[COPYRIGHT STORY.] FROM THE FALL TILL SPRING

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVII, Issue 26, 29 December 1906, Page 20

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] FROM THE FALL TILL SPRING

By

CLIVE R. FENTON,

Author of The White Flag,” Etc.

THERE was the prospect just ahead of a cheery hand clasp, and the thought of the welcome awaiting him just there in advance

through the night, atoned in some measure to Chatteris for the long

and rather tedious journey front town; it was a slow journey just before the annual summer holiday, and there was • late start, while at Portsmouth, where the boat for the Island was to be taken, the tratlie was slightly disorganised owing to a royal visit. It was charming though to be at last passing over the strip of sea lighted up by the moon. He ought to have arrived in time for dinner; instead it would be ten o'clock by the time ho saw the Russells, ere he would see Sybil again. But there was the Island, with the lights of Ryde twinkling gaily as though with a consciousness of the happy instinct of life down there in the sunny south. There was' a murmur of voices on deck; words caught his ear, such words as, “We will go there certainly.” The water lapped at the bows; there were the curious dark fantastic shapes of the night around —such a wonderful summer night, soft and warm. It was magnificent to live just for that one moment in that wonderful nocturnal panorama. with the ideas which came. One could hear the heart-beat of the world. There was a train ride on the other side; sleepy children were opposite, and the handles of toy spades protruded from the rack. The carriages were stiff, straight, uncomfortable; but it was pleasant to ride in them all the same, for he was going to see her, and there were pictures above the rack of hotels, of sea fronts, all suggesting the most brilliant features of life, its early summer mornings, its thoughts which are so far away’ that they bring despair. In the town there was a short walk to the house where they’ were staying. It was long after ten o’clock, but everything was delightful, despite the fatigue of the long journey; there was the scent of the sea; people were lounging on the esplanade, by garden walls. “So glad to see you!” His host was smoking a cigar on the verandah, reclining in a lounge chair. It was a Saturday’ night—a Saturday’ night of peace, of calmness, with the suggestion, the hope ahead, of a Sunday morning of perfect brilliancy with the sound of church bells coming through the glamoured blue haze. “And how is Mrs. Russell- and Sybil?” “They are inside. Go in and speak.” Charteris entered, and emotion was keen. It was merely to glance at her again. Sometimes a pleasure is so keen that there comes a dread, a tremor of doubt. The only security might be in death. But the telegram he hud had that morning. that summons, “Come and spend a few days,” and to obey’ which he had quitted all the work of an errant politician—that message seemed to Hold out a hope. Would she single him out alter all?

It was dangerous to entertain such a hope, because the aftermath, the possible sensation of disillusionment afterwards in the event of disappointment would be worse than death, and the old • nongs would bring tears, and the return to the great city, to the dust, the horror, the eternity of la bo.'*— that would bring grief.

She was a very beautiful girl, and as he entered the room she rose from the piano where she had been playing a lively air. “Good evening,” he said, in a voice he tried to render calm. “Good evening, Paul,” she said, holding out her hand. “We weren’t half sure that you would come.” Not sure! Why, when the telegram eame he could hardly contain himself for joy. And as he glunced at her, at her beautiful figure, her wonderful eyes, he felt how impossible it was. She would never accept him. He W'as not worthy to be glanced at by her, and a* fear came of life itself in which it was possible to suffer so much. He felt as though he was at the very edge of the world. He saw her again on one Sunday afternoon in the garden—a garden on the river. She was saying, “I wish the earnations were better this summer.” She was carrying a Japanese sunshade; they had sat down on a rustic seat on the terrace which overlooked the river; he would have liked to have kissed her hand, but instead came a commonplace remark; her hair was loosened by the wind. But slie belt! the secret of all possible happiness for him. “You had a long journey down?” said Mrs. Charteris, over supper. ‘‘Yes; the train was three hours late.” Sybil sat down at the piano and played again. “I am so tired, you know,” she said. “I will talk to-morrow.” Mr. Russell came in, and sat down just inside the French window and talked polities, whilst Charteris went back in idea to al! old times of brilliancy, to the magnificent old days, to the scenes where he had seen her. She was always the central figure. To be only a friend like that was to be ever on the threshold of a tragedy. Sometimes it was to suller too extremely. There was the river one early morning, a few boats on it. the hush of the matinal hour, and then later in the day a holiday with gala craft passing and a huge steamer crowded with pleasure seekers making its way majestically down to the great metropolis. Mandolines were being ployed on board. Through all that havoc of the emotions in that vast wilderness of the memory, there was only one central figure. He had longed for the times when he should see her again. In the night times with their strange cries the sound of a raliway engine whistling weird and sad, there came baek again the shadow of some old idea. She was standing on an emerald lawn which was dotted with flower beds, on a brilliant morning in June, with the scented air seeming to pulsate with a music coming from the country of dreams. And again in Paris; she was there in the spring, Paris the capital of romance, of brilliancy, of tears —a capital which suggested so much more than could be grasped, whether seen in all the charming environment of early slimmer, or in sime rainy’ autumn time with the Champs Elysees deserted, the coloured placards wet and torn, the cafes under the trees deserted, the glory departed till the spring. And forming so curious a contrast to that afternoon in the garden was the scene of departure for an derail voyage. Air! That coming and going, that dash and bustle! And she would be for months away! Day after day. It was in those times of waiting that death seemed like a good, a true friend, a refuge. There was one

rescue from suffering, one resource. There were afternoons when there seemed to be nothing else beyond that one thought, days when work, the sometime panacea, failed. Was there nothing he could do for her to show what he felt? He had seen that garden in summer, and in winter when the river was brilliant and when it was sad. There was that day when her little sisters had accompanied him to a spectacle, one of the shows of the world. Yet it was selfish to want so much, to long for something which, like the stars, was so far away. But there was that afternoon in the garden. She had said, “You can eome round the garden with me if you like.” The gardener was arranging pink geraniums in a large new green vase; the hose was lying on the grass, sputtering; and in the aviary under the verandah the little yellow birds chirped and sang. She was going away’ —to Ireland, the land of cromlechs, of romance, of old traditions buried away in remote green fastnesses. Save us from our memories, and we may’ yet be men! Suppose she forgot all about him! Suppose the dream was to end there for ever! “You should have’-a better opinion of yourself,” she had said. But the next morning she would be gone early by the express from a great terminus, and then out to the northwest across the sea. How clear it all was! How all the past came back in a momentary flash, that memory which was so infinitely pleasant, and yet a memory’ which brought tears. She was standing at the entrance to a greenhouse with the sunlight on a multicoloured sunshade and on her hair; a strand of hair had broken loose and floated in the wind. Yes, again, if be were never to see her again, if there was no hope, there was still death, that comfortable end, that end to the saddest despair. If there were never to be that announcement that Miss Sybil Selma Russell was engaged to him. Than her soft voice, her graceful form, there was nothing more. “You are strangely silent to-night,” she said, looking round from the piano. The piece she had just played was a German melody’ called “Vorlornes Gluck” (“Lost Happiness”). “Am I?” he said. It was dusk in the room, and his face could not be seen. “Charteris has had a long journey,” said Mr. Russell. He is tired.” “Oh, not at all. Do play that piece again.” “Did you like it?” “Extremely.” When she said “good-night,” it was on the verandah; he had strolled out on to the balcony alone. She shook hands like an old comrade. , ood-night.” “What a beautiful night,” he said, and he glanced down there into the

street, where people still lingered; • tune eame up. Out there was the sea in the faint light, grey anil mysterious, the sea which had carried her the winter before to the Tropics. "Sybil,” he exclaimed, just as she was going, "would not you listen to me? I am getting on. I am working hard. I would die for you.” “Oh, you talk nonsense!” she exclaimed lightly’. “But I would.” "How absurd! Paul, you do make me laugh! ” “I remember everything you have said.” “I am sorry that you have such a good memory.” “You are offended?” “Not at all.” “It was I who was wrong. I take a liberty, I know, but I think of you every day, every’ hour, every minute.” "I am sorry,” she said, “for I am not worth it.” Then she was gone. Ah, that night! What thoughts came down there in that silence when every sound seemed mysterious, instinct with a wonderful, an eerie charm. ■ In Hie morning they walked to church over hill and across fields in which grasshoppers chirrupped. On the other side of the corn fields where the golden sheaves were stacked could be seen the bine waters of the bay. Russell was a good friend, his every action instigated by chivalrous motives. Maybe it was well that he had the key of the world. Very pleasant was that service in that far-away countryside ehurch. By contrast with the vivid white sunlight without it was almost dark in the edifice, for the stained glass windows showing ealm grave-look-ing saints were in heavy colours. They were ealm; it might have been thought to look at them that they were never perturbed, that they could always gaze at the world steadily and long. They sauntered slowly baek home. There was a wonderful hum of summer in the air, a magic glow, and all around there were enchanting views. “Shall I carry your book?” he said; “and yours?” he went on, addressing a younger sister. ' “Oh, thanks.” She put up her sunshade. “We are going to Cowes to-morrow,” said Mr. Russell. “By coach, father?” she asked. “Yes; it will be a lovely ride.”' There was nothing which could possibly have exceeded the charm of that day. What could the rest signify, the town, the theatres, the vestiges of old despairs? At tea-time as they were sitting on the verandah, after an afternoon walk, a messenger came up from the station with a letter. It had been sent on by Charteris’ man.

He opened it and found an enclosure, • letter from » firm of lawyers, apprising him that a wealthy relative in Australia had died, leaving hi tn everything. He handed the letter to Rusnell without a word. Money eotild not do everything, although be had imagined at one time that it could. He felt elated, but then there returned the old sensation of misery. They stopped at about one o’clock on the following day and had tea at an oldfashioned hostelry, after a stay of a few hours at Cowes, where the scene was resplendent in the extreme; nigger minstrels were singing the very latest songs in front of the chief hotel; people were strolling about in yachting costumes; in the brilliant sunshine everything was idealised, dazzling. A foreign prince drove by in a landau, with outriders. To be seen in the erow’d where fortune tellers and necromancers were hard at work, were many celebrated people, a diplomatist, a famous politician. But Charteris was only thinking of her all the time, and of that one idea. “ Perhaps with that money I could get into Parliament, and then she might have me.” En route home Sybil declared her intention of leaving the coaeh and going back the short distance that remained across the fields. “ You can come too if you like, Paul,” she said. “ And I’m coming,” exclaimed Claire, her younger sister. Charteris jumped down with alacrity, and assisted the two girls to descend. Farewells were waved, and as the coach rolled on the three companions set off across the fields. There were stiles to be crossed, and at one of them Sybil gave a cry of pain. Charteris, who had just helped her sister over, turned in alarm, to see Sybil stooping down to examine her foot; she was leaning baek against the stile. “Yon are hurt!” he exclaimed anxiously, going up to her. “No, no,” she said petulantly; “I’m all right. Paul, I wish you wouldn’t.” “ Would not what ?” he asked, in surprise.

" Why, you don’t treat me in an ordinary way.” “ That would be impossible.” “Would it? Why?” she asked sharply. “Because, Sybil—Oh, it is quite simple, yet I hardly know how to say it. You are not ordinary—you are everything to me, everything in the world.” “ Am 1” she exclaimed, with a light laugh. “Are you not exaggerating? You always did go to extremes.” “No,” he said quickly; “I eould not exaggerate when you arc concerned.” But on that occasion, as on others, she laughed it off. She eould not regard it seriously, so it seemed; and as he had done in the old days five years before at Emhurst. when they had been boy and girl together, so now he loved her more each day. And the thought that nothing he could do would conceivably change matters embittered life. He was not good enough; he had never achieved anything, never done anything more than the crowd—perhaps that was why she held him in good-tempered scorn. It would be somebody else who would win the victory, somebody who had no old remembrances of those days now so far away—the spring time at Emhurst, the hewn ash stumps round which MuebeHs bloomed in. March. Always would she be with him in mind, in all the days, all the seasons; but that dream would be all. A couple of days later he made a last attempt. “Might there not be any hope?” he pleaded. “ I would wait for years.” “How can I, Paul?” she said, and she touched his arm. “ You know,” she went on, and there was, he thought, a ring of sympathy in her voice, “ we can be friends.” “Yet nothing more?” “ Because we have been friends and all that it does not seem to me certain that we should be happy together always. Won’t you be satisfied, Paul?” “ I must be,” he said. “ Sybil, I haven’t pained you?” “ No.” "You never eould think of me?” “Never,” she said firmly, and at that

moment that moment of intense grief —it seemed to him that she ha. I nevar looked more graceful, more beautiful, in her life. “Forgive me,” he said brokenly. “I ought not to have troubled you. My only excuse is that I have loved you all my life. I have been clumsy; it is foolish, it is ungallant. I ask you to forget.” Again there was only one remark. “I am very sorry.” “What have I done then?” “Nothing that I know of.” “I am not disgraced?” “No, no, no, Paul; it is not that. I can’t help it, really. We ran be good friends, can we not? You are not going to do anything desperate?” There was a shade of the mocking spirit in her tone. He shook bis head. “You don’t know,” lie said; “it is a tragedy to me.” And then shortly afterwards he feigned an important engagement, and left. "It is better,” he said; “good-bye,” and when Russell with the best of intentions and the most perfect good nature tried to detain him, he met the hospitable insistence with a shake of the head, an avowal that he must go. There was nothing else to be done, nothing, and the law of the world was to bow and depart. He went baek to London to his chambers, to the old round, the round which seemed so purposeless now, now that there was no hope. It was all rather strange, the return, the ride through a night country, past a hundred, countrysides, the crowded brilliant terminus, the eab, the wet glistening streets, the grave night. And on arrival he sat down and thought—looking out of the open window into the great city, whose murmur was getting softer further away. Ho.w would it be with the years? Strange lights seemed to fall into the large mirror, at the far end of the room, and in it he thought that he saw her. radiantly beautiful, like a fair spring in a countryside. His reflections were strangely broken into by’ the sound of music coming from

the other side of the quadrangle; there were lights iu a window, and a piano was being played. In a few hours the city would be waking up once more, people stirring, * new thought* coming, the rattle of ha»ness iu mews, the scsiHUption of the obi routine. It was odd to glanee out at that mysterious panorama, to see in it all that there was. the going and the coming, the arrivals at hotels, of traveller* who bad seen the sun rise in other lands, the sound of church hells, the thought of the mountains, anil of impressive scenes in dimlit cathedrals. But besides all that, there was one countryside, which was remembered as . clearly as a scene in a ballroom amidst the brilliant lights, or a glimpse of a theatre—a countryside where there was silenee and ealm. the holly hocks in cottage gardens, quaint old farmhouses, with fowls which approprial <1 the roadway. and the deep woods, with, too, the scent of burning wood, and all the faraway sensations of a place which did not trouble about the life of the cities and the stir of the world. And yeti there was work, but still in the midst of a life in which there was action, that old dream always returned -—strange, insistent, along witli the thoughts of the night and of the morning, the refrain of a song, “I will hang iny harp on a weeping willow tree,” a rememliered interior, the pictures, the books, the I’olome.l lights <u the candles on a dinner-table, the suggestion evoked by the sight of a photograph, a girl’s faee. or of some scene in the gallery of an old-time palace. For in that countryside there had been much thought., the foregathering of friends in the evening, the chat about the doings of the great world, the explorations, the wars, and then the walk back along quiet country lanes, rather sad with tall poplars standing out against the grey night sky. After all in one corner of the world, there was everything, life, idea, thought, despair, possibility. So that was the end! Nothing really signified now, now that he realised that

■lie could never care. The former feeling of despair was dulled into » calm melancholy, a sense of the impossible, a strength in the memory of what had been. The past was a dream friend — nothing more. In that ivory tower of thought she always came baek to him—always. He had guarded some of her letters; time was ncthing, and the notion of old age—alone—did not frighten him. Can one be alone hi a vast city where there are so many things which might be done?

That garden of memory was always a refuge. He thought again of all that had happened, of how she looked on a certain evening at a dinner party across the Howers; she wore a black dress with diamonds. She hail said, “ Yes, I want to go to the races very much.” That year ended—sadly. Wealth had brought distractions. more—acquaintances, but the thought of her was always there. He had travelled much, and now he enlarged his itinerary, seeking change, oblivion, the oblivion which never came. In a moment of solitude, in the gleam of the firelight, in a crowded salon, on board a steamer, or at a foreign plage in tho pleasant dreamy days of that distant June on the garden terrace with the moon majestic, sad, up there, of the wet Whit Monday, all the genial rush of that Hank Holiday, the talk of friends aboutfuture doings, the tune of "The Holy City ’’ which was played. All the lights raid shades-of a few minutes’ conversation in the drawing-room one wet April afternoon came back, and such a remembrance seemed to tinge the whole world, the streets of London in August when lavender was being sold, the scenes in other places, the chats at night-time with friends.

There would never be anything really worth striving for —ncthing but that con-jured-up vision of that summer, that seaside place, the sun-lit sea. the. crowd and inusie at Cowes Regatta, the brilliancy and glamour of that time; and yet at first in a desperate way he had tried to go forward, to realise the world, and to feel with it, and though he could net engage in some work which brought immediate and lasting and did more besides, like the musician who orings new feeling, new light into the world, yet in Parliament he did m«mage,<to-grin,a name. Ilfs strength lay, perhaps in that detachment from life which came in time, that curious independence .vjfuch enabled him to go on unflinchingly where others failed. Sentiment — all that, so far as action went, was placed on one side; it would never hamper movement again. It was only at times that the old anguish would return, at moments when the power of the world had lost its grip, moments of disenchant inent. desolation. Then again in the moving tab'c.tu of memory he saw her fair hair, her laughing eyes; she was coming towards him; or once again he was meeting her in the hall of a house.

He heard some two years after that she was at Baden, and he avoided that place during his autumn jaunt. The world is pretty wide, after all, for since that farewell in the Isle of Wight he had never seen her —never. And he never would again. Some things were not to be! some things had to be accepted, and that was one. Yet sometimes the stony indifference of all besides to a tragedy galled and chafed; to others these things mattered not: they went into dinner with easy nonehalan e, for life was passing-just the same, and trains were departing, racing th rough strange night-times into early morning country sides where labourers —perhaps the most honest of us all— were trudging to labour in the silence of the dawn. Around there was all that intense excitement of life which it was a pity not to look at whole-minded and without that sense of desolating despair which clogged initiative and rendered everything null.

Chance likenesses he caught in the thoroughfares of the great world, among the busy marts—people who passed and were never seen again. Perhaps she saw too some of the things which he saw, heard the same tunes, thought perhaps now and then of the charm of those old da vs. -

There was one thing which he dreaded — the announcement in the papers of her marriage. Any day it might be there—any day. It would have to be read and bruited abroad, and commented upon* People would lean back in club lounges and drawl out “Yes. a good match,” while he would have to act the indifferent who cared nothing, who had never thought of her as other than a pretty fight—the belle of a season whose eventual choice wauld be a useful canvass for conversa-

tion. How would it be then? When someone exclaimed, “All, by the way, Charleris, have you heard the. pews?’’ And when that fact was shouted into his ear how hard it woyld be to reconcile it with the world, with alt that was passing, with Paris in the early’ morning time, its dreams of the past, its ideas of the future when better things might cornel

Yet nobody knew of that secret. It was the |>erfuiued garden, entrance to which is commanded by one only; ingress is barred to all. besides.

Another twelve months passed, and April came again. There was a wonderful glamour over the commencement of the season, and the Marchioness of Down, whose reception opened the entertainments and festivities of the year, was honoured by Royalty and by all the elect: and mingling in that crowd. Chatteris exchanged a word here, a salutation there. It was not in his mind then that he should by any chance meet her in the brilliantly illuminated salons, when suddenly he felt a touch on his arm, and a familiar voice—Russell's —exclaimed: “My dear fellow, how are you? You haven't been treating us at all well lately. do you know; and,” lie went on, linking his arm in Paul's, without giving him opportunity for reply or protest, “I don’t know whether we can forgive you. All last winter—oh, I don't know how long! Well, we were in Egypt. I was so ill that it was my only chance, although with all my business it was awkward enough for me to be away. Now. tell me all—but no, don't—not now; here are my people.” And Paul found himself face to face with those friends of a few years back. Mrs. Russell came forward, saying something cordial and winning, and then he saw Sybil—Sybil, more graceful, more beautiful than of old. “Paul,’’ she said, holding out her hand, “how long it lias been!” Tho voice was so soft, so melodious and in that melody there was a regret. “Sybil:” Only one word, and then he stopped and looked at her wonderingly. “How you have changed!” she murmured; - . . And the sea and that pirade, and the ’music of those old days, and the church hells that Sunday morning, and the garden! Then as he said hot a word, she went on: "Why did you go away?” “I—I,” he faltered. “I was bound to "Were you?’ and she Icoked at him with reproach in her eyes. “I think it was rather unkind. Do you like Parliament? Tell me about it, please; I want to know. Are you busy now?” “You knew I was in the House?” “Of course!” Then as he looked into her eyes he began to dimly understand that he had been hasty, that he need not have despaired—not quite so soon. How readily was the sorrow of that long lapse forgotten! "Is it true?" he said passionately, and then as she inclined her head, he exclaimed : “Sybil, I have always thought of you.” “And I of you,” she murmured. Then he tried to take a lighter vein, lieeause of the milieu, of the music starting afresh. “The bazaar that summer, and the French comedian who sang ‘Ninon, Nina, Ninette’ —do you remember?” “Yes, yes,” and she laughed merrily; “I remember him.” “And the Island that summer, and all that?” - “Yes.” she answered, "all that too—all that too. Paul, will you forgive me because I was unkind?” "It has made the truth so much finer,” he said. • - -