THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Volume 11, Issue 2280, 11 November 1897, Page 49

THE NOVELIST.

By JESSIE MACK AT.

ONLY A SWAGGER;

The Lord does all things kind and good, but the TXvil mars the same. — F. Sinclair. c.

D'S image sits facing God's creation in the New Zealand midsummer morning. That creation is gloriously aud terribly fair. The great spurs of the Southern Alps are abiniog in their se^nial trances of worship ; the silver puff* of mist might have coma out of a giant censor ses in the ravines. Twenty tiny gorges score the mountain side ; twenty diamond rivulets go dancing down from the everlasting anowfiddS, blessing and bleat as they fall — now skirting a dewy.-fernbank, now spraying r the cap-like leaves of «tshe i Mount Oook lily, now laving the root of a rich broadleaf.or nourishing the blue koromiko blossom. This alpine chain mightr have been the' northern boundary of Eden, its stern, loveliness /makißg>m©ire manifest • the' delicate f rondage and sylvan softness of the garden. Hiddekel and Gihon might not have scorned to take their source from those opal ice blocks far up yonder! Yes, but* for two things one could well dream that this was the northern bourne of Eden, and the words of creation's doom were yet unspoken. That wild, cruel-eyed kea, that poor, blotched, defaced image of God sitting by the creek — they or their likes could never have set wing or foot in Eden. The bird is awake and alive to the highest instincts of his kind — motion, flight, desire to prey ; the man who now turns his lustreless, redrimmed eyes to the everlasting hills is dead to all but the lowest instincts of his— hunger, thirst, love of warmth. This man is no chance traveller who has still a regard to woik, home, life; he is a professional swagger — the true listless child of the road. He has the swagger's stoop, the whining voice, the heavy, purposeless walk, the soulless, fish-like eye. His loosened swag is lying beside him ; he is looking vacantly into the black water at bis feet. It is not by one of the diamond streams that he has chanced or chosen to rest, but by a shiny, cuVrentlesa, creek, rising in a swamp and draining a clump of giant " niggerheads." Does any dim intuition stir within him as he watches, 'the river flies skim the opaque Stagnancy 1 ?' If he could b'ut \ ?feag§ the thought, . he- has gone by the crystal springs his life long, and set .himself . down by undrinkable rivers of sloth and garbage. And indeed he is nearer to thinking than he has been for years, for hejmutters as he stirs the pool idly with a flax stick :

" Life hasn't panned out well. I wonder if there's anything else."

There is a ringing sound of civilisation behind — whip-cracks In the air, wheels and hoof-beats, rough, merry voices. The weekly coach with its living freight pleasantly bridges over the yawniDg gulf between Eden and the satyr by the black pool. It carries bearded bushmen and shepherds, a sharp, rat-faced bullock-driver, a sturdy daughter of the back blocks with a crowing baby. Bat the man who sits on the box seat is of another mould. He is a clean-shaven English tourist — iron-grey, erect, military, autocratic. He is'placidly in harmony with the glorious morning ; he has a tolerant smile for his fellow passenger?, a careless, approving glance for tbis remote hill corner, of the British Empire, a look of amused curiosity for the log of human driftwood sitting yonder. But the log is awake and alive for once ; be has half risen, and is clutching at the foul red handkerchief round his neck. Now he is travelling with an alertness he has not shown for many a day; he has a purpose at last — to get as far away from that iron-grey English tourist as may be. He Is muttering to himself : "It might have been worse. It might have been my father. 1 ' The unfamiliar words unlock bis' tongue, long unused to anything but the shibboleths of the road, Names, phraseß drop from him at intervals, showing how fast the kaleidoscope of awakened memory is turning in his brain.

• • • f • Ltfi Laura. Daaeburj U to. h«r nurses?.

She is cot often there. Vanity Fair is i exacting State, and has few more biddable citizsns than her ladyship. Yet she is not] reckoned an unworthy parent in Belgravia; She is always carefal to inquire the religionof her nurses, and by insisting on V pure' Anglicanism, undefiled by Noncomf ormity or Ritualism, can rest assured that her lambsare duly tntored in their perfunctory prayers. A housemaid, detected in the act of slapping Master Horaoe was dismissed by her ladyship on the spot and without a character t _lt in. certain that she could recognise her own children in the Park, and has been known to feel quite a flutter of maternal delight in the charms of "her offspring as set off by a new cap and pelisse.

Lady Laura's pretty brows are puckered * ominously. There is a little pandemonium on the nursery floor. Her two sons, Horace and Everard, bare taken to their tiny fists in true Biitish style, and the nurse has much ado to separate them. Sbe is an astute hireling, and knows how to apportion blamq before her mistress.

" O Master Everafd, you bad, wicked boy, to hurt poor Master Horace,and frighten my lady ] Give him the book this minute and say you're sorry." ' «« It's . mine, it's mine. And I'm not:aorryi And he took' my jvrhip too, tha littli baaat I "

"Has* he-burt my darlirigJfciby-2" she coo* ''over Horace'.' - >. . , • *■" '"V-- " Emard'a weak little mouth quivers with a pain that is not all from the trickling bruise upon it. . "It's me , bleeding, mother, not him," he save, halt defiantly. "Pon't speak to. me; you are cruel, and naughty, and rude,", says Lady Laura severely. She embraces her eldest-born carefully, not to disarrange her afternoon toilet, | and departs, leaving him with the spoils of victory. A pale little' girl comes out of a corner and pats her arms round Everard's neck. "I wonder why mother pets Horace. H« isn't gooder than you I " she says. Under the little plain forehead Lena Danebury's mind is 'one great question-mark. There is a good deaFin this world to wonder at, to be sure; bat happy children and strong children have little time to' spare for wonder. Among Lena's life problems there is none greater than this— why ' bullet- headed Horace should receive a kiss, and gentler I Everard only a cold word from their pretty mother. But if Lena took this problem to the fountain-bead, which she never will, Lady Laura could not tell her— could not say what hysterical fancy dropped. in her fallow mind the 'seed which bas grown into this . dislike to"- her second son!' The law o£ antipathy is as esoteric as the law of love.

. There haa been a dinner party at Danebury Manor.- ,The rich\tabl& looks littered- and . . forlorn. A little boy and girl creepy into; the . empty room in a way to remind r one iof it he ■town and' country mice returning tOvtheir interrupted banquet. The Imtnan mice Jook ['"very, furtive, very' inquisitive^ k and" jetj, ; i hungry. The^girl begin* .tdj peck at^th© i grapes. ■ . ''"'.' ' '. ' ' ' , " I'm glad. w,e didn't,take»padding~to-day • • this'is" better than rice," she says. ,

" So's this," cries the boy, tossing off the .dregs of a wineglass.

' "-Old Mr Merry weather sat there. Si* glass! Poof! poof I Everard, how can you?" ' - . '

"O, you're a girl!" says the boy in tbt same tone as if he had said " You're a caterpillar."

Lena pecks on at her grapes, which are sweetened by the unwonted flavour, of naughtiness, for her'peccadilloes are few and venial. Presently she is scandalized to notice that Everard is steadily making the tour of the glasses round the table.

"Everard, come and get an orange,, and don't be a pig. Ido wonder why people like that nasty stuff."

"Not nasty — nice," matters the .boy thickly. He is flushed like a purple grape himself by this time, and is taking more oufc of a decanter. " Everard, what would mother say ? " . " You'd tell, you little sneak ? " He strikes out at her blindly. The little girl is petrified at the undeserved word, the unjust blow ; ,but her .fear is changed to a greater when herbrother falls headlong.beside the.table. Five • minutes later Everard has caused more commotion in the house than he has ever done 4n his life before., . .His mysterious illnejss is not a. secret lorjg; ( there are looks.of decorous ( horror,' there are nods and winks and wreathed smiles.. , Mr, .Danebury,, relieved--from ,hia first 'alarm, , burst ( into a fitr ,o£ laughter. His soldier brother-in-law, Lord John Forester, regards him with polite astonishment. "I don't think I should take so jocular a view of it in your case, all circumstances considered," he says grimly. Mr Danebury's handsome, foolish face lengthens. He cannot ignore his brother-in-law's hint or pat aside the memory of that other Everard Danebury who died of delirium tremens 20 years ago. " What have I done to be afflicted with sucb a child 1 " moans Lady Laura. "Ob, don't make a mountain out of ft camel, Laura. That's not quite right, is it 1 Go up' and see the little chap; he's : very seedy," says the father uneasily. Lady Laura shudders and calls for her vinaigrette. " I insist, Horace, that yon do not spoil the child. Let him come to a proper sense of his fault," she replies icily. So it happens that Lena is the only gratuitous attendant at Everard's bedside, Horace the bullet-headed being at school. " You'll never,' never touch the horrid »tuf£i. again 1 "_ she says. ' - ' «• Just, catch me 2 " mutters Bverard with,, conviction. "I wonder, why rich children are to lonely 2 Don'fc you. wish we' were . v poor children';'' , Everard 1 " she asks pathetically. ' ' " Rot I We'd have to aell matches or hold, horses 1 " "Ob, I don't mean awful poor; just poor\' enough to have a father and mother to teH us stories and take as to the Crystal Palace* like Fanny's. Sometimes I think we don'ti belong fo anybody." ' j " I don't care," lays Everard proudly^ « Perkins is all right to co about with-M*

■3*l

you I" (with an afterthought of magnificent condescension). Lena is eilenb. Perkins in hi* own role of - stable boy is well enough', but she has doubts of Perkins in the rola of her brother's oomparjicn.

It is on* of Eagland'B public school*. A • master sits writing in his private room. He lifts his held as a boy enters. "Ah, Danebury -junior ! " D.anebury junior — a big fair youth of sixteen—stands with a downcast, hang-dog look. ■ The master glances steadily, searchingly at him as he begins in low tones. " You have made a false start, Danebury. You have been found* out in a dishonourable money sflUir. You- cloak your fault with no just blame of others. It seems tolerably evident you have spent the money in drink, obtained tor you by the unworthy associates you contrive to mix with. You cannot retrieve your error here ; you know I have no alternative but to expel you. I do cot mean to dwell on this longer; all that needed to be said has been said already. But. I wish you to believe it is not too late to take a clean sheet and start again elsewhere. I do not think that you. are as bad a boy as you are a foolish and weak one. You "think it is . enough to tighten up your biceps with cricket andjrowing, and that yon. will grow into a manias a tadpole grows into a frog. - Men&ren'e made that way, though- grown-up ';childrenj may- be. /m.en' we "want to makVbfiWas firm in'mind as in body; they know that jto ; be manly indeed- one must work, conquer foolish faults, speak truth,' be-i Sober,'- just,.and kind; And if the seeds of sobriety,'kindneß», and triifch .are not in' us, 'we musk get them' planted, D-mßbuty.-— the. sooner the better. Dj you know how 1 " " No, sir," says Danebury junior. He has - heard prayers evary day he can remember ; and is as thorough a heathen as ever grew up , . under the chimes of Mayfair. The master sighs. Efo hateß preaching, as many people 'do who practise most. '„ ." Well, Danebury* they are. not to be had here. You rnuef; send to heaven for them." He adds abruptly; " This "business will vex your family." '• They will be angryi" replies Danebury snllenly. , ' / " They will be sorry too, remember." "Not sorry for me, sir— sorry for themselves perhaps." " That's a hard speech.' Surely someone will wish this day's work undone tfor your

own sate." Danebury juniot's weak, good-looking face

works with a twinge of memory as he gets out abruptly : ' •'My sister would have. She's dead, sir." ,The master calls to mind a summons home for the lad eight months earlier. It was then ohat Lena Danebury had laid down the problems of her 14 years — or rather had taken them home to the great academy of all

knowledge. ' "I remember," says the master gently '** Well, you owe something to her memory ■ Brace up your moral mutc'e, Danebury; it's not too late., -Be ffifflaij, and— *gocd-bye. JI '. Danebury junior goes out with a suspicious little choke but no words. , The master do^s not expect any; he knows boys too well not to allow for the strange cubbtehtfess that makes the confession of any higher feeling but one degree easier than a confession of theft. In truth, the poor jatigled harp of few strings calk*! Everard Danebury's soul has never been nearer to lune than it is to-day, and needs but a Bfcilful hand to draw forth melody at last. The pity and the mystery of it ! There was but one among all his kindred who had the love and the power, and she, if ' her death-bed imaginings told her truth of the hereafter, is now playing on another harp under the celestial palm trees.

Lady Laura Danebury is lunching with her brother, Lord John Forester, at -one of the fashionable restaurants. Time has dealt tenderly with her ladyship's countenance, bis benevolence being judiciously helped by art, .as Lady Laura's maid could testify. Lord John, despite a few grey hair 3in his' dark head, still offers to tbe years the calm defiance of a fine physique, a regular life, and a mind whose few ideas are marshalled with the same order and precision that pervades his regiment. Mr Danebury does not accompany his wife abroad very often now ; • he has grown careless about society. - Lady Laura haa enjoyed her luncb. Left alone for a minute, she leans back, toying with her glass. A young waiter enters .thoroom witha'dißhin his hand, and stands staring - at her as if transfixed. .- Lady Laur* cannot "'" help the deep" flash of annoyance that floods her face, but-otherwise she does; not flinch' a hairbreadth, and returns the look with a most perfect stare of well-bred indifference. The boy's distress — he is, not yet 21— is painful to witness ; he ifc scarlet and widened, and trembles from bead to foot, Before

he can muster sufficient presence of minu to pass oat of sight Sir John- returns. He almo3t whistles!, glances sharply at his sister, who has nearly regained her natural colour, and takes her down to her carriage. As he returns he cogitates inwardly.

" Did she see him ? She couldn't help it. Well, women are the devil for nerve ! To think of the scapegrace turning up here ! Well, I must get the boy out of this and pack him off to New Zealand. There's a war going on there just now ; perhaps "

Lord John pulls -KlraseH up with a jerk, and goes into the restaurant to do his duty as a man and an uncle.

' • • # * Again we face the mountains that might have been the northern bourne of Eden ; but now the season has shifted to the rigours l o£ Jane. Yesterday was the last, of a chain of j typical New Zaaland winter day, eac'a like a giant turquoise set in gold, and resting motionless on the colossal stand of the snowy ranges. Now the face of Nature is changed ; there is a- deathly gloom and quiet, only broken by the cry of the weka aud the ungainly rising of tbe swamp hen. Earth aud sky are a dead hazy grey ; the very snows lying on the lower spurs seem to melt darkly into the surrounding vapour? . There is but one human being in sight — the nameless swagger who fled before the English tourist six months » go. The common tendency of his class to wander in a vaguely defined circle . has brought him here Bgun ; there is no fear of tourists' here in winter. He is little changed in drees, but there is a hunianness oE regret , and remembrance now which* lifts his expression" .above , that of the baasts.of- the field! -He has been strangely disturbed out of the bovine quietude of past years. He has rehearsed over and over the scenes of his life in England and the later time in New Zealand, during which he had steadily sunk through the different stages of gentleman at large, digger, survey or*?) cook, rouseabou*, to' the bedrock of continual swagging — dogged through each by native inertia and that thirsty demon whose sjetl was his heritage. .He has made some efforts to get back into settled employment ; the stereotyped " Any chance of a job?" has not been a mere formula these later months. But he has not been lucky — a week's diggiDg here, a few days' potato-lifting there, and then the weary road- again, the bending under the swag, the solitary boiling of the billy in some deserted roadman's galley, the bustling from pillar to post in the station whares. He has become curiously callous to the physical discomforts of the life as he becomes more conscious oE a moral loathing for it. He is more than ever awake to the fact that "life has not panned out well," and j the finality of all things here coming home to him, his poor pagan mind dimly ' gropes after the "something else." His mind is indeed like a dark mice suddenly illumi- , Dated by a pitman's lamp. That lamp is the memory .of- Lena. It goes on lighting thisaod that dim gallery of tbe spirit-, and he" follows the gleam of it day after day. i

The all-embracing . greyness is darker and dimmer — the plain funs into the mountains,., the mountains into the clbttds-;- the- rawness of the still atmosphere penetrates to, the bone. He comes suddenly on a sod and wirefen 3e which should not lie in his road. Half an hour more in the glimmerless twilight convinces him he is utterly lost, and he stoically unrolls his blankets for a lonely bivouac in the tus-ock. He has had nothing to eat pince morning, and is terribly cold, but nothing seems to matter mucb. " Maybe it's the end," he mutters quite calmly. "I've been a poor useless beggar. . . . I wonder ... if there will ever be a show for me to see little Lena again . . . ever so far off . . ." And so, half in words and half in a formless reaching up to that great Intelligence who is only "Lena's God" to him, his poor sbrift is made. By-and-bye he feels warm and sleepy, and Lena seems somehow to be near. Ssmething vety soft and light falls on bis cheek, then another and another, but he pays no heed.

In the morning there Is a world of white upturned to the grey sky, and in one place the snow is heapsd in a little loDgish mound.

— Mrs Homespun (indignantly) . " This article says that in Formosa a wife costs a sovereign." Mr Homespun (thoughtfully) : 11 Well, a good wife is wath it 1 " .

•FtORJUNE !— For the Teeth -and Breath^ A few drops of the liquid- Floriline " sprinkled on a wet toothbrush produces a pleasant lather which thoroughly cleanses the teeth from all parasites .or hardens the gums, prevents tartar, stops decay, gives to the 'teeth -a peculiar pearly whiteness, .and si delightful fragrance to the breath. It removes all unpleasant odour arising from decayed te'-'th or tobacco smoke. "The Fragrant Floriline," being composed in part of honey and sweet herbs, is delicious to the taste, and the greatest toilet discovery of the age. Price 2s 6d of all chemists and perfumers. Wholesale depot, 33 Farringdon road*, London.— A dyel