SHADOWS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3197, 23 June 1915, Page 78

SHADOWS.

By Ida M. Battan

“. . . And I thought it would be better to write and ask you what is to be done, for I am at the end of my resources. He drinks whenever he can possibly get it, and I had almost said, even when he can’t. I can give you no idea of the awfulness of it all. It is worse than ever it has been, and something must be:done, and done at once.” Trevor Gray refolded the letter, carefully put it back in its envelope, and, notwithstanding the fact that he felt that here was the end of all his hopes, fell into a bitter, retrospective reverie. He saw himself, thirty years ago, a child of five, subjected to the jeers of his childish companions, struggling home with the accursed stuff that his father demanded. He remembered how, even then, his baby heart had swelled at the injustice of : t all, and how in his vague, childish manner he had wondered and wondered till his head ached with the problem. Imperceptibly, youth had usurped the place of childhood. He was tall and strong and good to look upon, but, being the eldest’ of the family, the burden had pressed heavily upon his shoulders. He was taken from school that his young strength should assist his bestial father in the business which, even then, was showing signs of neglect. Hard manual work had then been his lot from morning, till night, and in those years, when the day was over, he had been so physically tired that his brain craved nothing but slumber. Then manhood had dawned, with its demands and its ambitions; but still there seemed to bo nothing for him but labour and ingratitude, and. when he asserted his will, curses and terrible scenes. His home, in its unutterable wretchedness, had brought the Hush of shame to his cheek times without' number. Still,, in spite of all, he had struggled

on, .always with the vague hope that one day things would improve, that the day would surely dawn when he, too, should have his chance; but, as the years rolled on, that day seemed to recede. Then, two years ago, when hope had almost do. crtcd him, the chance came. Ho obtained a position in a different town, a place where his wretched story was unknown, and left home. Those two years had been the happiest of his life. In the little seaside town to which he went he had been respected and liked, and in an amateur way he had been -able to work at his one ambition—the stage. He had joined the various societies, taken a leading part in the different productions, and given sound advice as to their management. Almost from the first his advice had been asked and acted upon, for he possessed a curious “flair” for knowing what the public wanted.

And then there was Alison. At the very thought of her his heart beat faster; but that, too, must end. Her face snrang to his mental vision; there she was before him; he raised his eyes and drank in the beauty of her features, now sparkling with merriment, now soft with sympathy, now aflame with love. He could see the glint of her brown hair fine as silk, the gleam of her eyes, darkly bright, and the sensitive lips, soft and red. Alison ! Alison ! For a few passion-filled moments, as his inward vision' called her to life, the letter and all it implied and demanded ceased to exist. There was but the world of his love, peopled only by himself and her ; golden with love’s sunshine, vibrating with sympathy, ringing with music, gay with flowers, and quivering Avith tender thoughts. The vision faded; he was back to earth again, bound to part from her, to offer his manhood and her happiness as a living sacrifice ot a bestial father’s shrine. And once again he questioned: ‘ ‘ Was it necessary? Was it Duty?” And although every ueiwe quivered at the thought deep in his soul, he knew that for him there was no evasion. It must be. He pushed back the heaA-y curls that clustered round his broAv, and rested his head on his hands. He must leave .as soon as possible. He must tell Aliscn. He looked at his Avatch. Half-past eight! She Avould be Availing for him, and he must go to her. He felt that if he stayed there in his little room arguing with his conscience, his resolution might waver, and for that he Avould never forgive himself Alison vras alone. She heard his step and came out on to the verandah. Her voice came to him, vibrant Avith feeling. “Is it you, Trevor?” *

He answered, calling her by name, and she came to meet him. All he could see in the dim light was the outline of her figure and her dusky hair. God! How could he tell her? He folded her in his arms. How often had she said to him, “I love to feel your arms around me”? He held her longer than usual while his lips pressed her soft hair. “ How late you are, dear!” she said. “I had almost given you up.” She placed her hands on his breast and stepped back, trying to see. his face.

“ I know I am late, Alison, but I couldn’t help it. Are you alone?” “ Yes, dear. They have all gone out for the evening, and I have been * just awearyin’ for you.’!’ “I know,, darling./ Let us sit out here and talk, shall we?” ,

With quick, unerring sympathy she divined his mood, and together they sat down, facing-, 'the after-glow of the sunset away beyond the now darkened ocean. How often they had sat thus in sympathy so rare that words were almost unnecessary between them. Even now she felt his trouble before ho had mentioned it. Like a grey mist suddenly settling on a lake, it touched and enveloped her spirit. She moved restlessly, and turned her face to his, striving to ascertain the cause of his silent dejection. As he did not speak she said : “ Dearest, tell me what it is. I feel that there is something wrong, and I want to share your so trow as well as your joy.” He was silent, thinking furiously. Should he tell her at length the whole story, or should he break his news without further delay? The habit of his life asserted itself. “Alison, I have come to tell yon that I have to leave you and go home.” “Leave me!” she echoed incredulously. “ Why, Trev, whatever do you mean?” As he realised once more all that it meant for them, a fit of shuddering seized him, and his voice failed. Seeing his agitation, she was silent except for a scarcely audible word of love and sympathy. She nestled against him and rested her head on his shoulder, pressing his hand between her own soft ones. Presently he whispered; “ It’s my father, Alison. They can do nothing with him, and as I ha.ve some little influence over him. I must go.” “Whan?” she questioned hopelessly. “ By the first boat, dear, on Tuesday—that is, I must eet it over, dear.” “Oh, Trevor!” she cried. “I can’t believe it.” “I wish T couldn’t, dear; but it is only too true. There is no other way.” “But whv can’t your brothers do it? Thev are there. They mi Ait at least trv.” “They have tried, dear; they have done nil they possibly can. They Would never have asked me unless they were in despair.” “ Tt can’t be riuht that you should go, Trevor. Think what it means for von—buried in that little country place in boneless surroundings. Oh, you must not think of it !” “ Mv dearest. I have argued it all out. and. truly, there is no hope for me. I must cro and do what I can.” “And leave me, Trevor?” “ And leave you, Al. dear; hut don’t make it harder than it is.” The boneless finality of his word* filled her eyes with tears, and silence fell upon them. Alison could scarcely imagine life without Trevor now. “She thought of their first meeting. Thev had- been introduced one evening nearly eighteen months ago,

just before he was to sing to her accompaniment. She remembered how the gay words of greeting had died on her lips as she met his eyes, dark and entreating, and subconsciously she had felt at that moment that a great change in her life was imminent, lie had placed the music for her, and as the beautiful words of “When shadows gather” had rung in her ears, they had found an echo in ner heart. Afterwards she had realised that, unconsciously, during his singing of that song her love and her life had bfee.v> given to him, not for a day nor for a year, but for life and after.

Hoav often during the months that followed had they spoken of that first meeting ! He had told her that when he first looked into her eyes he had known that she was the one woman for him, and he had endeavoured to convey his conviction to her, in the words of the song. ■ She reviewed the hours they had spent together—beautiful, serene, secret hours, for their engagement was known only to themselves. How they had talked upon a wide diversity of subjects, for they were both well-read and passionately fond of literature. Other nights when they had strolled along the Marine parade, listening to the booming of the surf, or battling against the wind on stormy nights, for they both loved Nature in her wild stormy moods. And now all this was to end, and to cruelly soon; and what was there left without him? She almost felt that without his daily presence, for want of interest, her very life must surely flicker out Oh, how she hated his father! What right had he to ruin two lives by his de grading habit? Then, like a prayer, the words of that song drifted into her mind, “And all is darkness, the way we go; Watch, then, beloved, I need thee so.” Again they made a direct appeal to her, he needed her in his darkness and sorrow, and she would never fail him, never. She stirred, and he pressed her to him; his hand wandered gently over her hair. “Well?” he said. How the gently-uttered word thrilled her! It was a habit of his to say it in this way,*rfter a silence. She attempted to speak, but words would not come. “Dearest.” he said, “how do you feel about it? Tell me.”

‘‘l can’t,” she whispered, “it is like Death itself to me. I never once thought of separation. I knew it would probably •be years before we could be married, but I thought those years would be spent together.” “That is another thing, Alison, that we must <li-cu:s. In common fairness to you, I cannot ask you now to wait indefinitely. As far as I can see there is no prospect for us. Anything and everything that-1 can earn will be swallowed up at home. I think you know, my beloved, that 1 shall love you and you only to the end of my life; but it is hopeless now, you must see it.” Alison,could not speak, so he said, “Will you take your freedom, dear?”

' “Mj freedom!” she was startled into exclaiming. “Why, Trevor, you don’t mean —you can’t —that ” She burst into a passion of weeping, her whole body shook in the tempest of grief. Trevor was shocked beyond words. “Hush, darling! Oh, Al, hush, hush!” He raised the wet face and rained kisses upon it. “Allie, stop! You must not cry like this; I never dreamt you would feel it in this way.” She sobbed oil, hopelessly, and at last gasped, “Oh, Trevor ? how could you? I would rather remain single all riiy life, and free to love you, than accept anything the world could offer me—without you.” “But I have nothing but my love to give you, dear heart. It may be years now that we must wait.”

“I don’t care how long it is—l don’t care if it is fer ever. My love for you is everlasting, dear; it cannot be taken off and put on again like a cloak; it is part of my life; I am yours for always.” “You really feel like that, Alkon?” he whispered. “Really, dear,.now and always.” “My. true-hearted girl!” he whispered fondly. They met only once again before he went. * With the thought of an indefinite separation hanging over them, the few hours that remained proved too harrowing to be prolonged. At her request he sang again “When shadows gather” ; and during their long separation, when her loneliness pressed most heavily upon her, Alison would play it softly to herself, and obtain comfort from the tender strain and the memories it evoked. 11. Tt was nearly three years before they met again. They wrote frequently to each other, and to Trevor, in his wretched home, these letters seemed like a voice from a different world. How they cheered and comforted him he alone knew. Acting upon Alison’s advice, he studied and rehearsed carefully different parts in various plays, for, as she suggested, he would need to be prepared when his chance came. She would never admit the suggestion that now it might never come, and her sublime faith in the future put now heart into him. He must study if only to please her.

Loft alone, Alison at first was abjectly desolate. Then she felt, too, that something must ho forced to take her thoughts from her loneliness. She exercised her talent for music and literature, marking out a course of study in each direction.Perhaps the sorrow of parting aroused her neglected talent; ■perhaps the lonAng for him, craving expression,' assisted her; or perhaps, after all, it was her anxiety to help him in hi? need that at last brought about the realisation of their "hopes. One day Trevor, on his return from work, found a letter addressed to him. He did not know the writing, so opened it with idle curiosity. As he read, his face, usually pale, flushed and his eyes gleamed with excitement, for its contents were beyond belief:

Dear Sir, —We are anxiotis to produce a new play, “Shadows,” and the author has granted our firm the exclusive rights upon one condition —that you are offered

the chief part. We shall be pleased to know at your earliest convenience when you will grant us an interview. —Faithfully, J. B. Filmaxs and Co. Trevor’s brain swam, and the letters danced before liis eves. It was incredible, wonuenui. Oh, what news for Alison? He found time to wonder, on his way to the telegraph office, how on earth Fitmans had Heard of him, an obscure amateur ; but decided that they or the author must have seen some of his efforts during those two years he was away from home. He telegraphed to Alison, ‘buy chance has come. Writing.” He walked home on air, and poured out his very, heart on paper to Alison, telling her the glorious' news, congratulating both himself and her, wondering what the play would be like —the MS. would arrive by the next mail, — making all kinds of wild plans that brought the tears to Alison’s eyes. Wild and incoherent in places, she raid it over and over again until she could easily have repeated it from memory. After three months of rehearsal “Shadows” was produced for the first time in Auckland out of compliment to its author, who, it was announced, was New Zealand-born.

Just before he left his dressing room for the stage a telegram was handed to Trevor—“ With you in spirit.—Alison.” Even amidst the tremendous excitement his thoughts flew to her. If only she could have been there! ’Prom his first entry on the stage he held the audience spell-bpund, and the conviction that this was his long-looked-for chance forced him to rise above any nervousness and give of his very best. The part itself—the fight between inclination and duty—appealed to him, and he felt that he actually was enduring the mental struggle of him he impersonated. It was wonderful, and his dark, sad face and fine, powerful figure made a great impression upon the audience even before he opened his lips. Then, as they followed him in rapt attention through the weary, perplexing struggles of the part, the pathetic love-scenes, the temptation, and finally his victory over it, they cheered again and again. He reached his room after a perfect ovation, feeling more dead than alive now that the strain was relaxed. He sank on the sofa in a mixture of feelings—delight at his success and an uncontrollable longing for Alison; dreaming of what all this would mean for them. How he.wished he could evade the supper party to which r he manager had invited him to meet the author of “Shadows”! All he wished for now was, in the absence of Alison, to ba alone, to think of her, to write to her, to tell surely the most loving and loyal woman in the world of his wonderful success.

The manager arrived and broke his train of thought. He w r as overwhelming in his congratulations, and paced up and down the room predicting all sorts of things for the brilliant actor. They entered his car, and were driven to beautiful Remuera, Auckland’s most charming suburb. During the drive the manager’s remarks fell almost upon deaf ears, for Trevor was with Alison in spirit. At this supreme moment his whole nature craved her loving companionship. During his triumph her absence had been the only flaw. The car stopped at a large house standing in its own grounds, and, after removing their overcoats, they were shown into the supper room, where Trevor was introduced to Mr and Mrs Browne, his host and hostess, and several others—critics and pressmen ' with their wives. He was in the midst of congratulating Mr Browne as the.author of “ Shadows ” when he laughingly interrupted him, telling him that, unfortunately'' he was mistaken, and saying that the author would be with them immediately.

The door opened, and a lady came into the room. Trevor glanced at her, and life stood still for him. He started to his feet, exclaiming, ‘ Alison •’! And then, forgetting everybody, he folded her in his arms, murmuring, “Oh. A 1! My Allie!” There they stood, caring for no one, enwrapped in each other’s arms, and those in the - room were stricken dumb at the sight, and many eyes were wet. At last Mr Browne spoke : “ Now, Gray, when vou are ready we will have supper.” Trevor came back to earth and released Alison. “ It would appear that yon are—ahem ! —already acquainted with the author of ‘Shadows,’ Miss Alison Garth!” Trevor started and stood still. “ lon !” he cried—“you the author, Alison? Is it true?” “Yes, dearest. I wrote it for you during our separation, and I am certain that if we bad never been parted ‘ Shadows ' would never have been written.” His pride and his love prevented speech. He could but hold her hands and gaze with wet. eyes on her "beloved features. “ Mv dear friends.” said Mr Browns, addressing the companv, “let me pronose the health of Trevor Gray and his future wife. -Mi's Alison Garth, the author of ‘ Shadows.’ ”