SIMON DOWLING-MISER.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CI, Issue 11889, 12 May 1899, Page 6

SIMON DOWLING-MISER.

(Sketch,) The majority of the villagers called him a “horrid old beast.” The minority, more charitably inclined, contented themselves with referring to him as “poor old chap.” Whichever appellation was the more suited to old Simon Dowling, it is certain that neither fitted him exactly. For, if he was a “horrid, old beast,” it was not his fault altogether that he was so, as the title would seem to imply, .because he was crazy, and scarcely responsible for his actions. And he certainly was not a. “ poor old chap ” in the literal sense of the word, because he had a .hundred golden sovereigns of his own, tied up in a small canvas bag, which same hundred sovereigns he would pour out into his lap every evening at eight o’clock, when his frugal supper was finished, and would count them again and again, and gloat over them. It was known that old Dowling did this, because he was seen bending ■■ over his treasure one evening by a villager who happened to pass the window of the old man’s cottage on his way home from work in the fields. Not that Simon would ever have attempted to deny the fact. In his crazed way he knew he was a miser. Indeed, he was proud of it. To the old woman who would occasionally go into his cottage and “tidy up a bit,’' as he used to call it, he boasted of the fact; and she, good soul that she was, used to try and persuade him that it was nothing to be proud of. But he would not be convinced. “Don’t you see,” he would say in his odd,, breaking voice, “ that I am gradually accumulating a fortune, and that some day I shall be rich enough to marry?” And he would look up and wait questioningly for an answer. Bub the answer never came, for the old woman regarded his utterances as a nurse does those of a small child. In truth, she barely heeded them at all. So the old man grew tired of trying to interest anyone in his little hoard. And ho would remain silent till the kindly woman had gone and he was alone; then he would begin again, talking to himself. “Yes,” he would say, as he handled the sovereigns lovingly, and let them fall, one by one, back again into the bag which held them, “I have got a hundred golden., sovereigns now, and some day, if I am very careful, I shall have a thousand; and then I will go back to Dorothy, and she will have learnt to love me by then, and she will say ‘ Yes,’ and we shall fie married. Oh, Dorothy, my Dorothy! you won’t have to wait much longer now. I have got a hundred. Only a few hundred more, and then ” i He would break off suddenly and scratch his poor old head with Ids withered hand. “Stop, stop, Simon, though!” he would say after a pause. “Don’t make too sure of her.- Perhaps she will have. nothing to say to you when you return to her. Perhaps another man will have taken your place, and you will have to go away again forever.” A curious spasm would pass over the old features, • followed almost immediately by a cheery, triumphant smile. “ What nonsense, Simon!"’ he would continue. “Of bourse, she is true to you. She never actually said she loved you, but she said that some day perhaps she might, and you said you would wait always. ( Ab, Dorothy, haven’t I waited years and years? And I am waiting still. And I am working, and making money for you and for me. Just a little longer, and I will come to you, Dorothy, my darling Dorothy, and then no one shall part us.” And the old man’s voice would break down, and tears and smiles would follow one another in endless succession, till the old clock on the mantelpiece chimed out the hour of ten. Then Simon Dowling, the fniser, would carefully tie up’ the bag again, and hide it, as always, under one of the boards of the floor. Each evening the same scene would be enacted, winter and summer alike, and each evening for the past twenty years and more it had been enacted. Only the old man’s invocation to his Dorothy would sometimes change a little. And occasionally a reference would be made to some letters, which the old man would clasp tenderly in his hands. And he would try and read the writing, and then would kiss it a hundred times—writing which was yellow with age and almost illegible—writing which conveyed nothing to his poor old brain now, but which had once upon a time meant so much. For, fifty years ago, Simon Dowling had loved Dorothy Dunstan, and, moreover, he had told her of his love. Taken aback at first, she had prized it and valued it as a love -which she ‘ felt instinctively was deeper and more lasting than many passions dignified by the same name. For young Dowling was not a susceptible man. Women by the score had marvelled at his imperviousness, had backed themselves to succeed where others had. failed, had tried, and had been forced to confess themselves beaten. . And then, suddenly, without any effort, Dorothy Dunstan had kindled the spark which the others had failed to ignite, and the strength and passion of his newly awakened love had 'almost fright cued her, as it had frightened him. Straightway ho had told her of his great, iove, had entreated, had demanded, a like in return, and lie was stupefied and stunned; when he learnt from her lips that she could not give it to him'. For a while he was hopelessly dazed. Never for a second had he doubted that his passion would be returned. He had anticipated an answering devotion as a matter of course. He was a poor man. Ho knew that. He had nothing but himself to offer her. lint he urns voting yet, and he would make a fortune. Site, poor child, was terrified at his vehemence. She liked him; she respected him;' she felt that some day she might—aye, would —grow to love him, and she told him so. But not yet. Would he wait ? She conld not tell him to hope, because she could give him no hope. But he was dear to her,- dearer than any other man she had ever known, arid she knew that such a love, as his came to a woman only once •U a lifetime. She could not say she loved him if she did not. She could not—because she was only human, after ail—reject him irrevocably. But, she would be, she must be.- true to herself. She could say nothing to'him to give him hope. Andiie understood, and, understanding, he hoped, because he could not help himself,. because he knew for certain that some day -she would grow to love him. He told her he understood all perfectly, and she knew that he spoke truly. He said he would wait for her always. Because, as long as he lived, he must always, wait for her. There was nothing else for him to live for, and he would work for her,, and some day she would find out that she loved him. Tims and thus he reasoned with her and with himself, and then he set to work to make the fortune which he would give her when that great and wonderful day should come. ■ , • There seemed to he no royal road to such an accomplishment in England, so he said good-bye to Dorothy, and went into “a far country.” - V . She was - sorry at his going and promised to write to him sometimes, and be was to write to her. The.wrench of parting took years off his life, but his mind was made up, and he set his teeth and went. Two years passed/ and things were just the same, save for the fact that Dowling was lucky, and some* new mines tin which he was interested turned out very well. The third year came and went, and, at the end of it,‘Dowling was k rich man. During, the time of their separation he had written often, to . and she to him; and her letters told him, not in so many words, because they were simple and unconventional, but as plainly as if she had spoken it, that the love was dawning in her heart, and that he had been right to hope. When he arrived back in England Dor-' otbv was on the lauding stags, to meet him. and the look on Im- free ns.-hcr eyes; met his brushed away r!l ‘lie trials- and long-, ings of the lest ihrcc years as'though they, had been but a dream. " , No words ware necessary, but the per-fect-understanding which had always ex-.

isted between , them.sealed the compact as absolutely: as if'he had : said the- words*, “ Dorothy, will you be my wife?” and she; had answered “ I will.“ . • Ten days later Dorothy Dunstan was taken ill, arid within a fortnight she died. Dowling was away at the time, and when ho came to her, they feared to tell him how hopejess it- was. But quickly he saw, and Us she;sank slowly day by day, so .did the spirit and life gradually sink from the soul and body of Simon Dowling. Two days before she died, the doctors had tola nan that all hope was gone, and he had bowed to their decision. Only he begged to be left alone with her till the end, and his wish was granted. . „ In the gray of an early morning, Dorothy died, and Simon Dowling rose up and went away. No one heard him speak, but several people noticed that much gray had crept into his liair, and that there was a look oh his face which they had not noticed before ■—a. look which seemed to tell them that its wearer had suddenly realised that life and love with some mean the same thing, and that the shock of the discovery was insupportable. From a, young man Dowling became suddenly an old one. " For ten years he wandered over the face of the earth, seeing no one, speaking to no one. His friends grew anxious about him, but he was unapproachable, so they left him alone. His wealth became a burden to him, and in a fit of generosity or madness —it is sometimes hard to distinguish between them — he gave it ail away bodily to a charity. Then he bought a small cottage in a remote comer of England, and took up his abode there, and lived entirely alone. For a few years the villagers regarded him as an eccentric old gentleman, and some of them would occasionally try to be neighbourly and kind to him. But he would have none of it, and it was plain to all, and plainer to the wise old clergyman of the place that Simon Dowling’s brain was giving way.. And so it was. Years of unutterable grief and solitude were beginning to tell then’ tale. Coherency in his. soliloquies became rarer every day, and by degrees his sole object became that of collecting money. In His great mercy, God Was softening the poor man’s old age, by allowing him to fancy himself back again all those years, slaving for the fortune he was to give to Dordfhy. Every penny be could save he hoarded. Economy of the meanest type he practiced, and whereas an old charwoman had, at one time, received 2s a week for small daily attendance, he now dispensed with any sort of help, and lived in % state bordering on squalor, relieved only by the occasional visits of the kindly woman who belonged to the minority, and who still persisted in regarding him as a “ poor old chap.” One evening, early in November, Simon was counting his sovereigns as usual- by the light of an old lamp. The evening was cold, and a chill draught blew through his little room. The small fire in the grate seemed to give out hut little heat when the old man now and again stretched out his parchment-like palms towards the glow, to rid them of some of the cold engendered by handling the sovereigns. This particular evening he seemed to be lingering rather longer than usual overhis little hoard, and he had played with the bright coins for nearly two hours. Then he arranged them in little piles on the table before him, and sat back for a while, watching them intently. Bv degrees the glitter of the gold and the unshaded light of the lamp caused ms poor old eyes to grow tired, and he closed them for a moment or two. Two or three slow and deliberate nods of the old white bead followed, and presently the miser was asleep. ■ With a start, he woke, and sat up, listening intently. ..He thought he heard a step at the door. ■ “ My gold! my sovereigns!” he exclaimed. “Dorothy’s fortune! Who dares to come hero at this time of night?” But it was no one, only the wind. “ My sovereigns are not safe,” went on old Simon to himself, picking up each coin tenderly as he spoke, and replacing it in the little canvas bag. “ Someone will steal you, my little golden dears, unless I am very careful. But I will prevent that. To-morrow I will take you to town and will change you for, paper. Paper won’t bo nearly as nice, and 1 shan’t love it half as much as I do you; but it will be safer. And remember, dear little sovereigns, it is Dorothy we must think of—my Dorothy; not ourselves, you know. And you and I can do anything for her, can’t we?” ‘ 1 , Thus, talking to them as if they were his children, old Simon Dowling put them all carefully away in their hiding-place, and, having again kissed the bundle of letters and treated them in the same way, betook himself to bed. ' For an hour or, more ho lay awake crooning crazily to himself about his clever dodge for preventing his money being stolen. Next morning the old miser was up early, and quite a stir was created in the village when it was seen that Simon Dowling was out of his cottage,: and walking alone, to the little station. The precious sack ”” of sovereigns was hidden carefully away in a - small handbag which he carried with him, while the bundle of letters, which were even more valuable to him than money, for all that the “majority” might say, bulged out the breast-pocket of his now green old coat. ' The journey to the neighbouring town was only five miles, but old Dowling waived economy on this occasion, and, instead of walking ' the distance—far enough for an old man nearly eighty—took a third-class ticket by. the, railway. With something very like a sigh, fie handed ' over his bag of sovereigns to the young clerk at the bank, and received in exchange ten crisp notes of £lO each, which ‘ he- carefully wrapped up in his. old handkerchief, and placed in the small block baz which had before held the precious gold. . Once inside-his tiny house, the old miser placed his bag on the table, and laid the bundle of letters, which he took from his breast-pocket, beside it. Then, completely worn, out, he sank into an old chair by the fire, which was burning brightly in the grate,' thanks, no doubt, to an afternoon visit of the good woman who “tidied up a bit.” A wretched little supper lay on the table, but the old man seemed scarcely to notice it. The long walk, aud all the excitement incidental to parting with his precious gold, had tired him more than was good for him, and he seemed to be older and whiter even than he had been the evening before, when he had thought out the scheme for preserving his money. The night was a dismally cold one, and a few drops of rain, were falling. The wind, too, was rising a .little, and the sound of it in the chimney seemed to soothe the old man as he sat and watched the flames fitfully glowing and dying. Presently the miser looked up. “ Nine o’clock!” he said “ Simon, you are very late to-night! Nine o’clock, and you have neither counted your money nor Idssed your darling’s letters. Come, come, Simon, my boy. pull yourself together. You’re not tired after walking five miles! What will Dorothy say when she Bears that her Simon was done, up after a five-mile walk? She must, think better of me than that. Now, where did I put those notes? Ah, here they are, and the letters. That’s it.” And the old man took the small bag, and drew from it the notes. Then he laid them one by one in his lap, and took up the bundle of letters. For some minutes he sat quite still, as if he hardly understood what he had done with the gold. Then he began fondling the letters, leaving the notes on his lap. “ Ah, Dorothy, Dorothy!” he murmured, and the glow from the fire lighted up his old, drawn'face, on which a strange look of peace,seemed to be settling. “ The waiting is nearly over. I am coining back to you vary, soon .now.,. My' work is almost done, and 1 have such- a lot of money for you! . v,: Arid will;;lqye me.y-Dcrothy, won’t you?- I know,you will have learnt to love rile all this lime while I have been away. This letter'tells me -so, and this one and this. Ah! God has-been very good

to me.,... He has sent the love into your dear heart,' and, , now that I am rich, I , can come l to you, and .thfeu nothing shall ever separate us any "more: Dorothy, my. own darling Dorothy, I am kissing your dear letters, because 1 they were "written by you, because the paper has'beeu toutdied by your dear hands. The waiting is nearly; oyer, nearly over.” . The old man clutched the bundle of letters as he finished speaking and covered them with kisses. At the same moment a strong gust of wind blew open the door, and a rush of air entered the room, extinguishing the small lamp on the .table. The old miser rose quickly .to relight it, and, as he did so, the ten notes which lay m his lap slid from his knees, arid a puff of wind blew them into the heart of the fire. ! The rustle they made as.-they fell caused old Simon to look round. For a second or two he scarcely realised what had- happened.. Then the new flames from .the crackling, notes told him of the disaster.' A terrible cry burst from the lips of the old man, a a he hurled himself down on his hands and knees and clawed madly at the red-hot bars of the grate. * “Ruin!” he shrieked. Ruin! Justus I had won her, I have lost her. Oh God, save them, save them! Dorothy, 'Dorothy, it was not my fault. I could not help it! I tried. I have worked so hard, and I thought I had succeeded. But now I have failed, I have faded! Oh Dorothy, my, Dorothy-And tbe wall that came from, the man’s lips, would have wrung tears from a stone- There was a stillness,: broken only by the gusts of wind and the flapping of the'open -window. Simon Dow- 1 ling had fainted. The room was quite dark, for the bmp was out and the fire had burnt low, before consciousness returned to the old miser. When he again opened his eyes, all the madness had gone out of them, and, when.' he spoke, the words were the words of an old man who know he was an old man, and who knew he had not many minutes to Eve.; The bundle of letters was still in his band, and he teemed to have forgotten all about the money. With an effort, he raised himself bn his elbow, and, bowing his white head, he reverently kissed the letters “Dorothy,” he murmured -very faintly,'' “I am tired, and comkig to you.” Then, with a perceptible “"sigh, too weary head fell hack, and Simon.T)owling’a waiting was over. t In the morning the villagers found Mm lying by the side of the fire, the bundle of letters still clutched tightly in Ms-bands.; A diligent search was made for the money, 1 but none was found, and gradually the impression, gained ground that Simon Dowling had bam sadly misjudged in Ms lifetime, and that lie had not been a nrissß after'all. Indeed, the majority in the village, who had before called Mm “a horrid old beast,”' joined the minority wMch had been more charitably inclined, and, when an opportunity presented itself, made a point-of referring to him as “ poor old chap.”