Christmas Tales.

Auckland Star, Volume XXII, Issue 305, 24 December 1891, Page 1 (Supplement)

Christmas Tales.

FIRST PRIZE.

FOR ANOTHER'S SIN.

(By Lilt Rees, Parnell.)

CHAPTER I

The arrival of the rattling, shaky old coach ab Kawhare was greeted with far more than the mild excitement which its half-weekly appearance was wont to cause. For it was Christmas Eve, and every one in the settlement was affected by that pleasant sense of expectation which the season brings. Some were eagerly longing to greeb passengers— a child from boarding-school, a boy from a town store, a friend, or summer boarder Some expected parcels, while others had vague and unfounded hopes that there viiqht be something for them. From the moment the coach wa3 descried coming over the hill about half a mile distant, loving eyes had been strained to recognise their dear ones. But Ned Lang, sending along his four stout horses ab a rattling pace to impress the villagers, waa close at hand before the identity of a pa - I eenger on the box seat was discovered. ' Why, there's Jack Pelham. The Ruataniwha must bo in again. 1 • Didn't you know that ? Ib reached Wellington four or five days ago.' Tho first speaker was quite unconscious of the withering scorn in tho tone of his better-informed friend, for he had prossed through tho throng to be one of tho first to welcome the new comer, who was answering a dozen kind inquiries in one breath. ' Yes, Rogers, home again you see. Glad to be back ? I should think so. Thank you. The same to you, and a happy New Year. Why, Mrs Smith, the baby positively looks smaller than when I wonb away. What ! A new one, is it ? Well, I declare !' The boyish-looking young fellow who swung himself down from the coach, shook hands with everyone who pressed forward to welcome him, receiving their good wishes I with sparkling eyes and a grip of the hand more hearty than shore folk are accustomed to receive. He wae the personification of vigour, health and happiness, aa ready to ' bake a rise' out of anyone, as full of laughter and unexpected bursts of song— mostly with a rollicking, swinging refrain, suggestive of the dash and sparkle of salt spray—as any school-boy coming home for the holidays. In truth, this young sailor did not find the dignity of his five and twenty years a heavy burden. And he had far more cause than any school-boy to rejoice, for was lie i<ob just promoted bo the long-coveted position of first officer in the New Zealand Shipping Company's service? This was the glad news he had to carry to his mother, whom he had not seen for four months, and with whom he was going to spend three weeks. And his promotion had a dearer significance to him still. Now that he was in receipt of a competency, and could look forward at no distant date to commanding a fine ship himself, he might reasonably hope that Maude's guardians would givo their consent to an early marriage. In view of hia steady advancement, his love's private fortune, instead of being a bar to their union, ought to smooth the way to it. Thus, to tho accompanimenb of happy thoughts, he marched through the village, which was beautiful in the glory of bhe sunset. Reaching the tiny cotbage which was ' home' to the wanderer, Jack then opened the gate and ran up the path, calling cheerily to his mother. Bub she did nob rush out, as he expected, at the first sound of his voice. No answer came. All was silence. His dog, indeed, cameto meet him ; but not joyously barking and leaping to his master's hand as had always been the manner of his welcome ; rather as a culprit, dragging his body along the ground and deprecatingly wagging his tail. ; . The silence and wanb of life about tho house struck Pelham unpleasantly. He bounded up bhe three steps which led to the rose-embowered verandah, pushed open the front door and walked into the house. Glancing right and left into four small rooms which opened from the passage, he was re-assured by the signs of loving preparation for his coming which everywhere mat bis eye. The table in tho diningroom was set as for a feast. The snowy damask was decorated with choice roses, and glittering with silver and crystal, while on the sideboard stood an imposing array of bottles and decanters. The uncalledfor profusion suddenly occurred to his mind. Hβ crossed the room hastily, and took up one bottle after another, the beaming gladness on hie face giving way to an expression of anxiety and horror as he found what a number were opened and half empty. Tho only room he had nob entered in searching for his mother wa3 the kitchen. And although he felt he should find her there, yeb his fingers refused to lift the latch, and he hesitated on the threshold. Memories of cerrible scenee he had witnessed in childhood and early youth, and which he had fondly hoped would never more recur, rilled his mind. If his ghastly misgiving was correct, then he must renounce for over the bright future which was opening before him. His first duty, an obligation from which nothing could absolve him, was to stay by his mother's side, and to guard her, if necessary, from herself. He did nob reason oub this conclusion. Argument did nob entor into his mind. Hβ eimply accepted the fact as a man

accepts the sentence which deprives him of hope. The full consequences of such a decision were presenb to his mind. Yeb he hardly realised that he had to make a decision. Only one way in which it) was possible for a dutiful son to walk lay before him. Other paths there were, he knew, but noc for him. In one instanb the grim giant of despair had taken possession of his soul, and routed the happy angels of joy and hope which dwelt there. Routed, too, for the moment, the bright form of filial love, although her sterner sister, duty, wa3 immovable. Only for a moment, however, did love's wings flutter. For when the handle yielded to his nervous grasp, the tears of pity rushed to his eyes at the picture before him. Like one dead the stately, beautiful woman lay on the floor amid a squalid litter of broken dishes, and scattered dough which she had evidently knocked down in clutching at the table to steady herself. The air was heavy with tho odour of stale wine rising from a dark stream which trickled from a broken bottle. It was a scene to inspire repulsion, bub the son forgot tbab his mother's sin had changed life for him, and foib only the deepest compassion. Unaccustomed tears rose to his eyes as he lifted that insensible form and carried her to her room. Tenderly as a woman he laid her on the bed, took off her shoes, loosened her dress, pub a pillow under her head, and spread a warm rug over. His nexb caro was to romove every evidence of her shatnoful excess.' These self-appointed tasks ended, he sat down and wrote three letters ; one to the manager of the Shipping Company, tendering his resignation ; one to tho Captain of tho Ruataniwha, acquainting him with the fact and saying that his decision was Hnal; and, hardest of all, one to Maude Dowling. Time after time he tore up his attempts, and ab last, though with infinite dissatisfaction, produced the following short note :— 'Deare3t Maude,— • When you have read thU to the end you ■will see that I have no right to address you in this way. But it is the name by which I shall always think ol! you. And as a an : a name aro all that I may' keep, you will not grudge thorn to me. 'I did wrong when I asked you to bo my wife. There were passages in •my pa3t life which should have kept mo from dreaming that such happiness could be lor me. I cannot tell you what tho barrier is which lies between us. but it is fatal. I thought it removed, but now I know that belie£ to have been a fond dream. The old madness has risen from it«j grave, and stands between us for ever. Forgive me. oh my darling, forgivo me. lam leaving tho Shipping Company's service, and must find some new occupation in which to bury tho past and start afresh. It is unlikely that you will ever soo or hear again of one whose hopeless love for you will only end with life. That you may bo happy, and soon Corget *Jho pain 1 have unwittingly brought upon you, is my unceasing and fervent prayer. Only remember me kindly as a faithful friend.' Tbia letter was not finally written till tho

sun had risen In splendour on another anniversary of the birth of Christ. In the long hours of that night's vigil the boyish hearb passed through an ordeal by fire. In that time—shore when measured by the record of the clock—youth paseed away and the boy became a man. Losing the lightness of heart, the gay carelessness of the former, he gained instead the incomparably better qualities of steadfast determination and of patienb endurance. With this growth—or rather, crystallisation—of character the first vehemence oi his grief paesed away, and he was able to think calmly of plans for the future, of which the only certain fact at present was that he and his mother musb leave Kavvhare, where it was useless hoping to find employment. CHAPTER 11. WiTAKATU had given ibself up to enjoyment. The ordinary station routine was by no means neglected, bub it ceased to engross the thoughts of the run-holder and his guests as a staple of conversation. The absorbing subject of sheep for once yielded to plans of amusement ; the price of wool resigned in favour of picnics, riding parties, dances and ball dresses. The barn, the orchard, the horses, the dairy, even the_ woolly flocks themselves, were regarded with intere3b in proportion as they could be diverted from their proper business of money-making and forced to contribute to the entertainment of the large party whom Mr Stacey had invited to his station for Christmas. The guests of honour were a Mr and Mrs Heywood and their niece, former neighbours of the host in England. To arouse the interest of this gentle girl Edward Stacey would have done much. He felt himself amply repaid when the most carefully planned expedition brought a gleam of pleasure to the large, wistful brown eyea and tho sad, pale face. Invitations bad been issued weeks before

for a large dance on Christmas Eve. All Mr Stacey'e neighbours (some of whom Uvea more than one hundred miles away) were looking forward eagerly bo the great event. The house party was augmented by many of these gae&ts, who rode in during the day. Tents were pub up to accommodate the men, and the large house almost entirely given up to the occupation of the ladies, Sbacey's married sister acting as hostess. The dark-eyed English girl was delighted with the novelty of the entertainment, the bustle of preparation, the informal way in which ladies rode up to the door with a ball dress (and a greatmanyobher things) packed in a small leather saddle bag, and, above all, the overflowing hospibality of her entertainers, who seemed delighted instead of appalied by the arrival of twelve or fourteen additional guests. Her dismay and pity for the hostess only met with laughter. ' Carrie is equal to a far more terrible invasion. We soon geb used to this kind of thing up-country, and build elastic houses on purpose. Bub you have nob seen bhe ballroom yet. what a splendid room,' said the girl ns they entered the big barn, round the walls of which willing hands were fastening flags and evergreens. ' Bub you want some cool place to sib in between the dances. Have you any old tents ? The corner oubside this big door could easily bo covered in and roughly carpeted. With some of those lovely ferns and grasses it could be turned into a perfect bower. We could hang ib with Chinese lanterns and put a few fairy lights hero and there to sparkle amongab the green; Oh, Mr Stacey, can't we do it?' ' Of course we can, if you will direct our efforts. I'll call one of tho station hands, and you can explain your idea to him while I go and geb some tarpaulins. . An instant later he reappeared, accompanied by a handsome young follow, whoso walk and bearing proclaimed thab he had not always occupied the position in which he now found himself. Despite his moleskin trousers, his loose grey Crimean shirt and leather belt, with its bushman's knife, one glance revealed a man accustomed to associate on equal terms with society. Sfcacey, who just appeared in tho doorway, called out : ' You will find Pelham an invaluable assistant, Mies Dowling, , and was o(r. Tho eflecb of his introduction was electrical. The girl, who, with her back to bhe door, had been measuring the wall, wheeled sharply. 'Jack!' Pelham started impetuously forward with a cry of ' Maude —' then suddenly stopped, and changed his exclamation into ' Miss Dowling !' His face [lushed crimson, then turned pale under its sun-burn. His eyes grew brighter and more vividly blue, the true fighting colour. And ib wa3 a hard fighb

that lay before him—the harder that it was co entirely unforeseen, and that the long weariness of twelve months of renunciation and stubborn resistance to temptation was present to hia mind. His breath came short and hard, his face grew stern ; his raised hand fell to his side, and was clenched passionately. ' Jack, do nob look at me like thab. Are you angry with me ?' 'No.' • Then you are afraid of me. You need not be. You said you would be my friend for ever, Meet me now as one.' ' You are my employer's guest; I, a station hand.' ' That is a mean, pitiful evasion, Jack Pelham. You are yourself, and 1 believed you sincere when you wrote of faithful friendship. Was that a society lie kindly meant as balm to my broken heart when you were obliged to tell me you had made a mistake ?' ' Better believe that. Think of me as .a vain, presumptuous fool—one who never cared. Never cared, oh, my God !' One hand went up to his throat as if he felt strangled. •Then you do care,' said the girl, moving close to him and laying one hand upon his arm. Her face vvaß deathly white, bub expressed as strong resolution as thab of the man confronting her—as strong, though softened by tho heavenly pity and tenderness that shone in her eyes. 'Do nob think I would tempt you to do wrong, Jack. You say there is a fatal barrier between us. Be ib so. We are strong enough— both of us—to live our lives apart. Only lob us ever have kindly feelings for each other. , 'You are a eaint. But I am not strong enough. I could nob meeb you and call you friend. Think of me as kindly as you can, bub in pity, if you would save mo from dishonour and self-contempt, leb me never see your face again.' • I will do what you think best. Bub, oh

Jack, can you not tell me what the barrier ia V 'I cannot. It is not my secret alone.' • Bub I believe I know. At least tell mo whether my suspicion is right or wrong.' ' If it -will be any relief to you.' * You are under obligation to another woman whose claim to your love was earlier than our first meeting ?' ' How have you learned that ? Do you know all ?' ' When you asked me to bo your wife you believed yourself free ?' ' Heaven knows I did.' ' Afterwards you found that the past was not dead. And you determined to renounce position and friends, fco forfeit tho good opinion of those who knew yoj, and to allow your actions to be misconstrued even by those whose esteem you valued ?' ' There was no other way. , ' Is she, here ?' •Yes. , 4 May I—would you let me—go and see her ?' 4Do not think of it. Do not, I implore you.' A quick flush rose to the girl's face, and she asked hastily, ' She is Mrs Pelham ?' 4Of course. I thought you knew," wearily. 'Then why may I not see her ? It would be better. I should bo happier." 4 She knows nothing—about us. I could nob have her told. It would be too painful.' 'How you misjudge me,' she replied sadly. •Do you think me capable of such baseness ?' What his reply would have been it is impossible to say. For afi that; moment Mr Stacoy appeared, loaded with tarpaulins. 4 Here, Miss Dowling. I'vo had such a hunt fco find this canvas. You must have wondered what had become of me. . Well, now we shall be able to set to work.,, I suppose you and Pelham have the whole thing planned. Please tell me what happy thoughts have occurred to either of you during my absence. , ' None at all,' replied Maude, most truthfully, and soon she and her lover were piungecl into the thick of preparation for an event which had lost all its interest. Sally Miss Dowling pondered over worde which seemed to place tho situation beyond doubb and beyond hope, bub in truth sho had an entirely wrong- impression of the obstacle between her -over and herself. In their hurried conversation, tho mind ol each had been running in a .differenb groove. So that while Jack believed Maude, in some incomprehensible way. to have learned his secret, "lie looked upon his admissions as absolute confirmation of a theory which she had formed on first reading his letter.

CHAPTER 111. ' ' What did you think of my taste in picking out a nice-looking "aide" for you this afternoon ? Pelham is a handsome fellow, don'b you think so? . It was at tlio dinner table that the host hurled this embarrassing inquiry at Maude. Her answer was lost in a remark from her uncle, who, knowing nothing , of her short ongagement, had other memories linked with the name. ' Pelham, did you say? I wonder whether ho is any relation to Jack Polhani, my fidus Achates at Eton and Trinity. Poor old Jack, how little we thought then that his life was to be so short and so wagic !' Pressed to tell the story, Mr Heywood replied : 'Ib was a most mysterious affair. Jack was the soul of honour and intelligence, the last man one would have supposed capable of becoming either a vulgar thief or a kleptomaniac. Yet when he was arrested on a charge of having purloined some paltry sum—less than £60 —from a private room at Morley's, he pleaded guilty, and the plea of insanity was not even urged. He was imprisoned and died in gaol. His wife was the handsomest and most fascinating woman 1 ever met. Jack was famous for good luck till Dame Fortune—or Old Harry—played him the last scurvy trick.' 4 What became of his widow ?" 'No one knows. She disappeared with her one child, a fine manly little fellow, ten or twelve years old.' 'How strange if my Jack Pelham should turn out to be that very chiid. Hβ and bis mother live alone. You rarely see such devotion as exists between them. She is a singularly beautiful and majestic woman, with all the charm of manner you describe. But sometimes I fancy she has a secret. She is most reticent about herself, and makes no intimate friends. It is an odd coincidence that her son is under some sort of a cloud at present, and I cannot reconcile dishonour with what I Know of his character. Is it possible that Mrs Pelham is not quite right in her mind, and that husband and son have sacrificed themselves to save her pride V Maude's eyes wero glistening. What did it all mean ? She felt that the key to the mystery was in her hands, if she could but use it. ' How does Mi*3 Pelham get on witt; her daughter-in-law ?' she asked. ' Daughter-in-law ? Jack ia her only son, and he is not married.' ' Are you sure V 'Positively certain. , 'But he said ' began Maude, and then stopped, blushing consciously. No one noticed her unfinished remark, and she had time to think. What had he said ? As_ she reviewed the ufternoon's conversation, she began to see matters in a different light. There was much to puzzlo her. But one thing was clear. She would see Mr Pelham, and that as soon as possible. Suddenly becoming conscious that a hush had fallen upon the company, she looked up. Everyone was gazing toward a French window that opened on to the verandah. She turned swiftly in the same direction. Ihere stood Jack's mother. She knew it in an instant, before the voice (usually so sweet and thrilling, now, alas, so husky and broken by unnecessary pauses) fell upon her ears, •'

•My intrusion—calls for—apology. Bub I am sure Mr Sbacey and all my other {rood friends—all good Mends—will pardon— want of ceremony. Christmas Eve—l expecfc my son—my Jack—home from sea. Hβ will be—captain next) year. What 1 doubb my word ? Who calls him thief ? Dead—dead—dead in gaol.' She uttered the last words in a horrified whisper, paused with a look of bewilderment, swayed violently and only saved herself from falling by clutching at the door. Edward Stacey rose quickly and went to her. ' Take my arm, Mrs Pelham,' he said, kindly. ' You are not very well. Let ma take you to the sofa. . The wretched woman clung to him in a passion of hysterical weeping. Before ha had thought how to end the painful scene, Jack Pelhara's vigoroue step was heard on the gravel. Ho sprang on to the verandah and entered the room as she had done, took in .the whole situation in a glance and - ! walked to her side. ' Mother !' His tone conveyed the deepest love with* out an accent ot reproach or impatience. But she shrank from him, still crying pitifully, Then *.cr the first time the son appeared conscious of the large party in the room •My mother is ill, , he said, turning to them with quieb dignity. «It will be difficult to calm her with so many strange faces about her, and I fear that at present we cannot move her into another room. . The guests withdrew by one consent; all bufe Miss Bowling and Stacey, to whom the poor tipsy creature still clung helplessly. 4 You won't send me away now, Jack ?' Maude pleaded, with big tears in her eyea a to her host's extreme scandal and dismay. 4 Yee, MissDowling, I must. How can it bo otherwise ? When I can persuade my mother to come, she and I will go our way, and pray that we may nevee cross your path again to bring trouble and annoyance upon you. , •Then you shall not take your mother from here if I can keep her.' The girl turned excitedly to Edward Stacey, who was naturally thunderstruck at such passages between two people who he believed had met for the first time an, hour or two before. Maude hastily oxolained matters, without a suspicion of the pain she was inflicting. Having induced Mrs Pelham to recline on the sofa, Stacey precipitately left the room, and the lovera were virtually alone. ' T misunderstood you this afternoon, , s&ld Maude, as the door closed. * I thoughb * you were married. Now I must believe that you have simply grown tired of me, and care for me no longer. . The speaker knew well the forces thab were fighting for her, undermining the formidable ramparts of the man's detennK nation, and changed her mode of attack. A short pause, eloquent with emotion, followed her words. Then the man's strong love broke down the, barrier or silence. ' Why torture me needlessly by such a supposition ? You cannot—you do not believe ife. It is because I love you better chaa life that I see how impossible it is for us ever to stand again on the old footing. Oh. my darling, my darling, I shall never forget your noble faith and courage. But I should bo worse than a brute if I. took advantage of your goodness to drag you to a lower level, and to bind you to a share in such a responsibility! and such a —disgrace. There would never be any security. Would you marry a—anyone with such a failing f 4 No. Not if I loved him as I love you. But there ia no comparison between* the cases. _ Would you cast me off because of the follies or weakness of my parents ?' ' Bub you do not understand. While my mother lives, I musb be always with her. We cannot live in town. If you saw our hub ! And there is no hope of anything better. , 4 1 wand a manager for the station lam going to buy,' said Miss Dowling, in a tone which implied that this project had been the result of mature consideration. ' But that has nothing to do with it. You know I have means and am independent, so the question , -'of money need not oomplicate matters. This alone stands between us, does it? Then see how I treat your " fatal obstacle."' She crossed the room, and falling on her knees beside the pitiable figure on the sofa, kissed the lovely face and smoothed with, gentle hand the dishevelled white hair, which ought to have been a crown of glory. Tears of pity and of love rolled unheeded down Maude's cheeks. ' Oh, how sad it is. Jack, let me help you. I love her already, and I am sure I can make her love me.' Never in her life had Maude Dowling been considered pretty, bub at that moment a less prejudiced beholder would have "pronounced her beautiful. So might Joan of ; Arc have looked under the inspiration of her vision. So might Boadicea have kindled the enthusiasm of her warriors. So might the Grecian girl have thrilled when the idea of self-sacrifice to save her people first dawned on her mind. The occasion had in it more than a touch of the heroic. Small need to wonder how it ended.