Complete Story. “ PAID.”

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIV, Issue VI, 10 February 1900, Page 244

Complete Story. “ PAID.”

By

ANNIS MACLEOD.

(This stury was among those highly com mended in our Xmas Story Competition.)

I. Oh, I see the love that I lost long syne, I touch the hope that I may not see, And all that I did o’ hidden shame. Like litlte snakes they hiss at me.

I was not particularly young in those days, so that the vivid impression the facts of the case made upon my mind cannot be set down to youthful imagination and romance. Also, since then, I have travelled much and afar, and of moving accidents by flood and field have experienced not a few; but now, looking back upon the mists of the past, many figures are seen but dimly, which at one time played a big part'in my life, whilst others scarcely less important have vanished altogether, or serve but to colour with brighter or darker hues the memoryveil whereon is woven in faint, pale tints the halting story- of the days that are dead. But the man, and more especially his music, are with me to this day. I have only to put my hand across my eyes and I see him now, as plainly, as clearly in every detail, as I see the black and white of the page before me. Only to cover my eyes with my hand, and again, across the dancing firelight, above the crash of the outside storm, and the roar of the mountain wind, comes that devil’s melody, setting every pulse afire, giving one glimpses of heaven such as never man had. and anon drow-ning his shuddering soul in the unfathomable sea of the' world’s pain and despair. Autumn set in early that year. The great rugged mountains at the back of my hut had already received their first covering of snow, and the wind which thundered down from the black gorges and hurtled over the plain before my door, promised much for the severity of the coming winter. Indeed, the night upon which I saw Mortimer Cassidy for the first time, might well have been the incarnation of winter itself —winter, as it is experienced in Central Otago alone, of all New Zealand.

How I can recall that night! I piled up the coal in the open fireplace, and inwardly thanked a kind Providence that had placed the mine from which it came at my very door. Darkness and desolation might rage as they liked outside, but they could never reach my cosy fireside. How the rain lashed at the solitary window! I had been out on the hills all day, ■ and was consequently too tired to do anything but smoke, even had there been anything else to do. The whole hut was enveloped in one uniform roar of wind and rain. It was impossible . even to hear one’s self think, and I was? glad, for what use is there in thinking when the past is but a living regret and the future a dead, desolate waste overshadowed by the brooding wings of might-have-been? I must have dozed a little. I think, or the knock that fell upon the door would not have startled me as it did. Just a single clear tap, and before I could jump up the door swung back on its hinges, and a man entered and quickly closedit again aftcrhim.seemingtoforcibly shut out the sudden rush of wind and rain that clamoured for entrance. I saw nothing but his face at first, as I can see it now Afterwards other details thrust

themselves upon my notice, and I observed with wonder that in spite of the deluge, through which he must have passed, his clothes were dry, and that he carried a long oilskin bag under one arm. Without a word he crossed the room, drew a crazy box from the corner and sat down upon it, spreading out his thin hands to the blaze. Have you ever noticed what charac-

ter is expressed in anyone’s hands? Say what one will, the facial expression is under the control of the will more or less, but these are the bare representation of the man himself. This man's hands were the thinnest and longest I had ever seen —and the cruellest.

Surprise at the fellow’s sudden entrance had held me dumb for a moment: and besides, his face fairly fascinated me. Presently he looked up and laughed a litle. “Yon seem to take my sudden appearance qinte a« a mater of course,” he remarked. “You don’t know how

thankful I was to see the light In your window. There isn’t another living being within miles of us, I take it, and yet apparently you are not oppressed with a sense of loneliness.” His glance travelled in a leisurely fashion round the room, and then came back to my face. My wits began to return slowly. “Oh, no, it isn’t particularly lonely,” I made shift to answer- “The station homestead is only eight miles away, and the main road half as far again. Moderately solitary of course.” “I don't think you will have any visitors to-night,” the sitranger remarked, quizzically. He drew out the oilskin bag and examined it anxiously. “I wouldn’t have this get damp for everything I possess.” I suppose I looked inquiry, for in answer he slipped tthe ease off, revealing a violin of some dark unpolished wood. For a moment he looked over it carefully, and then one long white forefinger crept up and lightly brushed the G string. My heaven! Was it magic? Just that one' vibrating note pulsing through the room, and dying away in the fitful rush of the storm that roared without —but such a note! I was benumbed — paralyzed in every sense. I opened my- mouth to speak, but the other put up a finger enforcing silence, and the words died on my lips. Slowly he leaned forward—stealthily, cat-like —listening. For a second it was thus; then a low laugh of triumph escaped him. He looked past the dingy walls of the hut, far away into nothingness. I saw him put the violin to his shoulder. For an instant the bow hung poised, and almost without my will my hands locked together, and I leaned forward —tensely as he. I could not take my eyes from his face. It was full of a dreadful eagerness, and a cruelty surpassed only by those creeping hands.

Presently just a faint, fan-away whisper of something infinitely sweet, infinitely pathetic, seemed to fill the whole room, and through a mist of tears I became aware that the man’s bow lay upon the strings, and that it softly swayed from side to side under his directing hand. It was not music at all. just at first, unless a vast wave of longing and love, and hope, made perceptible, and flooding the whole soul, can be called such. Tn that supreme moment I felt intensified a million times, all the hopeless longing after the higher and unattainable which all men feel at some time, and which is as incapable of being crystallised into words as is the song of the sea —the speaking silence of the dawn

Then the music changed—subtly, imperceptibly—and my soul swayed with it, like a reed in the wind. My God! What a life had been mine. How I had spoiled the bread and spilled the wine. ... The player’s eyes were upon mine—their magic held me. On on the music flowed—louder and louder—agony upon agony. For how long I never knew. My very heart’s playseemed suspended, when suddenly across the outer storm, borne on the roaring wind—felt, rather than heard —came a faint human cry—a cry for help. In a moment the spell was broken; but an instant more and the player—the music which had been heaven and hell —were nothing. I saw the first, and felt the second no longer. Without a thought of either I jumped up, sprang to the door, and dashed out into the driving sleet and wind. At last I was awake. My heaven! had I been dreaming? There was someone fighting for life in the Darveen swamp while I had been sitting open-mouth-ed like a mesmerised schoolboy, listening to a cranky violinist. For one second I strained my ears in the direction from which 1 knew by instinct the cry had come. Yes, there it was again—clearer and quite near, and coming, as I had at first thought, from the Black Sinking. Now there was only one small patch in all that vast swamp that eould be called in any way dangerous, nnd that was a pond of black ooze, about a score of yards in diameter, and lying

but a short distance from my door. All efforts to drain it or to clear up the mystery of its existence had been ■ alike useless. Black, unfathomable, mysterious, it defied all attempts at explanation, and remained unchanged and unchangeable from year’s end to year’s end. How was it possible that, on such a night, a human being could have found his way into this desolate region at all, much less have stumbled upon the dread Black Sinking? My mind was perfectly collected in a moment. Speed and agility could alone avail.

Blind to everything but that which I sought, I dashed back to the hut, seized my lantern and a coil of light, strong rope, and in another minute was running through the rain and wind in the direction from which the cries still came fitfully. I had not far to go. The swamp lay but a few hundred yards away, but I thought I should never reach it. The whirling force of the wind almost swept me from my feet, and the rain and snow blinded me. Y'ears seemed to have passed when at length, having stumbled and tripped a thousand times in my desperate haste, I reached the brink of the Sinking and flashed the light across the darkness before me, fearful only of what it might not reveal. But no, thank God, I was not too late, for even as I did so another cry burst forth—a cheerful “hooray,” strangely out of place in the rain and darkness, and in the first lantern flash I saw a sight never to be forgotten—that of a man with coat sleeves rolled back intently binding up his left arm just below the elbow —a man buried past the waist in black ooze, and still sinking rapidly, but seemingly as unaware of the fact as though he had been already dead—as calmly as if he stood on a ballroom floor with the chandeliers above and the crash of dance music in his ears. Then, quick as thought, he raised his head, and that “hooray.” the amazing cheerfulness of which I shall never forget, rang through the dark night. So it was thus, framed in the circle of fierce light cast by the bullseye, that I saw Mortimer Cassidy for the first time. Mortimer Cassidy, with the death sentence upon him. and yet, all the days of our camaraderie, the blithest and happiest nature I had ever known. Mortimer Cassidy, never heart-weary, never downcast, drawing one to the higher path whether one would or no —in that short year remaining to you, you rescued one soul, and perhaps, for ought I know, others too, from the road that leads to darkness—even while you knew in your own heart that you were doomed—doomed, and for the wrong thought, the false deed, of one short minute. Ah. Mortimer!

With the aid of the strong rope I had seized on leaving the hut he was soon as high and dry a-s could be expected under the circumstances. Nor did he appear at all overcome by the fact that he had been saved from a cruel death. Though covered from the waist downward with thick, black ooze, he seemed quite oblivious of the fact. As I flashed the light upon him in some curiosity, he put out his hand and gripped mine with a quick

smile. “Thanks,” he called across the wind, and that was all.

We turned and went back to the hut together. On the way I recalled the musician half wonderingly, but when we reached the door and went in the hut was empty. n. It was late indeed when Mortimer Cassidy finished his story, and turned to face me with a half-laugh. “There,” he remarked, light-heart-edly, “you have it all—all; and this is the first time the story has ever jrassed my lips. You are the man that will see it played out, though, or I am the more mistaken. I knew I would have to tell you everything directly I saw you—a trifle Ancient Marinery, isn’t it? Heigh-ho! Next time third and last. I wonder if I have anything Hike a decent time left.” His eyes grew thoughtful. “Two years between this episode and the last. Well, I’ll make the most of it, if it’s only a day.” He was roughly clad in some old clothes of mine, and as he leaned far back in the crazy chair, his bare foot, with its attendant black shadow, swung lazily in the firelight. It seemed like his own life, with the ever-fofllowing doom, and I shuddered. How he could take it all so quietly I could not guess. To me the bare recital had been so terrible that I grew chiflly once more at the very reme m brance.

Presently he brought his ehair back upon four legs with a crash, and began to justify himself, looking into the fire the while with far - away eyes.

“They say a woman is at the bottom of every bad deed—every unholy thought or action—and it is so—is so, I tell you. When I cut the rope and sent him hurtHing over the precipice, it was not in order to save our lives (though it did do that); it was because the road would be clear to Eva Hilton. That was the little devil’swhisper far, far down in my soul. He heard it, and knew what no one ellse knew—that I had followed its teaching. Yes—Eva, Eva. Far up among the snow and * ice—climbing, climbing always, higher and highe,—hers was the face that always shone yet one step above me. Creeping along ridges and across chasms where it was death even to whisper, hers was the voice I heard ever, murmuring sweet and soft for a moment, and then ringing clear and true, flying from crag to crag, untifl it died away in a faint whisper far down in the bottom of some ice-bound ravine. Was it my fault that it should be so? And yet. to think that she was for neither of us! . . . And why, too. had he joined our expedition?—after we had started, or I should not have gone. It was fate, I tell you—the pitiless horror that is tracking me now—that has tracked me ever since that day—that will track me unti/I I have followed the witch music and have given my life, even as I took his. Why was he behind me. that day of all days? Just after. I used to wake up in the night, and feel once more the sudden sharp jerk of the tightened rope; I didn’t sfleep afterwards. . . . The first time I heard the music I followed it just as I did to-night. I see nothing—-

feel nothing—hear nothing but it. I don’t even know how I tore m J arm.” He put out his hand with its bloodstained bandage. “When I was in the bog, and the death-cold creeping higher and higher, 1 found the warm blood trickling down—the first time 1 had noticed anything was the matter.” He paused for a moment, and then went ou more quickly: "When 1 was saved the first time (even as you rescued me to-night) thought eame, and I remembered what a master of the instrument he had been in life.” He stopped, gazing into the fire with eyes that saw I know not what strange scenes, then flung his head back with a laugh. “Ah, well,” he cried, gaily, “let us eat, drink, and be merry, for I don’t think it will be to-morrow that we die.”

I was startled by the suddenness of the change, and yet I never knew him serious—never heard him speak a grave word—from that time to the end.

It was scarcely odd that we should become friends hard and fast from that hour. He had obtained a billet on the station to which he had been going on the night of the storm, and as the homestead lay only eight or nine miles distant, we saw a good deall of each other. He never again alluded to his coming fate after that one night of serious outpouring, and I am quite sure I am the only man on earth at this moment who knows his story. For the first month or two his face wore a strained, expectant look, and he continually turned his head sharply and quickly, as one who listens for distant voices of which he can only just catch the faintest of far-away whispers. By-and-bye, however, when the winter had passed and the glorious Otago spring stolle gradually upon us, this tense look passed. The lurking shadows died out of his eyes, and the summer sunshine settled there instead. I know he was happy that last year; who could doubt it, looking at his face?

I began to wonder if the story he had told me was true —1 mean the part that referred to Kva. Hiilton, when he had said he cut the rope, not to save the lives of his comrades, but because the road would be clear to the woman he (loved. His was such a bright, buoyant nature that I eould not imagine such a deed on bis part. And yet, who knows? If Mortimer Cassidy were guiltless, why did the dead man’s vengeance follow him so relentlessly, for surely if any see clearly the dead do? Days flowed into weeks and weeks into months and still Mortimer had no further hint of his coming fate. Gradually, in the bustle and gladness of summer days and summer work, the memory of that night of storm and darkness grew less vivid, but not so the picture of the master musician himself, which above all else I shall carry to my grave unmarred and undimmed.

Mortimer’s teaching, too, had begun to show one another path than that upon which I toiled with bitter heart and aching feet. A path straight and true; a path where the fresh air of heaven blew gently, and over which the golden sunshine played temperately. When my time comes. Mortimer, may I 'have done as much for another in all my life as you for me in your one year.

The last month of summer was well advanced when the end came. Did he feel his fate draw near? I trust not. May it have come suddenly, without any days of foreboding or nights of repentant anguish. He said no word to me in those last weeks of a fear that the sword was about to fall; and 1 think he would have done so had the dread been there.

And the thing befell in this . wise. The house party at the station had long forward to an expedition to the *immit of the Marwera Range and at last the date, after many alterations, had been definitely fixed. Mortimer was to go, of course. I also, but in a humbler capacity.

The day dawned gloriously I was awake at the first paling of the stars, and as the pink light stole gradually down the great brown range a foreboding—a feeling of deepest sadness took possession of me, fading only' when the great sun rose resplendent and the new day—the last of Mortimer’s short life—began. There was the usual delay in starting our journey and three o’clock had passed before we reached the topmost peak or the range. All were gay and light-hearted when they sat down to lunch. Mortimer the gayest and brightest of all. Ah, how clearly 1 can see him now—my life’s benefacwith his cheerful face, his quick, blithe speech, and deft, helpful ways. He was the life of the party that day. I could see how the others sought him and deferred to him continually; how the womenkind hung upon his words. How quickly the hours fled. We had turned to go back, and still all was well. My depression of the early morning had completely passed away. About half-way down the hillside the sun. set —for us —and we passed into the shadow of the mountain. Then presently a miracle of beauty, the moon rose, and her silvery rays mixing impalpably with the soft twilight, we moved in a fairy world. Such an evening! Far away, the soft hazy hills from which the sunlight had died. Just opposite, the great silver shield of the new moon floating on a faintly tinted sky. The air fresh, crisp and exquisitely clear. How I can feel and see it now.

We were picking our way slowly round the edge of a deep, rock-fringed gorge, the stream far below showing but as a faint steely gleam now and then. One of the women had dismounted, and I saw that Mortimer, some yards in front of me, was leading two horses—his own and another.

Suddenly he stopped and turning his head back over his shoulder looked past me, up the track down which we had come. Then indeed slow horror

took possession of me, when I saw and felt that he was listening—listening. I had come close to him by this time—close enough to see that his face shone white in the strange haJffigfit, and that his eyes glowed like eoals.

And then I knew, even though this time I heard nothing. “Mortimer,” I tried to say, but the word would not come. “Mortimer.” It was a whisper, short and quick, but it had barely passed my lips when he had let fall the reins he held and was already many yards up the hill, running swiftly, surely, and without trip or stumble up the narrow path. One or two had noticed his hurried departure, but none attached any importance to it.

"Dropped something.” I heard one say. “He’ll be back in a minute.” But I knew better. I had seen his face as he passed me, and the sight had burned into my brain like a white hot iron. Mortimer Cassidy would never come back. I saw him reach the spot where the path turned out of sight. Then I saw him pause, spring lightly on to a jutting crag that overhung the deep ravine, and stand for one second silhouetted blackly against the pure siky. Mortimer,” I tried to cry again, but the word died in a choking gasp, and 1 fell forward on niv face senseless.

When consciousness returned I found they had brought him up—mv friend. He was cruelly shattered, but his face—his gracious, noble face —was untouched. For that much I shall remain thankful always. At last he had paid his debt. Paid for the minute’s cruel madness; and I, thinking over his story in these later years—thinking of the good he wrought to one who else had never sought or dimly found the light, think too, that even as he paid the price of wrong in this life, so will he pass blameless unto that other which is behind the veil.