LIFE’S TANGLES.

Hokitika Guardian, 17 February 1922, Page 4

LIFE’S TANGLES.

(By Clara Neale.) \ The farm stood about two hundred feet above the sea, and the road was very steep that led to it. Overhead the trees met in summer, making a sort of green twilight. Near the fop on the right were two houses, one had been pa-, tiently covered with small shells, the home of an old fisherman, the other was a shop that sold many different things;, in fact, so different otie wondered what it had started out to be. A few old plates, several large shells, old books, a human skull, and some lurid cartoons which tried to describe something which might have been another war ,or the end of .tiie..world—one was not sure which. A bunch of candles, some medals, rosaries and prayer-books in one corner supplied the needs of the pilgrims who came to visit Notre Dame do Grace when her statue was carried in procession once a year from the old chapel

opposite. The placid Madame who served the rare customer could never have thought out such a stock-in-trade, one suspected a husband with morbid and radical tendencies behind. Leaving the shop and the steep road together, one crossed a piece of park-like land of soft grass and fine beech trees that surrounded the e,lmpel of Notre Dame do Grace. This quaint church stood when M illiam the Conqueror was a child, and lie was often 'brought here by his mother, Madame

Ariette, to hear Mass. A turning on the right and another lovely lane, with high hanks covered with ivy and shade! bv trees, further still, and the sea appeared shining far below like a mirror; overhead pine trees rose and heather bloomed to the edge of the cliff, dust behind the old white farm stood—m an apple orchard where cows were grazing a painted board over the gate stating “ Visitors received at moderate terms. J opened the gate and the dogs announced my coming. Madame .Ghaine, a young Frenchwoman with dark eyes and pretty hair appeared. We soon came to terms and J took up my abode at the farm. 1 found the household consisted of Monsieur and Madame Charlie, myself and a Breton maid; it was rather early for summer visitors. J had been there a week, living the simpliest, happiest life, wdien a I' came fo see me from the town, and we talked for a time, then 1 remarked what n fine man M. Charne was, and how obvious it was that ins wife adored him. *• That is true,” my friend answered, “ but it was not always so. He married Eloise straight from the convent — she had no mother and her father had kept her there as lie was away travelling a good deal and they had no relatives near. When M. Charne asked for Kloise her father thought this marring-' would end all difficulties. They were married three months later, and Eloise came to the farm that had belonged to M. Charlie’s father.' For over a year all went well, then Eloise’s cousin. Pierre, came to see her, and her hu - biuul invited him to stay. They "ere thrown together, of course, and both being young youth called to youth, and it was soon apparent to .Monsieur (.who was much older than Eloise) that they were in love with each other. M. Charne watched, silent, hurt, dumb, and remembered it was at his own invitation Pierre had stayed. But how to send him away! Then suddenly came war and the call to arms. M. Charlie

said nothing; they were both called up; perhaps one would he killed—that would solve the difficulty. Eloise went about with a face like ashes. M. Charne left first, then Pierre. The months passed, very little news came—only the names at the Mairie for all to read—of the killed and wounded. People asked with interest, ‘Which will he killed?’ At last a poilu returned on leave, and said that M. Charne and Pierre had met at Verdun, and that he had risked his life to carry Pierre to safety when he had been wounded. Then a telegram from M. Charne to Eloise to go to Pierre. She was with him till he died. “M. Charne seemed to have a charmed life. Tie exposed himself to every danger, but returned without a wound and covered with honor. Only -Marie, the Breton maid, was here the day lie returned to the farm—she says Eloise rose, as white as death, when he came in. She said no word, only crossed the fl, or and knelt at his feet. He raised her face with his hands and looked at her a long time, then lifted her up and kissed her.

“Only once have 1 heard Pierre’s n •me in this house since; that was a few months ago. Elois? was going () ut, and he called to her and asked where she was going. They understood each other so well that she came across to him and said softly: “It is the anniversary, I go to pray for the repose ol the soul of Pierre.’ ‘Wait a moment, Eloise,’ lie answered, ‘and 1 go with von.’ ’’

1 walked to the gate with my friend and returned to have lunch in the orchard sitting on an old garden seat with a small table in front; presently a goat joined me, then a young fowl perched oil the seat and a cat rubbed itself against me. The pleasant sound oi mowing, with the delicious scent of newly-cut grass, came from the front of the bouse, and 1 could see M. Cliar.ie sharpening bis scythe and hear Eloise singing in the old kitchen and 1 thought of Pierre and how death straightens out life’s tangles.