THETA, PEACEMAKER.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2646, 30 October 1909, Page 2 (Supplement)

THETA, PEACEMAKER.

(By Nelia Parker.) In the background, an old-fashioned red house; to right and left, flower beds sheltered by well-clipped holly hedges; and in the middle distance, in the shade of two big elms, on a carpet of very green turf, a couple of wicker chairs, a goodly supply of light literature and a small table. In one of these chairs, with her elbows 0)1 tlie table and her head on her hands, sat Theta Lawrence. From the depths of an unfashionable pocket she produced a notebook and began writing, apparently unaware of the presence of Captain Marley, who now came toward her, walking unsteadily, as was natural to a man who had but recently laid aside crutches. “Good morning,” said the Captain cheerily. “Oli, good -morning,” replied Theta absently. “Genius .burning?” “Only smouldering.” “Can’t you get an idea from some of these?” —'glancing at the magazines. “Those ? There’s not an idea in one of them worth a cent!” “Dear me! Is that really so? —seating himself —“I’ve nothing to do. Suppose you let me help?” “Well”— -doubtfully—'“I believe the first part’s all right; It’s the end that .puzzles me.” “Then if your people can’t die and be decently buried, and won t marry and live happily ever after, why don’t you copy Ibsen and. end with an ‘if ’ There are a goed many ‘if’ stones in real life.” “But they’re awful foolish. My story’s just this” —looking at him from under her long lashes—“lt begins when . the hero and heroine are quite young. They’re much in love with each other, hut they quarrel. Then, being a soldier, he has to go away, and ho won’t say he’s wrong.” “Perhaps he was right.” “Being right shouldn’t make people stuck up.” “Certainly not. And she? Did she give in?” “Oh, you know a woman can’t do that before she’s married!” It was on remarks of ths kind ithat the family belief in Theta’s career as an author was founded. “So they parted, and didn’t meet again for years. Then, instead of rushing at each other, he said, ‘How do you do?’ and she said, ‘I hope you’re better.’ ” “Had he been ill?” “No —fighting, and he’d got wounded badly.” “And even that made no impression on her?” “She didn’t seem to mind a bit. Yet one day, when he was too ill to go about —.they were, staying in the same house, you know—someone caught her crying over his. crutches.” “Oh! I don’t think she’d do that — in real life.” “But I’m quite sure she did. That will do for a beginning?” ' “For -a beginning—yes. But it isn’t very original.” ‘T can’t help that. Stupid live people will keep on doing the same stupid old things. If I didn’t want it to sound real it would be quite easy. I could pretend that lie had pever left off caring for 'her, and that he was more sorry than angry, and that he had kept a lock of her hair—introducing a possible fiction to excuse a knowledge of facts —&nd her portrait. But a mail wouldn’t behave like that. Now, would he?” ’ “Ho might—in some circumstances.” “Well, of course, being a man, you ought to know. Then I may as well go on with the story ?” “And when it’s finished, what shall you do with it?” “Get it typewritten and send it to” But here Theta paused as if in doubt. “Not to the local paper?”- exclaimed Captain Marley, rather hurriedly. “Why not?” “Well, somehow, I liaVe a fancy that I should like to arrange about the disposal of that story. What aro the, terms?” " “Ten dollars,” answered Theta, with, dancing eyes. “If I like the conclusion, I’ll give you twenty-five.” “Do you think it ought to have a happy ending?” “I (hope it will.” “Where are you going?” “Oh, to dawdle around a little. Do 'you know where. I . shall find any -of the ' others, in case': I get tired of my own company?” * I • < 1,.

“Yes. Cousin Pamela’s on the lower terrace cutting sweet peas. There’ll be a lot wanted for the table to-night.” ‘.‘l suppose so. Good-bye for the present!” 1 ‘Good-bye. ’ ’ Down tlhe long, straight path betwecip the box-bordered beds of lilies and roses Captain Marley walked till he came to the stone steps leading' to the lower terrace. These lie descended with some difficulty, and there, at the end of the walk, a tall, lithe figure in a blue cotton gown, her back turned toward him, her hands busy among her ■favorite flowers, stood Pamela Preston. With a smile, lialf-sad, half-hopeful, but wholly tender, the Captain looked at her. Once before, just ten years ago, lie had seen her stand like that, a veritable Lady Disdain, dear and dainty, but intensely self-willed and irritating—and so, standing with her bank toward him, lie had left her. Now she. was apparently too absorbed in her own thoughts to notice tlie sound of his slow step, and he went on until there remained but some four or five,yards between them. Then, remembering those bygone days of 1 love and laughter, he said softly; “Sweet P.’s.” At that Pamela turned, and her cheeks flushed. “Yes, sweet peas. It is my last evening, and the table decorations are in my honor. Oh” —looking *as him more closely—“you have walked too iei . “I believe I 'have.” “And there is no seat. Will —will you take my arm?” “Yes, thank you. There, don’t scold and don’t talk about doctor’s orders. I'had to come. I can’t remember exactly bow it began, but I was wrong, Pamela.” “Wrong!” she repeated, wondering a 'little whether the remarks of a man recovering from wounds and fever should be taken seriously. “Quite wrong. I’ve often suspected as much, and to-day I’m convinced of it. Dear, we have already wasted ten* years. That’s a high price to pay for a mistake.” And then she understood. “Oh, that’s all done with! I was obstinate, and didn’t realise what a prickly path one’s own way inay”sometime prove. But we are good friends : now, so everything is as it should be.” “Scarcely. You and I ought to be something more than friends. When I first heard you were coming here, I , would have given half of all I possessed to-be able to run away, but a cripple, ’ you sec, can’t run. So I pulled myself together and made tho best of it. “Then,- when you came and- looked at me, with grave, questioning eyes, j and spoke to tie with a steady voice, f I told myself that, as I was the only , one to suffer, it would matter little , whether I went or stayed. “Later on, I grew acustomed to the pleasant pain of your presence; and began, to understand that where you 7 are is, and ever must be, my haven of 1 peace. After all, a lifetime is more 1 than ten years. The trees are just as green, the sky as blue, the brook runs > to the same old tune; can’t we make ' believe that we, too, are unchanged, b that I am once again your boy-lover—-a little wiser, perhaps, than boy lovers sometimes are—and that you are still 3 my flower-faced playmate and tyrant, Sweet P.’s?” J “Twenty-seven cannot play at being seventeen.” > “Does that mean that you are going 1 to turn your back on me a second - time?” > “How can I?” —speaking unsteadily. t “You are not to do as you like; above 1 all, you are to be kept quiet, and you ’ are holding my arm.” 5 “Ah, now I realise the strength of weakness. Pamela ! I believe you do care a little.” “I—l care a great deal. But I never thought you would find it out. : How j did I betray myself, Geoff?” “Well, I can’t exactly say that you did betray yourself. It had to-be rea- ' soned from —from induction.” , “Oh!” .said Pamela, as if greatly impressed. “But . are you sure you know what that means?” “Well, frankly, I don’t. But it sounds well.” And at this candid admission they botli laughed, as merrily as though she were yet in her teens, and he still op the sunny side of thirty. And Theta, catching the distant sound of that laughter, augured well for the fate of her story, so she scribbled on, guessing shrewdly that in this case style would fail to impress her critic, while even grammar might bo regarded as a matter of secondary importance. And when at last, just as she wrote “The End,” Cousin Pamela and Captain Marley came in sight—she, blushing and smiling; lie, looking five years younger——Theta glanced at thorn with innocent surprise. “Why, you’ve forgotten the sweet peas,” she said. “How stupid 1” exclaimed Cousin Pamela and never before did twentyseven so quail before tho eyes of fifteen. “I’ll run hack and feTch them.” And as she passed out of sigsit Theta turned to the Captain. “The story’s finished.” “How does it end?” “She’s to .be married in white satin, and they’re going to Switzerland for the honeymoon.” “Oh, ’make it Holland! A mail with a stiff , knee prefers fiat country.” And the Captain laid 25 dollars in bills beside the stumpy pencil. “No,” he continued, as Theta put iher hand on the notebook. “I’ll 1 take that, and, Remember, the copyright’s mine. \ou don’t serve up that idea with variations—for anybody, else.” And for the next month the family wondered how it came to pass that Theta’s money affairs were in so flourishing''a condition.