" A Word of Five Syllables."

Free Lance, Volume IV, Issue 170, 3 October 1903, Page 12

" A Word of Five Syllables."

HE had sent Home for a w lfe — to the provincial tovn he had quitted when a lad , also ioi a double-barrelled gun and a orate of ohinaware, enclosing, furthermore, a substantial cheque to cover freight and purchase of same. For he had completed his timber dwelling-house, and now stood In need of the goods specified. The old people received the letter with pride and satisfaction, but weie not vulgarly "set up" over it. mat tlhoir Thomas should prosper m the new land was with them a foregone conclusion. Seated together on either side of the chimney corner, they cogitated over the purchase of the gun and chinaHad these been all' But there was tihat other 1 fSrst-mentinonetd item, the procuring of which perplexed them not a little. "Health,, strength, good temper, and youth," were the specified qualifications. , . It was the old woman who hazarded the suggestion. "Why not Agnes.'' said she furtively under her breath, "wo can spare her. He wants her worse than we do. I can easily find another wench that will do our bit o work. Why not Agnes?" The old man did not at once reply, hut continued silently smoking his "churchwarden," his sunken eyes faxed oni the red embers in the grate, lney chanced at the moment to assume the shape of a narrow bed. whereon he could fancy he saw the form at his dying brother, bequeathing his little daughter Agnes to the tender mercies of his kinsfolk. . „ "Why not Agnes?" reiterated the old woman insiduously. Rousing himself from his reverie, her spouse removed his pipe from between his lips. Hunk she'd have him ?" he slowly interrogated "Have him? Sure, thou'st mad to doubt it"— with a derisive cackle. A light step in the passage without and a young girl stood in the old people's presence, shaming them temporarily to silence with her lovely youth and innocence. Then, up spoke the old woman. "Agnes, would st thou like to have a sweetheart of thine own?" . . , , The girl crimsoned. "I think not, thank you, aunt " was the faltering re"'Cause our Thomas wants a wife; he's wrote to us to send him one^—along wi a orate o' china an' a double-bar-relled gun. Me an' yer uncle thinks maybe you'd suit him. He wants a lass young an' healthy. He says naught about looks , but yours aoi't amiss. "Yell hare cows an' poultry m plenty," interpolated the old man. "He s sent money enow an' to spare for yer outfit an' passage," continued the old woman. "I reckon some new frocks an' gee-gaws won't come amiss," interjected her lord. "Ha' ye a mind to go girl ? He wants someone to housekeep for him. Yer uncle an' me's too old to bear transplantin'. I doubt yell ha' to go. Agnes." . The girl's glance strayed mechanically in the direction of a framed portrait, suspended over the chimney shelf, of a man, hard-featured and sullen, whose deep-set eyes appeared to look down contentiously on the little trio of debaters below him. With a vehement gesticolation the girl held out her hands in supplication. "Don't ask it of me, aunt," she cried', and fled the room. Gaining her little attic chamber, she flung h rself face downwards on the bed. "Oh, Will'" she moaned, "come back to me! What shall I do? Oh, Will, come back to me'" Two months later a merchant ship made port, and the same night a man stood under the stars waiting for the lass he loved, who had pledged her faith to him before he sailed. She came, and with her head on his breast, 'twixt smiles and tears, she whispered the words, "Oh, Will. I had not the courage to tell them ! They are sending me like a bale of merchandise, to a strange land — alone. They have written to tell him I am coming. I sail a week to-morrow." "Then I will go with you, love." "Go with me. Will ?" "Yes ; I'll get a berth aboard the ship. I hold a mate's certificate. We'll get married before we sail. We'll land at Sydney, and clear away up country. He'll he awaiting your arrival in New Zealand. He'll be disappointed — that's all'" The audacious proposition was well received. "How clever you are, Willi I would never have thought of that." Then, after a moment's reflection, "But wouldn't it be better to wait till we reached Sydney ?" "No. mine you must be. by English law, before the ship weighs anchor. Give me your solemn promise, sweetheart'" And the girl, locked tightly m his arms gave what he demanded — and abided bv it.

lii the seamen's quanters of a Syd-ney-bound vessel a sailor, stricken down by fever, lay tossing in his bunk, while a girl in an agony of dread and suspense, cowered alone amidsihips. 'He must be taken to the hospital directly we make port," said the doctor, in ieply to the skipper's lnqumes , he's been delirious all night, calling for 'Agnes' — some sweetheart he's left behind him, I suppose. He may pull through, being young and strong " As the ambulance conveying the fever-stricken sailor quitted the ship's side, a tall figure crossed the ganigw a-s , and glanced curiously about, then, accosting the purser, inquired if a young woman named Agnes Barnett was on board. She was pointed out to him. "Looks pale and thin, and a bit delicate," summing her up mentally, "different to what I expected." Extending his hand, "Well, Agnes, you don't remember me, I suppose , I'm your cousin Thomas. I thought I'd run across from Auckland, and meet you at SydnJey. I fancied, perhaps, you'd feel a bit lonesome, coming such a long voyage by yourself. I've fixed up matters with the parson. I've got the ring and license in my pockat. Wei'll b© marred at 10 o'clock to-morrow morning. We WI H .» The sentence was never completed. With a wild despairing cry the girl threw up her arms, and fell on the. deck at his feet in a dead swoon. * * * Ten years later, a man and woman met, face to face, on a lonely road that skirted a New Zealand pine forest. The woman was speaking. "Don't reproach me, Will'" she pleaded tearfully. "I was too frightened to confess the truth tto him when he came on board and claimed me The shock of meeting him nearly killed me, and I fell in, a heap at his feet." Then, after a few moments' silence, in a tremulous whisper, "And your wife, Will p " 1 She nursed me for weeks in the hospital," he answered. "I married her out of gratitude w hen I heard what you had done. She loved me, and as good an told me so. and you my lawful wife, Agnes "' The woman moaned, and had her face. "We are dead to one another henceforth, Will! It's the thought of the dhildi-em that tlortures me — my _ little ones'" Lifting her face to his she cried, ''Will, what are they?" "It's a long word, and an ugly one, Agnes." '•Is it a word of five syllables, Will P" "I fear we — it is, Agnes. Have you your marriage lines?" he asked presently, "and the ring I slipped on your finger, Agnes?" "Yes." "Where are they?" "Where they have always been— in imy breast." "Better give theim to mci, Agnes." "What will you do with them?" "Bury them for ever out of sight. Come with me," leading the way into the darkening bush. Kneeling down >on the soft damp earth a tiny grave w r as soon prepared. Unfastening a scarf that was loosely knotted round hiis neck, he tenderly wrapped within it the scrap of paper and the ring — their winding sheet. "Let me kiss tihem onee — just onje," she sobbed, "before they disappear for ever." She pressed them to her lip? — hie did the samei — then laid them reverently to rest for all time at the foot of a stately rimu, while the woman's tears fell fast upon the upturned sod. Once she had lost a little month-old infant, and had wept over its bier ; but these tears were more bitter than' those others. "Put a mark that I may know the spot again, Will," she pleaded. "No, Agnes, 'tis wiser to forget," and, taking her hand he led her giently away. Then, a mighty temptation assailed him, and the dcvil — aye, a lewion of them ' — whdsnered to him "She is your lawful wife. Fate has brought you to^ gether. Take her where you. will. She will follow you as a dog its master." Glancing at her face, he noted' the lines of the sweet, but vacillat 1 ng, mouth, the timidity and irresolution which had made such havoo of her life. He wavered, but for a moment only , then muttered brokenly, "We had letter say 'Good-bye' now, Agnes." She turned her white, tear-stained face, and fixed her eyes on him appenlingly. But he bravely kept his gaze aloof while they clasped hands and took their respective roads. • * * A twelvemonth later, a man laid d.>vi n. a paper containing an obituary notice "Suddenly, of heart failure, Agnes, the beloved wife of Thomas Barnett.'' Hut it was mid-day in the busy farmhouse, and from the adjacent kitchen came in a shrill voice the vexed expostulatio l, "I wish you'd come to dinner, Will. Whatever are you doing ? Everything will be cold. Come alone;, do." — By H! E. Walesby. in the "Otago Witness."