Up Cloud Mountain.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 978, 28 November 1890, Page 10

Up Cloud Mountain.

(communicated).

‘ Isn’t it a bit lonely up here sometimes V

‘ Wall, it ar whiles, but folks come up times too, you see, sir. I hev liv’d here ever sence I war a young man—most all my life. A man gits used ter a place after a bit, an’ it ain’t so lonesome. I gits thinkin’ ’bout Mandy now she’s gone, an’ seems most as she war here/

‘ Who is Mandy V ‘ She war my wife, sir, an’ there’s her grave. Yes, there’s a lot o’ flowers on it. She war fond o’ flowers, my Mandy, right down fond o’ ’em. Such a mass o’ bluebells, you say, .sir, and poppies! Mandy liked bright flowers ; she said the looked more like flowers if they war bright. They’re most common sorts, ain’t they ? Her mother guv ’em to us when we come here. Mandy war the only gal, an’ they were mighty sorry losin’ her. It war a terrible blow to ’em, so it war; it war som’at to make a man staggered like. ’Ud you like to hear it, sir ? Sometimes it makes me feel as if the world had gotten downside upmost. Things happen so muddled. What’s the use on it all ? What am it fer ?

‘ Wall, when I was a young man, I runn’d away from home. I knocked about, an’ at last I hed saved a bit o’ money. So I bought this land, right here on the hill. ’Twere away from folk, but I liked it. ’Twere fine to be up so high. ’Tis years agone, and ’twere different then. I wuk’d the ground, an’ growed heaps o’ things; and sell’d them ter folk down at the Settlement, ’bout three miles away or

mav be and the way seems longer now' Mandy’s mother bought lots, an* Mandy an’ I got qwainted. We got ter be friends, an’ we never went back on each other, so’s at last it come to sweetheartenin’. An’- then one dav Mandy said she’d be married. My, sir but it tuk a heap o’ persuadin’. Howsomever, we went one mornin’ to the church, an’ I put the ring on her finger Ha! I ’member it to this day. Her hand shook some’at, an’ I put my arm round her waist; and her eyes looked into mine, and folks said as I kissed her; but I don’t know ’bout that, I might hev or I mightn’t hev. Eh sir ! but she war pretty, an’ she never dreamt o’ the trouble that war nigh. Folks said it war a strange weddin’* with the kissin’ and cryin’ an’ all! Oh! if yer could hev seen her then—! my Mandy was so bonny, and the trouble war so near! . . . . Don’t mind me, sir—just leave me a bit. You’ll forgive an old man, sir. That’s kindly said. Thankee. I can go on now.

‘ Wal, when—when we finished the wedding breakfast and the games it were gettin’ dusk. I had only one horse, a quietsome thing, an’ I put Mandy on it; and we went away, her ridin’ an’ me walkin’. She hugged and kissed her mother, an* cried as we sed goodbye. It made me feel kind o’ sad, and yet glad, too, for I knew my Mandy loved me. An’ we war on our way, her ridin’ and me holdin’ the reins. We wasn’t talkin’, when sudden somethin’ rose in my heart, an’ i gez, “ Mandy, you ain’t sad, is you ?” ‘ An’ I heard a faint sob, an’ stood the horse still. It were a low horse, and she war a little bit of a thing, so I put my arms up to her, and she slid off the horse into them, an’ clung to me sayin’—seemed right out of her heart she said it—

* “ Tom, I love you, dear !” ‘ I kissed her, an’ she kissed me. I would hev lefted her on to the horse, but Mandy sez—- ‘ “ Let me walk with you, Tom.” I sez she would get tired—she never war over strong, and she didn’t know how far it war to our home. So she sez, quiet-like—-‘“Very well, Tom; but keep close to me.”

‘ Truth I didn't need biddin’. Oh 1 God, what a fool I war to think on’t—to think on’t. I put her up, and we went on, I holdin’ her hand now, : ‘ Sudden—l never scarce knew how it happened—som’at ran across the horse’s £>ath, it ’peared to,.me, . .Old Beth started, and then she galloped off afore I could stop her. I hadn’t the reins then and couldn’t catch her, an’ she got round the corner of the road. ‘When I got there, Mandy war lyin’ on the ground, on her face—l shall never forget it. ‘She wasn’t dead, thank God; an’ yet sometimes I’ve wished she hed bin. I’ll tell ye short, maybe I’m hindering you t No ? you’re kind to say so, sir. ‘I carried Mandy back to her mother’s, she war that bad. She lay weeks ill, not knowin’ no one.

‘Did I catch that horse again? I shot it.

‘ Wheij. Mandy got about again she didn’t get all her senses back. She seldom spoke; she knew no one, not even her mother, but she most took to me.

‘ Her mother said as I’d better get a divorge, I thinks they calls it, and get another girl to marry me, for Mandy’d never get right again, she sed. ‘But I only loved Mandy, and Mandy she most took to me ; so they let me bring her up to look after her, and tend her. It wer all I could do. They wasn’t willin' at first, but they let her come. She wasn't violent only foolish an’ quiet-like, and she could do a little heft of work in the house, an’ she were mighty fond of flowers. She were fond o’ me, too, and would follow me round when I wer diggin’ or tendin’ the cabbages, an’ onions an’ things. ‘So we lived peaceable for mor’n twenty year. She never got well again, but she wouldn’t go an’ live with her mother, tho’ they wanted her to. Sho 'peared fonder o’ me.

Somewhiles a bad fit ’ud come on me, an’ I fell to cussin’ an* swearin’, but not whiles Mandy wer by. Seemed’s I hated all things. But they fits got fewer, ’cos I knew they were bad uns. ‘ A preacher fellow corned here one time, an’ me an’ him hed long talks. He tell’d me things were meant fer the best, but poor men folks couldn’t make it out—l couldn’t. But he sez, maybe Mandy’ll be all right in the nex’ world, an’ I hev made up my mind as I’ll ax the Lord all about it, an’ why we is so

———— unhappy down here. Poor Mandv, it saems a long time to wait to get to yer. ‘As I were say in’, about the end o’ twenty, year Handy tuk ill and died. It happened this way : She kind o’ faded like the flowers. I’ve often thought on it—just like them flowers 6 he withered. Them daisies there, see, they’re dead. My, how pretty they are when they’re fresh. She were pretty, too, when she were young. , There weren’t her like in the Settlement. Though there were plenty putty girls, yet none o’ ’em came up to my Mandy. 1 Where were 1? Oh, tellin’ you how she got ill, so I were. Poor Mandy, she got restless like, an’ time upon time T’d catch her eyes on me. Did I tell you, sir—such dark eyes ! When I’d look up, there’d be her lookin’ fixed at me. Seemed as she were tryin’ to make out somethin’, but I never could tell what.

‘ She grew so thin, too; her clothes hung loose an’ flimsy on her, som’at as if they were made for a bigger woman than her. She fell faint twice, an’ there were no womankind about, so I jest cooled her furrid, an’ presently she came round. It’s best to have woman’s for. them faints, ain’t it, sir ? Men are more clumsy made seems to me. My wife she were a hefty an’ handy one, when she were a girl. ‘ One day Mandy an’ I were sittin’ on the doorstep. The evenin’s was gettin’ warm then, an’ we generally did. ‘The scent o’ the flowers war in the air. I ’member the roses. Them’s the same trees. There were a breath of wind, I know, for it lifted the hair off Mandy’s furrid, an’ made her look young like; an’ it minded me of when we were married—of our weddin’ day, for she looked so peart. ‘ I got up and picked a rose, an’ guv it her. Then I took it from her an' axed if I might fasten’ it in her dress. She did not answer, for it was her way, but only smiled. She mightn’t hev understood, p’raps, so I just undid one button an’ slipped the stem in. I had cut all the thorns off first, in course. Then I sat down agen, an’ Mandy she leaned back agin the doorpost, an’ was lookin’ away over the hills. Her eyes were that wistful, seemed’s if she were beginning to think, an’ I wanted to kiss her, but dared not, for it might stop her thinkin’. So I jest waited patient. She looked very pale. ‘All on a sudden she looked at me, askin’-like, an’ shejbent forward claspin’ her knees. Seemed’s as if she must have knowed all our trouble. Her eyes glowed, an’ then they got dull, and she fell on to my shoulder. ‘ I carried her indoors, an’ laid her on her bed. I bathed her furrid, but she didn’t come round. I were skeered, I were ; she lay so white an’ still with her eyes shut, like as if she’d never stir again. And every minute seemed’s long as an hour. ‘ Youijje seen an’ known a lot, I guess, sir. You might have known how I felt. I were all on fire inside, I thought. I wished if she were dead I might die too. At last she opened her eyes slow-like. I just wetted her lips an’ she got some bettex\ Sudden she started up an’ stretched out her hands in front of her, cry in’— «“ Tom, Tom !”

/“Yes, Mandy! Yes, my wife,” I said, bendin’ over her; “here ami.”

* Her voice had sounded sweet as when she were a gal, but she didn’t look at me nor know me.

‘ She fell back on the pillows again with her eyes shut. I feared she would die an’ not speak to me, an’ 1 just broke down, callin’ her an’ cryin’ like a woman. She opened her eyes, and looked at me then, an’ tried to raise her arms to me. I knowed she knew all then.

* She spoke again, but I couldn’t bear all, only “My Tom.” I listened, not breathin’, but there were no sound, an’ I knew she were dead.

I kissed her dear face very gentle. Seemed as if I’d never wanted her so much. It seemed as if it were the Mandy as had left her mother’s home on our weddin’ day that I’d lost over again. Mebbe, some day I’ll hev her again, maybe, sir; but I do not know. ‘ Have you ever married, sir ?’ ‘No.’ So you see ever sence my Mandy died I’ve lived alone. But Mandy always seems to be near me, an’ I talk to her often. It were her I were talkin’ to when you come along. ‘Why, sir, is that a pictur you’re makin’ ? No, surely. Why, it’s just years sence I set eyes on a pictur. I used to see ’em sometimes along at the store down at the settlement.

‘Them’s the very hills, and there’s my shanty, an’ Mandy’s grave. An’ who’s that old man. He’s earnest

lookin like the preacher chap when he got talkin’ ’bout hell an’ them places. ! sir. Am I like that ? I didn't know I wer so old lookin’. Mandy used to have a bit o’ glass, but it got broke.

‘ Will I sit still a minute longer did you say ? But my boot ain’t a pretty one to draw.

‘ You 11 come in to supper, sir. Mandy’d have been glad to have you come. No, you’ll not stay? ‘ Goodnight, then, an’ God bless you. I hope as I didn’t weary you, sir, but I never tell’t it to any one before. ‘ Good-night. Your camp’s not far from here ? If you come up to-morrow 111 look out for you But can’t you just come in an’ sup with me? It’s not much I have to give you, but I'm loathe to let you go. That’s right.