THE VARIABLE STAR.

Waikato Times, Volume XIX, Issue 1634, 23 December 1882, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE VARIABLE STAR.

BY DONALD CAMERON

1 h\\ j, kvn ,i jiiiMt st.ii m my time, I h.no Iwi'ii a Hie.it lii.vi m my piimii, But, .das ! 1 li.ive fallen fioin high, And in desolate d.ukness I die !

Cir ristm \s Day dawned upon the Australian woild a few jeais ago, a Ohiistmas that cast into the shade its piedccessors, so far as concerned eaith and air. A dewless, oppressive night gradually died before a burning and con id day. Theie was no refreshment in the grey moments of the dawn, usually so full of gentle lights and subdued shadows, no pleasuie in the giowth of light, in its transition ironi grey to ciirason, to gold and then to white. But white it can hardly be called ; it was lathei the light ot the furnace hie. The hon/onwas of that deep golden bionze hue that no aitist ever can commit to canvass, and which tells the experienced bushman that clouds and lain are tar lrom hand, that the hand of death may fall upon his cattle first, and then upon hinisolt. As the day advanced the woild became under a pall, a mysteiious blue ha/,e spied thiough the atmosphere, through which the intoleiable sun glared as it it weie a globe ol coppei thuce heated in the lumace. Theie was no air to bieathe; it seemed as if the oxygen had been expelled and only die other gases rema,ned. BiidscU'ooped with open wings on the tiees, and panted, ar<d fell to the eaith. The instincts of the animals had taught them to fly to cool places where there was a chance of water, but in many cases the water diied up before the weary feet and the parched tongues could loach it, and hundicds ot sheep, cattle, and even kangaioos died 0:1 that dieadful season m the agonies of thirst. The very air burned, and the mirage or airqiu ver was visible eveiywheie, a veiy phenomenon, enough to turn the biam. 0 God 1 It was teirible, terrible. Appealing eyes were cast to Heaven invoking aid, and they all but blasted by the fierce monaich of the day. But there was a man who sat under a thinleaved eucalyptus that clay who rejoiced that it had come, and who ""looked upon it as a releabe. A grim and gaunt man, his face hollow, his bones without flesh, his hugeis skeletony, clothed in bushmans rags, and yet beaiing all the evidence of having once been handsome, indeed distinguished m appearance. Even in decay the gentleman cannot be mistaken. He sat under the diajihonous shade of the eucalyptus, holding in Ins hand an open letter, which lie occasionally lead, sometimes silently, sometimes aloud. Uilen, as he glanced o\et it, his hands went to his eyes. But no moisture came — how could there ? There was a sentence in the letter which he appealed to gieatly _ _ dwell upon. It lan : " 1 must pait with all. I must seek to earn . my bread with my hands. But what will the | bacuhec bo compared with that you made , ioui yeais ago ? As dust in the balance. 0 ! > Eddie, deaiest fnend, the only man I ever J 10-\ed, why did you not let me make, the sac- | nfice ? I have tned to accept it, to 4je hap- ' py with lio, but it is in vain. And now I rejoice that the opportunity has come to make j sacrifice for sacrilice. Come homo, that I may ' oiler myself up as you did that fateful day, | Jour yeais ago." The man thiew down the letter, and turned to a large tin can that stood beside him. It [ contained his .supply of -water. Il'orI 1 'or a moment i he seemed as if he would have taken a drink I — his lips weie patched and black. But a , stern lesolve came to his face, and he turned I his head aside. Then his eyes wandered into the vacancy, lie felt the end was near, and, ; unconsciously, the panoiama of his lite, scene by scene, unfolded befoie his view, it was as it a magician of old had waved his wand, and picture after picture had appeared and , vanished upon the strange mist cieated by the heice hres that burnt up grass, and tiee, and t the \eiy atmosphere itself. * + * * ♦• * There is no more pitiful story than that of Edward Haidiugc, none that so aptly illustrates the unhappy fate of persons with certain organisations, which the ill-fated L.E.L. has so aptly described in her lines : " The pioud, the shy, the sensitive, Life has not manj sueh — They deailj buy then happiness By feeling it too much." Such oiganisat;ons are wholly unfitted for this haid, practical world, and inevitably end tragically. In our own land, the fate of Lindsay Goidon, Maicus Clarke, Henry Kendall, illustrate the truth. The world, after all, must be hard and practical, otherwise, there would be no biead to eat. The wheat must grow although it will destroy the delicate myosotis. The plough must turn the sod, though it cover a multitude ot delicate blossoms. None the less do we re^iet their death. The cage kills the nightingale. Men and women of the organisation I have descubed are human nightingales who beat their lives out, trying to escape from a world of which they form no part, and, of which t.hey can form no part. They, truly, are " strangers and pilgrims" in this world. Men do not comprehend these people, and so laugh them to scorn. In days ot old, the world starved these nightingales ; now they drive them mad.

I There is little difference in the method. No man's life promised to be brighter than that of Edward Hardinge. The scion of a great house, he was religiously brought up by a doting Christian mother. The Hon. Mrs. Hardinge was a Christian lady of the highest attainment, brilliant to a degree, but with much common sense. From her Edward inherited much of his talent, but the peculiar sensitive, it may almost be said morbid, temperament, that distinguished and cursed him most have come down from some remote ancestor, a trait long dormant in the family and reappearing in Edward. From a child he was proud, shy, and sensitive. At Eton he distanced all in learning and athletic 3. In person he also carried off the palm. The puie type of English gentlemen is the handsomest in the world, even surpassing the Castilian. Edward was an idealisation of that type, but added to it a strange undefinable poetic grace that made it irresistible. He was passionately admired by his fellows; he was madly loved by all Mie young ladies with whom he came into contact. His " flames " were a proverb. At Cambridge he was as successful as at Eton. Everything, from Homer to boating, seemed to come natural to him. What was remarkable was, that he did not become spoiled. On the contrary, he had his times when he would run away, as it were, from the world, and hide himselE. His chums laughed at this, and said he had made anothei conquest. At Cambridge Edward made his first and only friendship, lie had "love" affairs innumerable, but they did not touch his heart. Perhaps it had been better had it not been so. There is nothing that will so steady a man, and save a strange unsatisfied nature like that of Edward's more than marriage. Heine, himself, tells us he was saved by marriage with the plainest and simplest of women, who loved and managed him, though she could no more understand his marvellous poetry than bhe could the differential calculus. Edward met at the University a quiet youth named Hemy Ee&ton, the son of a country gentleman. The contrast between the two lads was remarkable — perhaps that brought about their passionate attachment. Henry was handsome, sober, and English, with little imagination, but much judgment and great capacity for deep and lasting friendship or love. He was capable of selt-restraint, just as Edward was not. Whatever Edward wanted he would have, no matter at what cost, monetarily, mentally, or physically. Henvy would first see if it were right to have what^hisji passions or Fappetites demanded.

He was a stern judge in all matters where hia , passions were concerned. Yet the3e two youths became dear friends and were inseparable. Henry did much tqcqrreot Edward^ j and the connection was qf value to b,oth. j Time wore on. Edward graduated/ witty ; the greatest pqssible honors, Henry somewhat , lower in the scale. Despite J^enry's influence, ! Edward began a career in London and Paris, j that had better bo left untold. He was the | nightingale beating out its life against the j bars, seeking, vainly seeking, for real companionship and appreciation in this world. I And when he did not he sought in the wildest J scenes to drown the divine voice that was within j him. He came into his majority, and at once j entered the House of Commons. This aroused once more the divine eidolen. He felt that he had within him a power that would move and govern men. He entered the world of letters, and burst upon the literary world of London , like a comet. In poetry and in prose he distanced the writers of the day — not a difficult task in those times, nor in these either. He allied himself with the Opposition in politics, and made the Premier quake on the Treasury Benches. The reason was that Edward had a sort of electric quality which he coul4 communicate to others. Jqfe found the Opposition broken and disheartened, but he brought them together and infused into then} his own vigorous youth. He did more, paying studied the best casuists and satirists, a,nd taken great pain to acquire a better, yet polite style, he hardly ever rose in the House that he did not give utterance to a new phrase which ran like through the press, and made the Government the laughingstock of the country. Blow after blow thus delivered began to tell upon the sturdy oak until atlas,t th.§ Premier in a sullen fit dissolved the House, and he was defeated. One of the junior lords in the next Government was Edward Hardinge. And now he had reached the summit, ha was on the way to become the greatest in the land. But at that very moment when friends crowded round him, when the sun of prosperity shone golden in the heavens, when even Henry looked to him as a god, Edward's unhappy nature resumed its sway. He felt like the preacher, he said vanit as vanitatis, vanity of vanities, all is vanity. He had neither pleasure in man, nor in woman. He had striven and worked and fought to attain a great name in the Senate and the literary world, because he thought that would satisfy his oraving, that it would fill the vacancy in his soul. He , discovered it did not, and then like the tired

miner who ascends step by step almost to the shaft's mouth, he felt ready to let go and fall to the bottom to be dashed to pieces. But just then came the great crisis in the ' man's life, the event that might have saved I him had Fate not played one of her games I of cross-purposes. The year Edward became I Junior Lord, the Earl of Wrothesby's young- j est daughter " came out." Edward was in I his most distrait humour, and listened to ' Henry's glowing praises of the new beauty | with the air of a man who was bored, " I tell you she is lovely beyond all the i women I have seen," cried Henry, his fine face i lit up. " Her complexion is formed of the I lily and the rose, the palest lily, the faintest ! rose, her eyes are liquid blue, and the purest j of souls seem to shine out of them, the kind- I liest of hearts. Her hnir — oh, I can't dcs- I cribe that. It is gold, pure virgin gold with- i out alloy, rippling in waves. And her teeth ; are ivory, her ears and nails coral. Her , form — Venus, Hebe, and Juno combined. As i she moves it adapts itself to attitudes that i Phidias would have died to see." " Been reading up your Braddon and Swin- , burne, eh ?" asked Edward, in that bitter i tone that used to madden the Ministry in the Commons ;" I have read all that before." | "Paughl" cried Henry; "you are a tor- ' ment. Blase at twenty-eight ? Man delights you not, woman delights you not, &c, tfec. Poor, venerable fellow ! Now, look here if ' you want a new sensation, if you desire to stir up your blood, go to Lady Quackles party , to-night. This girl, Lydia Henby, is a para- ; gon. She is as learned as she is beautiful, and of quite a serious turn. She don't like the , worldhness and want of thought of society." " Oh, a season will do away with that," re- | turned Edward, opening his cigar-case. "But ! upon second thoughts I think I will go. I i would just like to see this paragon, to know ' whether she can stir my blood. And yet, do you know, Henry, there's something prompts me, something within, that I should not go. It is a sort of presentiment." " Presentiment," laughed Henry ; " more , likely the liver." , Edward went, and that night was the turnpoint of his destiny. He obtained the sensation he desired, and more than he desired. This beautiful girl, for she was lovelier even 1 than Henry's London Journal description, because beyond her bodily accomplishments, she was a woman of mind and soul, intoxicated Edward. His soul somewhat resembled those stars that occasionally blaze out from j the seventh to the first magnitude. Given an J exciting cause and outwent that ardent^soul, ;

burning and consuming— alas ! itself, more" than others. It had blazed o.ut w,hen, he h,ad. gqne tq sehoql, when he had gqne to Oam,bridge, whan he met iCenry, when, he had entqred sqoiety, when he took up literature, when he was elected tq Earliain.enj. And each time the first m.agnitijde h,ad been inclined to the seventh* It is questionable whether this new blaze would have continued, whether his soul would have remained of the first order of brightness under ,the influence of Lydia. I think it would have remained a star of the first magnitude, for there is nothing in the world so enduring as real, pure love. It is the regenerator, the sustainer of the world. " Practical people" deny love and all its influences—there would be no civilisation, no 11 practical people," no world, were it not for love. I do not speak of its hideous counterfeit. Edward had an extraordinary power of command over most minds, and for the time he fairly oonquered Lydia. So far as the rules of society would allo w, he monopolized her that evening, and from that time he began to be her constant attendant. He was everywhere with her. Lydia felt delighted and flattered. She was a woman of rather a }udicia u l thaq emotional mind,) b^t tb,e b,rilliaqt qualities,, the high fame, the intensely— ; if the Avord can be used in the cqnnection, — handsome persqn of IJdward, fairly tqqk h.er captive. Ejveryone said, it Nyas qver wi^h the Jqqior Lord- Lydja w^s envied by the other women, E] Award by the men. People said it was a shame, the most beautiful belle that had appeared far some seasons, should be sn.atoh.qd away \n, her first. But it appeared inevitable, and Lord and Lady \Yrothesby, whq were poqr as crqws and proqd as L.ueifer, \yere in. the seventieth heaven. Lady Wrothesby assu.rn.ed airs towards those dowageps to whom she had cringed before, and Lord Wrothesby was cordially greeted a.t olubs where, previously he had received fchat polite cold shoulder which only " society" qan give, In the meantime poor Henry had found that he had made a mistake in introducing his brilliant friend, Too late, H.en.ry discovered he h.&4 losfe his heart to the angel whom he had so poetically described, and he was in utter despair. For a time he hung aroqnd, but at last, in desperation, he fled to America. But Lydia wa.B not to. he Edward's wife. At first he fasqinated and dazzled her, but gradually she began not tq dislike him, though at times she almost feared him, but to understand that jhe. had not that feeling towards him whio|rcould justify her in joining

her lot to his for life. As this feeling grew I she every day dreaded the time when he would make the fatal avowal. It was evident this would not be long, for Edward grew more and more ardent, the star blazed and blazed and grew. In his warmth he failed to see the growing coldness of his loved one — she was | going into the seventh magnitude. He j thought it was her natural modesty, shrinking from the sweet avowal which her womanly instinct led her to anticipate. One evening, when they sat in the garden of Wrothesby Castle, the declaration came, fierce, fervid, poetical, overwhelming, lava-like in its heat and glow and power. Had it been spoken to a woman who loved she would have swooned with delicious delight, she would have known an hour she would never forget, an hour that would be as the glow of the morning during her existence. But it fell upon cold ears. A few minutes afterwards the people in the park were horrified to see Edward flying through it as if for his life, and vanishing like a vision — Wrothesby Castle was for some time after that a place not to live in. Lord and Lady Wrothesby were furious. Lady Lydia had told them all, even to her having stated, being terrified by Edward's fearful violence, that she loved Henry, though he had not even breathed a word of love to her. The star paled and paled until it was hardly of the tenth magnitude. It is needless to tell of the terrible days Edward passed at his home. He had fled to an old place of his in the bleakest part of Cumberland, which agreed with the gloom of his tortured soul. Here a battle was fought such as seldom has taken place in a human soul. It was the old battle between good and evil, but more terrible because of the power and extraordinary character of the soul in which it was waged. Neither won so far as the immediate question of battle was concerned. Henry was in Edward's hands. He had but a poor estate ; but he was a distant relative of Edward's, and Mr. Hardinge, in his will, had devised a considerable estate to Henry, with the somewhat whimsical proviso (he knew how they loved each other) that Edward should be allowed to veto the be- ; quest. The estate was to go to Henry on his marriage, provided Edward agreed. He could have his revenge by using the veto, for then LyYlia's parents would never consent to the union ; but his soul revolted at the hideous dishonor. Not being able to decide he took Evil as his ; counsellor otherwise, and rushing to London

began a Career which, efe long aHen,a.ted; his. friend^ lo,st him his position, his pla.ce— -the House, and m,ade him, a Pariah, the associate o£ men unworthy even to look at him when in his better mind. He gambled away his fine property. Little remained but the e3tate devised to Henry, which could not be touched. New 3 of this at last reached Henry, who had been leading a hunter's life in the Ear West, gathering health and strength, and reoovering from his great sorrow. Still the world had deserted Edward, but Henry was never the man to desert his friend at heart — friend, at all hazards. He was like those brave men who will rush to save the drowning, even if they are dragged down themselves. By mustang, coach, lake, river, train, and ocean, Henry flew to the rescue. He found Edward surrounded by the creatures who had ruined him. He walked forward eagerly. At first Edward felt wroth towards the man who he thought had been the means, even innocently, of his destruction. But a flood of recollections cajne, th.c paat returned, and the repentant one th.rew himself into the arms of th,e qnly heing who loved and cared for him jn the world, The guilty degraded wretches around felt thdy were out of place and fled. Their prey was lost to them ! Henry did not question his friend as to what h.ad caused all this, for he knew, and his heart was wrung when he thought he was the innocent cause. When Henry woke, next morning the servant hande.d him a letter with his coffee. It contained the legal consent of Edward to Henry's being given hia estate on marriage. A copy was also deposited with Edward's lawyer, who had bean ordered to serve notice on the court. There was also a short note : " I give you the estate; that is no sacrifice, for honor demands it. I give you the Lady Lydia ; that is no sacrifice, because she will not be mine. Therefore you owe me nothing. I owe you muoh, for you rescued me out of the slough. Look not for me* I will be far awayi and never will touch the shores of England again. Good-bye, dearest, dearest friend — sometimes remember me when you axe happy, which will be always, Happiness and I \*iJl evermore he atra.ngepa, Edward." Henry m.ad.c every effort to trace his friend, but failed, as he must, considering the disguise Edward adopted. After some considerable time had elapsed Henry and Lydia were married. But strange to aay the happiness of which they dreamed never came. It is true they loved tenderly and soberly, -and that little blossoms appeared

around them, brightening their path, but at all times there was before them a sad, despairing face that seemed to say : " You made me this !" A deep gloom settled upon the pair, and they rarely smiled. Henry especially suffered, for next to Lydia, Edward was necessary to his life. In the meantime through all the Australian colonies wandered an extraordinary swagman, who, under the name of Cranky, had become well-known throughout Australia. The girls said he was the finest figure of a man they ever saw, the man that had the most commanding manner, and the strongest hand of any man they had known. There were legends that he had forced a Commissioner of Police to obey him by sheer force of command, though only dressed in blue shirt and moleskins, and that at the White Cat Diggings he had in two rounds knocked the celebrated Durand's Alley Chicken, who had beaten every man in the colony. But bush people said he never associated with anyone, and could always be heard sighing. And yet if there were any good to do, any sacrifice to make, any danger to face, Cranky was to the front. The people of Dutchbridge will tell you how he rescued two women out of a roaring river bank high. The folks of Quabbleton narrate how he rushed into a burning barn to save a poor mare, whose screams were heartrending. Though adults feared him, children and animals adored him, and the man whom children and animals like, depend upon it is good. The man who is lying at the foot of the thirsty-leaved eucalyptus is Cranky, and known to us as Edward Hardinge ! To such an extraordinary position will an extraordinary and incomprehensible nature, a stern will, bring a man. Nature has wisely ordered that ordinary people will forget sorrow, and live in labor or pleasure, that it shall hi but as the writing on the sand. But it is not so with minds that are not ordinary ; in their souls sorrow and love are written in the rock. But the star, for years of the tenth magnitude, is already, on this terrible day about to blaze forth and to become of the first, ere it vanishes for ever as some of its stellar brethren have. Of what is he thinking as he picks up the letter once more, and holds it in his hands ? Of another and a final sacrifice, of an escape from this terrible world, terrible to him, because he is not of it. The nightingale has about beaten out its life against the bars. He knows that Henry is upon his track, that he will insist upon sacrificing the estate. What , does;he want to go^back to society ? — it would kill him. Then Henry, bis Henry, would be •aiseiable, foi not hayuu o f his nature and his luason, how could he laoe the world, how endure its hideous privations, heat, ram, cold, bud lood, the curses of masters ? No, no, no ! it must not be. Life was all to Henry; to him nothing. He must die. But how ? He has sought death day after day, but it has not come even on this day, when birds and beasts are dying on every side oi him, he still lives on. He will die if he does not drink the water, but it so it will be suicide, and he fears that. Stay! a wretched dog, its bones almost protruding from its slrin, painfully limpp up to the man as he sits under the faint shadows of the eucalyptus. Its fellows have gone, it knows only one friend, — man. Tongue out, it crawls up, and lying down at the man's teet, tries to whine. " He shall have it," said or rather whispered Edward. "He has never sinned, his life stands in the way of happiness^ vather it will bring happiness to some one. Drink, poor dog ! drink." It laps the water eagerly, ieverishly, turning up its soft, expressive eyes to its benefactor with a glance of love &ad gr&fa'4«<cte th&t cannot be misunderstood. At last the billy is drained to the last drop, and the poor animal crawls to Edward's knees and licks his hands, looking lovingly into his face the while. A strange look comes into his eyes for a moment, then it disappears. With stern words he sends the poor dog away. It goes, but only out of sight, and there watches the man. j There is little time to lose now : he feels his strength going. Feverishly he traces in his pocket-book, in almost undecipherable characters, his. name with the words underneath, "It is for the best, Henry-" Tnen he raises his almost blinded eyes, swimming in a. mist of blood, and for the last time takes in the world which he has so much abused, and which has so abused him. Then, slowly, painfully he drops upon his knees. For a moment he thinks of how his body will be found. Perhaps he and site, who he knows are now searching for him, will ride up the glade and find the last of Edward Hardinge. Perhaps, and then the world revolves, all things seem dim, the hands relax, the nees band, and he falls backward to the earth. The star has blazed forth to the first magnitude for the last time and then gone out for ever. r THE END.]