THE RIVER BABY

Otago Witness, Issue 3899, 4 December 1928, Page 77

THE RIVER BABY

By

M. H. Poynter.

(Copyright.-—For the Otago Witness } CHAPTER XVII.— (Continued.) Aunt Sibbie, reading between the bald words of his tale, saw many things that he had. no knowledge of revealing —his grief, liis love, his loneliness, his longing—and when he had finished she still spoke on about the child, telling him of the affectionate love that she had gained from all the household. The shepherd listened, and the expression of his face in the firelight confirmed what she had seen in his words. “ Gerard,” she said softly, after an interval of silence, “ you are lonely, and you love your child. You are lonely—now. If the child could work a miracle to restore to you your friends —your rightful place —love and a new world — would you desire that she should do so ? ” The shepherd looked up quickly, eagerly, as she spoke, but he gave her no direct answer. Instead he asked: “What do you mean, Sibbie?” “ I think it is in her power,” she went on, still speaking very softly, “to mediate between you and your father — if von desire it.” “My father!” he cried. “Oh, no, Sibbie! He has never loved me. Nothing can make any difference there.” “ But I think that your child can make this difference,” Aunt Sibbie persisted. “ I think —no, Gerard, I know that she can.”

Then she told him 'of the battle she Lad fought over her adoption of the child, and how the baby itself had won the victory for her, because, she had looked into the face of the shepherd's father with the eyes of, a woman he loved —a woman long dead but never forgotten. When that tale was finished she told him of its sequel—how that very afternoon —scarcely half an hour ago —while the shepherd waited outside in the falling rain, she had come downstairs with the good tidings of the crisis having safely passed, and there outside his office' door she had been intercepted by her brother-in-law. He showed great agitation, "11 his thought being for the sick child. She had never known until then that he had cared, but he had revealed to her the intensity of his feeling—the deep unspokerf love that he bore for the little one. No word passed between them of the woman whose eyes her eyes resembled, but Aunt Sibbie knew that was the bond, and knew the strength of it; and she rejoiced because the child had crept into an unfathomed heart, and had found there the best that was in it.

“ And so,” she said, “ I feel that she has the power to intervene. I feel —I am sure —that better things are close at 1 hand —that you may have compensation for the past —if you desire it. Gerard, let me go to him. Let me speak.” But the shepherd was doubtful, and resisted her pleading. Bitter memories were- in his mind, and doubt and bitterness alike were in his voice when he answered. “ It may be so,” he said, “ but even then love for the child’does not necessarily mean forgiveness for me. When did he show me any tenderness? From the day of my birth he had no love for me —and I—hundreds of times in my childhood and boyhood—would have given the world for the love of the mother I never knew.” Aunt Sibbie leant forward and put her hand upon his with a touch of pity. “ And for his love ? ” she asked softly. For a moment the shepherd hesitated, then he looked at her with a sudden transfiguration in his face. “ And for his,” he answered, “ for his also—many times. But it was never given.” “ Then let me go to him,” Aunt Sibbie pleaded again. “It may be given yet. Gerard let me go.” For a while the shepherd did not answer, but sat in deep thought, with his eyes upon the flickering fire. At last he turned again to her. “ I will put myself in your hands,” he said. “ Sibbie—Sibbie —you have been always my truest friend. And if you fail I w’ill be no worse off than before.”

For one moment a sudden thought of the River Baby came to Aunt Sibbie’s heart. If her mission failed—what of the child? But her faith was strong,

and she did not hesitate. She rose quickly to her feet. “"I will go now,” she said. “ I will not fail. Gerard, it is my heart’s desire.” At the door he stayed her for a second only. / “ Her name is Margaret,” he said. “ I called her after my dead mother.” Aunt Sibbie never told anyone the substance of the words that passed between her and her brother-in-law at that unusual interview. She was absent a long time, and while she was away the shepherd sat by the schoolroom fire, conscious of nothing but the tunnoil within him. Later on he recalled the look of the room, its dying fire, its black shadows, its phantom furniture, and the grey square of the uncurtained windqjy, but for the time being he paid no heed to anything but the chaos of his thoughts. And when Aunt Sibbie came softly into the dark room again he rose to his feet trembling. She came quickly to his side, and her voice was full of gladness when she spoke. “ Will you come to him, Gerard. He wants you.” She led him across the lighted hall to the little office. At the door he tried to speak to her, but could not. “ Sibbie—Sibbie ” She put her hand in his, and he pressed it, almost hurting her with the pressure that was substitute for all that words should have conveyed. She smiled to him, a smile of joy and courage, and then she opened the door, and father and son were together. (To be continued.)