SHORT STORY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LI, Issue 15650, 2 July 1914, Page 4

SHORT STORY.

MIZPAH. BY MABGAJIET TTNDALE. (Copyright). " Bide a niinute, dad, while I see as the place is ajl nice and straight when Mr. Sanderson comes in to look round. Just hide a minute. John dear." The old wan nodded understandingly from where he stood framed' in the open doorway. He did not dare to speak for fear lest Meg should noticoj, the strange noise in his throat, and it would never do for her to hear that. He listened as his wife slowly mounted the stairs one by one, and remembered as he did so that there had been a time when she would run lightly up and down .again, singing guily all the while. What a sassy dear she had been to be sure, them daysah, well, well I And Meg above stairs was thinking of John as he had been in " them days " — handsome and upright and strong ho was then. Why, folk had said, when they two were married, that there wasn't a nicer iooking couple for miles, But of course that was only what they said, and 'twas a different thing to meaning it, sure enough.

With her fingers on the handle of the bedroom door she paused a moment; then, with a quick intake of breath, she turned it and entered.

" Lord, Lord," she whispered, and prayed in dumb fashion for courage. But aloud she said, striving to "talk down" her rising grief, "Yes, the sheets look nice and clean, though I do bo saying it as shouldn't, and they'll smell wonderful sweet to ths Lunnon gen'leman, I'm thinking, seeing as they're my best and have been lying in lavender these fifteen •year or more."

Sho had treasured those sheets for so long; treasured them against her boy's homecoming; but that time had never been, for Tim, her only son, was drowned at sea.

Meg gazed in silent anguish about this room in which her lost child had been born, this room in which, night and morning ever since they had started married life together, she and John had knelt and prayed God to make them good mail and good wife, to prosper them and keep the wolf from the door for ever and ever. Amen.

On the chest of drawers was the Bible with pictures in it which John had given her as a wedding present. She knew the inscription by heart. "To Margaret Rose, beloved wife of Jolrn Rose, from her ever loving husband." And then the dato, and underneath that the word "Mizpah," which meant, as Mef knew well: " The Lord watch between me and thee when we are absent one from another."

She raised the top cover 6f the Bible and looked at that inscription again, while the tears fell gently down upon the little grey shawl she wore. "Oh, John, John," she said brokenly, "the Lord watch.between us now, if we are parted one from the other." She closed thi> book slowly and tucked it UE<?or her arm. It would bo a comfort, she told herself, in the hard time that was coming. Her eyes wandered to the mantelshelf, where, stood tho ornaments of which she had used to be so proud. There was the little statue of Abraham, with very curly locks, offering up Isaac, with its fellow representing Rebecca at the Well. She had always believed .them to be made of alabaster, so beautiful were they in her eyes,- but Mr. Sanderson, the bailiff, had cruelly dispelled this illusion not long ago. John had bought them from a gipsy at Binnington Fair. In fact ttio whole room was full of little things he had bought for her as "surprises" from time to time —things too many for her to take away, though she loved them all. Last Fail' Day he had bought her what lie called a " hoity-toity " to hang beside her looking-glass and put her "combings " in. But since then there had been no more buying of presents, because even for the little tidy John had had to deny himself to give her pleasure. Even then the small hoard of savings they had put by so carefully for a rainy day had begun to disappear with alarming rapidity. She heard John's voico calling her from; below.

" Morther, hero be Mr. Sanderson wantin' to have a word with ye," and raisin" her head with a dignity intended to belie the trace: i of recent tear?., Meg made her way once more to the kitchen. "Good-day to y*;, sir," she said to the bailiff.

Ho nodded a curt reply to her greeting. ".All straight and square for the new tenant?" he demanded,

"I've cleaned the placo from top to bottom, Mr. Sanderson," Meg answered him bravely. His temper rasped beneath the calmness of this old couple whom lie knew very well he was cheating shamefully. "Well, that's good," he retorted, and 'turned on his heel. But at we door he paused a moment for a parting shot. "You can thank your lucky stars that I'm letting you off so lightly." And with quiet reproach John answered him. "You shoidd know best, sir, whether wo ought to bo grateful to ye." Then Sanderson went out and slammed the door. He had, robbed this couple of the last remnants of their beloved home; ho was turning tliem adrift in the world at a timo when old folks should have the haven of a chimney corner, at least, which they may call their own to the end of their days—but it was little satisfaction ho had therefrom. As he passed down the village street ho knew that old John and Margaret Rose', with all their sorrow, were happier than the man whose name had become a thing to dread for miles round.

•When John and Meg passed down the road in their turn every door was closed, every blind was drawn so that none might see this shame of theirs. Offers of help innumerable had come from friends and neighbours in the hour of their trouble; but they knew all too well how hard was the struggle to live, to wish to accept charity from hands which could so ill afford to give it. They were grateful now for the tactful sympathy which showed no wish to prv, and as they went through the village, Meg leaning a little heavily upon her husband's arm, they took a silent farewell of these dear friends. The road to Binnington was deserted as they walked slowly along in the afternoon sunshine, and although they ki.ow this would be their last opportunity to speak together for some time perhaps, words were difficult things that would not come,

"Dad," said Meg at last, "when— when we say good-bye at the gate, will you say ' Mizpah' and I'll say it, too ? Then perhaps tho Lord will watch between us, even though He docs seem to have forgotten us for a minute." " Hush, morthcr," he answered quickly. " God knows what's best for us, my —God knows what's best." ' Kiss me, John," she pleaded. " You was always better nor me." And between the high hedges, under the blue sky, he took her in his stiff old arms, which each in their heart believed it to be for the last time—for they could not live apart. Then they trudged bravely on, speaking, in epito of secret doubts, of little excursions they would make together when i* was their " day out." "And dad," said Meg, closing her eyeß for a moment in the hope that the tears which had risen might go away again, "don't forget to tell 'em about your rheumatics, and the bulls' ey&i you 'as to have in the winter to keep tlw cold out." So he promised her that he would not forget. Meantime they were too engrossed to notice a stranger fflio had ap-

proached along the road, and who no drew near enough to question them as to the way to Pender Village. "Keep straight along, sir, till ye B,ota8 ,ota to the cross-roads, 1 ' John replied, spestk* ing up as clearly a3 he might 80 a 8 not to betray the trouble that caught at his throat whenever ho triod to speak. "P°" to Lii Pender you take the right-hand turnin', and to Pender prapper—' " Oh," I think it must bo Little Pender I'm looking for," the stranger politely interrupted. "Perhaps you can tell me —Briar Cottage?" "Yes, yes," they both answered him, and Meg questioned hastily : " Be you the gentleman from Lunnon, sir— I may make so bold as to ask ye?" He smiled kindly down upon their wrinkled faces turned so eagerly towards him. "Yes," ho answered, "I've come from London. Do yon know it at all?' They both shook their heads. " Oh, no, wo don't know it, sir." They looked at him with a curiosity he was unable to interpret correctly, but they were thinking that this was the gentleman who was to live in their old home, who would use tl e things that had come to be beloved from Jong usage. This was the individual who would henceforth delight in the becurled Abraham, and look upon Rebecca as she stood poising her pitcher upon her head. It behoved Meg to give him some advice. "If you be goin' to live at Briar Cottage, sir, I think as them as lived there last would like ye to know that when the kitchen fire smokes ye must take out the big brick that is fixed into the chir/jey, and the table in tho sittingroom hain't steady in one lag, so that when ye do yer cleanin'—'" "T;it, tut, morther," interposed Jolm, "the gentleman bain't- goin' to do no cleanin'."

" But it's as well as h« should know, dad."

The stranger thanked them cordially, supposing them to be neighbours of " them as lived there last," hoping that he might see this kindly couple again and deciding that they would prove profitable characters for that next book of his.

So John and Meg took their way upon the road £o Binningtoi}, loading to retrace each step they took, so greatly did they dread the ending of their journey. But the town was reached at last, and there, just on the outskirts was the House— the big grey building that looked to them 50 like a prison on this glorious afternoon in late summer.

Meg's fingers tightened upon her husband's arm. She was tempted to cry out that she would sooner starve in the village they km.w and loved so well, than live in comparative luxury in this horrible place; but she k:iew that that would only make it harder for John, iso her lips smiled bravely up at him when he asked whether she thought they ought to ring the Ml " There—there's a man just inside 'the door," she said tremulously, end nodded to a box-like place on the right-hand side of the big wooden gate. The porter called out to them to "come inside," and with much difficulty, born of the shame and anguish in their souls, they explained their mission. No, they were not old enough by five years for the pei.yon offered by the Government, and parish relief was of no use, since their home had been seized in payment of the rent. Then they were led through a door marked "Receiving Department" into a bare, white-washed room that had a row of chairs upon three sides of —a place to strike horror into the minds of this poor frightened pair. • The tears were dripping down Meg's cheeks though she still tried to smile, but John's lips were drawn and grey. For'a quarter of an hour they were left .-(lone, too miserable for speech, too crushed even for prayer. Presently there came the sound of footsteps upon the flagged corridor .without, and Meg looked at her husband and whispered brokenly: "Oh, John dear--Mizpah—Mizpali." A cheery little woman bustled into the room. "Are you John and Margaret Rase?" she questioned. John stumbled to his feet, clutching feverishly at his hat, while Meg burst into a passion of weeping. ° "lonyou must 'sense morther, missis," the old man" explained. " You see—wo bain't never been parted afore. {shall shall Igo fust—to give her time like? *'

The matron laughed kindly, " Why, I ve got better things for you than that," sho said. "I've just bad a telephone message from Pender Post Office, front a Mr. McKenzie, requesting me to ask you if von d bo willing to take charge of Briar Cottage for him!" And suddenly John's courage broke down, and the next moment /he was crying like a child in his wifrt's arms. " Oh, mother, morther," 'he said, "the Lord did watch—the T,ord did watch."