TWO MEN.

Otago Witness, Issue 2850, 28 October 1908, Page 90

TWO MEN.

By Edith C. M. D\rt

The little inn nestled below the great tor, like a pigmy at a giant's feet. Originally the piece was just a wayside tavern, until modern needs, particularly modern motors, had altered its character, go that now ugly new wings extended on either pkLs from the micdest building with its stone front and homely porch. Two motors stood outside at the moment, having dropped their paeeengers. The noisy fuasiness of the pair mingled with the babbling song of the rapid moorland stream rmming over its granite stones in the valley beside them. Two men comirog out of the inn met- on the threshold, hesitating for exit wkh the courtesy of strangers, but instantly their attitude dunged into one of familiarity and tension. " Birkett !' ejaculated one man under his breath. " You, Roes !" andj the other's voice had an ugly note as though it spoke a corse. They moved apart. Edward Birkett strode up che hillside, over rough track winding among granite bouldiera and gorse 'bushes. There was scant footing, but the map climbed-heed-lessly to the top, scrambling over ston-es ana bould-ers \yithout picking hid way. A sunset of more than usual magiq was unfolding over the wide stxetch of country dominated by a skyline of jutting tors and purple peaks. To the eas'fc extendod a flood of amethystine- light, of palpitating, moving colour"*, merging jnto rose and lull -flooded crimson soutb'waa'd,. -V tingle planet j/rlcked the myeterjous glow, t'le ere-scent moon, a silver slip, was its neighbour; while, to the

west, warmer Tadiane.es, gold and crimson, were suffused to a flood of transcendent light. _. The hills held deep pua-ple shadows merging into full blue where the light was deepest. Everything seemed to give forth colour, sky and hills and carth — even the rising smoke from the little hamlet below Tose transfigured into pearly pt-nnons that mingled with the -oilier tones of the sunset hour, making one "'terfihony

of beauty. But the man who eat on the topmost • boulder of the tor looking out at the wonder saw it not. In vain was the moving

panorama unfolded before his eyes: this "hill-flower" of exmset bloomed' for him ui'eeen. Between his inner vision and ti.o. outer world there had arisen a black cloud, darkening everything. It was 1 always there in the depths oi his morbid mind, but the recent unexpected enj counter with the man in th-3 inn door had" conjured it up in intensity of blackj ness until it blotted out everything from h;s mind but the burning raejnory of an old wrong, the thought of the woman, dead these three years, who had broken faithwith himself for the sake of this other. Birkett was a strange, unpractical crea- ' tiwe, of moods and dreams hidden heI rcath a more or less unattractive exterior, j underneath which lay a charm discovered •by few. Sorrow and bitterness, had evA j d<eep into >his introspective nature, until • all the strangeness and crankiness had j become deepened-. ! He hugged his injury-, cherishing it in silence. Nobody had ever heard him even , mention, "the name of the woman who had j failed 'him. He avoided all opportunities j of. meeting her or her husband again. He i broke off his life, and bcigan it outwardly all over again. Nobody but himself knew that he bad taken into it ac ite. centre the one thought of the past, his brief Tomanoe, spoiled never to be repaired. The 6ight of Roes had roused" in him a feeling he had concealed- even from hinisalf, a desire to speak out, to hear something of Margaret, to talk of her? More than anything in the world he wanted this. He sat battling with this desire, this hunger, that seemed to have awakened within him like an imperious j physical need that must be satisfied ; and ; with it strove repugnance to address a man he hated, to open his heart to the «:«my, to speak of what he had persistently hidden like a secret sin. Yet to

hear of her, to hear another speak her name, to be given some single crumb of recollection, 6oane slight incident of her daily life for this hung&r to feed upon ! It was- with such thoughts as these he stiove white ■sumset died, 'colour ebbed gradually from the sky ; a»wJ darkness, in a sense, less mysterious -than- half-light, encompassed his .shadowy figure, hiding it in the gloom.

An hour or co later, his fellow motorist, strolling after ddnner to smoke a pipe, came upon him.

"Ah ! You again, Birkett ; thought you had gone on. 'Tis a comfortable place to put up at and convenient, eh?'' They drifted into talk. Fielding Ross was a. man who made external difficulties eaey to others. He was a contrast to the other man. Yet his easy air and capacity of savoir fair© were in their wav a cloeor cloak for the real man than many another's reserve or taciturnity. There were depths 'below few in life called upon, yet the few never vainly. His was the baffling reticence most baffling of ailthat of the apparently unreserved and genial n^an. He was observant, and had a dim suspicion, of the other's attitiude and hostility towards himself. He half understood it ; there R-as little biternecs in, his composition, .his outlook upon life was too wide for that.

Just as he had concealed liis real self from the eye.3 of the world, so he was successful in hiding from its curious gaze the tragedy of his short inariied life. And as ne sat smoking silently in the darkness beside the man. who looked upon himSelf as having snatched happiness from foim, an ironical sense of Jife and the mistakes men make concerning themselves and others rose within him, dominating all else for the moment.

His wife had died a dipsomaniac. All the suffering and sordid horror of those four years were branded into his soul with iron indelibity. They always would remain w.hile life lasted. How strange it all was, his life and hers, "and the way the -man, ignorant of (them both, looked upon it

At last Birkett began to speak. " I want you to tell me something about Margaret," he saTd, speaking eddly and with an obvious emotionai effort. " Give me something fresh -ef" her to niuee upon. Rememer, I have heard nothing of her — or of her life — since " He broke off, waiting for a helping word that did not come. " You know, you did know, something — of "what she was to me once. TJ ere was never anybody so near to me, efore or since ; there never can be. Igo over the old doing 3 and memories of her, until I eeem to have worn them threadbare in thought. Give me others; it won't be robbing yourself. Tell me something of what she cared for in these last years, •what islie did and said, looked ' like, laughed at, sorrowed over. How did she develop? She was but a ghl. fcJhe matured late. Tell me something !"'

Still the listener did not speak. Silence goaded the other, making him more eager, inieUtent.

" I am mot speaking thus to giv<* you pain, to revive old wounds, although it may appear ho. I hardly expect that you or anybody should -understand. Yet Hobody else but your^alf can satisfy m-e ! You ircr&T recognise that !" Fielding Eoss made an incoherent eound of assent. He wiu> battling with himself, with a temptation ?.<; strong as, though diverse from, the. speaker's. Why should ho not tell liim the truth? He, too, had felt the need of confession — why not to this other who knew the object of bcrf'i their thoughts? SfTould he not unburden his mind of the 4ale of tlw^e hideous

yeans? He might, perchance, discover •something -that would give him the clue to their strange happening. He had known Margaret first. Perhaps he had some knowledge, some hint from the past that might have shown the seed of this miasmic thing which had appeared to himself to have come without warning in an intensity that not all his efforts, or her own" leseer ones, might overcome. How great would be the relief to talk of it to somebody who had cared for her too, who might help him to understand !

Birkett began to speak again. "Don't think that I am "hiding from myself a sense of what she must have been to you, must have meant to your .life. There was never another woman created' like her. Sire, was one part. I might have known she could never remain in my-life^ I ought to thank God she came into it at ail. You could give her more "

" I could giy-e her more !" echoed Rcee. - " I don't think I ever 'blamed yon, even when I hated you most. I only envied." "Envied?" repeated the oth&r (grimly. "Ah! yes!" rt I would have, given all the rest of thp yeais of my life to have had half yours with her. It \ra-s four years; was it not? It has seemed- to me ah" eternity ; looking ■back to you .it must have passed like }k btraf dream."- -• " ''Yes — a dream." "I aan hurting you, bmt now 1 feel I must have it all out of me. It has been bottled up co long. You don't know what it means toMiave a fire like this within you. It is like being possessed "by an evil spirit, yet one that one cherishes an& will not let go. Instead of wearing itself out and dying of inanition, as unsatisfied passion does;, it deepened. All my life seemed penetrated flby a tsene© of her. I heard echoes of her voice everywhere. I have listened in the laughter of other women for the note of hens. I have observed strangers to traoo her tricks of gesture and expression, each one of which seemed etched on my memory by a sharp point of agony. You reraemiber that way she hsd of hesitating in talk ardt theft n»hing: on with an impetuoYte flow of words?" . " Iremember tfiat." "And the little childish trick she had of mystifying, giving a half clue too slight to 'be followed, and 'then clappi-ncr. her "hands at one's failure to perceive. Even the clothes 6he wore were quite unlike thcee of aajy other woman alive. Somehow 'their colours, were 'different, and "the folds hung more lightly. 1 can hear now their ruatlo as ehe naovedt'with her > quick, soft step, thai was like that of no other woman who ever trod this iparth." The*other as he listened to this mono*" logue felt the impulse of confidence d\o down in hi* breast. He caught in the tone of Birketfe's voice the note of the incorrigible dreamer, of tKs man. who has come to make dreams his reality, and." the real world a shadow-land where he may not easily dwell. He had lived with the phanitome of the past and" nis own, imagining of them until they had become living companions, x clothed in- alluring dream colours of magic ibeyond expression. Should he, out of ntere selfishness, come in upon this ethereal kingdom with the. sordid truth, break what nothing nv^ht put together again, spoil the, strange morbid comfort that was all life could offer ■to the bi-oodin-g man? No! He could not, would not; attempt this thing. He toegan " to talk, giving a few vague details of the outward course of their early mrfrried life. It was difficult, almost impossible. He broke down after a- short time. "It is hard to speak of. You must forgive me if I cannot do it. Believe me, I would if it were not beyond me. Some i things cannot, will not, be put into words. j These are of them. Keep your dreams, and thank, heaven for them. There are some of us who have none so fair to ifc-eep." He left, climbing tiowii the U77«ven way without care, stumbling across boulders and gorse bushes to the valley. A' woman's face looked! out at him, from the darkness, a face that had once been, beautiful, and. yet held something of that beauty to make its horror deeper. Now it bore tlie imprint of hideous things aftd thoughts. It followed him through tKe night. A voice sounded in his- ears. He had ifcried vainly to deafen it, »since ifc had become silent for ever in the' worKL It raved in delirium, at his ear. The running stream below echoed its n6W of madness. All night as the water babbled ov«r its rocky bed he lav and listened U» it ; horror and fear an-3 wild eelf-pity mingled in its sound, and called to the listener -until- the grey light of dawn came and it was silenced by saner country morning noises. Edward Birkett kept his dr^am-woman, never guessing ito whom he owed her, little dreaming that of the two men he had been most favoured by Fate ; and that he might have pitied, instead" of envying, had he known the truth, concerning the man who was strong, enough to be eilent. — M.A.P.

— The fond mother «>ent for the village doctor, exclaiming on his arrival : "Como awa' ben, doctor. I'm feart ma wean's tongue-tackit." "And what is th© wean? let a boy or a lassie?" inquired the doctor. "Oh, it's a lassie," said the mother. "Then dinna fear,"' ea.id the doctor, "for I nnver heard tell o' a tongue-tat kit lassie vet." Waiting for the pain« to return^-^! waiting -in vain — m» tlio happy «xg/M-icnc« of maov rheumatic; 6uffctcj.-> v'r.o havo taken RHEUMO. Riifun." <'oes not poee a« a cure-all. ,11 do v, i.» <A tlw largelyadvertieed ■<tni' r \i ■ ol ;o o'-xy, which are eupposed i'> <-u«- ;>.i U.c -.'ls tJio flesh, is heir to !jt -a hie i m reality are merely apem- ><- JIIIhUMO absolutely oures rnai'. .iin i/vaJi 1 lutij^ago, and sciatica, bc'\i.>-- i- c]>ai!-o.i 1/ • t-v-iem cf all urip .i<;<i 1jil« i-i th<> '/ii!y possible metheef T. n . Hur/lic-/. havo testified to benein k- •■nol It »jU cure you. Bold by all <_h< n usts aiA ■ .orckoepcrs, 2e 6d and 4e 6d y&i bottle.