"LOVE'S MONUMENT."

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVIII, Issue 20958, 22 August 1931, Page 12 (Supplement)

"LOVE'S MONUMENT."

At the side of a road which winds ' crazily among the hills on its way to a beautiful New Zealand lake, tliero stands a brown, time-worn little building, called Preston's Inn. In the early coaching days, anglers and tourists had Keen in the habit of stopping there for an hour's rest* and refreshment before starting on the final stage of a long journey inland.. But now they rush heedlessly in their dust-begetting motor-cars, scaring Joe Preston's scavenging- fowls to erratic, indignant flight. The water-trough in the front yard stands slime-covered and neglected now, except by an occasional stockman's horse, and . the breeding mosquitos in the summertime. On the creeper-covered verandah of the house can be seen an old woman tirelessly knitting, while moving about the house and yard is a younger woman in / whose eyes gather the mists of sorrow as she looks down the long road which leads to the outer world of cities and busy sea-ways. There was a time when those sombre eyes of Amy Preston had sparkled ■with clear, gay laughter. Days when she had greeted everyone with a bright word, rind tossed her pretty dark head at the teasings of the coachmen and the open flattery of strangers. To one only had she not shown her young disdain, and to him had her head bowed, tenderly, submissively, allowing'her soul to take in the music of soft words fashioned by love's tongue. Clive Nixon was an artist' who had visited the quiet places seeking beauty for his brush. He had found a deeper beauty for his heart in Amy Preston. They had known Weeks of unspoiled happiness together. And then a dark cloud had overspread their fields of gladness. Clive had been called back to the city on the death of his mother, and Amy had heard nothing of him since. Now, after three years, she was hurrying out at the sound of every footstep, scanning any 'hew face with eager, hopeful eyes, believing that some day it would be he whom she loved returning out of the unknown. •

Granny Preston cast off the last stitches of a sock and sat back, gently /"rocking in her 'chair. " Are you there, Amy ?" she called crisply. " Yes, Gran." " Come here,, lass." Amy went and stood in the doorway, looking down at the little old woman. " I've just seen the hermit." "Where, Gran?" ■" Over thei'e in the bush." Amy looked across the road in the direction indicated, hut could see nothing except the trees moving together in the wind. " He's not there now," she said regretfully, " Somehow I always miss seeing Lim." " He's terribly disfigured. It might frighten you." Amy laughed disdainfully. " Oh, I'm not afraid of hermits, Gran, handsome or disfigured. Poor man, I only pity him, living there like a pariah. I wonder if he is mad, or holy, or just un- , happy." " A little of each, I daresay. Some brains get sorely twisted by life. But look! Here comes a healthier, saner subject."

Granny finger again pointed, this time towards the roadway, down which a vigorous, red-haired man was striding. " Now don't keep on being a fool, lass," she said with apparent irrelevance. Amy turned .from her and went into the house. She was afraid of Granny's tongue, and /a little afraid of Andrew Souter. Both disturbed her well-schooled serenity. bouter chatted to the old lady for awhile and then went in to find Amy. She was in tJie kitchen, slicing beans. " You're always working, Amy," he said huskily, " Working and waiting." , She glanced at him quickly, then as quickly looked away again without answering. " I beheve the hermit's round again," Souter continued, changing the subject. " Ye 3. So Granny says. I wonder who lie is, "Couldn't say. Someone with a kink! He lives in the old haunted wliare." " He worries me, Andrew. 1 think of him at night, lying all alone in the dark bush." /

Amy's fingers ceased their task and lay idly on the table. Andrew, bending down took thern within his own. " You've a ' warm lieart underneath your reserve, Amy," ho said gently, " Why won't you be kinder to me?" " 1 like you, Andrew Souter," slie said, meeting his steady gaze, unflinchingly, " But you must 2iot taik of love again to me. I thought 1 made that understood." '[ " But life is passing, my dear, and i you were made for loving, not for hopeless waiting." " What makes you think that 1 am i—waiting." " I have seen you looking down the road, and L guessed. Yesterday, your grandmother told me your story, Amy." Amy snatehdd her hands away. Her dark eyes blazed. " She's just f a meddling old busybody," she said indignantly, and jumping to her feet, 'ran from him into her own room.

Andrew went out again upon the road. For two years Amy had repulsed his love-making. But lie was not discouri (aged. He had patience and understanding. He knew .that she was moulding her life around Her memories and dreams, but lie believed that her dreams were impossible of realisation. Either Ciive Nixon was dead, or he had no desire to return to her. AndreW waited for some miracle to happen, which would waken her to the liie of a normal loving woman. He walked on, thinking of Amy, but where the road dipped sharply into the valley, he came upon something to distract his thoughts. A motor-car was pulled up at an unusual angle across the road, and the driver was out, bending over a figured lying stretched upon the ground. As Andrew hurried forward lie looked tip with relief. " Poor devil, I kuocked him down," he eaid shakily. " That's bad luck, stranger. Is he / dead ?" " No, God. But I'm afraid he is badly hurt. Will you help me to lift him into the car?/I'll have to get him to some / farm-house. Do you know if there is one near?" / " Preston's/Inn is a lit tie way up the road. Better take him there. You can 'phone for "ft doctor." It was a strange, ill-kept wreck of a man whom they lifted, unconscious, into the car. His■ face was partly covered with a thiclc erowth of hair; his lips and chin were hideously disfigured. There was no outward sign of the present accident, except for the white dust which covered one side of him from head to foot. Andrew, Bitting, supporting him in the / :; badk of the car, noted the fine lines of his head a#d brow, and the delicately tapered, though roughened fingers. His j thickly curling hair was quite white, ' though ho did not seem very old. But for the disfigurement and the unkempt Btato of him, he would have been a splendid looking fellow. '" He ran across the road in front of k le r ' ver was saving over his | shoulder, " Never had a chance of miss-

A NEW ZEALAND STORY. By NORMA CRAIG.

(COPYRIGHT.)

ing him. Seemed to dash out of the bush Queer-looking beggar, isn't he lialf an hour later the district doctor snapped his bag closed and shook his head doubtfully. /'Not much chance for him, I'm afraid, he said, " Internal injuries and no vUah.ty; Who is he, do you know ?" I think he's the man people call the ilermit, Andrew answered him. "That so! Poor chap. Ho looks as if fne had scared his soul as well as Iris fnce. He's been letting himself get down and out. Well, we can only do our best ior hmu Are you willing to let him remain here?" he asked,, turning to Joe liestoti Hell riot stand being moved to the hospital." "No need," Joe answered, "Amy's a good nurse, She'll look after hitn." " Splendid! But I doubt if he'll need nursing for long. Call me if there is a change." Andrew stayed and shared with Amy her night's vigil in the sick room. She had refused to leave the injured man until he had either regained consciousness or fallen into that final unconsciousness of all, which is death.

At three o'clock Andrew went into the kitchen and made tea for her. She thanked him with gentle words and a warming smile. The shared vigil, with Andrew's strength and tenderness spreading around her like a protecting cloak, drew her closer to him in spirit. She knew that, had it not been for her dreams and her old loyalties, she could have loved him dearly, he Mas so utterly worthy of being loved. 'Jowards morning the injured man moved uneasily and opened his eyes. He looked at Amy as she bent towards him in the lamplight, then he closed his eyes again and turned towards the wall. Amy s body quivered like taut wires to the whip of a sudden wind. She rose, and lifting the lamp nearer to his face, spoke urgently. Blue eyes, full of melancholy saaness, looked up again into hers, 'iiie man spoke through ins poor distorted hps. " I didn't . . . want this ... to happen. I thought ... I could. . . just live . . . somewnere near you . ... without you . . . knowing. 1 tried ... to keep away . . . but couidn't ... oh Amy! . . ." " Ciive!" The cry broke from Amy on the crest of a sob. Andrew sprang to her side and took the lamp from lier trembling fingers. He set it upon the table and quickly went out of the room.

" Don't look at me, Amy," Clivo Nixon pleaded, " I'm too .. . . utterly . . . hideous." She bent and kissed liis forehead with quivering lips. " I'm iooiang at your eyes, dear. The same dear, blue eyes," she whispered brokenly. " lou were alwavs kind."

For many minuies lie lay, scarcely breathing, while Amy bent Lke a white statue auove him. There are moments too poignant for speech. She did not know wiiicn was uppermost, her feeling of gladness or of anguish. Gradually anguish got the upper hand, and she feit as if the blood was oozing iroin her heart in icy urops, forming as they fell, a towering staiagmite ot pain. To think that it na.d been dive ■ —(Jlive of the gentle spirit and the clever fingers —who had ueen Lvmg like a pariali down in the bush! The thought was terrible to her. Then, in a moment of intuition she understood. lie and she had worshipped beauty together, back in the old, happy days, wnen she had sat by hia side while ho pa.nted wonderful pictures, fie knew her norror of all things ugly and unnatural. ■Something had happened to disfigure him, and he had kept Inmseif from her sight, letting her beneve him dead or indifferent, rather than give her the torture of seeing him, a poor, marred, hideous thing. She bowed her head into her hands and wept unchecked tear 3 at the gallant sacrifice.

" Don't cry so. . . for me . , . Amy," Clive spoke again as if the tears had roused him from his gathering coma. " It hasn't been . . . all unhappiness . . . my dear. 1 had you near ... I saw you often . . . and I could still . . . paint pictures. The fire didn't take away , . . my eyes or my hands." " Uh, my dear, my dear," was all Amy could sob in answer. " Down in . . . the old wliare . . . are pictures." His voice was noticeably weakening. Amy had to bend close to him." Kemember me. . . as I . . . was, not as i am . . . now. And Amy ! —" a long pause in which he seemed to be waiting for strength, " some-day . . . marry the . . . red-headed man. . . He loves you . . I have been watching. . . He will . . . make you happy. Don't waste your life . . . sorrowing. It would make me . . . happy ... if you . . . promised." She took his poor face in her arms and turned it towards her, cradled it upon her breast. For a long time she stayed thus, thinking and grieving. Then, like the soft creeping of a morning mist, thero stole across her heart a strange new stillness. She knew that her years of waiting and hoping were ended. Ended too her dreams. She must waken from them to face a new life. Just now there was pain, but afterwards there would be peace. Footsteps sounded in the hall. She loooked up to see Andrew Souter standing in the doorway. " Come in," she said, quietly, " he is dead."

In a city art gallery, a "woman stood gazing up at a group of pictures which had just been hung. Around her moved changing groups of chattering people. No one noticed her likeness to the central figure of the largest canvas. She had purposely worn a disguising veil. The picture showed a small colonial roadhouse, behind which rose wooded hills, over which the shadows seemed to play iit purple patches. In front of the house, beside an old water-trough stood a girl with night-black hair. Her apron was held like pouch before her. She had evidently been strewing grain from it for the fowls which gathered about her feet. She paused in her task to look away into the distance. There was a sorrowful, searching look in the fine eyes. " It's wonderful!" a voice was saying, " but of course, a little absurd. No girl with beauty like that would be found feeding fowls at a country road-house." " It's not impossible," someone answered. " Full many a flower, you know! I heard that the artist was terribly disfigured. Do you know anything about him ?" " He was burnt, trying to rescue his pictures from a studio fire. He spent his life afterwards living like a hermit in the bush." " The usual temperamentalist, I suppose." The watching woman smiled sadly behind her veil. Just then a man came striding down the gallery. Ho stopped by her side and touched her arm, and spoke. " Are you ready to come home now, dear?" She turned to him and a glint of tears shone through the veil. "Yes, I am ready." As she went out, leaning a little on his arm, she turned for a last glimpse of that group of pictures. " I can't think that his years of loneliness and sacrifice were useless, when those remain," she told her husband quietly, " I think we have done the best thing by giving them to the world. We have raised a monument for him better than tornb-stono or tablet." Andrew Souter bent his head to her. " The monument of a very gallant gentleman," he said generously.

To fix an elusive date in Mary's memory her teacher drilled her patiently, persistently—in the old rhyme, " In fourteen hundred and ninety-two Columbus sailed tho ocean blue." The following day, when her teacher called upon her to recite, Mary announced: "In fourteen hundred and ninety-three Columbus sailed the deep-blue sea! "