THE DOMINIE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2545, 24 December 1902, Page 70

THE DOMINIE.

By Sisyputjs. There could be no doubt about it — some mystery clearly hung about the dominie's existence. Forty ' odd years ago Harold Goddard, Master of Arts, had come, no one knew whence, to instruct the youth, of Green Island in the dd-fashioned, unpretentious school situated in a hollow of the hills between the church and the cemetery. The cemetery is still there, but both the school and the church are long things of the past. During all that time he had made friends as little as he had made enemies. He had a perfect lust of privacy, ■ and except during school hour 3 and on Sundays, when he took his place among the j congregation of the parish, his attention seemed to be given wholly to his books and his garden, the hills and the woods. He was understood to be a scholar of superb attainments, and the simple country people, i tc some extent measuring his wisdom by ' Solomonic rule, which gives wit even to the fool who holds his peace, were often heard declaring in a whisper that the dominie "kent mair than the minister himsel." Some, indeed, -suspected that, like = ■St. Paul, much learning had made him mad. On one point everybody was agreed — that "Harold Goddard's history had to be explained. Naturally there was a variety, of theories afloat in the parish. Certain venturesome gossips suggested that there must be a j "woman in the case" although the dominie looked as little capable of the grand passion as the maiden sister who kept his house. Here and there a knowing one hinted a too familiar acquaintance with spirits more ardent than Homer or Plato. Why, these sapient rustics were wont to inquire — why through all these long >ears had the dominie closed the school one day every winter without reason assigned, and without on that particular day having ever been seen outside the door of his dwelling? What but the one thing could account for a circumstance so suspicious! It was as plain as possible — once a twelvemonth at least the dominie was obviously "taken in liquor" to excess ; and if once a twelvemonth tc excess, then certainly at other times the victim of a more than questionable moderation. Gradually this came to be the generally-accepted opinion, notwithstanding that the dominie had not once been seen in the slightest degree affected by, the enlivening cup.^ It jwas my , unexpected privilege to learn frdm-the lips of the suspect himself • how cruelly .the tattlers-had- wronged him." -• ■ • It so 'happenecl that I wa.s the dominie!s best pupil — best, that is-, ' in the sense of being the only one in the school who took Latin and Greek. Prom the first he had— perhaps not without some reason — shown a special- interest in- my education. When" my father, one wild, wintry day, carried me through the snow-wreaths to the school it was to hand over to the dominie's care the subject of a promise exacted at the gates of Death. My father was a poor man labouring in the fields ; my mother had just died. I was her only boy, and her last request was that I must be made "something better than a ploughman." It required no little self-aenial tfn the part of , my father to carry out the dying injunc- ! tion, but the thing was managed somehow, and now, having finished with the I dominie, I was about to set off for the University. The dominie had asked me to meet him at the little school on the Saturday, that he might bid me good-bye undisturbed. When I reached the school, a few minutes later than the time arranged, I found him pacing the floor in a state Which might mean impatience, but looked more like agitation. "Ah, lam glad you have come," he said. "I had begun to think that you had already forgotten me, in the prospect of making your first acquaintance with the city. Nay, don't protest,"' he continued, as he saw that I 'was about to speak. "I am nearing the three-score and ten now, but I still remember what it was to be young, with all the world before me. A man is just as old as he feels. Sit down. I want , to have a little talk with " you before we part. I may never see you again, and, besides, it is not every day that the Green Island School sends a student to the University. I took my seat on one of the forms, wondering what the dominie could have to say that would account for his unusual manner. I had come, expecting only a few words of encouragement, perhaps of advice, and then the inevitable farewell The dominie continued to walk the floor. Presently he resumed, in a voice that seemed at first strangely tremulous — "Well, you are about to leave me, and there will' be no more Latin or Greek in this little school. It is comforting that you cannot realise what it means— for one of us. That dying request which sent you to me has made the one joy of my intellectual life since I came here so many years ago to eat out my heart in remorse. Gracious God ! Yes, what a pleasure it is for the University prizeman to drum the A B C and the Rule of Three into the pates of a score oi more of young clodhoppers. What do you suppose is the prizeman's feeling when he gets a chance of teaching his beloved classics when he sees the prospect of sending one of his scholars straight from the schoo l to the University? Do you No, no : you know nothing of such things yet. So 'far you have tasted only the sweets of life ; pray that you may never drink of ,L« waters of Marah. Here he paused, as if debating with himself whether this was a fitting manner of saying good-bye to a youth in his teens. The hesitating tone in which he spoke indicated his doubts, but he continued notwithstanding. "You are going to college,"' he said. "However, not to the -ame college where, SO years ago, I had the gates of knowledge opened to myself. Well, I hope you will do as creditably as I did-^ do as creditably at college." Once more the dominie was silent. The situation, sas becomiac embana&,sin£ to nic,

for I knew by this time .that lie had something of which he wished to unburden himself, yet I dared not urge him to go on. I was relieved when he walked to the old desk'-and, opening the lid, looked- at a little packet, which he untied with trembling fingers. "Do you see these?" he said, holding a volume or twd in bis hand. "These are the official calendars covering my years at college. If you were to look into them you would find your old dominie set down as the most brilliant student of his time. He carried' everything before him ; took all the bursaries for which, he could .compete j went off with all- the medals; and when, finally, he obtained his degree, received from his fellow students am ovation the j like of which never had been known at i the University. Don't think I am boasting !of it. Brains are not of one's making, and ' God knows how often these many years I have wished that "mine had led- me no further than the country school at my father's door. The world extols ambition as the i chief of all the virtues- that make for sue- ' cess ; but there is many a prodigal eating the husks to-day who might have been, feasting on the fatted calf if he had only given Ambition the go-by. Now I am going to tell you my story. It "has never once .•• passed my lips, 'and if it were not for the memory of your 'dead- mother and my regard foi yourself I woiild : not tell it even to you. Perhaps there is another consideration. j The day cannot be 1 far distant when -I "must -enter into -possession of' my six : feet estate, and it may,."be- as well that j someone belonging to this township should be able to say when- 1 anr dead that I was not what the parish supposed me to be. But mind, not a word while I am alive. You must promise me that." It seemed a hard condition to exact from a youth, whose friends had little more to say for him than that he was ''thoughtful for bis years," but I gave the promise, and the dominie proceeded. "Well, you must know that like yourself, I had been destined by my father for the Church. When 1 left the University, and was presently licensed to preach, I might have entered on clerical duty at once. But the lust of learning was still strong on me, and I resolved to take a session or two at Oxford. Soon after I went there I accepted an engagement as assistant to a leading Nonconformist clergyman, my chief duty being to visit the poorer districts of the city, in search of the socalled "lapsed masses." By-and-bye you will know what it is to have Fate on your ..track. _Ifc was at Oxford that -I encountered mine." Let me show you the portrait, faded , and time-stained as it ,is." 1 • "Here the dominie untied* a- second packet, his fingers twitching even more nervously than- 'before. A little 7 bunch ?of- ; 6!d letters , took my attention because of ,the faded pink ribbon which held tlfem together. But the letters were gently pushed- aside ,for -the " moment. "LocVat that," said the dominie, handing me the portrait. "You don't need to tell me she was beautiful. 'lAm 1 ever likely to forget it? _Nor was-it ••alone the beauty of her face and form that'- 'found' me. Behind the blue eyes — blue as a vein in the Madonna's breast — I could see another beauty, a beauty that young heads are not so ready to recognise. There were love and truth and high . devotion in that blithe heart. Her father, a poor man, but in richness of soul worthy to worship with the angels, was slowly dying of an incurable disease. Ellen was both breadwinner and nurse, and never had parent a daughter more devoted. I was much about the house, doing honestly what I could to lighten the long hours for the wearied sufferer. At length what had seemed inevitable from the first was accepted by both of us, and two hearts came together in that perfect love which casteth out fear. Alas! that they should ever have been sundered ! "When by-and-bye I left Oxford and returned to Scotland, it 'was .with the distinct understanding that we would be married after, or soon after, I got a church of my own. God is my witness that I i never intended to be dishonourable. Bufc you will realise the meaning of it all when you have left a few more summers behind you. - I became assistant in a large Westend Church in Glasgow. . The 'ruling elder' was a wealthy merchant, -with an only, daughter. I was a frequent visitor 1 at hi* house. I will not deny, that .t^*" idea had entered my head— you. know whaFl mean? The practice of the clerical - profession, in [ looking for well-dowered wives could .hardly ' have failed to -impress itself on my mind ; . I and if it had, my friends did not tail to re-, ■mind me of it by pointing out 4iow much more 'good' I might do with s substantial addition to -ny stipend. I daresay, in submitting temporarily to this influence, I went further than I ought to have done. Nay, I certainly did. But I have paid the penalty ; it does lot need these old letters to put me in remembrance. They were coming to me from Oxford all the time ; and not a word of doubt Tiad been expressed on either side. But evil hidings never yet stood in need of a courier, and someone who knew our little Oxford secret bore away our story to the south, and the sun.shine vanished from my life evermore. Sucb joy Ambition finds'!" As he finished speaking, the dominie began fingering the old letters in a state of evident agitation. Taking one from the packet, he handed it to me. "Read fliat," j said he, in a choking voice. "I have not had the courage to look at it for forty years. Lei me hear it again." I glanced at the heading, and saw that the date was June 21, the very date, as I suddenly remembered, that the school had always been shut. I began : "My dearest Alfred" — but stopped, Poking inquiringly at the dominie. "Yes, yes ; it's all right !" said he, in a tone of impatient restraint. "You don't imagine that I brought my real name to. the colony did you? Go on."' I proceeded to read the letter through, the dominie listening as eagerly as if he had never known a word of its contents. It ran as follows -. — "My Dearest Alfred, — I have heard all. Do not fear. I shall not stand in your wajr. Heaven alone knows I have loved ;

I you dearly, and many a happy day in the now never-to-be-realised future* my imagination has afforded mci as your companion. j But I renounce jt all. I 'had "nothing to 1 give you but my heart and' my life ; and) j I can see now that these were not enough. j The position you will hold demands more.-. ! I have not a word of . reproach for you. ! I think I could have trusted you; but I 1 dare not stand in the way of your doing , what is best for yourself. lam too poor,too insignificant altogether' to be worth considering. " My duty ended here when death called my charge away ; and when' I have finished writing this' I shall have .' done with the life T "fchat was once to b. ■ ' yours. My last wish is that you may-^'e ; i as happy as I would have tried to -make v:} • you. Ma"y God bless you. ' 5 We shall meet at the Golden Gates.— Your*" that was to have been, *" - - It was some time before the dominie' ; : could find his voice. When at length he > spoke it was more to himself than to • ; me. "Aye., aye," he reflected, "as happy ' as she would have tried to make me— and ' what a happiness -that would have T been ! ■* „ But the bitter the last "gift," *Ke "3 conscience that makes remorse" and- Vles> 3 .pair — these— these are what I have- had inf'J its place." The very stars seem-tp^nide i their heads' at" sight of me. " Well,' wellj -" now you -understand' why- the school I ' has-" been shut one day a" year. • Burns »did[ v * not -forget, as the years <janie round;, the* \ day when his Highland Mary died..' I*'J know what was said, .but I took it silently i as., part of my punishment. What more need I tell you? When that letter reached me I was about to bs ordained to a city parish. The people got another minister, - and I — well, lam here. Nobody rknew - what had happened. Only I knew that there was a freshly- made grave in a: littler bit of unconsecrated- ground at Oxford, 1.. saw it then: I will' see it again,-^- though; " , I know it will be my last journey. I can- ■ not say more. Good-bye.- It may be for the better to you some day that you,' have heard my story. It would not amount to much if set down in black and white ; bufc . ) mind that a life once full of high promise is not wrecked by straws. Good-bye. . .Remember what Polonius says — "To thins own self be true, and it must follow'— ryou know the rest." - _ , Some four years after this, and I too was at Oxford. I had passed through. the University of Dunedin with some credit to - .myself, and at the urgent, request of H Do-.| ininie Goddard, who had continued his -inr > terest;;in my. education; I had ,go.ifo;Hi6tne''so'\i finish, my student' career. - .One^'morning,a letter arrived^ frQm^New.'-Zealan<F ;"telling}it me, among .other .things,- that~'t^e'V.djd*t,dq f-.4f -.4 " minie . had" .dwappeared-sud.denly. anAimy &- "; teriously. His sister had died some. month* ~ before, and it was said that since then v he had • been . "queerer than ever." . What -had,-' become . of Jbim , : no one- could. tell, .bnfevi&O';;* general opinion was 'that he had ended his . existence .by throwing himself * over --.the..i cliffs -at 'the back of - Green, -Island^^l '• . • knew' the dominie better than-to~supp,ose " him capable of solving the problem" of tie . hereafter in that way ; and I had, 1 , besides, my own theory about .his .disappearance. I" was sitting in my lodgings one evening abouf three months after cthe.date 7oi the.letter when my "landlady entered', the rooni with a message that an inspector of police desired to speak with me. An old man. had been found in a dying condition in the streets. He had ju&t been able to give mv name and address, with a request thafc I should see him. I went at once with" • the inspector to the house whither the dying man had been conveyed. If I had not known him, the mystery of the dominie's disappearance would have been solved by his first words. He had revived a little on seeing my face. "Ah, Henry," he murmured, " I- told; you it would be my last journey. I have made '>t, and if has been as much as I could manage to see her grave again. • Henry, find the little green mound I told you of. It is my dying request. If nobfor my jake, then for the sake of your' "mother, who gave you to me long ago, ' away — away — in far Green Island. Will ' you see that I im placed beside "her.- &■'[ little headstone if you like, but "no mean-. : ingless name or dates. Remember 'the ' words I gave you at our last farewell— . farewell — farewell . ♦ » I [ think' 1 'see the Golden Gates " -1 ■ - . * • To-day, in a certain cemetery at Oxford,- * if you know where to look for it, "you 'will see a 'modest heads>ton« over a nameless grave, and on that headstone you may read these words — these and nothing more j; "To thine own self be true."

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