"THE ROADMENDER."

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10440, 20 April 1912, Page 4

"THE ROADMENDER."

''The Roadmender," that little booli which made its appearance about ten years ago, has just come out in its twenty-ninth edition. The book is loved and read all over the world, and the name of "Michael Fairless" is on the list of many a reader's best-beloved authors: but to the identity of the writer there has been no clue, and as so little # else' has come from the same pen, readers have speculated in vain as to the authorship of the rare .little book. ( Now, after a whole decade, we read something more of the writer. In tho London "Evening News" Mr Arthur Machon tells us that "Michael Fairless " was a woman—a fact that does .not surprise us. Ho also tells us, to our great regret, that t&a died ten years ago. Ho does not tell us' her real name, for her identity was known only to a very small circle of friends, and they have accepted a sacred charge of silence on the subject. The writer did not wish her' name to be known because she dreaded publicity, and, secondly, because in "The Roadmender" she revealed herself. The book is the story of her own soul. 1 It is only through the extreme courtesy and kindness of "Michael Fairless's" greatest friend, that I am able to give some particulars of a writer of extraordinary charm, originality and sweetness," says Mr Machen. "I* went a few days ago to a house in the midst of a wood, and on a hilltop, and here, looking out on a land of rolling hills and ancient forest, I heard what could honourably be told about the dead writer.

" 'Michael Fairless,' " said her literary executrix, " died at the age of thirty-three, of a combination of painful internal disorders. And the book in which you are interested was written during her long death agony; which, indeed, was no agony at all, for she feared neither death nor anything else. I had known her for some time. She was staying with me whon the first symptoms of her illness appeared, and so it was no surprise to me when she said suddenly as she lay on her couch: 'l'm a roadmonder.' " I simply said : ' Oh, are you, dear?' and she went on, 'Yes, and'l wish you would give me a pencil and some paper.' 80 I gave her a pad and a pencil, and she began to write her book. She could not use her right hand—thero was an abscess on the right lung—she was far too weak to" sit up so sho wrote with her left hand, the pad supported on her breast. In this way she wroto the whole of ' The Roadmonder' an nine days, and throughout the whole time she took no nourishment of any kind, either liquid or All that she could bear was a littlo iced water now and then.

"She lived for twolvo days more without- any nourishment. I should not have said that she wrote the whole book herself. Whon she cam© to the last chapter sho had grown blind, and too weak to hold tho pencil, so the last chapter, called ' The White Gato,' was dictated to mo as sho lay dying and helpless, and sho was thinking of a white gate that she used to look at through her window before her sight failen her. It was thus that these last words were composed:—' But beyond the white gate and the trail of tho woodbine falls the silence greater than speech, darkness greater than light, a pause of a littlo while, and then we touch that healing garment as wo pass to the King in Hir beauty in a land from which there is no return.'

" ' At tho gateway then I cry you faro well.' "

"'Michael Fairless' was an extraordinary woman. Sho was tall—about sft llin —very slender, and, in my opinion, very beautiful. I never knew aivyono with so few exclusions. It has been said, in speaking of literary and artistic taste, that almost all of us havo some windows shut and shuttered, but I really think that all ' Michael Fairless's' windows were wido open."