NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 18, 30 April 1913, Page 55

NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

“Kismet.”

By

G. LOUISE SATCHELL, Christchurch.

SILLY WESTGATE wan twentyfour, and Billy hadn't a sweetheart: had never had one: for he was very shy. All the other fellows in his office had each a girl to take out. Those boarding with him frequently chaffed him: and it was a sore point. If left alone in a room with a young lady, he generally made his exit as soon as possible, and, in the solitude of his own chamber, he felt he had behaved in an asinine way. "tVhen he might have said such sparkling and witty things, if only he had been less selfconscious.” He was a really good sort, was Billy. No one could have been kinder to dumb animals or little children in trouble, or to old people in need of assistance. There Billy was ready with a helping hand; but aek him to amuse a young lady for twenty minutes, and he was a veritable fish out of water. Morrison, Triggs, Smith, and Westgate boarded in the same house- Morrison was to be married shortly. One day he brought his fiancee and her sister to the bourse and left them in the drawingroom with poor Billy.

“Have you been further South than Christchurch, Mr Westgate?” said one of the girls. t

“My father is quite well, thank you,” replied Billy. The girls thought him mad, and gave up their attempt at conversation; but they told Morrison.

“He’s awfully shy, but he's a decent sort,” said Morrison.

Billy got unmercifully teased. One day a letter from Africa brought him a photo of a wedding group; hie eldest brother was the bridegroom, and there were four bridesmaids. Billy looked at it for a few minutes-

“Sickening,” he said, ’’all the men getting engaged or married! If you want a fellow to go out with you on a Saturday afternoon or Sunday, it’s ‘Sorry, old man, I've got an appointment,’ and then you meet him with a lady,” and he pitched the photo into the grate. “I had better tear up the beastly thing, or someone will find it and make more chaff for me. ’ So he picked it up again and had another look at it.

“By Jove, that’s a jolly-looking girl at the end of the row”: and after looking at it for some minutes, he took a pair of scissors and cut out the head and shoulders, tore up the rest of the photo and threw it into the grate. Looking at the face in his haid, he said: “I'll give you a name. You shall be called Betty.* So he put “Betty” in his watch-pocket; and, as the days went by, he very often took it out and looked at it- One day, as he was passing Debenham’s, he saw a notice: “Enlargements a specialty.” So he went in. and blushing like a girl, he eaid, taking the photo from his pocket: "I should like this enlarged.” The photographer smiled, but Billy, having taken the plunge, wenjt on, more boldly: • “Whole-pht-te, please.” "How many would you like?” “Only one. When will it be ready?” “In about a fortnight.”

“Hallo, Billy,” said Triggs at dinner, “saw you going into a photographer's; looks suspicious; might give us the pleasure of congratulating you.” “I expect he was getting’ his photo taken for his girl,” said Smith. “If Billy is engaged, it must be to a spirit lady,” said Morrison, “for no one has ever seen her.” “What small firings arouse curiosity,” eaid Billy. ’‘Because I was seen going into a photographer's sKop, I am accused of being engaged to a spirit lady,” and ho laughed; but the laugh was forced. “Look here,” said Morrison, “we’ll bet you you, don’t get married, or even engaged, before Christmas, If we lose, We’ll give the lady a silver tea service; it we win, you give us each a box of cigars.”

“Done,” said Billy; and soon after he left the room. This happened in October.

“He’s certain to lose,” laughed Morrison, as the door shut. “Never saw a chap so nervous when there are two or three girls knocking around.”

Billy’s photo came to hand in due course. He felt delighted, and yet a bit ashamed of himself. “Betty,” he said, “you are perfectly sweet, but if I saw you in the flesh, 1 could not tell you so. I wonder who you are. If you live in Africa. And if? . . . .” But at that thought he put the photo into a drawer, shut and locked it. Often, very often, he took out the portrait, and the more he looked the more he wanted to find the original. Living at New Brighton were Billy s uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Westgate; and at their house, “The Moorings,” he occasionally spent the week-end- He also knew their neighbours, two maiden ladies, Miso Mary’ Anna and Miss Elizabeth Grant. They were ouch dear little women. The former was small and dainty, her soft wavy white hair glistening under her lace cap. Love and kindness shone out of her blue eyes. Miso Elizabeth was stouter, a merry woman full of fun and good humour. No one in distress ever asked help in vain of the Misses Grant, of '‘-‘lloneystL'kle <’ottagd|*; £nd only the Recording Angel knows all the good deeds done by these two women. Billy was very fond of them, and their house was as much a home to him ao hie uncle’s. One Saturday morning at breakfast Miss Elizabeth said: “Mary Anna, dear, I want to do some shopping in Christchurch this afternoon. Shall we go in and take Eliza to the theatre this evening?’ Eliza was a niece who had come on a visit. “I think it would be delightful,” eaid her sister. “And I think it would be delightful, you dear darling aunties.” “We must lock up the house, us Jane is going home this morning to nurse her mother, who is ill.” “We must be ready by two o’clock.” At two o’clock the aunties were ready, but Eliza was still struggling with a mass of beautiful golden hair, which absolutely refused to be dressed in the latest fashion for”the theatre. “Come, Eliza, dear, we are readv,” called Aunt Mary Anna. “Oh, Aunty, please don’t wait. I'll lock up and bring the key if you’ll tell me where to meet you,” said Eliza, standing at her bedroom door, wearing a white cashmere dressing-gown and holding a strand of the rebellious hair in one hand and a comb in the other. After conferring with her sister, Aunt Elizabeth remarked: “We think you had better take the books to the library and change them, •and wait in the magazine room for us.” “Yes, Auntie, I will.” So off the aunties went. Down the road they met Billy, but as they were in haste to catch the ear they only wished him good-day. Eliza continued dressing. She put on a pretty new pink dress, but oh! the liooks at the back of the bodice! “What can I do? It’s impossible for me to reach the middle ones.” In vain did Eliz*a struggle to reach those three or four hooks. “Oh, dear!” surveying herself by means of the hand-glass, “I can't go to Christchurch like this; I’ll run in and ask Mrs. Westgate to help me.” So she hurried through the garden and up the path to “The Moorings.” Under a tree she saw « man lying at full length, his hat over his face. She tried both doors; they were locked; then in desperation she ran across the lawn, and giving the recumbent figure a little shake, she said, lifting the hat, “I don't know who you are, but please will you fasten my drees I”

“Betty!” “No, I am not Betty; you must be dreaming.” Billy stared in amazement. “By Jove, am I awake? It’s my Betty in the flesh.” He rose to his feet. “Are you deaf?” said Eliza. “Mrs. Westgate is out. and the house is locked up. Please fasten my dress,” and she placed herself in front of the young man. “Yes, but what am I to do?” “Fasten the hooks that are unfastened; and please be as quick as you can; I want to catch the car.” “It seems that the hooks are too far away,” said Billy, after some futile attempts to make the hooks meet the eyes. “Nonsense,” said Eliza, tapping the grass impatiently with her foot. “Haven’t you any sisters to teach you to fasten hooks and eyes?’ 1 - “No,” said Billy, humbly. At last, after much fumbling, he succeeded in getting the wrong hooks to the wrong eyes, ami Betty, feeling less of a gap, thought it was all right, and said, “I’m sorry I disturbed your nap; thank you for acting as lady's maid.” With a laugh she ran off, got her books and disappeared down the road. Billy- said absolutely nothing. When it was too late he thought of many things he might have said, and also that he might have had to return to Christchurch by the same car. “I'm certain it’s my Betty; I’ll stay here, no matter how long I wait, and, by Jove, she’s going to be mine if she's not already somebody else’s.” Mr and Mrs Westgate returned in the evening. “Come to spend the week-end with you. uncle.” “Very welcome, my boy; sorry you were locked out.” “I met the Misses Grant hurrying to the car as I came up the road,” said Billy; “they looked as happy as usual.” “Yes, they are very happy. They have a niece with them, too; she must have been with them.” “No,” said Billy, “they were alone. What is the niece like?” “Oh, she’s about nineteen or twenty, slight, fair, and something like Miss Elizabeth Grant.” “Does she live in New Zealand?” “No, her home is in Johannesburg; her father, who is in Australia just now, is very wealthy, I believe. She is the only’ daughter, but has several brothers. But. Billy, it is unusual for you to .be interested in young ladies.” “Yes. it is,” said Billy, laughing and colouring. “Kismet,” he said to himself, “but strange, how strange.” He must find an excuse to-morrow to go to Honeysuckle Cottage. ■ On Sunday morning, however, Eliza made a flying visit. “Good morning, Mrs Westgate, aunty sent me in to ask you if you would give her some mint.” Then, seeing Billy. “Oh,” and, flushing. “I hoped I should never see you again.” “And I've been longing to see you again ever since.” Billy coloured furiously, surprised at his own temerity. “What does it all mean?” said Mrs Westgate. Eliza laughed. “Oh, Mrs Westgate, I roused this gentleman from sweet dreams beneath a spreading tree. He awoke with a start, and called me Betty, so they were sweet dreams, and I demanded that he should fasten three or four hooks at the back of my dress. He did them all wrong. You see, the aunties were out, and Jane was out, so I .threw myself on his tender mercies. 1 did not know till I met my friends that he had done his work so badly.” Mrs Westgate was highly amused. “I must introduce you. Mr William Westgate—Miss Elizabeth Grant.” “Known as Miss Eliza Grant,” added

the girl, “so that there may be no confusion between myself and Aunt Elizabeth.” Betty was the picture of his dreams. “I'll go with Miss Grant and gather the mint, Aunt Lucy.” She smijed. The mint gathered, "he said to the young lady, “ It’s rather damp, and will -stain your hands.” So he carried it to Honeysuckle Cottage; then' he went in, and after chatting with the elder ladies, said, when Betty had left the room: “ Auntie wishes me to say she would be delighted if you would all come in to tea.” 'Tlie ladies accepted the invitation with wniles and thanks. Billy surprised himself still further that afternoon. lie got out his camera and took groups of them all. To his joy Betty was very interested in photography; so they got on famously. She was taking lessons from a professional; also, she sang divinely and played the ’cello. Billy played the violin, and so . . . Well, nothing need be added. Several week-ends saw Mr William Westgate at New Brighton. At last one day he took down some views of the Avon which he had taken and developed during the week, and also the enlargement of Betty, to show the original. Calling at Honeysuckle Cottage, he found she was out. “I think,” said Miss Mary Anna, “that Eliza said she was going to sit on the pier to read.” “ As I have some photos to show her 1 think I’ll try and find Miss Grant.” -So down to the pier went Billy. EJiza did not see him till he sat down by her. “ I hope your’book is not very interesting; for I want to talk to you,” said the young man. “Well, it is highly interesting; so as you have interrupted my pleasant occupation, I hope you are going to be at least equally entertaining, Mr. Westgate.” “ 1 shall exert all my poor power in that direction, and trust your Majesty will approve.” They both laughed. Billy- put the packet in her hands. She admired some, and criticised others of the views. At the bottom was a photo wrapped up in tissue paper. Removing this, Eliza saw the enlarged portrait of herself. n “So this is the explanation to a mystery I have long been wondering about.” she said. “ I have been taking lessons from Mr. Debenliani in making enlargements, and actually saw the photo of myself ; but he wopld not tell me the name of his customer. Will you kindly explain.” He owned up. Billy saw she seemed annoyed. (Poor Billy.) “ You think I I took a liberty?” “ It is not a pleasant position, is it? I know nothing of your brother or his wife, really; my greatest friend was to have been bridesmaid, but the day before the wedding she was taken ill. She and your brother's wife asked me to take her place, which I did.” Eliza rose, handing him the photos. “ If you think I have been guilty of an impertinence I am exceedingly sorry. Will you take the photograph?” “ No, thank you.” At the gate of Honeysuckle Cottage, Billy raised his hat, and held out his hand, saying, “ Good-bye. Miss Grant.” Eliza bower). Billy caught the next ear to Christchurch. The next Sunday afternoon a girl in a pink dress sat on the pier at New Brighton. She was ostensibly reading; but as she seldom turned a page, and very frequently looked -towards the entrance, it seemed as though she expected someone. Five o'clock saw her returning to Honeysuckle Cottage. The same Saturday saw a man trying to write a letter, and destroying sheet after sheet of paper; and then, nothing accomplished, snatching up a cap and going for a’longand lonely walk. A week afterwards Billy decided to go and see his uncle; it was a miserable afternoon, high wind, grey sky, with occasional sharp showers. He alighted from the car, and was followed by an elderly man. As he neared the corner of the road leading to “The Moorings,”

he saw on the opposite side of the road a woman struggling along with a perambulator full of babies, and a tiny toddler hanging to her skirts. In one hand she held a large market basket, apparently containing provisions, a huge cabbage Is-ing plainly visible. Billy watched her; she looked ill, and her load seemed more than she could manage with the wind against her. Presently she stopped, put down the basket and leant against the fence. The child hanging to her skirt be

gan to cry. TTnable to stand it, Billy grossed the road. Raising his hat, he haid: “Excuse me, but you seena exhausted. May I offer my assistance?” JThe elderly gentleman was very interested, and slackened his pace to see what happened. ‘• Thank you; I am ndt very strong. And the wind takes my breath away.” Billy picked up the basket. “ Now. 1 will carry the basket- and nianage tire perambulator. Have you far Jo go?”

“About ten minutes’ walk.” They started off walking very slowly. Just then <i pretty girl, with golden hair, wearing a long grey raincoat. Tan up to the old gentleman who had been watching Billy. “Oh, Dad, darling, I got your wire and hoped to meet the car.” And she flung her arms round the old man’s neek. “Only late, late, as usual, my pretty maid.” “Now, Dad, don't tease.” ’’ When you came up, I was watching

that young man ahead on the other side of the road.” Eliza started and flushed. “ What young man?” “Why, that one ahead, wheeling a pl-am.” “Oh!” (in a disappointed voice). “Why were you watching him. Dad? Do you suspect him of anything?” said Eliza, laughing. “Yes: 1 suspect him of being a flue, manly.' young New Zealander, and 1 should be proud to know him.”

Then, after telling his daughter of ths little incident, he added: “Plenty of young men will stop a runaway horse, or try to save a drowning person, but to do such an action as I have just related requires moral courage of a high order. Lucky will lie the girl whom he marries; he’s a good man. I’m sure.” They walked on, Eliza very quiet. When they reached the house, Mr Grant’s sisters welcomed him with tears of joy. for he was their only brother, and it was many years since he had

visited them and his native land. Tea Boon came in, and while it was in pro. gress Mr Grant told his sisters what lie had witnessed on his walk from the train. “I should like to know who the young man is.” ‘•Can you describe him?” “Yes; he was a tall, well-built fellow; dark, and about four or five and twenty. He was wearing a light brown mackintosh.” “Billy Westgate?” said his “Yes, it must have been he, for, besides your description of his appearance, the action you relate is just such a one as he 'would be likely to perform.” Betty walked to the French window, and passed out on to the lawn. “Does he live here?” “Well,” said Elizabeth, “his uncle and aunt are our neighbours, and he frequently spends the week-end with them; his father is a doctor in Auckland. You will see him to-day or to-morrow.” Then the conversation drifted to old times and old friends, some living, and some passed away. Out in the garden Betty walked restlessly up and down the lawn. Would he come to her again? By and by a step on the gravel made her look up. Going up to her, Billy said: “Won’t you forgive me, Betty? I fell in love with your photograph, and now ” Putting her two hands in his, she said, “Dear!” They wandered across the grass to the friendly shelter of a summer-house. By and by Mr. Grant strolled across the lawn smoking a pipe. “Eliza! Why, that’s ‘my’ young man.” “Then, Dad, darling,” said she, as she put her soft cheek against his, ■ “he’s ‘our’ young man.” Billy looked as he felt. Mr. Grant held out his hand. “I am glad to know you, Mr. Westgate.” “I hope yon will be glad to accept me as a son, sir?” said Billy. “I think I can say 1 shall be so. I am very rarely mistaken in my judgment of men. I only wish we turned out men of the New Zealand stamp in Johannesburg, but we don’t.” Morrison and Co. received invitations to a quiet wedding at New Brighton on December 15th. Amongst the presents was a handsome silver tea service. Morrison said: “Who would have thought Billy was such a sly dog?”