LAWLESS ISLAND

Waikato Times, Volume 124, Issue 20744, 2 March 1939, Page 5

LAWLESS ISLAND

By EMILY HEATON

NEW SERIAL STORY.

An Irresistible Love Story

CHAPTER 11. Miss Stang shook her head sadly. “Yeolm and Ribblesbank are bad enough, but you will find Nether Hill much worse. Conditions there are absolutely shocking!” ‘‘Why so? What are the landlords thinking about?” asked Gerda. “There is only one landlord, who acts exactly as he pleases. The owner of all Nether Hill, and lots more besides—farms and lands for miles around, some here and some at Ribblesbank—is named Burn, Gavin Burn. He has made himself feared on every hand, and no one dares to thwart him.” “I must see what I can do. I will take a tour of inspection, then I can formulate a plan of action accordingly.” That was why on the following day Miss Chubbs found it necessary to run to her window, having heard the buzzing approach of a motor cycle—she could never resist a sight of the romantic figure of the wicked landlord, Gavin Burn. To her surprise this was not he but a girl dismounting at her gate. It could only be the new doctor. How shockingly masculine to ride a motor machine! Though common-sense proclaimed it as the b\st method of transport on these rough roads. “I see this is Whinny Knowle, I suppose you are Miss Chubbs,” a cheerful voice remarked, as Teresa hastened to the door. “Yes. Will you please come in. You are Dr. Aslin, aren’t you?” "That is right. I’ve come to see my consulting room,*-and to talk matters over—about meals and so on.” The room was not exactly what Gerda had hoped for, but she reflected that her patients were likely to be uncritical, and she liked Miss Chubbs, who in her way was as nice as Miss Stang. They arranged business details amicably, and to their mutual satisfaction. “What a lovely view you have,” cried Gerda enthusiastically, as she took her leave. She had paused to gaze across the valley where the stupendous Nether Hill reared itself in solitary grandeur. “I suppose the mountain has a name?” “That is Nether Hill, Miss—er— Doctor,” answered Teresa, “but we mostly call it th’ Old Lad. The village is named after it.” “When I see a hill like that, I always wish to see the other side of it. Don’t you?” “I can't say that I do, Miss—er — Doctor. I daresay it’ll be much like this, only there might be more houses.” “I shall probably climb it some day, just to look over the top.” “I’ve never been up, but they say there’s a tarn at the peak—nobody knows its depth.” “How interesting! And i? there a house amongst those trees, quite at 1 can see what appear to bejMhneyrf. ■ you’re right.” Miss Chubbs lowered her voice. “That is Nether Hill House —we call it ‘The House’ for short.” “What an eerie looking place! It seems to be surrounded by water. Is it on an island?” “Not exactly. There is a moat around it to keep people away when they’re not wanted.” “Is the owner a recluse, then?” “He’s a bad man!” exclaimed Miss Chubbs warmly. “There’s strange happenings in that house, I can tell you. It wouldn’t do for them to be made public, so the villain has in- . vented his own method of hiding his sins.” “He must be the wicked landlord I’ve been hearing about.” “That’s very likely. ’ He owns well nigh the whole countryside, as his father did before him.” “Does he live alone?” “Yes, and his servants come from other parts; nobody about here w 7 ould take service with him. The house has been shut up for a good while, but now he’s back again. The house is haunted, you know 7 ,” went on Miss Chubbs. “I marvel that anybody dares to live in it. “Haunted!” echoed Gerda, aghast at this revelation of superstition in these enlightened days. “Oh, yes. I’ve never seen anything myself, but other folks have seen them—niggers—lots and lots! You see, they’re buried under the trees round the house, and some in the cellars, they say. Gavin Burn's great-grandfather was a slave owner, and when he came to England ana built this house, he brought some of his niggers with him as servants. I’ve heard he treated them shamefully, when they angered him he whipped them to death. There’s no wonder that this young man should be such a monster—it runs in the family.” “A case of hereditary v ice.” “That’s just it. There’ll be some fine goings on now that ne's got back —the place lit up to the full until a” hours. But then, I’ve seen it blazing with light when it was empty; a proof that it’s haunted, if you like.” G«rda did not express her inference that probably the setting sun would explain the phenomenon of the blazing windows rather than any

haunting might do. She knew the adage: “One persuaded ’gainst one’s Will, is of the same opinion still.” • • * • Little Richmal Shouksmith was Dr. Aslin’s first patient. She was suffering from a feverish cold ana* from past experience, her parents were aware it would cling unless properly supervised, and complications dogging childhood—fevers and the like —might follow. Richmal loved the new doctor at sight. Putting out the tongue and feeling the pulse became a frolic in this fascinating presence; even the medicine took on a new flavour. The Baptist minister's house at Ribblesbank was built close to the chapel, with only the ancient burial ground between —its ricketty gravestones bending in silent grief over the remains they guarded. The house was totally lacking modern comfort, its paintwork being scratched and discoloured; ajid its furniture, chosen for the use of successive pastors, bore pathetic testimony to the services rendered through the years, and the inadequacy of the minister's stipend to provide more than the demands of a life of pinching poverty. Gerda felt admiration for the brave face the family turned to the world. The Rev. Joel, with his Christian optimism, and the child's uplifted cheerfulness in her weakness; but most of all did she admire Laura Shouksmith, the wife, who was her husband's right hand, and the pivot on which the whole domestic machinery turned. One could but marvel at the courage behind the pale features and slight frame. To mark her appreciation, Gerda determine*! to attend the little Baptist chapel when the exigency of her profession allowed —it might serve to encourage, as she had heard the services were but thinly attended. Being quite ignorant of the tenets of the Baptist creed, her action in braving the unknown savoured of the heroic. Gerda’s opportunity to carry out her project soon came. So, suitably attiring herself, she set out for the. chapel in the Sabbath evening calm. Following a thin stream of worshippers, she was ushered into a pew directly opposite the pulpit—a round, box-like projectfon approached from the floor by three or four steps. To the left, at the end of her pew, were the choir seats, and behind those the organ. All the pews w r ere at one level—choir seats and the lot —there being no gallery. The choir was composed o-f some half-dozen girls—the thin, fair ones presumably soprano, and the squat dark ones, contralto. The same number of young farmers and butchers made up the male element.. Two small boys and Richmal Shouksmith could not fairly be included, as, though seated with the choir, they were probably there on sufferance. Mrs Shouksmith was at the organ. What else could this marvellous woman do? She did not attempt complicated work on the wheezy instrument —merely performing a simple voluntary besides the hymns, but everything was executed neatly and without ostentation. Mr Shouksmith looked more like one of Daniel’s lions than ever, shaking his leonine head over thi bounds of his cage. His sermon could not but be scholarly, studious and quiet, and was thoroughly appreciated by Gerda though, at the same time, she could understand the sparse congregation, as the discourse was far above their heads. She felt irritated that it should be so. Why did not the man wake up, and talk to the people on their level, say something that would help them to endure the cramped existence of the small village? • * • • The hamlet of Nether Hill was astonishingly ugly—and that in spite of its natural advantages. The scattered farms on its outskirts were picturesque enough, but its one street was a squalid row 7 of cottages without the compensation of a village green; there being merely a strip of coarse grass, where a few weedylooking fowls dejectedly scratched amongst rotting kitchen refuse and rusting sardine tins. The remainder of the dust-bin material damned the brook running alongside, transforming what should have been a limpet streamlet tinkling over the stones, into a foul-smelling mud hole known locally as ’t’mucky heck.’ 1 Blacksmith Fold, situated at the head of the main street, was considered the select portion of Nether Hill; the cottages there were arranged like three sides of a square, beginning with the smithy. Then, the Methodist Church, fifty yards beyond the Fold, hung back and concealed Itself in a small untidy piece of ground surrounded by a high wall, with an iron gate, its large lock much in evidence. The date 1859 was carved on a blackened stone over the door, and a row of inscribed stones —a girdle round the centre of the building—testified to munificent- assistance towards the building fund. (To be continued)