BAWDS OF SILVER AND IRON.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 5256, 11 May 1895, Page 2

BAWDS OF SILVER AND IRON.

{The Wtmav. al Bomt.)

[BY Hirtl.BT PEKK.J " You are not won? who deem That my days have been a dream.. — Edgar A. Poe,

The Reverend Henry Wmfold was the rector of a small parish in Surrey. A student of no mean ability, a man of refined taste and culture, he had nevertheless for fifteen years isolatei himself from nil association that could have been congenial. .Burying his life iu the living tomb of thought and iraagina:ion, he gave to the world at rare intervals some choice and fini**hed work. In many ways he showed a strange diversity of talent ; having devoted most of his time to science when studying at the university, ho finally contracted his rejsarch to one branch of zoology ; yet while ctrryiog on his enquiry in this field, vrith ever increasing enthusiasm, he had at other times allowed his mind to wander in the wildest paths of imtginstion. Had his writings, therefore, been collected into one volume, they

I would have appeared ft strange assortment. Papers which had ciusoc unusual interest in tbe

lecienti6c world would Kave been bound up with whimsical fairy tales and wild, ghostly fictions.

It may bare been thifc in this solitary life his mind, relaxing from the strain of practical soiontiGc thought, retained its balance by these airy flights. He performed his duties as a clergyman in a way •vrhiob, -while scandalising one or two of the more orthodox of his parishioners, proved perhaps by the result lo be more successful than might have been expected. He seldom visited any member of his flock — a small and scattered one — unless invited to do so. His sermons also took up but little of his time, for. by

nature ho was a ready rod even eloquent speaker, ond he relied most entirely upon the hour set apart before each service to furnish the required headings for his discourse.

It is certain, howerer, that notwithstanding his defects, he was moie respected and even liked than many an energetic parish priest ; and if he did less good than some, he certainly was innocent of much harm which often attends the wellintentioned interference of our spiritual guides.

At the age of forty he was still unmarried, nor did it appear likely that he would materially change his mode of life. Loneliness was a feeling foreign to his nature, and so absorbed was hia mind in scientific research that he seldom found the hours bang heavily; but if, as sometimes happened, he became weary of abstract thought, ho had but to allow his mind to wander into those paths of fancy, where for the time ho could live among hia own creations and wander in a land of

quaint and pleasant dreams. Each -car as it passed seemed to bring no change, but time had none the less left its ineffaceable marks; for this absorption of miad, this lonely inner life, half real and half fantastic, which he had at first allowed and encouraged, nov held him with tbe iron bando of habit which, though he little knew it, wero beyond his strength to break through.

An a rule such minds do not realise their bondage, but contentedly pass along the path chosen, doing much useful work until the end; and bo it might have been in Henry Winfold's case, had net Eileen Halsford crossed his path and disturbed the smooth current of his life.

One bright morning in June the rector had walked some distance from his home to the outskirts of a small wood. Beside this wood was a still, clear pool of water, an aquarium rich in animalcules. Here, at this time of the year, he hoped to find some species of the beautiful Yolvocina. While bonding over the water, intently watching some of the insect life that fed so greedily upon his favourite infusoria, his occupation was : disturbed by a shadow; and there, looking up at him from the water, were two solemn eyes set in a face, the expression of which told half of amusement, half of curiosity.

He turned quickly round and confronted the substance of the shadow. A child was standing close bcsido him, looking down at the pool, evidently trying to discover the cause of his interest. Aa she bent ovor, her long fair hair hung down, screening the . face, from his /view, so he wai obliged to again tal£e a look at it from tha watery mirror. When he had done this, he waa "confirmed in his first impression that hia companion waa a more than usually pretty child; but when a moment afterwards she turned toward him with a faint, shy blush, ho saw that there was more than common beauty in the face*. There lay, beneath the pretty surface colour and the pure, delicato features, that indescribable expression of thoughtful innocence which may be seen on a few girlish faces, when childhood .has not yet dreamed of womanhood, yet where the mind has matured more rapidly than tbe body.

Eileen Halsford was at this time about fifteen years old; and the friendship of these two, the absorbed man of forty and the merry, thoughtful child, may be said to have begun from that day. It is true that in a certain sense he had known her from her birth upward, having in fact christened her, but it was while talking to har on thia bright sunny morning, and answering her eager questions, that the face [first became fixed in his mind, tho owner of which was t*> influence hia whole after lifel

It was characteristic of the man, that while in the years gone by ha had avoided women, and neither sought their company in life nor pictured tho pasr ion of lovers in his writings, this child sboijld be tho first to teach him tbe meaning of love. Had sho been one whit more woman, one whit less child, it is more than probable his fancy would have disregarded her; but, innocent of danger, he let her image wander undisturbed in his world of dreams, until at last her . presence seemed u necessary part of hia imaginary life.

And what of the reality? Eileen Halsford, if not all that Henry Winfold painted her, was indeed a 'bright and interesting girl; somewhat spoiled, as indeed might bo expected, for she was an only child and motherless. Her father, how. ever, loved her with a double love, for at his wife's death all the affection which he had divided between them became concentrated upon his daughter.

Mr Halsford was a landed proprietor of rather limited means and somewhat limited abilities, but he was a true gentleman both by education and heart ; a combination which unfortunately is nob too common. He had loved his wife with a devotion which was little short of idolatry, and when she died three years after their marriage and two years after Eileen was born, he received a shock from which he had never recovered. All tho interests of life had slipped away from him with tho one exception of his child. On her ho devoted all his affection and well-nigh all his time ; as she grey older he taught her himself with an unwavering patience, which made up for any possible want of skill. Ho rode with her, played with her, &nd was in fact her almost only companion.

Litre many men similarly situated, it was with difficulty that he restrained a feeling of jealousy when she was surrounded by others, or showed some partiality to a stranger. Yet, bad in many ways as this bringing up may seem, it had hardly in this case proved so; for as the child grew older she devolopsd not only into a bright, healthy girl, but alto exhibited, both by word and deed, a thoughtful and loving nature.

When she had reached the ago of seventeen, her father was suddenly attacked with a fatal complaint. He had for many years been m weak health, but tbe end was rapid and unexpected. For some time he strove to deceive himself, but when at length he was unable any longer to doubt the truth, ;hat death was near at hand, distress for his child overwhelmed all other feelings. He tried in vain to think of someone in whose care he might leave her, but he had livod so much alone that, turn his mind where he would ho could remember no suitable friend or relative. At last in despair he sent for Henry Winfold.

The two had been at college together, and though their companionship had never ripened into true friendship, they had always continued to be what the world calls friends.

"I am," said Mr Halsford, when the clergyman came up to his bedside, "in great distress. The doctor has warned me that I have at most only a few weeks more to live,and what will become of my child? Oh, my poor Eileen! Tou know I have been all in all to her. Who will look after her when I am gone?"

Very sodly his companion looked down upon the dying marr. Then taking his thin, feverish hand in his, he spoke. "lam indeed torry my friend, to see you so

ill. It seems impossible to beliovo what you say, or to realise that you are going so soon to leave ua. Perhaps the doctor is taking too gloomy a view, but with regard to your child, what can I say ? How can I tell you my feelings, without perhaps adding to your anxiety ? Yet it is only right that I should do so, seeing that you have confided your trouble to me. I love her."

The dying man looked up in speechless bewilderment as the rector continued speaking :

"I believe that for more than two years I have loved her. She has been the silent companion of my thoughts ; the bright spot that ha3 surrounded my dreams, inspiring me with new hopes and now longings that I had never before known, I do not think that I should ever havo spoken had not this circumstance compelled mo. What am I, a man over forty, that I should dare to hope that such a child could care for me ? What attraction could a young and beautiful girl find in a middlcagcd student — in a dreamer of dreams? No, it is preposterous and absurd! Hei* fitting companion should be one full of life and youth; one who has, like herself, a future still unexplored, and who would see it tinted with the rainbow colouring of hope;' not one who has passed through the archway, and having reached the other side, finds his pleasure hanging on the cobweb of fancy."

Mr Halsford lay on his bed listening. As the rector went on speaking* the. look of bewilderment changed slowly into one of intense interest, and when there was at last a pause, he said:

"You have indeed taken me by surprise, for although I haye often noticed that you showed an interest in mj child, the thought of you and lore, Ist alone of love for her, has never for a moment crossed my mind. Yet, if it is as you say, which I cannot doubt, and you love her, I fail to see the difficulties you suggest. You are still, if not a young man, in the prime of life, strong and active ; and she, though, as jou say, little more than a child, has always been ured to associate with those older than herself, and is in mind far more advanced than most girls of her age. I doubt myself that your youthful and inexperienced boy would either please or satisfy her; but the point is this — you know a dying man must come to the point as quickly as he can — do you, supposing Eileen is willing — do you wish to marry herr"

His companion simply answered, " I do ; " but there was suoh a. fervent tone in the accent of these two words that they appealed more eloquently to the father's heart than a much longer declaration might have done.

"Very woll," Mr Halsford continued, "it is better that you should at present leave this entirely to me. I have yet the sad task of telling my daughter that we must soon part, and I shall then take the opportunity of finding out whether there is any hope for you. Of this, however, ba assured — I shall dio in peace if I can entrust her to vour care."

And it came to pass that tho father's wish waa fulfilled, and that be died in peace with his daughter's arms around him, and tbe man who had premised to love end care for her standing beside his bed ; and when all was over, and death had silently passed his cold hand over the fevered body, leaving the features calm and white like those of a sculptured figure, Henry Winfold drew tho weoping girl away; and* she, in the passion of her grief, clung to him even as a little child will cling to a stranger's hand when it finds itself suddenly in deep darkness.

Six months after this the rector broke, as he thought, the bonds of his past life and took to his home a child-bride. For him now dreams were to bo changed for even sweeter reality, and fancy was to find at last her more perfect fulfilment. Yet though iron may be broken and bars of steel snapped asunder, who shall deliver us from tho unyielding bands of habit? It may be that we shall leave them behind when we slip out of the body, but not till then.

For some months after his marriage, Henry Winfold seems to have retained his freedom. The novelty of his position, the depth of hia love, and the bright, fresh influence freed him for the time. Life waa a veritable idyll. From the depths of his own nature he seems also to have filled the heart of tho girl he loved with new thoughts and hopes, and at' length with the verr deepest affection. Before her marriage itis probable that, though she liked him and was grateful for his kindness, she never even knew the meaning of love. He no doubt realised this; and month by month it must have been a delightful task teaching her the lesson and watching the slow but sure development in altered look and manner, in all the little changes which are so noticeable,- yet so impossible to describe.

The better port of the year went by pleasantly, bringing to both husband and wife more joy than is often allotted to mortals ; and in due course a child was born to them, and they called her Violet, for sho came in the spring-time, when the year was bright with the promise of summer. But tho life of the little child was well-nigh as brief as tbe flower after which they named ber ; and when the swallows returned to build tbeir nests in the church porch, thoyformed it from the new-turned ground beneath which Violet slept; and they wondered, as they circled round in the evening light, at those two dark figures which came at sunset to cover the little mound with

flowers,

It is doubtful if the death of their child had much to do with tho course which these two lives before us were destined to take. It may only have hastened perhaps by a few months the beginning of an inevitable end. It is, however, certain that about this time Henry "Winfold once more resumed his old lifo of thought and study, doubtless at first as a relief from present trouble; yet it is reasonable to suppose that sooner or later he would have done the same in any case, and with the return of his old occupations the mind want back into its well-worn grooves. Not that he loved hia wife less, but rather that tho power of heart had by want of use become so weakened that tbe forces of tbe mind over-ruled it, carrying away its very attempts at expression into their own region.

In tbe meanwhile we can well imagine with what sorrowful, wondering eyes his child-wife must have regarded him. To her the change would have been inexplicable, save by the bitter thought that his love for some reason had diminished. Brought up as she had been by her father, a man whosa brain lacked the very qualities whioh were here seen developed into deformity, ahe was mora than usually unfitted to understand her husband.

At last one day her sorrow found expression. It was on a summer evening, while the two were sitting alone together in the garden. They had both been silent for some time. The husband's thoughts, wandering far into the region of fancy, were weaving and unweaving the concluding threads of a story, which for some weeks he had been engaged in. The present had vanished; he lived only in the life of his characters, feeling their pain or pleasure aa only a true artitt can.

All this time his wife sat watching him, noticing each change of expression, wondering what could be passing in his mind, what the strange absorption could be. At last she spoke.

" Tell me what you aro thinking about so deeply. For moro than half an hour you have not said a word nor looked up, though your wife has been waiting for some token of recognition, though the sunset has been more beautiful than usual; while the very birds have been trying to rouse ycu with their songs. Aro you ill, or is there somo trouble which you are hiding from me? Often lately I bavo noticed that look upon your face. Can it be that you are tired of your wife? That you havo discovered at last, what you Bhould have known before, that a child is a poor companion for a clever man ? Say, are ycu weary of having me always with you ?"

While she thus spoke the rector looked round, at first as though half confused to find himself again on common earth. He had been deeply interested in the meeting of two of his characters whom some unkindly fate had kept for long apart. He was listening to their words, watching the joy upon their faces, when his wife began to speak. But before she had finished he got up, shook himself free from his dream, and bending over her, answered the last question by closing the drooping lips with a kiss. "You silly baby," ho said. "I was but following tho course of true love through the ruffled waters. Tho tale I am writing is near completion, and at tho close of a race the interest is most engrossing. To fancy that I should tire of you— you who first taught me how to open the door of love, and now blame me because tbe many pleasant pictures found within sometimes

tum my thoughts from my teacher. I beliflre you are jealous of somo of my heroines. Now, tell mc, which one might it be? Helen, with the dark hair and thoughtful eyes; or Mary Vane, the pretty, wilful flirt? Ab, now confess !"

Thus, half playfully, he would laugh at her words, misunderstanding the sorrow that prompted them ; as she on her side was unable to understand a love that expressed itself chiefly inimagi-

nation.

Time moved on, and now fully twenty years had passed since Henry Winfold had been married. His hair waa white, his eye dim, bis body prematurely old. He bad lived so many lives, passed through so many passions, that ha seemed more like a man of eighty than of sixty. Ho was dying. As the end drew near the oppressive weight of habit, which had made him during the latter yeara of his life little better than an originating machine, seemed to loosen its hold upon him. His eyes seemed to rest again upon hi3 youthful wife, even as sho had appeared in tbo days when it was joy onoufjh for him to look at her. He saw the pretty bashful face turned up to him, kindle with a wakened tenderness. He heard her speak, in that half-timid qucstioning voice, while thoy talked together of the eternal joy of love. Again he fancied he could see her busy with somo household duty, turning at times to him for approval, even as a child will turn to its parent, when playing at 'some pretended work. And then at last he pictured her with that new, sweet toy, the little infant Violet, that was <to be taken so soon from its mother's arms. How fondly she bent over it, while it lay folded against her breast, With what terrified wonder ahe looked on the lifeless body, from which it Beamed impossible to believe that the spirit had so soon gone. Ho could recall now, how when the funeral was over she had come and knelt down by his aide and, pressing her head upon his knee, had sobbed ae though her heart woidd break, seeming to ask for comfort, while he strove in vain to speak.

While Henry Winfold was lying, disturbed by such bitter thoughts, the door of his room was softly opened, and his wife came on toward him, with the slanting rays of the declining sun falling upon her. She was now no longer the brightand merry girl of hia past recollection; but a sweet and noble woman, showing on her face the traces of a trouble bravely borne. On those lips, that had once been so ready to smile, there lay an expression of patient expectation, made slightly mournful by hope too long deferred. But tho lore that had been once awakened in her eyes, was there still, changed only in that it seemed to come less from tho bright surface and more from the depth beneath.

She went up to tho sick man, and pressing her cool white hand upon his forehead, was about to speak; but he stayed ber with a sign and, lifting himself up in the bed, drew her closer and yet closer to him. His voice, when he spoke was no longer feeble; bis eye no longer dim. The passions of remorse, of love and pity, give bim for a moment tha energy, and almost the appearance, of joutb.

"Eileen, my wife, my love!" he began. " How can I ask you to forgive me ? Now that death is so near, I seem for the first time for nearly ttrenty years to live. I aee at last the horrible selfishness and madness of my past. What could have been moro cruel; and yet I did not mean it, but waa blinded. I took you to bo my wife when love was but a name to you. I tried my utmost, and believed tbat I succeeded, in teaching you to love me; and then when you most needed it, at the time of all others that I should have been all in all to you, I allowed the habit of past years to gain its old power over me, never thinking that while I was dreaming of love, and making fair pictures for others, you were waiting there alone, missing all the sweetness of life."

She tried to atop him, but ha would not be silenced.

"No, no," he continued. "It is not that I loved you less. In every thought and picture that my mind created, you were there ; for in them we moved together, loving and happy ; yet all the while I left you grieving. Oh, it is possible that you can cara still for me? "'hat tou do not rather hate, or at beat.pity me aa the. worthless fool I am."

"Do not, oh, do not talk like this, my husband," ahe answered, folding her arms round him and supporting his head upon her breast. " I love you, of course I love you ! Bettor than life — better than joy. Do you fancy, that though at first in my ignorance I was distressed and wondered that you were so much absorbed, I did not soon learn to understand ? Do you think that when I read your writings, I did not in time discover the secret of thos* distracted looks and words? Do you think that I could ever have loved you one whit less whatever you had done, or left undone; for did I not love you, gov, yon?" She stopped to kiss him, to look into his eyes, to pour aa it wero her very heart into his. The pent-up passion of her soul at lost let loose, overflowed now without restraint or check.

"Oh! what have I missed!" aaid the dying man, " and even in yeara gone by I wnshelpleisly conscious of my loss, only it seemed impossible to find release. We have, alas, missed our perfect communion hore; but I feol that the bands are breaking. I shall be released — released at last. Tbe cruel chains are falling off that bave kept me from you. Can you not hear them, as they drop, link by link, slowly to tho ticking of tho clock ?"

With a sharp struggle he moved up, so that his face might be close to hers; and, while looking deep down into her eyes, he murmured, " I am free!" Then as their lips touched each other he

sighed,