The Dream of the Old Men. For The Post. By Frank Morton.—(All Right reserved.)

Evening Post, Volume LXXIV, Issue 150, 21 December 1907, Page 12

The Dream of the Old Men. For The PPot.s t. By Frank Morton.— (All R ight reserved.)

"1 have never seen your face," said Carsland. "I neA'er sbav you at all, until . to-night. I don't 6A»en knoAv your name. I don't knoAv lioav you come to be here olono, on a night like this ; but I am 'not a fool. Don't let yourself be a fool because — well, you know, merely be-•-cuusfc- you can't understand things. I am not impressionable, as a rule ; and I am not dirt. ' It's infernally hard io express the thing, -you know. You "will think it is rather beastly of me, in -a- way. -But-, you knoAV — I say, little woman./ yop" won't think' horrid things of me?" - Ho felt rather than saAV tAvo deep •tle'ep eyes gazing at him through the " mask. ■ • ' - "You have .giA'en me no reason to • -think you horrid," said the girl gently. "BntAvill- you, when I tell -you? I "Itavo to" tell you, you knoAV. I lovo ' you.'' • • ■ v.-j;ll don't-think i-you are • horrid," she '-"flaid." "But I think you are hasty, and "'.you are certainly indiscreet." ■ "I hate discretion," Ca'rslaud „ assured her. "I don't pretend to be discreet." - "Aad yet I should think you are discreet, as a rule," laughed the lady. . f'Very." "Meaning," said he, "that. I havo < gone through life a respectable dolt, like the re3t of 'em. Well, perhaps T haA'e, ..until to-night. To-night lam awake." "Merely becauso you have met an un--fcnovmgirl in this crOAvd ; Avherc, [as , ,you tacitly admitted just now, no rea- ' eonably well-conducted girl ought to be --without •an escort. Soon, I shall begin ,to think that you need a chaperon more than I 'do." 1 . . • voice , Avas - cooj and critical without compromise ; Jiut the ..man returned persistent to his^ theme. "All this," ho said, ""is rather beside *- the- -point.- - The point .is that I love „jco.y'. •- - . , . > , / ' -"You ai'P' very obstinate. The point " T-isy rather, .that you think you do. Cir- * cumstahce and the night h<tve conspired to make you in this mood .fall' suddenly 'in lovo Avith Ida's ; and I 3I 3 who am tho .. poor pawn of circumstance, you would exalt as queen of destiny. Oh, 'la la ! ' We cro -talking like hot-pressed "puppets /in'atnpAV npvel.. We not better get J back' to "the progress of tho colony, tho ""'supremacy of ' 'God's' Own Country," and '•all' the. rest qf it!'' -.;;... "1 hato'ihe country^'' Carsland said, lr , uuccinclly. '-.'"' • "Oh, but "that is -not at all nice of you. Let alone the fact' that the admission is not at' all complimentary to ' me." ■ . • - * 'Nonsense," he said. "You are not *" 4be country. You can be transplanted. " "Irhero fire ships."- *"" - ""'"" She waived the suggestion: "I don't ■"think you' have "any right" to' condemn c my"co'iintry\l ; - HaA*e"yon seen everything? '"••flavef you'.beon here long^?" • "I have been" iri NeAv Zealand three '\veeks, and I am likely to bo here for '•a whila longer.- -I havo "seen Dunedin. I have seen this — this bazaar." Hang - fcho country !" 1 "It cant- be done," she 'aughed. -'Not in the way you mean. The country hangs peerless jh tho eye of the gods. The country is tho pearl of great price that gems, tho brow, of Empire.' All that' is tattght in" our schools. Even the newspapers -have discovered it. On, you must/ see. Wellington be■^'fdre 7 ' you" go. You must see tho" Biggest " IWobden Building in the world* You -must see tha Government Station I You " .must see- the statute of Mr. Ballance ! Then you will . exult in your opportuniiSiesf and Vatract these, harsh opinion?." -, '-'-I -shall- "sec .Wellington,- 1 ' " he amd „ E.rjmJy...i'-'J J .h?iA-e to. Jlore's tho pity.' I,t was .the height of carnival in .Won"^•derlancl.'. .1 MasKeur. carnival. ""Modernity ~.;iaelib.erate in" excess. Carsland and the 'girl- had - foiind a.secluded seat iii the ftvd "side . shows," and '"forra'/^ital'five.-'Sunutes there had" nut "bein r a visibly human creature \vfthin "fceS-yartls of "Ihein. But'lhd grounds 1 iVereji'oft-d'eci; .and the- jiight' was gay. -"THie kiniulus' of .miiquerade was' in.. the air.;"; Patty its a'pehwiper. Bubbins,as ' Galaha~d.. Camels, "Avaterchute, perform- - ling "beast's,-. '"democracy a : giggl© in the Katzen-Jamnier. Parti-coloured elec- ' trrc' bulbs in the "trees, a'pprtfjjrrato as •", -Brummagem geAA r gu,AVE on the Avhite sAveet -'breasts- -of Pshychc. Outside, : a brass -'' band blared' ia the 'Pike, and the General " [Manager- Avofe evening-dress in the main •corridor — cpunter-attrnctions. - And over all, the night. . . Cliristchurch, for so much of it as thTet6-rs,~iap' tho City 'of Gracious Nights. .There tAvilight is SAveclened day, and . darkness at_ jts. -J ullest ' only the suavo "dusk deepened. Coy breezes "Avanton -'rvrifh the penile 'little plaything of a - fivers-- glad trees are muVniurous of „ regrets. , .never quite diccoA-ercd ; . and (i .cyer over Ihe Hat but fragrant dimness ; '"i6f' the "land 'there peer 'contented the "'tender brooding stars. So ther-Christ- ' -church people labour Avith - pianolas in - their stuffy parlours, and - hang up Chinese lanterns in the shrubbery. They turn uncaring from tho arms of the ' SPleiade^ to clatter through "the dust" in ' hansom cab's. As piouq slaves of locality ' «md tlio husks of the moment, they have fully deefded that it is better "to be ' gay than glad. And", so often' enough, Gttbbiris as Galahad ,has dismal forc\;bridings of the laundress. : . * "I must see you again," Said Carslafid." - ;.-. "Accidents still happen spffletimes, "paid tho girl. "But 'can "you give .me, no better en:«Q"uragement than that? Will you uoti ."oven telJ me your- name? Won't you give me a liint-^-a suggestion — " ' "Talking .to you at" all in this way, 'Boat you. think.! have already con- ' jcecled enough ?"- -" - "Oh,, don't" rot !" pleaded the Eng- ''". Jlsnman.VTDbnt' begin to be conventional V and . fluffy, noAV, Don't i»poil it " all. Can't "you see that I love "'you? Can you blame me for thinking of \;lhe. future?" "Th© future is on the Knees of the gods." The girl's tone-, still quizzical, ."was gentler than it had been. "If love . indeed compels you, don't you knoAv ibhat Love' is king, oye of little faith!" , "' "AnaVthat is ail you havo to say to Ipe !"' "That is all. What moro can I say? "l^Tou'say you. love me, havjng knoAvn me for an hour," having only Keen me shrouded in a domino, peering through a mask. For aught you knoAv, I may be as ugly us a gargoyle. Don't let the possibility distress you ; I'm not. Only, you 6ee, I OAve something to- ."myself : although you saiay retoTt that I have thought of that .rather late in the day. We met here, you will agree, by chance, and in your . heart you have been thinking all the time that I have no light to bo talking fco you. I haven't. Still, there is no freat harm done, and I am glad to have nown you. But doav, it must be adieu/ ' He Avas greatly in earnest. He Avould have pleaded, urged, demanded ; but she stopped. -him Avith a gesture "You re'"member y/bnt you ssnd just now,' sho Jmirmtirrtf.- "Don't spoil it- all." - "-Anil you' have hbtuing to give me but - <fchi«s — nothing !" • Fof. ;t long minute the gill did not re--pily;-'The' band blared rather forlornly «i the distance.' ' D^nee masses of cloud, crawling flp from the southward, had Wotkd-'-oHt the stars. The gentle brmzd that had' caressed the river swelled zio'.v -to a, coulindous ,Tnn;r)iinf..

"Yes,"' .she said presently. "I haA-o decided. I shall leave you a talisman, a tokeiij call it Avhat you will. When later you see— not once,* but many times, and an the daylight — the woman you love; when you haA'C- proved to the full satisfaction of your heart that you need her; then, if you find her of your mind, give her this ring. Tell her that I, Avho only met you once, and that once quite Avithout warrant, am glad that you love heT and have Avon her, because to me, the stranger who paused, and spoke ancl passed, you proved yourself Avell AvoTthy to be loved." Ho she left him. Carsland, turning tho little ring moodily in his hands, did not attempt to folloAv- hor. For him, that night at any rate, it seemed that the' glory of tho avoilc! and of his youth Avas quenched . bej'ond hope. The wind that moaned and cobbed, along the river sang the dirge of his clear dreams dead. The crowd that jostled and laughed 1 about, him as lie strode 'aAA'ay from the seat of confessions only served to make his personal loneliness more 1 acute. Across the eddies' of tho dust ' there-fell-a sullen splash of rain. ". IL Warner's Ilotel, Cliristchurch, N.Z., ' 6th December, 1906. My dear Dad, — I have got so far, and under one pretext- and another I havo been here a fortnight. It's a sunny little place, and quaint — quite as much off the map as -you Arould expect. The people here are cojdial and inoffensive ; in their rather sleepy way great champions of their parish. On occasional caljn- days the air is positively delicious ; but on most days avo breathe dust-. It doesn't siaiu like the dust of Jo'burg, but there's pretty' nearly, as much of it, and the people have become so aa-cII used to it that I suppose it docs 'em good. There are some rather . good gardens, and a delightful little upholstered, Tiver,. like a diminutive model of the Thames above Henley, I, specially * furbished-, and frilled for , a .paradise 'df, dolls. Thero is an Exhibition on just' iioaa'— perhaps you have heard of it — and the ,neAvspap?rs — there, seem to be' about tAvo neAvspapers to ,every dozen inhabitants, in the colony — are full of Aveird discussions xelativo to the personal qualities of the Manager. The, Manager, accotding to the Clrristchufch. papers, appears as a sort of blurred cross bei.".reen Frankenstein" and a disastrous blizzard ; but A?hen I actually saAV. him to-day. l discovered only a povtly and Avidc-smiling person in a rather- impossible waistcoat. You will say that I am dawdling here, and funking it. Yos, I 6uppose that's about tho way things stand. You knoAV how I havo felt about this matter, fight through. " 1 have* ahva-ys " felt ' that you and yonr- -friend Winterfield " have been indulging the maddest of dreams. You have* hoped that I shall love big 1 daughter, Avhoin I have neA'cr seen, arid he is hoping thai, she" will loA-©.me, whom- she has neA-eryet set eyes oil. You havo been candid with me as to your hope, and you havo more than hinted that he has been equally candid 1 Avith her. If he has, and she thinks I -am taking things" for- "granted at all, Avhat an unconscionable howler she must think me ! The bear possibility of my incurring such contempt ia 'surely enough to make me daAvdle on my Avay to Wellington Leaving me right out of the matter, the thing is tougher than you think. I tel you, Dad, these NeAV Zealand girls are not like the dutiful daughters of our Englkli counties, not by a lump. Things that are of infinite moment Avith-our girls don't affect them at all, and they make a good deal of some things as to which our girls aie completely indifferent. In one thing they eeeni -to be' unanimous : each of them de-mands-the right to choose' her OAA-n husband. They 'have more liberty than a full half of Our married women, and they make the most of it. They Avill not be driA'cn into distasteful marriages, and I think all' the more of them for that. If Miss Winterfield has been bored with persuasions to play up to your dream, the dream 1 goes against you," whatever I may think- in "tho matter. I'm /sorry, in away,-becauee you knoAV,- Dad," I hate to luia-c you disanpointnd. ' You have been veTj- good to" me in this, as in all otber things. You put no, restraint on uip: - Wliat worries me is that you should nurse any hope ;in a matter that. is so hopeless. JNien and Avomen cannot 1oa t o at will, eA'eD at the bidding of their ! best-beloved. . . In a word, Dad, the thing's hopeless. And this long rigmarole is really more daAvdlo ; for I have to tell yotr that the thing" is not merely more hopeless than ever, but is now altogether~hopeless. I have fallen in loA*e, blindly. and irreparably, "Avith another woman, a woman whom 1 fear I may never see again— a Avoman, in fact, whom 1 have never really seen at all. It is not tho sort of story the average man Avould care' to tell to the average father; but I Inia'c ahvays been happy in the confidence of your sympathy, even when your judgment has been against me. " Hero, then, are the facts. ... 1 So tho cat's ottt. Mine also is a mad | dream, you Avill say. It, is. It is madder than -that old dream of yours and your friend . Winterfield's, But someAvhcre . in . the world this lady is, and sometimes dreams come true. I shall do as I had intended. Next week I shall 1 go to Wellington. I shall meet Miss Winterfield, and gat that matter over. . .1 believe that that is what she avoulcl haA T e me do, if she kneAV. Then I shall go out and try to find this woman, Avho having not seen I love. And if I find her again, I shall win her. I have a ; settled conviction of that. I'm not going to tell you hoAV sorry I am, Dad,.be- . cause I'm not sorry. 1 Avould Tather go ; lonely and sorroAving for this lady all ; my days than seek solace on the lips of , any other Avoman. In love, I _ hale all : opportunists. I will lurve naught ot all. I shall Avrite from Wellington. With. 1 love and dear remembrance, Dad, , Victor. Carsland. ; 111. Carsland, in a brown study, lit a. , cigarette, and let it burn out'; then tossed it into tho fireplace and tried his 1 pipe. But tobacco for once had lost its , savour, or Ihe moment was not opportune. He threw up the sash, and ttood for n\-e minutes peering out into tho '■ darkness. Thore was a soothing chaos of - tiny sounds, some 4.0 slightly audible as to seem of the^ essence of the luglit-si- [ lence. From the sweet appealing odour ; of the night, he could detach the fmg- ' ranees of rose and mignonette. lie '. turned back to the gIoAV of the lamp, , took a book from his bag, unlocked the ', covers, and began to Avrite. Years eiirl- ', ier, he had foimed this habit of keeping a journal. The entries Avcrc not regular or continuous. They avcic mere hints at places, sentences A\ere not regular or continuous. There Aveie mere hints at places, sentences abandoned on the heights of vivid words, passages &cored out hero , and there as vehicles unAVbrthy the impression. But whenever his life moved to any special stress of pain or pleasure, out came the book. "I got here to-day." he began, "and Inul a homely Aielcome. Dr. Wi'iterfeld lnoks emiously older tlnin Avllrn 1 met him in London a conplo of years ago. ' The d.iuyhter, of whom I have heard so much, at times so irritably, puzzles and baffles. roe, ajKeciS'ttie 1 k»)F wb JwJTj.

Her \*oice is so like her- father's that tho familiarity of it Strikes oddly. Slio is, I'm fain 'to confess, quite other than I had imagined her. Queenly she is, though I that is not tho word. Tall and dark, v face of extraordinary kindliness and charm, dark hair so lustrous as inevitably to suggest the- fancy Mutt some strayed lustie of the challenging eyes has * somehow i^ot entangled amid the Avealth of it. Sho has a gracious dignity, and is altogether very grave and SAveet Voice very deep like her father's, but in her contralto there are, of 'course, vastly more tender gloAvs than in his bass. Had it not been for the lady of the masquerade, I think I should find myself very much in love Avith my circumstances. »She is so unlike. . . ' "And yet, in tho thought of these two widowers, each utterly loyal to a great lost love, each dreaming that his onty child should find 'happiness in the only child of the other — in that dream, and the prayers and hopes that, for years have blossomed about it, there is something quite umvoiii'tlly ttnd ... I have no Arord. "Life's irony, again ! - For them, and for me.' . I feel that I should havo Wed Gladys Wintirfeld, if the other had not intervened. ' And yet I can't imagine Gladys in the "circumstances of the other. She would be invincibly armed against the temptaiion of any such adventure. To sco her .and her father together is to enjoy a revelation of goodness. Their mutual understitading is ho complete and fine thoir mutual sympathy is so quick and unfailing. I ffealise that in even thinking 1 of me as a possible husband for this child of his -heart's heart;, Wintorfeld does me singularly grctat^ honour. I feel that I ought to tell ihim about my lady. And yet I don't see lioav I can. ' I should have to assume so mstch, so much that would possibly bo hurtiful to his gentle pride. "This afterncipn they took me in their motor for a drive- round and uibout the city. Wcllingtcca lies along the harbourfront, a straggile of houses- that thins away to bumpy" suburbs ; that is, at all points daunted- by tho barrier of indoniitable hills. If the city groAvs 1 into the great city 'of its people's dreams, the hills Avill be -overleaped and subjugated ; but at pcesent 1 all things aro in the ' clutch of a period 'of transition. The- politics of ,'tho country I protend to understand, but I understand that the democracy is -insistent cind luxuriously free. The things. J rntss aro .the things {I suppose) that I have no right to expect. But surprise grmvs to a great wonder ( in my mind when I " remember that a girl like Gladys Wintorficld has groAvn and bloomed here. The soil seems a little barren, the air a little bleak, for such a flower." Ho lit his pipe again, and now smoked a while in' comfort. Ho took from his dressing-table the photographs of those two dead sjsters, his mother and hers, and ' the beautiful faces seemed to smile on his perplexity Avith a certain comprehension. . A moment' he pondered old problems in a gathering now light that glowed Avithoilt illuminating. Then ho went back to his journal "Winterfield lives a feAv miles out from the town, in a remote -suburb known as tho Hutt. It is very pleasant icountry out hero, and the spacious house, in whose perfect order and comfort Gladys is made, visible, occupies a delightful, position in a region of gardens. Gladys — Gladys — Gladys ]/ I can think of nothing else to-night. I am true to my lady.- Every Avord that passed between us stands vital in. my memory. It was she, and not the mystciy of her, that avoii me. I knoAV that I a'hvays shall be ttue to her, for there is that in my thoughts and memory. of her that is stronger than death. And yet, already, another £irl can move nip as Gladys Wintcrtield moA'es me. • I hope I shall ahvays have courage to face unquestionable facts. Tho thought of Gladys thrills mo so that, Avere it not .for .niy lady, I- should bo already thinking tf r myself without m.isgiving as. Gladys's lover. And yet the other holds mo, and I kneuv myself, glad to be held. Confusion !". At Avhich peint he put away the book, smiled a little wistfully over his memories, and Avent comfortably to bed. IV. A AS'eek or two later; Carsland's perplexities having no Avhit decreased, Christinas E\'pn came in its due season. •The doctor went out to make a call' after dinner, and left the. young people to their OAvn company^'"lf you would prefer to smoke outside," said Gladys, "go, and 1 will join you presently in- the garden." * • Together, out there amid " tho' fragrances,* they watched the suave onconi-" ing of the night. For the moment neither \vas in the mood of speech ; but as those glows dimmed, each nio ? ment seemed to draA? them together in closer companionship. She sat near him, her chin on her hands, her profile clear-cut against the greying blur of tho sky. He had neA'cr seen her look moro graA-'e, more sAvoet ; and of fn sudden tho honest human nature that Avas in him made a clean-cut of the Gordian knob of his perplexities. "Life's a queer business," ho • said. "Coming > from you, the statement seems a little obvious and trite," said she. "Perhaps you may be able to help straighten the tangle," he Avent on. "Gladys — you must lot me call you Gladys, at least for this time— thero are things I must tell you noAV." She turned and faced him, "Yes?" she said, very softly. "First of all, I must tell you that I love you. Dear child, tho aA'OAval has'- been growing, in me from day to day. There are- things T cannot Understand, but I know that I love you,, honestly.' I had to tell you that first. But I cam hear no answer from you till I tell you more." 1 Very gently ho told her about the flight at Christchurch, concealing norh'ing, excusing, nothing, explaining nothing away. "And so/ ho said, "I have mole a clean breast of it. There Avas , no-love-paßsago' betAA-een 'us, in the ordinary sense. There Avere only indirect things to load 1110 to suppose she cared. I love her still, but by your side 1 love her only as one loves an an exquisite dead love, as one thinks of tho first awakening to love itself. And I lovo you, Gladys I love you go that I feel thai I cannot live without you. I love you so that my living love for her 1 I count ns dead only seems to mako my love of you the' deeper and more sAveot. There is muck I cannot understand, but I knoAv that I love you, and that is enough for me " Tho dusk had I'adrrl, and ns he sat awaiting lior leply he could only see her face dimly, lint she gave him hor hand, and in an ecMa'iy of joy that a\;is half rapt bcAvildciment he 'dreAv her close. "Dear," die mm-murrd, after a little, "I loved you AAltcn I first met you, and that first ni^lit'l cried happily iv papa's arms. Papa loves trie, you know, and ho humoured me. Ah, my dear, can you not sec? You have another message for 1110. I am happy lircatise iht> ring tbsa ay.-is it.j mothr-rs is the pledge of our betrothal. . . ." Thoto AV.I3 a toothing chaos of tiny sounds, some- ho slightly uiulibk- its U> seem of the ppspneo of tho niojil-silemo. Close against his hronsl as ho held hor 1m coulci fed the fliittoring of Vcr heart All natiuo snim loutont in that moment's joyous pa'isr — the perceptible faint bir:Ci?e. the lisping and cotnplsiisant tiech and I,'iassps and. oxquisitoly near, the incomputable company ci the eky.