy him. She looked round the room. There were the cigarettes she had given him: it had taken a whole week's wages to buy that silver, embossed case. On the wall was the stupid little kewpie doll she had given him as a mascot. It leered down at her. How they had laughed that day she pinned it up, and how silly it seemed now. The porthole was open, and she could see the twinkling lights of the Williamstown foreshore and a patch of pearly-green sky. It was barely a month since she had met Peppino, and now he was going away: sailing at nine to-night.

"When do you return?" She asked the question in a whisper. Surely he would make some suggestion? He could not be as indifferent as he seemed.

He looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"Perhaps in six months, perhaps never. Ah, Italy!"

He gave an exaggerated sigh and blew a kiss from the tips of his fingers. It couldn't be; she wouldn't believe it!

Surely she could make him desire her as he had done in those first glorious days. He had loved her then. With a passionate movement she filing her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

"Take me with you, Peppino, she whispered. "I will come now, as I am, but take me, Peppino; take me."

He threw back his head and laughed.

"Why, the little Lola is being amusing at last," he mocked.

"Don't laugh, don't laugh, I can't bear it." Her fear ot losing him had given her courage. "Peppino, you can't be so cruel. Take me with you. I love you."

His expression of scornful amusement changed. Muttering something in Italian he flung her from him. She fell against a chair and crouched there, looking up at him with desperate eyes. Her cheek had left a smudge of powder against his coat. He brushed it off daintily. He was fastidious about his person. Then he pulled down his tie and smoothed his hair.

"Why so serious?" he mocked.

"Peppino!" She stretched out her arms to him. "Take me with you."

"To Italy! You!" He spread out his hands in an ineffable gesture of contempt,  "No, no, my little Lola. We have had a pleasant time together. You were quite nice to talk of love with to laugh and drink with, but take yuo to Italy!"  His cruel glance measured her.  "I ask you, how many men before I met you and how many since?"

"Not since I met you, Peppino. I swear it."

"No, of a certainty not. I saw to that, But when I am gone, what then?" He sketched the picture with vivid touches, his hands gesticulating. The little Lola will sit in the cafe. She will drink wine, much wine. All, lire is guy and jolly there. First will come one friend, then another. The little Lola is not particular. Ah, la! la! Soon, very soon, the little Lola will be— what do you call it?— in the gutter."

She heard him out, her face rigid. Then she rose to her feet. So that is how you think of me?"

Well, what would you? he shrugged.

"I thought you cared— a little." She met his mocking eyes and any hope she may have cherished died.

"I see," she said quietly.  "Good-bye, Peppino."

"Allow me."

He opened the door and bowed with punctilious courtesy, but she did not look at him again. Indeed, he had almost ceased to exist for her; she was only conscious of that horrible pain at her heart.

It was dark in the corridor. Above she could hear the tramp of feet, and from one of the cabins the sound of voices. They were making ready to sail at nine o'clock. I'eppino had said so. Well, that did not seem to matter now. She was very clear as to what she was going to do.

They had finished dinner in the saloon when she looked in again, but the steward had not yet cleared away. There on the table was just what she wanted: one of those long, sharp Italian knives. She took it.

She was glad she had never worn corsets. It was easy to strike through her thin, flimsy dress, strike straight to that heart which ached and ached....

It was the ship's doctor who found her some time after. He thought at first she had fainted until he saw the knife clutched in her hand and the sticky mess about her heart. Her face was ravaged with her last struggles, the jaw dropped and the eyes glazed. She did not look beautiful in death, but she had done what she meant to do. The saloon was full of excited, gesticulating men. He cleared them out and sent for the captain. He came in, his dark face sullen and his heavy underlip thrust out. "What's this?" he demanded.

The doctor made a gesture.

"Dead?"

"Half an hour ago."

Lola had shrunk from his indifference, but she had his full attention now. For a moment a flicker of feeling crossed his face— it may have been remorse, fear.... Then with an inimitable gesture he stooped, took the ring from her finger and put it on his own. He, too, had a liking for cheap jewellery.

"The little Lola was fond of me," he said. "Well—" He shrugged his shoulders. "One woman more or less, what does it matter?"

The doctor watched him without comment, his thin face twisted into an ironical smile.

"Shall I send for the police?" he asked at last.

Peppino blazed into passion. He pointed to the clock; the hands stood at half-past eight. "We sail at nine," he said. "Nothing must delay us. That"— he jerked his head— "will come with us. After all, it is what she wished."

"And if there are inquiries?"

"Pouf!" He brushed that away. "There will be no inquiries. She had no friends. Where is the little Lola? No one knows, no one cares. Soon they will forget altogether."

He made a motion as though washing his hands. "To-morrow night, or the next we will have a burial at sea. Please attend to it."

He walked off, humming under his breath and holding up his hand to watch the light play on the colored stones in Lola's cheap little ring.

The doctor was left alone. Women did not care for him. His slight figure and worn face did not attract them, therefore he had some illusions left. Looking round to make sure he was not observed, he bent and made the sign of the cross on the breast of the dead girl.

"Finito l'amore. Love is finished, little one," he said.

______________

5: Atavism

Bulletin, 14 Dec 1922

AT the back a tin fence and a narrow passage separated one shop from the other. Upstairs the two places adjoined. Looking from the side window of the china shop one could catch glimpses of the exciting life that went on in the kitchen of the cheap restaurant next door. Just glimpses, no more; incidents without beginning or end, cut off sharply like a break in a cinematograph film. The flash of a knife...  an arm upraised to ward off a blow... the dark, scowling face of the Dago cook framed for a moment in the window....the pretty, supercilious waitress with her air of insolent scorn for the kitchen menials as she shouted her orders:

“Roast beef, one; Steak and kidney pie, one; Irish stew, two.”

By long association the girl in the china shop knew them all. A dozen times a day, when the crates from overseas had been unpacked, she climbed the dusty stairs with a heavy basket of crockery to be stored in the rooms above. It was arduous work, but she preferred it to the interminable dusting in the shop and the dreariness of serving customers. By constant practice she had gained such celerity in packing goods away that she could quite easily spare a few minutes after each trip to watch the exhilarating, feverish, bustling life in the restaurant below without her movements being called into question.

Sometimes the side door was left open and then she could see through into the restaurant itself. This was like looking into another world, and, to the girl above, it had the fascination of the unusual and unknown. The atmosphere was always thick and steamy, and the foreheads of those who ate there gradually became covered with tiny beads of sweat.

Even the faces of the waitresses, thickly powdered though they were, glistened with the heat. The tables were covered with dirty cloths, carelessly thrown on, splashed with gravy and greasy with the marks left by innumerable plates. In the centre of each stood a vase of fly-speckled paper-flowers, which had long outlived their period of decoration, a tarnished cruet and a bottle of tomato-sauce. At every table, wedged in so closely that their elbows touched, were men. Men with their jaws munching, men talking, men reading, men drinking. Everywhere men.

Amongst these men the pretty waitress lost her supercilious manner. Her face, with its innocent, wide-eyed stare, became wistful, almost appealing. The air she assumed of the lamb lost in a den of lions appealed to the instinctive chivalry of the male, or at least to those males who were young enough to be romantic, and those who were old enough to be sentimental. The others were merely indifferent. This mannerism, carefully acquired, brought her in many tips which she hid furtively in the bosom of her dress and sometimes down her stocking. Tips were not the perquisites of the waitresses but of the fat proprietor who sat in the cash-desk near the door, his black, beady eyes watchful, and the tip of his tongue continually moistening his thick, red lips. But the money was only his if he chanced to see it first. Whatever he might claim from the other girls he very seldom succeeded in collecting any spoils from the pretty waitress. Her innocent manner baffled even him.

For a brief time in the afternoon the restaurant sank into silence, but after an hour or so it awoke into clamor again. The tables had to be re-set, more food cooked, more hungry men fed. As the waitresses went about their work, their strident voices shrilling through the air, the girl next door envied them their unceasing activity. They had no time to think, no time to count the years they had spent in bondage, no time to dread the years they would have to spend in bondage, unless something happened to take them out of it.

The only thing, of course, was marriage, and she could not count on that. Her pale face and quiet manner did not attract men. There were always young men waiting to take the other girls home on Fridays, but there was never anyone for her. As she unpacked the china from the crates in the shed at the back of the shop she had moods of furious rebellion, alternating with sullen resignation. What was the use of worrying? Nothing would ever happen to her. She would just go on, year after year, dusting, serving, unpacking china out of crates, packing it again into bins, and watching life through the dirty pane of an upstairs window. Yet she would sooner do that than marry any of those young men who waited for the girls round the corner. She hated their pale, pimply faces, sleek, oily hair and glib manners. If she could not have the kind of man she wanted— she would sooner live alone.

It was strange that she should really like unpacking crates. No one else did. She always opened them with a sense of unexplained adventure, especially those from China or Japan. As she handled the fragile pieces, so fragile that they would snap in your hand unless you were careful— and that was a nuisance, because you had to pay for breakages— she had the queerest thoughts and experienced the strongest sense of divorcement from real life. Those queer thoughts became pictures in her mind— great masses of wistaria overhanging low bridges—cherry-trees in bloom— temples set on windy hills— the god in the forest....

Yet she never ceased working, putting the china methodically in neat little rows on the table; cups together, saucers together, plates together. Fragile, brightly-colored pieces, red, blue and gold, with funny little pictures. Funny little animals with staring eyes; funny little people in kimonos; funny little women with high-dressed hair, bowing, dancing, posing with fans. What were they? Geisha girls! Yes, that was right. Happy, happy little Geishas, smiling, flirting, drinking tea in shining rooms full of color and light. Happy, happy Geisha girls.

She had been busy all the morning. One crate, already unpacked, stood ready for moving at the back of the shed, and she was half through another when a sudden sound brought her back with a jerk from the world of dreams in which she had been living. She looked up sharply, then moved slightly so that she was hidden from sight. A man was peering over the fence that separated one shop from the other. She had a moment’s impression of a hard, brown face with startlingly blue eyes before he drew himself level with the top of the fence and vaulted lightly over. It was a clean jump, beautifully done, and she gave an involuntary gasp of admiration. None of those pimply-faced youths could have done it, she thought.

He wheeled quickly and saw her. His face hardened and his blue eyes narrowed until they became mere slits in his brown face.

“Don’t make a sound,” he muttered, moving towards her. “I won’t hurt you. But if you do—” He raised his hand threateningly.

She felt no fear of him in spite of his threats; she was only conscious of an ever-growing sense of lawless excitement.

“What is it?” she began in a whisper, his stealthy manner affecting her. “Why—”

She stopped suddenly as a terrific clamor broke out next door. Shrieks, oaths, voices shouting for the police, heavy footsteps running down the side passage, and the creak of the back gate as it was flung open.

“The johns!” He looked quickly to right and left, searching a way of escape. “If they catch me I’m done. I can’t get out the back. They’re watching the lane.”

“The window !” She had suddenly realised they might be overlooked from above. “Quick! They will see you.” As she spoke she drew him behind the door. They stood close together, their bodies touching, speaking in breathless whispers. Her heart pounded in her throat, and she caught the edge of the table to steady herself.

“What did you do?” Not that it mattered. She did not care what he had done.

“Robbed the till.” He jerked his head and his lips curved into a grin. “That fat cow! I’ve always had it in for him.”

So had she. She hated the fat proprietor with his thick, red lips and his dark, oily skin. She was glad, glad he had been robbed. She hated him the more because he meant danger to this man. Somehow she must save him. She must! She could not bear to think of him in gaol.

“Are you going to help me, kid?”

She could feel his breath on her cheek and see the extreme blueness of his eyes. He knew she would help him. Oh, he knew it!

They were searching the place next door. She could hear them at it. Running upstairs, dashing through the restaurant, looking for the thief. No, he was not a thief, this man with the brown face and blue eyes, he was an adventurer— what did they call it?— a buccaneer. Yes, that was it. She must save him if she could. Men were standing out in the lane. Above the fence she caught the glint of a policeman’s helmet. It would have to be done at once, but where could she hide him? She looked round desperately, then her eyes fell on the empty crate.

“Quick!” she whispered.

He caught her meaning at once. Silently as a cat he stole across the shed and climbed into the crate. He crouched down and she covered him lightly with straw, then clamped on the lid. It was done, and for the moment he was safe.

When the policeman came through she was carefully unpacking china, a slight figure dressed in black with a pale face and dark, dilated eyes.

She knew him well by sight. She had seen him on point duty, and with his children in the little side street where he lived. A slow-moving, easy-going man with a hatred of exertion; she gained hope as she looked at him. It would be easy enough to deceive him.

“Seen anyone, missie?”

She shook her head. “No, but I heard the noise.”

“Umph!” He looked round reflectively.

“Been here all the time?”

“Since 12 o’clock. I’ve been unpacking.”

“Not left the shed at all?”

“No.”

He tilted back his helmet and scratched his head, then his eyes fell on the crate.

“What’s in here?”

“Just china.” No one would have guessed from the calmness of her voice the agony of mind she was suffering. “I have to unpack that when I’ve finished the one I’m doing now.”

“You’re sure, missie, that no one came through here?”

“No. I would have been frightened if I had seen anyone.”

Her artless air was convincing. “But I remember now that just before the noise started I heard the back gate slam next door.”

“Oh, did you? Why didn’t you say that before? I guess he must have made off down the lane.”

He moved away and she bent over her work again. She dared not risk speaking to him yet, though she was in a fever of impatience. At any moment the storeman might come in. He would know the crate was empty. He might even attempt to move it, for they sold as quickly as they were emptied. Next door the noise had died down. Evidently they had realised he was not there.

Half-an-hour passed and she could bear it no longer. Reckless of the  consequences she ran to the back gate and looked up and down the lane. There was no one about, even the policemen had gone. He must go now. It was dangerous to stay any longer. He must take his chance.

Casting a hasty glance round she unlocked the lid and raised it. “Quickly!” she whispered. “I’m afraid to keep you any longer. The storeman comes in at five and he might find you. Go down the lane. I’ve just looked and there’s no one about.”

"I’ll risk it.” He stood up. There were wisps of straw in his hair and in his clothes. She brushed them off.

“Now go,” she said.

Their eyes met and a sudden light flamed into his. He took her roughly in his arms.

“By God, kid, you're game! If I get through—”

“Oh, go, go,” she cried, in an agony. “Don’t let them get you now.”

“Kiss me,” he commanded.

The hard grasp of his hands hurt her arms, but she did not flinch. Their lips met. She could not refuse him; she could not have refused him anything.

“Don’t forget,” he said. “You’re— mine. I’ll come back.”

He held her for a moment longer, then released her. She heard his light footsteps running down the passage, and fell on her knees, hiding her face in her hands. Five minutes or so she waited in an agony, but heard no further sound. He must have got through the lane by this time and into the crowded streets, where he would have more chance. He must have escaped. If they had caught him she would have heard something. It was all over. Still trembling slightly she got up, gathered the straw together and put it in the crate, then went back to her work.

She had just finished and was packing the china into a basket ready to take upstairs when one of the girls from the shop came out. She swung herself on to the table, her face flushed with excitement.

“Did you hear all the row?” She did not wait for an answer, but gabbled on. “Great fun, wasn’t it? I’m glad they grabbed him after all. They say he was just turning out of the lane into High-street, when they caught him.”

“They— caught— him!” The cup she was holding snapped between her fingers.

“Yes, jolly good job I call it. I say, look what you’ve done. You’ll get into trouble. Here, sling it away and don’t say anything about it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice sounded dull and tired. “I can pay for it, I suppose.” With careful precision she stacked a row of cups in the basket.

“It must be rather— terrible in gaol,” she went on, after a pause, during which the other girl swung her legs, and watched her. "Lonely, too. But I suppose his friends could go and see him? In gaol, I mean?”

"Eh?” The other looked at her blankly.

“Yes, I think so. Why?”

"Oh, nothing.”

She bent over her work again.

_________________

6: The House by the River

Weekly Times (Vic.)  22 April 1922

THERE WERE only three hills on the wide plains stretching from Wahroonga to the sea and the old homestead of Wahroonga stood on one of them. At its foot flowed the river. David Blair looked up at it with frowning eyes. He could see the grey stone house with its square cobbled courtyard and green shutters drawn against the afternoon sun. There was the long avenue of pines which his father had planted; the terraced garden, the quince trees along the river's bank— he remembered them well— and beyond that the miles of grassy plain where MacKenzie's sheep grazed.

Wahroonga homestead! The name was as familiar to him as his own. He had been born in that old grey house by the river, and now it belonged to Mackenzie. What was it the man at the hotel had said? That Wahroonga was the show place of the district and Tom Mackenzie a good boss and a white man. A white man! Blair smiled bitterly. It seemed that people had short memories for some things. Well, perhaps he could find a way of reminding them.

The pad of horse's hoofs along the soft red road aroueed him. He moved aside, then snatched off his hat as the rider drew rein and looked down at him with puzzled eyes in which the light of recognition was dawning. She was a fair, pretty girl and sat her horse with an alert, boyish air which her khaki riding suit and trim little cap accentuated.

"I think we've met before, haven't we?" she asked. "Just a moment, and I'll tell you your name." She hesitated, then smiled. "I know. It's Blair— David Blair. Aren't I right?"

"Yes."

Frantically Blair searched his memory. What was her name? Or had he ever heard it? Now he came to think of it, the introduction had been hastily made, and he hadn't caught it. But he remembered the girl distinctly and the impression she had made on him. He had determined that somehow he would see her again, but business had taken him to Sydney, and when he returned it had been too late.

"I do believe you've forgotten me, but you're too polite to admit it."

Though she smiled, there was a note of disappointment in her voice, and Blair hastened to reassure her.

"My memory is quite as good as yours," he retorted. "It was at a theatre party, and I had been asked at the last moment to fill a vacant seat. I remember I was bored at the thought of it, and then— I sat next to you. I don't know what the play was, but in the intervals we talked about trees and horses, and the country, and pleasant things like that. Then the curtain went down for the last time, and we all left the theatre, and— I never saw you again, though I wanted to very much."

Something in his voice and the expression of his dark eyes brought the color to the girl's cheek. She leant hastily forward and stroked the shining neck of her horse.

"I remember our conversation very well," she said softly, "and I often wondered if we should meet again. I never thought it would be here, though," she went on. "What's brought you to the Western district? You're a lawyer, aren't you, so you haven't come to buy sheep?"

At her careless words a shadow crossed Blair's face. He looked past her to the old grey house by the river.

"I'm here on a holiday," he returned evasively.

"A holiday!" The girl's eyes widened a little. "People never come here for a holiday. Unless you ride there's not much to do, is there. Of course, I like it, but then I was born here. Strangers hate it. There's nothing but plains and sheep, and then enore plains and sheep."

"I like it, too." Blair's expression changed. His keen, dark face lost its sombre look, and became boyish again. He gazed across the wide plains stretching out to meet the far horizon. "There was some chap— who was it?— who wrote something about 'the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended.' I feel like that about them. There's a beauty in their bareness and a fascina tion in their vastness. They teach you the world's a very big place, and man only a tiny speck." He broke off with a nervous little laugh. "You'll think an awful fool talking like this."

"No, I don't." The girl held out her band frankly. "We both love the plains, so let's be friends. That's a bond between us."

"Thanks." He held her hand tightly for a moment, then let it drop with a sudden, cold feeling at his heart. He remembered he did not know her name. a ridiculous position and what a fool she would" think him if be ad-ivutted it. But he would not do that, somehow he would discover it without letting her know what he was after.

"Mr Blair!" There was rather a quizzical note in the girl's voice, and David looked, at her quickly. For a moment he got the impression that she ttas aware of his dilemma, and that it amused her. Then he decided he was mistaken, her expression was so demure. "Where are you staying."

"At the hotel."

"At the hotel!" There was real consternation in her voice. "But that's a terrible place. I thought, of course, you were staying at one of the stations. Old Lang's quite a dear when he's sober, but then he never Is. You won't get any meals there, unless you cook them yourself."

"That sounds rather alarming," laughed Blair. "But I daresay I can pull through."

"You're not going to get the chance, wow that we've sworn eternal friendship you have to do everything I tell you! Go back to the hotel, get your bag, and then come over to us. Dad will love to have you, and you'll love him too. He's such a dear. There's only the two of us now that mother is dead, and we're great pals."

"Oh, I say, that's awfully good of you." Blair flushed with pleasure. "But I can't thrust myself on you like that"

The girl held up an admonitory finger. "In the sacred name of our friendship!" she laughed. "You can't refuse the first thing I've asked you."

She gathered the reins tighter in her gloved hand.

"We'll expect you then any time before dinner."

"But—" Blair hesitated. He had not had time to exercise his diplomacy and was reduced to a straight question. "Er— where is your place?"

"Don't you know?" She turned in her saddle and pointed with her whip. "Why, Wahroonga, of course."

"Wahroonga!" Blair started as though he had been struck.

"Why, yes," the girl went on, "I'm Molly MacKenzie of Wahroonga. Confess, now. You didn't remember my name."

"I don't think I ever heard it," Blair said mechanically.

"I suspected as much. Well, you hide It very cleverly." She pulled her horse's head and wheeled him around.

"Good-bye for the present," she called gaily.

Blair watched her out of sight, then slowly returned to the hotel.

He had wanted a pretext for entering Wahroonga. and now the way was clear. His mouth set in a line of bitter disgust at the thought of the trick that fate had played him. He could not enter the house under the guise of friendship and stab the father through the girl. The only decent thing to do was to return to Melbourne.

Then the turn of the road brought Wahroonga into view, and his anger surged in him again. He would stay and see it through, and play his hand as it suited him. MacKenzie had had no mercy on his people and he would have none in his turn.

This black mood still held Blair when he reached Wahroonga homestead late that afternoon. The place looked charming in the mellow light, and his bitterness increased. His father had planted out these gardens, and here his mother had walked. That room with its wide windows overlooking the river had been hers. As a child he had known every nook and cranny of the old house, and now it was given over to strangers, for in his bitterness even Molly seemed a stranger.

She joined him on the lawn, and with an effort he threw off his moodiness. But some thing had gone out of their intercourse. Blair was painfully aware of it, but he knew that he would not be at ease until he had met MacKenzie.

It was just before dinner that Blair saw for the first time the man who had wronged his father. As they shook hands, it seemed to Blair that MacKenzie flinched a little. Did he perhaps trace some likeness?

Molly hung on to her father's arm and looked at Blair with somehing like appeal in her eyes. Her instinct had sensed a constraint between the two men. The cold reserve on Blair's part lasted through dinner, though MacKenzie did his best to draw him out. He had a keen intellect and a witty manner, and Blair grudging admitted the man's charm. If he had not been MacKenzie he would have liked him, and as it was he had to keep reminding himself of the fact. MacKenzie must have married late in life, for Blair guessed that he was well over sixty while Molly was barely twenty.

After dinner MacKenzie took his guest out to the verandah, where they settled themselves in two deck chairs.

"Sing something, Molly," he said.

"Very well, Daddy. What would you like?'

"Oh, anything. Her voice soothes me," he added, turning to David, "and we can talk and listen at the same time. Have a cigar?"

"No thanks." David felt for his cigarette case. "I've got my own smoke here."

"Well, please yourself. Personally, I prefer a pipe." He took it out of his pocket and filled it. "You interest me, Mr Blair."

"Really?" David struck a match and lit his cigarette.

"Yes." The elder man sat upright with a jerk. "May I ask how old you are?"

David slowly expelled a mouthful of smoke. "Thirty-two."

"I see." There was a short pause, and David smiled. Evidently the other's mind was a little uneasy.

"Have you ever been in this district before?" MacKenzie went on.

"Yes, years ago when I was a boy I lived here." MacKenzie's pipe fell with a clatter to the floor. David picked it up and returned it to him with a bow. "But I fancy that was before your time, Mr MacKenzie," he said softly.

"Very probably." With an effort MacKenzie recovered himself. His face had paled, but though his hand shook a little his voice was quite steady.

"You, too, interest me," David went on in a quiet, level voice.

"Indeed!" MacKenzie drawled.

"Yes. They tell me in the village that you have the show place of the district."

MacKenzie yawned behind his hand. "I believe I have that reputation." "You also have the reputation of being a white man— or so one of your enthusiastic admirers told me."

"Really?" MacKenzie raised his eye brows. "How very interesting!"

"Very." The red tip of David's cigarette glowed suddenly in the half darkness. "A reputation is a hard thing to build up, but it is easy enough to destroy."

MacKenzie leant forward and knock ed out his pipe against the heel of his boot. His voice was quits nonchalant.

"May I ask exactly what you mean by that remark, Mr Blair?"

"Nothing," returned David carelessly, "absolutely nothing at all. It was merely casual conversation." He rose easily to his feet. "Excuse me, won't you? I'll join Miss MacKenzie at the piano."

"He's afraid," David thought exultantly. "He's in my hands now. He's afraid of what I might say to Molly."

For the next few days the two men watched each other covertly, while MacKenzie grew visibly paler and more fragile looking. His age began to show and he lost the air of robust health that had distinguished him. David was quite content to wait; he knew his time would come. He laughed and talked with Molly, but for the time being she had ceased to exist except as the instrument of his revenge. His whole mind was fixed on her father. He had seen enough of the love between them to be aware that the bitterest blow he could give MacKenzie was to destroy Molly's faith and trust in him.

It was Molly herself who made the opportunity. The maid had brought the afternoon tea on to the lawn and they were having it beneath the trees. Molly sat between the two men and her mouth looked a little wistful. She could not understand the change that had come over David and it was mak ing her unhappy. His visit had not been a success and she had hoped such great things from it. She could hardly belive he was the same man who had shaken hands with her that day they had promised to be friends! Then he had been interested in her; now she was aware that he was barely conscious of her existence. She looked at him. He was sitting up, with his hands clasped across his knees, and there was a hard brightness in his eyes.

"What are you thinking of, Mr. Blair?" she asked rather timidly. She was always nervous now when she addressed him; her old confidence had gone. He looked at her quickly, then smiled a little— a cruel smile she thought it was.

"I was thinking how these old places change hands," he said slowly. "I happened to come across a curious story some time ago. Would you care to hear it?"

"Of course we should."

"What about you, Mr MacKenzie?" David turned to the other man. "It won't bore you, I hope?"

"Certainly not." MacKenzie's mouth twitched, and he moved his chair so that his face was hidden from David.

"Well—" David rolled over on his elbow and lay facing the father and daughter. "It's a very common story of treachery and broken friendship— no doubt you have often come across a similar case in your experience, Mr MacKenzie?"

He paused, but MacKenzie did not reply, only he lifted his hand to shade his eyes. David waited a moment, then went on.

"There was a homestead, something like this," he waved his hand, "with trees and a river and the wide plains. There was a small boy who was born in that place and loved it. Then the droughts came and bush fires swept the plains and the sheep died in hundreds. His father raised mortgage after mortgage, for it was a valuable property, and then— he died suddenly. The mother struggled on, striving to keep the place for the sake of her boy. If she had been allowed a little more time she could have done it, but one man had bought up the mortgages, and he was remorseless. They were turned out of their home, the small boy and his mother. She died in poverty of a broken heart, and the boy was left to struggle on as best he could. Afterward, long years afterward, he discovered that the holder of the mortgage was his father's best friend. This man married and came to live at the homestead. Of course, legally the place was his, but morally—" He shrugged his shoulders. "What do you think of that story, Mr MacKenzie?"

A deep sigh shook the old man. He dropped his hand and looked straight at David.

"It is not pleasant," he said slowly, "but perhaps he tried unsuccessfully to find the people he had wronged and make amends."

David flushed. "No amends could have been possible," he said hoarsely. He turned to Molly. "What do you think, Miss MacKenzie?"

"I think— it is terrible."

Molly's voice trembled and there was a mist of tears in her eyes.

"Daddy!" She turned to her father. "If it had been us! If we had had to go out and leave this place. That poor little boy. It would kill me to leave Wahroonga. My dear old home. Why, it is a part of me. I was born here."

"And so was I."

The words rose to David's lips, but they were never spoken. Something stopped him. Perhaps it was the divine pity in her face or the passionate tenderness with which she spoke of her home. He looked at her as though he were seeing her for the first time after a long,  long absence. The hard barrier of hatred and revenge melted away, and his heart was free again. Why, what ! a fool he had been. He loved her and he could not hurt the girl he loved. For her sake he could even forgive. He sprang to his feet with a laugh.

"Why, you silly girl. What are you crying for? It was only an old, old story I was trying out on you. I thought one day I might write it up, but it has no existence except in my imagination."

He held out his hand and took hers. "Come, let's go for a walk under the quince trees."

Molly was like a creature transformed. This was the man she had known back again, and she was happy.

"Wait a moment," she said, "until I get my garden hat."

MacKenzie waited until she was out of sight, then he rose.

"Thank you, Blair," he said, "for holding your hand."

"I found I could not harm her," David muttered, "and now if you please we will forget the matter."

The old man bent his head. "You have had your revenge after all," he said quietly, "for you are taking my daughter away from me."

Then Molly came dancing out of the house, and David went to meet her. Together they walked down the path leading to the river.

_________________

7: The Bookshop

Weekly Times (Vic.), 14 Jan 1922

ANNE ALEXANDER looked around her with a sense of satisfaction. It was a quaint little shop she had happened on, with a tiny, narrow window through which she could catch a glimpse of the corner of the opposite street and the red and blue signboard swinging above the draper's shop. When she sat at the counter and looked out it was just like watching figures pass in a cinematograph show. They seemed to come from nothing and vanish into nothing. She saw them for a moment, and then they were no more, unless of course she liked to get up and go to the door; but this would have spoilt the whole illusion. She liked that sense of stories begun and never completed, and it pleased her to fit her own fancies to the people who hurried by.

The stout gentleman with a tightly-buttoned waistcoat and the white spats, who passed every morning at eleven o'clock, would have been considerably astonished if he had known the romantic story the little girt in the bookshop opposite had woven around him; but then one has to do something to pass the time when one keeps a second-hand bookshop to which business simply refuses to come.

Anne had always longed to possess a second-hand, bookshop of her own. It had always been one of her chief pleasures to poke about in them in the quest for treasures, which, however, she never found. Her father had taught her, as a child, to love books, and when he died and left her with a capital of three hundred pounds and an income of one pound a week, it seemed to her like a special act of a beneficent Providence that old Franzi Rignhold should want to sell his business for exactly that sum.

Within two days the three hundred pounds had changed hands, and Anne Alexander was the proud possessor of Franzi Rignhold's second-hand bookshop.

It was rather alarming to find, when she came to add up her first week's profit and loss, that she had only taken twelve shillings in cash, of which she had given five away to beggars who had come to the door with a story about six children starving at home and a wife— or a husband as the case might be— dying in the hospital, and was the poorer for the loss of four books stolen from the sixpenny box outside.

Still, to counter-balance this, there were all the charming friends she had made. The boys from the college close by who came to sell their text books; the old lady with the bonnet and mantle who had a craze for collecting Bibles, and came every day to see if she had an original edition of the time of King James; and the courtly old gentleman with the long frock coat and white beard who called Anne "Madam," and gravely discussed archaeology with her. Anne knew nothing whatever about archaeology, but that did not prevent her discussing it, and she felt flattered when the old gentleman complimented her on her knowledge.

"Such erudition, Madam, in one so young astounds me," he said. It was rather a shock to discover later that this courtly old gentleman was in the habit of concealing books beneath his coat-tails. However she put this down to an amiable idiosyncrasy on his part, though she nevertheless took the precaution of removing all loose books beyond his reach.

Besides Anne, the bookshop had to support Janet. Janet was some sort of a relation of Anne's— they had never been able to work out exactly what relation, the effort was too exhaustfng— and she had come to look after the housekeeping, as Anne had expected to be so engaged with her large financial operations as to have no time for domestic worries. Janet was thirty-five, though she looked fifty, and was a persistent pessimist. For Janet no cloud ever had a silver lining; it was always sable on both sides. Janet did not approve of Anne's venture, and predicted disaster for it.

"Why books?" she said. "And if you must have books, why second-hand books? Couldn't you sell new ones instead? Nice clean ones without a smell?"

Anne sighed. Sometimes she found Janet rather tiring. There were so many things she did not approve of, such as too much laughter, which she said gave her a headache; fresh air, which gave her a cold; and flowers, which she said only made a mess about the place. She really belonged to an age of antimacassars and German oleographs, and Anne was sometimes tempted to wish that she had never left it. Still, she had to admit that Janet was a thorough housewife, and she supposed that was a virtue. She could hear her now banging things about in the little sitting-room at the back of the shop, and raising a great dust. Anne sighed again— she hated dust— and leant her elbows on the counter.

"Oh," she said aloud, "if only something, interesting would happen!"

As she spoke the shop door opened with the protesting squeak it always gave and a young man entered. He had bright blue eyes, and was dressed in a grey Norfolk suit that had evidently seen better days a long time ago. Under his arm he carried a large book which he thumped down on the counter.

"Why, hullo," he said, expressing some surprise as he saw a stranger. "Where's old Franzi?"

For answer Anne twinkled at him. Then she looked grave. She remembered that young persons behind shop counters do not twinkle at young men, even though they are particularly nice young men with merry blue eyes.

"Mr Rignhold is not here," she said with dignity.

"Gone for a holiday, has he? Not before he wanted it, poor old chap. You're the assistant, I suppose? Well, I say."

He leant confidentially across the counter.

"You can fix me up. I want a loan of a pound on this book. Old Franzi would give it like a shot if he was here. He's often lent me money on it. It's a valuable book, you know, and I believe the old rascal used to hope I wouldn't be able to redeem it some time."

Anne looked taken aback. Her idea of business had not included lending a pound to any strange young man who came in and demanded it, even though he left a valuable book behind. Besides, she was doubtful as to whether she had a pound in the till.

"What's the matter?" asked the young man. "You needn't be frightened of getting into trouble with old Franzi. I'll bring back the pound all right. I wouldn't lose that book for anything. Hurry up, there's a good girl. I must have the money."

Anne took up the book and turned the leaves uncertainly. It certainly looked valuable, and she wanted to oblige the young man if she could, as he was evidently so desperately In need of the money. She could, of course, tell him that old Franzi was no longer the owner of the shop, but then in that case he probably would not take the money. He did not look the sort of man who would borrow from a woman. She made up her mind. Opening the till, she counted out twenty shillings— the last shilling had to be made up of coppers— which she handed to him.

"Thanks," he said gratefully, as he jingled the coins into his pocket. "Thanks for making it seem such a lot. By the way," he added, "you'll want my name in case old Franzi comes back. It's Donald McLean. But," he waved his hand, "Franzi will recognise the book."

He laughed, the door banged behind him,and he was gone.

Anne sat down at the counter so that she could see him when he passed the corner of the street. He had a quick, alert step and carried himself well.  Altogether he was a decidedly presentable young man. She was glad she had lent him that pound.

"Humph!" said a disapproving voice behind her. "So that's the way you do business! Giving money away to the first good-looking young man who comes along and asks for it."

"My dear Janet." Anne tried to speak with, smooth dignity, though the flush on her cheeks showed she was rather discomposed that Janet should have overheard the transaction. "You don't understand. That was a perfectly legitimate business deal. As a matter of fact, I hope he won't come back with the money. I would rather keep the book. It is extremely valuable. The plates alone are worth a guinea each, and there are thirty of them."

"A lot of rubbish," said Janet, looking at the hook with unconcealed scorn. "I suppose he wanted to get rid of it. I just came in to tell you," she went on, "that the bath wants mending and we'll have to get a plumber in. There's always something," she added gloomily.

NEARLY a fortnight passed before Donald McLean came to redeem his book, and Anne had almost given up hope of seeing him again. Her own inner doubts had not been helped by the predictions of Janet, who was obviously hoping for the worst.

"He's probably stolen it somewhere," she remarked when Anne, more to reassure herself than anything else, pointed out again the value of the book.

"The next thing will be a visit from the police, I suppose."

It was in the evening when Donald came. Anne was writing at the counter while Janet was sewing in the little room at the back of the shop. Anne could see her shadow through the glass door which separated the two.

"Hullo," said Donald, cheerfully.

"Good evening," returned Anne rather primly. She was conscious of the disapproving figure of Janet in the background, and Janet always had the effect of making her feel prim.

"How will you have It?" Donald went on, as he spread twenty shillings on the counter. "In notes or gold?"

Anne's air was severely business-like as she gathered up the money and handed him his book. Then she waited for him to go.

But Donald seemed in no hurry to leave. He leant easily against the counter, and his attitude seemed to say that, he was willing to stay there for ever if necessary. Anne glanced uneasily behind her. She had heard the murmur of voices and wondered whom Janet was talking to. Then she dismissed the matter from her mind with the consoling thought that so long as Janet was talking to someone else she could not be watching her.

"What do you do here all day?" asked the young man, conversationally. "Don't you find it a bit slow?"

"Slow? Certainly not," said Anne, indignantly. Now that Janet was otherwise engaged she felt more at ease with him. "I read, and when I get tired of that I watch the people outside and try and guess what they are and what they do."

"That sounds rather a fascinating game," remarked Donald. "How do your guesses pan out?"

"Well, I don't know," replied Anne doubtfully. "You see, I've not been able to test them."

"Let's begin now," said the other. "What do you think I am?"

"What are you?" Anne looked him up and down, and hesitated. Then the untidy Norfolk suit decided her. "I think you might be a poet," she said.

"Good Lord!" His face fell. "Do I look as bad as that?"

"But," protested Anne, "I always thought a poet was a nice sort of person."

"My dear girl," said Donald gloomily, "have you ever seen one?"

Anne shook her head.

"Well," he said, "I have."

He stared moodily at the toes of his boots and looked so depressed that Anne faltered an apology.

"Oh, it's all right," he said sadly, "you couldn't know. As a matter of fact," he went on, "I am a poet— of sorts, but I don't want to look like one."

"I think you're the most ridiculous person I've ever met," said Anne, unaccountably annoyed with him. "If you are a poet you ought to be proud of it."

"No one could be proud of my poetry," sighed the young man. "One of these days I will bring in my last little booklet and read it aloud— just to punish you!"

But Anne refused to carry on the conversation. She suspected him of teasing her, and Anne was young enough to dislike being teased. Nevertheless she felt curiosity enough to go through the files of the weekly papers in which she saw his name attached to verses and stories, and discovered that his poetry really was poetry. He came often after that. In fact, he came every day and sometimes twice a day.

Anne grew to look for his coming, but, unfortunately, Janet felt a strong distrust of him, no doubt engendered by that first monetary transaction. She looked at him with a cold and suspicious eye, which had the effect of reducing him to silence and generally lead to his utter defeat and rout. Janet was not always there, however. Latterly, to Anne's unbounded surprise, she often went out in the evening, returning, a little flushed, perhaps, but more taciturn than ever. Anne wondered where she went to, but was too much In awe of Janet to question her.

"I do hope nothing is wrong with Janet," she said to Donald one evening. "She is always out lately, and when she comes in she looks so queer. I hope she's not ill, but I'm frightened to ask her."

"She's all right," returned Donald, easily. "But don't let us talk about her."

He swung himself on to the counter and looked down at Anne.

"I say," he said, "I am glad old Franzi went away for a holiday. It was rather a sporting thing to leave you in charge."

Anne looked demure, but said nothing.

"You know," he went on, "I nearly bought this place once. At least, when I say I nearly bought it, I mean I would have bought it if I had had the necessary cash. Franzi wanted £300 for it, but I only had £3 at the time. I tried to solve the problem, but the two sums wouldn't meet, so I had to give it up. It is rather a jolly little place."  He looked round approvingly.  "I've always wanted to run a second-hand bookshop. I feel I've got a flair for it."

"Have you?" said Anne.

"Yes. Well, who knows? I may own this place some day. If I ever do I could offer you a permanent job."

"Could you?" said Anne. Her voice was non-committal, but her face looked a little flushed and her eyes were shining.

"Yes, I could. Would you like that?"

"Perhaps." He looked at her keenly.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

"Wrong?" repeated Anne, gazing at him with wide and innocent eyes. "Certainly not. Why?"

"Oh, nothing," He moved a little uneasily. "Only your conversation seems a little— limited. There's not the ceaseless flow I've been used to."

"But you held the floor," said Anne, I was only acting as an occasional chorus. Anyway," she went on hastily, as he was about to interrupt, "Janet might come in at any moment and she doesn't like to see me talking to strange young men."

"Strange young men! But dash it all, you can't call me a strange young man. Why, you lent me a pound the first time you saw me. An action like that establishes an Intimacy at once. Life can never be the same again, and all that sort of thing."

"I wonder," said Anne, looking at him reflectively, "if you can ever be serious?"

"Serious? Of course I can. I've been trying to be serious all the evening, but I never seemed able to get the opportunity. Listen, little girl—" He laid his hand over hers. "Do you think— " He paused and cleared his throat; for a poet he was singularly inarticulate. "Do you think," he began again, "you could like me a little?"

"Well, perhaps I could." She looked at him from under her long eyelashes. "Just a little."

"But—" He cleared the counter and stood by her side. "That's not what I really meant," he whispered. "I don't want you to like me. I want you to love me."

Anne gave a tremulous little laugh.

"That's just what I want you to do to me," she said softly.

It was Anne who remembered first I that they were standing in the shop with a Window looking- nn tn thq  street, and drew away from his embrace.

"Donald," she said rather timidly, when she had quite recovered herself, "Did you really mean it when you said you would like to own this place?"

"Of course I did. Wouldn't it be jolly," he went on, "if I could save up enough money to buy it? I would rather like to live here— with you."

"Donald." Anne's voice sounded a littlo breathless. "I've got something to confess to you, but don't be angry with me. Oh, please don't be angry with me. I own this place. I bought it from old Franzi. He's in Germany by this time."

"Well, I'm jiggered!"

Donald stared at her in amazement, then threw back his head and burst into a shout of laughter.

"What a game you've had with me, and what a blatant ass I must have seemed boasting about what I was going to do."

"No you didn't. Only it made me a bit uneasy, because I knew some time you must find out, and I was afraid you'd be angry." Her face lit up and she looked at him eagerly.

"Donald," she said, "would you really and truly like to live here when we're married? We could, you know, and I would love to. But— there's Janet."

"So there is," he agreed gloomily. "I'd forgotten her for the moment. Janet certainly seems to be a bit superfluous. What are we going to do about Janet?"

"You needn't worry about Janet," said an icy voice. They turned with a guilty start, horror In their eyes. Janet was standing In the door of the shop, a peculiar expression on her face.

"You needn't worry about me," she repeated. "I am going to be married."

"Married!" gasped Anne. She put her hand to her head. For the moment she thought she must be dreaming.

"Who to?" she asked weakly.

"To Mr Brown."

"Mr Brown?" repeated Anne. "Janet, you can't mean you are going to marry Mr Brown? Mr Brown sounds so— so indefinite. Who is Mr Brown?"

"Mr Brown is the gentleman who came to mend the bath," explained Janet coldly.

"Oh, Janet, not— not the plumber?"

"And why not?" asked Janet grimly. "Better to marry a plumber than a poet, I should say," she added, with a cold eye on Donald who was trying unsuccessfully to look as though he was not there. With an air that defied them both she stalked into the inner room, while Anne leant against the counter helpless with laughter.

"Oh, Donald," she said, when at last she could speak, "I wish you could have seen your face when Janet was breaking the news to us. Why, where are you going?" she I asked, as Donald made a move towards I the door.

"I am going," he said, "to find that plumber and shake him by the hand."

____________________

8: Tiny Feet

Herald (Vic), 25 Oct 1924

THERE were six of us seated at the large, open fireplace in the East Melbourne boarding-house. One, an Englishman, had only come that day. He was a short, thick-set man with an honest face, obviously a seaman, and for an hour or so had sat, steady as a rock and unmoved through the light persiflage that passes as conversation in most boarding houses.

We were all secretly bored when his deep voice, with an underlying note of authority in it, broke the silence that for a moment or two had unaccountably fallen upon us.

"It was at Archangel," he said.

There was a movement of impatience. No one wished to hear any thing of Archangel, which we dimly understood to be a Russian town somewhere on the White Sea, but something in his steady eye forbade protest. Like the Ancient Mariner, ho had a tale that must be told.

"Yes," we said, tentatively.

He cleared his throat and settled more solidly in his chair.

"Archangel, you will remember, was the headquarters of the White Army, and a lot of cut-throats and thieves they were, too! Take them all round, there was not much to choose between them and the Reds. I arrived In port with a cargo of wheat and rice a few weeks after the British army had withdrawn, sick of the game, and the Reds had come in. My cargo was worth ten times its weight in gold, but the trouble was to get it landed. Being an Englishman, I wasn't popular with the Reds, but I soon discovered that everyone was open to bribery, and by distributing whisky to the lower ranks and a few tons of wheat or rice to those in authority, we managed to got the stuff landed at night without questions being asked, and delivered to the buyers.

"There is still a theatre left in Archangel, or was when I was there. One day I was standing on the steps, watching the crowd and cursing the Russian fatalism that seemed to hang on them like a blight, when I saw her. I don't know why she should have caught my attention, for she was just like all the other women there: thin, haggard, shoeless, and in rags. It may have been her tiny feet."

He hesitated, and gave a nervous laugh.

"Perhaps it was; they looked so small and so cold on the wet pavement. As sho passed me she crossed her arms on her breast, for the wind was bitterly cold.

"I caught a glimpse of her face, and saw that she was young, or had been before misery and starvation had just about destroyed her. Some impulse made me turn and follow her. I know that I must help in some way. I could least give her food.

"She stopped In front of a ramshackle building, and I was just in time to see her disappear into a room on the first floor. I knocked, gently at first, then louder. The place was as silent as tho grave, and as dark. There may have been people in tho other rooms. I don't know, but In any case no one bothered about his neighbor in Archangel. I knocked again, then listened. I sensed, rather than heard, that someone was standing on the other side of the door, standing very still. I know a few words of Russian, and spoke to her in that language. She did not answer, and I tried tho door. To my surprise at was unlocked. I opened it very gently, and the next thing I knew she had thrown herself at me, and I felt a sharp sting on the shoulder."

"For such a little thing, she struck very hard. I took the knife away, and, when she realised I was English, she burst Into tears. It seems she had mistaken me for one of the Red Guards. She spoke English pretty well, and, gradually, I heard her history. She was unfortunate enough to belong to the nobility, and all her family had been wiped out. By some miracle, she had escaped, and had set out to walk from Moscow to Archangel, where the English were to be found. She arrived there just as the British Army left and the Red Guards entered. Somehow," he paused, apparently oblivious of his audience, "the thought of those, tiny, feet crossing the great plains of Russia made my heart ache."

"She was a week in Archangel before she attracted attention, then one of the Red Guards took to following her about. Her long journey had taught her cunning, and she had managed to avoid him, though she knew, with the usual Russia fatalism, that it was only a matter of time before he discovered her hiding place and took her away.

"By a curious chance he was unfortunate enough to come that day. He was a big strapping fellow, and he wore a cap with a red star, and a British overcoat, looted from the stores the Army had left behind. We had a few words together, and I left him lying behind the door for his friends to tidy up when they found him. My ship was sailing at mid night, so I could risk it; anyhow, I enjoyed it."

He smiled grimly at the recollection.

"Yes, take it round, It wasn't a bad trip. My owners must have made a fortune, and the crew had more money than was good for them."

"But, Captain," ventured someone, at last, "what became of the girl?"

Before he could answer, a woman entered the room; and stood smiling down at him. He rose to his feet, somewhat awkwardly, and laid his hand on her arm.

"My wife," he said proudly.

Even before she spoke, I knew she was a Russian.

_____________

9: The Amber Necklace

Weekly Times (Vic.), 2 Oct 1926

"AN AMBER NECKLACE will bring you luck!"

Who had said that? She knitted her brows, staring at the amber neck-lace lying on the black velvet cushion in the window of the curio shop, trying to remember. It had not been there yesterday when she had passed by for she would have noticed it. But who and when had someone I spoken to her of amber?

"An amber necklace..."

Why, of course! Like a flash the memory came to her. It had been that gipsy woman who had told her fortune When she was a child. She remembered her father's hearty laugh as he flung the woman a shilling and dismissed her.

"Do you hear that, Anne? One of these days I will buy you an amber necklace, and we will see what happens."

But he had died before he could carry out his promise, and she I had forgotten. Now here was the necklace! She stood entranced, gazing at it with charmed eyes. It was the first time she had seen amber, or, at least, real amber, for instinctively she knew this to be real. It was the color of pale honey, or golden sunlight. The lovely, glowing thing seemed to call to her. She wanted to run it through her fingers and press it against her cheek; to hold it tight within her hand. Not for what the gipsy woman had said, but for its own sake, she must have It.

Mentally she counted her resources. It was near the end of the week, and she had already spent most of her salary— not that there was ever much to spend after she had sent the usual weekly sum to her mother in the country to help things along there and paid her ordinary living expenses and fares— but today it happened she had five pounds in her possession. With this she had intended buying a winter coat and a pair of shoes. But she could go without and make her old coat do. Also she could have her shoes mended again instead of buying new ones. She had rather set her heart on a coat. There was one in a shop window which would just fit her, and it would be worth the sacrifice if only she could buy the amber. But would five pounds be sufficient?

She had a vague idea that amber was very expensive. Terrible if she could not afford to buy it! Still, she could ask the price. Fortunately she knew the owner of the shop, and he might perhaps keep it for her if she hadn't enough. He had told her to come in whenever she wished, and seemed to like showing his treasures to her. Most of the things were beyond her pocket, but on several occasions she had been able to buy something; a book now and again; a Chinese ginger jar, which looked exquisite on her dressing table filled with poppies, and a blue Nanking bowl for fruit. But these cost only a few shillings... mere trifles... the amber was a different matter. It was rapidly getting dark, and the interior of the shop was obscured in shadow, but through the gloom she could vaguely see a couple of figures and the small bent form of the proprietor himself. He was busy, so she would wait. She didn't like to disturb him when he had other people in the shop.

Two women jostled her at the window, and she moved away. She stood dreaming, while the home-going crowd surged around her, a trim little figure with a curiously wistful expression; tawny hair curling up beneath the small hat; and hazel-flecked eyes. Her thoughts drifted away. The amber necklace would look exquisite with that pale yellow evening frock which Hugh Julian had admired so much. She had not worn it since that night he took her to the theatre and made the half declaration which afterwards he regretted. Hugh Julian...

Why was she thinking of him? It was six months since she had seen him, and she had forgotten. Yes— forgotten. There was nothing else to do but forget, to show herself as indifferent as he had been. When he did not come or write, she had moved to another suburb, even taken another position so that she would run no risk of seeing him. It was mere sentimental folly not to wear the frock, she told herself angrily, ridiculous to keep it folded up in tissue paper like the wedding dress of Miss Susan in "Quality Street," until it fell to pieces. When she had bought the amber necklace she would put it on again.

Jim Harris had asked her to go to a dance with him, and she would accept. She liked him, perhaps might marry him, but there was plenty of time to think of that. If she tried, she might even come to feel for him what she had felt for Hugh. And one could depend on Jim. He would never treat her as Hugh had done.

The lights in the shop were flashed on suddenly, and she turned quickly. Then her heart missed a heat. The necklace had been taken from the window.  There must be a mistake! So certain had she felt that the necklace would be hers, that for a moment she refused to believe it was gone. She closed her eyes, then looked again, but the black velvet cushion was still empty.

So it was true! By hesitating she had lost it. Standing on tip-toe, she. peered into the interior of the shop. Inside she could see a woman; tail, dark, exquisitely dressed, and she held the necklace in her hand. She would buy it— Anne knew she would buy it. Surely no woman could resist that lovely thing, and she looked rich, as though money were no object to her. She would not have to go without a winter coat to buy it.

Anne felt bitter as she watched her. Hanging against the wall was a gilt mirror decorated with fat smiling cupids and true lovers' knots in bas relief. Slipping the necklace around her throat, the woman turned to this, moving her head so that the light caught the amber, and she could study the effect. Anne could see her reflection plainly, and she stepped back a little in case the other should catch a glimpse of her. Suddenly the woman smiled, shook her head definitely, and took off the necklace. The next moment it was back in the window again. It was a reprieve, but it could only be for a time. At any moment another purchaser might appear and snatch the precious thing from her.

The world seemed full of acquisitive women, all with a hungry eye on her necklace. She determined to hesitate no longer, but to secure it at once if it were possible. The door bell clanged as she entered the shop. Dent, the proprietor, who became, Anne thought, more like one of his own antiques every day, greeted her with a smile. The dark woman looked round, then gathered up her things preparatory to going.

"I'm sorry," Anne heard her say. "It's an absolute bargain, but it's no use to me. Why, it made me look positively ugly."

"I could have told her that before she put It on," remarked the old man after she had gone. "But a woman is never satisfied until she sees for herself. She, was too dark. To my mind only a fair woman should wear amber. That necklace would suit you, Miss Nicholls. Did you happen to notice it in the window?"

Did she notice it? Anne smiled.

"That's what brought me in tonight," she said. "What's the price?"

He looked at her reflectively. "Well, to you, Miss Nicholls, I would make it ten pounds, To tell the truth," he lowered his voice, "I asked that other lady fifteen pounds, and it was cheap at that."

"Ten pounds! Oh " She calculated quickly. That meant another five pounds. In a month's time she might be able to scrape it up, had she had a birthday next week. There was a chance that someone might be moved to give her a pound or two as a gift. She had an uncle who occasionally remembered her. Perhaps if she dropped him a note it would serve to jog his memory. But, in the meantime, would Dent keep the necklace for her? She would pay five pounds now, and the balance as soon as possible.

Breathlessly she waited for his answer. She need not have feared, for he agreed at once. Rapturously she gave him the notes. They represented her winter coat and new shoes, but that did not matter. He put them in the till, then leant over to take the necklace from the window.

As he did so a loud crash resounded from the small room at the back of the shop where the second-hand books were kept, accompanied by a muttered exclamation.

"Oh, dear," sighed the little man as he turned round, the necklace in his hand. "There's that shelf of books down again. I've a new customer in there, and I forgot to warn him about it. That's the third time it's happened today. I must really get it fixed. Excuse me, please."

He gave her the necklace and hobbled away. Anne took it almost reverently, and turning to the mirror, put it on. As it slipped around her throat— soft as silk against her skin, and warm, as though it were a sentient thing— she felt a thrill of almost sensuous delight. Against her white throat it glowed with a sort of subdued radiance. She sighed with sheer pleasure, feeling all the joy of possession. This lovely thing was hers— or would be, she corrected herself, in a month's time; perhaps less if Uncle Henry remembered his clear and bounden duty. She must really drop that note to him.

Her reflection smiled back at her from the mirror. There was no doubt the amber suited her. She would have been blind if she had not seen that. It brightened... yes, brightened her— that was I he word. It seemed to make her skin look fairer and brought out all the tawny lights in her eyes and hair. Worn with that yellow frock, she would positively shine at the dance. Jim would be proud of her. Jim....

She felt a sudden pang of sick distaste. No: she could never wear that yellow frock for him. Dear, honest, blundering Jim. She had been so sure that she was safe, and now in a moment her treacherous heart had betrayed her. How galling to know that she still loved a man who had no use for her. It cut deep into her pride. She could have torn the necklace from her throat. It was this thing that had made her realise Hugh again, realise him so vividly that she could almost see his dark smiling face and hear his soft, rather drawling voice.

"I'll come tomorrow, Anne, and you'll let me say what I want to?"

How glad he must have been after wards that she hadn't given him an opportunity that night. For some unaccountable reason she had stopped him; to prolong the delicious suspense probably. She remembered how she had lain Awake all that night, too happy to sleep. Tomorrow he was coming.

Well, he hadn't come. Put baldly like that it didn't seem much, but how she had suffered!

She shivered, biting her lip till the blood came. He had known, of course he had known, that she would have married him If he had asked her. If only she had not given her self away so completely! She felt if she ever chanced to see him again her pride would simply shrivel up and die.

Voices coming from the room at the back disturbed her, and she turned hastily away. Dent, followed by a young man carrying a number of books in his hand, came into the shop. She glanced at the latter casually, then her heart stood still.

His eyes were fixed on the books and he did not see her at once. She thanked God for that— that first, breathless second gave her time to recover her poise. If he had come on her unawares she might have betrayed herself.

Hugh! No wonder she had been thinking of him. The thing she had dreaded more than anything else was upon her. There was no time to escape; somehow she had to go through with it. Now that she was faced with him at last, she could at least show how little she had cared.

"I'll take this lot," she heard him say eagerly. She trembled a little; she knew so well that quick, eager note in his voice when he wais excited or moved.

"And if you come across any first editions you might keep them for me. I'll give you my card." Then he looked up and saw her. The books fell with a crash to the floor.

"Dear, dear," sighed the little man as he stooped to pick them up. "That was very careless, very careless indeed."

Hugh made a motion with his hand. He stared at Anne as though he were Incapable of speech. She noticed in a queer, detached way that he had gone very pale and little beads of perspiration stood out on his fore head. But there was an expression in his eyes that puzzled her; not shame, not even embarrassment; though it could not be pleasant for a man to have to face a girl he had practically jilted. As for herself, she felt nothing, now that her first momentary weakness had gone, but a sense of icy composure.

Through the tumult of her thoughts she was aware that old Dent was speaking to her. He had placed the books on the counter and was peering at her from under his bushy eye brows. He was acute enough, she knew, to notice the sense of strain in the atmosphere, but he ignored it.

"I was right," she heard him say. "It does take a fair woman to wear amber."

The necklace! For the moment she had forgotten. She raised her arm. to take it off, when he checked her.

"No, no. Take it with you and we can fix up that little matter later. It would be a crime to remove it now. What's your opinion, young man?"

"Worn with a yellow frock," said Hugh, slowly, his eyes on hers "I could imagine nothing more beautiful." She flashed him a glance of bitter reproach, then turned decisively away.

"I would prefer to leave it, Mr Dent," she said coldly.

Was it her imagination, or did she intercept a sign between the two men? He waved her aside.

"Keep it on, my dear young lady. The necklace is yours. I'll give you a receipt for the money you paid me if you'll wait a moment."

Though she knew he kept his receipt book behind the counter, he left the shop. Her lip curled scornfully. The device was too obvious. Hugh must have signed to him to leave them alone and he had obeyed. Well, she had nothing to say to Hugh.

"I won't wait," she said abruptly. She turned to go, but Hugh was before her. He stood with his back against the door so that she could not pass. Disdaining argument, she moved away a little, and waited with downcast eyes.

"Anne," he said softly, "what is the matter? Why did you look at me as though I had done you an injury? Can't we be friends?"

Friends! She raised her eyes a moment. Was it possible he meant it?

"Was it necessary to run away?" he went on. "The woman at the house told me you had gone without leaving an address. That hurt— to deliberately cut yourself off from me like that. I couldn't understand It."

"So you did call again?" she said slowly.

"Yes, about a month after that night. I was so sure that you cared for me and that you wanted me to come, that it was rather a blow when you wouldn't see me."

"Wouldn't see you!" she repeated dazedly. "Would you say that again, please."

"Anne!" he cried sharply. "You don't mean—"

"Please!" she interrupted him. "Tell me this. Did you come that night?"

"Of course I did. What sort of a cad do you take me for? I came and the woman gave me a message from you. The girl was out and she answered the door herself. She said that you could not see me. I wouldn't believe it at first. Then she went upstairs and came down with the same message."

The woman at the house— that awful boarding house where she had lived for a time when she first came to town. How she must have hated her to do this thing! A horrible woman, furtive, secret, given to sudden moods of brooding silence. A sandy-haired creature with pale eyes and a sickly odor of cloves emanating from her.

She shuddered at the memory, for nearly a year she had lived in that house because, it was cheap, quite unconscious of the woman's enmity, and all that time she must have been waiting for a chance to injured her. The thing was inexplicable. No wonder she had always felt uneasy there, but she had put that down to the Influence of her surroundings. To have lived side by side with that secret hatred!

"I waited for you to come," she said simply. "The woman lied."

"But why?" he asked helplessly.

"I don't know. Pure malice, I suppose. There's no other reason." She realised suddenly they were standing in the full view of the street, and drew him aside.

"It's all coming back now," she went on. "Do you remember that night when we were standing at the door I fancied I heard a noise? Her room opened on to the verandah. When I went inside I noticed that her door was open and I thought I saw a movement inside. Of course, that struck me as nothing unusual at the time— but now— she must have been listening. How she must have hated me! I wonder why?"

"Because you were young and sweet," he cried hotly, "and she—"

"Ah, well." She smiled into his eyes. "We can forgive her now, poor thing."

"Anne— there's no one else?"

For a fleeting moment her mind rested on Jim, but her conscience was clear. She shook her head.

When the old man entered the shop again he found his two customers standing behind a tall screen, apparently studying an old engraving. He thought the young lady looked very starry-eyed, and the young man very flushed, but he made no comment.

"Your receipt, young lady, and your books, sir," With an air of great gravity he bowed them out.

Anne looked back and caught a glimmer of a smile on his lined old face. Instinctively her fingers touched the amber necklace. Luck... the gypsy woman had said it bring her luck. With a sigh of content she slipped her hand under Hugh's arm.

_______________

10: Rose Aylmer

Australasian (Vic.), 22 March 1930

ROSE AYLMER was just like her name— a rose—  or at least so young Dudley Foster declared, his blue ingenuous eyes sparkling with admiration. Not, he hastened to explain, a full blown cabbage rose, but one of those delicate, fairy-like things that looked like painted porcelain. What was the name? Cecile Brunner!

Dinner was almost over in the boarding house perched on the side of the hill, with the rounded head of Mount Dandenong towering above it, but they were all still lingering round the table. Ices were yet to be served, and also coffee. A rosy-cheeked maid leant over Rose's shoulder and put a rosy-coloured ice in front of her.

"Strawberry!" exclaimed Rose ecstatically. "Oh, I adore strawberry ices. Don't you, Dudley?"

Dudley surveyed his with a total lack of interest. "No, stupid things, ices. I'll pass mine out and wait for the coffee."

"Really?" Rose stretched out a tentative hand. "Then can I have yours? It'll only be wasted."

"Why, rather!" beamed the infatuated youth.

It was extraordinary, thought Jane Perrin, watching the two of them from her place on the other side of the table, that Dudley did not perceive yet that the girl was greedy; and lazy, too. Look how she hated exercise. In ten years' time she'd be fat, like a plump little roly-poly, with probably several chins and no waist. Still even that thought gave Jane no particular satisfaction. It was what Rose was now that mattered.

"Your people must have known what they were about when they called you Rose," Dudley said, turning an uninterested shoulder to his other neighbour, and following up his previous theme with enthusiasm. "I bet you were a jolly little rosebud, too."

He had absolutely no shame about it, Jane thought. Why couldn't he speak in a whisper if he had to say that sort of stuff, instead of shouting in a voice loud enough to be heard by the entire table, which, she noticed, had been galvanised into amused attention.

Rose smiled the faintest smile that just curved her rosy lips. A dimple came and went just at the corner of her mouth. Dudley wanted so much to touch that tiny dimple. You hardly ever saw dimples nowadays, he reflected. They seemed to have gone out of fashion, like a good many other things. Above the flowers his eyes caught and held Jane's for a moment. You couldn't, for instance, imagine Jane with a dimple, and you simply couldn't say that Jane was like a rose. More like a marigold, brown and gold, with those dark eyes of hers; sturdy and strong. Still— good old Jane. She was a fine pal, anyway.

But Rose was speaking, and he gave her again his absorbed attention.

"My father called me Rose. Can't you guess why?"

"Of course. Because you are a rose."

Fool... Fool... thought Jane. Couldn't he see that everyone was laughing at him?

"Don't be silly." Rose tapped his hand lightly. "There's some verses called 'Rose Aylmer.' Someone I knew once said they might have been written for me. Would you like to hear them?"

"Rather!"

Rose pushed aside her plate and cleared her throat. She swept the table with a glance that commanded attention. Jane, looking round, was aware of the two maids standing at the door and grinning at each other. She could almost see the scene being paraphrased for the benefit of the staff in the kitchen.

"Ah, what avails the sceptred race!

Ah, what the form divine,

What every virtue, every grace.

Rose Aylmer, all were thine."

There was a moment's silence when she finished. The women avoided each other's eyes, and the men exchanged furtive grins. Jane could only wonder at the serene un self-consciousness that allowed Rose to call attention to herself in such a manner.

Dudley swallowed it whole. "Of course, it might have been written for you," he exclaimed. "I haven't much time for poetry as a general rule, but that sounds good to. me.

Oh, he was hopeless, Jane thought. Even that open fishing for compliments didn't finish him. What a fool he was making himself, and before all these people, too! She hated that, because she was in love with him. She hadn't discerned it until the coming of Rose Aylmer had swept him away altogether. Before that they had been good "pals"— hateful word— chaffing each other, playing tennis, banging the medicine ball, walking, climbing the hills. Now he seemed to have forgotten her existence. Impossible to drag him away from the garden where he lay at Rose Aylmer's feet, gazing up at her with an idiotic expression on his face. Rose didn't care about tennis, didn't care about walking. She took great care of her complexion, also; never went out without a sun shade. Of course, Jane admitted grudgingly, she certainly had a complexion to worry about. Perhaps if her (Jane's) complexion looked less like that of a South Sea Islander, and more like a delicate rose leaf she might carry a sun shade also.

Well, it seemed as if she had lost Dudley. In another week her holiday would be over, and she would have to return to her office in the city and leave these enchanted hills. Breaking hearts', were supposed to have gone out of fashion, but something very queer was happening to has. There was a funny little pain in it and tightness about her throat. Dreadful if she burst into tears! She swallowed hard and stared fixedly at the table. Then she became aware that her neighbour was offering her a cigarette. She took it, half blindly, her head still bent.

"Allow me to light it for you." He struck a match and shielded it with his left hand.  "The lady's technique is rather obvious, don't you think? Quite effective, of course, but I doubt if it will wear."

"I beg your pardon." Jane stared at him in surprise. He returned her gaze; his dark, saturnine face impassive.

"You are intelligent, I think? Isn't it worth while fighting for what you want?"

"You mean—?"

Involuntarily Jane glanced across the table. He followed her glance and smiled.

"Yes, of course. Now if I might make a suggestion. The lady is not fond of exercise? No. And he is? Very good. Don't. attempt to meet her on her own ground, but take him out into the open air; play him a good hard game of tennis; go for a stiff walk."

"But he won't come," said Jane mournfully.

"Ah— that is where your part comes in. You must persuade him. Suggest to him that his liver is out of order, that his skin is yellow, and his eyes puffy. Tell him he is getting fat. I fancy he makes rather a fetish of physical health, and that will make him think."

"I see. Oh, thanks, thanks very much. You are kind." Jane's face flashed into animation. Dudley, happening to glance in her direction just at that moment, thought for the first time that she was uncommonly attractive, and wondered with a slight feeling of annoyance what the "old josser" had been saying to her to make her colour like that.

It was raining next morning, a soft, gentle rain, that veiled the hills with the effect of grey chiffon. Jane came down stairs after breakfast, dressed to go out, in a scarlet raincoat and a little rubber hat to match. There was a sparkle of amusement in her eyes as she saw the saturnine man lounging in the doorway  smoking a cigarette. He glanced at her with approval.

"Miss Perrin, you look as fresh as the morning star. Going out?"

"I am, Mr. Baxter," she answered demurely.

"Alone?"

"I am going to ask Dudley to come with me. He looks as if he needed exercise."

Their eyes met in a smile of understanding.

"Good girl. I'm backing you. You'll find him in the lounge with Miss Aylmer. She's telling him all the pretty things other men have said to her, and he's trying to go one better."

He looked as if he were finding the effort a little exhausting, Jane thought, as she entered the room where they were sitting together. Dudley was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, smoking furiously. There was a pile of cigarette butts on the ashtray by his side. It was evident Dudley was smoking too much. That was a good omen. Jane knew he only smoked immoderately when he was bored.

"Hullo, Jane!" Dudley was staring at her. "I say, that red thing suits you no  end. Doesn't it, Rose?"

Jane was conscious of Rose's fleeting expression of annoyance. It vanished at once, however, and she was able to achieve quite a creditable smile as she looked Jane up and down.

"Yes, very nice indeed," she said. "Those coloured coats are very pretty. They make the shabbiest people look attractive."

"So they do," said Dudley admiringly.

Jane swallowed her anger with an effort. The stupid fellow hadn't perceived the sting beneath Rose's words.

"It's very kind of you to say so," she remarked drily. "Dudley, I'm going to the top of the mountain. I wish you d come with me. It's simply gorgeous walking in this rain, and it'll do you good."

"So it will." Dudley sprang up alertly. "I'm feeling a bit stale, to tell the truth, and I'd like a walk. You come, too, Rose."

"No, Dudley, you can't m». Listen. Rose took his hand and pulled him gently down again. "You remember we promised to play bridge this morning."

"So we did," said Dudley blankly.

Bridge! Dudley playing bridge!

He met her accusing eyes in a feeble effort at justification. "It's a jolly good game when you get used to it."

"Better than tennis, I suppose?" She was defeated, but not despondent, and turned at the door to deliver a parting shot. "I'd advise you to have a game of tennis to-morrow. You're getting fat, my dear Dudley."

The door slammed behind her. "But how rude," murmured Rose.

"Rude?" repeated Dudley uneasily. "No, she's not rude, but she believes in telling a fellow home-truths. Fat! Good lord! That's the limit. I'll simply have to have a game to-morrow."

"Well?" asked the saturnine man as Jane passed him in the hall, her chin well up in the air, and her soft mouth very firm. "You look set for battle."

"Imagine it." She paused to allow the full effect of her words to sink in. "He's going to play bridge."

"It's a good game."

"Perhaps-for middle-aged people."

She swung off. He watched her until she was just a red speck dwindling in the grey distance, then went into the lounge room. The bridge party had started; Rose, Dudley, and two middle-aged women; bridge fiends. An indifferent player would have a thin time with them.

Dudley was playing shockingly. He could not keep his mind an the cards. He was following Jane on her walk up the mountain. He knew just how the wild briar would smell in the rain, and the wattles in the valley. Why had he allowed himself to be caught for this filthy game? He scowled at his cards.

"Really, Mr. Foster," remarked his partner in an exhausted voice when the first game was over. "You'll have to keep your mind on the game. You revoked twice."

The saturnine man had settled down in a corner with the paper. He looked over the top of it at Dudley.

"You look off-colour this morning," he said sympathetically. "What's the trouble? Liver out of order, I suppose. I know how you feel. Rotten thing, a sluggish liver."

"Liver!" exclaimed Dudley, outraged by this suggestion. "There's nothing wrong with my liver."

"Glad to hear it," returned the other pleasantly. "Thought you looked a bit yellow about the gills. Perhaps it's only the light."

With a mental prayer for forgiveness he returned to his paper, while. Dudley took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. Liver out of order! What next? All the same he did feel a bit off colour, and the more he thought about it the worse he felt. He must have that game of tennis to-morrow.

The tennis next morning was not a success. It was an exquisite day, and Rose consented to come with him to the court. He carried a pile of cushions and a box of chocolates, and fixed her up comfortably.

"Now we'll see if my liver's out of order," he smiled, swinging his racquet.

It was; there was no doubt about that. He was beaten, ignominiously beaten; first by young Smith, who was really a rotten player, and then by Jane. Jane was a good player, but she had never been in his class; now she simply swept him before her.

"Rotten," she said, when the set was finished. "What's the matter with you, Dudley? I thought you played tennis?"

Dudley wilted under her scorn. He made no attempt to answer her, but crawled back to where Rose was waiting.

"Did you win?" asked Rose brightly.

"No." His voice was curt. "I was beaten."

"Well, you seemed to be trying very hard," said Rose consolingly.

He wondered impatiently if it were impossible for a woman to be pretty and have brains as well. Listening in unbroken silence to Rose's chatter on the way home, he came to the conclusion that it was.

Dudley did not appear at breakfast the next morning. The maid in reply to a question from Rose said that he had gone out for the day.

"Took his lunch, and said he was going to walk 40 miles at least."

"Oh!" said Rose blankly.

The saturnine man glanced at Jane and remarked the light in her eye. "It's working," he whispered.

Jane knew the way he must come home, and about 6 o'clock sauntered out to meet him. Presently she saw him swinging vigorously down the hill.

"Poor darling, he's determined not to get fat," she thought remorsefully.

"How much have you taken off to-day?" she called as he got within speaking distance.

"About a stone," he answered with a grin. "I feel fine."

They fell into step together. "This is just like old times, isn't it Jane?" he said. "We must go some more walks together."

"Well, why didn't you ask me to come with you to-day?"

He gave an embarrassed laugh. "There was something I wanted to think out. Jane." He stopped and faced her. "I've been a fool. You know what I mean?"

She couldn't be anything else but honest with him. "Yes, Dudley, I know."

"Then let's start afresh, shall we? Listen, We'll have a game of tennis in the morning, and in the afternoon we'll climb the mountain."

"But what about Miss Aylmer?"

"What about her?" he asked, half defiantly. "She hates walking. You know she does."

Jane's heart, which had been so troublesome lately, gave a queer little leap in her breast. She walked by his side demurely. She knew that Dudley was hers again.

Dudley was very quiet at dinner that night. Rose chose to think that he had neglected her, and was sulking, but he didn't seem to mind. His eyes were on Jane, and he looked as if he disliked the man who sat next to her.

"Our young friend doesn't seem to like me," the saturnine man remarked in an undertone to Jane. "Everything going well, I trust."

"We are playing tennis in the morning," Jane said, calmly, "and in the afternoon we are climbing the mountain."

"Indeed! Then the game is yours, I think."

"Yes, I suppose so." Jane looked a little disturbed. She fiddled uncertainly with a fork. "The only thing is— well, I am rather sorry for Rose Aylmer."

"Quite unnecessary. She can look after herself."

Two days later Rose Aylmer left for the city. She could not bear to remain unadmired where once she had reigned as queen. Jane and Dudley saw her off at the station; Dudley very attentive with chocolates and magazines.

"Thank the lord!" He gave a sigh of relief as the train vanished round the bend, "That's over."

"But she was a pretty girl, Dudley," said Jane, as they left the station and turned towards the boarding-house and afternoon tea.

"Not bad," returned Dudley carelessly, "for those who admire that type. Rather stupid, though."

It was amazing. He had actually forgotten his infatuation. Well, she was satisfied that it should be so.

She became aware that Dudley was trying to say something. He was embarrassed, and his face was crimson.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I want— I want— " He ran his finger round his collar and gave an exhausted sigh. "Hang it all, I don't know how to put it. I want you to marry me. Is it all right?"

She turned and looked at him. Their eyes met, and she was satisfied with what she read in his.

"Yes, Dudley. I think it is," she said simply.

__________________

11: The Contract

Australasian (Vic.), 9 Jan 1926

THERE WAS a certain grimness in Richard Dexter's expression as he entered his office. With one exception, the half a dozen girls seated at their typewriters looked up at him with a curious eagerness, as though they almost expected to see him changed in some way; but absorbed in his own thoughts he did not notice anything out of the ordinary. He nodded good morning mechanically, for he was always pleasant and courteous towards them, even though he  barely knew one from the other; then his eyes fell on the girl who had not looked up at his entrance.

She was a pale, grey-eyed girl, shabbily dressed, and her worn clothes seemed shabbier still in contrast with the smartness of the others. Her consciousness of this was apparent in her obvious desire to be over looked, but Dexter noticed that her figure was graceful, and the outline of her face as she bent over the typewriter had the delicate lines of a cameo.

His eyes rested on her with a certain satisfaction, then abruptly he turned on his heel, and went into his own room. On the desk a neat pile of correspondence was waiting his attention, but he ignored it, leaning back in his chair and drumming with his fingers on the arm.

He as quite decided. Joan Tarrant had played with him long enough. This last move of hers was only one of her many moods. Engaged to Baxter, indeed! Baxter was only a pawn in the game. As though in a mirror he could read Joan's intention plainly. She thought the notice in the paper would bring him to heel again. A year ago, six months ago, it would have had that effect, but in the interval he had suffered too much from her many caprices to deliver himself willingly into her hands again. Since their last quarrel, when she had given him back his ring and he had swung out of the house, without a word, he had had time to think. Let her marry Baxter if she wished. He would not make one move to stop it; instead, he was going to put himself definitely out of court. He would make it impossible for him ever to marry Joan Tarrant, and if, in doing so, he sacrificed a certain amount of his freedom, what did that matter?

That grey-eyed girl—would she do it? He doubted very much... and yet... she might. There was just a chance. He had an idea she had someone dependent on her, and that factor would make his proposition easier. He had mentally reviewed all the other girls, and dismissed them in her favour. Instinctively he felt he could trust her. If she made a bargain with him she would never let him down.

What was her name again? He looked up the pay-sheet. Mary Sterne! Mary— he liked the sound of it— gentle, sweet— not like Joan. His face hardened at the memory, and he pressed the bell.

When she entered the room he was busy with his letters. Without raising his eves he asked her to sit down. Now that he was faced with her he felt suddenly unaccountably nervous, even though he had persuaded himself that his proposition was merely a business one, and should be considered as such. He wondered if she would think it an insult. By her voice and manner the girl was undoubtedly a lady. That made it harder to approach her, and yet the crux of the whole thing was that she should be a lady. He could not have entertained it otherwise. Dexter had an innate fastidiousness that made him shrink from anything blatant or vulgar, and the quiet dignity of the girl had made an impression on him

He hesitated, searching for an opening, then his eyes, avoiding hers, fell on a worn shoe, covering a small and slender foot. The shoe was cracked across the toe, and had evidently been well polished in an effort to hide its shortcomings. He stared at it, unconscious of what he was doing, and gently, almost imperceptibly, the foot was withdrawn until it was hidden behind the leg of the chair. When he looked up the girl's delicate face was faintly flushed. He felt he had been guilty of a grave breach of manners, but that worn shoe had finally decided him.

"Miss Sterne," he began abruptly, then paused, strangely disconcerted. Her grey eyes were turned to him, and he found himself looking straight into their depths. They were clear; never had he imagined such clearness .... like crystal water shadowed by a grey sky, he thought confusedly

He could not go on with his proposition while she was looking at him like that. It seem too sordid— too cold-blooded. With an effort he looked away, but even as he released himself from the spell of her eves he felt a sense of loss.

"Miss Sterne," he said again. "I have a proposition to make to vou. It's a purely business one, but there is a chance it may anger you. Still, will you listen to me with patience?"

Her hands were folded on her lap, and he fixed his eyes on them. The fingers were long and slender with tapering hails, but a little roughened from work. He noticed she wore no ring.

"Why, of course I will," she replied, in obvious surprise.

"Then will you answer this question first?  Have you anyone dependent on you? It's not mere curiosity," he added hastily, "but if you have, it will make a difference."

In the silence that followed he could read her blank astonishment, but he did not look up. He felt a curious reluctance at meeting her eyes again, at least just yet.

"I have," she said, stiffly. "two young brothers. My parents are dead."

"I see. That makes it easier, Miss Sterne."

He swung round on his chair. "Do you want to help those brothers? Give them a decent education, and a good start in life?  You know what that means to boys? You'll never be able to do it yourself, you know. Tapping a typewriter in an office won't take you— or them— very far.

"I know," she replied, her face very pale. "But it is all  I can do. They must take their chance, that's all."

"What chance will they have unless they're exceptionally gifted? Half educated, and very likely drifting into some dead-end occupation that leads nowhere," he said, brutally. He saw her wince, and was seized with instant compunction. That sounds hard, I know, but I want you to realise it. Now, you have it in your hands to give those boys a good education and a chance in life, as well as providing for yourself."

"You are talking in riddles, Mr. Dexter," she said coldly.  "I don't understand what you mean. And, in my case, whit happens to my brothers, or myself, is of no concern of yours."

"No— not at present." He forward, obviously uneasy. "Miss Sterne, I had better come to the point at once. I wish to be married almost immediately, and if you will do me the, honour to be my wife, I will  pledge myself to look after  the future of your brothers, and to make no claims on you of any kind. I have a home at the seaside, which I will make over to you, I should want you to live there, and to be known as my wife— that is all I wish. Personally, I prefer to live in town. You understand?"

She heard him out with downcast eyes. He stole a glance at her, but could gain no inkling as to what she felt. His heart was beating rapidly. Almost imperceptibly his attitude had changed. The matter had become a personal one. Though he hardly realised it yet, he wanted this girl to marry him.

She raised her eyes at last, and he changed colour at their coldness. Some how, he felt he had hurt her pride beyond all forgiveness, but yet there was something else in their depths which he could not fathom.

"I wonder why you picked me out," she said softly. "Why did you think—" (her voice had an edge to it), "that I should he more mercenary than any of the others."

"Mercenary! That did not enter my mind," he said in quick repudiation. "I knew I could trust you. After all, if you marry me you will be my wife, and I have some regard for my name. I would not give it to anyone."

"You felt your honour was safe with me? Thank you for that, at any rate. And is it permissible to ask why you wish to be married in such a hurry?"

"I would rather not tell you."

"Very well." Her lips curved in a scornful smile. "It's not necessary. You must think us very stupid, Mr. Dexter, every girl in your office knows that Miss Tarrant is going to marry Mr. Baxter, even though two months ago she was supposed to marry you. We were talking about it this morning just before you tame in. Do you think we never read the paper?"

He did not reply. The thought that his private affairs were known and discussed by the girls in his office was an extraordinarily embarrassing one.

"Of course it's quite clear to me," she went on. "You want to be revenged on Miss Tarrant— to show her you don't care. That's it, isn't it? There is no other reason, is there?"

His head was bent, and he missed the curious look she gave him.

"That's it," he answered. It did not seem worthwhile explaining that it was hardly revenge that was moving him, but some obscure impulse that urged him to protect himself against marriage with Joan.

"And now— will you do it?"

She smiled queerly, but did not answer at once. For one fleeting moment he had the impression that she was disappointed, then he dismissed the idea as absurd.

"Yes," she said slowly. "I will marry you."

"Thank you." He made an involuntary movement towards her, then checked himself, amazed at the sudden emotion he had felt at her answer. "I will have the necessary papers drawn up," he said quietly. "You can trust me to keep my promise to the letter."

When she had left him, after their arrangements had been made, Dexter stood for a few moments staring blankly at the door through which she had passed.

Though he had gained his point, and gained it without any of the trouble he had anticipated, he felt strangely dissatisfied. The situation, instead of being a clear-cut one such as he had imagined, had become complex and uncertain. The girl puzzled him; she had yielded far too easily to what was, at the best, an outrageous request on his part, and there was something in her manner he could not understand. He had suggested that they should be married in a month, when all the legal business was arranged, and she had agreed without demur; but when he had offered her a cheque to tide her over the time, she had refused decisively. She had, she said, a little money in the bank which she had been keeping for the boys, and she could use it now if necessary. Then she had given him a swift, upward, questioning glance, and left him.

Passing through the outer office later on he had felt again that urgent desire to look into her eyes, and addressed some trivial question to her across the room, but she answered without looking up; and repulsed, he retired to spend a moody and unprofitable day, unable to fix his mind on his business.

The next morning he received a letter from Joan. The announcement of her engagement had been premature, she wrote. She was still free— as yet. Would he come and see her?

Dexter read it with a quickening of the breath. The way was still open for him. Joan's face flashed before him, dark, vivid, alluring, and a little of the old infatuation revived. Then he remembered... He had gone too far to retreat now. Besides, did he wish to? He pondered this for a moment or two, then deliberately tore Joan's letter in half, and put a match to it. That, he reflected as he watched it burn, was like his love for Joan— a bright, consuming flame that burnt up quickly and left nothing behind but ashes.

Suddenly he felt free-free and happy as though released from a tremendous burden.

Almost diffidently he set about making Mary's acquaintance. He had no opportunity of speaking to her during the day, for she avoided him, but he waited for her in the evening, and walked home with her. Sometimes, she asked him in, and when she did not be went away with a sense of disappointment. They did not speak of the peculiar relationship in which they stood to each other— by common consent that was shelved for the time being. He wondered what she thought of him; more and more that became a burning question, but he could get no answer to it. On that side Mary's mind was a closed book-to him.

Passionately,  he desired to please her; as the days passed it became an obsession. He brought her flowers, books he thought she might like, but anything else she vetoed, it seemed, until she was actually. committed to him, she would take nothing but what the merest acquaintance might have given her.

He took her out to dinner and to the theatre, and he found her a gay and charming companion, with a subtle humour all her own which delighted him. Released from anxiety about the future, she could enjoy herself without question. He gathered she had told no one of their anticipated marriage, and he was content for the present that this should he so. Though he had put everything in train to place matters on the footing he had promised, he found himself now quite unable to believe that she had promised to marry him from business motives only, and that though she would be his wife it would be in name only. His mind recoiled from the thought.

But revelation was to came to him swiftly and surely, and with it the knowledge that he could not go on— that married to her he might be tempted to break his promise.

It had been a hot and breathless day, with a sky of brass and a north wind like a fevered breath. He had asked her to come with him to the sea, and after a moment's hesitation she had agreed. He had hired a car and they had gone a long way down the coast where the twisted tea tree cast grotesque shadows on the white road. Leaving the car they had walked together on the beach, almost in silence, listening to the waves washing against the shore. There had been a crescent moon riding high in the heavens, and he pointed it out as a good omen.

She stood, face upraised, gazing at it, and he felt a strange, unexpected feeling grip his heart. She turned and their eyes met. He knew then that he loved her.

For a moment he dared not speak, fearful of breaking the spell that held them; in the half light her grey eyes looked almost black. He took her hand, and drew her a little closer to him. He felt, with a thrill of joy, her imminent surrender.

"Mary," he whispered, "I can't go on with it. Let's break the contract between us, and start all over again. Give me a chance to win you. Mary— I love you."

She gave a tremulous little laugh of relief.

"So that's over! I'm so glad. I was so tired of pretending."

"Pretending!" he said. "Pretending?" Then understanding came to him.

"Why, Mary," he cried. "I see now. You had no intention of marrying me!"

"Of course not! How could you ever believe it?  Sometimes I've almost hated you for thinking me capable of it. Do you think I would marry a man who did not care for me, just to get a home and help my brothers! Don't you understand? I wanted to save you from Joan. I knew her well— we were at school together. She was always the same, cruel and heartless. Do you think I don't know how unhappy she made you when she was engaged to you? When you asked me to many you I consented because I knew even it she wanted you back again you would never throw me over. Now— it is finished. You are free from Joan and— free from me."

In his ears the wash of the waves against the beach was like the sound of triumphant music. She had not admitted it yet, but he knew.

"Not free from you, my dear," he said in a low voice. "Mary— tell me— why did you do it? Was it because you cared for me— just a little?"

The driver of the hired car, standing on the road above, muttered an imprecation beneath his breath. Taking out his watch he glanced at the time, then lighting a cigarette settled down to wait a little longer for his dilatory passengers.

______________

12: The Secret Garden

Australasian (Vic)  2 August 1919

MOST of us hold within our hearts a shrine, which keeps us always young. It may be only a memory of our childhood, a tender smile on the face of our friend, a chance sight of the sun setting behind tall city buildings, or the moon rising shrouded in mist above the brow of a bracken-covered hill. Whatever the picture we carry in our hearts, it is, in its subtle elusiveness, the very breath of romance.

Barbara O'Neil kept in her heart the story of a secret garden; but she was so busy pretending to be grown-up that she almost forgotten it was there. She had grown-up for quite a considerable time, although she was not so grown-up as she imagined. She did all the things that grown-up young ladies do; went to dances, led conscientiously; tried to save young men from doubtful courses by promising be a sister to them; and altogether outwardly acted in a very grown-up manner. But mixed with all this was a curious feeling of unreality. She did not really feel different than she had done as a child, when she wore socks and short frocks and was afraid of the dark and hated school  and grown-ups. She had an uneasy feeling that one day someone would come along and discover she was a fraud and not grown-up at all, even though she had her hair up, and had already refused two offers of marriage.

It was Bob who had seen the secret garden first. Bob was Barbara's brother, and perhaps because they were orphans they meant more to each other than brothers and sisters usually do. It was Bob who, when they were quite tiny little things, had shown her the secret garden. It was bounded by great hedges of cypress-trees, which grew so thick and close around it that no matter how they tried they could not see through into the garden. Above the close, dark hedges of this mysterious place they could just see the tops of two pine-trees. The secret garden was quite cut off from the world; but if you just went over the road, and through the tea-tree, there in front of you was the sea. They knew if they could only look inside they would find most wonderful things; but though there was a gate, the lock was too high up for their tiny hands to reach, and they were never able to enter the enchanted garden.

But this was half its charm, for at night an they were in bed and the lights were out, and the shadows on the floor grew darker and the moon looked in at them rough the window, and the tree outside tapped against the wall, they flew to their secret garden, where it was always light and where dwelt fairy princesses and the Sleeping Beauty, and all the dear things that live in children's imaginations. They were very secret about the garden, and only whispered to each other, for once they a told a grown-up, and though he was particularly nice grown-up, he had laughed, and immediately both children had been possessed of a feeling of shame, and hastily tried to disown the garden.

"Of course, it's only pretend," said Barbara loftily. "We know it's not real."

"Of course we do," echoed Bob. "We just pretend."

Having thus put the matter on a satisfactory footing for the grown-up, they exchanged a secret glance, for they knew their garden was the realest thing in the world, but they never trusted that grown-up again .

As they grew a little older the fairies vanished from the secret garden, and personalities began to take their place. Bob had his own ideas as to what lay beyond the closed gate and thick hedge, and Barbara had hers. Bob knew it was the happy hunting-ground where the souls of dead animals went, and he was sure that if he could see inside he would find the soul of his favourite dog, a mongrel of very mixed parentage, named Don, which Bob loved more than anything else in the world.

Where Don originated nobody knew; but he made a mysterious appearance one day on the back verandah, a large, ungainly figure of a dog, of a hideous ginger colour— a very awful ginger colour— wagging an inordinately long tail, and gazing at an unsympathetic world out of a pair of most pathetic-looking brown eyes. He seemed to know that he was uglier than the ugliest dog that ever lived, for he wore an apologetic expression, as though humbly , begging pardon for being on the earth. It was the eyes that chained Bob's heart to him. Don looked up at him and wagged his tail, and Bob was his for ever.

Don was treated with extreme coldness by the grown-ups of the family, for he seemed unable to remember that his vagabond existence was over, and would seize the family joint whenever the opportunity presented itself. One grown-up, whose objection to Don had reached the high-water mark of positive hatred, used to take him for long walks, then board a train or a tram, hoping thus to lose him, but Don always returned ah hour or two later, so confident that everyone would be pleased to see him that the heart of even the sternest grown-up would melt. But Don was a child of destiny. Not for nothing were those brown eyes of his so pathetic. He met a sudden and violent end. In those days dogs had not become acclimatised to motor-cars, and one of these strange monsters, coming suddenly round a corner, struck Don on the head as he was careening joyously along the road after Bob. He died in Bob's arms, looking at him lovingly, and trying to lick Bob's face, down which the tears were streaming— though Bob thought it girlish to cry— and thumping the ground feebly with his ridiculously long tail.

Don's soul immediately went to inhabit the secret garden, and at night Bob, choking down his sobs, would tell Barbara how happy he was, running about the garden, jumping on the flower-beds, with no one to tell him to get off, or to scold him, or call him an ugly brute, because his body was too big and lumpy and his tail too long, and his colour so very ginger.

Barbara's ideas as to what was in the garden were quite different. At one stage she peopled it with King Arthur and all his knights; another time it was the Roman soldier who died on duty at the gates of Pompeii; then it was Mary Queen of Scots. She was quite impartial. She even made it a home for Kitchener and Baden Powell; this was during the Boer war, and the children had been given mugs adorned with portraits of those two gallant soldiers, both looking very smug and pleased with themselves, and decorated with very bright colours. The mugs had been made, probably in Germany, for the portraits washed off with constant use, and Kitchener was left without a moustache and Baden Powell without a nose.

But then they got older and more self-conscious they never spoke to each other about the secret garden. Bob went to his school, and learnt to play football and cricket, and to be a man, while Barbara went to her school, and learnt to dance and play tennis, and be a proper young lady. Neither of them learnt very much else, for they were not very clever. Then the big war came, and Barbara stayed at home, and knitted socks for soldiers, and Bob went away to fight Germans, and at last to be killed by Germans in France.

They came to Barbara and told her that Bob, laughter-loving; casual, happy Bob, was dead, and for the first few days she refused to believe it. It was impossible that he should be dead! Others might die, but not Bob. Bob, who was so full of life and happiness; Bob, who had said good-bye to her so cheerily, with a "So long, old girl. See you again— some day." But at last she had to realise it, and for the first time Barbara knew what it was to shed real tears. Not childish tears or grown-up tears, but real human tears, that come straight from the heart and seem to tear it in pieces. The others left her alone; they were sorry for her, but they could not comfort her.

Unable to bear the restraint and the hushed atmosphere of the house any longer, she went out and down to the road winding along the beach, where they had played as children. At the corner, where two roads meet, she paused. It was here that Don had been killed, and she could see again Bob's small figure and grief-stricken face as he held him in his arms. She sighed as her mind flew back to those childhood days, and then, for the first time for years, she. consciously remembered the secret garden. It had lived in her heart, but she had tried not to think about it, for it seemed foolish and unreal to her grown-up mind; but now she felt that if only she could believe in its reality as she once had done it would bring some relief to her. Bob had said that one day they would see inside; but now that hope was gone, for Bob was dead and the garden did not exist. It was a dream, an illusion. Nothing was real without Bob.

She walked blindly on. She did not know where she was going or what she wanted to do; she only wanted to keep moving, so. that she might outdistance her thoughts. But as she walked the remembrance of the secret garden went with her, and then, just at the turn of the road where it cuts close to the cliff, she saw it again. It was as she remembered it, with, thick cypress hedges, waving pine-trees, and little closed gate. Just over the road was the sea, and to-day it was very quiet, only sighing a little as it broke against the cliff. She touched the hedges, and they were quite real, She touched the gate— now she was tall enough to unlatch the lock— opened it and walked in.

It was a garden, yet not a garden, for under the pine trees lay a thick carpet of pine needles on which one could rest, and there wee tea-trees, covered with starry-eyed blossoms, and broken twigs and boughs on the ground, and long, long grass, very ragged and untidy. There were deep shadows on the grass, and the sunlight was brighter and the shadows darker than ever she had seen outside. There was an old blue gum, rather twisted and torn about the trunk; not moody and mysterious like the pine trees. which held themselves aloof and whispered unfathomable secrets to each other, but dear and comfortable and friendly, like a homely friend who is always the same, and not tortured by temperamental moods. On one of its boughs sat a kookaburra. He looked at Barbara with almost parsonic gravity, and solemnly winked one eye. A blue wren and a redbreast flashed among the leaves, and a blackbird poured out a flood of melody.

It was all careless and sweet and untidy. There were no formal flower-beds, and the flowers grew just as they wished. There were purple and white violets growing among the grass, and yellow, white, and orange Iceland poppies, standing up very straight, and nodding to each other very gravely. In all this tangle of sweet confusion it did not surprise Barbara to see Bob coming, towards her, followed closely by the mongrel, Don.

"Hullo," said Bob, as she came up.

"Hullo," said Barbara, still not in the least surprised, though this was strange, for she knew Bob had been killed in France.

"So you've come at last," said Bob casually. Bob had always been a casual fellow. He had sauntered casually through life, and had met his death with the same casual, indifferent smile.

"Have you been expecting me?" asked Barbara, trying to attract Don's attention, who steadfastly refused to see her, and kept his brown eyes fixed on Bob's face.

"I've been trying to get you to come for a long time," answered Bob. "I wanted to show you what was really inside— you know what I mean— the secret garden."

"Its different from what I expected," said Barbara. "But I like it better all the same."

"It's all right," returned Bob emphatically. "Isn't it, Don, old fellow?" He snapped his fingers at the dog, who jumped up and tried to lick his face. "I always knew he was waiting here for me," he added.

"Why won't he come to me?" asked Barbara.

"He can't see you," answered Bob. "He can only see me. Ten years he waited for me. it must have been lonely for him all that time. I'm glad I came."

"Bob," said Barbara suddenly, "After we stopped talking about this— the secret garden did you ever think about it? Really think about it, I mean, so that you believed in it?"

"Why, yes," answered Bob, gazing at her wide-eyed. "Didn't you? I always knew it was waiting for me, and that one day I would get inside. I was going to speak to you about it that day I said good-bye. You remember. But you seemed so grown-up that I couldn't. But, of course, that was silly of me, for you weren't grown-up at all. You were only pretending."

"But I'm grown-up now," said Barbara with a sigh..

"No, you're not," answered Bob confidently. "You think you are, but you're not really. You've got your hair up of course, and wear long skirts, and do silly, grown-up things, and try to think silly, grown-up thoughts; but that's all pretence. You couldn't have come here if you'd been really grown-up."

"I m glad I'm not grown-up," said Barbara. "I never will grow up."

Bob laughed, and Barbara could hear the faint voice of the sea outside the garden, the ceaseless whispering of the pines, and smell the faint scent of violets.

"This is a dear place, Bob," she said, suddenly. "I'm glad you're here. But aren't you lonely?"

"Lonely?" scoffed Bob. "I'm not lonely. Why, I've heaps of company. Though you can't see them, all the boys who passed over in France are here, and more keep arriving every day."

"Are they here, Bob?" asked" Barbara, in a hushed voice.

"Yes, all around us," answered Bob.

"But why can't I see them? I can see you, so why can't I see the other boys?"

"Because you love me, I guess," said Bob cheerfully. "We are only real to the people who love us and remember us. When they forget us we cease to exist."

"Bob," asked Barbara, softly, "have many ceased to exist since— since you've been here?"

"A good many," said Bob. "Each morning someone has gone, and we know that someone has forgotten. The boys are lucky who have mothers to remember them, for mothers never forget; but sometimes others do."

"I won't forget, Bob," whispered Barbara, "I promise you I won't forget."'

"Then don't grow up, Barbara," said he, "because if you really grow up and think this is all pretence, I shall have no hold upon earth. I can only live in your heart."

"I won't grow up, Bob, dear, I won't grow up, and I will often come to the garden."

"Ah, no," said Bob, "you can't do that. It is not good for little girls to come to secret gardens too often. One day they might forget to back. You may never see this garden again, Barbara, so look at it well— then you will remember."

He took her to the gate, and before she opened it picked some violets and thrust them into her hand. "Take these with you." he said. "Take them from the real world into the unreal."

Then Barbara was left standing in the middle of the road, and the garden, with its cypress hedges and pine-trees had vanished. Her right hand was tightly clenched. She opened it, and for a moment smelt the faint fragrance of violets. Then it too vanished, and. she was left with nothing but the memory of what she had seen and heard. But, though she has never entered it again, the secret garden grows green in her heart. Once or twice she has fancied that she caught a glimpse of it in the clouds of a stormy autumn sky and once beyond a distant hill, but it was only the merest shadow, and faded away before she had realised it was there. But so long as she remembers it ever so faintly Bob lives still in the secret garden, where the grass grows long and green, and the shadows are so dark and the sunlight so bright.

____________

13: The Bend of the Road

Weekly Times (Vic), 8 July 1922

BARTLETT had missed his way. He had been vaguely conscious of it for the last hour; now he was sure. Straight ahead the road stretched through the monotonous plains, the wide sweep of the sky edging down to the far horizon, but of the town of Warndoo, where the motor was to wait for him, there was no sign. He paused to take his bearings. Three miles on from the crossroads he had been told.  That was definite enough, but on reaching the cross-roads he had been unable to decide winch road to take. As he hesitated an impulse had seized him to turn to the left.

That impulse had been wrong. He remembered now that as the car drove off the man had pointed to the right. It puzzled him how he could possibly have forgotten. It was not like him to forget, but all day a strange spirit of unrest seemed to have possessed him. It had been a ridiculous impulse, for instance, that had urged him to dismiss the motor with instructions to the driver to wait for him at Warndoo. Why had he done it? He did not know. He had urgent business at Warndoo, and had to return to Melbourne as quickly as possible, yet quite suddenly he had felt that he must get out and walk the rest of the way.

With a sense of joyous freedom he had watched the car drive off. It was good to be on the road again, even though it was only make-believe. He was rather out of condition, of course, but once on his feet it did not take him long to get into the steady stride of the good old days. He bore with perfect equanimity the knowledge that he was miles away from his destination, and that his business could not be attended to that night at any rate. Of course, he could retrace his steps, but this absurd impulse was urging him to go straight on, persuading him that he would miss something if be turned back. If he kept on he must come to a farmhouse where he could put up for the night and borrow a trap to take him across to Warndoo in the morning. Better to follow the impulse and see the adventure through. He would rather like to see where this road led to. Further on it seemed to take a turn, just where that curiously shaped hill broke the monotony of the plain.

It was five miles further on, and the sun was setting when Bartlett approached the bend of the road. Sombre and forbidding, the hill rose dark against the evening sky. Bartlett's eyes rested on it, reflectively at first, then with a sense of dawning excitement. He had never seen it before; all this country was strange to him; yet the queer shape of that hill was somehow vaguely familiar. In the half light of evening, which plays queer tricks with the eyesight, it looked like a sleeping lion, its great limbs hunched together and its head sunk forward on its breast. He knew it— somewhere he had seen it before.

He tried to dismiss the thought as ridiculous, but in his mind was the sure and certain knowledge that when he had rounded the curve of the hill he would see an old-fashioned farmhouse, surrounded by trees and a garden gay with flowers.

It was as he thought; only the gate swung broken on its hinges and the garden was overgrown with weeds. The place looked desolate and forlorn, as though in the struggle for existence the spirit of beauty had taken fright and fled. A few melancholy cows grazing in the paddock and a couple of horses appeared to be the extent of the farm stock. In another paddock grew a crop of some kind, but it was too dark for Bartlett to see what it was.

"Am I mad, or dreaming?" he muttered. "I'll swear I've never been here before, and yet somehow I know it."

He hesitated a moment before entering, conscious of almost an uncanny feeling. This recognition seemed to be the culmination of those queer impulses which had been urging him on, and he wondered what he was going to find inside.

As he atepped on to the verandah a board broke under his feet. The house seemed to be rotting away. Bartlett felt a sudden contraction at his throat. To him the place was infinitely pathetic, as though it was his own home settling into decay. A dog barked at the back, and footsteps hurried up to the hall. Someone fumbled at the lock and the door was thrown open.

"Jim!" It was a woman's voice; breathless, excited. "Jim! You've come at last." .

"I— I beg your pardon," stammered Bartlett, taken aback.

The woman peered out at him. There was a moment's silence; he could see her white face and dark eyes and the restless twitching of her lips. Then she raised her hands in a gesture of despair.

"It's not Jim," she said dully.

"No," returned Bartlett apologetically.  "The fact is I have missed my way, and I wondered if you could put me up for the night?"

"Come in." She stood aside for him to enter, and with a trembling hand lit the lamp. "I'll tell Anne," she said. "Anne will know."

She disappeared, and Bartlett could hear her calling outside, and then the clear, full notes of a girl's voice.

"What is it, mother? Someone wants us to put him up for the night? Very well, I will see him."

There was a clatter of cans as she spoke. "I've brought the milk in, mother, but don't you bother with it. I'll fix it up directly."

Bartlett smiled. So that was Anne! He had a fastidious ear, and there was a freshness and a vigor in the voice which pleased him. Evidently Anne looked after the place while the mother waited hopelessly for the return of Jim. But who was Jim? A husband or a son? No wonder the place was falling into decay. There were limitations to what one pair of girls' hands could do, and he guessed, looking at the bare room with its shabby furniture and thin, faded carpet, that the struggle was hard.

Then the door opened and Anne entered.

Bartlett had not known many women, and love was a word he fought rather shy of, but Instantly he know that this was the woman for him. She was young, barely twenty, he would have said, but yet she looked much older. Perhaps it was the flickering shadows playing on her face that gave her that expression of arrested life. Eager, living, yet at a standstill,

It was only for a moment that Bartlett got this impression, then she moved out of the shadows and her composed gaze met his. Conscious of his thoughts Bartlett flushed a little under her calm scrutiny. He felt she was weighing him in the balance, and if he faded in passing the bar of her judgment she would have no further use for him. Still, he returned her glance with one as straight as her own. He explained how he had missed his way and asked if they could put him up for the night.

The girl listened gravely, then evidently deciding he was to be trusted, smiled and held out her hand.

"Why, of course," she said, "you must stay here, and tomorrow my brother will drive you across to Warndoo. I hope that will suit you, Mr—" she glanced at the card Bartlett had given her, "Mr Bartlett."

"It's very good of you." Bartlett paused, then smiled rather diffidently. "Now there's only one other little thing."

"Yes?" queried the girl.

"Well, I don't know your name."

"Neither you do," she laughed. "It's Graham, Anne Graham, and this place—" she waved her hand— "this is known as Graham's farm throughout the district. My grandfather was one of the early pioneers here. He built this house  and was so proud of it, but now I'm afraid"— she looked round rather wistfully — "it's not what it used to be."

"Graham." Bartlett repeated the name to himself, but it conveyed nothing to him, nor, now that he was inside the house, was he haunted by that strange feeling of recognition. He had never been here in his life, and he had never heard of the people. He was ready to put it down as a bad attack of nerves or  imagination.  All the same, he was glad of the chance that had brought him here. He had to go away in the morning, but he would return very soon. Now that he had found Anne he was not going to let her go.

He had a solitary meal,  for Anne explained that they had already had theirs,  and then while he was smoking in the sitting room she came in to him. She looked flushed, and a little anxious, he thought, and he wondered what was troubling her. She sat down opposite him and leaned forward, her hands clasped together on her lap.

"Mr Bartlett," she said abruptly, "there is something I want to ask you. You may be able to help me."

"Why, of course, Miss Graham." Bartlett knocked out his pipe and laid it on the table. "Anything at all, Miss Graham. I'd be only too glad." His eyes, diffident and intensely earnest, met hers. "I haven't known you very long, but I feel as though— well, as though I belonged here."

"Thank you." Anne smiled faintly."About my mother," she went on. "When you came this evening she mistook you for my father. He disappeared ten years ago. We don't know where he went to or whether he's living or dead. Whenever there's a knock at the door mother thinks it must be him. Mr Bartlett, my mother has a strange feeling about you. She says that you know something of my father— that you can tell us what has become of him."

Anne laughed uncertainly. She was trying to carry it off lightly, but he could feel the tense anxiety under which she was laboring. "It's ridiculous to suppose you know anything about him, but if you do— oh, Mr Bartlett, if you do, please tell me. Even if he's dead, we'd sooner know; otherwise we might live here for ever, waiting for him to return."

"Miss Graham," Bartlett knitted puzzled brows,  "There's nothing I wouldn't do to help you if I could, but I'm afraid you've asked me the one impossible thing. So far as I know I've never met your father, but perhaps your mother could give me some clue. She may have some idea as to where I might have met him."

Anne sighed.

"I was afraid there wasn't much hope," she said, "but mother gets these strange feelings sometimes. Still, if she does ask you anything about it you will try to help her, won't you, even though you know it is hopeless?"

Bartlett nodded absently. He was wondering whether he would tell her the experience he had had. It made him look rather a fool perhaps, but there it was. It certainly had happened.

"It's rather strange," he said slowly, "that your mother should have had such a feeling about me. Coming here this evening I had the queerest impression. I was sure I had seen this place before, though to the best of my knowledge I've never at any time been in this district. Unless I saw it in a dream," he said, with an embarrassed laugh, "I can't imagine how it happened."

"Mr Bartlett." Anne sprang to her feet, her face flushed with excitement. "There may be something in mother's feeling after all. Perhaps somewhere you've met my father. You don't remember it, but it's there in your mind. Oh, try and think, won't you? Try and help us all you can."

"I'll try, but don't build too much on it. I'd hate to disappoint you. Perhaps your mother—"

"Hush!" interrupted the girl softly, "here she comes. Don't let her know we've been talking about it. It worries her.

"Well, mother darling?" she said cheerfully, as Mrs Graham entered the room, followed by a slim lad of fifteen with a pale face and rather a sulky mouth, "you and Mr Bartlett have met before, haven't you? This is my brother Jim," she added, laying an affectionate hand on the boy's shoulder and looking proudly at him. "We do lessons together every night. Unless I kept him up to it, Mr Bartlett, he'd never learn anything."

"Aw! what's the good," muttered the boy, flinging his books on to the table and stealing a sidelong glance at Bartlett as he did so. "I'll have to stick here all my life milkin' cows, so what's the use of learning anything?"

Bartlett looked at the boy and frowned. That feeling of vague recognition was awake in him again. Somehow the boy's face was familiar. It reminded him of someone. But whom? Jim? He had never known a Jim Graham, but something was struggling to light in his mind. If only he could remember! The faintest clue would help him. He was sure he had seen that boy's father somewhere.

"Mrs Graham," he said abruptly, "have you a photograph of your husband?"

Anne looked up quickly, and their eyes met.

"Do you remember?" she hardly dared ask the question. Instinctively he laid his hand over hers.

"I don't know," he muttered. There's something, but I'm not sure— not yet."

Anne did not remove her hand, and together they watched while her mother looked among a pile of photographs she took from a drawer. At last she picked out one which she handed to Bartlett.

"That is my husband," she said quietly, "taken when he was a young man. You will see the likeness to my son. If you don't remember," her voice sank to a whisper, "I don't know what I shall do. I've counted so much on you."

"Mother, darling," said Anne, "don't expect too much. It's only a chance, you know, but Mr Bartlett will do the best he can."

They both watched him with passionate anxiety as he took the photograph and studied it. In the features of the young man there was almost a startling likeness to the boy. Where had he seen that face before?  It was connected in his mind with something if he could only bring it out. How long ago? His thoughts were going back, and the mists were clearing away. In a moment he would have it! Let him think. He clenched his hand in the effort to remember. Ah, now he had it. It was on the opal fields, seven years ago, when he had been down and out, and Jim had given him a corner of his hut. Why, of course! It was Jim, old Jim, as he had called him; drunken; graceless Jim, with his charming manners and periodical fits of brooding. No wonder the house and the hill had been familiar to him.

In these last days, when Jim was dying— quite unromantically, as the result of a drunken brawl, and Bartlett had nursed him, he had raved deliriously of the hill where he had played as a boy, and his home at the bend of the road. Jim had been quite lyrical when he was delirious. Day after day he had raved on until Bartlett had a clear mental picture of Jim's old home. At the end there had been something Jim had wanted to say. He was conscious, and Bartlett remembered the agony in his eyes as he struggled to speak. Perhaps then he had wanted to tell Bartlett who he was and send a message to his wife. Bartlett laid the photograph face downwards on the table. He did not like to see Jim's eyes staring at him and to remember them as he had seen them that last time.

"Yes, Mrs Graham," he said quietly. "I knew your husband."

There was silence. Mrs Graham looked the question she could not speak, and Bartlett bowed his head.

"He is dead," he said gently. "Seven years ago or longer. I met him on the opal fields, and I was with him when he died. I think he was waiting to strike it lucky before he came home. At the end he wanted to give me a message, but he could not speak. I never knew his other name or anything about him."

"He wanted to send his love to you, mother," whispered the girl, "and ask your forgiveness."

"He always had that, Anne," said the mother. "Mr Bartlett, there is something else," she looked at him with an appeal in her eyes. "My husband—" she faltered a little and then went on. "He must have met many temptations, and he was always a little weak. How— how did he die?"

He knew what she meant. Did her husband die as he had lived; a graceless, drunken scamp. If ever a lie was justified it was now.

"Mrs Graham," he said steadily, "your husband died as you would have wished, a good man. If he had been spared to come back to you I think you would have been proud of him."

"Thank you." She drew a long breath. "Mr Bartlett, you have made me very happy. God must have sent you here today."

Bartlett felt rather uncomfortable, and stole a glance at Anne. He wondered what she was thinking, but her face was inscrutable. Somehow he got the idea that she did not quite believe him. Well, it could not be helped. He simply could not have told her mother the truth.

Presently Anne sent her brother off to bed and helped her mother from, the room.

"Wait for me, Mr Bartlett," she said, as she did so. "I'll be back in a  moment. There's something I want to ask you."

"It's coming now," thought Bartlett ruefully. "I thought she did not believe me." He was standing at the window looking out into the darkness when Anne returned. There was rather a tender little smile on her lips, but she repressed it as she met his eyes.

"Mr Bartlett." she said quietly, "you know you did not tell us the whole truth."

Bartlett looked embarrassed. He could not tell her a deliberate lie, so he took refuge in silence.

"You see," she went on, "I remember my father. If he had changed he would have come home. He loved this place. He left it because he could not bear us to see him as he was— sometimes. You lied, Mr Bartlett, but"— her voice broke a little— "thank you a thousand times for it. My mother believed you, and that is all that matters."

"Oh, that's all right," muttered Bartlett, feeling extremely foolish. "Your father was decent to me once when I was down and out, and I had to do the best I could for him. And now," he smiled and squared his shoulders, "suppose we forget all about that? In return there is something you can do for me. I have to leave early in the morning— young Jim has promised to wake me at six— but next week I want to come back. You see," he added boyishly, "I want you to learn to really like me."

"But we do."

"Not enough. Oh, look here. Anne," he said impatiently, "let us be done with pretence. You know what I mean. May I come back next week to see— you?"

A soft color flooded her cheeks and her eyes fell. She did not speak. He watched her, wondering what she was going to do. His whole life hung on this. Slowly she turned to the door. Surely she was not going to leave him without a word! As he despaired, she looked at him and smiled.

"Yes." she said softly, "come back next week."

______________

14: Strawberry Farm

Weekly Times (Vic), 6 Aug 1927

IN LONG straight rows looking as though they had been planted with mathematical precision, the strawberry beds stretched in an unbroken line from the edges of the garden to the fringe of the creek, where it came tumbling out from the hills and lost itself in the gully below.

As she neared the end of the last Barbara Wheeler straightened her aching back, and shot a quick, wistful glance at the house opposite. It was nearly eleven, and presently Joan would call them in for morning tea.  It was wonderful how she managed with that broken arm. She had been splendid all through, Barbara thought. Though the accident had been solely due to Barbara's reckless driving, not once had Joan reproached her instead, she had done all in her power to make light of it.

Yes, if only for Joan's sake, Barbara was glad she had stayed.

Her friends, writing up from the city after they heard of the accident to the car and what they called her "mad notion of turning fruit picker," had told her she was a fool to stay. Reggie, who had been her partner at innumerable dances, had threatened to kidnap her. But she told him not to come. In the city she had liked him; she had even idly contemplated marrying him. She remembered that she had actually admired his slim, elegant figure, his sleek black head and dark eyes; the good looks of which he himself was fully conscious. But against this background of blue, rolling hills, misty silver dawns and exquisite sunsets, he did not fit in.

Neither had she any desire to see her other friends. "You're not a prisoner," one had written, but in a sense she was. John Temple had made it perfectly clear that this was the only way in which she could wipe off her debt to them, but his smile had also said that he knew she would shirk it. Her instant acceptance of his terms had surprised and, she thought, secretly dismayed him. He had made no comment, however, beyond saying that her people had better be informed. Barbara had no mother, but she had given him her father's address, and he had gone off to ring him up.

He had arrived that afternoon. Temple had met him at the gate, and  Barbara could see the two of them inspecting the wreck of the car on the opposite side of the road. When he came in his face was grim and angry, Barbara looked at him in dismay. Until that moment she had believed he would insist on taking her home with him; now he seemed to have gone over to the enemy's camp. He had listened in silence to Temple's account of the accident, waving Barbara aside when she at tempted to interrupt, then said that he would pay for the damage the car had caused. But Temple would not hear of this. It would be sufficient, he said, if Miss Wheeler, recognising the trouble and inconvenience her recklessness had caused, agreed to take his sister's place. It was impossible now, to get any outside labor, and as he had been counting on Joan's help, half the crop would rot on the plants unless he got assistance.

Instead of being indignant at this suggestion, as Barbara had felt he would be, her father had nodded briskly, and looked at the young man with something like admiration. Then he had turned to Barbara.

"You're in good hands, my girl," he said. "A few weeks of hard work is just when you want."

He rose to go. Until Barbara heard the noise of the engine purring down the road she could not believe he had actually gone without a backward glance at her.

She knew why he was angry. He had given the car to her on the understanding that she would never exceed twenty-five miles an hour. When she had left home that morning she had no intention of breaking her promise,  but seeing a clear stretch the temptation had been irresistible. It was bad luck that the trap should have come suddenly round the shoulder of the mountain just as she was about to negotiate it. She had jammed on the brakes, and swung the car clear. Unfortunately, the horse was young and fresh. It bolted, and Joan was thrown from the trap. Barbara herself escaped with only a shaking from the wreck of the overturned car. It was a miracle she was not killed,  as John Temple told her when he picked her up.

He was working a little further down the row. Barbara could see his fair head bent over his work, his brown fingers moving quickly among the fruit.  As though he felt her thought he turned his head.

"Finished?" he asked,  his quick glance taking in the row of unpicked fruit that lay beyond of her.

Barbara felt the color rise to her cheeks in a hot, engulfing tide.

"No," she said abruptly.  "But it's nearly eleven. As I have been working since seven o'clock, I should think you would have no objection if I stop five minutes before the hour?"

"Not at all," he said with infuriating calmness. "If you have been working since seven, it was your desire, not mine."

He turned to work again.  Barbara hesitated, her blue eyes almost black with anger: then fell on her knees and began picking with furious intensity.

She hated him! If only in were in her power to make him suffer for his  insolence, his cool indifference.

When Joan came to the door and coo-eed them to come in, he turned with a frank smile, which, unless she was on guard, Barbara found so dangerously attractive.

"Why," he said.  "I thought you had gone, And why do you look so cross?"

Cross! Without a word Barbara turned on her heel and left him.

The smell of freshly baked scones, warm, delicious, met her as she entered the house. Joan was in the kitchen, and, after she had washed her hands, Barbara went in. It was a charming room, with a red bricked floor and shining copper pans hanging below a shelf of blue china. A dark pottery bowl filled with orange nasturtiums stood in the centre of the table. Barbara had picked them that morning. Secretly Joan thought it was a waste of time putting flowers in the house, but since Barbara wanted them, she allowed them to remain. Barbara looked round with pure delight.

"You know," she said, as she took the cup Joan offered, "I just love this room. It's so exactly right."

Joan's clear hazel eyes looked troubled. The vagaries of Barbara's taste were beyond her.

"But there's nothing in it. I wish we could afford to furnish it properly."

"Good heavens, you'd spoil it. You're an absolute darling, Joan, dear, but you haven't much taste. If you had you would throw out that green plush abomination you have in the sitting room and put in some of that gorgeous old stuff you've stored away in the shed. I saw a rosewood table and a set of chairs there that were a perfect joy."

"Really?" said Joan doubtfully. "But that's such old-fashioned stuff. Honestly, I prefer the green, plush."

Barbara gave a sudden gurgle of laughter.

"You are a dear. Joan," she said " with the inconsequence that always caused the other to look at her in bewilderment. "You should have told me to mind my own business. Perhaps, I'm prejudiced, but, I'll never forget the awful hour I spent among the green plush while your brother told me exactly what he thought of me."

"You don't like John, do you?" asked Joan suddenly.

"Well, he doesn't like me very much, does he?" Barbara evaded.

"I think perhaps he's shy," said Joan apologetically.

"Shy!" Barbara curved a scornful mouth "He's the most unshyest man I've ever met. If that's an excuse for him you had better think of an other."

"Well." said Joan slowly. "I some times wonder if you are angry with him because he suggested you should stay. He didn't think there was the slightest chance you would accept, otherwise he would never have asked you."

"One score to me, then. If he didn't want me here he must have hated every moment of it. I've been a thorn in his flesh. Oh, I'm glad I stayed."

Joan sighed. She did not understand either of them. At first the situation had its romantic possibilities, but she had been forced to let them go. It seemed so obvious that, each one disliked the other.

When John came in for his tea he found the two girls still seated at the table. There was a triumphant gleam in Barbara's eyes, which did net escape him.

"You seem very pleased with your self," he said, as he sat down. "I suppose you're glad we've nearly finished ?"

"Why shouldn't she be pleased?" Joan interrupted angrily. "You know if it hadn't been for her you would never have got the work done, and if we had lost the crop this year it would have been disastrous."

"Saint Joan to the rescue," murmured John. Then he raised his head and looked straight at Barbara. "You might not believe it, but I am grateful. There's no necessity for you to do anything more. I rang your father up this morning, and told him we were square now."

"You rang my father up," said Barbara, choking with anger.

"Yes, why not? He suggested driving up tomorrow."

"You seem in a hurry to get rid of me now my usefulness is over," said Barbara, in an icy voice. "I thought you were in a hurry to go."

"Certainly I am."

Barbara sprang to her feet, and faced hint with flaming eyes. "I won't wait until tomorrow. I'll go today. Joan, give me paper and a pen."

Silently Joan handed her the writing block. She scribbled a few words then put the sheet in front of him. "Will you kindly send that wire when you go into the township? Yes... read it."

He smoothed out the paper, looked at her, then bent his head.

"R. Henderson. Come at once and take me home."

It will be too late when he gets this," he commented.

"It doesn't matter how late it is," said Barbara. "He will come." She paused for the fraction of a second, then added: "I'm going to marry him."

There was a curious silence. Barbara felt as though she were sinking in a deep sea— down— down—

Did she intend to marry Reggie? Could she? She saw John's hand clench till the knuckles showed white. If he had looked at her then— But, instead, he folded up the paper and put it in his pocket.

"I must congratulate you," he said, and walked out of the room.

Immediately her anger flared up again. She had non no thought but to get away from this hateful place. She heard John drive away, and went to her room, counting the hours until It was possible for Reggie to arrive.

Joan knocked timidly at the door to tell her dinner was ready, but she refused to come out. She did not want to see either of them again.

Slowly the hours wore away. As though by tacit consent, neither brother nor sister came near her. Save for the striking of the old grandfather clock in the hall, the house was as silent as the grave. Eight o'clock, and still Reggie had not come. She began to be afraid now that something had stopped him, and she wondered desperately what she could do. She was determined nothing would induce her to spend another night in that house.

Presently, as the clock struck the half-hour, she took her bag and stole silently out into the hall. If Reggie came now he would find her gone. She meant to walk into the township, stay the night at the hotel, and ring up her father in the morning.

The wind was rising as she stepped on to the road, and she could see the gaunt arms of the gums moving uneasily. Just for a moment the thought of the three-mile walk through the lonely bush made her falter; then she hurried on; determinedly thrusting her fears aside.

The night grew darker, clouds obscuring the sky. She could hear the wind moaning through the trees, lashing them to frenzy, and the cry of some nocturnal creature of the bush sent a pang of sheer terror through her heart. Presently the figure of a man loomed out of the darkness ahead. She shrank further back into the shadow of the trees as he drew abreast of her. He paused, and she stumbled on, terror clutching her again; then she heard the sound of his footsteps hurrying after her. She turned and faced him. With a shock of relief that sent the -blood racing through her veins, she saw that it was John.

He put out his hand as though to touch her, then let it drop to his side again.

"So it is you," he said slowly. "I knew I couldn't be mistaken. Where are you going?"

With an effort Barbara controlled the trembling of her voice.

"To the township." Silently he took the suit case from her, and fell into step beside her. They did not speak as they trudged along. Glancing at him sideways Barbara saw that he walked with bent head, and she wondered what he was thinking. All her anger and confusion of thought had left her, and she felt suddenly intensely happy. Raising her eyes to the wind-swept sky, she saw that it was clearing, and just above a bank of fleecy clouds she could see the first, faint outline of the crescent moon.

At the turn of the road, where a little, bridge spanned the creek, and the lights of the township lay in a straggling line before them, they instinctively paused. The station was in darkness, except for a red lamp burning at the end of the platform.

"You've missed the last train," he said.

"Yes," said Barbara, in a hushed voice.

What did that matter? What did anything matter, save the magic of this hour. She knew the truth now. Even if John cared nothing for her, she would still have the memory of this.

"What are you going to do?" he insisted.

"Do?" She flung an upward glance at him. "Stay at the hotel, and my father can come for me in the morning."

"Were you very disappointed that— that he did not come tonight?"

She smiled secretly, and did not answer, but almost imperceptibly moved a little closed to him.

"I've been a cad," he said suddenly. "I never sent that wire."

"Then — you didn't want me to go ?"

"Oh, what's the good," he muttered. "Sooner or later you'd have to go, and now that you are going to be married "

"But I'm not, at least, not to him. I only said that because you made me angry. John." She put her hand on his arm. "I don't want to go— let me stay." She could feel his arm tremble beneath her touch; then he stood very still. When he spoke his voice was hoarse.

"I can't," he said. "If you stay you know what that means? I loved you almost from the beginning, but I never meant you should know. I've nothing, or next to nothing, to offer you, while you—"

He made a hopeless gesture.

"John." Barbara's arm stole around his neck. "You've been a pig to me, but now you've delivered yourself into my hands. I'm going to marry you."

"But your father?"

"He'll be pleased— and now you might show me you are pleased."

He gave a little laugh, and took her in his arms.

"If only I could tell you how I loved you," he whispered. "Do something to prove it."

"Well, there is something." She looked up, laughter in her eyes. "I have an idea that now you are disposed of, Joan will marry. There's Jim Waller, who comes to see her every Sunday. I am quite sure she likes him a lot. When she does marry you can give her that green plush abomination you have in the sitting room. I really couldn't live with it."

He threw back his head, and laughed.

"Do you hate it too?  Barbara—" he slipped his arm around her waist. "I haven't asked you yet. When will you marry me?"

"Just whenever you please," she said quietly.

_________

15: Smith's George

Herald (Vic), 9 May 1925

HE was a familiar figure on the wharf at Suva; tall, spare, with grey straggling beard and drooping shoulders. Smith's George, they called him. No one knew his other name, and he appeared to have forgotten it. His eyes had the pathetic appeal of a dog that has been unjustly beaten, and he shrank so obviously from the gaze of his fellow men that they had given up bothering him. With the large tolerance that life in the Pacific breeds in such matters, they accepted him as he was.

He spent hours on tho beach gazing out to sea, and the first sight of a ship on the horizon never failed to bring him running to the wharf, where, half hidden behind packing cases and coils of rope, he watched the tourists descend, his wistful eyes patiently scanning each face.

Perhaps Smith, of Smith's Stores, from whom he took his name and who gave him occasional jobs, could have enlightened them had he cared to do so. He was in the hotel now talking to the master of a sailing ship just in from the New Hebrides, his rotund body pressed against the bar and a glass grasped firmly in his podgy hand.

"You must mean George, or Smith's George, as they call him," he said. "They tell me he was manager of a big firm in Singapore some years ago. Brought a pretty wife out from England. Well, that's the trouble. She had money of her own, and cleared out. No, not with another man. Just plain bored with him, that's all. It knocked him flat for a while; he just couldn't understand it. Then he got queer in the head. Goes round looking for her. Thinks he'll meet her some day and she'll tell him why she did it."

He gulped down his whisky, and looked at his watch. "The mail steamer's about due. Coming down?"

The two men left together. Half way to the wharf Smith's George passed them. He was running, breathless and dishevelled; a shabby, ungainly figure In the merciless light of the tropical afternoon.

"There he goes," said Smith. "Well, life's a queer game."

The ship had berthed when they arrived. Smith's George was in his usual place, half hidden behind the coils of rope. They could see his thin face peering out, his long straggling beard.

"You see all sorts here," commented Smith, watching the crowd pass down the gangway.

"There's a handsome woman, if you like. There! That one with the dark eyes. She's a bit too cold, though, for my fancy." He paused, his eyes on Smith's George.

"Look at him," he whispered. "What's he up to?"

Smith's George had left his hiding place. His eyes were fixed on the woman Smith had singled out. As she stepped from the gangway to the wharf he went to wards her with out-stretched hands, stumbling a little as though he walked in the dark. He touched her gently on the arm, and his eyes implored her. She looked at him, one piercing biting glance, then turned to her escort.

"I wish you would ask this man to go, away," she said in clear, well-bred tones. "He is annoying me." It was not necessary.

Smith's George shrank back as though she had struck him, covering his face with trembling hands, and the woman swept on.

"It seems to me he's found what he was looking for," said Smith cynically.

THE MAIL steamer had turned her back on Suva. Her engines throbbed steadily as she churned through the water on the way to Auckland. Though dinner was barely over two people had already come up on deck. They strolled up and down for a few minutes, then leant Idly over tho side while a golden moon rose slowly from the sea. A cold wind came with it. It caught the end of the scarf the woman wore around her neck and flicked It In the face of her companion. He held it for a moment, then gently put it back.

"It's a queer thing," he said suddenly, "but I can't get the chap we saw yesterday out of my mind."

"Oh." Her voice sounded cold, almost hostile.

"No." He hesitated, reluctant to go on in the face of her evident discouragement, then continued. "There was no doubt the poor chap had been a gentleman, and I thought perhaps we had been— well— a little harsh with him, so after I left you I went back to see if I could find him again and perhaps do something for him."

There was silence. She looked at him quickly, a glance he did not see, then turned her head away.

"And did you?"

"I was too late. He jumped off the wharf soon after we left. They couldn't save him. He was a bit queer in the head it seems, but It gave me quite a nasty fooling when I heard it."

She moved slightly. Her smooth bare arm rested lightly on the rail. For a moment her fingers played with a plain gold ring. She twisted it round thoughtfully, then drew it off. It fell with a splash into the water.

"Why, what was that?" exclaimed the man, peering over the side.

"It was nothing," she said calmly. "At least," she added, "nothing of any consequence."

________________

16: The Wooden Buddha

Herald (Vic), 20 June 1925

IT stood on a shelf just above his desk, a small wooden Buddha, the figure seated on a pedestal decorated in gold with a representation of the moon and stars. Since his marriage he had kept it in his office. Any reminder of his wanderings over the face of the earth seemed incongruous in the smug domesticity of his home; also, his wife was unaccountably jealous of those vagabond years of his. She seemed to think that, given any encouragement, he would be off again.

At seventeen, Jim Allison had run away from the stool waiting for him in his father's office, to sign aboard a small schooner, making for Japan. It was not until ten years later that he returned to take up life again where he had left it. He settled down contentedly enough, and if at times a sick nostalgia for those careless, happy days shook him, he managed to hide it from his wife. Such places he had known; queer, remote corners of the world... buried temples in the forests... staring faces of heathen gods... strange seas... Every town In tho East had echoed to his restless footsteps. They rang in his memory like a song— Bangkok, Rangoon, Mandalay, Pekin....

It was at Pekln the wooden Buddha came his way. His thoughts went racing back. He had left his ship and wandered inland. From the great road sweeping to Pekln, and guarded by strange monsters carved in stone, he could see the blue and yellow roofs of the city gleaming in the sun, the masses of purple lilac above the courtyard walls, and the tender green of the willow trees.

It was a warm day in early spring, and he paused to rest in the shadow of a high wall, conscious as he did so that he was very thirsty. He looked about thoughtfully. If he could manage to climb the wall he might find fruit, or possibly water. It was risky, but he decided to chance it. Swinging himself up by the aid of the branches of a tree which hung above the wall, he clambered over, and, glancing round to see no one was about, dropped lightly to the ground.

He found himself in an orchard; against the grey stone walls, in piled up masses of color, the cherry and peach trees were in bloom. Stealing forward he came to a small, stone temple in front of which a girl was kneeling. He saw the tiny shrine of the Buddha, the thin blue curl of the incense smoke, and knew by the richness of her dress and the jewels in her hair, that she must be the daughter of a wealthy mandarin.

Startled, he drew back into the shelter of the trees, but the movement disturbed her. She turned her head and saw him. At that moment he knew he was in terrible danger, and glanced back quickly to see if the way was clear. She had but to clap her hands and half a dozen servants would be at his heels. He turned to fly, but she stopped him with a gesture, and, amazingly, greeted him in English. Dangerous though he knew his position to be, he stood rooted to the spot.

Never, he thought, had he seen such a rare and exquisite creature, Her skin was like a magnolia flower, and her eyes as soft and dark as the pansies his mother used to grow in the little garden at home.

As he listened to her quaint and mellifluous phrases so strange to his ear,  he had a confused sense that he was living in a dream. She told him she had had an English teacher whom she had loved, and for that reason all the English were her friends. Then, hearing his hesitating explanation of his intrusion, she brought out pale amber tea in covered cups of blue and green, strange sweets and lychee nuts, and spread them before him, beckoning him to eat and drink.

He was glad to do so, though in spite of her assurances, he felt uneasy. There was an old woman hovering in the background who looked at him malevolently, and he kept a speculative eye on her as he drank his tea. She would, he realised, be quite pleased to see him put through some particularly unpleasant form of Chinese torture if she could have her way.

When she came running up to her mistress and spoke to her in a rapid undertone, it was all he could do not to betray his agitation. The girl listened gravely, then dismissed her with a wave of the hand.

"The old woman tells me my father is approaching," she said. "So you must go, for I could not save you if he found you here. But before you go, take this, from me."

She tore the Buddha from its shrine, and thrust it into his astonished hands.

"It is mine, and will bring— what you call— luck. Now go, quickly, quickly."

In the distance he beard the murmur of voices, and realised he had barely time to get away. Light-footed as a cat, he threaded his way through the trees and climbed the wall. Turning back, he caught a momentary glimpse of her as she raised her hand in a gesture of farewell.

THAT night his ship sailed for Australia, and he brought the Buddha home with him. It sometimes crossed his mind to wonder, looking up at it from his office desk, if the gift of the Chinese girl had brought him luck. True, he had a pleasant home, a wife whom he loved, two children— what more could a man want? Then he would shrug his shoulders, and fall to his work again.

It was his cousin George, just home from five years in China and Japan, who showed him what it was the Chinese girl had meant. The Buddha was the first thing to catch his roving eye as he strolled Into the office.

"Hullo!" he cried. "What's this?"

He took it down and examined it curiously. "A household shrine, I should say. The moon and stars have probably some esoteric significance, though I'm hanged if I know what it is. Sometimes they use these things as a hiding place for treasure. Let's have a look. There's probably a secret spring somewhere. Yes, I thought so."

He twisted it in his hand, and the figure moved.

"You see, the pedestal is hollow. Why, what's this?"

His voice changed, then he flung something down on the desk; "A necklace of uncut rubies, if you please, and beauties at that. I suppose you'll give them to Alice? Pity she's so fair; to my mind rubies should only be worn by a dark woman."

The other did not reply. Through his mind flashed a swift vision of a girl with a skin like a magnolia flower and eyes like pansies. No, he could not give her jewels to his wife; perhaps, later on to his daughter.

Slowly he dropped the rubies back into their hiding place, and snapped the spring.

"I don't think we'll tell Alice yet awhile," he said.

_________________

17: The Green God

Herald (Vic), 10 May 1924

SHE saw it first, among a lot of dusty plates and other lumber in the window of the dirty little antique shop into which she was wont to peer so wistfully— a small, green Chinese god with folded hands and a smile of ineffable complacency upon its hideous face, and knew at once, with one of her sudden, wild enthusiasms which invariably led her astray, that she simply must have it. Its jade green shape would show up so beautifully on the shelf in her dark oak panelled room, and besides, It would go so exquisitely with that charming black and green Chinese bowl which she had picked up for a mere song. Even Tom, who was sceptical about her bargains, had admitted that. It was fortunate, and seemed like an intervention of Providence on her behalf that Tom had given her extra money that morning. Certainly, he had given it to her to pay the gas and electric light bills, which had an annoying habit of coming in with a peremptory demand for payment if it was delayed, but under these special circumstances they would have to wait, and she would make up the money somehow. There was not the shadow of a doubt but that she must possess that little green god.

The price was rather more than she had anticipated, but she paid it without question, and also bought a small incense burner and a packet of Chinese incense which the old man in the shop told her was necessary to have if she wished the god to bring her luck. As she took her purchases home she had a momentary fear that Tom might not approve of them, but after arranging, them on the high dark shelf was more than satisfied with her own good taste.

Tom was late for dinner that night, which rather disturbed her, as it meant there was probably some trouble in the office, and as he entered the room her experienced eye saw at once that there was a cloud upon his brow, and a  certain gloom in his manner.

"I can't bear these sham antique things of yours, Pam," he said, drawing up a chair to the table.  "I tripped on that so called Bokhara rug In the hall arid nearly broke my neck."

The moment did not seem propitious for calling his attention to the green god, so she resolved to defer it until after dinner, when, no doubt, Tom would be feeling better.

Under her tactful management, and the soothing influence of good food,  the cloud was beginning to lift from his brow, when, glancing up at the clock, his eye met that of the little green god.

"Good, Heavens," he exclaimed with emphasis, putting down his cup hastily, "What's that atrocity?"

"That?" She looked at it affectionately. "Why, that's a Chinese god I picked up today. "Don't you like it?"

"Like it," he said gloomily. "It makes me feel bilious. If you don't mind, I'll change my seat. It spoils my meal to have that thing grinning at me."

She watched him with blazing eyes, but the consciousness of the unpaid bills restrained her.

"You must have the soul of a born tourist," he went on. "I shudder to think of the junk you'd collect at Colombo or Cairo, and places like that."

"You," she told him coldly, "have the soul of a barbarian. I often wonder why I married you."

Tom found nothing to say in reply to this, and silence fell upon the dinner table.

The coolness engendered by the little green god lasted, with varying degrees, for two or three weeks. Tom flatly refused to face it during his meals, as he said the thing got on his nerves, and she as flatly refused to move it, although its complacent smile was beginning to irritate her beyond endurance. It seemed to dominate tho room, dwarfing everything into in significance; it was the triumph of sheer ugliness over beauty. She wondered at her wild enthusiasm for it and longed to give it away, but that would have been a tacit acknowledgment to Tom that she had made a mistake, and after his attitude on the matter she was not going to admit that. In her preoccupation she had overlooked the bills she had committed to pay, until one morning Tom confronted her with two slips in his hand and a demand for an explanation.

"It's simple enough," she said coldly. "I've forgotten to pay them, that's all."

"Indeed!" he returned, in tones as chilly as hers. "And is it permitted to ask what you did with the money?"

"It was such a large amount, wasn't it?" she retorted quickly. "If you will kindly give me those bills I will pay them out of my own money."

For answer he folded them up, and put them in his pocket. "I'll attend to them," he said with decision, "then they might have a chance of being paid."

The door slammed behind him, and she heard his quick footsteps outside.

"That's the first time he's gone with out saying good-bye," she thought, drearily. "Oh, I wish I'd paid those bills, and I wish I'd never bought that green god. Horrible, ugly thing! I've not had a moment's peace since it came into the house." She sat for a few minutes thinking deeply amidst the ruin of the break fast table, then making a sudden resolution, sprang hastily to her feet.

There was a change in Tom's manner when he returned home that evening. Pam, who wore a chastened air, greeted him meekly.

"Hello, Pam," he said, rather overdoing the casualness of his manner as he put down a parcel in front of her.  "Here's something I bought for you."

"How sweet of you, Tom," she said, fingering it curiously and thinking he was rather a dear, after all. "What is it?"

"Well, as a matter of fact," he cleared his throat nervously. "I felt I'd been a bit of a brute to you over various things, and seeing this, I thought you might like it. Here, let me open it. There you are!"

He held up in his hand a jade green god with folded hands and a complacent smile.

"Did you ever see such an exact match? I thought you might like to have the pair of them."

"Oh, Tom!" Her voice faltered. "Where— where did you buy it?"

"In that little shop you're so fond of."

"Tom!" She clutched the green god in her hand, and then dissolved into helpless laughter.

"Oh, Tom, this is my own green god. I sold it back again to that shop this morning!"

________________

18: A Touch of the Sun

Herald (Vic.), 6 Sep 1924

THE S.S. Diana, bound from London to Australia, and touching at all sorts of strange and unfrequented towns, lumbered heavily into her last Eastern port of call. Tomorrow she would make a clear run to Australia, but to Anna Thornell, watching the native boats laden with fruit clustering about the vessel, Australia seemed very remote, even though Jack was waiting for her there and had been waiting three years. He seemed like a dream in this strange, vivid land, even as England, her life there, seemed a dream. Only this was real... this achingly blue sky and blazing sun... these fierce, ardent colors... only this was real!

Her hands clenched involuntarily, and her pale, clear face, with its soft, dark eyes set in an expression of still concentration, which did not escape the notice of a man who was standing by regarding her intently. His keen grey eyes narrowed in thought, then, as the girl turned suddenly, he came forward.

"Morrison and I are going ashore," he said. "Won't you come with us?"

"No, thank you, doctor." Her voice sounded a little strained, and she avoided his eyes.

"I don't care for Eastern towns."

"Perhaps you are right." He looked at her gravely. "But you have not been ashore at any Eastern port, so far. Are you sure you won't come with us? You  won't have another opportunity."

She bit her lip, and with difficulty controlled her impatience at his insistence.

"No, thank you, doctor."

He left her reluctantly, and, as she watched him disappear, she wondered why she had lied. It had been instinctive, something apart from her self. Her quiet life in England had given her no inkling of the strange madness that had seized her ever since the ship had entered the Mediterranean, and she had seen the shores of Africa flushed rosy red in the early dawn. She dimly felt that her desperate longing to go ashore, to feel the touch of Africa beneath her feet, was something that must be hidden. The desire burnt in her like a flame, and this was her last opportunity. Tomorrow it would be too late.

She gave a furtive glance around, then hurried down the gang way.

The road to the town made its tortuous way between tall dark houses hidden behind high stone walls. Donkeys laden with dates and oranges passed by on their way to the ship. The drivers looked at her curiously, but she was unaware of their whispers and glances. She walked like a woman possessed. Her will had ceased to act, and some strange, compelling force had taken its place.

At a sudden bend where the road branched off in two directions and the crowd became thicker and more vociferous, she hesitated. As she paused uncertainly a tall man in native dress stepped from the shadow of the wall and touched her on the arm. A faint memory stirred to life within her, some prescience of danger. It was for the moment only. His fierce dark eyes met hers, and she bent her head submissively.

"Come," he said authoritatively. He walked on ahead, his bright silken garment swinging about his legs, and she followed blindly. Her stiff clothes seemed to hamper her movements. She wanted the soft touch of silk on her skin, the jingling of bracelets on her arms and ankles.

He stopped before a door half hidden in the wall. At his touch it swung  open, and she stepped into a stone courtyard shadowed by heavy trees. A fountain sparkled in the centre, and the air was heavy with a hot, sickly fragrance. Behind her she heard the soft, sibilant voices of the native servants, and the distant throb of music. Through the overhanging branches of the trees she could see the latticed windows of the house.

The drowsy calm and scented air drugged her senses, so that she scarcely heard the sudden clamor of raised, angry voices, and someone calling her name.

She wakened to the familiar wash of water against the side of the ship, and lay watching the sun shining through the port hole. A shadow darkened the door, and she looked up to see the doctor bending over her.

She smiled faintly, then, as she met his eyes, stark fear showed in hers. She gripped his arm.

"Something "happened ... I can't remember.... no."

"It's all right." He put his hand on her forehead. "You've had a touch of the sun. You fainted— Morrison and I chanced to be by, and we brought you back."

"Doctor!" She looked at him appealingly. "I've had such queer dreams ... I seem to remember..." Her voice trailed off. "No, I can't".

"Don't try." His quiet voice soothed her nerves. "These Eastern towns have a queer atmosphere which affects some people. If I were you I would not come again."

"I won't." She sighed like a tired child, and almost immediately fell asleep again.

On deck the doctor was joined by his friend, Morrison. "I've done what you wished," he said abruptly. "Told the others she'd had a touch of the sun. It's a queer business! However—" His gesture Implied It was no concern of his.

The doctor jammed down the tobacco in his pipe before speaking.

"Of course, you know. "Morrison," he said quietly, ''there was more in it than that. It's a case of atavism, reversion to type. The girl herself doesn't know what, happened, but I've lived in the East and I recognise the signs. Anna Thornell has a touch of native blood in her."

______________

19: James

Herald (Vic.), 11 July 1925

THERE WAS A LULL in the rush of diners, and taking advantage of it, he stood for a moment at the window looking out, a faded little man with pale eyes and scanty hair, a serviette, the badge of his trade hanging over his arm, his black, rusty clothes bearing the marks of innumerable meals served hastily to impatient customers.

In the street below the heavy traffic from the wharves thundered by, but on a level with his eyes were the red and black funnels of the steamers, and the tall masts of sailing ships and schooners lying in the river. It had been raining the previous day, and now, with a glint of sun, and a wind whipping up from the south, a sailing ship was putting out all her canvas to dry. He watched with quickening breath, while a faint color came into his cheeks. She looked like a great white bird ready poised to fly, and he wondered to what portion of the globe the winds of the world would carry her.

"Hi! James!"

He turned quickly, all expression fading from his face as though a sponge had been passed across it, leaving only tho mask of his features.

"Coming, sir."

At a table close by two young men, barely out of their teens, were seated. One, a youth named Jackson, with a fair, ingenuous face, and a small, well-thumbed, leather-covered copy of "Treasure Island" in his hand, hailed him as an old friend. Hobbling up, for his feet were tender, James bent over him confidentially.

"I can recommend the soup today, sir," he said earnestly. "It's extra good. But I would pass the fish. I fancy it's a little stale."

The young man waved that aside.

"I say, James," he said eagerly, "tell my friend Wilmot that yarn about tho wreck, and show him— you know!"  He nodded mysteriously.

James looked round cautiously. Most of the tables were vacant, and the head waiter outside, so for the present the coast was clear. He coughed portentously, leaning slightly over the enthralled young men, one grimy hand resting on the table cloth.

"It happened when I was steward on the Lucy Smith," he began in a hoarse whisper. "A matter of ten years ago now. We were on the island run, carrying a few passengers, taking stores to the traders— that son of thing.

"One day we ran into a storm, got blown out of our course, and put in for shelter at a little Island the look-out sighted. Uncharted, it was. But we weren't  the first that had come along— piled up on the rocks was a ship, been there fifty years when we saw her, and about broken up by the seas. We went aboard what was left of her."

His voice sank to a stealthy whisper. With a quick glance round he took some thing out of his pocket and laid it on tho table.

"I found this." It was a dirty piece of paper, marked in one corner by an ugly brown stain, and had on it a rough drawing of an island, a spot indicated by a red cross, and the latitude and longitude.

"Men have fought over this— lost their lives. I was thinking—" He bent still lower, one hand held slantwise across Ills mouth. "There's a small ship I've got my eye on, and with two young gentlemen like yourselves to work her, we'd locate the treasure all right."

"James!" A sudden crash from the further end of the room and an Infuriated roar interrupted him. With a meek "Coming, sir," he snatched up the paper and hurried off.

"Um!" remarked Wilmot, the elder of the two. "That's a queer tale."

"It sounds all right to me," returned the other, his blue eyes staring straight before him.  "Wouldn't I like to try it out! Wouldn't I just!"

Then, with a sigh, he started on the soup, which James, with an air of great dignity, had just brought up.

"I'll see you later about that matter, James," he said, a certain reserve in his manner totally excluding the rather cynical Wilmot.

A week passed, however, before he was able to come again. Taking his usual seat, he looked round expectantly, but James was not to be seen; instead, a stranger was attending to his tables. Waving him aside, young Jackson beckoned to the head waiter.

"James?" said the head waiter, delicately balancing a knife and fork on the centre of his palm.  "He's gone, sir. Passed in his checks."

The young man turned pale.

"Caught cold and was dead in two days. Poor old James!" He deftly caught the knife and fork and transferred them, to his pocket. "Mad on ships, he was. I can see him now, standing at that window and watching them whenever he got a chance. Many a time I had to shake him up for it. He was always talking of getting a job as a steward, but never made up his mind to do it."

"Do you mean," faltered the young man, "that he had never been to sea?"

"Not he. I've known him for thirty years, and he never set foot on a ship in his life. He had a kink that way, though. I suppose he told you that yarn about the wreck? He's been telling, that for ten years— he really believed it at the end—"

"But the chart," protested young Jackson, unwilling to be convinced. "He really had a chart. I saw it. It was marked with blood in one corner."

The waiter grinned. "Oh, he had a chart, all right. A chap oft a boat drew it one day for a lark, and gave it to him. The blood was a drop of Worcestershire sauce that he spilt in the corner. Well, it gave old James pleasure. He was always looking at it and talking of the ship he was going to fit up. Poor old James! He didn't get much out of life— just standing at that window at odd moments and watching the masts of the ships. Queer taste, wasn't it?"

The young man raised his eyes. He was sitting opposite the window, and silhouetted against the pale sky he could see the masts that James had loved to watch.

A sudden understanding came to him.

"Perhaps he got something worth while out of life after all," he said quietly.

________________

20: The Room Next Door

Weekly Times (Vic), 20 Feb 1926

THE YOUNG MAN in the next room coughed— a hard, racking cough that seemed to tear him to pieces and leave him breathless. She could hear him gasping painfully, then silence. Half raising herself on her elbow, Joyce Anstruther turned, frowning through the darkness.

This incessant coughing was beginning to worry her. She had heard it all last night, and now again tonight. Besides she knew he had not been out for two days, and as he never cooked food in his room— being apparently one of the lucky ones who could afford to dine outside, and did not have to exist on stale eggs bought from the grocer's, or dubious-looking ham from the shop next door— she wondered what he was doing for his meals. If he were ill and helpless, even dying, there was no one in that huge mausoleum of a place to care. Often she had pictured herself in such straits.

"Why," she said aloud, speaking vehemently into the darkness, across which the open window with the swaying curtain cast a faint glimmer of light, and the cheap furniture made grotesque shadows in the further corner, "I don't believe they'd even give him a drink of water if he was dying."

She was very young, only twenty-two, and at the time very, very bitter. She listened intently, but hearing no sound, lay back again. She had never seen the young man in the room next to hers, but she knew his footsteps; strong, sturdy footsteps tramping up the echoing stairs; soft footsteps— this with evident desire not to disturb his neighbors— moving quietly about his room, and his cheery whistle, though often, on a high note, he would check himself abruptly. Evidently a thoughtful young man, but so far as Joyce Anstruther was concerned, he could whistle as often and as loudly as he pleased. On nights when she was feeling particularly lonely and afraid of the great city which had proved so unexpectedly unkind, that cheery, kindly sound had made her feel less alone.

She tried to imagine what he was like... a keen brown face and clear, steady eyes— blue, she hoped, with fair hair brushed straight back from his forehead. She searched her memory. Why did that seem so familiar.

Why, of course, she remembered now! There had been that boy she had met years ago, coming home from school. He carried, her books for her, and they had picked blackberries together... seventeen and going to the war. He had kissed her at parting, very shyly and very gravely, and asked her not to forget him. She remembered he had waved his cap at the turn of the road, and the sun caught the gold of his hair. She could see him now, waving his cap at the bend of the road, and the sun shining in his hair. She turned restlessly.

What had happened to him, she wondered? Dead, very probably, and she had never known his name, nor he hers. Well, she knew the name of the young man next door— Arthur Middleton— for he had written it on an envelope and pinned it above the number of his room. This had struck her as a good idea, and she had done the same with hers, hoping this might induce someone to speak to her— at that time she had simply hungered for a kindly word. But no one ever did, and she had ceased to expect, or even wish it now.

Sunk into a state of dull inertia, she was content to be left alone, and she sometimes felt there was not much difference to spare between her and the pale, nerveless women she passed in the long corridor with its jealously closed doors, women she had pitied for the grey hopelessness of their lives, creeping out to do their scanty shopping or scurrying to their rooms like frightened rabbits to a burrow. She wondered what he was doing in such a category. Probably, though his situation was the same as her own -: the mausoleum, as she called its was cheap.

The bout of coughing seemed to have passed for the time being, and presently her thoughts returned to herself. Three hundred pounds, and with the exception of about ten pounds less this month's rent, it was all gone. Three hundred pounds which her mother had scraped together, year by year, so that on her death her father-less child might have something to start with in life. Three hundred pounds, She trembled at the thought or it. Now that it was gone, and only a few pounds stood between her and destitution, it seemed a tremendous sum.

They had warned her before she left home that she would be robbed in the city, but the business offered her had seemed so splendid, the prospects so glowing, and the idea also. Slowing, and the idea owning it so intoxicating, that gaily and light-heartedly she had paid over all of her capital. Of course, the whole thing had been a fraud. She and her three hundred pounds must have seemed like a gift sent straight from Heaven. Why, you could hardly blame them for taking her in. She had been asking for it.

The crash had not been long in coming. The smart milliner's shop had been in existence a week before she bought it. Without experience, without money, without customers, except an occasional one who drifted in, it had lasted perhaps a month longer. Then someone offered her thirty pounds, at which the value of the stock was assessed, and she had taken it. Since then she had been looking unsuccessfully for work. No one seemed to want her services. Other girls could get work, but not her. How she hated the city, and the people in it; cruel, hard and unfriendly. Up at home now the orchards were in bloom, and soon the fruit would be dropping to the ground; windfalls, which she had often gathered on her way home from school; golden apricots, red-cheeked apples, luscious peaches— and there would be green, green fields, and when the rains came, the smell of the warm sweet earth. In her little garden the primroses and the cowslips would be out. Last year she had planted a whole bed of them just near the gate. Now someone else would pluck them.

She quivered, hiding her face on her arm. What wouldn't she give to be back again! The longing was so great that it was almost a physical pain. But she couldn't return— a failure; besides, her mother was dead now, and nothing would be the same. Who had their old home now, she wondered, and the little orchard where they had grown strawberries and made a small, though comfortable living. With a man's help, her mother had said, they could easily have doubled it.

Unfortunately the place had not belonged to them, and on her mother's' death the owner had put it on to the market. Joyce had left it, happy enough at the time; excited at the prospect of launching out, on her own, and with three hundred pounds, in the bank. Now everything was lost was lost, including hope.

A sound from the room next door startled her. He was coughing again, and this time she distinctly heard him call. She sprang out of bed without pausing to think, and dressed herself hurriedly. She must go and see what he wanted— no one else would bother. She might be doing an unconventional thing, but she did not care. She could not bear to think of him left alone, sick and helpless. There was no one about; the long passage was deserted, and all the other rooms seemed wrapt in an impenetrable silence. He might have called all night, and no one would have heard.

"Come in," said a husky whisper. Outwardly she was quite calm and self-possessed as she entered the room, but her heart was beating almost to suffocation with suppressed excitement. She had thought to bring both tea and milk with her, and also some quinine tablets, which fortunately she possessed, and with which it was her intention to dose the young man.

An oil lamp, the wick turned too high and smoking the glass, stood on the table. With a business-like air Joyce put the things she had brought on the table, and turned down the wick.

"But— I say!" The young man, his cheeks flushed, his eyes unnaturally bright, was sitting upright in bed, staring at her in amazement. Joyce looked at him swiftly. With one quick glance she saw that her intuition had been right. He was as she had hoped he would be; keen, brown face, with clear, blue eyes, his hair growing straight back from his forehead with the faintest suspicion of a wave in it.

"You called," she said, in the tone of one stating a fact that cannot be contradicted. "Yes, I know. But I hoped the chap on the other side would hear me. I never thought—" He paused in confusion.

"Please don't talk so much." Her sang froid was quite equal to the occasion, though with her dark hair cut short to the ears, and wide, serious, brown eyes, she looked hardly more than a child. "What is it you want?"

"Water." With a sigh the young mail subsided. "I've pains all over me— can't move. A touch of the 'flu, of course. The water jug's empty, and I thought the chap next door—"

With a wave of the hand Joyce commanded him to silence. Taking the jug, she filled it at the bath-room tap, then put the kettle on to boil. The young man watched her with fascinated eyes. Obediently he swallowed the tablets she gave him; indeed, the firmness of her manner was such that he would have swallowed anything she had suggested.

"Are you a trained nurse?" he asked, sitting up to take the tea she handed him. and watching with admiration the way she shook up the pillows beneath his head.

"Well — no," said Joyce, immensely flattered by this suggestion and reluctant to deny it. "Not exactly."

"I guess you're better than any trained nurse," declared the grateful young man. He drank the tea and grew enthusiastic.

"I should say you were better than a hundred trained nurses. This tea is the best I've ever tasted." He leant back on his pillows with a sigh of content, and gazed up at her. "Do you know," he said suddenly, "what you remind me of. One of those Florentine pages? You know! And imagine you living next door to me all this time, and I never knew."

"You're talking too much," said Joyce severely. Sweet though his words sounded in her ears, she felt this was neither the time nor the place to listen to them. "You must be feverish."

He shook his head, but she insisted.

"Two more tablets and then you must try and sleep. You'll feel ever so much better in the morning."

"You are good to me." Languidly he smiled at her; his eyes closed, then with an effort he jerked himself awake.

"Little Florentine page... I used to dream of a girl like you..."

Silently she let herself out as his voice faded away; and silently she stole into her room again. Switching on the light, she looked at herself long and earnestly in the mirror. A Florentine page... did she look like that?

When she slept that night she dreamt of a young man with blue eyes, and orchards heavy with blossom through which they wandered together.

She awoke to the feel of rain upon her cheek. The wind had changed during the night, and was blowing from the south bringing rain with it. Slamming down the window she stood for a moment peering out. The plane trees in the street below were dripping with wet: it ran in tiny rivulets from the spouting and flooded the gutters. The sky was a sullen grey.

She shivered suddenly. Her romantic dreams of the night before were at an end. She was merely a modern young woman who must get work at all costs; while he— well he was only an ordinary young man suffering from influenza. She did not want to see him again. She would prepare a tray and leave it at his door and that was the end of it so far as she was concerned. Her own affairs were of such urgent importance that she had no energy left to worry over the young man next door.

She had dressed and set the room to rights when she heard the sound of the postman's whistle below. There were never any letters for her and it hardly seemed worth while looking, but there was always a remote possibility; perhaps someone from home would remember and write to her.

Running lightly downstairs, she looked through the pile of letters in the general box. Of course, there was none for her, but there was one addressed to Arthur Middleton.

That young man again! Well, it seemed only decent to take it upstairs and slip it under his door. She could hear him moving about and whistling softly. That meant he was better. Instinctively she looked in the mirror again, and her lip curled. A Florentine page in a shabby blue serge dress and a pull-on hat! He wouldn't think so if he saw her this morning.

The kettle boiled over and she turned to make the tea. As she did so there was a hasty, imperative knock at the door. She looked round quickly. The bed, half hidden by a screen, was covered with a piece of gay cretonne. A blue and white ginger jar, picked up for six pence on one of her excursions to the markets and treasured greatly, stood on the table. This was filled with yellow poppies. Flowers were the one luxury she allowed herself now; everything else had been ruthlessly cut out of her life. The room was as presentable as she could make it, clean and fresh, at any rate; but all the same she was ashamed of it; ashamed of the ugly furniture and drab grass mats on the floor, the cheap mirror on the dressing-table, and the rough shelf she had put up herself to hold her few books, old favorites brought from home... a set of Dickens... the poems of Rupert Brooke... a well-thumbed Gordon and Treasury of Australian Verse: shabby old books, but well loved, every one.

She felt a sudden panic at the thought that they might be exposed to a possibly critical eye. The knock was repeated again, but louder than before, and, frowning slightly, she opened the door. His smile disarmed her; that and the sudden conviction which rushed upon her that somewhere and some-time she had known him before. The light shone full upon his face. It was thin, almost haggard: there were tired lines about his mouth, but from his eyes the boy he once had been looked out and smiled at her.

It was impossible! Such a coincidence could not be! Joyce felt a flutter at her heart, and breathlessly fought to regain her poise. She had been led away by a chance resemblance. Life was not kind enough to allow such a miracle to happen to her.

"May I come in for a moment?" he asked. He looked strangely excited and in his hand he carried an open letter. "I hope I'm not a nuisance, but I've had such good news that I simply can't keep it to myself, and you—"

He broke off, staring at her. Amazement, then recognition dawned in his eyes. There was a silence, then he came further into the room.

"Last night I didn't see you properly," he whispered: "but now, of course, I know. You were a school girl with two long plaits when I saw you last. Do you remember? I carried your books for you and we picked blackberries. Do you remember?"

"Yes," she said softly. "And you were a boy... just seventeen, and off to the war. I cried after you left."

"Did you?" he said. "Did you, Joyce? I know your name now, you see, though all these years I never knew it. But I remembered your eyes and your grave, darling little face. You have it still... Joyce."

She retreated. He was going too fast for her. She could not bridge the gulf of the years as quickly as he had done. She must have time to pause and consider; to dream, over the wonderful thing that had happened. Her hands, were trembling, and the room seemed full of a strange radiance. Surely the sun was shining? But the rain, was still driving against the window and the wind howling down the chimney.

"Joyce!" he said urgently.

"Please—" she whispered. "Give me time— I can't think— yet—"

"Of course. I'm rushing you, aren't I? Poor little girl. I remember better than you, but then you were only a kid. Just get the idea into your head that we are going to be married, and you'll be used to it in no time. The best of it is that yesterday I had nothing to offer you, but now—"

He handed her the open letter.

"Read that," he said simply.

She obeyed him, but she was too excited to take in the meaning of the words. She shook her head helplessly. He laughed and folded up the letter.

"I have," he said gaily, "what is known in fairly tales as a wicked uncle. For years he has ignored my existence. Now, for some unknown reason, he has made me a man of property. About a year ago he bought a small strawberry farm which came on the market. I don't know what his idea was, but apparently he could do nothing with it, for he has transferred it to me. The title deeds are at his solicitor's. Perhaps he hopes I will make a mess of it, but I'll guarantee to grow strawberries with anyone at Hillside!"

He smiled and held out his hand to her. "Do you like the name of your future home? We'll change it if you don't."

"Hillside!" she altered, white to the lips. "It can't possibly be— Hillside. Why, that was my home. I lived there all my life. That is where we met and picked blackberries together. Don't you remember?"

"Was it there?" he said slowly. "I had forgotten the place. I only remember you. Joyce... you can't escape. Fate has meant us for each other."

She bent her head.

"The boy kissed the girl,"' he whispered. "Don't you think the man might kiss the woman?"

She looked at him with smiling eyes. "I think perhaps he might," she said.

_______________

21: Quicksilver

Weekly Times (Vic), 28 Jan 1928

QUICKSILVER, the other children called her when she danced in the gutter to the music of a barrel organ, flinging her limbs about in an abandonment of joy, and Quicksilver she remained after she broke into the chorus at the age fourteen and danced her way through to lead. Her name appeared on the thick black type— "Quicksilver"— and below that in very small letters, "Miss Molly Darby."

She had stepped into the twenties John Taylor saw her first m n Christmas pantomime, where she danced "The Dying Swan" and "Autumn Leaves." She was like a flower blown about by the wind, he thought, leaning forward from his seat in the gallery and gazing at her enraptured, oblivious of his surroundings, his chin resting on his cupped hands, his grave young face flushed and eager, his eyes shining with his secret thoughts.

She made him think of the old orchard at home— the gnarled apple trees in blossom, the little creek trickling through the bosom of the hills, and the moonlight, white like snow, on the dark eaves of the house.

John was a poet, and it was natural to him to think like that. All day long he sat on a high office stool and added up long rows of figures, for poets, like other people, must eat and pay their board, and John had a particularly rapacious landlady.

At night he wrote his verses. Fugitive things they were for the most part, but full of a haunting sense of beauty and melancholy sweetness. Sometimes they were published. John had a little book almost full of them cut out of newspapers and magazines. But that was his secret. In the office he was quite an ordinary young man, and his conversation was of quite ordinary things; wrestling, football, girls. He squirmed to think what Smith, for instance, would say if he knew that he, John, wrote verse.

Smith was sitting next to John now, rather bored, his manner conveying an inclination, not necessity, took him to the gallery.

"Not bad, eh?" he said with a yawn as Quicksilver took her bow and the curtain went down. "Quite a decent little kid in her way."

"Not bad," agreed John, successfully imitating this man of the world tone, then the next moment forgetting his carefully cultivated pose, he added in a burst of candor:

"Smith, she's exquisite. I've never seen anyone like her"

"My dear chap! Have you seen Pavlova?"

Smith's superior tone irritated John, and be hanged to Pavlova, anyway.

"No, I haven't," he said shortly. "And I don't want to— not after seeing this girl.

The other laughed loudly. "I believe you've fallen for her," he said. "Well, go ahead and win. Hang about the stage door and offer to take her home in a taxi, or send her flowers and tell her you'll be sitting in the front row of the stalls. She'll fall for it. They all do."

Smith had never even spoken to anyone from the theatre, but in that as in everything else, he had perfect confidence in himself.

John did not reply. There was a general exodus from the theatre, and Smith, getting up and stretching himself, said that he was going out for a smoke.

John was glad to be rid of him. Flicking over the leaves of the program, he had seen a photograph of Quicksilver, and he stared at it— straight young body, as slim as a boy's, poised on her toes, arms outflung, light and delicate as a butterfly on a flower. So the dancing girls might have looked on the Grecian hills in the first glad morning of the world. And her dear little face, he thought; her dear square little face, with the soft young lips gravely folded as though they hid a secret, and the black-browed eyes.

A line was forming in his mind. As elusive as a note of music it drifted through his consciousness.

That night he wrote his first poem to her and sent it next day with a great bunch of summer roses hanging their heads and spilling their heavy sweetness. He put neither name nor address, and watched her from the gallery, his heart beating. She had his flowers now; she must have read his verses, and he imagined her eyes roamed the theatre searching for him.

For a week he sent her flowers with shy little notes, then another poem, but still he had made no effort to meet her, nor had he given name or address to which she could write. The thing was so delicate; it had attained a dreamlike, fantastic beauty in his mind that he feared to put it to the test of reality. Besides, had he given her his name it would have seemed as though he were asking her to write, and his sensitiveness recoiled from that.

But even poets cannot live on dreams alone. One night he went to the stage door. He had no very idea as to what he was going to do, only that he must see her, and speak to her if possible.

The stage door was not romantic. A flickering oil lamp burnt above the  dark entrance, and a Chinaman, his hands folded inside his sleeves, padded by on heelless slippers. There was no-one else about except a chauffeur in a dark blue uniform leaning against an impressive-looking limousine, waiting at the corner.

It had been hot all day, but as John waited, the wind changed, coming from the south with a breath of sea in it. Far off there was a rumble of thunder and a sudden spatter of rain. Soon the streets were shining like mirrors, the water rushing down the gutters with a cool, pleasant sound, and trickling off the roofs of the tramcars.

The chauffeur had shut himself up Inside his limousine, and John ventured inside the stage door, and found himself in what appeared to be a small office. There was a high wooden partition, shutting it off from the dark mysteries of the theatre, a rack crammed with letters and telegrams, and a formidable-looking old man seated on a chair reading a news paper. He looked at John over the top of his spectacles austerely.

"What yer want?" he demanded. "I'm the doorkeeper."

Feeling that he was less than the dust, John inquired if Miss Darby had left yet.

"No, she ain't," said the doorkeeper briefly. "And what's more, there's no use you waiting for her."

He appeared then to think the conversation finished, and retired behind his paper, but John stood his ground.

"I don't want to interrupt you, but I d be glad if you would give me your attention for a moment."

"Eh?" said the doorkeeper, looking at him with amazed eyes.

"I don't want to interrupt you," said John again. "But why is there no use waiting for Miss Darby?"

"Because, unless you knows her which I think you don't, she won't look at you. So take my advice and go home.".

"I don't think," said John calmly, "that I was asking you for advice."

"If cheek will get you anywhere," mused the doorkeeper, "you ought to get on." He adjusted his spectacles, and then drew back to allow passage way to half-a-dozen girls, who came through from the theatre dressed for the street. They looked at John casually, then turned their attention to the old man.

"Hullo, dad'" cried one. "Still the little ray of sunshine about the place!"

"It does cheer one up to see him, doesn't it," laughed another They overflowed into the street, leaving a scent of powder and face cream behind them.

"Women!" said the doorkeeper bitterly. "They calls themselves women! Boys in skirts, I call 'em. Come here, laddie, and I'll show you girl worthwhile—"

He fumbled in his pocket and produced a faded photograph of a buxom lady clad in tights, a wide smile, and a mass of frizzy hair. "Now, that's what I call a fine figure of a woman. Adeline Montmorency, she was. Played here in the fifties."

In silence John pondered over the gulf that separates the taste of one generation from another. He gave the photograph back, and stood looking out on to the driving rain.

Now he was here he did not know how to introduce himself.

"I'm the chap who wrote those verses to you." What a fool she'd think him. Or, "Excuse me, did you like the flowers I sent you?" What an impossible situation he had created with his romantic nonsense.

The sound of a voice he knew must be hers made him turn swiftly. She came in, shepherded by a short, stout man, with hot, dark eyes and a possessive manner. She nodded to the doorkeeper and enquired if there were any letters. Beyond a quick glance at John she did not look again in his direction.

"No letters, Miss Darby," said the doorkeeper. "Nasty night, sir," he added, in the voice of one grateful for favors received and hopeful for more.

"Why, it's raining," cried Quicksilver. Her companion frowned.

"Wait a moment and I'll tell Jim to run the car to the door. You mustn't get those little feet wet."

When he had gone Quicksilver relaxed a little. She looked relieved, John thought, as though a strain had been removed and she dared to look as tired as she felt. At the thought a sense of bitterness and depression invaded him. With his acute insight he knew exactly what was happening. Quicksilver meant to marry that man, and it was obvious he was rich. His house of dreams had crashed at the first breath of reality.

The car drew up at the door, and in a moment Quicksilver was gone. Yet he imagined that, with her foot on the step, she paused and looked back at him. Going home he took that thought with him, even while he raged at his folly. Quicksilver would never be for him. Better to cut the episode from his heart and keep away from the theatre. He had resolved on that when leaving for the office, but at lunch time, gazing into the florists window, he faltered. Once more he would send her flowers. No harm to pav his shilling and look at her from the gallery, but he would keep away from the stage door.

But that was impossible. As soon as she had left the stage he hurried round. Presently she came out, ac companied by her escort. John stood back in the shadow, but he felt her eyes rest on him. This time he was sure that she hesitated as though she wished to speak. The doorkeeper beckoned to him.

"Stick to it, laddie," he said, encouragingly. "She asked who you were."

Slight as this encouragement was, it was more than enough for John. He would send her flowers again and tell her it was he who waited for her at the stage door.

He chose his flowers carefully next day, hesitating over the long, green, spindlery orchids. They were expensive, but they were scentless. It must be roses again. He chose a great basket of them, and slipped his letter inside.

That night she did not appear on the stage. Filled with apprehension, John left the theatre and rushed round to the back. The doorkeeper cocked his eye at him.

"Thought you'd be coming round," he said tersely.

"Where is she?" demanded John.

"Now, now, laddie, don't excite your self. She met with a bit of an accident. Sprained her ankle at rehearsal this morning. Now's your chance," he added with a chuckle. "Why don't you go and see her?"

John hesitated. "Do you think she'd mind?"

"Try your luck." He scribbled on a card. "Here's her address. I'm backing you, laddie. You remind me of meself when I was young."

"Oh, lord!" John ruffled his hair. "Listen. Is there a basket of roses here for her?"

"Maybe. Mr Redding brought some flowers but he took them away again. I'll go and see."

He padded off and presently returned with the roses.

"These yours? All right, laddie. Good luck. Mind you," he called after the departing John. "If you cut out Redding, I'll be the loser."

"I'll see you won't lose by it, shouted John as he took the steps at a jump and stumbled into the street. A taxi was passing and he hailed it,  then sat in a fever of impatience, clutching his basket of roses and watching the sixpences slide up on the dial in front of him. The house, when they reached it, was a grim; uncompromising-looking place; the typical lodging house, with a neglected verandah and a broken bell. John thundered at the knocker and was admitted by an elderly woman who looked at him sourly.

"Miss Darby? Up the stairs and first door on the right."

The carpet was threadbare and a dim light burnt on the landing. Quicksilver did not live in luxurious surroundings. He had pictured— oh— Persian rugs, gleaming brass, rare and exquisite china and softly shaded lights.

"I can give her better than this," he thought."

She was lying on a sofa near the window, a book on her knee, when he entered in response to her invitation. When she saw him a delicate color came into her cheeks. She looked at the roses he held, then at him.

"So it was you," she said slowly. "I thought, somehow, it must be."

"You weren't there to get them to night," John said unsteadily, "so I brought them instead."

He crossed the room and put the flowers in her lap. She gathered them up and pressed them against her cheek.

"So it was you who wrote those exquisite verses," she murmured.

A loud, assertive knock at the door made them both start. Quicksilver frowned.

"That's Alan Redding. I wish—"

That I wasn't here?" said John quickly. "No, no. I'm glad. Please don't go. I want you to stay."

The door was flung open and Redding entered. He looked from one to the other, a sharp, suspicious glance. "I've come, Molly," he blustered. "I want to know what you meant by that letter you've just sent me?"

"What did I mean?" Quicksilver looked at him calmly. "Why, exactly what I said. On thinking your offer over I couldn't accept it."

"But I want to marry you," blustered Redding. John took an angry step forward, but Quicksilver checked him.

"Why, of course," she said gently. "Naturally, I took that for granted."

Redding frowned. "What's wrong? I'll swear up till last week you meant to marry me. Look here, you can't play with me like this. If I go now, I go for good."

Quicksilver smiled, a soft, secret smile. She spoke to Redding, but above the roses her eyes met John's. "I'm sorry— but— good-bye, Mr Redding."

_____________

22: The Brothers

The Australasian (Vic)  27 Dec 1919

JUST BACK from the war after four years on active service, David Landale walked slowly up the wide, tree-lined street, very silent and somnolent in the warm October afternoon. In spite of his long absence he seemed in no hurry to get home, for when at length he reached the gate of his father's house he paused before opening it and then entered slowly and reluctantly as though he dreaded what lay before him.

His thin, worn face softened a little as he looked at the old garden, radiant with roses, the fountain with the statue of Diana in the centre of the lawn, and the groves of chestnut and orange trees in full bloom, the scent, of the orange blossom almost overpoweringly sweet in the blaze of the hot sun at the side of the house, where the grass grew thick and long, was an old gum tree with a rustic seat beneath it. He had built this long ago for his mother; it had been his first essay in carpentering, and she had been absurdly proud of it, and so, privately, had he.

As David remembered her, his eyes darkened. Well, she was dead, thank God! What horrible things life could bring to one! He had never thought the day would come when he would be thankful for his mother's death.

The house seemed very silent, but the long French windows were open, and looking through David saw his father sitting in his study. The old mans grey head bent over his writing, and his hand moved, very slowly, over the paper.

For a moment or two, as David watched him unseen, he was conscious "of a little stab of pain at his heart. For the first time he realised that his father was an old man.

Noiselessly he stepped through the open window and stood in the quiet room. Still the old man did not hear him, but as though something troubled him, he sighed heavily.

That sigh went to David's heart.

"Father," he said in a muffled voice, "I've come back, you see."

At that the old man looked up. His faced, lined and haggard, was quite impassive, but the hand that held the pen trembled a little. That was the only sign of emotion he gave. He might have been greeting his son after an absence of a few hours instead of one lasting over four years.

"Father!" David's voice faltered into silence; there was a mist before his eyes. Though he had not expected, a tumultuous welcome, this could silence almost overwhelmed him.

"You've not forgiven me, then?" he asked at last, when he had in some measure recovered his composure.

"Forgiven you?" The old man's firm mouth set in hard lines. "Have you come to say you repent?"

"No." The two faces, alike in every feature, were now both set and obstinate.

"Very well." The old man leant back in his chair, as though dismissing the matter from his mind. "Till you say that I cannot forgive you."

David came forward to the table. His grey eyes, honest and unflinching, met those of his father in a direct challenge.

"My four years out there meant nothing to you, then?" he asked.

"They did. For four years I have been afraid that you would go to meet your God with your sin unconfessed and unforgiven."

David smiled a little. His father's attitude struck him as strange and archaic, yet he respected him for it.

"I suppose," he said in an impersonal voice, as though he were speaking of something that was no concern of his, "that some people would call you hard." He paused and seemed to be following out a train of thought. "I always said you were just, you know," he added, "yet you weren't really just to me. You had no proof that it was I who took the money."

"Boy," said he old man harshly, "don't try to lie to me. Proof? What proof did I need? There was only you or John could have taken it, and you were reckless and extravagant. You did not deny it when I charged you with it. Are you now trying to throw suspicion on John?"

David flushed darkly. "No," he answered shortly. There was a silence, then he asked with an evident effort, "John. How is he?"

His father did not answer at once. He seemed troubled at the question. "He looks older," he said at last. "There has been a great change in John. I have sometimes thought," he went on, "that he felt your disgrace more than you did yourself." David bit his lip and lowered his eyes so that his father might not see their contemptuous expression. "He has persuaded me," the old man continued, "to trust you again."

"Trust me?" repented David, not fully understanding'.

"Yes," replied his father. "I am going to trust you. I am going to reinstate you in your old position."

All the hatred and bitterness which David had felt against his brother during those four years were as no thing to the flame of bitter anger that sprang up in his heart as he heard that he owed his father's trust to his brother's influence. The violence of his anger was so great that he was afraid to speak lest, he should over whelm his father with the truth. He had kept silence, for John, but he was going to accept no favors from him. John could not pay his debt that way.

As though she had been sent to ease the situation and save it from becoming tragic, a girl drifted into the room. She came by way of the window and carried a bunch of roses in her hand. A slim slip of a girl she was, with dark blue eyes, set in a pale face, and a wide, irregular mouth. David, staring at her, and wondering who she was, thought he had never seen anyone who gave the impression beauty without being in the least beautiful.

"Why, who are you?" then answering. "But I think I know."

Having won David's heart with her smile, she turned to the old man who had risen at her entrance.

"Pauline," he said, and there seemed a slight trace of embarrassment in his manner, "This is my son, David. David," he continued, frowning a little, "this is Pauline, John's wife."

"John's wife," repeated David. He felt as though he had been struck. When he had seen her, so friendly, so sweet, smiling at him from the window, he had a sudden wild hope, but— John's wife!

Pauline seemed unaware of any thing strange in his manner. She was smiling with pleasure as she held out her hand. "So you are my new brother," she said. "Welcome home;" she paused and then added, rather shyly and uncertainly, "David."

"Thank you." He took her hand in his smiled into her eves, responding at once to her friendliness. "You are the first to welcome me home, you know."

"The first?" She looked from David to his father, but did not ask his meaning. With quick intuition she saw that something was wrong; indeed, she felt it as soon as she entered the room. David, noticing her expression, saw that she was ignorant of the cloud that hung over him. Well, that was something to thank them for, anyway. He would not have liked this girl to think him a thief.

"I wanted to decorate the house when I heard you were coming home," Pauline went on after an imperceptible pause; "but they told me you would hate it."

"Who told you?"

"Your father and John."

"John. Ah, yes—"

In spite of himself he could not help his voice hardening as he spoke that name. She felt the change, and looked at him with a little puzzled frown. At his table the old man watched them both, and he, too, frowned as he looked at David.

Suddenly there was the sound of a footstep on the gravel path outside. Pauline's face brightened and she ran to the window.

"Here he is at last," she exclaimed. "He said he would be home to welcome you. Oh, why doesn't he hurry? John," she called, "hurry up, do hurry up, David is here."

David felt a moment's repulsion as John entered the room with Pauline at his side. Then, for her sake, he took the initiative, and went forward to greet his brother. John took his outstretched hand mumbled some words of welcome, but he could not meet his brother's eye, and his face was flushed with shame. To any prejudiced person he condemned himself a dozen times as he stood by David's side, silent and unhappy. For the first, time David found it in his heart to be sorry for him. He saw that John, too, had suffered. As Pauline watched the two brothers the delight died out of her face. She looked paler than before, and her eyes were wide and unhappy.

Yet in the days that followed Pauline seemed quite unconscious that there was anything wrong. For her sake the three of them played their parts as well as they could, but there was something unnatural in the strained courtesy with which the two brothers treated each other, and the old man's aloof sternness was accentuated when he spoke to David. David had had no private conversation with John; they had only spoken together on the most indifferent subjects, but he had agreed to return to his father's office, when John, at his father's request, had asked him. In the mean time, it was taken for granted that he should have a rest before starting work.

During those first days Pauline was a gay, happy companion to David. He asked for nothing better than to sit in the garden, lazily content, watching her at her sewing, or else helping in the garden, digging, planting, just as she directed. Her solicitude for his welfare expressed itself in a thousand ways. She seemed to hover about him, passionately eager to make him happy. Yet, sometimes he fancied that she seemed uneasy and troubled, and once, looking up suddenly from the book he was reading, he caught her eyes fixed on him with a strange, intent expression.

"Are you happy, David?" she asked.

"Yes, quite happy," he answered, as indeed he was. He seemed wrapt in a strange peace.

"I am glad you are happy— now," she said; and he wondered vaguely what she meant.

ONE very hot afternoon he was lying on the grass under the gum tree, idly turning over the leaves of a hook of verse. Pauline had been shut up in her room all day, and David had missed her horribly. When he had inquired for her she had sent down message to say that she had a headache, hut would see him in the afternoon. He was morosely chewing a blade of grass, and trying to fix his mind on the verses, when he heard the front door slam and the next moment. Pauline came into the garden. He noticed that she was walking very slowly, but that no doubt was on account of the heat. She came closer and he gave a low exclamation of surprise and sprang to his feet.

"What— what is the matter?" he asked.

She looked at him with the tortured expression he had sometimes seen in the eyes of men who had been exposed too long to the shock of shellfire.

"David," she whispered. "I— I," Her voice faltered and her hands went to her throat in a fluttering gesture of pain. "I must tell you. Ever since you came I have been unhappy. I know there was something wrong in there," she nodded towards the house. "I asked John—often— what it meant. Last night he told me."

David was silent. So they had told her after all. She thought him a thief.

"You know I am a thief," he said, at last. He spoke almost indifferently. He could not help thinking: how strange it was that he seemed to have no feeling at all.

"John told me," she repeated, "but I know you are not a thief."

"I am suspected."

"Suspected?" She smiled wearily, then turned her head so that he could not see her face. "I know who did it," she said in a low voice.

This was something that David had not been prepared for. He cursed his brother for being such a fool as to tell her. It did not matter what she thought of him, but she loved John. Ha ought to have spared her.

"He did not tell me," she said, as though reading: his mind, "but I know."

So he had been mistaken and John had not confessed. Then it was not too late to save her.

"It was I who took the money," he said, harshly. "My father knows it, and John knows it."

She shook her head, weeping softly. "No, it was John," she whispered. "Oh, I know it, I know it. That is why he looked so— so guilty that first day. I could not understand it then; now I know."

If ever David prayed for strength in his life he prayed for it now. That the gay, happy Pauline should suffer through him was abominable. If only ho had been killed out there where so many hotter man than he had paid the last price? If only he had known that John was married he would never have come home at all.

"Pauline," he said, putting all the earnestness he was capable of into his voice, "you are making a hideous mistake. It was I who took the money. I— I deliberately robbed my father. I have no excuse to make. He was always generous to me, but I had debts, and I was desperate for money, so I took it."

For a moment his voice seemed to carry conviction to Pauline. She lift ed her eyes and looked at him. A sudden hope lit up her face, then it died away, and she shook her head.

"You lie like a gentleman, David,'' she said wearily, "but it is no use. You can't hide it from me." Her voice suddenly changed and she looked at him with passionate eagerness. "Oh, tell me the truth, David; tell me the truth. Nothing matters but that—"

"I have told you the truth," he answered. "It was I who took the money."

She gave a little cry and turned away from him, hiding her face against the trunk of the tree, while David looked on helpless to comfort her. It was so that John, coming quietly over the lawn, found them. He took no notice of his brother, but touched Pauline gently on the shoulder.

"Pauline," he said, speaking like a man in a dream, "I have something to say to you."

At the sound of his voice she turn ed quickly. Eagerly she searched his face, and David wondered why her eyes should shine so brightly, and why her lips quivered in a little smile.

"Yes, John," was all she said, however.

"Last night," he went on, "I told you what David was charged with. You did not ask me whether I thought he was guilty or not. You said nothing, and I was content to leave the matter there. Now," his voice changed and faltered a little, "I have come to tell you the truth. It was I who took that money."

David stepped forward quickly. "No," he said hoarsely, but Pauline waved him aside.

"Yes, John," she said softly, and touched his hand gently. "Tell me how it happened."

He looked at her dully. As yet he had not realised her tenderness. "I know this will be the end between us," he went on. "I know how you hate a lie, but I cannot go on any longer. For four years I have not had a happy moment— no, not even when I held you in my arms." Again Pauline touched his hand, gently and tenderly, as though she would help him if she could.

"We used to be friends once, David and I. He was a bit extravagant in those days; chucked money about rather; but that was nothing— nothing. But I gambled in secret. I couldn't keep away from it, although I lost all the time. At last I got into such a mess that I had to have money. I was afraid to ask any father, so I took it and altered the books. David had charge of them, and my father blamed him for it. I just left it at that. I have never spoken of the matter to David. I didn't even know whether he knew I had taken the money, but I guessed he did."

"Is that all, John?" asked Pauline softly.

"Yes," he answered, "except that now I must tell my father the truth."

He turned to go, but David stopped him. "John," he said, "you must not tell him. It doesn't matter about me, because he has got used to the thought of it now. Let the matter rest as it is. You have done enough. Persuade him, Pauline."

Pauline shook her head and John looked at him with sombre eyes. "I've got to tell him," he repeated. "After that I can ask you to forgive me, if you can."

David's heart melted within. All the bitterness and hatred was gone as though it had never been. All the old love for his brother came back,

"John," he pleaded, "don't tell him. He loves you best; don't break his heart."

John shook his head. "I've got to tell him," he insisted. "It is better for him to know the truth."

"But—"

John had turned and was walking towards the house. In silence Pauline and David followed him. David saw that it was useless to try to dissuade him.

The study window was open and they entered. The old man was sitting at the writing-table, his head was leaning on his arm. There seemed to be a great silence in the room.

"He is sleeping," said Pauline softly.

John walked quickly across the room and laid his hand on his father's shoulder. Then he bent closer and listened for a moment.

"No, he is not sleeping," he said at last, lifting a haggard face; "he is dead."

"Dead!" sobbed Pauline, and, running forward, fell on her knees be side the silent figure.

David, too, bent over his father. "Yes, he is dead," he said, and looked at his brother.

"It was his heart," said John dully. "The doctor told me it was weak and that it might go at any time. I— should have remembered that." He paused and a look of deep despair crossed his face. "Now it is too late. I left it too long. He will never know the truth."

"John," said David quietly, both of them had forgotten Pauline, they were so intent on each other, "he does know the truth. See how happy he looks." He held out his hand. "Let us be friends again," he said. "Let us forgive each other."

They shook hands and as they did so all the years of bitterness seemed to slip a way and they were boys again. Then John, overwrought, unnerved by his father's death, ashamed of the tears that came to his eyes, turned away from his brother and covered his face with his hands. Like a flash Pauline was at his side, her arm around his shoulders.

"Thank you, David, dear David," she said softly. "And now will you leave him to me."

As David left the room he turned and looked back. Pauline had drawn John's head on to her breast and her face was close to his. David saw them through a mist of tears. He knew now that he loved them both.

_______________

23: Scarlet Hibiscus

A Romance of the Islands

Weekly Times (Vic), 1 Oct 1927

THE  SHIP'S siren shrilled suddenly through the hush of the early morning, and the senior partner of the vaudeville act, Carter and Carne, sprang hurriedly out of bed and ran to the window.

"June," she called softly. "Wake up. The steamer's in."

It was just dawn. The water in the land-locked lagoon was as still as a lake and faintly tinged with pink from the eastern sky. Outside, the surf broke on the coral reef in a line of ruffled white like the lacy edging on a summer frock, and the palm trees, dark inverted umbrellas against the luminous sky, swayed gently in the scented breeze. But the almost theatrical beauty of the scene made no appeal to the girl at the window. She had eyes only for the ship anchored by the wharf, its rusty sides mirrored in the shining water, as clear and still as though painted upon the gleaming surface.

"The steamer, June," she said again. "Come and look at her. If only it were possible to leave on her today— to get away from this place. I'm sick for the sight of a grey sky again. And last night I dreamt I smelt violets. Imagine violets here! The last time I smelt them I was in Melbourne. There was a drizzle falling, the plane trees were dripping, and the air was full of the scent of violets. Oh... exquisite..."

She drew a long breath, and with a characteristic gesture pushed back a lock of dark hair tumbling across her forehead, leaning out so far that a cluster of scarlet hibiscus flowers growing below in the stone-flagged garden of the hotel, touched her cheek. Feeling it, she recoiled with a little shiver of distaste.

"I can't bear the things," she said. "I wear them at night because it suits me that people at the hall should take me for a half-caste girl, but I hate them— the very feel of them makes me shudder. And once I would have given anything to see them... scarlet hibiscus flowers! Tropical flowers... blue skies... palm trees ... all the eternal trappings of the Pacific, things that I longed for and now I hate. I wonder if all our dreams have the same ending? I suppose it's because I'm so horribly homesick, and this place has become a prison, a trap in which we're caught and can't get out. Paradise Island they call it. Well, I could quite easily give it another name. What do you say, June?"

The girl on the bed did not answer for a moment, but her eyes, pale blue as wild violets, darkened with a sudden rush of feeling and her fair cheeks flushed.

"What's the good of talking?" she said sullenly. "That won't mend matters."

"No, I suppose not." Katherine left the window, and perched herself on the edge of the bed, curving one slim foot around her slender ankle.  "Still, I'd rather talk if you don't mind; and it's better to have things out than to keep them bottled up. Of course, I know you blame me for what's happened, but after all you wanted to come; you begged me to work you into my act for the sake of the trip. How was I to know that Benton was a fraud? If I had known that the rest of the company was made up of his wife and I daughter, I might have suspected something, for  that made it so easy to discard us when he had finished with us. But I didn't know that until it was too late. Anyway, you can't blame me more than I blame myself. I was so mad to get away, so crazy to see the islands and the East that I didn't stop to make inquiries. And it sounded all right when I saw him in Melbourne; you know it did; all expenses paid and share the profits; and when there weren't any profits, I never dreamt that he would leave us stranded here just for the sake of saving our fares back to Melbourne."

"But you should have guessed," interrupted the other girl. "That day when he sent us out in the car to explore the island. I didn't want to go, but you insisted; and then the car broke down, and we missed the steamer. I know he bribed the driver to do it— I'm sure of it."

"Why, yes, of course he did; that was obvious. He told Schmidt that we were going to stay on at the hotel till the next boat. You remember Schmidt told us his terms were in advance when we came back? I often wonder if he guessed what really happened. Sometimes I think he's just waiting for the day to come when we can't pay him."

A vision rose before her of the man's dark oily face and the smiling insolence of his eyes when each week she paid him for their board. She was almost convinced he did know, even though she carried off things with a high hand.

Thank God, she thought, that so far she had been able to earn enough to pay him. But if that money she had written for did not come, what could they do? In two month's time, when the tourist traffic stopped, the dancing hall where she was employed closed down. When that happened they were faced with disaster. No doubt she could have appealed to some of the white residents for help, but her pride recoiled from that. Better far to take her place in the little orchestra where, by the aid of a judicious make-up, she passed quite easily for a native girl. It amused the tourists to see a native girl so expert with the violin. Amused them... If they only knew...

Pinned against the wall was a colored poster of a gipsy looking girl playing a violin. This was headed "Carter and Carne, premier artistes with Benton's Band of Peerless Entertainers," and distorted though it was out of all reality, it still bore a faint likeness to Katherine. She gazed at it with meditative eyes.

"One of these days," she said slowly, "I will have the pleasure of meeting Benton again, and then I'll compel him to disgorge every penny of the money he owes us. When I'm feeling desperate I think of that, and it evens things up a bit."

There was a sound of slippered footsteps in the hall, and Katherine slipped off the bed with an excited little cry.

"That's Marie," she said; "I had forgotten. This steamer may have picked up mails from Melbourne. Oh, June, if there should be a letter..."

A smiling native woman handed in a letter as Katherine flung open the door.

"For the pretty missie," she said. It was for June.

Katherine caught a glimpse of an Australian stamp as she turned away, fighting down her disappointment. It was too early to expect an answer to her letter yet, but she was beginning to fear. Brushing her hair at the mirror, she heard the crackling of pages as June turned them over. A long letter evidently; lucky June. When she looked round again the letter had disappeared.

"Any news?" she asked in a voice she tried to make casual.

"Nothing much," returned June evasively. "It's from a friend of mine. I told him we would be here."

"But we should have left here two months ago if we had kept to our programme," said Katherine slowly, hating herself for the feeling that somehow June was deceiving her. "How could he know we were still here, unless he had heard from you."

"Oh, he just wrote on chance; says he is writing to every port in the hope of catching me. He's rather keen on me," she added, with a self-conscious smile.

"You mean you're rather keen on him," said Katherine with one of her swift flashes of insight. "I suppose he has money. That rather lets Gerald Lambert down, doesn't it?"

"Gerald Lambert!" repeated June scornfully. "Do you imagine I ever thought twice about him? Certainly when we met him here first I had an idea he was someone worthwhile, but when I discovered he was only working at the bank and would have to stay here another three years, that was enough for me. I don't hanker to stop in this place all my life, thank you."

"Well, if that is so," flashed Katherine, gathering up her things to go to the bathroom, "it's a pity you encouraged him so much."

"Oh, my dear." June stifled a yawn. "How strenuous you are. One must amuse one's self, and I can't help it if men are silly about me. And please hurry out of the bathroom. I want to get up."

"By the way." Katherine paused, her hand on the door. "I suppose you haven't by any chance told Gerald what I am doing?"

There was a scarcely perceptible pause before June answered.

"No, of course nor. Everyone believes what you told him, that we are staying here for a holiday. Why, what makes you ask?"

"I had an idea," said Katherine slowly, "that there was something strange in his manner, and once I was almost sure I saw him in the dancing hall. I don't think he could recognise me, and I wouldn't like him to know. It's— it's not a pleasant place to be in, June."

"Well, you needn't worry about him," returned June airily. "He did ask me what you did with yourself every night, and I said you preferred to be in your room. He thinks you don't like him, you're so queer in your manner when he's about. I often wonder how much you do like him."

She shot an oblique glance at Katherine full of meaning, which Katherine countered with a smile.

"My dear June," she said mockingly, "is it likely I would set my heart on any of your young men? What chance would I have?"

"Oh, well." June rolled over on her elbow. "It doesn't matter, anyway. He's nothing to worry about, and for goodness sake, do hurry up with your bath. It's scandalous this place has only one bathroom."

They were lucky, thought Katherine, to be able to stay there at all, let alone quarrel with it because it possessed only one bathroom. She did not want gratitude, she assured herself, but it would have been pleasant if June had shown some appreciation. After all, it was she who earned the money that kept them. It was she who went down night after night to that dancing hall on the water front, while June remained in the garden with Gerald Lambert.

She pictured them there while the orchestra shrieked out the latest jazz tunes and the atmosphere hung heavy with cigarette smoke; June in her white dress leaning back in her chair, and Gerald Lambert opposite; and around them the garden heavy with a hundred scents; the cool, stone-flagged garden shaded by magnolia trees, where one could hear the gentle lap of the tide on the beach below, and even the dusk could not pale the crimson blur of the hibiscus.

She had never sat in the garden at night with Gerald Lambert— Gerald Lambert who looked at her with such strange questioning in his frank, honest eyes. Why was it that he could not see through June? Why was it that a man was invariably swayed by a pretty face?

A sudden color flamed into her cheeks. Fool to waste a thought on him! Where was her boasted common sense? He was in love with June, and that was enough.

There was a crowd of tourists in the hotel lounge when she went down, but she avoided them, June disappeared somewhere after lunch; so, taking a book, Katherine went down to the curving beach below the garden, where she could watch the bustle of preparation going on at the wharf.

The steamer sailed at four, and already the passengers were crowding up the gangways. Sick at heart, Katherine watched them. Happy people, she thought, to be able to leave this lovely, hateful place behind them for ever. Boys were diving for pennies in the water, and native girls were selling bunches of the hibiscus flower to the tourists. One girl going alone up the gangway had a great mass of them pressed against her breast. They looked like a crimson stain on her white dress. Scarlet hibiscus....

Katherine pressed her hands against her aching eyes. Scarlet hibiscus flowering in the little garden where June sat at night with Gerald. Scarlet hibiscus! How she hated them.

When she looked up again the steamer had moved off. Slowly it rounded the point and disappeared, leaving a thin feather of smoke curling up to the flawless blue of the sky. It was gone.

For another fortnight there was nothing to look forward to till the mail steamer came in from Sydney.

She rose to go, then sank back again as she saw Gerald Lambert coming down the steps that led from the garden to the beach. What did he want? she wondered. Probably June had sent him to look for her; June always became uneasy if she was a little late. He stood looking down at her gravely, and she saw again that strange questioning look that had always puzzled her.

"May I sit down?" he asked.

"Why, of course," she answered, with an effort at brightness. "I suppose June is looking for me?"

"June!" She saw his face harden and amazement leap into his eyes. "I don't understand. Surely you know ?"

"Why, what is it?" said Katherine sharply. "Has anything happened to June?"

He shook his head wordlessly, then jerked a finger in the direction of the wharf.

"I thought of course you knew. She went by the steamer this afternoon."

"By the steamer!" Katherine's voice rose on a note of incredulous amazement. "Oh, but you're joking. How could she? Why, she hadn't any money."

"She had money," he said quietly. "I cashed a cheque she had this morning for one hundred pounds drawn on a Melbourne bank. Later, I went down to see her off. She told me you preferred to stay."

"Preferred to stay!" Katherine looked at him, white-lipped. "I understand now. That cheque must have come this morning. One hundred pounds! More than enough to take the two of us home. And she told you I preferred to stay." She gave a hard, reckless laugh. "Well, you can have the truth now. Do you know what we were? Members of a theatrical company stranded here, and we hadn't a penny between us, except the money I earned. And that reminds me— it's getting late, and, though June has gone, I still have to live. I'm a member of the orchestra at the dancing hall, and quite a pet with the tourists."

"Stop." He sprang to his feet and caught her hands as she was turning away. "I knew you were there— I knew it. Do you think I go about with my eyes closed. I asked June, and she told me you liked doing it— that it was some queer kink in your mind to pretend to be a native girl. I couldn't understand. 1 couldn't reconcile it with my thought of you. but — I believed it. I used to go down and watch you. Oh, I know you never saw me; I took good care of that; but I couldn't bear the thought that you should be there alone and unprotected."

"It was very kind of you." said Katherine coldly, trying to draw her hands away. "But I was under the impression that you spent all your evenings with June. At least, she told me so."

"June! What was she to me? I only bothered with her because I hoped to see you. She knew perfectly well that I was in love with you. Why, it was always you, from the beginning. And you— I really believe, though you won't say it— that you love me. What have you to say to that?"

"I really must go," said Katherine faintly, as the gong for dinner pealed out. "No. Gerald, please let me go."

"Go!" He caught her in his arms. "I'm never going to let you escape me again. You don't think you're going back to that place. The tourists can whistle for their pet. Katherine, you've never given me a chance before. I used to think you didn't like me, and I haven't much to offer you. We'll have to stay here for three years; but then I'll be transferred home again. Marry me tomorrow."

"I've always liked," said Katherine inconsequently, "the way your hair grows back from your forehead." She touched it with light fingers. "Yes, I think I'll marry you just for that."

He looked at her with smiling eyes.

"Incurably unsentimental. Well, I'm going to kiss you, anyway."

The shadows were dark in the garden when they passed through; the scarlet hibiscus a crimson blur. Katherine paused to pick one, and held it against her lips.

"Lovely, lovely things," she said softly. "How could I ever have hated them?"

_______________

24: The Wooing of Betty

Weekly Times (Vic), 5 March 1927

BETTY had dark grey eyes, put in with a smoky finger, as the Irish say, and a mouth that turned up at the corners when she smiled, and a tiny dimple in her left cheek. But Betty was a grave young person. She seldom smiled, but when she did the effect was somehow startling, which hardly seem fair to the other girls, for even without the smile Betty was disturbing to any young man who chanced to see her.

No-one knew why, for Betty was not pretty. No one, said the other girls in  an effort to understand the unundertandable, could possibly call her pretty. Yet there it was; there was some thing about Betty, and because she seemed so unconscious of it herself they not help but like her.

Betty worked in the ribbon department. Just beyond, through the wide archway, was the men's department, and Betty, looking through, could see the customers hurrying about their business; and, what was more to the point, the customers could see her. Having once seen her, they stared. The business of buying shirts and collars immediately become a more interesting one.

It was some time before Miss Robinson, head of the ribbon department, realised that at certain hours of the day Betty's customers were almost entirely men. She watched closely, but there was nothing to which she could take exception. Betty's manner was flawless: never deviated in the slightest degree front that of the perfect saleswoman, and for all she showed to the contrary, this influx of men to the ribbon counter was quite natural.

But Mrs Robinson knew it was not natural She was familiar with the occasional male edging up to the counter with his apologetic smile, intent on matching a piece of ribbon for his wife, but this succession of males into what was wholly a feminine preserve was something quite new.

"Miss Bennett," she said one day, her natural severity of manner softened by what she felt to be the unfortunate fact that she liked Betty, "can you explain why such a number of men have taken to having ribbons?''

Betty gave her fleeting smile and dropped her eyes.

"They tell me," she said demurely, "that they are buying it for their mothers. Two or three have mentioned sisters, but mother seems to be the more popular."

"Well," Miss Robinson frowned thoughtfully as she pondered over the problem. "I must admit you don't encourage them, so I suppose it's all right. Here comes another," she added, as a young man came towards them through the archway, a brown paper parcel under his arm, his eyes fixed on Betty.  "Perhaps it's a new fashion. They may be wearing bows on their pyjamas for all I know."

She retreated, and Betty, with a smothered laugh, stooped to pick up her counter book. When she looked up the young man had put down his parcel and was waiting, hat in hand. Betty glanced at him swiftly.

"Something in ribbons?" she queried.

"Er— yes. Something suitable for—" He hesitated and Betty filled up the pause.

"For your mother, I suppose?"

"Yes." Said the young man with a relieved sigh. "For my mother."

Without a change of expression Betty put a roll of puce colored ribbon in front of him. It was a particularly hideous shade and it hurt her artistic sensibilities even to handle it, but this seemed a good opportunity to get rid of it.

"This," she said gravely, "is very popular for mothers. We are selling a lot of it."

"Great Scott! Are you really?" He smiled suddenly, and Betty met his eyes with a puzzled frown. The thought flashed through her mind that he was perhaps not quite so simple as she had imagined him.  "I can hardly credit it. Still, if you say it's suitable, I'll take it. How much would you advise me to get?"

Betty thought swiftly. "A dozen yards is the usual thing," she said at last.

He fingered the stuff thoughtfully, holding it up to. the light and smoothing it with is hand, just as though he knew anything, Betty thought scornfully.

"The quality seems good," he said briskly, "so I'll take a dozen yards, but in sections, please. Give me three yards now, and I'll come back for more in half an hour."

Betty hesitated; then in a silence that could be felt, she snipped of the length, made out the docket and waited for the money.

"Thanks." He produced the money and thrust the parcel in his pocket.

"Let me see. It's four o'clock now.  If I come back for another three yards every half hour, that will bring it almost up to six o'clock, won't it?"

"Really, I don't understand you," said Betty coldly. "Why not take it all now and save trouble?"

"Because—" he leaned over the counter, and she noticed that his brown eyes had flecks of gold in them, and his hair was the colour of an autumn leaf, also his skin was tanned with the sun. "I want you to know me, and this is  the only way I could think of."

With a cheerful smile, and before the outraged Betty could speak, he turned and was lost in the crowd.

He was mad, she decided; that could be the only explanation of his extraordinary behaviour, and of course he would not come back. Yet as the hands of the clock approached the half hour she found herself watching for his return.

The clock chimed the half hour, and turning her head she saw him approaching. Her eyes sparkled and a faint color came into her cheeks, but when she faced him, her expression was impassive.

"Right up to time," he said cheerfully. "Three more yards, please."

She did not answer, but taking up her scissors, snipped off the length.

"My name is Gregory," he said. "James Robert Gregory. It's rather a mouthful, but my friends call me Jim."

"I'm not interested," she returned.

"No, but you will be."

She twisted the ribbon in a piece of paper and handed it to him with out speaking. He took it with a friendly smile.

"In half an hour, then," he said gaily. "We're getting on splendidly." He waved a cheerful hand and turned away.

Betty, watching beneath lowered lids, saw him approach Miss Robinson. The two spoke together for a few minutes, then the young man walked away. At five o'clock, and again at half-past five, he reappeared. By this time he was beginning to attract attention. Miss Robinson watched him with a grim smile while the other girls at the counter greeted him with unconcealed mirth. Only Betty seemed unaffected. She had all the gravity of the Sphinx as she snipped off the lengths of ribbon and wrapped them up.

"I wish you would tell me something," he said, when be had taken the last three yards. "Do you believe in love at first, sight?"

"No," snapped Betty.

"I thought not," he said regretfully. "You seemed as though you didn't. Well, I do."

Betty stared at him haughtily.

"I wish you would understand," she said slowly, "that what you believe is of no interest to me at all. And also, if you persist in coming here like this I will get dismissed. Miss Robinson doesn't like it."

"Oh, she doesn't mind," he returned airily. "I asked her and she said so long as I came as a customer and didn't waste your time it was all right. She can see you're not encouraging me: anyone could see that."

To this Betty did not reply. She turned to another customer, and when she looked round again he had gone.

The hands crept up to six o'clock; the shop was full of the bustle and stir of closing time, but he did not come again. Probably he had realised that the joke was wearing thin. So it was, but as she put on her hat to go home, Betty felt chilled and a little disappointed. She had not thought he would take his dismissal so easily. A fine drizzling rain was falling as she left the shop. The wet pavements shone like burnished gold beneath the blaze of the great are lamps. The scent of boronia was in the air. She held up her head, feeling the light drizzle on her face. It clung to her hat, hung like tiny diamonds on the little hairs of her coat.

She drew a long breath. She would like to feel it soaking through her, washing away the tainted atmosphere of the shop; the smell of humanity... cheap scent... powder... perspiration. She stood lost in a sort of a dream, oblivious of the passing crowd, conscious only of the rain-swept street, the darkening night, and the scent of boronia. A faint, vague longing for romance stirred within her. That young man this afternoon had unsettled her.

Others, she knew, made and followed up these facile acquaintances, but she had never been able to bring herself to do it. Some thing within her, something deeper than reason, revolted against it. And yet— it was a pity that she should have had to snub him. He deserved it, but if they had met in a different way, she felt she would have liked him. He had looked so fresh, so wholesome and so clean. Well, it was no use thinking like that. He had been amusing himself this afternoon, and probably she would never see him again. She felt a strange reluctance to go home to the tiny room in the girls hostel where she lived. Just opposite was a brightly lit café, and making up her mind, she hurried across the road. Even to have a cup of tea and a scone here, which was all she could afford, would seem something of an adventure.

A languid waitress brought her tea in a metal pot and a plate with a couple of pale scones. Betty poured out a cup of tea, then raised her eyes again. As she did so she started violently, and a little flame of color shot into her cheeks. The young man had appeared in the doorway, and was looking eagerly about the room. He saw her at once, and with a wave of his hand came swiftly towards her.

"May I?" He drew out the chair opposite, and smiled down at her. "This seems to be the only vacant seat."

"I think," said Betty, a dancing light in her eyes, and a little imp of happiness in her heart that after all he had not taken his dismissal, "there is a vacant chair near the door."

"But—" He followed her eyes and shook his head. "It looks draughty, and I'm particularly susceptible to draughts or chill of any kind, especially the chill you've been treating me to all the afternoon. I think, if you don't mind, I'll sit here."

Betty checked desire to smile.

"It's a public place," she said with a pretence of indifference. "I can't stop you."

"Thank you." He drew back the chair and sat down. The waitress appeared, with more animation in her manner than when she had served Betty, and he waved his hand impatiently. "Tea, scones, anything you like." He squared his elbows on the glass topped table and leant forward, moving aside a vase containing two poppies and a spray of gum leaves. "You know—" he began, "this is nice meeting you."

"But is it luck?" asked Betty.

"I cannot tell a lie," he said solemnly. "I was waiting and followed you here."

"Excuse me," interrupted the waitress, balancing a tray on her hip. He frowned and sat back, waiting impatiently while she placed the things before him.

"We won't want anything more for some considerable time." he said when she had finished. "And give both tickets to me."

"Please." Betty stretched out her hand. "I'll take mine."

"That's rather unkind,." murmured the young man reproachfully. "You might let me pay it. Look at what I'm willing to eat for your sake. You don't think this is my idea of a decent meal?"

"It suits me very well," said Betty calmly. "And if you don't like it, why not go somewhere else?"

"I will, if you'll come with me."

"Well, I won't."

"I thought not," sighed the young man, breaking a scone in half and looking at it doubtfully. "I know you think I'm impertinent," he went on. "Yes, I know it, no need to emphasise it," he said hastily as Betty was about to interrupt emphatically. "The trouble is I've known you for such a long time that I can't help feeling friendly, and I forget that of course you don't know me."

"Known me?" exclaimed Betty.

"Yes." He nodded his head. "About, six months, I should say."

"Nonsense," said Betty crossly. "I don't believe you.

"I'll prove it. See here." He fumbled in his pocket and produced a piece of newspaper which he gave her.

Betty took it,  then as she looked at in she gave a low cry of surprise.

"Why," she said, pleased and flattered. "Why— it's me. How strange that you should have it."

It was a picture cut out of an illustrated weekly, a chance snapshot taken unawares of herself and two companions standing at a corner of a street and smiling at something that had amused them. Site remembered  how excited they had been when they had come across it in the paper.

"Please." She looked up at him. "Give me this. I've lost my copy."

The young man shook his head and held out his hand. "I'm sorry, but I can't possibly give you that," he said. "Why, that picture has kept me company for six months. Up in the Mallee, where my place is, a man hasn't much to do at night when the day's work is done, and I used to stare at this, vowing that if I ever had the luck to meet the girl with the dimple— that's you— I'd— well, I'd ask her to marry me."

Betty flushed and half rose to her feet. "Really, Mr—" She paused, searching vainly for the missing name.

"Gregory," supplied the young man. "But why not call me Jim? It's easier. And do sit down again. Time enough to snub me when I've finished. You've had good practice all the afternoon.

Betty shrugged her shoulders. Really, he was impossible, but she might as well humor him.

"Of course," he went on. "I never really expected to meet you. Things like that don't happen. It was only a sort of a dream, but the longer l dreamt it the more real it became. Last week when I came to Melbourne I persuaded myself that I would meet you, but the days went on and I never did. And this is my last May. Whatever happens I have to catch the train tonight. I was just going up to buy my ticket when I suddenly remembered that I wanted some more collars. Then— I looked up and saw you. It was like a dream come true."

"It sounds very interesting," said Betty, uneasily conscious of the change in him. "But it's really rather absurd. You've just imagined yourself into— well—" she hesitated, "into liking me."

"It's not imagination, it's real," returned the young man, his jaw set hard. "But I don't expect anything impossible. I only want a chance. Give me your name and address and let me write to you. I'll be in Melbourne in another month. Let me see you then and give me a chance to make you like me. Will you do it?"

Betty sat with downcast eyes. The situation had gone beyond her control. She could see that he was in deadly earnest and she did not know what to say to him.

"Will you do it?" he repeated. She still did not reply. Rising, she took up her glows and buttoned her coat. The young man followed her outside.

"You have not answered my question," he said. "If you don't want me I will never bother you again."

Coming up the street she could see the lights of her tram approaching. In her bag was an envelope with her name and address. Taking it out she thrust it into his hand, then ran quickly across the road.

Inside the tram a man sitting opposite Betty decided, after mature consideration, that she really had a tiny dimple on her left cheek, an amazing achievement in a world where dimpIes were almost a lost art.

__________________

25: The Redemption

Canowindra Star and Eugowra News (NSW)  24 Dec 1920

Originally published in "The Australasian" but I cannot find the issue.

IT WAS a hot and breathless night, and there was a. muttering of thunder in the air. Just above the dark shadow of the mountains fringing the western horizon a copper moon seemed to hang suspended from the sky like a great Chinese lantern. The air was thick and heavy with the smoke from the distant bush fires, and the voices of the people strolling idly along the road leading from the little mining township to the open country sounded faint and far off,  like voices heard in a dream.

In his little office at the back of his shop Donald Cameron shut up his books, which he had been balancing, with a heavy sigh. Then, locking the door behind him, he came out and stood looking up and down the road. It seemed almost as though ho were waiting for someone who, however, failed to appear, for presently he shook his head.

"No, he won't come," he muttered. "Just a year ago to-day, and a night such as this."

He tried the door of the shop again to see that it was locked, then slowly made his way home. He walked with bent head; a tall, gaunt man with impassive features and deeply, sunken eyes. A successful man, a prosperous man— as prosperity went in the little country, town— and yet not a happy man. He was respected in the district, if not loved, for he was known as a just man,  and it was said of Donald Cameron that, although hard-fisted and keen for a bargain, he yet gave a fair deal to everyone with whom he came into contact. Men would as soon have doubted the earth which gave them substance as the honesty of Donald Cameron.

For thirty years he had carried on business in the little country town. He  had begun in the early days during the great gold mining rush, and when  the mine had been worked out, and it seemed likely for a time that ruin would overtake the  town, Donald  Cameron had managed to hold on. He had given long credit to the farmers, hoping they would be able some time to meet their obligations, and he had lived to see his faith justified. Though progress, in the shape of a picture theatre in the main street, had definitely entered the town, Cameron scorned what he called new-fangled ideas.

Other shops with modern improvements might commence and try to menace his business, but his place stood as it had always done— a rather tumbledown building, badly needing a coat of paint, the stock jumbled carelessly together in the windows; cheese and bacon next to bundles of calico and colored prints; butter and biscuit nestling fondly up to postcards, paper and ink. The new shops might, perhaps draw the newcomers in the districts. but to the farmers and the old inhabitants there was one shop and one only, and that was "Cameron'

In the old days the family had lived behind the shop, but a few years ago when his son and daughter were at school, Cameron had bought a house situated a little way out of town. It was a pleasant place, with a large garden and wide verandah, with long French lights opening from the rooms, and Cameron loved it as he loved all things that belonged to him. But tonight, as he reached his home, he paused. His movements seemed to be marked with some indecision. Twice he lifted the latch and twice he let it fall without opening the gate, he seemed like a man dreading to meet what he knew lay in front of him, and desiring to put off the evil moment as long as possible.

The blinds were up and the windows and doors wide open. Cameron, stepping on to the verandah, looked into the sitting room. He saw his wife sitting motionless by the open fireplace. She had her back to him, and he could  not see her face. Then, with obvious reluctance he entered the room.

It was comfortably furnished and above the mantelpiece hung a photograph of himself and his wife taken on their wedding day. Above that hung a bunch of withered heather, and a piece of Scottish tartan which he had brought out from Scotland

A cloth was laid at the end of the table and a place was set for

Donald hung up his hat and stood looking at his wife.

"I'm home, Mary," he said at last.

"Your supper's set," was all she said.

"Aren't you going to have to have any, Mary?" he asked, and in spite of himself his voice held a note of appeal.

"I can't eat anything— to-day," she answered.

He looked at her sharply, then crossed the room to the sink outside and washed his hands. All his movements were slow and deliberate. Changing his coat, he sat down at the table, covered his eyes for a moment and muttered a grace,  and began to eat. But he was not hungry, for after a few minutes he pushed the food impatiently away, and rising, went to the mantelpiece and fumbled for his pipe. When he had filled it and put it in his mouth, he seemed to gain courage to break the oppressive silence.

"You are very quiet, mother," he said.

"I mostly am those days," she answered in a low, toneless voice.

He bent his head, and a curious expression crossed his face: anger, impatience, pity, and shame were all there. Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him. He went to the door lending, to the passage and looked through. He called a name, but no one answered.

"Where's Jess?" he asked, turning quickly to his wife. "She left the store an hour ago. I told her to come straight home."

"She did come home," replied his wife calmly, "but went out again.''

"She went out at this hour!"

Amazement was in his voice. All the indecision had left his face. He was again the hard man of business, the strict father of his children. "What do you mean? Where has she gone?"

His wife put down her sewing, and for the first time since he had come in, she looked up at him. Her cheeks were lined and her hair grey, and her face seemed to bear the traces of recent weeping. Though younger than her husband in actual years, she nevertheless looked 20 years older. Some devastating sorrow seemed to have swept over her, and the shadow of it still lay deep in her eyes.

She looked at her husband strangely. Gentle though her face was, her expression spoke of something very closely approaching hatred. "She went out to meet Hal Thorpe," she answered.

The blood rushed to Cameron 's face. "Thorpe!" he said; "Is she seeing Thorpe?" He struck his clenched list on the table. "That idle, good-for-nothing scoundrel!"

"He is a good lad!" said the woman, "and he loves her. He is a good lad, and—" her voice sank lower— "He was Jim's friend."

"Jim!" The thing which had hung between them all day was out at last, and as she spoke the name all the floodgates of passion which she held in her heart seemed to be unloosed. She faced her husband with flashing eyes.

"No, Donald Cameron, you shall not spoil my daughter's life as you spoiled my son's."

"He was a thief," returned the old man dully. "He stole from me— his father."

"You turned him out," the woman went on, "you turned him out into the night without giving him a chance to say good-bye to his mother." She put her hand to her breast as she felt the pain. "A year ago to-day, Donald Cameron. Do you think I have forgotten?  Where he's gone to, God only knows. Oh, my son, my son."

She threw her arms out on the table and hid her face in them.

There was a silence for a moment , then Cameron moved, and awkwardly,  as if fearing a repulse, put his hand on her bowed head.

"I love him too," he muttered.

She shook his hand off and raised her head.

"You loved him!" Her voice was tense with scorn. "How well your love stood the test. I love him whatever he is— a. thief, a murderer, even, he is still my boy. He is not a thief. He only took the money because he wanted to pay his debts and he thought the horse would win. He meant to put it back. Why, what's that—" she broke off suddenly as a shrill whistle sounded through the

"Donald." She turned to her husband. a sudden eager hope in her eyes; for a moment she forgot the resentment she held against him. "That whistle! It sounds, like—" As she spoke light footsteps were heard coming along the verandah, and the hope that had sprung to her eyes died.

"It's only Jessica," she said.

A figure blocked the doorway and the next moment a girl entered. She was a tall, slim creature, with a pale face and dark, sombre eyes. She shut the door, and then stood with her back against it. looking at her parents.

"Where have you been?" asked her father harshly.

She faced him coldly.  "With Hal," she said quietly.

Cameron hesitated. In the face of open defiance he did not know what to say. "I forbid you to meet him," he said at last, and made a threatening movement towards her

The girl raised her hand in a restraining gesture.

"Father," she said, "Jim has come back."

"There was a tense silence. Then, "Is that true?" he asked, quietly.

"Yes, it is true," replied the girl.  Jim has come back. He has been here two days. He came back ill and starving. Where did he go? Not his own home, his own people, but Hal. He went to Hal; and Hal nursed him, fed him and clothed him." She clenched her hands and the tears stood in her eyes. "I love him," she said a low voice, "for his own sake and for all he has done for my poor brother."

"Jessica!"  It was her mother's voice. "My boy, where is he?"

But the girl's eyes were on her father. "Is he to come in?" she asked.

"Yes,'' Cameron said in a low voice.

She went to the  window, and leaning out, whistled through her fingers. An answering whistle echoed through the air.

She turned buck again into the room.

"He's coming,'' she said quietly, "and Hal is with him."

The mother went to the door and waited. Presently a figure emerged from-the darkness and stood on the verandah. She ran to him and he took her in his arms.

"My boy, my boy,'' she whispered. "You've come home."

"It's all right, mother," he said, "it's all right," and gently stroked her hair. Then he put her from him and entered the room. He looked ill and drawn, but he was smiling. Close behind him followed Hal Thorpe, a tall and sturdy fellow with blue eyes that held rather all anxious expression as they looked at Donald Cameron. But Donald Cameron took no notice of him. He was staring at his son.

"Well, dad," Jim looked at his father with rather a whimsical smile. "Am I to  come in? The prodigal s return you know, though I don't expect any fatted calf." As he spoke he coughed, a hollow cough that seemed to tear his chest.

His father bent his head. "Yes, come in," he answered.

They thought, looking at him, that he was still unforgiving, for his features were quite impassive, but his heart had turned to water within him. That his son! That weak, emaciated figure! But Jim, if he had lost his strength, had still the bright and sunny disposition which had made him popular wherever he went. He smiled down at his mother as she hung on his arm.

"It's good to see you again, dear little mother," he said caressingly. "May l sit down, dad?" he asked, "I am sorry, but I feel so confoundedly weak."

Hal drew forth a chair and Jim sank into it with a sigh of relief. His mother hung fondly over him.

"You must, have something to eat, my darling," she whispered, "and try and get fat again."

He shook his head; but seeing the disappointment in her face, changed his mind. "All right, mother," he said, gaily, "one of those wonderful suppers you used to cook for me."

She bustled off to prepare it, now radiantly happy.

"Well dad," said Jim, turning to his father, who stood motionless watching him, "I've come back, you see, like, the proverbial bad penny. I don't know whether you are pleased to see rue." Cameron gave an inarticulate murmur. "But here I am. I was homesick for the old place. I never knew how much I loved it until I went away. But— I'm a failure, dad. Why, oven these clothes"— he looked down at himself rather ruefully— "they are not mine; they belong to Hall. If you had seen me when I first came limping into this town, you would have given me in charge. I looked a typical old whaler." He put his hand to his face and laughed. "A month's growth of whiskers and a man might be anything from a parson to a pugilist. "But," he looked affectionately at Thorpe, "old Hal knew me."

"Yes," grunted Thorpe. "I knew you, you young beggar. I had half a mind to punch your nose," he grumbled, "going off as you did and never letting a fellow know where you had gone to."

"Dad," Jim turned to his father again. "We said some pretty hard things to each other, didn't we? But I have learnt a lot since then. It must have been a pretty rotten thing for you to know that you had fathered— a thief."

Jess made a movement of protest, but he stopped her. "Yes, Jess, a thief. Let's face the thing squarely. My father did the right thing when he turned me out."

Donald stumbled forward. "Jim, he muttered, "thank God you've come back! We've missed you, Jim. I want you to stay and we will work together again.''

The young man smiled. "Thank you, dad," he said simply, " that's what I wanted you to say, and," he added, "I'm a nailer for work now. I'm not really sick, you know," he went on, "just a bit knocked out, that is all. You see, I walked from Melbourne, and coming up I caught a bit of a cold." He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a sealed envelope which he handed to his father. "It is in there," he said, "the money I stole from you."

Cameron took it with, trembling hands. "The money!" he whispered.

"You've made it up?" It was not the thought of the money that moved him, but the rehabilitation of all he held dearest, the, redemption of his son.

"Yes," answered Jim, "every penny of it. That night, when I left here, I swore I would refund it if it took me all my life. It's all honestly come by, dad, you needn't fear that,"

Cameron took his son's hand in his and held it fast.

"My boy," he said, "forgive me."

For answer Jim put his arm around his father's shoulders.

"That's all right, dad," he said with an awkward laugh. "We'll agree to forgive each other, and say no more about it,"

Hal beckoned to Jess. "Let's go," he whispered; "I think they can fix it up alright without us."

Arm in arm they stepped through the long French lights on to the verandah, and disappeared into the darkness of the garden.

______________

26: "Doug."

Australasian (Vic), 23 Sep 1922

Canowindra Star and Eugowra News (NSW) 6 Oct 1922

SHE had not been prepared for the tiny, boxlike house set down starkly in the midst of the vast plains. Her first, swift thought was that he should have warned her; given her some indication of what it would be like; but as she glanced at his eager, intent face, she perceived that he did not see it as she did.  To Jim there was nothing to apologise for. They looked at it from different angles. Of course she had known that her new home would be different from the trim little suburban villa she had left; but she had not been prepared for such a vast difference.  Driving from the station through what seemed like endless miles of plains, he had pointed it out in the distance,

"The bungalow!" he said, and whipped up his horse, eager to be home and show it to her!

She had simulated pleasure, for she loved him, and if that was his pride it must he her pride also. No doubt, she thought, in time she would grow used to it. He had taken her pleasures and interest for granted, pointing out his sheep in the paddocks, and near the slip-rails, the plantation of tiny trees, none of them higher than two feet, which he had put in to make shelter for them. If there had been one tree— one tall, green, friendly tree, she would have found it more bearable, but there was nothing but the bare plains, already parched and brown, and,  on the horizon the faint, blue line of a distant range of mountains.

The little house, built by his own hands, with its green-painted walls and tiny windows, and the two shining water-tanks huddled up against it, stood out forlorn and defenceless. She had not understood that a house could look so lonely;  and— yes— so appealing. There was a glimmer of tears in her eyes as he drew up the horse at the door.

If she had not been prepared for the house, still less was she prepared for Douglas. Jim had told her of his elder half brother Doug., as he called him, and said it would take some time before she understood him, as he was a little "queer." He had also explained, half apologetically, that Douglas would have to live with them, as they ran the place, together.

"He won't he any bother," he had finished. "You'll find him no trouble. He's a quiet chap, hardly speaks at all, but he's mighty fond of me."

She had given Jim no inkling that the thought that their home would be shared by another had rather dismayed her. She had tried to put the doubt from her mind, thinking that Jim's brother, even if it were only his half-brother, must be nearly as nice as Jim. As to Douglas being what Jim called queer, that had not disturbed her. The fact that they both loved Jim would, she thought, bridge over any gulf between them.

But she had not discerned just how queer Douglas was. lie had a ruddy face with small, sandy-coloured eyes and a long moustache. His grey hair straggled untidily across his forehead, and he kept brushing it away with a nervous movement of his hand. But though his appearance was peculiar enough, it was his expression that disconcerted her. His face was melancholy, but his mouth was distorted into an habitual smile, quite mirthless, and singularly repellent. Sue involuntarily averted her eyes as she saw him; then ashamed of her aversion, forced herself to look at him. His pale, sandy-coloured eyes held hers, and she flushed under his scrutiny, for she saw he had noticed her movement of repugnance. Muttering some thing inaudible, he turned and left the room. A moment later his shadow-darkened the window. She could see his face, with its queer distorted grin, pressed against the glass, then he was gone.

She drew a long breath of relief, and made a sudden movement as if shaking a weight off her shoulders. Jim looked at her rather nervously.

"I'm sorry, Amy," he said. "Don't judge him by that. Its my fault. I should have told him before."

The girl gave him a quick glance."Do you mean, she asked slowly, "that he didn't know about me?"

"No. I forgot to write. I think he felt it a bit, poor old chap. You must have been a bit of a surprise to him. I shouldn't have sprung you on him like that. The fact is, I was so busy in town meeting you, and then marrying you, that it never entered my mind to let him know. Of course I should have remembered." Jim looked rueful. "The old chap's been pretty decent to me, and I hate to hurt his feelings. Well, it can't be helped now. I say, Amy," he went on, noticing for the first time her obvious distress, "don't look like that.   It'll all come right. He's jealous now; but he'll soon get over it. You'll see, in a week he will love you as much as I do, though he won't say so. You mustn't expect Doug to say anything, you know.  Why, he hardly even speaks to me."

Though his words somewhat reassured her, she still felt nervous and ill at ease. She had started wrong. Douglas resented her presence. He did not like her, moreover she felt he would never like her. For months— or years probably— she would have to live with him in this tiny house. She wondered how she would bear it, and her heart sank. But she smiled at Jim and as he took her in his arms. Though Douglas, the house, and even nature herself seemed to have combined to crush her, she did not regret.

Douglas was certainly quiet. During the next few weeks he scarcely spoke half a dozen words. It distressed her at first, and she made some timid little advances to him until Jim told her not to bother. She became more used to it in time; but she could not conceal the sense of oppression his presence at the table caused her. She was uneasily aware of him; of his sandy-coloured eyes, and his mouth with that strange, distorted smile, which seemed so at variance with the bitter melancholy of his expression. It was impossible for her to disregard his presence, and she wondered how Jim could be so unconscious of the strain. Jim talked freely, now and then throwing a remark at Douglas, and going on without pausing for an answer. But then, she thought, Jim was used to Douglas; indeed, he seemed actually fond of him.

As Jim said, Douglas was no trouble. He made his own bed, dug up the, potatoes and peeled them for her, brought in the milk, scalded the pans, and scrubbed the floors quite efficiently and quite silently. Amy would have been glad, if he had left these things to her, but she dared not suggest it, as Tim was so obviously pleased and touched.

"I believe the old chap's falling in love with you," he said. ''He hangs round the house more than he used to. l can hardly get him to come out with me and muster the sheep. I told you, didn't I, that he would have to love you? He simply couldn't help it, any more than I could."

She wondered how Jim could be so blind.

Was it possible he did not know that Douglas hated her? But then, of  course, Jim had never seen the way Douglas looked at her when they were, alone. A dozen times a day she discovered him watching her; sometimes through the window, some times from the kitchen door after he had brought in the milk or the potatoes. When he saw that he was observed he vanished silently. The thing was getting on her nerves. She had but to close her eyes and she could see his pale, sandy-coloured eyes staring into hers. She began to dream of him at night; in her dreams he pleaded with her and she repulsed him with bitter words. She would awaken with a start, every nerve alive with fear.  Was her mind being affected, she wondered? Were the vast, windy plains with their great loneliness driving her mad ?

Yet she sometimes felt if she had been there alone with Jim she might have loved the place. The plains were not as monotonous she had thought. She loved, to watch them changing colour under a cloudy sky, and at evening the Saining glory of the sunset. If it had not been for Douglas she would have been happy, but he was becoming an obsession with her. Sinister, vaguely threatening, he seemed to stand between her and any real happiness. She tried to speak of her fears to Jim, but he listened half impatiently.

"What! Afraid of Doug? You silly girl!" He swung her round and looked into her eyes. "Why, he adores you. Look how he follows you about. Have you ever seen an old sheepdog with his master?  Well, that's just like Doug. I could go  away with an easy mind and leave you in his care."

"Jim!" She caught her breath. "You won't do that?"

"Do what?"

"Go away, and leave me alone with Douglas."

"I might have to. Sometimes I've business to attend to in the township, and I can't always get home." He frowned, as though at an unpleasant thought; "See here, Amy," he added rather sharply. "I don't like this, you know. Don't forget, he's my brother. Poor old Doug's not like other men, and it's unkind of you to blame him for it."

"I don't," she said frankly.

"You do .You can't judge him as a man. You can only see him as he is. Has he ever said anything to annoy you?"

She shook her head.

"There you are," he went on; "it's just that you don't like the way he looks at you. "You've no other reason but that. Now, cheer up, arid admit you've been a silly girl."

"Yes, I suppose so," she said, slowly. He had not convinced, only silenced, her.

Now she had to live with a new fear. She knew it must come; it was inevitable as death itself. One morning Jim would tell her he was going into the township, and would not be able to get home. It happened as she thought, only Jim said he would not be away all night, but would try and get home not later than twelve o'clock.  She thought of Douglas; the long day alone with him, and late into the night, but said nothing.

She went down to the sliprails with Jim. As he drove off he turned and waved his cap.

"Look after yourself, darling," he said. "When I can afford to buy a motor car you can come with me."

She leant over the gate, watching him drive down the road until he was a tiny speck in the distance, then she went inside.

The day was not as bad as she feared. She saw nothing of Douglas, for he had to do Jim's work as well as his own. At six o'clock she heard his heavy footsteps approaching the house. She put his meal on the table, and went into another room. When she came back, Douglas had disappeared.

This relieved her. Perhaps, after all, she had been foolish. Perhaps Douglas discerned her discomfort in his presence, and had, with a delicacy for which she had not given him credit, removed himself. Throwing wood on the fire, she drew her chair up closer. It was growing cold, and she could hear the slight moaning, sound which told that the wind of the great western plains was beginning to rise. It was only nine o'clock, and it would be twelve at least before Jim could get in. It was a twenty-mile drive from the township and the old horse was slow and tired. Twenty miles on such a night as this! She shivered as the wind struck against the house. It shook beneath the shock, and she clutched her chair with both hands. It might blow away she thought; Jim's little matchbox of a house, which she was so proud of. One of these days the wind would carry it away and they would have to go across the plains searching for the pieces.

A slight noise made her start. She sat very still, staring into the fire, and trying to reassure herself. The window was open a little, and it might be the blind tapping against the sill. Slowly she turned her head, then sprang to her feel with an inarticulate cry. Dark against the blind was the shadow of a man. It was Douglas.

She stood for a moment paralysed with fear; then, making a supreme effort went to the door and threw it open. Better to have Douglas in the room with her than to feel he was watching her through the window.

"Come inside," she said, curtly.

She waited a moment, and Douglas slouched in. He stood looking about him as if uncertain what to do; and she motioned him to take a chair by the fire.

"Please sit down," she said. "You have as much right to be here as I have."

He obeyed her, and she sat down opposite him, taking up her knitting. It  was wonderful how knitting soothed the nerves. If she could only keep on knitting and counting the stitches, she need not think of Douglas; she could even forget he was there. She counted under her breath, clicking the needles together in desperate haste. A log fell out of the fire and she pushed it back with her foot; as she did so she stole a glance at  Douglas. She could see his right hand, with the hairy fingers and broken nails, resting on his knee. Her gaze travelled upwards. She did not want to do it, but she could not help it; something  impelled her. She looked straight into his eyes.

She had never looked into his eyes before. She had been aware of them, pale, and sandy-coloured, and, she thought, vaguely threatening. Perhaps it was because Jim had put the idea into her mind, but she saw they were like the eyes of dog. Pleading— yearning— just she had looked at her in her dreams.  She softened, almost smiled; then remembered his mouth  with its horrible grin, and shuddered.

"You don't like me."

Surprise and dismay held her silent.  "Women don't," be added quietly.

She fumbled at her knitting with nervous fingers, for she found nothing to say. There was a long silence, then Douglas sighed. He got up and walked-heavily across the room. She watched him from under lowered lids, wondering if he would answer if she spoke to him. '

"Where are you going?" she asked.

He paused and looked back at her. In the shadow of the door his distorted face was softened, and his slouching figure had gained a certain dignity. She was seeing him as be might have been had fate not been unkind.

"Where are you going?" she said again.

"For a walk." His voice was hoarse, and she could barely catch the words. "Jim will know where to find me."

If she had followed the promptings of her heart, she would have gone to him, put her arms around him, and drawn him back into the room, but she could not.

"Don't go, Douglas," she said faintly.

He paid no heed, but, making a strange gesture with his hand, went outside. She heard his footsteps on the verandah, and the barking of the dogs.  As on the first day, his shadow darkened the window for a moment, but this time he did not pause to look in. She drew a quick breath, then ran after him.

The moon was at the full, but the sky was cloudy, and the night seemed to be full of moving shadows, but there far ahead of her, walking quickly, was Douglas. She got to the gate of the  home paddock and coo-eed, but he did not turn his head, and she stumbled after him. The wind, coming across the plains, was like a live thing. She fought against it, lifting her arms to try and strike it from her face. It was a monster, incredibly cruel, trying to keep her from Douglas.  She would, never find Douglas— never— Douglas to whom she had been unkind. She burst into tears, and walked blindly on. She seemed to be lost in an immense cruel world. Perhaps she would have to walk on like this for ever. And Douglas? never— never!

She caught her foot in a tussock of grass and fell headlong to the ground.

JIM found her some time afterwards. Unconsciously she had turned back to the house, and was lying beside the track. He took her home, and she opened her eyes to see his anxious face.

Remembrance came to her, and she thrust him away.

"Douglas!" she whispered with pale lips

"What do you mean?" he looked at her in puzzled alarm.

She passed her hand over her forehead, trying to clear her mind.

"He's gone out. I followed him, but I lost him. Oh, Jim, Jim, go after him. I'm terribly afraid. He said you would know where to find him."

"What!" Jim's face become rigid. "My God!" he said. "The lagoon!"

They stared at each other, horror in their eyes.

"Quick, quick," moaned the girl. "You may not be too late."

"My brandy flask," muttered Jim, "and the lantern." He paused at the door to give her a comforting word. "Don't worry too much, dear; it will be all right."'

But she knew. She did not have to wait for Jim's return to learn the truth. She would never see Douglas again. She knew now what he had wanted of her, and what she had denied him— the pitying tenderness of one human being for another sorely afflicted. And now it was too late.

She looked up, without speaking, as Jim entered the room.

"He's dead," he said, dully. "I found him in the lagoon."

She bowed her head. Her remorse and grief were too deep for tears.

"You know," Jim went on, "You did not believe me when I said Doug loved you.  But, see here," he held up what looked like a sodden piece of cardboard, "your photograph. I never missed it from the room, but he must have taken it. I found it in his pocket."

______________

27: A Matter of Business

Weekly Times (Vic), 19 Sep 1925

WITH A SENSE of impatient irritation his heart, Jim Mackay jammed the brakes on his car and got out. Lilian's message— it was almost a command— had reached him over an hour ago, and he was still conscious of the annoyance he had felt when one of his clerks had delivered it to him She took too much for granted, he thought, as he pushed open the high brown gate with the green lantern swinging overhead, the name of the house painted in gold letters on its face; she could not expect him to be eternally dancing attendance on her. After all, he was not committed to her yet. Though she sometimes acted as if their engagement was a consummated fact, he had not yet been able to bring himself to utter the binding words. He knew it was expected of him, and the marriage would be so suitable in every way that it was extraordinary he should hesitate; yet a vague, half-formed doubt had held him back, a sudden disinclination, a secret rebellion against what he inwardly felt was the summary disposal of his life.

It had been her father's dying wish. He had been a good friend to Jim, helped him in his business and put many a good thing in his way; in fact, if it had not been for "old man Gisborne," as he was affectionately called. Jim's position might have been a very different one. He recognised this, and was grateful, and, though he had not made any definite promise, his ultimate marriage with Lilian was an eventuality he was quite prepared for. Lilian, as a dutiful daughter, was quite willing to fall in with her father's wish, and, though the matter had never been discussed between them, they were both aware of it. It was a pity they did not care for each other, he reflected gloomily. Some times Lilian bored him horribly, while her attitude towards him was one of faint disapproval, tinctured by a hope that some day he might do better. She was always making allowances, forgiving him for the neglect of some social duty of which he had probably been unaware.

With a sudden, nervous movement, he lit a cigarette, chewed the end of it, then threw it away. He was thirty-five today, and he didn't like it. It was strange how restless, un easy, yet queerly excited he felt, as though some tremendous adventure loomed before him. But in reality his life was absolutely devoid of adventure; it was staid, commonplace— one might almost call it smug. What was the matter with him, he wondered? All his nerves seemed strung up to concert pitch, and he had noticed things he had never been actively conscious of before. Coming into town, the wind blowing against his face seemed to carry with it the scent of violets, and he had seen how darkly blue the line of the distant Dandenongs looked against the pale winter sky.

Sitting at his desk that morning, signing letters and papers, he had suddenly realised what he was going to do. No; he was hanged if he would spend even half an hour of this day of pale gold sunshine and drifting, fleecy clouds, at what he mentally characterised "one of Lilian's infernal tea parties." He knew exactly the sort of thing it would be. Tea, cocktails— Lilian liked to pose as up to date— cigarettes, and talk. Lord! how they talked, those people she gathered about her, and how the smell of the Turkish cigarettes she loved to affect would poison the air of the room. He had gone through it once, but never again.

As he approached the house, he suffered a further access of irritation. It was like Lilian— statuesque, beautiful, but cold— and the well-kept gardens, too, with their trim, orderly-paths, were like her mind, he thought irritably; correct, conventional, uninteresting, and quite without surprise.

He shrugged his shoulders slightly as he rang the bell. After all, that should be considered a desirable trait in a wife. The maid who let him in glanced with approval at his thin, brown face, in which the grey eyes, fringed with long lashes of which he was secretly ashamed, seemed by contrast almost startlingly light. He gave a pleasant, if absent, smile, and spoke quickly.

"Miss Gisborne is in her sitting-room, I suppose? It's all right. Don't bother. I'll go in."

She was writing at her desk as he entered, but rose at once to greet him. She was expansive to the last degree, he thought, as he took her hand and held it a moment; from the top of her polished head to the tips of her exquisite shoes there was not one fault that even the most fastidious could And in her. The classical regularity of her features might be a little monotonous, her expression perhaps wanting in animation, but undeniably she was beautiful. The turn of her head, the graceful moulding of her neck pleased some aesthetic sense he possessed. But yet her whole personality left him dissatisfied with a sense of something lacking, some distinctive charm, which, whatever other men might find in her, she would never possess for him.

"Well, Jimmy!" Her voice had just the right note; whimsical, yet conveying at the same time a sort of delicate reproach. "So you've really come at last? How long is it since I've seen you? A week? Two weeks?"

"Lilian, that's hardly fair," he protested. "You know as well as I do how tied up I am with various things.  Oh, and about this afternoon." He plunged abruptly. "I had your message, and I'm awfully sorry, but I can't possibly come along. If it had been any other day—" He paused, and left it at that.

"Oh?" she queried, allowing, for a fraction of a moment, a fleeting annoyance to become apparent. "But its Saturday afternoon. I thought, of course, you would be free. What is it? Business again, I suppose?"

"Well " Mackay hesitated, then remembering how easily she could satisfy  herself on that point if she wished, decided to tell the truth. "The fact is, Lilian, that I feel I must get away for the afternoon." He passed his hand across his hair with a gesture habitual to him. "Take a run into the country and blow off the cobwebs. I'm stale, stuck so much in the city."

"Poor Jimmy," she crooned. "It must be the old wound troubling you again."

Again he was flooded by the sense of intense, nervous Irritation. It was extraordinary the power Lilian had of rubbing him up the wrong way. The wound in his head, which had nearly finished him during the war, had long ago ceased to trouble him, and she knew that perfectly well. She was making allowances for him again; giving him a chance of extricating himself decently. He should feel grateful, instead of irritated.

"Very well, she said soothingly, as though he were a fretful child that had to be placated, "you shall have your trip. But what about this evening, Jimmy? It's your birthday, isn't it? Don't think I've forgotten it."

"I don't consider it a matter for congratulation," he said lightly. "But, anyway, I'll be back at eight, and will call then. Who do you expect this afternoon?"

"Oh the usual crowd. Fortunately I rang up Mr Dickson before you came in, otherwise I would have been a man short."

"Charlie Dickson, do you mean?" he asked indifferently. "I don't know how you can be bothered with him. He's only the ordinary type of young society fool."

"I find him a very agreeable companion," she said stiffly.

He looked at her quickly. He remembered now that she been seeing quite a lot of young Dickson. Was it possible that she was beginning to really like the fellow? He felt a little prick at his own self esteem. Well, women were extraordinary creatures. That young Dickson should have been able to arouse any feeling in the cold and unemotional Lilian seemed to him a thing impossible of belief. And yet his unthinking remark had evidently annoyed her. What on earth could she see in the fellow? With his vapid smile, his unfailing store of small talk, he seemed to have been born for the sole purpose of handing tea cups and cake at afternoon parties, and keeping old ladies pleasantly amused. It would really be ironic if, when he did ask Lilian to marry him, she should refuse him in favor of Dickson. That would be an undoubted blow— to his vanity and self-respect at any rate.

"Mr Dickson doesn't mind giving up an afternoon to oblige me, she said coldly.

"Oh, dash it all, Lilian!" he said, irritated. "I thought you understood. You said it would be all right. And so far as Dickson is concerned, I daresay he is a very decent chap when you know him."

She had recovered her poise; the smile she turned on him was a very sweet and very forbearing one.

"You see, Jimmy," she said gently, "you don't really try to know these people, do you? And sometimes you are— well, almost rough in your manner, and they don't understand you. It makes it rather hard for me."

"But I was under the impression that my manners were rather good," he interjected.

"I have seen you look as though you were not listening to what they were saying," she went on, unheeding.  "I always explain that the wound in your head makes you a little peculiar at times."

He stifled an inclination to swear, and laughed instead.

"Thank God for the wound in my head if it has saved me from that," he muttered.

"You don't think I am scolding you, do you, Jimmy?" she asked anxiously.  "I am just pointing it out for your own good."

"My dear Lilian," he said, with exaggerated solemnity. "I accept it in the spirit in which it is given. No one has striven more earnestly for my good than you have done."

It struck him, when he was in his car again and the road to the Dandenongs opening up before him, that each had to exercise a good deal of forbearance with the other. Rather a poor look-out for their marriage, though this, owing to the intrusion of Dickson on the scene, no longer seemed as certain as it had been.

Once past the outer suburbs he put on speed. This was all familiar country to him now. He wondered if the old house was still there; the brown house perched high above the gully where he had spent his holidays as a boy and a young man. There were blackberry bushes growing at the gate, he remembered, and a tangled old garden full of weeds and hidden flowers, where in the spring the daffodils pushed up their heads so bravely through the long grass, and the blossom from the almond trees starred the ground.

Violets! He could smell them again. It must have been the scent of them that had sent his mind fumbling back to the past. There were violets growing in the orchard where he used to meet Alison— little Alison, who had treated him so badly. Sweet Alison, he used to call her, because she reminded him of the white, demure little flower that had bordered the garden paths. Well, that was over long, long ago, and she remained only a tender memory of his youth.

He smiled at the thought of his own crudity; his hot anger and passionate resentment. Was it any wonder she had preferred Bartlett, with his polished manner, his wit; his ability.  He had swept her off his feet, as the hasty, incoherent note she had left behind after her secret, hurried marriage, had shown.

"I can't help it— forgive me." And then— "I am keeping your ring."

His poor little ring, which he had bought with the shillings saved from his tiny salary. He wondered if she had it yet, that humble little ring with the half hoop of pearls which he had given her with such pride. And suddenly his mind leapt to the thought, of the ring he could buy Lilian. Diamonds! Only diamonds would suit heir. He had picked it out already; two hundred and fifty pounds it would cost him— the price of the half hoop of pearls had been five pounds. His mouth twitched at the contrast. How long ago now? Eleven years!

Just before the war had broken out— the war, which had come to him as a blessed relief from the fret and fume of his own feelings simplifying everything. Alison would be twenty-nine now, and he was thirty-five. Twenty- nine! He could not think her as anything else but eighteen, with her pale oval face, her soft dark eyes, and her secret, mysterious smile. Where was she now? In England, he believed, and It was improbable they would ever meet again. Well, wherever she was, he hoped she at least was happy.

His clear eyes stared straight ahead. The road was rising . bow, winding to the top of the mountain, and he needed ail his wits about him to steer the car skilfully round the sharp turns, and to avoid the cars; coming down, already returning to the city, for the wind had a sharp edge to it and the days were drawing in. A short distance from the summit was a house where afternoon tea was to be had, and suddenly realising he had had a very light lunch, he drew up his car at the side of the read and got out, pausing to glance at the splendid prospect that lay before him.

A white must was already rising from the valleys below, but the pale winter sunshine still gilded the hills, which, fold on fold, faint and unsubstantial as a dream, seemed to melt away to the far horizon. On the flats the river showed a silver flash, on its way to the sea; and the chequer board of farms and orchards with the thin, blue smoke curling up to the pearly sky. There was another car standing in front of the door; a rather ostentatious limousine, which he fancied he recognised; also the broad back of the man bending over the petrol tank seemed familiar. It looked like George Grant; he had heard he was back. They had known each other as boys, and had been friends more or less ever since, though in business their interests were opposed.

He straightened up as Jim approached, and hailed him cordially. "Hullo, old chap," he cried. "Glad to see you. Haven't had time to call since my return. Only been back a week."

"You look flourishing," said Jim as they shook hands. "You've put on weight, though."

"Lack of exercise, my boy, soon get that off." He lowered his voice confidentially. "I've a crowd of people in there; friends I made on the boat. I've been giving them a good time— got to show them what we can do. Come along and have something with us."

There were half-a-dozen people on the verandah outside as the two men went through. Jim was introduced to them, but his eyes were fixed on a slim, well-dressed woman who was standing a little apart from the others, leaning against the balcony and looking down into the valley below. Some thing in her attitude was familiar.

"You must meet Mrs Bartlett," said Grant fussily. "Oh. there she is."

He raised his voice and called her.

"I think," said Jim. He cleared his throat, for his voice sounded strange to his own ears. "I think that we—"

The woman at the balcony turned, and their eyes met. "Have you met before?" asked Grant suspiciously, then his face changed and he plucked at his chin nervously. "Oh— ah— of course. I had forgotten."

He retired discomfited, but Jim was oblivious of him. Lost In a great wonder, he took her hand.

"That ridiculous man," she said softly, and drew him out of hearing. "Oh, Jim, it's really you, isn't it? You're not a ghost, are you?"

He drew a deep breath and looked down at her, smiling.

"I might ask that of you? Are you a ghost? You might be. I've been raising them all day."

"And so have I!" She shivered. "It's a creepy work. I wanted to run away and hide."

"It's eleven years, Alison," he said inconsequently. "Eleven years since we met."

"I know. Don't make me remember. Jim, do you know how old I am?"

"Old! You can never be old. But I am thirty-five. I only realised that today."

"What's that in a man?" she scoffed. "It's your birthday, isn't it? See how I remember. I am twenty-nine. A great age for a woman, Jim. I was only eighteen when—"

"Yes," he interrupted. They looked at each other silently.

"Thank you for keeping the ring," he said at last.

"Your little ring! How could I have sent it back? I knew what it cost you to buy it. Look!"

She drew off her glove. "I have always worn it."

It was there— above her wedding ring. He looked at it, then touched with his finger the plain gold band.

"Your husband? Is he with you?"

"Haven't you heard?" A shadow fell over her face, and he saw for the first time that the years had some mark upon her.

"He's dead. No—" She checked the formal condolences on his lips. "I won't pretend with you, Jim. I'm glad. Is that wicked? You and I know— no one will ever know— what he was." She shuddered. "My life — almost from the first— it was horrible. It's gone— over— I want to forget. There are some things I cannot speak of— my marriage was one."

"And I have always pictured you as so happy," he said sadly.

"Happy!" She looked at him strangely, then made a gesture with her hands as though she would throw the thought of it away. "I'm happy now, Jim. Happy because I'm free, and happy to see you again." She paused, as she heard Grant's voice calling to them impatiently.

"We must get back to the others," she said. "It was strange, wasn't it, that he should just remember we had once been engaged. We happened to speak of you on the boat coming over. I had forgotten that you knew each other."

"Alison." He detained her as she was turning away. "One moment; I've a car outside. Let me drive you back to town. You owe me that, at least," he urged, as he saw her hesitate.

"I wonder!" She stood irresolute. Her saw her wistful, fugitive smile, the smile that had always charmed him. "Are you married, Jim? Somehow, I can't think of you with a wife."

"No," he said steadily, "I'm not married."

She flashed him a quick, shy glance. "It will be difficult to get away, but— yes— I'll come."

He remembered having seen a telephone in the hall, and went through to ring up Lilian. He would not be able to keep his appointment with her that evening, and he would have to try and make her understand, without hurting her feelings, that he was withdrawing. It would be unpleasant, but it had to be done. After some delay he heard her voice, minimised by distance.

"Is that you, Jimmie?"

He began to stammer out his excuses, but she cut him short.

"I'm glad you rang up. I've some news for you." Her voice sounded strangely defiant.  "It happened this afternoon. I'm—" She hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then went on hurriedly. "I'm engaged to Mr Dickson." She paused for a reply, but he found himself unable to speak. "Of course, I know what my dear father wished," she continued; "but that was only a matter of business. I don't think we would have been happy together. We were not suited to each other."

There was still no reply from the other end, only a curious noise that sounded strange over the wires.

"What's the matter, Jimmie?" she asked anxiously. "You're not ill, are you?"

Jim controlled his laughter with difficulty. "The biter bit," he murmured, then in a louder voice, "Congratulations, Lilian."

He was still laughing when he hung up the receiver and went outside to rejoin Alison.

______________

28: The Making of a Star

Herald (Vic),  29 Sep 1923

AS she dressed, with the dozen or so other girls, in the stuffy, brilliantly lit dressing-room, she thought it over, her eyes intent on the pale face that looked back at her so sombrely from the mirror.

Presently, when the make-up was on, that familiar face would seem like that of a stranger, but for the moment it was all her own and she stared at it with almost a savage Intensity. Beneath the merciless light streaming upon the great hanging mirror, flanked by the disarray of powder, rouge and cream jars, each blemish on the face was clearly visible. Leaning forward, she could easily trace the first faint lines that were beginning to form about her mouth, and the tired shadows under the eyes. Tonight she did not shrink from them, for they were her justification for what she was about to do. She was going to strike her flag and admit defeat.

Oblivious of the girls who jostled her at the mirror she viewed herself dispassionately. Why had she failed? She had talent; a good voice, could dance, and, what was more, had temperament. Given tho opportunity, she know she could succeed. But the opportunity had been long in coming, so long that she had begun to believe it would never come. She had staked all her hopes on this last production, and now had to face the bitter fact that she was still relegated to the chorus. Time after time others with loss talent had passed her by. Why had she failed? She did not know, unless it was that she lacked sang froid and the supreme confidence in her abilities that would carry her forward. Even if she went on working and hoping, time would not stand still. In two more years she would be thirty.  A chorus girl at thirty! Her lips curled in a derisive smile. Her sense of humor would not allow her to face that. After all, there still remained Henry. Tomorrow he was coming for a definite answer, and as she fancied he was becoming a little tired of her vacillation she had decided at last. Though she did not love him she was fond enough of him and would do her best to make him a satisfactory wife. He should be content, for that appeared to be all he desired.

Love! She did not think she could love anyone while she had this ache at her heart, this passionate craving for the theatre that would have none of her. How she loved it! the queer, indescribable smell, the dark mystery of the wings, the distant throb of music, the hum of voices and the pounding of feet. The charm, the thrill, the romance of it swept over her with redoubled force. She felt alive to her very finger tips, tingling with a strange excitement. Tonight was the end of everything, but she would make it a glorious end.

As the curtain swept up she felt no diminution in her intense vitality. The music blared into a mad, barbaric air, the stage flashed before her in a glowing mass of color as the chorus whirled to the front in a wild Russian dance. She was barely conscious of her companions, except as their movements lent meaning to her own. The quick, savage gestures, the almost fierce music, coincided with her mood. Her dark eyes, brilliant with excitement, her parted lips, half-smiling, she danced with a passion that set her apart from the other girls and attracted the attention of the audience.

All through the performance tills mood of exhilaration held, but when the curtain had finally fallen, depression settled on her again. Turning abruptly to leave the stage, she was stopped by the manager, who looked at her curiously, then drew her aside.

"What was the matter with you tonight, Miss Allard?" he asked.

"The matter?" Under the heavy make-up her face paled. It was one thing to admit failure to yourself, another to have it forced on you.

"Why," she faltered, "did I dance so badly?"

"Well, hardly." He laughed shortly, "Personally I never saw you dance so well. And, by the way, I may as well tell you now, though you needn't let it go any further, I've had my eye on you for some time and you may take it for sure you'll have a part in the next production."

"A part!" Her thoughts raced. Thank God. It wasn't too late. She had not yet given any promise to Henry.

"It will only be a small one, remember," he warned.  "But," he hesitated. then something in the girl's expression brought the truth from him. "I think someday you'll be a winner."

The face that looked back at her from the mirror that night was an extraordinarily youthful one.

__________________

29: Murray's Farm

Weekly Times (Vic), 13 June 1925

WHEN DANIEL MURRAY was killed with horrible suddenness by a falling tree, there were those in the district who prophesied, not without a secret satisfaction, that the farm would have given up. With only a thin slip of a  woman left to carry on, and two bits of boys hardly more than children, it was only to be expected. Of course there was Angus, who had been Murray's right hand man,  but he would never work under a woman.

They reckoned, anyhow, that Mrs Murray would be glad of the opportunity to sell and return to the city from which she had come. She had never cared much for the farm, and Daniel had spoilt her. It would be pity of course, to see the old place pass out of the hands of the Murrays, for it had belonged to them since, the first Murray loaded his goods on a bullock wagon, cut his way through virgin bush, and built his one-roomed shack in the wilderness. They agreed in was enough to make the old man turn in his grave, and lost themselves in useless speculations as to now much the place would bring and whether Mrs Murray wanted cash or would accept terms. But they had reckoned without the fighting spirit of Mrs Murray.

Her first impulse had been to leave the place where her married life had ended in such tragedy. There was no doubt, also, that the thought of life in the city held a certain charm for her. But it was Daniel, the youngest boy, who made her pause. Arthur, her first-born and the darling of her heart, was at school, and she knew that he, with his high spirits and gay irresponsibility, would be happy anywhere. It was Daniel for whom she was afraid. He was his father over again, a sturdy, grave boy with dark eyes, his jaw already beginning to show the strong outline the characteristic of the Murrays. He was to have gone to school that year with Arthur, but after his father's death he refused to go, and nothing she could say could shake him.

"No, Mother," he said steadily. "The school here is good enough for me. Besides I have to help you and Angus run the farm. Mother!" His eyes were fixed on her face. "I heard them say in the township that you were going to sell. Mother, you're not going to sell, are you?" His voice broke on a sob. "Dad would hate it if you did."

She saw her duty plainly then. With a sigh she dismissed other dreams, and sent Daniel to find Angus. He came in, a small, wiry man, grey-haired and slow of speech, but shrewd of eye. He waited for her to speak, his eyes on the ground.

"Angus," she said, dismissing all superfluities and going straight to the point. "I have decided to keep on the farm. Will you help me?"

She waited. Without his help she knew it was impossible. He appeared I to ponder slowly over It, then raised his eyes and looked at her.

"I will, I lassie," he said briefly.

So Murray's farm did not go on the market, nor did it fail. On the contrary, it prospered, though not without exacting payment. Daniel realised his responsibilities early, and almost before she was aware of it, had taken his mother's place. But the hard life left its mark upon him. He spoke seldom, and his movements were slow and awkward. By the time he was twenty he looked many years older, and Angus regarded him as master. His youth, with its laughter and its dreams, had been swallowed up by the farm. From childhood he had followed so undeviating course and known one ambition— to save Murray's farm for the Murrays.  His fields, his sheep, his cattle, filled his life. His inarticulate love for the land that had bred him satisfied his heart; at least, until Arthur came home, and Lucy Day entered his life.

Arthur had gone from school to university. He had expressed a desire to study medicine or law, he did not care, but his talents did not co-ordinate with his desire. Besides, he appeared constitutionally unable to stick long at anything. He studied wool-classing, which was more to his liking, and then suddenly determined to come home. He found it pleasant enough to ride round with the sheep, and discovered he had an unexpected flair for cattle dealing. It would need a clever man indeed to get the better of Arthur in a deal. For all his gay irresponsibility of manner he had a very shrew head when it came to business. Daniel pointed this out to Angus when he grumbled that Arthur shirked his proper share of the work on the farm.

Daniel loved Arthur, and excused him in everything a fact which Arthur was not slow to realise and take advantage of. Many times, unknown to his mother, Daniel had sent Arthur money when he was on one of his periodical visits to town, and often he had pulled him out of scrapes the consequences of which might have been serious.  His love affairs were notorious in the little township, and not always innocent.  There  was one which Daniel shuddered to remember in case it came to his mother's ears. But through it all Arthur preserved unsullied his boyish charm of manner, and even those whom he had injured him forgave him, and never ceased to love him.  Daniel came to be glad when he was away, for it kept him out of mischief nearer to home.

He had been home nearly a month when Lucy O'Day came to teach at the little school. On the day he was expected, Daniel had been drafting a herd of cattle  to the sale yards, and as he road home his heart was heavy within him. A vague, inexplicable fear hung over him, and his brows were drawn together in moody thought.

As he turned the curve of the road which brought him in sight of the house, he slackened his horse to a walking pace. Sunset held the land in a golden spell. He could see the glimmer of the river in  the bend of the valley, and the tall white chimneys of the house through the trees. It was a sight that never failed to appeal to him, but this evening it seemed to have lost its charm. He gazed steadily ahead for a moment; then,  clapping heels to his horse galloped on, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.

Work had finished on the farm when he arrived, and Angus was leaning against the stable door smoking.  He watched Daniel as he watered and fed his horse, but made no remark.

"Arthur come back?" asked Daniel at last.

Angus grunted. He was one of the few who did not admire Arthur. "He's back." he said. "Money gone, I suppose."

Daniel not reply. He never discussed his brother's affairs with Angus, though he knew that Angus was quite aware of everything that went on. Inside, he found his tea ready for him, and his mother singing happily to herself.

"Arthur's back." she said gaily, as she put his meal in front of him.

"So I hear," he answered. "Where is he now?"

"Oh, he went out again. Said he had business in the township but would be home to tea."

It was strange that his food should suddenly lose its flavor. It must be the thought of Arthur in the township. Lucy and Arthur! All day he had been coupling those two together. From the time he had realised that he loved Lucy he had been dreading Arthur's return. Arthur would meet Lucy in the township today, nothing was surer than that. He could see Arthur's boyish smile, that happy manner he had. And Lucy— what thought would she have for Daniel when once she had seen Arthur?

He pushed his plate aside and rose from the table, making an end to his pretence at a meal. The world outside received him as a friend: the twilight touched him with gentle fingers, and the great silence of the plains came out to meet him. He drew a deep breath. Alone with the land he loved, his trouble already seemed a little less. A dog came up and whimpered at his feet. He bent and caressed it gently.

The sound of a horse's hoofs along the avenue and a voice calling roused him. He went to the gate and threw it open. Arthur dismounted, a tall figure in the gathering dusk.

"That you, Dan?" he called. "Here, take the horse, like a good chap, and fix him up. I brought off a couple of good deals in town, but we'll talk about them later. I'm hungry. Told mother I'd be home to tea,. and late as usual."

Daniel took the reins. It should have been simple enough to tell Arthur to look after his own horse, but somehow he couldn't.  Arthur expected you to do things for him, and they were done. He vanished towards the house, humming under his breath, but at the door he paused, his foot on the step. Daniel could see his face thrown into strong relief by the light streaming through the kitchen door. It was the mischievous expression he knew so well.

"Dan! I say, Dan!"

It was coming. Something in the intonation of Arthur's voice told him that.

"What is it?" he asked gruffly.

"There's a bonny new teacher at the school. What's her name? Lucy! I met her today and we're going riding tomorrow. She said she knew you. They tell me you've been making the running with her." His laugh rang out. Old sobersides! You're not in love at last are you?"

Daniel said nothing. He stood firm, the horse nosing at his arm.

"Well, you're certainly a brilliant conversationalist," said Arthur lightly, a mocking tone in his voice. "I wonder what you found to say to Lucy?" He laughed again, and ran inside.

They did go riding together. Coming home that afternoon Daniel I chanced to meet them on the river Lucy Rushed him a laughing glance, but he greeted her coldly bitterness in his heart.

Only last week she had ridden with him. They had gone over the bridge and through the trees, and he had shown her the fields golden with wheat that were his and the sheep feeding in the paddocks. He had felt like a king that day, a king about to enter into his kingdom. But he had kept his head, for he believed she was not yet ready for him and he did not want to startle that brightly innocent gaze. And now she was riding with Arthur where once she had ridden with him, her eyes shining and her lips smiling as they talked together. A wave of jealous anger swept over him. He felt he could bear their gay voices no longer, and with a muttered excuse rode on. Presently he slackened speed, a wild hope forming in his heart that Lucy would come after him. But no. He turned his head and they were riding away together in the opposite direction.

His opportunities or seeing Lucy now were few, and on each occasion he was unhappily conscious that in some way he had failed her. The old sense of comradeship and mutual understanding was gone. Their conversation was stilted and unreal and he fancied she was glad when he left her. But her friendship with Arthur grew. The days were rare indeed when Arthur did not find an hour at least to spend with her. Once or twice Daniel fancied that Arthur looked at him with a queer expression in his eyes, and he wondered dully, why? But it was the lambing season and he was too busy in the fields to waste much time in useless speculation. In attending to his ewes he even ceased to think consciously of Lucy.

But schooled as he imagined he was to the thought of losing her, the night when Arthur brought her unexpectedly home showed him how little he had succeeded. He came tramping in from the fields in his heavy boots, and found her in the kitchen. By some glorious chance she was alone. He stood by the door, his hungry eyes fixed on her. Here, in his home, she seemed in her rightful place. She was so small, so neat, like a trim little bird from the hedges.

"Lucy!" he said softly, his shyness and heaviness falling from him like a garment. "Lucy!"

For a moment they looked into each other's eyes, and she seemed to sway towards him. Then a light laugh startled them. Lucy drew back, and Daniel turned his head. His heart sank as he saw it was Arthur. The two brothers looked at each other, then Arthur took Lucy gently by the arm and swung her round.

"I've been looking for you everywhere." he said. "I did not expect to find you here. Come along. We're having tea in the breakfast room, Dan," he added, "When—" his eyes seemed to dwell on the other's shabby clothes and muddy boots, "—when you're ready." He was smiling as he led Lucy from the room, but his eyes were keen and hard.

Daniel realised that, for the first time, Arthur was in deadly earnest. Reading him by the light of his own feelings, he knew that Arthur loved Lucy, and meant to marry her if he could. It seemed strange to think that of all the women Arthur had known, Lucy should be the one he had set his heart on.

Lying awake that night and listening to the wind howling across the plains and battering against the walls of the old house, he thought it out. He hadn't the ghost of a chance against Arthur. That moment in the kitchen, when she seemed to sway towards him had been purely imaginary. He recalled her manner to Arthur that night— her smiles—  Arthur whispering to her at the piano, while he  sat silent in a corner, dull and stupid, unhappily aware of his large hands,  roughened by work, and his big feet, which seemed continually in the way. No, a heavy, stupid oaf like himself would bore any woman. But if Arthur married her he couldn't stay at home. He would leave the farm to Arthur and go away. The noise of the wind sounded like the voices of the great world calling him  to come and face it.

A storm was rising. The rain pattered against the window, and he got up and looked out. The pine trees in the long avenue were tossing their heads. This wind was sure to do some damage. Tomorrow he must make certain they were all right. Some, he knew, were rotten, and about to fall. He remembered it had been after a stormy night that his father had been killed. A pale moon was straggling through the clouds when at last he fell asleep. Morning dawned, windy out clear. As he had expected, two trees had fallen, and after inspection he decided that three others should come down.

He saw Arthur at breakfast, but he seemed moody and disinclined for conversation. The meal was eaten in almost unbroken silence, and Daniel was glad to get away. He took his axe from the shed and went off to his work.

The avenue had been planted 70 years ago by his grandfather. It was over a hundred feet wide, and stretched for nearly a mile from the garden gate to the road. It grieved Daniel to cut down the trees, but he knew it had to be done. He had felled two, and was just starting on the third when he noticed Arthur coming towards him down the avenue. He paused, leaning on his axe, wondering what Arthur could want.

"I say, old chap," Arthur began, with his ready smile, although there was a hint of embarrassment in his manner, "I just wanted to say that it was rotten of me to monopolise Lucy as I did last night." This amende honorable startled Daniel so much that for the moment he was unable to reply.

"Oh, that's all right," he muttered, coloring to the roots of his hair. There was an awkward pause, then he raised his axe again, glad to be able to change the subject.

"Stand clear while I get this one down," he said.

Arthur moved aside, and Daniel braced himself for the blow. He felt the tree tremble under the shock as the axe cut through the trunk. "I must be careful," he thought to himself. "She's nearly through."

Even as his mind formed the words he heard a warning shout. For one sickening moment he was aware of the tree falling towards him, a huge green mass, blotting out the sky. blotting out life itself, then he was swung clear and flung violently to the ground. The tree crashed to earth, and he felt the wind of its passing on his cheek. He sat up, half dazed, and then was suddenly, horribly aware that he was alone.

Arthur! In a second his mind grasped the awful fact. His heart thundered against his ribs. It was Arthur who had swung him clear. It was Arthur who lay beneath the tree. With steady hands he raised it, gently, firmly, putting forth all his reserve of strength. At last he found him.  Arthur! He called his name and fell on his knees beside him. His mind thanked God for the habit he had tensed of always carrying a flask of brandy with him. Gently he forced some between Arthur's lips. Presently flickered open, Arthur smiled, tried to lift himself, then fell back.

"Dan!"

They read the awful knowledge in each other's eyes. A sob rose in Daniel's throat but he choked it back; there would be time enough for that afterwards. He must not trouble his brother's passing.

"Dear old chap," whispered Arthur at last. "Don't grieve. It's tough luck; but I'm glad it's for you." His voice faltered, and Daniel gave him more brandy. He lay still, gathering his strength for one last effort.

"Give me your hand, Dan. I won't feel so lonely then... Lucy... she turned me down last night... it's you, Dan... Lucy s wise... she saw through me... so did mother, but..." his voice became weaker, almost inaudible... "she loved me . "

His head fell back. He died, as he had lived, with a smile on his lips.

___________________

30: The Sad Case of Miss Brown

Bohemia, April 1939

MISS BROWN kept one of those threepenny libraries so prevalent in the suburbs nowadays. She also had the misfortune to be engaged to a young man, described on rare occasions in the newspapers as "the rising young Australian author.” Sometimes Miss Brown found herself thinking that it would have been better for her future prospects if Bill had been a butcher or even a milkman, but she would hastily banish that traitorous thought. She had fallen in love with a rising young Australian author, and she must take the consequences. She devoted herself to helping him all she could in her small way. She put his books— he had published three— into her library and endeavoured to persuade her subscribers to take them out and read them. His latest book had just arrived, and filled with W'hat she was afraid was a vain hope, she bought a small stock of them and displayed them in the window for sale. One she stamped and put on the library shelves. It looked attractive, and perhaps someone would take it out if she did not tell them it was Australian. But it was useless. The first subscriber she offered it to turned over the pages idly, then catching sight of the name of a familiar street, she studied it more closely.

"Oh— Australian!” she said, with an indescribable inflection in her voice. "I want something really interesting.”

Miss Brown flushed angrily.

"Perhaps you would prefer this,” she said, and took down something entitled "Love’s Young Dream.”

The girl said she would, and went off with it gaily.

The next subscriber was just as definite. Miss Brown had had hopes of her because she knew she read a better class of book than the other. She handed her Bill’s latest in, all its bravery of green and gold.

"Just out,” she said

The other looked through it dubiously. It was impossible to hide the awful fact that it was Australian.

"Ah, I see,” she said. "Well, perhaps I’ll take it another time. Is 'Rebecca’ in?”

Miss Brown said it was, and with a few remarks about the weather the other departed.

Miss Brown took up her knitting. She was making Bill a cardigan for the coming winter. It would have been nice, she thought, if she could have told Bill that someone was interested in his book. However, she would have to invent something. Fortunately, Bill was easy to deceive.

She knitted quite happily, thinking of Bill, for half an hour or so, and then the sound of a car stopping outside the door disturbed her. She got up as two men entered the shop, and her heart leapt with delighted amazement when one of them pointed to the pile of Bill’s books in the window and said he would have a copy. This was the beginning, she thought, as she took one out. Oh, brave new world that was opening out before her.

"Good book?” asked one man, as Miss Brown displayed it proudly.

"I don’t know anything about it,” returned the other. "The wife asked me to bring her home something to read, and I forgot it when I was in town. This will have to do her.”

"Pretty little girl,” he added as they left the shop. "There was a sort of a glow about her. I wonder why suddenly she looked so dashed?"

Inside the shop Miss Brown took up her knitting again. Until she was able to discipline herself she dropped quite a lot of stitches— her eyes were so blurred with tears.

End

Table of Contents

- 1: The Chateau
- 2: The Necessary Third
- 3: Jenny
- 4: Finito I'Amore
- 5: Atavism
- 6: The House by the River
- 7: The Bookshop
- 8: Tiny Feet
- 9: The Amber Necklace
- 10: Rose Aylmer
- 11: The Contract
- 12: The Secret Garden
- 13: The Bend of the Road
- 14: Strawberry Farm
- 15: Smith's George
- 16: The Wooden Buddha
- 17: The Green God
- 18: A Touch of the Sun
- 19: James
- 20: The Room Next Door
- 21: Quicksilver
- 22: The Brothers
- 23: Scarlet Hibiscus
- 24: The Wooing of Betty
- 25: The Redemption
- 26: "Doug."
- 27: A Matter of Business
- 28: The Making of a Star
- 29: Murray's Farm
- 30: The Sad Case of Miss Brown