‘‘WILD GRAPES”

Waikato Times, Volume 121, Issue 20270, 12 August 1937, Page 12

‘‘WILD GRAPES”

By THEODORA WILSON-WILSON.

SERIAL STORY.

Qi A Charming Story with Delightful Appeal. - —*■ -

CHAPTER XXXVIII.' —-(Continued.) 1 hope you will not think It an impertinence for me to send you this note. I just wanted you to know that 1 have been thinking a great deal about you in all this trouble upon trouble. Yours most sincerely, Stephen Smith.’*

“He’s a good sort,” admitted Robert. “Father was struck with him when ho came along debt-collecting.’’ “That seems such ages ago,’’ said Paula. “And yet, it still burns my cheeks to think that it over happened.” “I know. I have hard work to forget the past and climb forward," admitted Robert.

And then they went out for a wonderful walk, on and on upon the shoulders of the fells, and talked over the past, present and future, and Paula was comforted.

And as they returned home, they met the Vicar, who was more than delighted that Robert should sing on Sunday. “It will be a great treat," he said. “1 wish I could persuade one of the dootor’s visitors, Mr Jaok Brown, an artist, to come and hear you. But he Is off church at the moment." Then they finished up the evening at the Vicarage, and Dr. Benson barged in, and told dale stories until Robert and Paula were ashamed to stay a moment longer.

It was Just as they were going off to bed, that Robert said:

“We don't seem to hear from our mysterious uncle.” “No," and Paula frowned. “He may or may not have seen ‘The Times’ announcement. When he realizes things, 1 suppose he will come sponging down upon us." “He’ll hardly dare to do that, now that mother has gone. ! He still keeps Oliver Cromwell and Marie Antoinette.” “He has a nerve." “Stephen Smith is a queer chap—he has tremendous interest in drink cases, lias done no end at Cambridge to help tottering undergraduates. He reckons lie is going to specialize on that sort of thing." “I wonder what Mrs Gordon Tate is doing, and that delicious child? I hope prancing about in my clothes 1” said Paula. “My aunt, that’s funny I’’ CHAPTER XXXfTX. A Squirrel In The Fir Tree. It was a still, breathless afternoon. The deepest of blue skies slept, and there was no cloud to disturb it. And Gordon, moved to adventure, passed ut from the confines of the doctor’s garden, almost with a sense of a hoy escaping from school. For school-time had been very severe, yet very strange, and he was conscious of new power driving him forward to effort. Armed with easel and sketching materials, he opened a wicket gate and was immediately out on the open fell. Looking about him, he was attracted towards a group of isolated firs, which dominated the bracken, the heather, the patches of gorse and Juniper. He would like to secure that dark richness against that consummate blue. It would be rest from the fTerce fight which seemed so often to be on the edge of being lost. As an artist, Gordon did not fumble, and to-day his hand was steady, and his eyes bright. Dr. Benson had given him a rare word of congratulation and encouragement only that morning. And yet—suppose he did win through? What was there in life for him, beyond his art? And when next he looked up, there peeped out from behind the trunk of the 'fir, the face of a little child — roguish, with an absurd tattered; doll crushed cruelly under her arm. “Why, you arc that lazy man again!” she said, holding to the trunk, as though for protection. "And you are the child who ran away." he retorted, offering her a smile that had not crossed his face for so long. “Let me sec I” She advanced slowly, and looked at the strong brushwork critically. “It would look nicer,” she said, “If there wa%, me peeping from behind that tree 1" The suggestion was beguiling, as the child meant it to be. “It might," be said, enticing her on by a doubt in his tone. “It would," she Insisted. "In London these would be squirrels In those trees." “Then you be the squirrel. I’ll help you to sit on that branch." The idea pleased her, and having taken off his coat, Gordon threw it over a branch and lifted the child, to position. “It takes longer than with a camera," he warned. “I* don’t know your name." ‘“I haven't one. 1 mean, 1 don’t like my name—it's silly! You can call me ‘Squirrel.’ Oh, dear, I do wish I had a bushy tail." Ho drew rapidly, for Ibis child might, at any moment, change her mood. “I suppose a little girl soon gets tired of being a squirrel," lie said diplomatically, as he noticed ominous fidgetting. “This little girl doesn’t!" she said seriously, recomposing herself. And Francis Thompson’s lines recurred to him, as lie slashed In his impression. “To my soiled garments, thy shy snow, At tenderest touch will shrink and go. Love me not, delightful child, My heart, by many snares beguiled, Has grown timorous and wild. It would fear thee, not at all,' Wert thou liol so harmless — small—” But having sketched in the position, the artist suggested that he should lift down the squirrel, and that she should stand for him. “Oh, well," she agreed, “and then I can say you some poetry that Mummy taught me." “Do," he said. "Please stand Just there. And look straight at the camera man who hasn’t a camera!" She laughed, enjoying the game, and then dropped a curtsey as though she. were on a school platform, folded her hands, and began her “piece." Gordon started. Francis Thompson again, lie could not escape. “Little Jesus, wast Thou shy, Once and just as small as I? And what did it feel like to be Out of heaven just like me? Didst Thou sometimes think of there?" She raised both hands to the sky. “And ask where all the anccls were? I should think that I- would cry For my home, all made of sky." “Go on." he said. "I can’t when Mummy hasn't taught me any morel" His chance was over. I

"Now the squirrel Is going to skip away, lazy man!” and she laughed. She danced up to him, *and again looked at the sketch. “It’s very bad,” she said frowning. “Rub it all out, you lazy manl" “But where do you live?” he asked Shxiously. “Nearly up jn the sky" an-di she laughed. "Why, there is my shepherd —and his dog! I have a big lamb of my own. It’s lame, poor thing I Gooee! Gooee 1" The shepherd turned, and she had gone. CHAPTER XL. When the Mist Rolls. On Sunday, Dr. Benson suggested at breakfast, that his visitor might be interested in going to Ghurch that morning. “Our organist’s brother has turned up—a budding singer, I understand, and the Vioar has roped him in to sing an anthem solo.” “I’m not particularly interested," said Gordon. “I'd rather take my fill of fresh air towards Nab Scaur. I want to get the lily tarn that lies ibelow the limestone precipioe." “•No day for sketching but do Just as you like," said the doctor easily. “The fells look rather like taking a mist bath. Ever been out in a mist?"

“Well, no, I don’t think so," said Gordon.

“You’d know. Jack, If you had," and the doctor laughed. “If you do get Into one, you stay put, and If you walk, you’ll walk round and round till you drop, and find yourself exactly where you starte-d at the ‘finish.” “But —why?" asked Gordon. “I know I’ve heard that said."

“And, of course, you don’t believe It I You think you would be the one glorious exception! Everyone does—but experience is a dear school and fools will learn In no other 1"

Then Dr. Benson hurried off on his rounds, and Gordon smoked iyThe church bells called on and on, with a monotonous Insistence, but they might go cracked before Gordon would rouse himself to enter the church. He had begun to enjoy his utter isolation from the village life. He had no intention of taking any step that would lead him into making acquaintances.

His art was sufficient company, and the doctor’s library.

So he waited until the bell had ceased, and the church goers had taken their seats. Evidently by the sound of feet and voices there would be a good attendance. There was the draw of a London singer, and the dalesfolk appreciated good singing. But presently, loading himself with light sketching materials, Gordon ventured out, and passed along by the church on his way to some steppingstones which crossed the beck, and would lead to the open fell and Nab Scaur.

iHe paused for a moment near the wall, and heard the low murmur of voices in repetition. Then the organ broke loose, and Gordon was Intrigued into waiting to hear the opening of the anthem. The choir sang well, and the anthem swung out solemnly, as a prayer. He was moving on, when the soloist’s yoloe rang out with a wonderful and passionate appeal- It was no use, Gordon had to wait.

“Hear Thou In Heaven. Thy dwelling place—and when Thou hearest. Lord, forgive—forgive, 0 Lord, for-

Then the choir came in again, and the solo was repealed.

And at. Ihe “Amen" Gordon moved away, fearfully, and as he looked up into the sombre sky, he wondered whether lhat Hound of Heaven was there —out of range—galloping—chasing.

lie tried to cast, the thought from him. and hurried off down to the bock, as grey this morning as the. grey sky

He crossed the stepping-stones, and set forth over some rough ground which led eastward up the fell, at, the summit of which he would reach the edge of a series of limestone cliffs, called Nab Scaur. This was a favourite walk in the Gowthwaite district, for from Nab Scaur there was a glorious view eastwards, far towards the Yorkshire dales. Presently he came to a dip in the ground, where what had once been a “Druid Circle" was shown by the few great stones, upright or fallen, which were left after long dead dalesmen had broken up the rest to mend their drystonc walls. To-day the columns looked stupelied and heavy, and a few sheep, using them for rubbing Slones, started back as Gordon drew near. lie must, certainly make a sketch of this spot before lie left Gowthwaite. ' Before he left Gowthwaite! lie had a curious sense a>s though all behind Gowthwaite was blank, and all in front strange intangible mist. Leaving the Circle on his right, he tramped on unconscious that from behind the dale was growing opaque with the summer mist. It was only when he began to realise that he was walking onwards, right into a cool damp stretch of cloudland, that he turned, and found that all the dale was blotted out. lie could still distinguish patches of gorse, and juniper, which seemed to grow up from the ground as he approached and dim and clumsy sheep stumbled aside in front of him. His hope was to go on, and strike a clearer atmosphere, higher up the fell. Moreover he felt confident that so long as he was mounting even at a very slight gradient, he could not go round in that, mythical circle about which Dr. Benson had warned him. The point of the scaur which he wished fo make was somewhat to the north east, and at present he had three yards of visibility to guide him. But on turning, he realised that the dale mist was denser, and was rising to envelop him threateningly. Perhaps he had better sit down and smoke a pipe. (To be continued.)