ABSENCE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LII, Issue 15948, 19 June 1915, Page 1 (Supplement)

ABSENCE.

BY BESSIE NINA WATTT. A few months ago Estelle came to me one morning with her arms full of flowers, and a charming face, out of which much joy had gono. "It was so different this time last year," she said. " Yes, of course, I know, Estelle. This time last year Dick walked beside you. You saw most beautiful things with him and through his eyes, that now when he is absent from you and your eyes see them alone, they appear to bo hardly beautiful at all. That, of course, is tho meaning of Love. It emphasises every trivial object, every minute emotion of each hour of each day. It is so easy to find lovelieness when the heart is full of peace and gladness. But now in every bit of beauty, every star, and sun gleam, you find nought but loneliness, and I've no doubt that you hear him continuously calling, " Estelle! Estelle! Even here in the din and turmoil of battle I miss you!" "Yes," answered Estelle, "I hear him always calling. You know tho path beside the lake where that little nest of finches used to please us 20, and where we often lingered to hear their chirpy voices one to the other calling? Well, this morning I strolled down there to watch tho early sun trying to hide itself in the grey waters, and I looked for the finches, only to find them moping and sad.' Their feathers were dull and thin, and their voices were only plaintive wails. So I strolled on hoping to find pleasure in the view of the mountain and the deep blue of the clouds. But they seemed so cold, so aloof; not intimate and dear, 'ihey did not tell me any secrets or soothe ray foolish drooping fancies. And you know once I -was never lonely in the midst of loveliness. "After all I wonder why this war began! I wonder why one mad monarch should set a whole world athrob in pain and desolation ? I wonder why anything ? Why had Dick to go? He was just one man, and after all —' " See, Estelle," I interrupted, " I know just what kind 0: mood you are in this cold, sunless morning. Now in your heart you wouldn't have had him stay, would you— this man ? Think of it! If each girl end each woman all the world over argued in your light, where would we all be, now ? " Of course I know how you feel about it. And it would have been so easy for you to have said to him before he left; Dick, I am . here, and I am wanting you. I like not the garden nor the sunshine nor the song of the birds, nor the little haunts we two have gloried in, nor the frivolous little joys of our own little world unless you share them with me. And there will' be so many more men ready and eager to go, that one more or less *—!" " But you didn't say any of these things Estelle, you bade him go, though your voice was full of tears and your eyes heavy with pain, and your heart-beats dull with sorrow acute. I know the bond ] of sympathy that was always between you two. A bond that reached to the smallest as well as the biggest things. "And think of mother, Estelle!/ In what solitudes of pain do their hearts dwell now—bo many mothers whose fine sons lie cold in death, pierced by bullet or sabre?. What is your pain . compared to theirs?" / " But he may never come back," was the quivering reply. ' . - ,; . ; " Possibly. But if he does? Think of the gladness, the sunshine, the song in the air, and of all he will have to tell you. Think again and yet again of all ho told you before he left. ■ Things deliKite and .dear, that seem to lose something of their exquisite fineness in the telling: things that were full of poetry and pathos." . 7 x \ There was quito a sober silence for fully ten minutes, then: "But there are hundreds and hundreds everywhere who have not gone, and who have never even offered themselves — " Quite so! But of what worth • arc they? They are not the men who count for much, you know. The "strong go always; the weak remain!" .A, light of joyous-understanding for a few moment's filled her face. Then quite; suddenly: " Distance hurts dreadfully, though, doesn't, it? But after all death is the only parting. And there is some comfort and some joy to know that one is still being thought of, remembered in a thousand dear ways. Yes, and one says wonderful things to the other in silent wordb!" And so Estelle turned and went homeward. But yesterday was a day of , days in-

deed! Jist after breakfast when I wai busy with countless little duties, Estelli came with swift feet across the lawn. Sucl a vision of love and pride and youth shi seemed to me. She fluttered a papei abreast. "He's been mentioned in despatches!' Down the sunlit paths it seemed' blue butterflies were winging. That heaven itself had unlatched its silver gate to shed royal joys across the autumn lawn. Hope burned fiercely in one heart of all that honour meant. "How splendid!" The words as they slipped from my lips seemed so paltry and inadequate. But it is like that always when supreme moments dazzle our vision. Poor, cold, empty words. " Tfll me what the paper says!" I exclaimed, presently. " He carried a wounded comrade under a hail of bullets to safety when he himself was slightly wounded. And yet again he returned under the fierce fire of the German lines and rescued another^—and escaped without further hurt!" And the ; paper was thrust into my eager hands so | that my eyes could for themselves see the statement in black and white. Estelle sat with shining eyes clasping and unclasping her small hands, on one of which Dick's ring blazed forth in coloured glory. Isn't it joyful, joyful, joyful? He'll come back I know. After that no German can ever pot him. It isn't his fate. He's got to coma back to his dominion. Ho's got to come back to me! I wish it were to-morrow, and all the other old to-mor-rows to follow! I wish I could cable him this minute. I wish I could send my message through the air. Why haven't I an aeroplane? Why am I not a bird for just a few days?" ! And away at the seat of war a man for a brief space lay in his trench resting, and ho was thinking: " I wonder shall I ever again see her. She, whom I see in all the danger and death around Danger such ] that it has sent an ugly fright a, few times I through me, not because I am afraid of death, but only because of the infinite space it would put between my lady and myself. Such an unclouded sunlight has always been between us. I know her despair and grief and loneliness. She knows mv dangers and discomforts, and tho self-effacement which a soldier must be prepared to face. And full well I realise all the bloodthirsty encounters which must yet be met for man;', many youths to come.'*