"AFTER MANY DAYS."

Otago Witness, Issue 2840, 19 August 1908, Page 38

"AFTER MANY DAYS."

(By H. J. A.)

Crouching closely over the dying fire, the. -old man stared vacant-eyed at the glowing embers. His mind was far away, He was wandering among scenes of the past. He was alone in the room — not even a trusty dog shared the glow of the fire. " Old Tim," his companion for many long years, had died only last summer, and after the departure of the faithful old pet the aged man had not the heart to secure another to take his f)lace. He preferred to keep him in memory — to imagine he was still at his feet, still trotted close to his heels ; J>esides, he felt his own time was nigh, and what use was it to bother with another ? Hence he -was alone, and the days wearily, very wearily. They had been dreary these many years, but dimly he felt they were of late becoming drearier and drearier ; but he knew not .why. He was barely aware of it — it was but a halfstirring in his subjective consciousness. Outside the little mountain hut on this night a drizzling, misty rain enveloped the Tuggedness of the ranges and clothed tho deceptive gullies in -a mantle of moving,- drifting mistiness. Everything was -sodden; the trees- were sodden, and emitted no - sound save -only a faint mournful moan even when -the wind shook them ; the earth was sodden, and sent forth reeking dolorous odours. The rain had started a week ago, and with but- -merely fleeting and fugitive glimpses of the snn had continued till the present evening. This day had been the same as -the previous ones — a dull, straggling dawn, which .damped the spirits ere they had answered to -the call of day ; a dawn unconscionably long in coming, and a dawn which had barely given way jto full day ere dusk crept on *nd gloomed over the face of Nature. Heavy showers alternated with soaking mist throughout the day. It w.as impossible to go abroad — had been for a week, — and the old man after rising barely moved about the little cottage. Only when -forced by the decrease of his wood supply did he make a* s"hort trip to his scanty heap, which done, .he resumed his drowsy inertness before the fire. Energy had deserted him — there was no call for it. Dusk hastened on' -early, and total darkness found "the old man sitting silently, impassionately, gloomily, before the sinking embers, "whose red 'glow sufficed to throw ' a scanty and mellowed -light on nis shaggy locks and haggard face. fas thoughts as he sat there wandered, wandered far and iar away. Now he saw himself in his iather!s house, a rollicking boy ; -anon passing into his school days and the -varied incidents -of this embryonic college of ,the world ; now his thoughts-lightly flew to his days -of growing manliness, and he saw himself as he entered the struggle with the world ; he recalled his ambitions, aspirations, disappointments. But inhere was no consecutiveness to iris thoughts ; they wandered, his controlling will being in abeyance. His mind -was almost a unity apart from his physical self and controlling self, and was active only in obedience to the law which forbids its remaining passive. Listlessly he sat there — a thing apart from his wandering fancy. The image of his wife at their first meeting presently Tose i>efore his mental vision, and sympathetically his eyes dimmed with an unbidden tear. Then in fleeting passage there came the memory of his courtship, the ensuing ceremony of all ceremonies, the following halcyon days of unmarred Happiness, his delight in his growing son, his joy in his budding promise, his pride in his youthful strength and stirring manhood, his hopes and desires — and the ending, the bitter, bitter ending ! They had quarrelled. Youth will run its tjourse, and in the contest betwixt age and it, if one will not bend, then must come a break. Both were stubborn — neither would yield. The trouble oulminated on -jnst such a night as this — if anything, worse. The son had been away he -see " her," came home late, found his father waiting beside the smouldering wood fire. The old man (his temper admittedly not "improved by the long wait) spoke masterfully to his son; was obstinately . met ; his firmness turned to harshness— unreasonable harshness, — and he , " commanded " his son. The latter retreated into a phlegmatic sullenness which served to goad the old man to fury. He -gave him the option, " this " or "that." "That" was the door, and the young man took "that." He went out into the dimness, the drizzly dimness, of just such a night as this was. some 19 years ago. And he never came back. No word came from him. The old man recollected still the cry of agony wrung from the mother when she guessed at the truth fTom the reluctant replies he gave her. She had always been patient, but she grew more patient and addedly meek. She visibly aged and faded. He saw it. knew the reason, but never alluded to the cause. His harshness grew into rigid bitterness. He became as rough and gnarled as one of the knotted pines on the windswept ridge running backward to the towering mountain peak. The mother drooped. Each mail day (once a fortnight) she would wend her way hours before the due time to the corner of the rough track if. haply, &he might catch a glimpse of the ascending messenger; for she thought in her soul, "Surely my heart ivill tell me if there

is a letter."

But each mail day

without word, and the blighted hope turned to increasing bodily weakness. She was soon unable to wait out on the exposed slope for the advancing ficure of the messenger, and but a little later the prematurely withered flower was laid to rest in a grassy corner of the secluded cemetery some four miles down the Valley road. That day. too. the wandering mind of the dreamer by the fireside »ecalled in all its detail. It was a day of frost and sunshine — a stirring, brisk winter's day. And yet a sad, sad day

for the. lonely eld man of the hills. The snow-capped mooitains all round glistened in their virgin purity and seemed eternally peaceful. Away to the right a flimsy snowflake of a cloud rested demurely o'er the peak of Ben Atol — the one dash of colour in a pure field of blue. As the sad and lonely man, with a trio of tried neighbours, bore the light burden slowly down the rough way, all Nature seemed hushed and still. The sun lit up each frosted crystal hanging by the bush track with vivacious gorgeoushess, while in those spots inaccessible to his rays the steps of the bearers crushed the spotless beauty of the hoar frost. No song of bird penetrated the solemn stillness. At the rude entrance to the graveyard the bush parson, rough but sympathetic, met them.

The last eloquent words were spoken ; — all Nature was a mighty majestic choir, chanting, yet silent, ineffably sweet and soothing. The audible stillness of the quietest mountain scene, the softened, musical murmur of the stream leaping down the deepening valley, the clear, tingling, liquid notes of a baby waterfall in the mossy recesses of the adjacent bush, and, lastly, the almost dismal zephyr stirred downward through the pines from the eteraal snowfields above — all lived again in his memory.

Gradually through the years ensuing his gloom .became confirmed. Shunning all, he was "in turn shunned by even the few neighbours of that clime. He had no outside interest — the stream of love in him -was dammed and found no outlet. Dammed, not destroyed, for through all the years, though he wot not of it, the waters of true love were accumulating. The time came when he knew that he did not and could not hate his son. But it took many years for the stubbornness of his heart to acknowledge that. And when he did, the acknowledgment brought its own sting. He loved, admitted he loved, and knew that the one whom he loved he himself, and he alone, had driven from his hearth and heart. The thought made him miserable. It became his joy to -be miserable. It was, as it were, a penance and a delight. He hoarded his misery as a miser hoards his gold, and it grew to be his one precious jewel.

The little mountain train waß late — a slip on the line had kept it back. It had been a miserable journey, unspeakably depressing. 'Few were travelling, and only three splashed through the drizzling mist and muddy roads to the one small accommodation house at the terminus of the line. And of these three two were obviously commercial "travellers. The third was not so easy of classification. A sturdy and vigorous figure indicating robust strength; a face bronzed and tanned proclaiming the traveller; a confident, self-reliant air betokening experience of the world ; clothes of a cut and fashion obviously the outcome of comfortable circumstances, were all the main facts to be adduced by a close examination. At breakfast the next morning he evinceS a desire for information bearing on local surroundings, conditions, and changes. As regards the weather, the day was as miserable as its predecessors, and *the «>ade were shockingly bad. N-evertheless the traveller procured a horse and rode forth, taking the road leading to the heart of the mountains. His identity the reader has already guessed. About noon he dined at a wayside c6*untry hostel, and stayed there while his horse was baited for a couple of hours. At the middle of the afternoon he again went forward, and still headed to the heart of the hills. The track was abominable, and the enveloping mist, growing thicker as he got higher up the valley, added to his discomfort. Yet he barely heeded these things. His mind was set ahead on a little cottage round which the straggling pines were grouped, where as a boy he had lain awake on summer nights listening to the murmuring whisper of the pine spires one to the other, multitude by multitude as the gentle caressing breeze of night slipped softly by valleyward6. And he remembered how, as he would gaze from his little attic window, the stars would twinkle and shine, seeming almost to start from heaven^ and anon, a wondrous stream of light would flash and die as a shooting star would cross his vision. He recalled his awe of these, till his mother had explained, as best her humble knowledge permitted, and told him that behind all those twinkling points, beautiful as diamonds, was a Great God whose handicraft they all were, and much more beside. There, in that hallowed home, was his mind, and to that goal he pressed on.

Dusk had gathered before the last stiff climb was reached. He passed the little cemetery, dismal and gloomy amid the environing tree stumps, all unwitting of the loved one it contained. His horse climbed steadily upward, floundering now and again on the treacherous footing. Presently he dismounted, and led on the tired beast. He himself was saddle-sore, vet hardly noticed it. Now. the smell — the good old smell — of the sodden pine forest, the tang of the resinous odour assailed his nostrils with the recurring force of early associations. The upward path came to an er/d at last, and he looked over to the right for the light of the hut. It was not visible, but he pressed on. iolluvriner the broken track. Yet he saw no light. Instead, he stumbled upon the building, damp and rold and in darkness. He hitched his horse to the fence, leaving it alone in the drizzle, an-i stepped forward. He came to the uncovered window, paused, and looked in. He saw the old ;aan bowed in reverie before the sinking fire. His attitude was that of a man tired — tired physically and mentally, tired of life His attitude was an eoitome of silent eloquence. The son's heart reproached him. " Not too late.'' he muttered. He looked again, and looked long. Then he stepped slowly to the door. He raised his hand to knock,

paused, and debated. Should he knock, or should he enter as of yore ? He would enter. He turned the "handle and was in the little room. At the sound the old man raised his head and sharply asked. 'Who's that?" The old man's voice fell on the son like a flood. He choked, yet gasped,

"Father." '• Dick, lad," burst from the aged man in a thrilling tone as he sank back into his chair. The prodigal had returned, but he was too late. The old man was dead.