THE HORSE-HAIR SOFA.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 8309, 6 May 1905, Page 2

THE HORSE-HAIR SOFA.

An Old Haa'! Heja&exiei.

(By DORA 6IGERSON SHORTER.) Author of " A Question of Courage," "The Fairy Changeling," eto.

I never leave the little room without a backward glance — a glance almost of farewell. For one may come in the night and forbid me ever tp re-enter there^as one did speak and whisper to my Clotilda so that she grew still and white and strange, and oame into the little room no more nor sang again through the house like the goldenthroated songster thai she was. Ohl Clotilda I have not yet forgiven you this— though I am -old and go to meet you soon— _hat_eyery evening you should have met me it the door, and with your soft arm about my neck should have brought me in from ehe darkness to the joy and comfort, to the sweet memories of that little room. Seated besides me on the horse-hair sofa, you let me pour into your ear the continual story of my hopes and my endeavours. Then on the eve of their fulfilment to have gon© from me I To have stolen, away in the night without a word, a kiss, or the promise of another meeting 1 To have gone, Clotilda, and to have left me stunned, aghast, my life ruined, and I unmanned 1 Oh, God! Clotilda you were cruel that night, that last night, when you lay and looked upon me with halfclosed eyes. I wept sore tears and clung to you, but you did not care nor change t_e cold smile upon your mouth. I wept great hot tears such as I never had wept before, and you who were all gentleness did not care. I prayed, God, how I prayed for pne little word, one kind word, but you would not answer. And when I cried to Heaven to send you back in yew warm loveliness, you still lay quiet and looked past and beyond me with your cold smile, and inscrutable gaze. This did you do, Clotilda, and I could not believe, but thought it all a cruel jest, tilV across the passage from the nursery came the cry of your child.. Hungering in the night he called upon you and you did not answer. Oh, Clotilda, it was strange to see, for the baby li^s were sweet upon their cry of mother, and he had but iust learnt % tender name. Yet to his loud calling you did not answer, but lay with that strange smile upon your Ups, so I knew you were lost indeed. . Gone, gone, somewhere beyond one's thought. JNo earthly bonds, no heavenly gates oouW have kept you back from that cry, unless your loving woman's heart Were dead. No spirit of you returned to hush the ohila with its unseen pw* sence, or to lay a comforting hand upon mv burning eyes ! ■„_,-_ Where did you go, Clotilda ? You were too much a woman, dear, to sit amongst the saints and hear our cries untroubled. You were too good, too holy. too wonderful to have mixed and mingled with the black earth and lived no more. , But i you cold and unapproachable in the little room that knew you $o/well, that jw4 heard the shrill note of your childish voice grow into the slow music of a woman's. There, Clotilda, I saw you first, shy and ashamed, a baby maid beside jw mother's knee. You looked upon me under your dark brows with much distrust, as weUyou should, 7or I was but a sad knight for so fair a lady You, at your mother's bidding, lifted for my embraOe your red mouth, your little flower face, your two dimpled y handa, and I, I refused to taj Clotilda, dolt, and fool 1 I refused to kiss Clotilda.- . . „ , . ■- True, when I left your side and went to climb the horse-hair sofa, ! per; formed there all the most wonderful tricks I was capable of-r-for ypu.alone,. and when I -lid at last down the glossy surface to the floor I saw the admiration grow in your eyes, and the evident desire to know, so fine a fellow. So I took my courage in my two hands, and moved towards you. Mahy an awful moment have I bad since be- ■ r.eath the eyes of women, when my mind sought in vain for some subjeot to interest them, but never. a moment so terrible as that, when I stood before your deep baby gaze, and did not know what to say. My downcast eyes resting at last upon my shuffling feet, f^und there inspiration. I leaned towards you and inquired— had you Joops to your 1 boots. You thawed to me at once, for your sweet vanity was touched, and 'you thrust a little foot forward for me to see, clad in a tiny shoe, also informing me — "hpni eoitqui inal y pense," — that you had red garters. So our friendship grew with many a question and whispered confidence, soon you told me you would be "a lady" when you grew up, and at my scornful laughter tossed your pretty head. "Being a lady's nothing," I said, "anyone can be a lady." You answered me, proudly, right as you always were: "No, they can't, rude boy. I ani going to be a real lady." And what more beautiful ambition than thin, in its full meaning. Often in Ireland, have I heard it used ef the sweet maid of Nazareth herself, " she was a real Uyly." ' But I did not see then, for my eyes had not long been opened to the world, and saw but little save my own affairs. I turned upon you with my usual pompousness. "Guess what lam going to be, it begins with an X." You guessed Zebra, and would not admit that my superior knowledge, which I hastened to thrust upon you, was right, you 1 still held to Xebra, though I vowed it began with a Z, but when I starred to spell it, I forgot the other letters. We quarrelled, I remember, over the spelling, and to hush your anger, for I could not bear your coldness even then, I gave my secret away : "I am. going to be an executioner, and I am going to chop the heads off all the people in the world." • "Not mother's?" you inquired nervously, arid for your sake I spared her, indeed, with your troubled eyes upon me, I came to the conclusion I would, spare everyone, and I magnanimously did— " except cats," I added, as a sop to my own feelings. " I will cut the heads off all the cats and kittens in the world." At that, the corners -of your sweet mouth began to quiver, the blue of your eyes to cloud, arid I in haste took your hand and drew you up to introduce you to the horse-hair sofa. There I discovered to you the way to slide and bounce and tumble-^ ay—even head downward, from the curled arms to the slippery seat, and from thence to the flppr. Cruelly did the voices of our elders break in upon us calling us to part, though when overcome with sorrow at losing my sweet playfellow I held out my freckled face to kiss yp u good-bye You,, Clotilda, refused/ and hid your laughing mouth in your two naughty hands, so that my kiss felljloudly upon the golden enris that tossed about your forehead. When^ou were gone the I shadows < seemed to fall, even then as! they always did afterwards when you left m_j growing 'heavier as the years passed and you grew ever more dear, always more dear, though eve. y time i we met I would, say it was ''impossible'' to enfold you with .greater love, yet .1 each 'day -I whispered "I hold yoh still dearer than before." - ■■■ But when you left me that first morning, so. long ago, I lifted a .wbe-begone face to the sweet woman whq bent ' above me/ "I want a mother with a face like Clotilda's," I said," who will jump Upon the sofa with me always." She only laughed, the dear woman, and then understood. " My lonely little

son," she said, and eiged. I did not hear her sigh, but know it must have come, for there lay a 1 little grave in the ! churchyard, hard by, whose tenant had once called her mother too. That tenant -she. holds now as she once held me, and perhaps her sigh comes for the child who is— as the other was then — outside her world. Still to tease me as she bent above me in that long, long ago. she said -he would go and send you, Clotilda, tp be my mother. But I held her tight, and vowed I would not have her go, pot even for you, "I will have two mothers," I cried, and she held me to her softly understanding that^ " mother " meant to me a friend above all others to be loved. And so one day she went to the little one in the churchyard, putting first Clotilda's hand in mine, "Take my place to him, Clotilda," she said, "be to him a mother as well as a wife. Ha is such a dear child." That was when she lay upon the horse-hair sofa, wrapped in warm shawls that could not keep her from growing chill. It was there, too, you found me when she had gone,- and you had lifted my wet face upon your soft, young shoulder with many a pitying word. But when first I learnt to love you I knew nothing of these things, death, and despair. "My little world held only us two— and the horse-hair sofa. True, those other people who conducted our little planet were there, but, of course, .1 was sure of them always, so they did not count. There were ever the kind arms of my mother to run to when I was hurt or wea^y, ever her gentle voice to comfort or advise, /and that other mother who was necessary only because she brought you, whose kiss I coldly returned, whose advances I held aloof from, because she took my mother away, to her own old world where I could not follow or understand their dry talk. " How car* you listen to her P" I said to my mother onoe. That was when you were left at home, Clotilda, and my mother had risen hom[ a game upon the horse-hair sofa, "she talks such nonsense." But my mother laughed and bid me be good; then forgot me who Bat grieving* There were gay days and doleful days with you, sweet, even then, for you were wilful, and treated me when you found I was your slave with scant respect. There were days when I rode hundreds of miles on the horse-hair sofa, to free you from a fiery dragon. Then you scolded me and bid me wash my face before 1 pressed the kiss upon your brow that was to awaken you from your deadly swoon. Cruel Clotilda, you left me too, I remember, to die in the lonely desert without food or water, watched only by my faithful steed, the horse-hair sofa. And all this because in waving to you, most lovely Arab maiden, my handkerfhief, wet with the blood of a hundred savages I had already slain, I shook from its folds a dead, but dear and too long cherished mouse. Rudely was I lifted from the sands pf the desert by the rough people your screams had summoned. Ay, I who had slain alone and unaided a hundred savage men, was there and then smacked by a sullen housemaid. But there were gay days too, my Clotilda. There was that lovely morning when' l was sentenced to death by a cowardly enemy. It was then you made your terrible ride, with my reprieve, Day and night you rode untiring, lashing with one white hand your foaming steed, holding the other high above your head all the way that I might see the precious parchment you carried. How I watched you forcing a path through the cheering Orowds. '<■ You will never be in tame," I shouted, for death was very near, the executioner was sharpening his knife upon his hone. My enemy , Stood by, his lips curled in the ususd sneer enemies carry; on such occasions. ;" Your hour has come," he said, and I putjny l.cad upon the block— the arm of the horsehair sofa-~but no; the brave maiden was in time, only Just in time- You lauug the reprieve in the villain s face. Leaping to the ground, you forced your last cup of wine down the threat of your dying steed— the other arm of ?L horseiafr sofa. Then, only then did you falter, courageous 'girl, and staggered fainting into my arms. _ But ere they closed upon you, fickle Clotilda; you sprang Iside « And now let us play another game," you said. . That was the day you were stolen from meT ay, at the very altar rails, by a band of wild brigands. I, robbed o? my bride, Aung myself ujton my willSg charger to the rescue. Slowly, slowly! did I gain upon them, for their Eds were weary and no match for, my Se^Ralph. Neck to nect : did wo irSTue mad gallop, till with t^won£rf ul Play jofw -word l**%"% h Anf!* the wedding bells rang after au and we were wed with no one in the cnurch but ourselves I bgg bridegroom, priest, father and best X'^nd 'yo F u being bride an d . six bridesmaids, and a cr o w ?ed & nd enthusiastic audience. Then I led my blushing bride to her carriage, earned her home, breakfasted her, r received ncr hundreds of friends, all of the highe-t nobility, looked on her thp usands^ of wedding presents, and finally departed on a tour round the world. And all this— oh, blessed childhood— between the slippery arm- of—the horse-hair B °But, ah ! Clotilda, more wonderful than all this was the day, the_ golden never to be forgotten day, . when the wedding bells rang for us m earnest. There were no gorgeous crowds then, no prancing steeds to befrr our guests away, no spread of giftß, no prolonged tour to follow. In the little church— l waited, waited, with my heart on fire, flaying to myself continually, she will never coriie, it is impossible that she shculd give herself to me;" And then, Clotilda, through the door, where the sunshine flooded, you came, and I started forward so eagerly that someone laughed, but one kind woman said "God bless the Bweet Colleen/ and I firing her a glance of gratitude. And then you were by my side, and all the time I never saw your eyes, only the long lashes lying pnv yonr cheeks.. I take thee, Clotilda, to have and to hold, to have and to hold from this time forward, oh! sweet white girlmy heart lay in ail humbleness at your feet. Take me and use me as you will. I take thee, Clotilda, -fee cherish and worship thee. Ah! Bee the shrinking maiden, frightened yet all eager , to come into my keeping, see the drooping head with its wealth of thick curls shakeri around the hiding face,, seethe slim band half drawn from my own, arid the dear finger, I kiss, a hundred times, that bears my ring, coriie to me Wife, Clotilda! Clotilda l ". Till death do us part." Who sa,id those, werds up° n *bat golden day to cast a shadow on my joy. Was it. my Ups that spoke such words, "till death I .us' do part," can death then end all this, our love. Not * mine^ riot mine. Like some, poor lost hound shall Tlie outside the doors of Paradise, wherein : you are enclosed, till soine pitying arigel shall let me through,- so I shall seek you there in the wide spaces of death as I seek you ever here, never believing you can be lost to me for ever. But I do not lose you wholly in the ' little room, # even as s £ bid it a lingering gobd-nigbt. I see yba upon the horse-hair sofa, smiling at me, sometimes as a young child, more often as a young maid. Last flight I Sat there in the empty room with the sense/ of my great loss full upon me, and my

f_rev bead drooped in its grief upon the arm of the horse-hair sofa till I wept, and lo! your fingers were upon, my arm. „ „ "I am sorry, you said, ever so scftly. " I danced with Robin" last night.'" _ , , . I seized your two hands in mine and pulled to my own your flushed face, so tho gold curls swept my forehead with a touch hot as fire. "Then kiss and make friends," I said, but you drew away with laughter, and ran from the room, and I, starting to follow you, saw my trembling old.hands stretched out to embrace you—ah, no; Ah, no 1 These were not the hands that caught you. , • i How the old clock ticks standing so tall in its corner. Only once in all my years did I know it to stop. It was the night of Hallow's Eve, and you had promised to answer a question I would ask you at nine that night on the horse-hair sofa. "Be there," . I said, with that in my voice that warned you I was not to be trifled" with, for ?r"ou had danced' twice with Robin Cal_ ihan, under my very eyes. I knew you would come if you promised, Clotilda, yet I sat and waited in vain. It was a quarter to nine by the old clook, and I closed my eyes, for they were hot with anger and hope. What I wanted to ask you set my heart beating; but when I raised my lids again after what I thought had been a lon£ rest, I saw the old clock was still pointing to a quarter to nine. It startled me, Clotilda, like a bad omen. It was as though the hour would never come for my happiness, and I sat up and swore in its'face in no gentlemanly manner. But the old clock did riot wince under violence. It only gazed blankly upon me and laughed. It laughed, Clotilda-— a low, lovely laugh j as if all the sweet chimes had run j down together. I sprang to its door I and flung it open, finding you—you in the dark case like _ rosy bud in its sheath.. All dimpled with laughters all shining in your white robe. And I drew you forth looking so foolish, Clotilda, for ypu all but fell, and my arms were quick to support you. It waß to revenge that, that you began to torture me, arid would not answer the question I asked you upon the horsehair sofa, but left me with your scornful laughter hurting my ears. A dozen times did I ask you the same question, and every time you answered me No I A dozen times I bid you farewell and vowed I would see you no more, and every time I would look back and firid you watching me, daring me to go. I vowed I was not the man to stand such scorning, and that I was done with such a cruel maid for ever, and next morning I would Tbe at your feet again. You would come along the road with your head high and your pretty curls bobbing around your rosy cheeks, and you would stop.and greet me a sweet good morrow, as if we were the best of friends. Or perhaps.from your window you would lean tending your flowers—and throw a blossom at my avert* ed face. s But the day came at last when I held you all my own. The day your little spaniel fell into the river and was in danger of death. " Let Robin go," you said, when I flung my hat aside and was preparing tp Spring into the water, and Robin shot past me to save tbe beast. "Always Rabin," I said bitterly, "you always put him first—even tp save your dog." " Better him, than you," I heard; you whisper, and did not. understand it was. your fear for my safety that bid you stop me, and then you cried aloud a sudden ory that turned me to the water,. Robin was drowning.. For a moment I stopped <on the brink, thinking of my hatred. Only a moment, thank God, before the icy waters quenched the jealous fire of my jjieart. Thrice did the poor-lad pulL me underneath while your little dog! scrambled over us trying to get afoot* ing; once did I draw Mm up for his own sake,* and twice for yours, and then somehow I got him to the bank. The terror of death was on him, and his arm clasped my neck, while he strove to lift himself above the water upon my body. * I heard a shrill volley pf barking somewhere on the bank, and your voice calling, calling, I could not know what. Then when I strove to answer you and tell you Robin was safe, a blinding thrust from his closed hand, carried him to the bank, and sent me down beneath the water. There was a terrible moment of suffocation'and a long, sweet dream of you, and then came unconsciousness. But when life returned to my heart that lovely dream began once more. I lay upon the horse-hair sofa, you kissing the red back to my cheek.. You were no coward under my eyes, but like the true woman that you were, you whispered your love, weeping for my little hurt, praying my pardon for your sweet wilfulness in hiding your secret so long, and weeping afresh at your remembered cruelty. "If you had died without knowing," you said. And so I won you, my Clotilda, on the gladdest day pf that glad year, when I awoke to life and love indeed. In tbe silence that followed when we saji hand in hand upon the horse-hair sofa, our hearts too fun for language, but our '^eyes telling all we would say, I hoard coming through the opera windowon the spring air the chatter of busy birds j consulting each others about their nests, and you smiled when a little fellow stopped to gaze upon us from the sill, a bunch of stolen grasses in his bill. "He is saying 'lope no time,'" I whispered, and you hid your blushing face upon my shoulder. . Life <is long," you said—ah, my Clotilda! " life is long." Do you remember, one morning in the peaceful years that followed, how you brought me into this very room. You bid me be still and listen at the door, And so I heard the voice of our little child playing on the horse-hair sofa. "De robbers have throwed you into the rubber to drown, and I must wide like j anyfing to save you from getting ded." " £.nd I'll have to, drown out of the wftter," said another voice, " Tos I've dot on new shoes." "How time repeats itself," you said, Clotilda, and yoil smiled, "Oh, the dear, old sofa." Then came the silent time., the awful silent time, when you left me, and I had not grown old. Then I had not grown patient; then no sweet dream of you would come and sit upon the horse-hair sofa> so we could talk together as we do now—the long years when I was young. But now lam old, Clotilda, and rest in my corner listening as childish voices come high'and : shrill from their throne upon the ! horse-hair sofa in some hot battle against dreadful odds, or whispering in some deeply-laid plot to overcome their hiding enemies. •'■'••'_' Once a shrill treble rose above the others. " Im' going to be a real lady when I'm growed up." And".l, dreaming in my chair, spoke aloud. '. ;. "A lady's being nothing; anyone can be a lady." The. childish voices stepped a moment, then a boy's whispered through the stillness: — j "It's, only grandpa groaning in his chair, he is so old. Come> let us play, agaim" And now they, too, are gone, and I sit alone in the silent rpom-— waiting—waiting :^-wa-ti--g.