UNCLE STEPHEN'S CHRISTMAS DAY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2390, 21 December 1899, Page 61

UNCLE STEPHEN'S CHRISTMAS DAY.

BY "REDWOOD."

[Prize Competition", 1899.] Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife. That we may die the self same day.

ERTAINLY he did not look the above sentiment, a thick-set, unevenly-coated figure in uncomfortable collar and painfully new boots. His awkward stoop over his plate and his furtive glance round to see what other people did with theii serviettes indicated a sheepishness that one could not associate with any strong quality.

But that was only Uncle Stephen in Sunday clothes and in city surroundings. The difference between a fish gasping on the shoreand the same fish lestored to its native element is the difference between Stephen Hurst in Dunedin and Stephen Hurst returned to his cottage home on Waimea Plain.

In working clothes his still powerful figure acquired a certain dignity; without the contrast of white cuffs and white shirt his .rough hands lost their look of shining redness, and were merely strong and brown. You noticed his ej'es, too, the clear ever-j'oung eyes of those win work in the open. Even his white beard seemed to have a yellow tinge in it as if it hadcaught a reflection from the golden cornfields among which he had laboured so long. My. sketch of Uncle Stephen's awkwardness* in the city may seem exaggerated, for I am quite aware that the modern farmer is a fairly self-po&sessed personage, not greatly overawed by the glories of city life. But my uncle was an old-fashioned man, clinging to old-fashioned ways and oldfashioned methods of thought. And his wife was his faithful shadow, his reliable echo.

Never did I know a woman so merged in her husband as my Aunt Lucy. It was not done as a duty ; there was no quoting St. Paul ; she bimply couldn't help it.

I don't think life in that lonely old homestead, the nearest neighboui five miles' distant, was the best thing for her, so old and frail and quiet. I can see now that it was not. But urge him to leave ! Never ! It wouid have broken his heart to leave the old home, as it would have broken hers to leave him.

And, of course, she was never quite alone. On his occasional visits to Dunedin, avoided whenever possible, she could turn for companionship to her servant Mary, a quiet, sensible woman, some 20 years her junior. Occasionally a labouring man came to help in the rough, outside work, but that was all. The farm was no longer a farm save in name. That mattered little. They had enough to live on, and the roof above them was the roof that had sheltered them for 30 years. Those facts constituted their happiness.

And when the Dunedin visit was over, and the buggy rolled up to the small woman figure standing by the gate, what a meeting that was, what a long, long embrace with broken words of- homely tenderness.

They never seemed to get tired of each other's society. They were not c.ever enough I suppose. The modern sentiment which advocates frequent absences in order to lessen the monotony of married life would have seemed to them a madness had they ever heard of it. The monotony was what they loved. .* Yet though I admired them for their olcT fashioned simplicity and that strange clinging to their home, I could not help feeling that there was danger in the consequent loneliness. I could not put my fear into words, but the dread had nothing to do with burglars.

It was late in October when I made my last plea. I was off" for two months' touring and mountain climbling ; but would be back in Dunedin before Christmas. Would they two not come up to the .city and spend it with me? I was standing by the buggy, valise in hand, as I spoke. Uncle Stephen was waiting to drive me to the station. He shook his grey head at the question, and stopped to lay a reassuring hand on his wife's shoulder. " Spend Christmas away from the old home? What say you to' that, little woman? " She drew his hand down, holding it gently in her own. "We haven't done it these 20 years. Thank you. dear George, but we couldn't bear to think of making a difference now. It was bad enough last year." " When I sprained mj ankle Christmas Eve down at Jobson's, and Lucy came next morning to bring me home in the cart. What a job it was : a mile an hour, and even then the pain nearly made me faint. But Lucy was set upon it that avc should eat our Christmas dinner in the homestead, and so was I." "I knew something was amiss when he wasn't home Christmas morning," added Aunt Lucy tremulously ; " he's promised me he never will spend Christmas anywhere but with me and in the old home." So at last I gave over my oft-repeated attempt, and instead accepted a warm inviation to take dinner with them. Simple as their festivities might be, they would certainly be marked by geniality and sincerity. How often memory recalls to me that staid little figure as I saw it framed in the doorway when I drove away. That peaceful, wrinkled face ; that quiet, happy smile. I see it yet. I shall never cease to see it. It was the day before Christmas — cloudy, grey, yet warm. After two months' absence; from newspapers, trams, shops, I had returned to civilisation only to plunge once more into the wilderness, this time the wilderness of Waimea Flak

During my absence news of my relatives had naturally been scarce. One letter I had received from Uncle Stephen giving me some simple news about the homestead. He himself felt a little out of sorts, but Lucy was keeping strong — God bless her! However, that epistle was nearly six weeks old, so there would be plenty of farm gossip to greet my arrival.

As I had written to. inform them by what train I should arrive, I was somewhat surprised not to see the familiar buggy waiting for me at the flag station. However, valise in hand, I started to cross the flat on foot, expecting every moment to meet the vehicle with my uncle's broad face smiling at me from the seat.

But the grey homestead came in sight without any such event occurring.

Surely the farm had never looked so solitary before. Beneath the low-hanging dusky sky. and above the yellow-brown tussock wastes, it loomed lonely and bare, its little bright spots of flower garden and orchard unseen in the gathering twilight. The non-appearance of my uncle at the station had roused some apprehension in my mind. Consequently, I was somewhat relieved to see Aunt Lucy's placid face in the doorway. "All's right, then?" 1 cried, kissing her wrinkled face. "' I was wondering why uncle didn't turn up." A shade crossed her face. "He couldn't, dear George. He lias gone away for awhile on important business — really important business."

"Ah, well, he's sure to be back for Christmas, 3 r ou know," and at my joking words, her smile returned.

" Yes, he's sure to be back, because he promised never to spend a Christinas away from me. He'll be back this evening, I know ; but we won't wait tea for him, George, for I'm --sure you rau^t be hungry and tired."

1 admitted both impeachments, and I confess the sight of the loaded table, presided ovei. by its cheerful goddess in her' snow-white cap, temporarily modified my views of Hurst Faim as an undesirable place of abode.

" Will uncle be home soon ?" I inquired lightly, after the usual desultory talk on the railway journey, the weather, and so forth ; " where del he go?" She looked at me with a little sudden start.

"Where? Let me see." She put her hand to her forehead, as if trying to recollect, and then gave a. nervous little laugh. " I think he would rather tell you himself, George, dear. To me the great point is tliat he must come back for Christmas. He promised."

" Yes ; nothing will stand in the way of that," I assented .heartily, as I began a vigorous attack on the home-made loaf of cake, "and so we won't have long to wait, will we? I quite long to see his cheerful face again." And- then the talk drifted to other happy Christmases in the immediate and distant past. So that it was quite 8 o'clock before Mary was called in to clear the table. I had often noticed Mary before, a quiet, phlegmatic woman, not given to emotion. Consequently, I was the more surprised to notice traces of tears on her face, which wore a scared, wondering look, unnatural in one of her age and disposition.

" Why, what is wrong with Mary?" I asked as the door closed behind her stout figure. '"Wrong with Mary?" My aunt's gentle voice took a note of petulance. " You may well ask what's wrong with Mary! She's been sighing and groaning these last four weeks. Perhaps she's had bad news from home. I don't know. All I do know is that she hasn't chosen to confide in me."

Her flushed cheek and vexed tone clearly evinced her annoyance. Once more I changed the subject. Disappointment, not alarm, was my predominant feeling when the evening passed without the return of the wanderer. I knew my uncle's kind disposition of old. Probably he was in some not distant homestead doing honour to the oncoming holy day in his own oldfashioned way by performing an act of kindness to some one less fortunate than himself. Such had been the case last year when his sprained ankle all but lost him as Christmas beneath his own roof. Nevertheless, I could see that my gentle aunt felt his absence keenly, though she smiled as she bade me good night.

Leaving the parlour first, candle in hand, I almost knocked up against Mary standing in the small passage. She looked at me with an eager expression, and seemed ; ;fc to speak, but a sharp reprimand from er mistress, who came behind me, sent Ler back to her own domain.

The hot morning sunshine pouring tr ough the vine-shaded window dissipated some uneasy visions of the night, while the clucking of the hens in the yard and the whisking of an egg-beater from the kitchen combined to bring back the pleasant, prosaic aspect of everyday life. Every day? But it was Christmas Day, a bright, peaceful country Christmas Day. Every line in my aunt's face expressed that sentiment when we met at the breakfast table. The stillness of the tussock flat floated in through the open window, the musical stillness of the country. Only once or twice between our desultory talk I fancied I heaid a sound like sobbing, but this I decided was imagination. My aunt was quite certain Stephen would be back this morning. She had his Christmas gift ready, a set of handkerchiefs with his-name embroidered on them, and I produced mine, a pipe. This visible sign of my expectancy seemed to cheer her^ up considerably. " You're certain of his return, too, aren't you, George? Ah, well, he's sure to pop in some time this .morning. Will you stay here, George, or take a stroll while Mary and I see to the ~ pudding? Stephen always will have a pudding, you know," she laughed. " Dear Stephen !" But dinner came in all its glory, without a sign of the wanderer. Aunt Lucy bore up bravely during the first course, but when the second was brought in, she turned her face aside and gave way to tears. " Oh, Stephen, Stephen, what have 1 done that you should stay away from me." X rose from my chair, feeling just a

shade of indignation towards my absent re* lative.

"Aunt Lucy, tell me where he has gone^ and I will bring him back wherever lid is." - A scared look crossed her tear-stained face ; her voice was low and tremulous. " George, I — don't know " "Don't know, aunt? -Did he not tell you?" She shook her head. "When did he go?" "Four weeks ago." " Four weeks ago ! And you have not) heard from him all the time? Oh! aunt you have acted verj wrongly not to tell any one. But he must surely have mentioned it to some one. Let me ask Mary? " She rose up in terror: "Do not asK Mary. Promise me you will not ask Mary. ' She — she has been saying such dreadful things, dear George. P"romise me you will not ask Mary." And I was forced to promise ; 'yielding the more readily, however, as on second thoughts I could, not believe Mary would know any more on the subject than her mistress. " You. see, he may come back yet. Ho wouldn't spend all this day away from me.You heard him promise to spend Christ- - mas with me whatever happened ; didn't you, George? " And her pleading eyes -were like those of a hunted deer. I wandered out on the flat to think th& matter" over. What could J. do .but wait tha day out? I knew nothing of tlie neighbourhood or the neighbours, if neighbours they could be called. Besides, I was persuaded from my aunt's manner that -she knew 1 , or suspected, move than she. cared as. yet to make known. A few hours would render her more placable. But surely this was the strangest Christ' m:is that I 'had ever spent. At tea-time- another change — my aunt, smiling, cheerful, resolved. "I am going to fetch him, George. You will" come, too? "' " Fetch him? " I said ; " then you know, where' he is? " My astonishment 'was complete. She handed me my tea : " Yes," nodi ding gravely. " I have behaved foolishly.. Oi course he cannot come unless I fetch him. I might have known that. We willleave after tea ; but, remember, no word to Mary." " Very well," I answered. I had really, no voice to pub my mystification int<* words. Now that lier decision was made. Aunt Lucy seemed in no has£e" to put it into execution. She took a long time over her, tea, though I noticed she did not eat much.. Afterwards, she had various little things to do about the house, so that- it waa quite dusk before «vc got into the buggy, and drove down the road. My aunt's manner was so serene that jD . felt my vague fears subside. Only it lefta strange impression to. hear a cry, as wef drove away ; and turning, to see Mary'^ figure in the* doorway, her eyes fixed entreatingly, not o%her mistress, but on me ;| her finger beckoning me to return. ; My companion likewise heard the cry ;j but compressing her lips, drove on. "Now, aunt, let mo know where we ara going." Through the gloom I could sec the famtt flush on her cheek ; above the noise of the wheels I could hear her quick breathing. For a minute she did not answer. Then her voice came, low and uncertain : " Wait ; you will know soon." It was now dark, and we moved mora slowly. We had left the flat and the buggy was ascending a winding road that led up the hills ; the sighing blueguina Mere on one side ; on the other we looked down on the tussocks, dimly discernible in the faint light. On we went in complete silence. I had resigned myself to passivity. At last the bluegums gave way to a hedge, and in a little while we perceived a/ gate. Here we stopped. Aunt Lucy took' the buggy lantern, and stepped down, not waiting for my hand. " We must have a light," she said, " and the path is long." It did indeed seem long, losing itself among the trees: "Whose place is this?"I inquired. I had never heard of any largo" landowner hereabouts. But she was not listening to me. Lantern,' in hand, she had rushed forward, and was tugging at the gate. " Locked ! " she said in a dazed voice.She put her hand to her head, and gave a. faint laugh. "We must creep through the hedge. There is a break in it somewhere farther down. Yes, I remember noticing it " — she spoke in a strange, dreamy tone — • " when we were here last such a number, of vs — quite a gathering. I wonder why they came, so many of them, the dayStephen came to stay here for a little?! What did Stephen come for? I seem to have" known once, and to have forgotten. Ah ! here is the break. Now, quick ! quick !'*■ She was through in an instant." Now, pasa me the lantern, and come through yourself. Right ! Follow me ; follow me. B know the place where they left him ; bu& he will come away when he hears my voice. : Quick, George ! " She was on in front of me, her lantern flashing on strange white slabs rising hero and there above the ground. When did the hideous truth first burst; upon me? I cannot tell. Another minute I was standing beside her kneeling figure :, one poor, wrinkled hand rested on a moundl which even in the dimness I could see was still bare of grass ; the other held the) lantern up to a white slab of stone. " See, they have even put his name up, so that I should know where to find him.-; 1

.Is it not good of them, for of course they knew I should vant to bring him back for Christmas. »Read it, George: 'Stephen iHurst, beloved husband of Lucy Hurst ; died November 24, 18—.' Died? But why do they put died? He is not dead. My Stephen is not dead ! Oh, God ! My God ! He is dead — he is. I never realised it till now. I was thinking so — of his — promise — never to — spend Christmas from me. An'l he was dead — dead — all the time."

She swayed, falling forward over her hu3 band's grave. That was the only Christmas they ever spent apart. Long before the next, tln-y "were once more united.