HERMINE’S HERO.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXXIII, Issue 3720, 4 January 1913, Page 4

HERMINE’S HERO.

(By E. Burrowes) The man is a hero!” said Lady Elisabeth shortly, but there was a suspicious break in her voice, at which Honnine looked up from her storybook. Only that Aunt Elisabeth had grey hair, and was very wise and lovely, Hermine would have thought she was going to cry. . But that was, of course, quite impossible. Only babies cried—that was Hermine’s spartan-like creed, and one which she did her best to fellow most faithfully. “What is a hero?” she asked in her soft little voice. Lady Elisabeth Gordon looked down at her small niece, then glanced across at her younger sister, who was Hermine’s mother.

“What an enquiring mind!” she said with a smile, “0 ; hero, my dear, is .a man who does something really brave —and doesn’t say anything about it. Sometimes it’s saving a person’s life, and sometimes it’s just holding one’s tongue, when it would be easier and pleasanter to speak. There are different sorts of heroism, Hermine, but the greatest of them all is—silence.”

Hermino nodded her curly head, though she was very far from understanding the drift of Lady Elisabeth’s words. Still she knew that a hero was a brave man, and apparently Ronald Monckton was one, whereat she rejoiced, for she liked the browneyed young giant, who, since the Advent of Phyllis Carstaifs, had been a very frequent visitor at the Manor House.

Hermine adored Phyllis, who had come out under Lady ElisabetlEs wing, and was now paying a round of visits in the country, also with that j lady. Hermine thought there could be nothing prettier than the wild rose color in Phyllis’s cheeks, and the pansy-blue of her eyes, and the dimples which peeped out when she smil- ' ed —which was often. And Hermine j was not the only person who thought I Phyllis the pink of perfection. It was easy to see that Ronald Monckton held that view also, though his tongue said little—even to Phyllis, j ' does not seem possible,” . murmured Hermine’s mother after a pause “even specialists are not infallible, i Elisabeth. Yet ”

i “Longford-Matheson never makes a , mistake they say,” replied Lady Elisabeth, picking up her knitting and doing a few stitches absently, “he’s the : best man to go to for the eyes. But j —it’s a ghastly prospect for that nice boy—to live in the dark for the rest of his natural life. He is barely 1 thirty now, and, of course, with this doom hanging over lps head, he won’t : say a single word to Phyllis. The dear girl hasnt’ heard a rumor even 1 of the truth—when she does, I think : she’ll understand his silence. But she won’t bear it too quietly.” i “He’s sent in his papers I sup- ! pose ?” j “Yes. I think he rather meant i to do that anyway you know, since he : came in for the property in Scotland. He has strong views on the subject of i landlordism and so on. And now all I his castles in the air—l know he’s , been building them —fall to the ! ground. If he wasn’t such a hero—” | “Well?”

j Lady Alice Mason looked at her sis- ] ter with interest in her grey eyes. ( Neither lady noticed how Hermine > had discarded her fairy tales for the f more interesting occupation of listen- : ing to their conversation. 1 • He’d ask her to bear him company ! all the same. To live in the dark is j bad enough, hut to live there alone — ' would be agonising.” “But —-you think he won't do that? —speak to her I mean!” " ’ If Lady Elisabeth was capable of such a vulgar action as snorting, that was certainly the sound she permitted herself by way of reply, j “Not he!” she said, knitting away with energy. . “As I said before, the man is a hero, but heroes are also occasionally a mixture of fool and angel ; I’ve known another besides Ronald Monckton.”

‘T know dear,” Lady Alice nodded, ! softly; “yet it seems a pity——”

I A pitv to let that nice girl suffer , when a word from that idiot would ' make her happy—to say nothing of himself; but some people have a per- ; feet genius for salf-sacrifice. Ronald j Monekton evidently is one of them.”

| And Lady Elisabeth sighed shortly. I She knew so well what it was to be ■ obliged to suffer in silence —the sil- ' ence of another person’s making. ' Everyone who saw Lady Elizabeth . Gordon murmured that she had a liis- | tory —possibly ii lomantic one, too. They were not far wrong. She had I never married : someone had come I into her life many years ago, and— I from a sense of duty—had gone out ! of it again, leaving her heart lonely j for ever. That was the whole story j in a nutshell; and she was not anxious i to see her pretty charge, Phyllis Car- ' stairs, suffering from like experience. I Yet that was just what would most ■ assuredly happen, unless — What | way out was there? She could see none, and her knitting needles clicked the more insistently as she sat plunged in anxious thought, while outside, in the sunny garden, the subject of ' her thoughts was sauntering up and 1 down the rose-bordered walk with Ronald Monekton. j “To-morrow,” he was saying, “I must go away.” ] “So soon?” There w T as a ring of regret in the clear girlish tones, and Ronald Monck- | ton set his teeth hard. He would have given all be possessed to be able ' to blurt out the truth —to toll Phyllis how beloved her, how he must always 1 care for her; to tell her that, with her love, darkness would be turned into light, but —honor forbade him that consolation. He must suffer alone. “Yes —I’m going up north to my old home. I’ve sent in my papers, you know, and I want to see everyone and everything while I can.” 1 'But —-you are going to settle down there for good then?” asked Phyllis. HPe nodded. Sooner or later she must know the truth ; he was steeling himself to tell her the news himself, remembering the gently filial words, in which the great occulist had wrapped un his verdict. Smooth words availed little when set against tragedy. but Ronald Monekton was not j made of that stuff that complains or I makes a sad mouth over the inevitable. • “You know the Soudan played the mischief with; my eyes,” he said, in a light conversational manner, “and just lately they’ve, been bothering me a goodish bit. so I went to LongfordMat heson the other day. Someone told me lie was the biggest man in Europe for the eyes, and—well lie gave me rather bad news.” ' “What did be sav?” The uirl’s pansy-blue eyes were fixed on him with undisguised anxiety.

“Well, be as good as told me that | my eyes were lost. Gave me about another six months to go on as u«ua —then it’ll just get dark gradually —that was what ho said —it s a bit o rough luck, especially when I ve got the place to look after, but—one mustn’t grouza about it.” ‘ ‘But —do you mean you are going blind?” , ! “Yes, that’s the plain brutal truth. Longford-Matheson wrapped it up very cleverly in learned language, but . it just mean’t that.” » • “And —off! there must he some j hope. Something that, can be done, j “Nothing—lie’s the best man, you know, and his verdict was— well, what Ive told you. So that is why Im so glad I’ve seen this and —and you while I can see. It’ll be something , to remember when the darkness comes.” “Don’t —don’t!” The cry broke from Phyllis’ white lips almost involuntarily, and Ronald took a step forward—a torrent of tender words trembling on his lips. Jhen he mastered the temptation. He' must not—it was impossible that he could say the words he wanted to to tie Phyllis, of all girls, to a helpless man only ht, before long, to be led about like a dog at the end of a string. No —he must bear it as best he could —alone. ,:o lie only said slowly, “You re very good—everyone is very good to me. But —I mustn’t worry you any more with my affairs and troubles. Would you like to go for a row ? It’s such a perfect day.” And Phyllis, being a woman of the world —though but a girl in years — dimly understood. Rhe fought her inclination to tears, smiled bravely at the man who loved her —the man she loved. She could confess that much to her own heart at any rate, even if honor sealed his lips. “It would be delightful,” she said quietly, “the water always looks deliciously cool on a day like this.’ The river glided along smoothly towards the distant sea, but between the spot and its goal there lay dangerous rapids, and a, mill course which foamed noisily towards the weir. Ronald Monckton was an expert oarsman, and for a time he rowed steadily, while Phyllis sat strangly silent, trailing her fingers in. the water, and thinking—thinking hopelessly of the future, which loomed before Monckton so darkly. They neither of them noticed that the current was getting stronger, for Monckton was plunged in a reverie, out of which he roused himself with a start, as a roar of water broke upon his ear. Phyllis looked up quick!’- - at the same moj ment. . i “What is that ?””’she asked. ‘'Not —surely we are not near the rapids?” ! “I am afraid we are. The curI rent has taken us down quicker than ! I though. I must puli' my best or — sit still. It will be all right.” But he knew as he spoke how vain his words were. Not for nothing was a big warning post placed just at that spot on the river—a post which bore the word “Danger” in big staring letters. He set his teeth hard, and pulled the boat nearly round with an effort, but the current swirled round them and almost insensibly sucked the little boat down, nearer those roaring rapids, in which no small boat could possibly live. Monckton glanced at the girl sitting straight and still, with the rudder lines in her hands, “Do you swim?” he asked. “A little. It’s no use though. . . in those rapids.” “Don’t give up hope, whatever happens. It’s my fault, Phyllis, I was a madman to come \so far. . . you know I’d do anything for you. . . . die for you if need me. . . sit tight. . . . . that's it. We may do it yet.” But he knew it was not possible. The roar and swirl of the water came nearer and nearer. . . the little boat rocked perilously and then one oar snapped. . . and the other was caught away out of his hand, with a wild rush the boat rocked to her doom.

Monckton caught the girl in his arms.

“Nothing can matter now . . that we are face to face with danger,” he muttered, “I love you, Phyllis . . . I never meant to tell you so my darling . . .a blind helpless log as I shall be. . . has no right vo t urdei a girl with such a fate ... but n sv . . . . do you care a hU!>.• “Oh! I do. I do,” she w!.is|>c’od, and hid her eyes against '.is shoulder. He was holding her tight when Urn boat capsized and they were both plunged into the icy flood which tossed them hither and thither, and then rushed away with them towards the weir. Once she was nearly wrenched from his grasp hut Monekton. with a desperate effort caught her again, and so holding her seemed to sink into a great darkness and peace. • * * “And you ought to have a medal,” said Hernnne gravely. She was standing, a sturdy little holland-clad figure, in front of the chaise lounge, m which Monekton was reclining on the terrace, still bruised and aching from bis experience, a little dazed also, the result of a blow which had stunned him. just before both he and Phyllis weie rescued by the miller, who had been a witness of their accident. “A medal, eh?” said Monekton, with a smile. “And why, pray?” “ ’Cos you were so brave. I heard Aunt Elisabeth say' you were a hero. But that was before' you were nearly drowned, so I s’pose you ought _ to have two medals, like Uncle Dick.” “H’m, I don’t know so much about that. And I never was a hero, Hermine. Aunt Elisabeth was. thinking of someone else, I expect.” ' Hermine shook her curly head. “No —it was you,” she said stoutly. “ Cos I heard her. I didn’t mean’ to listen, but they were talking so loud I couldn’t help hearing. And they said you were a hero ’cos you didn't speak to Phyllis about something. And then Aunt Elisabeth said you might be an angel too, p’raps. But I know you’re a liero. And ” “Well? What else?” asked Monekton, with a faint smile. “I didn’t know heroes made people cry,” said Hermine, with an air of reflection. “You mustn’t make my Phillis cry.” Monekton started. “I make Miss Phyllis cry?” he echoed. “Why. kiddie. I wouldn’t do such a tiling. What are you talking about, eh?” Hermine shook her head. “P’raps I oughtn’t to tell.” she said, with aii air of virtuous doubt. “ ’cos it might be a secret of Phyllis.” “She wouldn’t mind if I shared it,” declared Monekton boldly, “besides if she was really crying, I might be able to do something to comfort lier.” “Do you thing you could?” said Hermine with soft eagerness. “Slurs so unhappy, and her eyes are all red, and I fink'it is ’cos you’re going away and leaving her'behind.”

This was a startling® view of the case and Monckton sighed impatiently. ’ To think tJiat hut for this hoinhle doom coming upon him, he might have been the happiest man on earth: St have realised the blissfully sweet he and Phyllis had dreamt just for those few awful moments when thev thought life was over for but of them. Now —brought back from the very edge of . the grave—he! was bound in all honor to forget that she had confessed her love for him; that he had spoken the words he had forbidden himself to utter. The must go back. But could they." That was the question. Words cannot be so easily unsaid, and in spite of their avoidance ot each other, memory haunted them—memories that mad e the man’s heart beat thick <ast, then sink down with sick coldness It was impossible—impossible. Now a new view of the case was presented to him by Hermine. She was gazing at him with fresh veneration, since he -was now doubly a hero in her childis i eyes, and if anyone could comfort Phyllis surely the hero might be able to accomplish that task. Seeing his long hesitation, she set olf at a trot and left the hero to his own dreary meditations, all unaware that Hermine was about to take the affair into her own hands and settle the matter for them both. So may a ]>abe be much wiser in its own generation than a hero. , . , Phvllis ivas run to cartn in lieown room. To Hermine that door was never closed, and the girl looked up with a faint smile as the curly head was cautiously poked round the door. , . 7 ‘•What is it, darling."’ she asked. There were unmistakable signs or tears round her pretty eyes, and her soft cheeks were a trifle pale. 7 *rhaps that was the reason she had kept awav from Wonekton all day, even avoiding the delight of a wander in the garden, lest she should come upon him unawares. ' I “Ronnie wants vou, ’ said Hermine. 1 She had counted the cost of the lie—- [ if lie it was—and was willing to risk ! anv possible punishment. Somehow ! she-felt something out of the common ; must be done to comfort Phyllis. The ! hot color which rushed to the girl s face receded and left her paler than . before. She half rose from her I chair. i **'Where —where is he? ; she asked, j “On the terrace — lie’s not very | well,” said Hermine, who was learnj ing the arts of tact and wiliness early : in life. Furthermore, she resolved to efface herself for a bit, but could ; not resist the temptation of watching ! Phyllis from afar, and only when she ■ had seen her sit down quite near tue > Hero, did Hermine vanish on a quest of her own towards the stables, where [a most fascinating- cat was always I ready for a game. j “Hermine said you wanted mo. ‘ ! said Phyllis faintly, j- Monekton smiled. “The little | brick!” he muttered to himself, “I always want you,” he said aloud, and : his voice was not quite steady. “You | know Phyllis I must go away to-mor- | row —you know what I told you. How i before long I shall be a miserable blind log—a helpless dependent being ' only fit to be led about by a dog atthe end of a string. -That is why you must —forget what I said to you the other day when we were both, near death . . . .that is why I must forget the happiness you gave me when you told me you cared, Heaven knows how hard it is to give it all up. but I’ll have no woman marry me out of pity. . . and that is all you could j feel for a blind chap. . . as I shall be soon. I can't and won't ask you jto tie yourself to me like that. . .it j must be gocd-bye this time, Phyllis. I You must leave me to peg along in the dark alone.” “But —but if you were not alone would it be so dark?” she said, in low shaken tones, and her head was bent so that he could only see an outline of pink cheek, and even that was turned away from him. “You —you will want someone to read to you—and to go out with you—and to —to make the darkness more bearable.”

He sighed. “Only one person can do that, and I can’t and won’t ask it of her.” “Then —must she ask to do so herself? Ah, Ronnie, if you love me now as you did the other day. what need for all this argument—blind or halt or maimed, you are the man I love—and nothing else matters. Let me be your wife—a dog at the end of a string would be poor company.” There was a quiver in her voice, and with a quick movement. Monekton turned and took her in his arms. “You care v like that?” he asked hoarsely. “It’s not pity, Phyllis?” “Not an atom of pity—all love.” she whispered, her happy' eyes hidden against his slee% _ e.

So Hermine’s hero married the lady of his dreams a. few months later, and in light or darkness, they are the happiest couple in the wide world, and in Hermine’s eyes—as well as in those of his wife —Ronald Monekton always ranks as a real hero—with perhaps* a. little of the angel thrown in. And the darkness is no darkness to him with Phyllis always at his side.