CHALK.

Otago Witness, Issue 1825, 12 November 1886, Page 31

CHALK.

Br Amok, Author of " Fickle Jack," " Grandmother's Story," &c. [All Rights Reskbvbd.] Chapter XIX. "O Absoleml wou'd God I had died for thee. O Absolom 1 my son, my son." Evening had come, and an anxious group of watchers were gathered round Charles Mason's boy. And where was he, the father ? whose right and privilege it should have been to comfort and sustain the mother of his child in such an hour as this. Poor weak Mary was suffering cruelly for her sin. Here lay her little nameless child dying, and none might comfort her. The motherhood within her was just as strong and holy as it would have been were she Charles Mason's wifo, and even tlio acknowledgment of that mothcrhqpd had been denied her. GVamie, Mtfllfo, Ffrfcio', and Mrs Grant

were all here. Ernest had gone back with the news there was no music lesson to-day, for the baby at Laurel Cottage was very ill. Mrs Grant did not atop to inquire whose baby it was. It was a baby, and ill, that was quite sufficient for her; and she hurried away, leaving the boys for once _to take care of themselves, and had helped to put the convulsed child into the hot baths prescribed by tho doctor.

Everything had been done that could be done, but of no avail. The convulsions had been very severe, and now the child lay in Winifred's lap white and still, its little life fast ebbing away. Mollie, with her pitying face, knelt close by Winifred, thinking how hard this hour must bo for the woman whose first thought seemed for Mary, and whoso self-possession never wavered.

Bertie stood leaning against the mantelshelf gazing at the group, and understanding Winifred's imploring looks at Mary. He knew that she feared in this, hour of anguish Mary would make all the past sacrifice vain, and he watched Mary curiously to see what she would do, though the watching brought a mist into his kind eyes: He felt so strong and big and in the way among these grieving women; he felt his strength and health almost an insult in the room where they were hanging on the breath of that frail little child. Bertie had never seen a • child suffer before, and it wrung his heart to be obliged to stand by so powerless when he would willingly have borne in his own body the agony of the babe. Mrs Grant was quietly weeping, and grannie was close to Mary, pitying the unhappy young mother with all her soul.

The doctor had quietly come' among them, and now bent his grave, sympathetic face over the child.

Every eye was turned to him for his verdict, and by some instinct he met those large, blue agonised eyes of the mother as he said very gently :

" He is sinking fast— dying."

A dead silence fell upon the group, and each heart beat faster. Winifred gazed imploringly at Mary, who stood with white face staring at the doctor. Presently she said, from between white lips :

" Doctor, are you sure — is. there no hope 1" Doctors have often met that hungry look in a mother's eyes which says " I can't give up my child."

" There is no hope," he answered, in tones more gentle than before. Then with a cry and a swift movement Mary was on her knees holding out her arms.

" Here," sre said, "here in these arms my child shall die "

" Mary 1" ejaculated Winifred, pale as the dying child. There was a movement of astonishment among the others, glances given and interchanged. Bertie's heart gave a great bound. At last Mary waa going to redeem her womanhood and cjlear Winifred's name from blame.

" Here in these arms," continued Mary, "my child shall die. Goodpeopio, lam this child's mother. I ask its pardon here upon my knees that ever for a day I was afraid, ashamed, to claim it mine. See in this hour of anguish, if you can, some slight atonement for my sin, and while you scorn and spurn me honour this brave girl — jfchat knewing you must love, — wha took my shame upon herself to shield me from its consequences, and nobly bore the scorn that was my due."

" My darling, hash 1"

" No, Winifred : I will not hush. My mother died believing you guilty. My father is a wanderer, believing you so vile. The sin is mine. This Ghild's father was my lover true. It was my fault and mine alone that drove him from me. Give me his child and mine. Here in these arms our boy shall die."

She clasped the baby in her 'arras, and held it to hex.

"f n secret I have held you thus my own a thousand timee — loved you; and .longed to call you mine 1 How could your mother let you die and not have claimed you ?- My boy J my boy ! would to God that I. could die for theel My pretty son, who never knew a father's kiss — who" cannot bear a father's name ! Look up,roy own, and smile upon me: you who always knew me in your baby heart for mother. Have we not told our love for one another — you in your own little way, and lin mine— in secret many and many a time ?"

She was bending over him, forgetful of all, holding him close in her arms. There was no shame to her in this moment. She was the baby's mother, and her' child was dying. The women were fobbing audibly, Bertie was making a tremendous effort to appear unconcerned, with big tears dropping from his eyes, and the doctor stood in professional silence toying with an ornament on one of the brackets.

" If you had lived to be a man you might have blamed me, little Charlie, and yet I could easier have borne the blame than see you die. I thought one day to lead you to your father and say, 'The mother of your son has been most true,' and win him from his doubts through your clear eyes. And yon are going now, my little one, to leave me too. Is there no power in earthly love to chain you to me ? No mercy in the heavens to spare this blow? God cannot need thee as thy mother needs thee. Oh, if indeed there be a Heaven where a God dwells, and whither thou must go, say there that He — Almighty God — has dealt very bitterly with me I Oh, very bitterly I" She laid her soft hand on the small, dark head, and stroked the silky hair with a touch as soft as snow. • " Thou Eleepest. baby, -while thy mother's heart is breaking. Open . thine eyes once more and smile upon thy mother."

As if in obedience, the child unclosed its dying eyes, and- fixing them upon the gentle face that so often had bent over it, smiled brightly and lingerin'gly. Then the white lids fell ovet the dark eyes, and it slept again. " .My little one, my pretty oue ! so thou canst smile, and dying love *nao. Yet would to God that I could die for thee I my son ! my son !"

The doctor came oVer and bent down and touched the ohild,' then looked at the women, a.nd fliqn they knew that the baby's sleep \tfas $rand. Mrs G"rapt and Mollib

"wept on. Winifred twined her arm round Mary and murmured :

"My poor love." Mary glanced up into her friend's face for a. moment, but did not understand her. Then Bertie, having mastered his countenance, crossed the room, and bending his tall body, held out his strong arms, and lifting the tiny form with a touch as gentle as a woman's from the young mother's knee, said with infinite gentleness and pity in the hushed tones of his strong voice : " Let me take' it and lay it in the cradle, Mary. It is out of pain now."

Then he bore it reve - ently and tenderly and laid it down, then bent and kissed the sweet, dead face of his friend's child, then with hasty strides sought the garden. Lifting his hat, he^raised his eyes to the starry heavens, and his thought was prayer. " Oh, God I watching that child die has made me for the hour a child again and taught me many things —one of the many—thankfulness that Charles Mason's sin is not mine also." Brought face to face with the reality, the crime ' of breaking a woman's heart and blighting her life seemed truly a dreadful thing. Viewed from the standpoint of customs arid practices allowed by society, these tragedies are mere trifles. The women — honour to them — forgot that Mary was a Magdalene, and remembered only that she was a mother whose child was dead. • They did not reason, as we outsiders would reason, that it was better so — better that the nameless child had passed from a world where it would have felt acutely the dishonour of its birth. They had no thought of this. . They felt with the mourner — the truest expression of human sympathy.

One woman in the room had taken note of Bertie's gentleness, and that was Mollie. She treasured it up in her heart, where she stored most of his actions. He was her king among men, this grea+blundering, child-hearted man. She forgave him for passing hep by for Winifred. Who could help admiring Winifred? And perhaps Mollie loved him more because all his admirations and likes were of something worthy. These were Mollies waiting days, too, but her hope deferred did not make sick her heart, for he whom she loved was near.

Others saw their beloved carried far away,

and 0 1 the silence that came next, the patience and long aching. She was spared that ; she had him near her every day, and It was a happy thins; to sit So near, Jior mar his reverie ; She loohed not for jv part in it. So meek was she. But it was solace for her eyes And for hoc hevt. that \ earned to him, To watch apart in loving wise Those musings dim.

She was not all to him, but she was much. He had often told her he would be like a ship without a compass without his friend Mollie. The only secret he had not confided to her was one not his, but Winifred's, and that • was at an end now. Mollie was not envious of the friendship between Winifred and Bertie. No mean, paltry jealousystirred her generous heart. She was rather proud that Bertie was deemed so worthy of trust. Winifred did not love him ; she had always known that, and known, too, the girl was too noble to coquette ; and now the full nobility of her conduct was disclosed, Mollie told herself she Was glad that she had always loved her.

" Grannie," she said again and again, "how could we' look her in the face now if we had gone by appearances and treated her coldly 1 'How she must scorn all those fairweather friends who deserted her. How proud I am to know her — how proud to call ncr friend ! "

" And you may be proud, dear. Her friendship is a grand thing — loyal to the death. She- never forgets those who have been kind to her."

11 Puir lassie 1 ". responded Mollie. " She brings to my mind a verse I read onee — Thf> proud, the shy, the spnsitive : Life bath not many such, Tlift.v denrlv buy their happiness By fseling it too much. And- she prized her happiness, even though she" laid it down for her friend.

Bertie rejoiced that Winifred was cleared from blame, and all were free to honour her

opce.more. He had always liked Mary, but since he had known what suffering she allowed her friend to bear for her, a feeling of resentment had taken possession of him.

That was over now, and he would have gone to theother end of the earth to serve her.

Mary was brave now. She insisted upon publicly clearing .Winifred, and many read with wonder the announcement in the papers —

"Died, August 20, the infant son of

Charles Mason and Mary Hunter, after a short and painful illness. Home and Australian papers please copy." " Papa or Charlie may see it," she said, " and it will bring them home."

Bring them home 1 Ah, how loving women long for the home-coming of their beloved. What weary days we women spend waiting for the return of those we love, who leave us and waiting all in vain. The busy hours go , by, the , world's work gets done, "> and all we do seems incomplete. The empty hours go by —so empty, bereft-of the beloved voice and ear and eye. Men, 'mid the bustle and the din, can't feel the touch or hear the cries that haunt we women left behind. How many a Ruth doth often cry " Entreat me not to leave thee ; whither thou goest will I go, thy people shall be my people, and thy G&d my God." Anything is easier than to part. Only the strong of heart can patiently bear suspense. For if she love him, the home of happier years becomes a desert' wanting him — her heart loses its courage 'mid forboding fears, "life becomes a dream, and sunshine dim, and riches poverty because of him." : How many by a death-bed of the heart's best regret most bitterly that one "goodbye." Ambition calls from its heights, and Mian roust go ; Duty calls, and man must go ; Inclination beckons, and man must go—but when'he leaves behind the one woman who loves him with hep. life, he leaves behind the water he will thirst firf i r yet. Little Mr 3 Grant gathered her boys closer

to her heart, and gazed more- fondly still upon yrj^-hh.^and'wh.qn gh.o fcaow.t.he history of

the benighted home where the two girls dwelt in solitary waiting. Hers, she told herself, was a most happy lot. She had all her beloved, not as Rachel did she weep becavise one was not.

" I'a," she said one evening, when she sat by the bright hearth in the cheerful sitting room, " I hope I am a better woman since I first knew those sweet girls —more grateful — more humble. I have my all, and yet lam .afraid I was often impatient under little trials. Look, when Willie got his head kicked, how unhappy I fancied I was. I have learnt how easy it is to be contented when one has all they desire. Look at Winifred, what unselfish conduct. It takes the vanity out of one to compare oneself with her, pa." " Then don't do it, little woman. You have no occasion to compare yourself disadvantagcously with anyone. You have filled your own post with honour, my dear, and that I take it — from experience of the world — most folk find the hardest thing to do."

" Your wife, Will, has not to take up the cross daily. It must be hard to take up the cross daily, my dear. Human nature must grow weary. Lord help all the weary ones, I say ! " -

" By-the-bye 1" exclaimed Mr Grant, feeling in his pocket for a letter and drawing it out, " that reminds me ! Here is a letter from my old friend Clinton. He and his wife are going home for a twelve months' holiday, and they have very kindly placed their farmhouse at our disposal during their absence. Hear what he says :

" Persuade Mrs Grant to bring the boys and as many of her friends as will accompany her. The more the merrier — in the country, anyway. The honse is oldfcishioned and roomy, warranted not to spoil, for the simple reason that the paint and paper and carpets, sofas, chairs, &c. are all past spoiling. When we return it is to be thoroughly done up inside and out. We shall bring new furniture with us ; so do not let Mrs Grant's scruples in regard to any chance speck or spot stand in the way of six or eight months in the countiy.

"As you know, the house is at the foot of the mountains. How your boys will enjoy exploring the Southern Alps ! Say you will occupy and consider the place your own till I return.

" P.S. — Mrs Clinton desires me to add that everything, though shabby, is as clean as a new pin. She is afraid my description will strike terror to the immaculate soul of Mrs Grant." " Oh, pa ! " exclaimed Mrs Grant, with a flush of pleasurable anticipation and her eyes wider open than ever. " Which means, little woman 1 " '•' That it is a glorious prospect — a whole summer and autumn in the country. Think of the romps for the boys. And a house past spoiling. No worry over the carpets — for I do hate to damage other people's property. How kind of the Clintons.'" " So I am to say you will go ?" " Can you come too, dear 1 " "Well, not for all the time, little woman. But I can take you and stay for several weeks, then run back for a week or two to keep my eye on business, and then into the country again. By a series of migrations I can kill two birds with one stone, and I tell you what, love, this shall be a real holiday all round. I can well spare a few hundreds over it. So ask your new friends, old Grannie Gordon and Miss Gordon, Miss Hunter and Winifred, and I will give young Young a week off now and again to look after you when lam not there. Hp. deserves a holiday, that lad does. Since the day he entered my office, five years ago, he has never asked for a day off, except when Mrs Hunter died."

"Oh, pa!" exclaimed Mrs Grant, exactly as before, but with a mist In her eyes. " Which means, my dear ? " " That you are too good." " You don't care for the plan, then ? " asked Mr Grant, smiling across at his wife.

" You know I do, Will. It is so like you to include the others in the pleasure. It is a capital scheme. Those poor girls needed this after their past troubles." •• Then the motion is carried ? "' " Yes, and will be unanimously. I believe." " Very well, my dear, I will write to Clinton, write you out a big cheque, and leave all the rest to you." (2o be continued.)