"LEGENDE."

Evening Post, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 23, 27 January 1912, Page 12

" LEGENDE."

It was dawning on me that I had lost my way. The station manager had tolU me I could not mite it. I was 'to keep to the track until I crossed the rivetf, and then cut across the tussock plain, heading for a clump of cabbage trees. From a rise above the tre^es I would see the homestead I ' was making' for, set among trees a few mile* further on. But' my horse was slow, the track was bad, and night and the rain* cam© racing up from the sou-west ere I was hallway across the plain. The wind that brought up the tain- rushed furiously out ot a valley in the foot-hills,' and once or twice turned my poor horse right round. The rain quickly drove through my waterproof coat; it was horribly dark? I was oft" the track; and the' neatest homestead was a good ten miles away. Just as it seemed that I was in ior a very nasty little adventure, I was astonished to catch a glimpse of a light straight ahead. A particularly vicious buftsfc of rain blotted it dub ; but it loomed up agaih in a minute, hardly more than a chain away — a faint glimmer, but welcome out of all proportion to .its power. What wad it? My late host had said nothing of** a house about here. A couple of years before I had ridden over the same ground and seen no habitation. But a house there certainly was, for a moment later my horse halted at the door, and a dog rushed out from the back and set up a furious barking. The door wae opened simultaneously with my knocking. The greeting was the very reverse of cordial. "W<ho is there?" demanded .the figure that filled the doorway. The voice was commanding, and, wet and tired ac I was, I w*as struck by the thought that this was no shepherd's hut I had come upon. i "I have lost my vray," said 1< "Can you give mo a shakedown for the night?" ' i "No, I can't," replied the mall. "1 give shelter "to no one. The Hillside homestead is ten miles further on. Yoti can get there all right." It wae like a blow in the face. Colonial country hospitality is the most open-handed on earth. One has only to ask and it is given ; often there is not even the trouble of, asking, , And on. a night like this 1 It is an embarrassing situation aiguing with a man about taking you. in for the night, but I had to put my pride in niy pocket. ( "Come," I said, as kindly as I could, "surely you have a corner for me on such a brute of a night? I don't care to force myself on any man, but you must see I cannot. go on." I had .to shout this at him, for the wind howled round the house, and ' the rain, rattled furiously on the iron roof. He looked at me for a moment. "Come in." I have never entered any man's house with .greater reluctance. My host made it no easier for me, returning no answer tq my. apologies, and taking rriy wet coat to the back room without a word. The front room was a email; rough one, but surprisingly well fitted -for a house in that remote locality. A 'bed stood in ohe corner ; by the window was a table with a good lamp ; an arm-chair was placed before a great fire of logs. A number of, books, magazines, and newspapers lay on the table, and over the bed were several well-filled shelves. Mystery -was written all over suoh a room in such a place. My host returned from the back room tc find tte steaming before the fire. "I owe you an apology," he said, speaking with a cultivated accent. "You must 'have thought me very rude. The fact is I am not used to having strangers.' J No one has spent a night with me since I 'came here." I felt I ought to make his apology ac easy as possible. "Not at all," I replied. "You didn't realise the beastliness of the night when I «p6ke to you." ■ While I dried myself he set about getting me something to eat. Some tinned meat, very hot tea, and home-made bread was the fare, and excellent it Was under the zest of my appetite. As T ate I began to fdrget my host's eurli ness, and tried to draw him out. We talked quite briskly of the weather, the price of wool, the frozen meat market, and British and colonial politics, and 1 found him an interesting companion. But he did not fell me who or what he '■/as, and I couJd not bring myself to ask. Nor could I get it out of my head that I wasn't wanted under his roof. Nothing could nave been more hospitable, than his manner, but two or three times I glanoed up from mj food and caught on his face a look, half* annoyance and half perplexity, that made me certain I was m the way. Thoughts of illicit stills and coiners' dens came into my mind, to be dismissed as absurd. Whatever it was, he would nave to pub up with me; the wind', howling round the house in a mad endeavour to pull it down made that quite clear. In one of my glances round the room I caught eight o*f a violin case lying clobb to a small pile of music. "Do you play? I said. I could have sworn he turned pale, and for a moment looked more embarrassed than ever. "Yes, a little. It ie a fine companion in the solitudes. Do you mind it?" "Not at all," I said. "On the'contrary, I am particularly fond of it j* * "I am afraid," he said, in a curious hesitating way, "I shall have to aak you to put up with a little inconvenience tonight. If you are awakened in th 6 night by the sound of violin-playing, don't think me mad or unfeeling. The fact is, I suffer from a severe nervous complaint that can only be sdothed by music, and 1 sometimes have to walk up and down lor houri at night, playing. 1 have an idea ai) # attack is coming on to-night. You Won't mind very much ?"' "It would' take a full .orchestra to keep me awake to-night," I said with a smile. "Go ahead, on(? don't mind me in the least." We sat talking over the fire with our pipes for a bit, and then I suggested bed. H© made a "shakedown" for me in the back room, a little place full of harness- and stores, and odds and ends, but very clean and tolerably ■ tidy. I went straight to sleep. ' ■ I was awakened by the sound of a violin. The player seemed to be playing no composition, but merely impn> vising on .the two lower strings. He was drawing the bow backwards and forwards, and playing with that extraordinary tone of sadneSs that only the violin can produce. Now it sounded like a sob almost under the' breath ; now as if a grief-stricken had thrown reticence to the winds, and was crying its loss to Heaven. A spear of moonlight lay across the room near my bed. The rain had ceased, and the sky was clear, and the wind had dropped to a breeze. I held out my watch to the light, it was a (juarter-past 2 o'clock. Suddenly th 6 music ctopped, and I heard the player walk across the front room in the doorlefis doorway leading into my sleeping-place. I could not see him, but I judged him to be there, and it flashed on me that he had come to see if I were asleep. I did not want to make him uncomfortable by letting him see I had been disturbed, so I feigned good, sound, half-snoring sleep. I heard him move away, and a moment later he began to play WieniaWBki's "Legend*." He- had not played si# bars betore I was holding my breath. I have heard a dozen great violinifetk d£i£g&d i&tg ihst gi£s& dark pi& fit

grief, but- never such unutterable sadness drawn from that most human of instruments. Then I heard him come again to my doorway, and again I was fast asleep, the next moment I was very wide awake from sheer astonishment. The man had crossed the* front room and opened the front door. "Are you there, dear?" I caught the words quite clearly. Their tone was infinitely tender. 80, thought I. this is the explanation of my friend's reluctance to put me up ' for the night. But what an hour arid what weather for a meeting ofvlovers ! She must have come from a distant station, and this was perhapa the only time she could give to him. I wais just about to turn over and cover up my head to keep out things I had ho right to hear, when I noticed something that turned me cold under my heavy coverings:: ■ Only one person came back into the room, and that was a man. That I could tell by the footsteps. Besides, no woman'B voice replied to his talk. I could hear him speaking in a low tone, but only an occasional word came to me. "Dear, I am bo glad you have come ' . . a whole year.- It is bo long to wait. . . Dearest .. . Can you not Come oftener? I cannot live through a year without seeing you . . i Tonight 1 thought . . , out of my mind . . . visitor '. . . all nights in the year . . , our night . , . I could have killed him." Then, after .an interval of undistinguishable words, "Shall I play it for you?" He began to play "Legend©" again. To attempt to describe how he played it would be quite useless. Some emotions dwell in a temple that (should \ not be profaned by words. Till the hour of my death that ticent will haunt me — the little ' house in the desolation, the . v violin searching out all the depths of hopeless grief, the mystery of that dumb and noiseless listener. The last note gave way to a cry of anguish. . "Oh, my love, my love, why did you go? Will you not let -me' come to you? Often- 1 have longed to cut off all 1 this misery and come to you, but you forbid. I am to staY here at my post and -wait Until my call comes. Itf is hard, so hard, dear. . ." His voice dropped again. All thi« time there was not a sound from her whom he loved. If you will, call me cad for listening. I plead guilty to capitulation to overwhelming curiosity. Besides, what man would relax hi& vigilance in a strange house with such a nost? There was more murmuring talk, still all on one side. Then I he»i-d him Walk to the front door, i caught a word that seemed like "Good-bye," and the sound of something that usually' accompanied that word between lovers. ' He must have sto^d come minutes at the door looking out, for I heard no movement. Nor- did I hear any sound from outside. Then 1 heard him cro&S the Toom and throw himself on hie bed. "Oh, my God! another year to wait!" He sobbed piteously. If you have never 1 heard a man c^ pray to "Heaven to keep that experience from you. I confees that I could stand no more, and buried my head under the clothes. When I met my host next morning I did not wait for an opportunity to lie about my experience ( of the night, but plunged boldly into justifiable sin. "Well, your violin-playing didn't do

any harm last night — that is, if you played. I didn't hear a, note of it. Slept like a top."' Wo were drinking tea as I fcpoko, and my host's pannikin irni very full. He started at what 1 said, and some of the tea was spilt, on the table. "I'm glad of that," he said carelessly. "As a matter of fact, I did play a bit." I bade him good-byo a tew minutes later, • and rode olf over the tussocks, through the cool, sweet au\ The last glimpse .1 had of. 'him showed me his figure in. the doorway-looking after me, but I knew he was thinking not of me, but. of a. night '3(3s days. away.—- Alan E. Mulgan, in the Australasian.