HE SAVED-HIMSELF!

Otago Witness, Issue 2924, 30 March 1910, Page 89

HE SAVED-HIMSELF!

asBy A. J. Heighway.

It was an hour after sunset and the minister and I eat on the verandah of the country parsonage environed by the deep-toned purple twilight. It had been a scorching day, and when the brazen sun sank behind the blue serrated mountain beiges and allowed the tender dusk to creep down the ravines and rocky gullies in loving coolness Nature awoke and breathed deeply in gratitude. The sea sent inland a gentie sign, the harsh gum-tree leaves rustled in whispering tones, and the vocal insects volumed forth their evening carol, deepened by numbers to a drumming monotone. And there in the gloom we rested refreshingly. He had had a long day at the dictates of duty ; I a tiring train journey and a long drive.

But, rest is not always permitted a tired country parson. " Beat, beat, thud, beat," there came through the air the rhythmic roll Of a horse's feet. They pounded, ever sounding louder, down the country road, ceased a moment at the gate beneath, and then resumed in muffled cadence on the short dusty stretch to the foot of the hill.

"It will-probably''be for Jack," muttered the minister, as he stepped down to' greet the man who ascended. Dimly I saw them meet, heard Hhe. murmur .of quick sentences-—then the minister returned to me whilst the messenger strode to the stable to saddle the horse.

"You must excuse me," said my friend. "It is a call to a death-bed. I must hasten."-

They rode away together, and I was alone on the darkened verandah, Their steady hoof-beats died away in the distance, and the evening's peace enwrapped me solemnly. The rosy aftertint in the west was altogether gone; the mass of mountains which had been lit up in majesty beneath that light now lay as a deep bar of hidigo against the fringed empurpled dome above ; there the. stars glowed and twinkled- in all the splendour of an Australian night;' the planets stood out in conspicuous brilliance, and between their magnificence and the .misty but pure nebulosity; of the Milky Way were ranged twinkling points of all degrees, each shining in appointed place, with appointed brightness, doing appointed work.

And, sitting there in the half-glowing darkne c e—rfor the stare made the shades light avid heavy—l was content to await dream ingly the -return of my friend, albeit I knew not haw long lie might.be. Ho was alone in the parsonage at this time, for his family had been sent away for a brief spell to the mountains, whither he would follow them shortly,, and till then I was spending my Lime with him to benefit myself and relieve his loneliness. '

I often look back to those quiet hours, particularly in view of the succeeding story of that night. It is in the quiet hours so rarely snatched that we grow and expand. Introspection i 6, perhaps, too little cultivated. Under the dominance of ever-present, recurring insignificances the grandeurs and magnificences of lire-suffer oppression. And quiet hours afford the opportunity of realising the I trend of things, their end, and their ""reason. «- * • • * • » My dreaming reverie extended one hour, two hours, three hours. Then " Pad, pad, 'beat," came the sound of returning hoofs. Bearing in mind the rjder's errand, their staccato thud and beat sounded like the roll of calling drums. Ascending the lull, the minister silently attended to his horse, and then slowly mounted the verandah. He took again the chair he had vacated* some hours previously. A silence of sympathy prevailed. I saw or'felt he was moved and sad, and so spoke not. "He is dead," at last he" said. The tone of his voice—what a wonderful sympathetic timbre the voice isi capable of prompted my question: "A sad scene?" "Sad and . . . stirring. An awful thing! . . .. What a fearful responsibility is character and . . m courage." / " Tell me," I said. And he told me. "The man who came for me was a station hand. The man who died worked on the same run. I first knew him eleven years ago. He has spent most of his life here, and till five years ago was always very lively, very popular, well spoken of. Since that time the pity of

the district has been his. ... But the people didn't know and don't know —what I know now!"

He paused a moment, and added, " Did they—their pity would be different—and. —yes ! —greater, much greater." " Five years ago this man, with fair. prospects for his position in life, became engaged. All congratulated him—and her. They enjoyed plighted happiness for six months. Then came catastrophe. There was the regular ball of the season at the homestead station. He and she left it in his trap to drive home. The weather had been threatening for a day or two and much rain had fallen in the hills. There was a river to cross. They did not arrive home that night- or the next morning. At daylight the horses turned up at his house " with, a broken trap, wet, bedraggled. Two hours later they found him, three miles down the river on the bank—.alone. He was limp, silent, staring, with dim, awful eyes. They thought it was grief. It was—but more; there was a potent horror with it. j "H? was taken home. Her body was never found. He sank into a dull stupor of moroseness. • I saw him several times but could make nothing of him. He would sit dull, implacable, immovable, save that he had eyes that were bloodshot, lips that twitched ever and anon, hands that occasionally would convulsively clinch. All thought it a great and excessive grief, though hardly a word could he. wrung from him. He continued thus for a fortnight. To ail proferrod sympathy, to nil tendered condolence, he remained dumb, adamant. Then he dis-

appeared. " Nine months later I. accidentally met him-in the city, though I did not immediately recollect his face. It was the half-gleam of recognition in. the man's eyies as he turned to avoid me that hung in my memory a moment and recalled him to trie. The fare I saw was that cf an aged man. His hair- Lad gone white. His -face was lined and creased —lined and creased even more than could have bfen produced a'on.a by the most excessi'.-e dissolution. There seemed a dull, melancholy, almost virulent self-contempt- in !iis face—you know how vivid momentary impressions sometimes arc—and then he had oassed me, and I did not-know till a minute after who it was. His intention to avoid me was then successful : the crowd had swallowed him.

"A year later I was again in Sydney and made some, inquiries, but with no result. Another year went by, and once more I was there. A night or two before I was to leave a dirty note was brought me. It eaid, " Please come to me—l am dying." I went. I found him wasted, emaciated, a .mere, physical wreck, with' hand quivering, indicative of his consuming desire to drown the horror that* oppressed him, with -face more lined, and seared, hair whiter than ever, eyes sullenly bloodshot. His_ surroundings were despicable, contemptible Of the man himself—such was the impression made upon me by the sight of him, so eloquent of despair and horror the look he gave me, that I inwardlv remarked : " If ever man has suffered hell on earth—this is the man!"

He did not die. I secured proper attention for him, and, the remnants of his constitution rallying to his aid, he recovered sufficiently to be brought back here. He was reluctant to come, but came; perhaps the locality draw him against his will. Away from the dissolute life—which had failed, as it always must fail, of its purpose of induchw forgetfu'ness—he grew stronger, and at length accepted work. On the station he has"'lived a lonely life in a single hut. barely speaking to any man. Such a load is-« conscience! Such a black devil a guilty one! And ncne suspected it was conscience':„ all accredited it to' grief What an utter contempt-and .loathing he must have had for himself as he.endured the agony of his guilty secret throughout those years!" Here the sneaker ceased for a space,and remained "silent ruid still. Then he suddenly resumed his story. .-" Bnt, though th 6 country, life improved such health as remained to him, it was apparent that his powers had been seriously undermined. " A few months ago some exposure he suffered induced a severe chill, the final course of which saw his death to-night. At first it was a slow, dull fever; but towards the. close it became more .Virulent and fiery. He would allow no one to sit with him. The messenger who came for me, however, looked in intermittently, without leave, and, of late, every day. " He asked for me .to-night, but when I reached him he was in a burning, tortu-r-

iug agony. ... Such a death!"' Again the miniate? paused, and passed his hand across his brow. . . . "The fear of judgment. . . . The sword-plunges of conscience! Ravings and waitings, protestations and avowals! His adaman* moroseness was brokers down at last in the.delirium before his death.

"He whs alone in his solitary hut. I heard his voice raving as I approached. Inside he was tossing in his bunk: a single candle guttered in the draught by his head, its light plainly showing the nearing end. It was such a change going in from tha pure, cool, forgiving and cleanly air of the night—l thought of this latter—to that hut, with its gruesome story and horrible death.

. " In his deliriam lie paid me no heed. j I took' his hand and cooled his brow. : Foe a momentary glimpse he knew m«, and a spasm passed over his face. Then . the pall of delirium mercifully descended —and never lifted! His delirium was dominated by one thing—that—that accident—of five years ago. . He lived it over again—each memory of it assailed him fiercely and burned itself into him. Then the death-sweat came on his brow. He started up, flung off his poor covering, and cowered to the wall, eyes open, staring horror-struck, as though the vista of judgment was before him. ' Don't look like that,' he shrilled, with an indescribable timbre of agony in his voice. ' Don't

look like that! ... I know I struck you, Jeannie, but . . . you clung so !tiight! . . . Oh, forgive me. •..•'• God, Jeannie. . . - I was drowning! Oh, have mercy! . . . Don't look like that! . . . Oh, God, I vyas drowning!

." . . I know I struck her —away from -ne. But—.the waters were roaring, and— I was afraid. . . . Oh/ Jeannie. . • .«,

Oh !'

" He fell back and died—so." The minister's voice ceased. Then slowly and with measured intonation, as befitted the midnight hour, with the solemn witnesses above, he said, " 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'

"His punishment was that he—saved himself!"