A SHORT STORY

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8343, 1 February 1913, Page 10

A SHORT STORY

“ MERCY’S RESCUE ” (From. “Modern Society/ ) Mercy Latham held in her hand a postcard bearing the mark et* the nearest post town, which chanced to bo Quite hve miles away. It boro the words, •‘Take care! A wolf is abroad. hroiu It was addressed to herself at * The Croft, Aiington/'‘ the said Alington being a sparsely inhabited tiny, oid-worhi parish, enclosed by green and amply rolling downs, which were a rich glory in the warm summer glow and a sheltering barrier and defence when the fierce blasts of winter swept over the land with a Diver breath from the icy north. • Aijd winter it now was—winter fairly, in all its depth, as the girl could «oo through the window. The great downs lay with‘their fat ed green hidden under a robo of suv.w, thinly spread on the higher heights, but tumbled into huge drifts where the lower hollows extended between tho swelling ridges. “Take care ! A wolf is abroad. From a friend/' Mercj r Latham again road tho warning, much puzzled. about its meaning. Carefully—most carefully—did she scan tho card and the handwriting. Tho former was just an ordinary postcard, the latter was quite unknown to ! her, and the caligraphy might be either a man's or a woman's, for there was nothing sufficiently distinctive to fix it cither way. “A wolf/' thought Mercy, ‘That moans an enemy. Now, if I have an enemy. .» am unaware of the fact. Neither among my male nor female acquaintances do I know of anyone who is evilly disposed towards me. 1 really think it must bo a hoax." Prsenfly, however, her thoughts took u different turn. Sitting by the table she rested her face in her hands, still gazing fixedly- at the card, but with her mind evidently far away and Intent upon another supposition “Pray heaven it bo liot that!" she murmured, faintly, tho rose tint dying out of her face, and her heart feeling as if it ceased to beat. What more might have followed we cannot say, since just at that moment she was interrupted by the entry of her father, Mr Robert Latham, for the mid day meal awaiting him, a circumstance from which it will be gathered that the country postman, though never an early arrival in Alington, had this morning been abnormally lato owing to the heavy snowstorm, and had not delivered the card for Mercy till it was well past noon. “No letters!" exclaimed Mr Latham, glancing at a vacant place on tho covered table. "No, dad, there were none; only a postcard for me." “Good gracious!" renewed her father, in a tone of unfeigned surprise and dis appointment, “Nothing from the grain merchant and the cattle-dealer? Neither of their promised cheques? Whatever is up, and what shall we do to meet our most pressing obligations?" lie sank into his chair by the table, his face presenting a picture of the keenest annoyance and apprehension. “Every mortal thing seems to be topsyturvy to-day,” bo added bitterly, a re mark which caused Mercy to abandon her incipient purpose of showing tho card to her father. She would not add to his present worries even in the slightest degree, and the card, therefore, must keep.' Mr Robert Latham was a somewhat remarkable man—a scholar, a thinker, and not unknown as a writer. After a strangely diversified career, be had relinquished his former intellectual pursuits in town and had retired into the deep seclusion of rural Alington, where, with the little money at his disposal, ho had purchased tho little holding of The Croft, thus returning like a famous man of old to the spado and the plough, for he had been bred upon the soil, and the love of mother earth was still strong within his heart. The whole indoor work of the little homestead was done by his daughter Mercy and a young servant maid; while, similarly, the entire field and, outhouse labour—except at harvest time—was undertaken by Mr Latham himself and a stout servant lad. Though thus employed in what some might call menial duties, Mercy Latham was a lady in every fibre of her being. True, her hands, though small ahd perfect in their shapeliness, were not perhaps quite so slim and slender as those of society dames, and her arms, when bared to the elbow on housework, were seen perhaps to be a trifle too robust. But nothing—not even her coarsest kitchen apron—could obscure the faultless contour of Mercy’s figure, and her face was the mirror of her soul, fair and fresh as a smiling summer morn. Moreover, Mercy had every ladylike accomplishment, and was well educated and well read, as became the daughter of a, scholarly man, whose general mental gifts and character she had inherited, with something at once softer and more stable in the texture. Like her father, she also took kindly to her present lot, and at five-and-twenty gave no sign of a desire to change her maiden state, though chances to do so had not been wanting. Hr Latham, contrary to his -wont, ate the greater part of his meal in a gloomy silence. But at length, recovering his voice, broke forth again into tho complaint : "Yes, everything seems out of joint today. Those cheques, so confidently expected, and so urgently required, not arrived ! And what if the vague rumours about the dealers themselves should prove true, that they are iu a. shaky wav qf business, and may not pay at all? It is a serious matter for us, and should be seen to at once. But how to get away this afternoon to Great Alington—(the post town)—passes my comprehension; for with such a snowfall there is so much to do all about the place, and Bob has sprained his wrist, and is only half fit for tho work in the cattle sheds. No. I cannot by any possibility get away.” "Let me go, said Mercy, without a moment’s hesitation. "You, Mercy—in this weather? "Whv not? I have often been out in worse.” . , _ “But Great Alington is five miles off. You could not drive because of the roads, and I could not trust yon to ride that new mare, she seems only half broken 1D; 'Never mind, dad,” rippled Mercy. "There is another mare that will take me all right—Shank’s mare—and if I should be kept late there will be moonlight to guide me home. So if you have anything to write to these dealers, write it at once, and I shall prepare to start. Saying which, Mercy trose and tripped lightly out of the room, hurrying upstairs, where she quickly dressed herself in her warmest furs, ana was down again in complete readiness as her father finished the letters and gave her some verbal explanations and instructions. He was reluctant to let her go on such a day but as it appeared to be the only wav out of tho difficulty, he acquiesced. And in another moment Mercy was on for her journey in the snow. Tlie quaint old town of Great Alington has stood for many a long year by the slow, sluggish river that winds peacefully through the broad meadows lying round. .. . TEe meadows were a white strip ana the river a dark line, upon which the clear moonlight fell as Mercy crossed the ancient bridge leading country wards on her returning tramp. She had succeeded in her errand, after much delav. and she was now the hearer of a considerable sum in notes and gold. One of the dealers had paid in cash, the n + her iiad given a cheque, which she also held. TVnring the keen excitement and increased pulsation, of warm blood occav

sianed by her incoming trudge through the snow, whore site had encountered many a deep drift, Mercy had almost forgotten the mysterious postcard with its warning massage, and she had not thought of it at all while anxiously engaged on her business in tho town. Her mind, however, now reverted to it. Mercy was as fearless as any girl could be; but some strange apprehensions of impending danger began to crowd upon her. Yet what had she to fear? she asked herself. . , Sh© was out alone in the winter evening. to be sure; but so, no doubt, was many another girl. And what if she did carry an unusually laige sum of money in her pocket? Who ever heard of anyone being molested in these quiet parts, let alone robbed? Mercy tried to laugh away her silly fears; but there are certain states of even the most healthy mind whmi vague fears will not bo shaken off, and thus it was with her. Tho card might be a stupid hoax, as she had once thought; but then it might not. And what if that other supposition concerning its meaning, at the mere imagination of which she trembled, should prove to be correct? Mercy hastened her steps, and m doing so experienced at least a xihysical elation. Tap moonlight was bright, the air crisp with frost in it, and if the snow was deep it ivas clean to tho foot. The road, like- most country roads that loaq to outlying parts, was up hill and down dale, now eastingTtsolf across bleak open spaces, and anon straggling between steep banks or through bits ol woodland, all gay and green in the summer time, but white and silent now. Morey had covered about two miles ot her jearner without meeting a single soul, though lights had glimmered from soilfarv windows as 'she passed, and a watchdog or two had greeted her with sharp, yelping bays. The next mile was the loneliest of the five with no wayside hamlet or near farmhouse, and tho road wound np and up towards one of the clumps of woodland of which we have spoken. At tho edge of this copso there was a small ruined building, once a keeper’s hut. on approaching which “ho girl first started and then stood quite still, as a dark figure leapt from the mined hut into the middle of the road and accosted her with ; “iiullo, Mercy Tho voice—the face—the figure—Mercy knew them iu an instant, and in tho same instant she also realised who the "wolf" was. Her worst suspicion had been right, and her alarm was now complete. “You, Harry—here?" she faintly murmured. , , ... “Ay, Harry—and hero, ho mockingly rejoined. "1 thought you were in America—for good?" “ Iwas there; but I am back hero for a purpose.’’ “ what purpose? ’ “Revenge." ' 1 Mercy’s blood ran cold. She well know the character of this hardened man. "Revenge 1 And upon you, for one," he repeated. “,,hy me?” she pleaded. I never did you any wrong." "You did. You refused mo as a prospective husband; and thereby disgraced mo, especially with my father. He hud set his heart upon the match —it would steady me, he said—and when you rejected me. he practically cut me off, and I had to leave for America." "But what else could X do?" urged Mercy. ' "You know quite well that your whole course of reckless conduct had absolutely withered and killed nny_ love once felt for you. and destroyed my trust. Our only alternative, therefore, was to part as we did; and although you frightened me with your cruel threats at the time, X had thought after these years the whole affair was buried in oblivion." "You thought wrong," he grimly rejoined; "and I am here for the old reckoning." . Upon which ho took from his breast pocket a revolver and presented it at tho girl's head. But Mercy faced him without flinching. The alarm which hitherto had shaken her frame and daunted her spirit wen» quite suddenly. At the supreme moment, when menaced with death, she showed her true mettle. "You may shoot me, if you will," she calmly retorted; “and my blood may be upon your hand. But if I am speaking my last word, I must repeat I never did you any wrong. Tho falsity and wrongdoing were on your side, and you know it.” Tlte full moonlight, stemming upon her countenance, showed it pale indeed, but perfectly firm and unmoved. "By Jove, you' are a brave girl, Mercy,” said Henry Praed, in au altered lone, and returning the revolver to his pocket. "Besides," lie added, “I did not really mean to shoot you—at least, I think not—though I have scarcely been in my right mind for some time; and, while drinking hard, have breathed forth all sorts of threatenings and slaughter against several people, and my father and you in particular." "Taat postcard was a friend’s warning," thought Mercy, "sent by someone who know of these ravings. "But to come to the point,” he continued. "What I want is money, and money I must have. My father has refused to help mo in the way X desire, and I see nothing for it but to return to Mexico, where a rising is expected. I shall throw myself into tho fray, and as a soldier of fortune may yet carve ray way to riches. Meanwhile, I repeat, money I want now, and you must give it.” "I !” exclaimed Mercy, eagerly straining her eyes to see if any person came along. But no one appeared. “I give you money, Harryshe renewed, in an incredulous tone, though she guessed distinctly what he was driving at. “Yes, you, Mercy. The money you have in your pocket. I know all about it, for I have been dogging your footsteps in the town, and hastened on to waylay you here 1 I want every farthing you have got—as a loan, of course, —I will rehay it or die on the field of battle —but X must have it." "The money is not mine to give. It is my father’s, and is badly needed. We are none too well off. and I cannot part with it. What I will do, for old lime's sake, is this. I have just five pounds of ready money of my own at home, and I will gladly give you the equivalent of that and make it up. But I will not do more.” "Hive pounds?” ho sneered, in his meanness and desperation. "What use is thafi? I need nearly ten times as much.” "Well, I can do nothing further," said Mercy. "Listen to mo!" cried the abandoned man, breaking into a tierce rage, and again laying his hand upon the revolver. "Do you know what you are about? Have you any conception of what I am capable? Of the ugly deeds I have done in America? Take warning, for time presses. Give mo all the money you have, for I am determined to have it.” "Will no one come this way to help me?" cried Mercy, in her heart; but her spoken answer was still calm and courageous. "Here is the five pounds.” she said, offering him the gold. “1 have already told you I can do no more." "By heavens," he exclaimed, “I will have the whole." And he grappled with her to secure it by main force. Mercy gave a freshly-alarmed scream, which was immediately answered, for another and a stronger man, springing upon Harry from an unseen quarter, shook him off and stretched him in the enow. Next moment. Mercy, half fainting, was in her deliverer's arms, and Braed, losing nerve, arose and fied. Baking is a very useful process, and home-made bread, when lightly and rightly made, is delicious, a work fnr which, as we have seen, Mercy was wont' at times to In re her -hajiely arms to the elbow. And it chanced, a few mouths later, after her exciting encounter with Henry, that. Mercy was thus engaged in the kit- ’ chcn alone when who should enter, almost without asking leave, but the young .Squire ■ of Alington, Ronald Merryvaie,

the stalwart whose opportune appeal ance at the critical moment had saved Mercy. Henry had found means—somehow—or getting to Mexico, and shortly aKer perished not ingioriously in the rising which %Taiiwkile. the Squire had fallen in lovo vritli Mercy, and was diligently courting her. , , .. , * Formerly, he had been a irequent absentee* from the nail, but was now always at home, and every gossip in the little parish spoke oi his cumsumt to tno Lathams at The CroltC. For a few moments the young hqiurc sat in Bilenco watching Mercy at her work, to that young lady s embarrassment, Those bare arms, liour-powdeixd, how she wished to hide them ! But they were very comely arms in Ronald's eyes, and presently lie rose, stole to Mercv’s tide, .slid one arm round her waist, and with the other raised her left arm and kissed it. “You dear, beautiful girl!' he exclaimed. "You grace everything, you do. Will you como to the old Uall and bo my sweet wife?" , , Her heart beat wildly, and she was just murmuring her response when her lather suddenly entered. . The .Squire started; but still holding Mercv in his embrace, laughed lightly ns ho said; "All right, Mr Latham! This er —ei —a baking match. Do youn understand *' “I think so/' laughed Mercy's father. And that was all.