The Man Who Paid

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 303, 14 March 1928, Page 5

The Man Who Paid

By

Piere Costello

Author of '* A Sinner in Israel,’* “ Tainted Lives,” “ The Money Matter,” Etc., Etc.

CHAPTER I. “Happiness is where one finds it: rarely where one looks for it.” On a. February evening a man struggled over a rough track in the heart of the Bdhck. Mountains of Wales. He battled with the worst storm that had visited that bare and inhospitable region almost within living memory. He was, in addition, hopelessly lost. He was soaked to the skin, and an hour ago a fierce blast of icy wind had carried away his hat. His object, in starting out after an early lunch, had been to inspect a property that was for sal© in one of those remote valleys hemmed in by the forbidding and yet splendid mountains that rose over two thousand feet above sea level on either side. He had chosen to walk, and to enter the valley by the pass that guarded the north-westerly side of the mountain region. It had been a brilliant day, with a pure blue sky across which a high wind sent white clouds scudding, but without the slightest promise of a storm. After about two hours’ steady climbing, he had missed his way. A shepherd, guarding some small, compact mountain sheep, put him right, and gave him a word of warning about the weather. Soon he was in cloud; but he persevered. He knew that about half-way down the valley he was bound for was an inn housed in the remnants of an old monastery. That was his goal. Then there came mutterings of thunder and a sudden lull in the wind. A few moments, during which all nature seemed to hold its breath, and then the storm burst with a violence that he had seldom experienced before although he had travelled in many lands. It grew black as night; the temperature fell alarmingly; the lightning raced across th© sky in vivid forks; the thunder was incessant. The wind rose to the speed of a gale; violent storms of hail battered the lonely pedestrian, who at times could hardly advance at all. He had lost count of time. It was pitch dark. But h© knew instinctively that he had reached the top of the pass. On either side of the path lay patches of snow that gleamed faintly id the inky blackness. The hail had turned into sleet, which whirled round him and stung his bare head lik© a million whips. He began to descend. The track became a mass of loose stones that gave place to long slopes of scree. Water poured down the mountain side on every hand; in the rare lulls of the gale it sounded as if the whole earth were one waterfall. The man slipped and slid down from dense darkness into darkness denser still, as he came suddenly to som© clumps of stunted trees that announced the line of vegetation.

Then, high up on his left, he espied a light. Undoubtedly a light in a human habitation. It was not the inn, he knew. The inn was in the valley below him. But h© did not know how far it was to the inn,’and this friendly light up above promised shelter and warmth, so he climbed towards it. It was a long, low building; so much he could make out as he reached it. It faced the gale in blank darkness, so that the light must have come from a sid© window. The swish and whistling about the roof told him that it was a slated one. tie knocked with his stick and after a few moments the door was opened. A woman opened it. There was a light some way behind her. He only saw a dark form.

“Oh, a stranger!’* she exclaimed in a deep ringing voice. “I’ve lost my way across the hills,” the man said, “and I am wet through.” “Pray come in!” She stood aside, inviting him. Behind her the flame almost went out in the old iron lantern. He had to shut the door for her and to use all his weight to press out the wind. In the moment the door had been open the sleet had driven into the house like a white cloud. A quarter of an hour later, the wanderer, provided with towels and dry clothing, and having changed in a low-ceiled room, smelling of beeswax and lavender, was introducing himself to his chance hosts of this tempestuous night. They were father and daughter, an old frail-looking man. with a venerable white beard and beautiful grey eyes, John Venetian by name, and his daughter, Grace. , , _ , It was the daughter who had opened the door to him. . „ “My name is Norman R.i\ ett, he said "I was lost on the mountains, t was hound for the feulpice \ alley, and I came to look at the Sulpice Abbey estate, which is in the market. The storm overtook me. and I light up here.”

‘‘You are more than welcome, sir,” said John Venetian. He had a gracious, mellow voice, and spoke with the accent of the people, but not of the people of Wales. He was a native of the manufacturing city of Weaveham, that smoke-blanketed metropolis of industry, city of contrasts, roof-town of music and of misery, or rampant luxury and of sordid squalor, of much admired civic government and of the muttered rebellion of the man who has not against the man who has.

In his time John Venetian had played his part in the city’s life, an important part, though unhonoured. In him was seen the idealist, the pacifist, with nought but the good of his fellow men at heart. Many were the wrongs that he had helped to redress in th© teeming slums of Weaveham. He was a scholar, too, self-taught, self-edu-cated, self-evolved into the fine old man who was now dying of an incurable disease in quiet peace. Hia father had been a second-hand book-seller in Weaveham, city of numberless second-hand book shops, and then not sufficient of them to quench the insatiable mind hunger of those men and women of the north. Before his father died John Venetian had worked as a saddler. Afterwards, he took over the book shop, and many fervent plans for the betterment of this sad old world had been hatched in that low-ceiled place in the back street, that smelled of cobwebs, of mildewed leather, of damp parchment, and of th© acrid mustiness of undusted shelves.

But now his life’s work was over. His wife, married late in life, had been dead these many years, and he had retired into the Welsh hills with Grace, his only child. “We never remember such a storm,” Grace Venetian put in, as the stranger did not seem to find further words “You were well guided here, for the road over the pass is a tricky one to find in any weather.” Norman Rivett stood on the hearth rug, near his host’s deep-seated, many-cushioned chair. Th© body of the old reformer, that had never known ease, now had to endure it in order to relieve mortal pain. The waxen face told of almost unbearable suffering, not only conquered, but made light of by the soul within. The stranger was very tall. He overtopped the high black oak mantelshelf, and his head almost touched the beamed ceiling. He was big boned, too, but slender about the hips. His age was difficult to tell. His face was rugged and darkly tanned. His brown hair, looked light, and so did his blue eyes. He wore a clipped moustache, like a soldier, which half hid his mouth, a stern, rather obstinate feature, looking as if it had known suffering, but refused to become acquainted with any more. John Venetian’s clothes were oddly skimpy on him, and the old man gave a chuckling laugh. “You’re used to the open air, sir, and to making your muscles do their work. I’m as tall as you, I think, but my clothes look like a boy’s on you.” “I have lived for a long time in Africa,” Rivett said. “I haven’t been in England for more than nine years.” He did not call England “home,” as most men do who have sojourned in the wilds. Grace Venetian came in with a tea tray that she set down on the round, mahogany table. There were hot scones, thickly buttered; there was honey; there was a cake rich with almonds; the tea had a slightly bitter taste from the brown mountain water. To the traveller it was like nectar.

As he ate and drank and talked to her father, he looked at Grace Venetian. Seen in the doorway, she had been like a creature of the mist. She still looked ethereal, though she was not frail. Her face was a pale oval, framed in brown hair that had bits in it that were almost golden, and bits that were aliflost black. Like all women brought up entirely by a man, there was some- j thing boyish about her. She had a noble carriage. She looked about 25. Her eyes were grey and green anc l . brown all at the same time—what / s called ‘'hazel’’ in general parlance. T 7 ie eyes of brain and courage. Rivett noted the little, high-spir? ted arch of her nose, the thin, sens! tive nostrils, and the firm mouth, the c<? lour of the dark, Neapolitan coral, that was not very ready with its smiles. To his surprise, he found it was seven o’clock. “I must have been wandering? about for five hours,” he said.

“You would be still,” John V enetian replied, “if you had not seen or ur light. In such a storm as this the py .th lower down would be carried awj y by the rush of water. Like as not the burn will be in flood. There have ’ been sheep drowned before now on nights like these.”

“If you will tell me the way ” Rivett began; but the old man interrupted him. “We could not think of letting you go to-night, sir. Could we, Grace? We have a spare room, if you will honour us.” Rivett accepted simply. He was used to wild places, where hospitality was a matter of course. They sat and talked, while outside the storm increased in violence. Grace Venetian mended the fire from time to time with logs. She spoke very little. Presently she left the room. Rivett felt the loss of her presence. From her father’s conversation he constructed her early life and upbringing Passionate tenderness for the poor and oppressed was in her very blood. All beautiful things were the real things. All men and women were born for happiness, and it was their business to make each other happy. Nature, books, simple, housewifely ta^sks —that was her life. ' Violence and wrong had never touched her. Crime she loathed, while she loved the criminal. War was the last abomination. The dumb creatures were her brothers. Civilisation was more or less of a failure. The world was, in fact, sick of a malady that man had brought upon it; but the remedy was in the heart of man himself. And her father’s life work had been to help his fellow men to find this sovereign cure. Grace was his most faithful disciple, his most ardent admirer. She came in and laid supper, and went out and prepared it. She served it with her own hands.

Rivett was hungry again, in spite of his tea. During the meal he talked a little about himself. It seemed as if he owed some explanation. He said that he had left England, intending never to return. He had made a large fortune in Africa. He spoke of it indifferently. Then, just lately, the whim had seized him to come back. Happening to visit Wales, he had been attracted by the wildness of the scenery, and, hearing that Sulpice Abbey was for sale, he had come to see it, deciding to buy it if it took his fancy. The evening passed too rapidly. Grace cleared away the supper, and after-, wards seated herself so that Rivett could watch her without her knowin/g. The set of her head was wonderful. It was a good-sized head, made to contfdn a brain, and the thick hair lay .Like waves on it.

They went to bed early. RJ.vett slept little. He had troubled drea'ms—and all of Grace Venetian. In the morning he left, with fu/d directions about the path. The sky was brilliantly blue; the air glittered; the sun shone. He went down the flagged walk and saw a white sheet of£ snowdrops on the grass on either side of the yews. He still felt the touch of Grace's hand. He still heard, her ringing voice. “You were welcome, Mr. Bdveft. My father enjoyed talking to y ou. He is grateful for the storm.” “What did you think of Jiim?” asked John Venetian of his daughter, when the guest v.*as gone. “He seemed a strong m an,” she answered, after a moment’s ’nesitation. “Yes, I think he did. Fond of his own way, too. And not too much troubled about his money.” “I do not think he ‘Would settle down in these parts,” Grace suggested. “He seems to belong to tfc.e world.” “Maybe he thinks *the world belongs to him,” replied her father. “Some men think to make thetir own world, my dear.” Then he added, with his delightful chuckle, looking through the window at the radian#. sky: “D’ye remember the old Fell r? lyme, lass? ‘What the storm blows in and the sun sends out Is nothing to kiugh, but to pray about.’ ” Grace laughed, too, with a touch of constraint. “Are you suggesting that Mr. Rivett wants pray in/g for, father?” “Happen Ire does,” said the old man, and suddenly fell silent, watching his daughter cJ ear away the breakfast things, CHARIER lI.—EDEN IN THE NORTH Grace Venetian was married to Norman Rivett in the little chapel at the bottor/i of the walley exactly a week after her father’s death. Tly e old man had been a little afraid of tfhe quick wooing at first. His daughter knew that. When the stranger can 10 back, three days after he had go7J '& away, John Venetian looked at Go ace in a troubled way. It was as if he recognised in Rivett something <J ifferent and altogether alien from his Life’s ideal. Here was a man who had laid strong hands on life and carved out a piece of it to his own pattern.

An individualist, if ever there was eneNo disciple of the old reformer’s creed or the brotherhod of man. But he liked the stranger as an individual and he treated him with affectionate courtesy. Rivett stayed at the inn in the valley, and came up to the cottage every day for a month. He was negotiating about the Sulpice Abbey estate. Meanwhile, the first lagging signs of spring began to show in that bleak land; the song of birds was heard/; the grass lost its » brown, withered look, and began to spring under one’s feet. There was a . peculiar radiance in the mountain air, as if to make up for the grudging arrival of leaf and flower. And Norman Kivett’s fancy turned to thoughts of love. When Grace told her father that he had asked her to marry him, the old man sighed. “He has won your heart, lass?” he asked. “I think so,” she said gravely. Her father knew that she would not be an easy w oman to win comnletely. He talked to Rivett and tried to get into his mind. It was difficult, but on the whole he was satisfied. Then his fllness took a turn for the worse N/o doubt, the approach of death influenced him. He wanted his beloved daughter to be safe and well cared for. They had few friends. He did not believe that a woman was made to face tJie world alone.

The en.d came very suddenly, and, just before Ire died, he asked them not to wait, for any' conventional period after he was gone. He died in perfect peace, holding a hand of each, commending his soul to God.

Groce was willing to marry Rivett at ornce, since her father had wished it. It was inevitable that her great gri* f should come between them to a certain extent. But, looking into her ey*es, the man was satisfied that she lofved him, and that she relied on his s/.rength.

He remained in the valley, finding 'occupation where he could, while she set the cottage in order against their departure, collecting her father’s papers and diaries, and sending them to a friend in Weaveham, whom he had appointed his executor in all that appertained to his life’s work. Rivett had bought the cottage, which father and daughter had only rented from year to year. So she had only to leave everything in its place and find a woman who would come up from the valley, and see that it was aired from time to time. This puchase of his made her heart glow. It was an action so delicate. It left her a place wherein she could for ever enshrine her father’s memory. They were going to Weaveham for a few days. Rivett had business there, and he suggested that she might want some clothes. Afterwards, they were going to travel on the Continent for some months. The future was very vague to Grace. She had no idea about the life of people who had money that they did not earn from day to day. But between grief and happiness she had no time for thought. The valley wind was blowing on their wedding day. It was a heavy, malignant wind that came in stormy gusts out of a perfectly clear sky, raising whirlwinds of dust along the narrow road.

The ceremony did not take half an hour. The minister came from the little mining town of Cumdred. It was a mission chapel. Grace had been brought up a Congregationalism although her father had practised his faith according to no set creed. Rivett was nothing at all.

When it was over they shook hands with the minister, and, while Grace went to visit her father’s grave, her husband handed the clergyman a handsome cheque for the poor. Rivett did not follow her to the grave, although she stayed there a long time. When she came away, she found him at the wheel of his big motor-car. Her modest luggage had come down in a farmer’s cart, and she with it. Rivett was going to drive all the way to Weaveham. He expected to reach the city in time for a late dinner. When they reached the outskirts of Weaveham at last, Grace was tired but exhilarated beyond measure. It had long been dark, and she had been fascinated by the silence, and here and there the lamp-lit villages: and northwards the glare in the sky around the black country, and over a great stretch of common land the quiet stars, and in the trees the hoot of a night bird, as the car sped by. Rivett steered the car through the ever-increasing traffic to the heart c|T the city, where, by the railway station, rose a giant white building, famous as one of the most luxurious hotels in the world.

He had ordered a suite to be reserved for them, and here for the first time Grace Rivett came in contact with the material functioning of naked wealth that for many years of her life continued to offend her in some inexplicable way. There was a large sitting-room, a bedroom that seemed to her enormous, a smaller dressing-room, and a mosaic lined bathroom that would not have disgraced ancient Rome. It was all oversplendid. There was too much gilding and brocade: but Rivett had happened on a suite decorated according to an ornate period. It was all quite correct, and the rooms were copied from worldkno'>’7, models. From inspecting them, Grace turned to her husband with a little smile that deprecated her own ignorance. “I’ve never seen such rooms, Norman!” •‘And you feel that this perfectly hideous ceiling ought to fall down on

your head, because you know there are people in this city who are starving, and have no roof to cover them,” he put in.

He spoke in all kindness, but she winced. These things had been so very real to her father and herself. “Oh, and what flowers'.” she added, burying her confused face in a crystal bowl of roses. The man laughed triumphantly, as he took her by the shoulders and kissed her. “I haven't deceived you, dear girl,’’ he said. “I told you I was rich.” They dined in the sitting-room. Grace was a little distressed by the many courses and their richness. She had never drunk wine in her life, and even to please her husband she would not sip the golden liquid in honour of their great day. The man was fiercely glad, as he was about everything. He was used to such different women in the hectic South African cities. And certainly Grace needed nothing to make her eyes sparkle or bring a glow to her cheeks. The pallor of her skin, when warmed by emotion, took on a rich. honeyed tone; her wing-like brow's were jet black, so were the long lashes through which shone the lustrous,- changeable eyes.

That night they made Rivett think of clear water flowing over shining pebbles. Her dark red mouth, so grave and young, trembled now and then, but smiled each time he told her with his eyes that he loved her.

He told her of his life in various parts of Africa, of the long, lonely treks, of the wild beasts, of the marvellous ravines and cliffs and waterfalls, of the endless veldt. He did not want to go back just yet, but one day he -would take her there. He wanted to settle down at Sul pice Abbey with her after their Continental trip. He had bought the place; the lawyers were transacting the legal business. He did not tell of any deeds of his own, but she seemed to feel them, and was drawn to him irresistibly, to the courage and peril and adventure of his life, to his strength, above all, to his strength.

He held her in his arms, pressed close to him. With a strange little sigh of happiness, she felt he could have crushed her as if she were a butter-

fly. His kisses left her without power to move or think. “Ho you know,” he murmured, “you have never once said ‘it—Grace, my wife. j?ay it now!” Her eyes were shut. She could not look a.t him. “I love you.** she breathed, when she could speak. (To be Continued.)