DOORS.

Otago Witness, Issue 2252, 29 April 1897, Page 43

DOORS.

Doors of houses that stand far back in pleasant ground, with the green of the smooth lawns, the shade of the spreadicg trees, the brilliance of the flowers, the luxuriance of creepers to beautify them — stand open. The street with its curious passers-by is nothing to the dwellers here; they dread no surveillance, safe in the privacy of their own surroundings.

Here the birds sing as they sway above the brilliant blossoms, the parrots chatter in their cage?, the locusts shrilly chirp among the trees, tha brilliant sunshine floods the creeper-garlanded poreh — and the door stands open. With proud indifference to the outside world, is it 1 Nay I be more charitable, heart of mine. Say, rather with generous hospitality, with ever-ready welcome. But all is so still— no hurrying of childish feet or shrieking of childish voices. Upon the trim lawne, upon the smooth gravel drive, upon the shady verandahs, there is no litter of playthings — none of that dear untidiness which tells ita own tala of happiness withal. Nothing disturbs the perfect order and beauty without, while the vista of a rich and artistic interior may be seen, within — for the door is open : wide open ; let us enter. 1 In this cosy octagonal room, whose French windows open on to the velvet lawn, a man lounges in a long cans chair ; a woman stands by the open window, looking out with brooding eyes. He is fair, with a curiously sweet and gentle expression on his handsome face ; she is small and dark, with cloudy hair and sombre eyes. It would be such a pretty face but for the discontented curve of the red lips — the sullen depths of the dark eyes.

She is staricg at the open door, where the creepers sway in the sunlight and the shadows flicker across the white portico. The door is open, but not so widely as on that day, two years ago, when they carried her dead baby away !

The sun shines brightly now as then it shone upon the white pall that covered the small coffin. The flowers are blooming now as then tboy did, when white roaes and heliotrope mingled their scent with waxen bouvardias in wreaths and crosses. Ah, how Bhe hates theii scent I Is she never to forget ? Never 1 for that inscrutable God who took her child away has sent no other to fill her aching arms. So she hardens her heart, and shuts her3elf alone with her rebellion and discontent.

The door of her lovely house stands open ; friends come and go. The open door means indifference more than welcome. Her great wealth cannot comfort her ; her husband's tender, wistful love is powerless to cheer her, for the door of her heart is shut — 3hnt and locked. She wages war with the resistless cruelty of the heaven that dared to claim her treasure. In vain her clergyman tells her that such wounds are best healed with the balm of love for others ; in vain he suggests that in work and care for others lies forgetfulness. She lives only for herselE; her wealth, her position, youth, health, and her manifold blessings are dust and ashes in her

mouth. The unswerving devotion of her husband is her right. - Behind the locked doors of her flerca rebellion the poor heart dies of starvation. Oh ! open door that makes so brave a pretence of genial happiness. Ob 1 fast-locked door that hidei go deep a bitterness.

The old cottage nestles in a little hollow of the steep slope that runs down to the sea. Great ocean steamers pass with their freight of wanderers, the white-sailed ships spread their wings to the breeze, and ever the current of man's life and strength, his skill and invention, passes on the blue waters. A narrow deep-worn path fringed with flowers and creepers leads from the cottage down to tha little beach below, where the fishing nets dry in the sun. Here is tha old bark-roofed shed that Jim made for his skiff, but the skids on which he used to pull her np are rotten long ago. How many years since that spring morning when he rose in the pearly dawn and sprang down the narrow patb, singing as he went ? — never to return. How many years of waiting and hoping — how many years of patience and faith 7

The autumn evenings are chilly, the mist creeps up over the sea— but the door stands open. It was & fancy of Jim's that he loved to find the door open when he came home, and though the years havo passed in silence, j who shall say that he might not came home j this very night and the silence be broken ? Grey-haired and bent, Jim's mother sits by the open hearth, and the click of her knitting needles mingles cheerily with the crackling of the wood fire and the singing ] of the kettle. A homely, toil-worn figure, j clad in a short wincey petticoat and a lilac • print " bedgown"— yet what a charm there j is in the simple figure. She is personally so exquisitely fresh and cleat), her aimple home- j liness is so full of true dignity, and the whole ' expression of her face &o radiant of womanly j kindness and the love that bums its mystic ' unquenchable fire — for others. j | She is quite alone now, poor old Elizabeth! j Many a year, and she and hsr husband ,vait together for the sail of the Lochinvar returning — toiling hard, yet never repining, with. = aching hearts, ready — bravely ready — to jiay j " Thy way, not mine," to the Father who had j removed the joy and quenched the pride of"; life. Bat now Elizabeth waits alone, and her ! good man lies id the little cemetery on the , hilltop. He has gone beyond waiting and j hoping into knowledge and rest. j Every night when the dusk falls, the j mother lights the little hacgtng iamp in chs window of Jim's room, and rhe trembling path of light shines far cub on the water. It { was his beacon to steer by in the long, dead , years, and who dare Bay that he might not ' come hnmo this very night and «he should i hear th<> Vghfc, quick step springing wp the j narrow p • k 1 \ The t- . ,i(s.e door is open ; the door of the ' mother's he'mt 5s open. All through the ; weary years she has never been too sad to ' comfort others, too poor to share her Uitie with other?, too busy to help other?. Now i ia her lonely old age the is beloved by all tb<* neighbours — the children ran her erranda, fchs ! young men chop her firewood and dig her ; garden, and the love that has streamed ; from the open door of her faithful hoar 1 . J comes back to her from countless points U» j warm and cheer her old age. Hark ! is that tb.3 Bound of a beat's keol on the gravel 1 Is that the gonncl of a mKu's footsteps climbing tha narrow path? Oh, welcomp,*darli< g ! tho' late so late. Let me kiss you, dear, ere my spirit flies To watch at the windows of heaven and wait Thy coming at tlie portals of pav*di«e. j Here beside the street stands a row of ; small cottages— a terrace, " Hope terrace," '■■ no less 1 The paint is dirty, the varnish j cracked and blistered, four door*, each with ! its 2ft of privacy represented by the tiny j recessed porch, each flanked with a great I gannt window. | The first door, No. 1 of the terrace, stands I always open, and here the young wife stands , ready for a gossip with every acquaintance, j male* and female, who papses. She knowa j all the little shops up and down the street; j she is such a. walking advertisement fov | cheap lines and special prices that she runs j little accounts with every one, and is sowing j a crop of debts which will bring a haivest ot j quarrelings and misery in the future. The | showy Jace curtains at her window hide the ; untidy negligence of her room, just an the green velvet blouse with sequin ombroidery, | which is her favourite wear, hides her coar§e, j ill-sewn underwear. Curtaina and blouse j alike are utterly unfitted to her own duties I and her husband's pocket. j Her husband is a " surly beggar," her ■ goesips say, " always growling and grumb- i ling about something." But when a youog housewife wears velvet in the morning, and j spends her time gossiping in the porch, how can meats be ready and homes neat ? Buttons will not sew themselves on, and there is no machine for darning sox I Ah, pretty, I foolish young wife, that open door of yours, I with ita outlook on to gossip and idleness, ! the very air of the street, the tarnish of life's grace and sweetness, is opeDiDg other doors for you which you little think of. Shut it, and come in. Take the curling pins and throw them behind the fire, brush out your pretty chestnut hair ; put away the beloved velvet blouse, and make instead a neat dark print. A snowy linen collar will show your ronnded throat to far better advantage than that soiled frilling, believe me. Shut the front door upon the street ( with its dust and glare ; shut the door of , your lips upon gossip and idle " yarning." , Throw wide open the back door to air your , tiny kitchen and stuffy bedrooms ; the little , kingdom of your house is where you should reign a queen, for it is your presence that ■ should make it home. You don't know how , sweet a little garden you could mske in that ) back yard of yours ! You never thought what ] pleasant evenings you and Tom might spend j together among your plants ? Already you ( know how rarely he is at home in the even- , ings.' j

Ab, well ! there are seme doors to shut — shut them in time ; there are some to open — open them ere the bolts grow rusty.