"A Record."

Timaru Herald, Volume XIIC, Issue 13650, 18 July 1908, Page 1 (Supplement)

"A Record."

(By V. JE. Boe) It was night—starlit nighi—and a narrow ribbon of a road, padded deep with ■warm dust, ran. into tiie. eiuuincr darknets.

On. the scat of y. sturdy spring waggon a aiau sat with the- lints Hanging n"<p from his tingeta and slapping against the fat sides of the larm-hoiw, wn.eh plodded silently and contentedly in tue tool of the night, 'the lines sagged from John Urbine's hands because- ins eyes stared ahead into the sott shadows, and his, mind was rilled with aa old tumuli. On the seat beside aim stood a box ■which, in the: half hour it had been in bw possession, had torn open an old bitter memory, Lad carried him back to the lull fifteen years, had stirred up the anger, the unforgiving resentment that Lad embittered his lite. It Tras a £inall box, easily capable of being carried in a mans ami's, ana mi one tide it bore a labd with his name and addr«6. It was a whit* label, and it gleamed dimly in. the dark. John Urbine looked at it from time to) time, and the tumult of old feelings surging through. Ins heart was tempered iviiti a queer unoanuiness, an odd shiver of the boul, for the name on the label was written in a hand that had been dead tl>-se many months —a hand that he remembered aa having once wri.ten the sun out of the heavenci—a hand that he loved beyond expression that he had never lorgiveu in all the lonely yea is. It was a woman's hand, bold and at rung; and he remembered every cursein every letter, because tiny baa wound through, the only days- of bis life tha* ■were worth living, those had Iki-ii wonderful days, fifteen yeans ago, and lie had beea a boy then on his father's farm, and she a rosy-cheeked girl, There was only a lane between the two iamts, an olu, ■unused lane even then, shut at the end to keep the stock from straying in. and it was there that the gioty ft his Jite Lad dawned to him.

It was a graesy lan>-, and the tail tvett> from either sid« gavo shade ' that was dappkd with gold in the early spring, deep and cool in the later mouthr, aud above the rotting fence ho could always see the face of the girl. She Lad curls that hang beside her cheeks, even past the ag-e wlien most girls put them up in combs and pits, and the curve of her laughing lip's had been one of the memories that wrung hw heart iii the empty years. He felt again a thrill of the rapture that had leaped through his blood in thee*: first spring days. At first she bad lingered, half bbyly, on her side of the lane with some pretence of gathering the tall red Bowers that grew in a patch there, and he had bung over the fence, his lingers aching to stroke the long yellow curls that were her pride. He had brought her Mowers then, the purple Hags that grew over by the» big spring bubbling in the lonesome hills, and hollyhocks stolen from the rector's garden. How she loved flower*! He had thought ■with eharp bitterness since how her passion, for them was to be gratified. Hut she was the one girl in tlte world to him then, and she had ever been, even when ehe broke his heart. He had remembered the blue of her eyas, and her voice, throughout everyHe bad remembered better than fce "wished. It was the memory of her yoke that had haunted him forever, calling to him across- the sunny meadows or •whispering a shy word in the beat of the noon; and even yet, when his hair was graying at the temples and he was- alone in the old farmhouse where his father and mother bad died, lie fancied sometimes that be heard her tanging in her father's milking-yard across tlie fields at dusk. He had even gotte uiwasily to the gate and listened and cursed bins-elf. This was the memory ho hated worst. of the horde that beset him, for it was tb'tj that wrought Irs niiu. the silver voice that ueed to float and trill in the country air. But his thoughts were.'mLcj,. ing rip. He looked down at {lie" bos nn j the seat and mused awhile on the childish girl with the curls. All that summer he. had worshipped and didn't know what was the matter with him, and in the winter he had lashed himself to church to watch her in the choir. Then bad come the glorious next spring, when one day he had kiesed her across the fence, and she bad run away blushing. He had grown a good deal, and she had let down her dres.vjs that year, and by fall be had told her what had been bursting his heart so long. Tba time which followed he eonld notdwell upon. It was more than he could bear. He had' never known that the world was so full of things to do—grand ihiDgs; nor that a human heart could bold so much glory. He had begun a little house on the corner of hir> old man's place, and she- was making quilts that she showed him. with red cheeks, when lie sat in her father's homely little parlor of Sunday nights. The rotting skeleton of the littV hon<-e was fitill standing. It was never finished. He bent down now and looked along (lie dark skyline. It was jutt visible above the undergrowth. She was busy with the needlework of her wedding things when Hie man from the city eame. He was white-hatred and benevolent, and 1m? had dropped into the quiet neighbourhood by accident. Hut he was tire harbinger "f evil to young John Urbine. It was at Kas'er-tido. and the women of the church had planned a time of prate, and r-.he was to sing a song alone-.

He recalled that splendid morning—the young sunlight., the spring tlunrpr*. tliecountry girfe in. their mns'lins, and her stepping out at last to life vp her wonderful sweet jrirT-vmrc. He bad >nt in a twW p°ir nod listened, stud fn't his vtt soul drift up on the bijrh white (.-lout's. ench power it p<-ee>»w:ed to make one forget the- cirth. And it. w.is« not until the {"•prices wer? rudely broken into by the old man binding up the aisle and catrhinz the yotinji girl by the arm to poor out a stream of exci'ed words, half in laughing- English and half, in tearful German, that be realised that something great bad Lappcned. Hit ifc bad.

That old man with the long white hair was a world tnast> r ami he claimed the startled girl as a gift from Heaven to the world of music. He remembered the day when (die lold him she was to be sent to the city, and then across the >ea. She was tearful and half rebellious, and clung to him., promising all fidelity, but. wer» strong, and tht little wings of ambition bad "already sprung up with a flutter in her soul.

So she went. Ami John Urbine was pick at soul with the missing her. The days that followed were long aud tilled with many diverse thoughts and fancies to the vonth working away on the little Louse. " Sometimes he pictured her as coming home to lead the choir—a glowing pinnacle for a girl to reach—and again lie was troubled with a vague fear that she might fail to win so far. But usually he was Jinn to his faith. And all tli<* time her letters came from the city. Slie was installed in a wonderful academy of music, and the white-haired master taught and scolded her. Then she was to go acnes .the se», and John Urbine was tilled with feir. In September she sailed. Those at home followed her in marvelling fancy. It was a greit das-tinction-for the neighbourhood. Still from Italy'Ler letters came. He bounded his days by those wh:--h saw the arrival of the, envelopes- with the foreign stamps. By spring they began to be scented satin heaviness, they bore wonderful talcs of triumph. She wa.s in a dream of amaze at' her own performances. Victories which were the nsual ■ reward of vears-were piling themselves upon the intoxicated head of the slender girl from ■ the New: England farm.-

Her voice was ;i passport to fauie. It was as a song from Heaven, and the. ever-ready arnw of the mighty weio being held "open to licr. Then ho saw her name ono d;iy slating at him from <_l"-' first I>ajx*> of "a sew.vpaper, and his pride swelled tr> adomtion. And ail this time ho had never doubted, had had not the slightest premonition of disaster.

She was already great. Two continents were paying her "tribute. And then one dav came the letter that he remembered bttt of everything, lie could repeat it all still. Aa he stared into the dusk its words and phrases pr.ssed through his mind, s.inging vet with their creulty. SLuj asked him to release her—she could not marry him now. Fame was more to her than anything else. She could not sacrifice her future—s-ho was not coming back to the farm. Life was too brilliant now. Ambition was riding rampant. Her love she said, had been but a childish fancy. And John Urbine had read the letter and stepped work on the little house. Also stopped hoping and believing and almost stopped living, so great had b-en his anguish. And after that he had become as he w;;s now, hard and embittered and unforgiving. Great talcis had come of her conquests, the courts she had visited, the lauds she had travelled, winning gold and applause, and her greatness had been <st'abl:shed these many years. The. neighbourhood died, married, and lived on, and he stayed on the old farm, though he never went to the shut-in lane. Then, last year the news sad conic suddenly, "like a fire in the night." She was dead.

Dead, in the south of France, and all her glory. Fvji then he had not forgiven her. He could not. That was many montlis ago. and Ijl l felt his heart harden against every gentle thought. .She had not loved him. That was the unbearable point. And driving home in the summer night from the station, he carried beside him on the seat a box sent to him from the Bcvond, directed in her own hand.

He put up the team feu- the night and took tlie box into the house. He lighted t has mo Iter's best lamp in the company I parlor, for some inner instinct made him I do involuntary homage to her greatness, [ and put the box on the centre table. He ! opened it and disclosed the shine of a | small but perfect phonograph. For a I moment the hideous commonalty of it i chilled him, he had not ken looking, for i anything. Tln-re was nothing in the box besidt?, I except a carefully protected package of records. With a' little wonder, he look out the machine and set it up. His hands did uot shake. He was dull and bitter. When ho had put it together he lifted the top record and set it in place. It se>-mt:d the obvious thing. Then he set it going, and set stiffly down in one of his mother's horse-hair chairs. There was no sound but the soft whirring of the instrument. He was alone with hj« old hard memories, the modern, which was- the best money could buy. and the stiff old parlor lighted dimly by the btst lamp. He sat upright, wondering. The machine purred softly for a moment, seeming to make the silence ready for something and then a voice came lightly drifting up i's silver throat, a woman' 6 voice—soft, undulating, vibrant- '* Johnny." it stud. The man on the chair started bolt upright. At that one word his soul leaped back to the beginning. It was her voice —her living voice—wi h all its old power of seduciJon. but fuller, richer, the woman'* voice grown conscious of its beauty. And then in the mellow light she began to talk to him from the place behind the veil, talk as if she nit aci'OMS there in the shadows somewhere and looked at bim wi;li her blue eyes. "It's a long time, Johnny. Fifteen years, isn't it? 1 was counting it up the other day as I lay watching the blue waters of the bay. ] was dreaming of Hie old lane and the red patch of- dragoulilies. " T wonder if the lain* is still there? 1 rould just how tlie trees leaned over it, and how green the grass was. ] know just how far up against your blue ' blouse the top rail of the fence us*-d t.o come. And T know that the sun turned to auburn the patch of brown hair that showed through the torn crown of vour old hat. - "And the day you ki.-s:''d me. across the fence. Have you forgotten it, Johnny ?'' The man shut his hands into lists, lying awkwardly on cither knee. "And the little house. I wonder if you finished it, and inayb" lived m it. with the wife you chose, for a while? Not for long. You were never improvident. I suppose there is a big white house on the south knoll by this time, and probably children scampering about. "I have often wondered about the li tie house. I have known for a long time how sweet it- would be to hear the bird's singing in the sunlit meadows, and I with another big bunch of.the r-ctor's hollyhock?. Those were happy days. And I put them all away and behind me, and broke my plight to^you. "It was wrong Johnny. I can tell you so now. But listen this is what I did it for. But on ti'ie next record lying there, and listen."' The voice and for a long still interval tlie man sat! without motion, listening to the whir of the machine. It was only when it said '"Johnny" once more that lie sprang up and pu f in the other record. He Kit down on the chair again, holding his breath. A few light note? from an orchestra floated into the stuffy ruom. [ Then arose a, woman's voice in the " Creation." Lightly af first, lifting and full of an awed -wonder, hesitating, waiting a moment, then swelling into full confidence —a soul turned loose the first morning in the wonder of the world. Swelling intonating, deeper as it went, the voice swept into full paean, rising in glory of adoration, jwaling in great; notes of golden praise, filling the place, and the silent night wi'hout with such, marvel of sound as: was beyond imagining. | The man's nai's cut into his palm*, ami within his throats a storm of tears ached for expression. On through the wonder of (hat splendid miit-ic s-iiig the great voice, through the agony of the fall, the dropping pathos of the" ejection, and at las!, crying through the |">nderne>s of the penitence. It s"l> li-d flown to the low soothing <\ideii/es at Mi" finis-h. and when it fe'l info silence a hush as of infinitude lay about. With hands that shook now in spile of himself, the man replaced (he record, and once more the woman he had loved spoke to him. "That is why, Johnny, and in one way it has been a glorious reason. I have been proud of it all. revelled in it from tlie bottom of my soul, because it was whatl I w;<s made for. " But now, at the la.-t. when it is nearly over and mr golden bubble is about to break. I can "tell you tin- one thing 1 have a fancy for your knowing. It )»■<>' be a passing incident to you; no doubt it will, buii I am wTrhnsical tln.se days, and this is inv metliojl of. telling yon. I am ai ranging *lhi.s all as I lie on a white terrace-above the sea. I could not sing like that now: it was taken atuiy hist, bull I can talk to you,' and • it is once again tlie girl across the fence. "And this is the .Eccret.' Johnny. It was false, that, letter of long ago, when I said I didn't love you false every word , of it.' I did then, only the allurements . ~f fame and glory made, me cruel and I : have .never ceased to love,you. I love ' vou still.", niy boy-lover of the, old lane.i i have been* as'true in heart as if I had • never left tlie farm. I have never Lad i but one idol on love's throne. 1 " And: aow -1 tell you -this,. and -am

satisfied. Tin's I have left until tho last. There -'remain* but my farewell to you, but I think I will sing it, Johnny; it is so much easier. Tho sunset to-night is red, like it. was one night in tho lune. Now, for the 'Farewell.'" The voice- ceased and (he gray-haired man in tlie chair rose and crossed the room unt-teadiiy. He dropped on his knees beside the table, clasping the silver-mounted box iu his arms, and his face fell on his mother's beet tufted cover. Tho tears thai, had -waited fifteen yearn for utterance foil upon the record of the " Creation."

He had forgiven,