A Short Story

Matamata Record, Volume II, Issue 86, 13 June 1918, Page 4

A Short Story

In Three Parts, ’ (Ihiblislied by Arrangement j Proprietors of the Copyright.)/ KNOCK AT THE DOOR* j By SHAN F. BULLOCK.J&uthor of “Tho Barry s,” “Rober| phorne,” etc, PART 11. For answer Hetty took her place jagain on the hassock, and sat bent over Iter knees towards the fire. Was anything between her and James? Yes, something was. In a flood, as she sat there in the dark, with her mother watching her and the sound of her lover's voice in her ears, came back the memory of that glorious time, six years agoue, when, at a cousin’s home by tho mountain side, she had met Hugh Lindsay. Such a fine, great man he was, so frank, so pleasant! She saw him now, heard his big, ringing laugh. Only for a week had they been together; but that week had been enough to influence all her life. “Wait for me, Hetty,” he had said at parting, her band in his. “I have my way to make yet; but I’ll moke it, and then I’ll coma for you.” And she had waited, confidently, secretly, year after year, day after day, watching for him to come, watching for a letter, hoping always, until even hope failed, and James came pleading, and drew from her that unwilling promise. Her promise, but not her love. Still sho kep:(?ioping and watching, still waiting iifi a knock at tho door, and the sight of big Hugh upon the step come at last to claim through that day it had been, she couldn’t tell why, ns though each minute the knock would come; even then, ns she sat there in the dark, expectation of it was in her heart; and all through her life, whether she married James or didn’t marry him, it seemed that she must live expecting it still. Some day Hugh would come. She felt it, she knew it; and then Ah, she did not know what to do. Should she tell her mother all? Should she go down to James and say she was ready? Or go down and ask him to give her back her promise? A while longer Hetty sat by tbo fire, then rose. ‘lt’s no use talking, mother,” she said. ’ “I’ve got to make my own bed, so it seems, and that I’ll do. Yes, this very night I’ll do it, one way or another, because all this must end Listen! I thought I heard a knock. No, it’s nothing. Wait now. I’m going to make up the fire ami hght the lamp, and then I’m going to get the tea. Poor mother! I'm a you. But it’s good to see you "better, and I'll worry you no more.”“Ha! It’s you, Hetty. I’ve been 'wondering now this long while what you had done with yourself, and faith, I’ll admit, wondering too how much longer I might have to avait for a cup of ten. Smoking and talking over a lire is mighty thirsty work, so it is. Isn't it, sir? How many hours have we sat here yarning about all that lives and grows in the neighbourhood? Hetty, it’s well you didn’t hear us, for it's weary and sick to death of everything from pigs to corn you’d have boon. You look pale and tired, child. What’s wrong with you?” “Nothing, James. I’ve been sitting upstairs with mother in the dark, and we’ve had our own time of foolish talk, maybe—that’s all.” “Well, I hope it is,” answered James, “for I’ll admit 1 like your merry face best, Hetty.” So saying, James Morton, left tho hearthrug, where he had been standing with his back to the fire, and gave Hetty help at laying the table. lie was a man of goodly height and presence, with an honest face and humorous eyes, and what Ulster folk call an easy-going way with him. True, his hands were rough, his manners countriificd, his clothes homely, and in mind, as in body, he showed no great signs of cultivation. But surely he was a man; and Hetty knew that, and so did her father sitting there by tho fire, his great hand stroking his red beard, and jhis shrewd old eyes watching Hetty and James. They were a well-matched pair, so Robert Myers judged. God bless ithem both, he prayed, and send them happiness and prosperity all their days. Not yet, however, had God sent Hetty happiness; or if he had, not orach of it cotild Janies find in her that December evening. She would not . She tajked like one in a dream. 3Ke sat moody and silent for the most ?art, mechanically pouring out cups of arid mechanically passing them, ailed hsr? asked Jtrtnes of himlejf. ( pfsUy,” he whispered, “what’s ferong? you toll nieP I hate to y6u ljke that Teil me, and let me ntrg ?OTJ. There’s nothing jrjfh'hS* Shot Hat a step $ ||ie gifaygi out-side? No. It was the *‘Don’ t' bother.” mUBt, girl I don’t like to see gAft jt| |Qtj ars, l°°k frightened ||||| 'MHh %Wio room afid tell n.o [“Wp, jamefj not now. But I will tell fata yotj $6. Wait—wait. Let PVjjS' nothin#, I say.” RJfPfr turned to yohr own opinion, Hetty.

bull# and sheep, markets tilt? ffimlj, crops, and ten-acre fields: what pattered her poor affairs in face 0 i Quickly she rose, helped Bridj g«>t> the eerTant, to clear the table j made fret moihev comfortable for thi night, then carried a lamp into the jjttjc rooth that looked upon the oro J Mid drew the red blinds. It was cold and gloomy in there, no' fire in the grate, draughts creeping from every corner, solemn pictures on tho cjftmp walls, heavy furniture upon) Ihe thin, patched carpet; and the roonf was full of a mingled odour of musk and stored apple® and peat smoke. To Hetty, however, mere hodily discomforts and impressions were as no-, thing that evening; within, her rexedj spirit sat expectant, scornful of cold or gloom, waiting for it knew not what/ delaying it knew not why. And as shej waited sho kept listening always— fod a step on the gravel—for a knock at the door; and at intervals she whisper-j od, aa to that vexed spirit within, “Not jet—not yet. Time enough. I’ll make up my mind soon.” After a long while, Hetty turned oi! a sudden, a hand over her leaping heart, and her eyes staring. Hush! It was a step on the gravel. Wait! It 1 was a knock at the door. And, instinctively, her spirit knew that its supreme hour, the time so long awaited, so strangely expected, had come. He was there. Sho rose, glanced at the 1 ghost of her pale, tense face in the mantel-mirror, and patted her hairji then drew a deep breath, and went ta the front door. It was Hugh. Big and tall he stoodj upon tho doorstep, just as a thousand times Hetty had pictured him, wearing a long coat and slouched hat and aj white muffler. His hands were in his pockets and he did not withdraw them. Neither did he speak for a little while. And Hetty stood silent, holding the knob of the door. “Well, Hetty, I suppose you’ve for-] gotten me after all this long time. Myj name’s Lindsay. You used to call me) Hugh.” “I know. I know. I couldn’t say anything—Hugh. But come in, won’t >-ou? Father’s in the parlor with a—j a friend. And mother has been ill. But,” said Hetty, closing the door and going towards the little room, “if you don’t mind staj-ing here a little while,* I’ll ” Hugh put out a hand. “Don’t Hetty,” he said. “fm not going to stay long. No, no. You really mustn't. Just shut the door, and let's have a littlo talk about old times.” He sat down, crossed his legs, and laid his soft hat upon his knee. “And how has the world been using you all this time, Hetty?” he asked. “I say, a good many fish have left the sea since we sa \v each ot her last. Changes — changes. Oh. to be sure. Happen what will, we can’t escape them. Look at yourself. Why, you hardly knew me at tho door. Jt’s a fact. I waited to see. But I knew you at once.” He laughed. “Well, its the way of the work!. I saj-, Hcttj’, do you ever think of the grand times wo used to have at Ballymore over yonder by the mountain—fishing and driving, and the Lord onlj- knows what? Aral, I say. do you ever think of the dr-graceful amount of flirting we two did ? 1 thought of it as I was walking over from I nc-le Ned s—l'm staying there for Christmas, j-ou’ll understand—and, faith, it made me laugh. Why, it was disgraceful! And wa hardly more than hoy and girl together ! But, maybe, that explains. . ~ Boy and Girl. And now we’re man and woman.” He leant over his knees, holding his hat in both hands. “Tell be said, “have you over thought of-mtf at all since those days?” (To be Continued.l