THE CURSE OF EDEN.

Timaru Herald, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 12994, 6 June 1906, Page 2

THE CURSE OF EDEN.

CI:AI'TKK Vlll.—Continued, i uo iiu: :.; ; ow, I catfnot conjecture what p.i.ssii.ji i••:■.,uc;li F.aubert's mind. There i- uo a:v.: - : gauging. Only by his racial esf'4 tasioa- am i able to form any saiM. iiy tiie look of uncertainty and a!in<-.st h-:n:r in hi-- eyes, by the wording o: his m <•.;;. i. a::d tht co:is;ant movement oi ins ha:.,; atnvs his shaven chin - , I con- .' ciuuQ tua-: sonit deep mental struggle is being enamel AL that is evil in his ; nature b lighting tierueiy with his better > self. | "You—never—loved me?" he asks at last. His voice g;"o»s hoarse. " Then you—it cai.not be' that you were heartlesslv irhliLg with me?" He turn- as white as death and takes a ' step forwara. holding out his hands.

My pi:>te sustains me. " Yes," '1 >ay, with a low laugh. '■ we were apparently each flirting, aiid each thinking that the other was in earnest. It was a game of cross purposes. It is a case o: the biter bit, in bott intstances." I laugh again, but, oh'. such an unnatural," iorlon: lkiie laugh. " You see neither of us is much the worse for it." The lie seems as though it will choke me. " Ma. there,*' he begins, but I check him with a gesture. " Yon h:ui better go buck to tie inn." " I'et>p!e wiil « :>ie." They have noticed alit;..:v.

" I 4v> not care fcr ' people.' I ran going :'»:■ a walk by myself." I turn towards ha:;, with a mieku.g bow. " I wishyou ;t pleasant journey. If you have any manliness in your—what r-hall I say?— character, I think you had better leave here as soon as possible." Once more he takes a step forward -as though to speak—to explain. But I turn and walk away without another word.

At tfte corner of the road I cannot forbear turning and looking back. He is still standing erect, motionless, watching me 6teadfastly. * And I still seem to see him thus as I walk on, on, neither heeding nor caring where.

My heart seems cold, turned to stone. I cannot realise that it is all over, ,that I shall never see him again, that as I saw him just now is how I shall eee him in. my dreams, alone, silently watching me. What is this barrier that has risen up between us? Is it, as he says, something which has stood between lis all along? Was he aware of its existence when - first we met ? Did he think only to " love and ride away"? And has he, himself, been caught in the trap which .ie has laid? Did he think himself proof against loving me? And my heart?—has- studied that?—the pain which he has inflicted.

Some such questions as these keep putting themselves before me; but I cannot answer them all. It only seems as though he knew what would happen, that I should love him, and he would break my heart. Is this the working out of Will's course ? My feet seem to move mechanically. I keep walking, walking, walking, as though by physical exertion I can overcome my wretchedness. I am passing along the footpath -through a meadow. I see the haymakers turning the sweet-scented hay. the "picturesque women in their large "sun-bonnets, the children romping atmngst the hay-cocks, the waggons being leaded heavily. But it is all as ic a dream, and the foremost figure in the landscape is not really there. It is a mere ghost; I am the victim of imagination and of recollection. It is the form of a man standing still and silent, out watching me as I pass down the road, with burning, steadfast eyes. Suddenly, a great space, a boundless vista, seems to spread out between myself and him. It spreads and spreads until I no longer see the hayfield or the figure. I put out my hand.

" Emile!" I cry beseechingly, "my love, whether you knew of this strange obstacle or not. whether you are going away rightly or wrongly, I loved you, and I love you still."

Then all is darkness, grim, ungodly darkness, with confused jangling sounds tfoat seem to deafen me and beat into mv brain.

"Lor*, miss! 'Twas the sun, I reckon. Hcr's powerful hot!"

A woman, one of the haymakers, is bending over me; her arm is placed behind my back, wholly supporting me. Take a draught of this here. Twon't hurt ye. "lis nought but milk, pure and fresh."

She hands me a bottle. ; I take a draught as she suggests, "long and deep." Looking up into Iher kindly face I make a feeble attempt to smile. "Thank you," I say, "thank you very much. I think it must have been the sun." . "Bless yer, yes,l poor dear! Her's powerful hot, powerful hot," she repeats. "Set there and rest awhile, miss," she says, and stands leaning on her rake looking at me, shaking her head wisely. " Her's powerful hot," she says again. And so I sit rlere upon a heap of freshly turnec' clover-scented hay, until memory, with all the bitter surprise, -the sudden sense of shame and humiliation, the doubt i and fear, the mystery, anger, and above i all and through all the knowledge that I | yet love and worship the witting and dei liberate cause who has trifled with me, i made me love him, only to tell me without | explanation that aU, all must end. | I cannot cry. frhe fountain of my tears ; seems dried. My eyes and head are burn- [ ing. I feel like a lone soul on a wide, wide sea, a sea of bitterness and despair. What little goodness I may have possessed seems torn from me ruthlessly. There is no room in my heart for anything of that sort now. It is hardened, hard and cold and unforgiving. A rough, moist touch upon my"-hand brings my thoughts back to the present—the hayfield and the busy workmen, and the honest, kindly-hearted woman resting her shoulder against the long "handle of her rake—it is" Paddy licking my haadv He looks up into my face, whining piteously. He knows that something-; is amiss, his eyes- are compassionate and distressed locking. : It-is Ms*'only way'of; showing Poor dumb.doggy!: I rise wearily to my : feefe "Whose field is this?" I addressing, my "good Samaritan." "'Tis Master Davis's, miss." "Then I am—how far am. I from Shervil?" >f •

"Xigh on three-miles, lady. .But yon ain't zet for tteppassin' yet." Three miles only! And I seem to hive been walking hours and hours!

I take out my purse and proffer her a shilling. '" I didna' do anything for your money, missy." she says, shaking her head determinedlv.

I press it on her, but she still resolutely declines. '" Have you any children?" I ask, a brilliant idea of a compromise striking me. " Zex <>n *em," she says, with a queer smile and a jerk of the head, as though t<> intiottte that the number is already ap- ■ p:>'Hr<r. and a blind Fate may provide her with ;:i'.other half-dozen vet.

"HerVHie babs." she continues, painting to a little bundle lying upon a distant

hay-cock, " and fower on 'em's at school, and Garge—that's the first—'e's alying at home with a epinal disease." " Poor boy ! • Do you have a doctor to attend to him?"

" o;;e—a kindly, nico-spokea ger.t—used fer t-i' come ;,.i" «-ee the lad. He just came afore Christmas, i-:.en Lever came anigh us ontil March, au' that was to say 'Good-bye' to my boy 'for good.' he'said. He was gune "a:ne and locked mortal bad himself."

This, then, was one of Will's poor pensioner. 1 iemcmber him mentioning the case u.:ta to me. -

" Where do you live ?" I ask. " Yonder. "The thatch show.- through the trees."

"O:., I see. I think I will look in upon Jfuur crippled child. Is anyone else there?"

" No, miss. . . Thank you kindly. The poor lad is all alone most days, and 'tis terrible fearying and lonesome; but I must go in the fields when .thereVi any work to be had.'

She drops me a low curtsey, expressing a hope that the effect of the "powerful 'hotsun will soon leave me.

And I go off in quest of the cpttage. The door of the neat, poverty-stricken dwelling is wide open, and I find the patient, bedridden lad lying upon an improvised couch in the front room. He is looking out of the window, and starts tipon hearing my tread upon the brick floor. Such ;\ poor, wan, pinched face is tiune:! towards me. hi-, great dark eyes look at me wistfully, wonderingly. I believe that he thinks that an angel, straight from heave:;. lias come upon him unawares. I cannot talk to him in the orthodox " goody-goi.-dy" district-visitor way. I couldn't if I tried. So I make claim to his friendship through his old friend Dr Jones, and, after the ice is broken, I chat about- a hundred subjects that I think may interest him. And when at last I rLse from the cane-bottomed chair, there is a settled happy smile upon his face, and he is clasping my absolutely last half-sovereign tightly in his tinv, attenuated fist. " * •

" What's ver name " ie asks, as I turn to go.

" Without a thought I say, " Ma chere!" "Mar Share," he repeats after one. Adding reflectively, " I like your name. Itis like you. It is pretty." I smile at the innocent compliment-, but J must confess that I fail to see anything approaching prettiness in his unfortunate pronunciation. Were he able to put his exact meaning into words I fancy he would say, "I like your name, for it is out of the common. I, in this cottage, have never ieard a name approaching to that in quain-tness and sweetness of sound 1 ; and it suits your personality better than it would anyone else, for you, too, are out of the common to my ignorant mind." I stoop and kiss his pale, pain-worn forehead.

" Good-bye, dear." - He clings with his disengaged hand to the lace fichu covering-my • shoulders, as if loth to let me pass out of his. sight. "Yer'll come again some day?" "Yes. liriJ} come and bring you some picture books to look at," I say, smoothing the hair back gently from his brow. "'Tain't the-hooks. 'Tain't.the books l as I want. Tis" vOu."

" But if I come I .will bring some books for you as well," I smilingly assure Mm. And as I look back over the dilapidated garden gate I see the wan little face pressed close against the glass, watching" me earnestly through the latticed window, lam grateful to him in sohie wise, for, unwittingly, he has turned my thoughts from myself and Emile for a while. w And wandering slowly homewards in the rich glow, of the summer: sunset, 'with."the crushed, despairing' feeling, weighing down my heart as will" V'millstoiie, and the nightingale singing gaily in the coppice, breaking into trills both sweet, .and long, as though it would mock me in my misery, I think to myself that there are other sorrows—other human woes—than" my own. But yet the dreary burden-seems- no easier to bear on that account; lamin no mood to measure others'- troubles, even, though they may be lifelong, by my own, for where and when can my heart find peace save in the grave, in death! Death! There is a fascination in the bare outline of the thought. Truly Ihave one escape before me. : .Yet I know that I have not the moral courage—or should I say the intense fear, the fear of living on?—to court it.

I suppose I shall drag through the years to come, mechanically, without youth, without love, without hope. The evening air blows warm acrosß- the fir plantation, and yet I shiver involuntarily as it kisses my ohill lips-. Paddy is walking solemnly by my side. Even he seems to know that the light has gone from my life, that our merry, breackneck gallops are things of the past—happy 'memories-, but nothing more. By the time that I reach the village the dusk has fallen upon the street. The farm labourers are plodding Ihomewards, whistling cheerfully, "t They have no sorrows, no troubles to beat*. -, .■■ . . Have they none? I; think of the poor little suffering mite at the cottage I.have left behind me, and a feeling akin to shame possesses nie. . : 'HowVntterlv.selfieh I have : ibeen all my life'through! 1 A grizzled; :round-shouldered' old"shep-r herd, with- Ms J crob^rtuckedttader hii arms and a lurcher"" at his. heels; '/comes out of the dimly-lighted bar 'parlour of The Widow's Son, contentedly munching a hunch of bread, c w-'.'Vi'l"

"Good evening, miss," hesays, touching the brim of has battered hat;

" Good evening," I respond. . . Good! evening! Ah! He does not know what a miserable, sad evening it.is for me. ; Paddy and the sieeprdog- exchange::greetings surlily, with stiffened legs and a sorfci -of " growL But a guttural rebuke from Ms master causes the latter to slink meekly on, meditating on the eiceffiwe;;peccability: of aged hrrmahifey-. *i'ajLoS*7 'Ltt&iLiilvJL > :.v-' >.'-.•--,-. The sigh"l^he?a^ i of bread reminds me of tSl'-'fact -that I have eaten nothing since breakfast, and still have no. inclination to take -airy- food. Across the rose trees in old, inn twilight,' comes ; of a piano; the touch is delicate, perfect. "Who would think that the wretched iartrmnentf which. I hayjp hitherto only heard the imtmurdejme the 'fcnr-fhiger exercise and, the" sealesi T <*>nW&orfc ) of' mpnipus Jike. the5q.,,.,,-..,,, I-paase roaflway/'' : f. : The window of :she sit?tJn|fiffnom.is ened. ! There' ; is ' hoUigh't itf-'ithe! room. ■■ Instinctively J ft is. Emile who is playing. *My r heaA :: beits; wildly. I tremble all over. Then has Jiot gone, not gone. : :'" ; '' '' : : " "---'--'- '

But recbll«ction.-7tlie..memory. of this morning—brings me to my senses. I must not stay. here. I turn away wearily. A' voice arrests me. * A voice! It is the most melodious music. He-is singing now. .To some it might sonnd unintelligible—it is in the French toague-r-but only to those who have k no ear for melody. To me it is a direct communication, i .; I scarcely.. Tinderstand ; one word, and yet the meaning is quite plain,-childishly simple to me.

I It begins «ad and sweet. The singer I ia pleading mournfully, pleading with Fate, I it seems, and as though lie" knows that the j answer to those low, dulcet tones will be " Nay." Then the plea—those exquisite strains—becomes stronger, not rlouder, but fuller, deeper, vibrating with passion—a strange mingling of fear and hope. A pause in the song. The very accompanying notes of the piano seem to weep. Then suddenly a long, low wail of anguish, pain scarce to be conceived. It rise?, it intensifies. It is the frenzy of passion, it is the cry of despair. - It rings- through the iour.e, and, issuing through the open casement, stirs the pulse of the languid evening air ai'cund the building, with fearful, heart-rending matchless power. It seein's to rave against this blind Fate which has sent forth its decree, to supplicate, to reason, to defy, and anon to plead with it again—but wofully, but hopelessly, but in vain. (To be continued.)