THE CURSE OF EDEN.

Timaru Herald, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 12979, 19 May 1906, Page 2

THE CURSE OF EDEN.

A little distance, and -we espy a tiny brown object, close to the bank, lying upon the edge of a frozen cart rut. Will strides across and takes it up in his hand tenderly. It is only a little hedge-sparrow, frozen, starved to death. The legs are rigid, the little body cold, stone cold. "Poor little devil," Will says. "Itis as dead as a door nail."

Then he tries to dig a hole in the bank with the sharp edge of his" skate, but the ground is too hard to penerate. So the tiny corpse remairs unhurried/ Will leaving it among the frozen grasses, only ta be revealed upon some future occasion. And some strange fancy, some inner consciousness, prompts me to ask myself whether this is a symbol of our present happiness —a happiness too deep for words, for -we continue our .walk in silence as before—and whether our love will die even as this little sparrow has died' by cold, frozen through and through, and for want of nourishment; and whether our love will "be unable to receive any burial even as this poor, feathered, plebian child of the hedgerows; and will be bidden by leaves only to be seen again in the future, more ghastly than when- it died, not having a new life, nor a renewal of the old, but being nought save a grim skeleton to haunt us in the years to come. But I put the idea from me. It is only a weird phantasy, which has come, from goodness knows where, to mar my gladness of heart.

Everything—the trees, the earth, the old woodcutter, the sparrow—has spoken of death. Yet no beautiful, joyous, iiopereviving spring morning, when the birds are all twittering and singing for very light heartedness, and the earth appears in all its new life, and the little children run about the lanes in laughing, romping group*, gathering the sweet. May flowers, could seem so precious to my silent companion as this chill walk. At least so it strikes me, for there is a look of gladness in his eyes, of perfect contentment and infinite love.

As we pass up the drive, I espy my father standing upon the doorstep* attired in his book-writing habiliments, with his velvet skull-cap covering his head. "Wflll" I say nervousely, placing my bar-d upon his on a sudden impulse. " Will! do you see him? .... What can have happened!" To most girls there would be nothing extraordinary in the sight of their father awaiting their advent upon the doorstep. But my father has never, to my knowledge done such a thing before, save under exceptional circumstances. .And I fear that something—something dreadful —has occurred.

" I cannot imagine," Will says, startled out of his run of thought, in answer to my second question. And I can see the alarm in my eyes reflected in his own.

Instinctively we quicken our pace. As we draw nearer, I canno.t help comparing the look upon my father's face with that of the worn, old woodcutter whom we have passed this morning. The past dead;, the present, a living death; and the future death—finality. No faith, nor hope, nor love. Nothing save utter weariness. This is what the one ■ unintellectual facef portrayed, this is what the other learned, scholarly face tells me by its expression. . "Do not say" anything, to show your .alarm," Will whispers hurriedly. Then he turns to my father. "Are' you having a look at tie frosty 'sky?" he asks, speakiing cheerily. . "Sky—sky—sky I . . . Having a —look—at—the 'frosty sky." He speaks mechanically, repeating the words as one who knows not, yet strives to learn their purport. Slowly his slender deeply-veined hand passes across his forehead, and his eyes wear a profoundly mystified expression throughout the movement.

A shade of pain passes across Will's face as he turns to me with an expression tha.% signifies—"l told you so." But there is not the triumph present that usually accompanies such a look or such a speech. There is nothing of a "pettifogging" nature about Will. No paltry egotism finds a place in his character. Rather in his look one of deep sorrow to think that his fears are realised, his diagnosis has proved correct. "It is cold there, doctor," he says, taking my father gently by the arm. " Won't you come indoors?" " Cold . . . cold, yes] it is very cold . . . and there is no light—what have they done with the light .... I have another page for you to look over . . . .it is cold—the page—and there is no light, you say . . . quite riyht, you are quite right. . . . and I have confidence in your judgment—you are young, yet you understand. . ." '. One more page, you said, but I think you have made a mistake fifty mor epages—fifty more—and then I shall not have finishedand the world is waiting—no light—cold, ay, bitterly cold, feel my hand. . . I must go—and work . . . but my head—that is hot! *red hot! like a furnace! that devil has put a cinder to my brain j but my hand! feel my hand—here. it is —here—they have put out the. light." i shrink back cowering. It is awful to hear him talk like this.

•' Father! Father!" I cry. " Won't you go ia? Do not yon know that {Will —Doctor Jones —is bidding you gon in." " Take her away, boy, take her away. I toM him that I would have the proofs soon; the world is waiting—it is dark—' dark, and red hot upon my temples." Will draws him gently but firmly within the door, and doses it. " Yes, cold, and the world is waiting, Doctor Temple," he says, humouring him as he would humour a little child. " Not a sound stirs the quiet of the old hall for a moment or two. I know not what bitter, self-reproachful thoughts are passing through my mind. I feel dazed; like one in a dream. And my own head begins'to swim. I stand, leaning against the gohg-stand, for a long—it seems to me a long—time, watching them both, Will trying to and lead my father away, and the latter passing his hand agam and yet again across his burning brow. A numbness passes over me; my eyes refuse to longer gaze at this pitiable sight, the effect of a clever man's overwrought brain, and he —my own father; my head sinks down into my hands. A dry, choking sob fills my throat. My only thought is one of bitter—oh ! so very bitter—agony. And at last that slowly Everything seems racing round and round like the wooden merry-go-round horses at the village fair—the chairs, *he table, the great stags nntlers hung with. Will's hats and caps, the umbrella stand, and the swinging lamp above me become one chaotic dream I go hot and cold by turns, and I '••'-cy I hear myself laughing. And amongst it all. I think that a strontr arm is put round mv waist, and I nm-l-M-1 W!er!y upon" the old oaken sofa opposite the staircase, and Will's lips are laid soothingly upon my forehead, and—-

is it fancy, or reality? I know not—l hear him whisper, "My poor darling. I will bring him round ma chere." And the least indistinct thing that somehow seems to impress itself upon me ia the fact of Will drawing my father my father away, and my father repeating again and again in confused jargon, "Hot!—red hot! —cold!—the world , waits !—cold ! they have taken the iight away!" So I lose consciousness .entirely, as the last echo of my father's voice fails' upon my ear—"They have have taken—they have taken—the light away."

CHAPTER VII.

A REVELATION.

When my senses come back to. me, I find myaelf stilj lying aipon the hard, old horsehair seat of the oaken sofa; but a soft cushion has been placed under my head, and Andrews, the upper housemaid, stands by my side, with a. look of commiseration not unmixexd with alarm, upon her plain good-natured face, holding a glass of brandy in her hand. I close mv weary eyes again, muttering "Will! Will! Where-are you, Will!"

"He—Doctor Jones —is •upstairs with the master, miss." Andrews speaks in an awe-stricken whisper, as one would speak in the presence of the dead. " How—how is he?" I allude to my father. '.

"I don't know, Miss. Drink this first and then I will go and inquire'." Andrews places her hand behind my back, and props me np into a sitting posture, placing the glass between my lips. I make a wry face, but I swallow the spirit as obediently as a child. "Now go—go —and find out —at once," I say; and then, realising, 'that lam still weak and overwrought, I sink back upon the cushion, and my tired eyelide close once more.

"Poor dear, poor dear; lor', it will be a blow to her," I indistinctly hear Andrews saying; but her voice sounds as though it is a long way off, although I feel her hand gently passing through my hair. Then she goes. And later she comes to my side. lam wide awake and more myself now. "Well!" I a ay, questioningly. "I can't find out anything," she says in an evasive manner. "Doctor Jones gave me strict orders not to go into master's bedroom, but to return and look after you, miss." "Is Doctor Jones with my father?" "Yes, miss." ; S "Did you hear nothing?" ' " Nothing; leastaways, nothing to speak of."

"What do you mean by 'nothing to spetfk of?'" "He was talking wild-like, and Doctor Jones was attempting to make him take something, and soothing him as best he could." "What was my, father saying?" "Nothing but gibberish, miss. Cook says he's as mad as a Latter. "Hot! cold!" he keeps on-saying.; and then he wants a light; he says they've taken his light away. I don't know-who lie means by 'they'; but.no ; saneperson ever wanted a light in the abroad •• daylight. And then lie talks a lot of-.stuff..about .that there book he's writing - "..-' Qh, ; A dreadful visitation! and all" along of that ., ." /:. ~,.>: ;. I place my haads deringly, as though, to s&ut out and the vision that memoryto me". v . .. fV*. . • "The screech-owl? What do you mean? What has' that to do with it!" "Why, miss, didn't you hear it last night ? It flew; past .the study ; winndow seven times, screeching each, time louder than the one before; and the last, mercilul Heavens! I shall never forget the last —not till my dying day! It was Satan let loose and a-shrieking for his own . . And cook says ■as how that means ill; it bodes death or madness or ruin to the head; of the house, and this it the outcome of it."

" Andrews 1" I exclaim indignantly, and in spite of the uncanny feeling her "words have produced in me, "how con you listen to such absurd nonsense, such an out-of-date, old woman's superstition?" "But there's the proof, miss," Andrews persists. "Master has gone clean daft; not but what he always has seemed a little bit queer in *his upper storey (meaning no offence to you/miss), still he ain't been nothing like so queer as this before. . . . - No," she adds, shaking her head wisely, as if answering a mental query, " no, 'taint no good thinking otherwise. 'Twas the screeching owl as did it!" "You are a stupid idiot, and old enough to know better!" I say, exasperated beyond endurance, rising to my feet. " I have my opinions, and, England being a free country, I have a right to keep them, miss," she replies tartly, adjusting her cap to her satisfaction. * I feel slightly dizzy, as I essay to stand without assistance, LJke one rising from a long illness for the first time. Andrews puts forth her : hand respectfully enough, despite our difference of opinion. " You are not fit to move just yet, miss," she says holding me firmly by the arm. " Howiong have, I been lying here?" About ten minutes. Less, than a quarter of an hour anyway." Ten minutes! It seems to me as if I have lain here in that fearful stupor, for hours!"

" I—l am all right now, thank you, Andrews. I am going upstairs to the doctor's bedroom. Doctor Jones' has taken him to his bedroom, has he not?" "Yes, miss; but, if you'll pardon my interference, iTshouldn't go there. You can't do any good, and maybe you, might—you might harm."

I make reply. And my conscience tells me for the. tha£ I have, not always obeyed- the fifth conunWcfoent m ife wide sense—only literally have I done so. So T ascend: the stairs, and, : creeping silently, along-the narrow- passage, listen by my father's closed, door' to assure myself" that,, he does; not; .sleep. I "hear Will speaking.' He is " trying to) persuade the poor troubled mind that the body is also weary, and that some «oothing. medicine will do it ; gpod. ~.,__. My heart beats suffocatingly as I turn the handle and enter the Toom. Will : raises a warning finger to me. My father is silent now,; perhaps he will faE asleep or has already dozed off.

I advance upon, the, tips of my " Bo you feel better, ma chere " my,l lover -whispers. : I nod my head and try to smile/ in which I fail pitiably. The clock ticks upon the mantlepiece with dull monotony. Not-another sound save that of my father's fitful breathing disturbs the silence. - For a long time .1 stand gazinng. at the prematurely -worn face .upon the white pillow, striving vainly to see some sign of the lost reason in the drawn mouth, in the furrowed forehead, in the lowered yet ever-twitching eyelids. ." He get over it; tell me that he will get over it," I s ay at last, throwing

an imploring glance upon my co-watcher. The silence, the grim, ungodly silence is more than I can bear.

"I hope," he answers, "that this is only temporary and that he will soon, recover;" but I, who know Will's manner of speech so well, can tell that his words belie his belief that he has not the hope which he professes. Still the clocks ticks away in its" maddening regularity. Bub a few moments later, as though to taunt Will with throwing such transparent dust in my eyas, my father raises his headi from the pillow and gazes straight in front of him with dilated pupils that apparently see not, and a vacant, foolish smile plays J round his mouth. '

" Muriel, Muriel, the lark is singing and the river is calling to us! . . . The boat is moored by the pollards, Muriel, darling, and the stream is covered -with water-liilies all waiting, waiting for your dainty hands to pluck them." At first I think-that he is speaking to- me. But I have never been out in d boat with my father—l halve never known him to call my hands 'dainty!' Then I know that he speaks to my mother; that he is living the old days, the days of his youth and love, over again. Somehow I have never connected youth and love with my father's past. (To be Continued.) rawnaDnss^nß