BY THE SEA.

Otago Witness, Issue 2078, 21 December 1893, Page 18

BY THE SEA.

A SKETCH.

{Specially Written for the Witness Christmas

Number of 1893.)

By DOLCE A. CABOT.

11 He was only a cripple I " His poor, twisted legs had never been able to support the weight of his small stunted body. They never would in this life, and he knew it. He felt he had been robbed of his birthright — that an awful wrong had been done him. It was not his fault, he told himself, that his childhood had been spent on a bed of pain, or that his manhood was being wasted in weakness. Manhood I He laughed bitterly at the thought. What had he to do with manhood 1 He — weak as a child, nervous as a woman 1 Oh 1 what had he done to merit it all 1 But Dame Nature was merciful and silent.

Day after day they wheeled him out to the sands, where he preferred to be left alone for hours together. He had his books always, and he had only to blow his whistle when he wished to recall the boy from his play with the children down by the fisherman's cottage.

" Only a cripple ! " The thoughtless little girl had said it rather loudly to her companion as they ran past him. She was such a bright little thing too, and she skipped merrily down to the water line, and then ran laughing back beyond the reach of the white surfs edge. The great, wistful eyea of the deformed man followed her gambols with a heavy ache at his heart. The old questioning seemed to fill his brain as it often filled it during the long, weary night hours when he lay gazing into the inner darkness that was but a part of the outer gloom around him.

But to-day the struggle was bitter, and he was very weak. And then the children seemed to be straying very far from him. He felt a strange, burning heat ; low, murmurous sounds filled his ears ; and — he had just strength left to blow his whistle, and then the white face lay back on the cushions, and he knew nothing more.

When he opened his eyes again there was a woman holding a bottle of pungent salts to his nostrils — a woman with sweet grey eyes, and a heavenly smile.

11 Are you better now 1 " she asked gently when his eyes opsned full on her. Bat he couid not answer. All his innate manliness re?ented it. He had actually fainted in the presence of a woman. A woman had come to his relicf — a stranger. The humiliation was too awful.

And she, thinking he had fainted again, qaickly unfastened his collar with one hand. Her cool fingers accidentally touched him as she did so, and he op9ned his eyes agdn. All his resentment had fled at that touch, and he smiled faintly.

" Ara you better 1 " she asked again, and he felt that ehe had a good voice.

11 1 thank you, yes," he answered shyly, and then he looked steadily at her, "I am only a cripple, yon know."

It came so nnconeciously that he started when he had said it. Why should be beg for sympathy? All his pride rebelled against it, and yet he had said it. Su r e!y be must be very weak.

" I beg your pardon," he said, very courteously. "Someone said that a few minutes eince, and " Ths crimson ruphed to his sensitive face and he stopped, for all the pain of it came back again. " Yes," she said, and the grey eyes seemed to koow it all. " Yes— and you cannot forget it."

" I don't wish to remember," be said, and his eyes ' wandered away to tho waves dancing in the sunshine, for ehe must not see bLe tnoistvue that overflowed them.

She did nob speak, for sha did not know what, to s?.y. Ho was asi ranger lo her, but ho was weak ar.d helpless, and she tolt, a gireat pity for him. The people had rpoken of bioi wrf proud nnd repelling — as people* speak of those whom they do doI know well. And here b'ae ws« talking to him. II 3 was as true a gentleman as she had ever met. All tho tenderness of her nature eeemed to shine hi lifer oyeo wh-n ho looked up again.

He pub out his hand, and she quietly laid htrs o.n ii/. •

" Thank yon," be said. Ifc was enough. Ho did not eveu wish to know by what name she was known in the outer world. She was

a qneen condescending to give him some of her sympathy. Perhaps he would never meet her again, and yet he would like to see those gray eyes once more. Never before had he seen sueh — so honest, so gentle, so good.

Just then the boy came running up in answer to his whistle, and she made a movement to leave him. " Good-bye ; I hope you will not have another attack," and she went across the Bands towards a group of children. He watched her, the # folds of her light creamy dress flowing sof tly'about her, as she went. He thought her very beautiful. The next day was blue and sparkling. The waves danced and crisped in the glorious curve of the bay, inviting the rosy-faced children to wade into the white surf with many a laugh and shout. The sea birds flew from wave to wave, now seeming to alight on the foamy crests, anon skimming away with shrill scream to rest awhile on the great brown rock out in the bay. Strong youths and healthy maidens cantered briskly over the damp sands or urged their horses into the ebbing waves, but the pale invalid in his chair was missing. In the house on the hill where the scarlet geranium burned in its summer splendour he lay, battling with a sickening pain — with the last dread enemy, who was daily creeping closer and closer.

Helen Merton and her little sister, walking along the beach with stools and books, came upon the boy who had wheeled the cripple horns yesterday. He was staring at her, and she felt an impulse to speak to him.

" How is your master ? " she asked.

"Be is very bad, miss," answered the boy soberly. " I haven't seen him to-day, but Mis' Day, she said be was delir'us all night."

"Delirious l" said Helen. "Then he is very ill. lam so sorry," and she Btopped.

" Please, miss," said the boy again, and he hesitated.

" Well," she said, " what do you wish to tell me?"

The boy looked very shy and somewhat afraid, but be was made of good stuff, and liked his master. He liked this lady too.

11 Please, I think he would be better if you came to see him. Mis' Day she says he talks about a lady with kind grey eyes, and please, miss, I think it's you."

The last words came with a rush, and the poor boy looked astonished when he had finished. Evidently he had not expected to get so far. Helen turned to her Bister : " Milly, will you wait here tiU auntie comes, and tell her I am gone to see an invalid ? " She put down the things she was carrying, and then she was ready.

" Now," she said to the boy, " let us go to your master." They climbed the hill above the bay. The garden path was bordered with fragrant white pinks and dwarf salmon geranium, while farther on were great masses of pure scarlet. It was a picture that Helen never forget — the red and the white of the flowers, the sapphire of the sea bslow, the calling sea birds ; — it was burned into her memory for ever. And within. . . .

She stepped gently to the white bed. His dark eyes seemed half-expectant, and there was no trace left of the delirium now.

" I felt that you were coming," he said " It is good of you."

How weak he was I For a few minutes he Baid no word more. He was satisfied to have her near him, and, indeed, her perfect strength brought back the feeling of calm rest that had come to him yesterday on the sands when she was speaking to him.

She had taken his hand, and was stroking it gently. Her fingers had a touch of satin, and they were and firm and white. His slender fingers looked fragile enough beside them.

" I was told that you wished to see me, so I came," she said, and her smile was very sweet. There was something very restful and soothing to the invalid's sensitiveness in her tacit acceptance of the fact that he had need o£ her, and in the utter absence of selfconsciousness or fussiness in her. He required her; she came, and there was no need for anything more to be said.

Mrs Day came bustling in. " Oh, ma'am," she said, " I am glad you have come " — and she was going on in her outspoken eagerness, but the invalid stopped her.

"I am very glad too, Mrs Day. This lady is as good as 50 doctors, and she is very kind to give me a few minutes of her time. lam very selfish, I fear," he said, with a look at Helen ; and she saw the pathetic loneliness in his dark eyes, and such a desire for companionship, that she could not withstand it.

" I am very glad indeed to be able to come," she said ; and then she added with a gentle little laugh, "I think I was meant to be a nurse and not a teacher."

"These are your holidays, Miss Merton, are they not 7 " said the irrepressible woman as soon as she found an opening.

Helen was annoyed, but she answered readily enough : "Oh yes ; and a splendid one lam having too. This is part of it. I don't go back to my school for another six weeks."

And then, to stop fnrfcher talk, she suggested that she should read something if the invalid desired it.

"I should like it much," he said, "if it would not be too much trouble."

" I shall be very glad," she gaid, and she rose and walked to the bookcase on the wall at the foot of his bsd.

" What would you like 1 " she asked, as she ran her eyes over the names of the books. Evidently he was very catholic in his reading. Ruskin and Schopenhauer, Carlyle and Renan stood side by side with Emerson and Professor Drummond, while all the poets from Spenser to Walter C. Smith and Austin Dobson had their place here.

And while her eyes were feasting on this royal fare a wild kind of wish came into his head that ehe should read some poatry. How would ahe read it 7 he wondered.

" Will you read • Prospica,' " he said, " if you please." " Certainly ; " and in a moment she had the volume of "Dramatic Lyiics " in her hand. H-j was so glad to think that she know where to find it. Ah! she was perfect — this gracious queen.

And she read. Her voice was the utterance of a glorious strength allied to ths large soul of a perfect woman. It, v/as vibrant with music, yet so clear — so sweet.

But what strange prescience was it that overwlu lcnecl her and made her voice suddenly tremble ?

No, let me taste the whole of it— fare like my peers The heroes of old I In a moment taste glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness, and cold. What ailed Helen that there were tears in her voice? But she overcame them, and then the words came suspiciously clear, and the organ-like voice deepened with a trusting prophecy in its tones— And the elements' rage, the stern voices that blend Shall dwindle, shall change, Shall become first a peace out of painWhen she finished he had turned his face away. He knew that the arch fear was not so far away. A long, sobbing breath, as though he were drawing the air through closed teeth, and then he said so softly after her— And with God be the rest. There was a long silence. Helen felt that he was better alone just now, and she rose. " I will come again this evening," she said, bending over him. "Yes, come," he answered, and his eyes seemed to implore her as his fingers closed around hers. "I shall cornel" And she was gone. For several weeks he lingered on. Through the brilliant December weather ha had of tea rallied, and at those times Helen thought that he might even recover. His strength would come back for a few hours at a time, but it always proved fallacious. Yet she hoped on, and so did Mrs Day, but as for the doctor, he knew better. They made his Christmas as bright &s they could, and he was able to sit up in the afternoon and look out of the window on the blue water shining below. But— he grew weaker in the days that followed. "I shall not see the New Year," he whispered to Helen one evening. It was the 31st. And she knew it too, with an awfnl realisation of an emptiness that should meet her when That came to take away this patient cripple of hers — somehow she alwaya called him hers in her own mind now. He was lyiag very still ; ehe thought he was tired. From her chair Helen conld see one long level bar of crimson cloud BtretchIng across the deep amber field whence the last sun of the year had just slipped into the sea. The rich light mellowed even the shadowy corners of the room, and the man spoke. " Helen I" he said, and it did not strike her as strange that he used her name. " Helen I " She bent over to hear, for his voice was very faint. " You have given me noblest help, and I have not deserved it." She tried to speak, but he went on : " I could not help loving you from the moment you helped me on the sands." And then he was fairly astonished, for her cameo-like face suddenly glowed, and it waß not the evening glory that made the sweet colour rush even over her pure forehead. But he could not believe it, and he just gazed in wonder that was almost awe, and then his eyes met hers at last. What pathetic, starving eyes they were I How lonely and sad must his life have been that he should so crave some affection. But he was never to be lonely again— never. " Helen, my queen, you will not leave mo again ? " " No, Paul." "And you will not be sad and think too much of me after — after " But he could not say the dread word. " I love you, Paul 1 " Ob, it was too good. And he was dying — well, it was better so. If he lived for half a century now, he could never 8 gain reach a greater happiness. It was fitting he should die. But for her— and he feared already in the first moment of his joy. She had her whole life, perhaps a long one, still before her, and he was castiDg a gloom over its very beginning. Bhe, watchir/g him, seemed to know his fear too. " Paul, you shall not fear for me ; I Bhall be happy always now— always— always, my love." And where was his pain fled ? He felt well — perfectly well, and so content. " Helen, you will come 1 Come some day, my love ; I shall wait." And she answered so firmly, and yet so quietly ; it was an answer and a promise that seemed to include all eternity : " I will, Paul." " And with God be the rest," he murmured as if to himself — low, very low. It was getting darker. The red had faded out of the cloud over the sea. The first evening star shone in through the open window. The Christmas lilies trembled in the soft sea breeze that swept up the hillside and brought wafts of cool freshness to tho sick man. He knew those lilies so well— the garden of his childhood. He murmured to himself, " The lilies and the mignonette ; " and then ,a little louder : " Will you get me one, Helen 1 " She rose and brought him one, glittering in its purity and tremulous with perfume. He raised it to his lips. "It is like you." He closed his eyes again. "I love the lilies ; " and then he continued, " Helen, shall you regret that you knew ms in the years to come ? Perhaps someone else — not weak and crippled." She stopped him, " Paul, do not say any more. — I will not listen." Hia fingers tightened their clasp on her band. " Will— you— kiss me only once— dear." Her warm lips touched his for the first time.

He was asleep. And who shall say that he was not happy at last ? It was a deep rapture that seemed to brood over that calm face— a holy stillness ; and Helen shed no teara as she rose from the bedside. And when she saw it for the last time, she placed a newly-cut lily with the faded one in his right hand, and she whispered low : " You will understand my love ; you will understand." And yet she shed no tear, but she went back to her school-woik in the New Yoar with a rerener brow than of old. Henceforth the earth held no sorrow, no trouble that could Gtir this deep peace reigning within her. Why shoold it? His presence was evermore with her, and she was satisfied.