THE NOVELIST. After Fifty Years.

Otago Witness, Issue 1418, 25 January 1879, Page 21

THE NOVELIST. After Fifty Years.

A TALE IN TWO CHAPTERS. [Written by a Lady, for the Otago Witness.} Chapter 11. A month later I went to pay my last visit to Ruth for many years. Could it be only one little month since I had trod that fragrant, shady lane, full of bright anticipations for my own and my fostersister's future. Truly we know not what a day may bring forth ! A great and sore trouble had fallen upon my own life in the interval. Some day, perhaps, I may speak of it, but not now. I was going away to a distant part of England next day, and I had reserved this last afternoon for a long farewell talk with my foster-sister. After all she had gone through, I fully expected that Ruth would have had a severe illness, but though with her gray hair, and white, pinched face, she looked a different being, yet she never gave way. I think the care of Abel's family, especially the baby, falling upon her at that time was just the best thing that could have happened to Ruth. Jt took her out of herself, and kept her from brooding. Through the interest of friends she obtained the post formerly held by her father, and became the village schoolmistress, whioh enabled her to retain her little cottage. All the bodies but three were recovered from the pit, when the workings undermined by the water caved in, and the search was abandoned. So was that part of the mine. This was an additional trouble to Ruth, for Abel's body had not been among those recovered. "Oh ! Miss Alice," she said that day, "I lie awake nights thinking of him smothered down there under heaps of rubbish, till I feel as if I could not bear it. If I could but visit his grave, out in the free air and sunshine. " The wish was natural, but I tried to lead Ruth's thoughts up from the dark and awful mine to that bright and happy abode where Abel really was. "But yourself, Ruth," I went on "how do you manage ? " " Very well," was the brave answer. " The school- house being only next door, I can trust Bessie to mind the shildren in my absence. They are very good ; poor things ! " " Baby looks flourishing ; poor little man^" I said, taking him up. I was passionately fond of children, and just then a thought struck me. I burst into sudden tears. Ruth quickly replacing baby in his crib, came and knelt by me, crying too. " Dear Miss Alice," she said, " don't, I can't bear to see you so j Captain Lyon is not worth a tear." "He is— he is," I cried. "I love him more, and he is more worthy of my love than ever. But oh ! Ruth, do you think I acted rightly ? " " I do, indeed. You acted like yourself, Miss Alice. No good woman could have acted otherwise. " " I wish papa and mamma thought so," I sighed ; " but as they do not, it is best I should leave home for a time." " Have you ever seen your Aunt 1 " " Once." " You do not like her ? " said Ruth, quickly. "I do not. It was she who gave me the horror of being an 'old maid.' And yet she was once young, beautiful, and amiable, mamma says. But she quarrelled with the man she really loved, and he was accidentally killed before they were reconciled. That hardened and soured her. Until now I really did think she hated all youth, beauty and love. Ruth, I would rather die now, than live to be like Mary." "You never will be like her — not if you live to a hundred." The tone of quiet conviction in which Ruth spoke somehow gave me courage. I who for the first time in my life was opposing those who were set in authority over me, felt comforted by even this expression of confidence. We had a long talk, and I left the cottage less sorrowful tli r an I had entered it. Ruth had com-

forted me in the midst of .her own deep grief, as she comforted many a one after me. She soon became kiiown as the ministering spirit of the parish, and continued to be so until her death. Dear Ruth 1 Again a bright June morning finds me on my way to Ruth's cottage. A Avhiff from the rose and sweetbriar hedge, a note from the lark, carolling far up in the blue ether, carried my thoughts back to that memorable morning, now fifty years agp, and I, an infirm old lady of seventy, seem to see, tripping, along the leafy lane before me a tallj Jithe figure,, with elastic footstep, and bright young face, the ghost of my own youth. Ah ! me ! Yet I scarce know why I sigh. If my life ha's not been so bright as I then expected it would be, neither has it been bo dark and loveless as at one time I feared. It has been upon 1 the whole a happy, and I am thankful to feel, a useful life. Ruth could say the same of hers, though with far more reason.' The three orphans found in her a mother and father both. She supported them entirely on her salary as schoolmistress ; which position she held for twenty years — until, . indeed, a national school, was established in what was really Olift'town now, and theold school was given up. By that time, however, Bessie was comfortably married ; and Joe, who had gone out-to Australia and prospered, sent Ruth notice in a letter "which the dear old girl could' not, to the last day of her life, read without tears of joy and- pride,— that, sixty pounds a year would .be "placed to 'her -'credit as long as she lived, and at Joe's deabh his children faithfully continued the well earned pension. Poor little Jack was always delicate,,, but cleverer than ' all the rest of his relations put together. He was my godHon, and as I took his education into my own hands), a brilliant career was predicted,', for him^ a,t' college, but - he , never lived? Vo ' realize it. I doubt if his own motKeir* could have grieved more for him than Ruth did. Ruth was» growing; very feeble] lately. ' Bessie's, 'youngest daughter lived .w,ith her ; and it was a message from her, stating that '.' Granny had. h,ad a bad night and wanted to see me," w.hich brought me over this morning., ■ I found Ruth sitting in the porcli,-, andr-^till musing of the past — how plain, appeared the picture of herself and Abel as they had stood tpgether there'upon-.that o^her . morning so many years ago. It was\o'nly, threejjdays- since I had seen my' fosterBister,' but I was startled at- the change in her/face. , ".My 'dear Rath," I exclaimed, ( '< have you been ill ? Why did you not send for i me sooner 1 " ■ , "Granny was all right yesterday/ said Bessie 1 the second, who stood by with Her bonnet and shawl on ; " but she's had a bad night ; and all I could do, she would get up-'this morning." , , " I felt impelled, to be, about, torday," said ,Ruth. . "If I had' ,fltay.ed in I knew, Tshould never leave it alive. Lwill rest .to-morrow.. But, Bessie, you- can leave me with Miss Alice, while you do your errand at the village." And Bessie departed ' accordingly. „ ; , "Ruth," I said anxiously, " what did, you mean by saying that if you had stayed in 'bed to-day you would never have risen from it 1 What is the matter with you?" " , .• " I have had a dream," sho answered, so sblemnly that I was surprised into silence. "Do you remember," continued Ruth, "that dream which troubled me so the morning of the accident." I nodded. " Well, I dreamt it again laat night, exactly the same, as I remembered at once, only this time it has not passed from my mind with sleep," "Fifty years is a long time to remember a dream," I remarked, .thinking that Ruth was perhaps' deceiving herself. Ruth assented. • , "But you must consider,'' she said, " how it came to be impressed upon my memory. Had nothing happened I should soon have forgotten the fact ,of having had a troubled dream and looking with a vague feeling of impending evil." "Well," said I, "what was the dream 1 " " I thought," said Ruth, " that it was the day before our wedding. I was walking with Abel, and bent upon keeping as far. as possible from the mine. Yet I felt that my efforts were vain, that some unseen influence was drawing ' Abel thither, aud I could but follow. At length ■wo reached the pit's mouth, and. Abel prepared to descend, only answering my passionate prayers ■ and entreaties .with a pitiful, tender smile. I , could not keep nim above ground, but I could go down •with him ; and despite my horror of the mine, I did. When we reached the bottom, Abel lifted me ,from tho cage. Holding each others hands, we wandered on through endless chambers and galleries ; at first I thought aimlessly, but presently I saw, far in the distance, a speck of light like a star, and I perceived that Abel pressed onward to it. .He went on in silence, the light growing brighter and clearer, until I saw that wo were nearing a city of light, and I knew that it was Heaven. Suddenly the peaiiy gatus were flung back, emitting a burst of exquisite music. A winged form qakic swiftly, down the shining pathway of light. He neared us, aud laid his hand on Abel's shouldor. Abel turned, not speaking, but regarding me with oh ! such a look of love, as ho released my clinging hand, and followed hin guido to the bright city. I would have given, my life to have been able to accompany Mm ; but my feet were rooted to tho bjjul, I

could only stand and gaze until they entered the city. When the gates were shut, the light vanished instantaneously, and I was alone in the mme — lost in the blackness of darkness. With, the horror of it I awoke." And Ruth shuddered at the remembrance. "It was, indeed, a remarkable dream," I said, "and it is still more remarkable that it should have been repeated at such a distance of time." "Yes ; but that ia not all. I lay awake some time, thinking of it, when I fell into a slight doze, and dreamed again. I found myself alone in the mine. How I pa'me there I know not. Before me shone the light of the distant city, growing brighter every moment as I passed eagerly forward,' stumbling often over the blocks of' cbal/'or "bruising myself 'against projecting angles ; but never fainting, never giving up for a moment. At length the City came fully into view, and again I saw the gates unclose, and heard that enchanting music; bat this time I recognised the angel who came forth to meet me. It was Abel ; and Iknew he/was coming for me, and 1 that the toil, the sorrow, 'the waiting were over at last. And," continued Ruth, " I have been in such a state since, that to see Abel walk up the path would scarcely surprise me. I ennnot help thinking of some fitting words he spoke that morning prophesying that we should spend our golden wedding-day together ; and I—lI — I feel that we shall." Huth's manaer, quite free from excitement, yet so impressive, awed me. " Do you' know," she went on, "that they are opening up the old workings, which have 'been abandoned ever since the ! accident 1 Bessie told me of it yesterday." '" " Then that accounts for your dreams," ' I exclaimed, relieved. " That news naturally carried your thoughts back to the past, and they took that direction, even in sleep. " Ruth was prevented from replying by the sight of Bessie coming hastily up the little path. > " Granny's wanted at the mine," she panted, out of breath. Ruth rose, a peculiar look on her face. "Isit an accident ? " I breathed. " No, no ; but they have found something — I, don't rightly know what, only Jack Morse met me by the mill, and bid me go back anc| fetch granny." | Ruth stepped- into the 'house for her bonnet and shawl ; and came out walking more firmly than I had seen her do for many a day. We entered my carriage, arid drove off, the events of that other day flashing through my mind, and, no doubt, through Ruth's, as if they had happened but yesterday. We did not speak. I watched Ruth aa she sat wibh that eager, expectant look on her face — and wondered. The mine was soon reached. Ruth alighted without waiting for assistance, and walked swiftly towards a knot of men, gathered about something. They parted as she approached, and I saw her spring forward with a hoarse cry. "Abel — oh, my love! how I have waited, for you. My love, my love." 'It was a sight to see ! There upon the black trodden ground, over which some sacking had been hastily thrown, lay the petrified body' of Abel Frethwick, exactly as he, had appeared fifty years ago. He lay like one asleep, in the flush and pride of early manhood, while over him bent the ' gray haired, wrinkled old woman, whose love and faithfulness were the only things unchanged about her. She touched the young face with her withered old hands, murmuring "my love, my love," and gazing as one does gaze upon a beloved countenance after long absence. Then suddenly she bent her head on his breast, as if in prayer ; while we involuntarily turned away from the sacred sight. " L thought Granny would know him, even if it wasn't Abel," whispered a whitehaired I , 'old man to. me. "She's almost the only ono left, except yourself, ma'am, who was old enough at tho time of the Occident to remember. I was a child, and none of these men here were born." " Have, any more bodies been recovered?" I asked; but the man shook his head. ' We stood in fervent silence for some minutes ; but Ruth remaining motionless, I became anxious, and stepping up, touched her shoulder— called her name ; but she . neither moved nor spoke. Alarmed, I bent and lifted her face, Ruth's premonition had been correct. She and Abel were spending their golden wedding-day together. ,We buried them in one grave, atid the marble slab bears the following inscription ;—; — In Memory of i ( ABEL FItETHWICK, Who, together with Forty-nine Others, met his deAth in the mine, upon the Eve of his Wedding-day, June Ist, 179 — ; and whose body was recovered June Ist, 184 — . Also of Ruth Pollock, Who was to have been his Wife, and who Died June Ist, 184— ; "lIE-Urn'rEl) AI'TEK I'll'YTY YBAIIS."