“WILD GRAPES”

Waikato Times, Volume 121, Issue 20271, 13 August 1937, Page 3

“WILD GRAPES”

By THEODORA WILSON-WILSON.

SERIAL STORY.

CHAPTER XL.— (Continued.) And presently he was seized with re'stlessness. Why shouldn’t he prove the dootor to be wrong? He thre\v down a handkerchief, and set a stone upon it. He would walk ten minutes by his watch, and see whether he made the oirole. A thought did strike him, that he must be careful not to walk over the scaur, for the face could not be more than fifteen minutes away. But if he went by his watoh, there was no danger, and there was still visibility reduced to a couple of paces. But the mist was not going to allow itself to be crallenged as scornfully by an “ offoomer,” and in a few moments, It was as though the mist was holding out arms to wrestle with him. But he went forward, ever north east, and presently he looked at his watoh. But he had forgotten at what time he had looked at it, aud a slight nervousness crept over him. Perhaps he had better sit down after all until the mist lifted. It could not last long on a July afternoon. And yet a certain obstinacy prevailed. He would take twenty more paces. His only wish was that he had had a walking stick with him, to prod the ground in front. He was looking anxiously towards the ground, when he laughed out. The doctor was right. There lay his handkerchief, as he' had left It. He had better give in and smoke another pipe. A strange Sunday morning, and down below, out of sight, the folks were probably coming out of church, and a fine dinner was being cooked at the# doctor’s. He filled his pipe and struck a match. Then he paused, and listened. Surely—thrft was a child’s cry No, it wasn’t possible. Yet his mind fled to the nameless little girl who had posed for him, and caled him her “Lazy Man’’ and pouted at him with her roguish mouth and twinkled at him with her merry eyes. Yes —again 1 Gordon leaped up, and stumbled towards w'here' he thought the sound came from. But no, there it was again—that cry. fainter, and he was going in the wrong direction. He turned, threw out his rams as though he would tear the blinding blankness from his path. Coo-eel Coo-eel” came a plaintive call. “Coo-ee'l I’m coming,” shouted Cordon. “Where are you?” And then surely the mist w'as spinning itself out ever more delicately, till there was only a silken veil between him and the summit of the scaur. Yes, he could see like some etherlcal figure, the form of a little girl—tlie nameless child he' remembered. “Mummy l Mummy 1” she wailed. The going was easier, and he was now at her side. “My dear,” he cried, “where is your Mummy?” “Down there —some'where 1” and she pointed down the scaur, into the depth of a wood. “You ran away from here?” he asked, hoping that was the least of the trouble. “No, no, Mummy fell —It was so dark, and we couldn’t see', and she pushed me back, and she fell—and I can’t And her.” Mercifully, patches of pale blue appeared, swept by swathes of grey, following northwards, as though drawn Invisibly. “Sit down, child,” he ordered. “I will And your Mummy l" “But why doesn’t Mummy cry coo-ee when she's only Just down there?” demanded the child. Clearly, if he was to scramble down a path he now noticed leading into the’ wood, he must take the child with him, yet his heart sank. There must be somte reason why no answer had been made to the little girl’s frantic calls. “There is Mummy,” he said gently, ns he spied something lying below him. “Your Mummy has hurt herself. Where do you live?” "At the farm—the Red Farm,” and she pointed somewhere below to her right. “Good!” said Gordon cheerfully. "Then you run as fast as your legs will carry you, and tell them at the. farm that. Mummy has hurt herself, and that someone must come." This was the best, sejierne he could think of for getting the. child away, beforo he approached that which was lying so crumpled and still against the screes. "Quick! I’ll take care of Mummy,” he ordered. She ran off down the path, and Gordon moved to his left. It might, of course, be only a faint a concussion—it might be'—death. He felt in his pocket and took out the brandy bottle which he had never uncorked since the doctor had placed it In his hands. He pulled out the queer muslin “hanky” which the child had left those weeks ago, and which he had kept ever since. He plunged it into a trickle of water, and poured a few drops of brandy on it. The'n he went near and drew off a little cap that had fallen over the face. “Madeline!" bo breathed. CHAPTER XLI. The Race For The Doctor. So it was Madeline, his own wife, who lay senseless on the screes under the Scaur. But there was no time to consider shock or surprise. Gordon's instant iji]t v was to do what he could. Mercifully, lie had sent oil' (lie little girl, his own daughter as lie now knew. t„ get assistance from the tarm where they were staying, lie bail not dared 1,1 chance this child muling her “Mumble stooped and raised her head, and noticed that her abundant dark hail .. „ will, blood. .Me felt Tor hei heart and was convinced that there was the faintest flutter. Knowing something of "first Aid.’ he fell her over and hoped ll,at noil,lns was broken. hut it was vital In set her to the Med farm without an' instant s delay

A Charming Story with Delightful Appeal.

The fatal mist had cleared and the sun was peeping out lazily. Madeline was light enough, and he gathered her in his arms, and strode with great caution down the steep path, and through a pasture fleld towards the farm. Once or twice he felt a slight movement and heard a faint moan. That was all to the good, and as rapidly as he dared, he got over the ground, until in a few moments, hp was met by Mr and Mrs Potter from the farm, and the child ran up eagerly. “You have to carry Mummy,” she exclaimed. “Can’t she walk?” “Now, Dolly,” said Mrs Potter, “you get right away off to the high Held, and bring me two new laid eggs, brown ones, mind, so that I may boil them right away for your mother!” The ruse succeeded, and the child cantered off. But Gordon would not relinquish his burden until he had brought his wife indoors and laid her on the simple farm house bed. “She’s Mrs Gordon Tate,” said Mrs Potter. "She’s come here for a bit of a holiday, with her little lass. She came from one of the dales, and fancied a breath of dale air. She’s a widow or as good as—seemingly,” she added. “But now,-the Auld Doctor.” "I’ll go at once—the short cut over the scaur,” said Gordon. He was gone, through field, and up the scaur, and over the fell and past the Druid Circle, over the beck, not heeding the stepping stones, and so to Dr. Benson’s. But the doctor, rising from his Sunday dinner, saw him coming, and anxiety crept into his eyes. He was hoping that he was going to make a complete cure of this attractive young artist, but as the man panted up the drive, a ghastly doubt assailed him* “Now, now, Mr Brown—Jackl” he protested. “I’m not drunk,” shot out Gordon. “I’ve raced over from Red Farm, beyond the scaur. A woman fell on the screes, in the mist. I carried her In.” “Alive?” He nodded. “I got some brandy Into her.” He took out the bottle, and eyed It as though irresolutely. “The bottle has come In handy,” said Dr. Benson, looking his patient In the eyes. “It’s done It's Job, I hope 1” he answered. Then he crashed the bottle with all his strength against an apple tree. “I’ll get round by road, at once—the woman’s name?" “A Mrs Tate they told me.” “Good. Well, I’ll do what I- can, and meanwhile you’ve not had your dinner, and I know how far you’ve run. So go Inside.” Dr. Benson rushed to his surgery, picked out what he wanted, sprang into his car, and was gone. Ills face loooked cheerful. lie felt convinced that this patient he had picked up as an experimental speculation, out on the fell, was going to be worth while. Jack Brown could not have carried a woman to a farm, nor run as he evidently had run, a month ago. But Gordon sat down at the table, and felt himself like a Varsity man after a boat race. “Now, now, sir I” said the housekeeper, cheerfully. “You’ll feel a million times better when you’ve got all this into you.” •Gordon wasn't sure _of that, but after an attempt at a meal, he craved for air, and went up the garden to the sunset seat. The whole world looked strange and altered, and as if It were staring at him in wonder as to what he would d.o. He had found the wife who had once fled from him in terror, the wife, who had flung a curse in his face—the wife he had once wooed and loved. He had found that the little child w’ho had been laughing her way into his affectation was his own daughter. Yet here lie was, an outcast—utterly unworthy to accept the treasure he had discovered. It might be better to escape from the dale—to London, abroad—anywhere, and break off this strenuous medical training, which at times became almost too intolerable to endure. Then—lie could drink—drink and get his life over and; trouble no one. And then he remembered yesterday when a genuine pleasure had* come to him. It w'ns in the form of a cheque from a publisher, and a commission to go on with the illustrations he had sent in on the poet Francis Thompson’s “Hound of Heaven.” The letter had been gratifying in the extreme, and had given a big push back to that inforior- ( ity complex against which he was struggling. ) It might he better to stop thinking, and get to Ills artistic work. And as lie returned to the house, he was greeted by the housekeeper reproachfully. “Now, now, Mr Brown, you went out and. forgot your coffee,” she exclaimed. “i’ll get into the doctor’s bad books if I lot you do that. I’ll bring , a flue jugful into your room ” And over the strong coffee, Gordon ; Plucked up heart, so closely is the . physical and emotional side of a man [ connected. He took up the poem, now so well i thumbed, that, he might choose out some point for further Illustration. "I knew how the clouds arose. Spumed of the wild sea’s snortings." What an imaginative picture. His at- ’ t ent ion was caught and won. Yet he started up in renewed agitation, when he heard the doctor’s car L crunching over the limestone gravel. “Well, sir?” he exclaimed on the doorstep. “All right—that is, concussion, but a long rest will put that right. Perhaps the accident was a Godsend—she looks like a woman who has been up against it, and needs a rest. I hope there are crumpets for tea.” Somehow Gordon had to laugh. Life », —death—crumpets So like the Auld r Doctor. (To he continued.) it - . __ _____

fire,” featuring ” Goodbye, My Lover, Goodbye”; “ Sippin’ Cider Thru a Straw”; 8.16, “Off For the Mine,” a further episode in the lives of a Japa--8.28, ” The Kmpress Josephine,” a dramatic serial, dealing with the life of the famous Kmpress of Franco (chapter .*s) : 8.i2. reserved; 0.0, weather; station notices; 9.5. a chamber music concert; the Loner Siring huarlct: 9.i5. Parry Jones (tenor'; 9.51. Klliel Bartlett and Mac Uoherlson piano 10.0, dance music, by the Savoy lianeo Band (relay from the Savoy Restaurant,) ; il.O, close down.