[COPYRIGHT STORY.] The Problem of the Eyes

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 7, 17 August 1907, Page 46

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] The Problem of the Eyes

By 1

MARY BEAUMONT

AS I sat writing letters with the door open the other day, somebody passed by carrying a great posy of Oriental poppies, flamecoloured and scarlet. One of the large light petals floated to the ground, and lay there, a fairy bright shallop, tilting gently over in the wind from the garden. Something rose at the sight of it, and pressed hard on the doors of memory, eager for recognition. I stared hard at the poppy-petal, glistening silken on the ground, and wondered. Then 1 remembered. “The Problem of the Eyes,” 1 said aloud; and 1 went out and brought the petal in, smoothing it on my palm. As 1 smoothed it the whole story, swift as a dream, took place again. It must be fifteen years ago since it began. I was going into Norton by train. There were two second-class carriages, and everybody was going first or third. The day was sultry, and 1 was thankful to get. an empty compartment. I sat until the train began to move, comfortable and alone, reflecting, on my good luck. We stopped for a moment at the other end of the platform, and at that moment the door flew back, and a girl—half hidden in a tall bunch of wild flowers—was pushed in hastily by a man. who, yet more hastily, jumped in after her. The pace quickened, they settled themselves opposite, and saw me for the first time. They apparently never met with a more unwelcome sight. All in a moment I understood. These were two engaged people, who, like myself, had chosen a second-class carriage for the sake of privacy, and found themselves in the inconsiderate, the maliciously inconsiderate, company of a third person. The girl, with a great air of aloofness from her companion, examined a poppy head, from which the petals had fallen, with interest; one of those gay petals lay sear I t upon the dusty floor. The man. his head very erect, after one brief, indignant glance at me, eyed the passing country, his eyebrows slightly raised. She pressed herself into the corner, and instantly he removed himself yet further away. 1 had an impression that she was even more annoyed with him than with me. To her mind, no doubt, a lover’s eves ought to se • through all obstacles, and prepare for all emergencies. The chat ami laughter which had seemed to surround their entrance had died away. No people could appear more remote from each other. They might have been slight acquaintances, antipathetic, condemned to the same compartment, and obliged to be frostily polite. 1 felt ridiculously uncomfortable, and angry With myself for b-ing so. They were very pleasant to look at, lie. fair haired and grey-eyed, with firm and fine features; and she of a (dear colour, with Irish blue eyes, her hair dark -almost black —waving and curling under her summer hat. Suddenly, and amidst inward protests, 1 transferred myself to the furthest corner of the other side, where I could fast n my attention on my hook or the panhed country without. Then I felt a- ridiculously relieved as I la-fore felt uncomfortable. I la-nt all my mind to my book, and yet 1 could not read. There was a problem which insited upon a solution, and I knew of none. Why hail they both the same kind of eye? Of n different colour—yes. But the •pen setting and fearless gaze. The

expression was almost identically the same. They were eyes which would never flinch in danger, nor before a foe, nor shrink from difficulty. As a romantic person with theories, this was not as it should be. My theory was that a contrast, physically as well as mentally, was better for happiness than a similarity. I turned to look at them again, but the broad, flat shoulders of the man were set uncompromisingly against me. I could see nothing of either face. It was satisfactory, however, to hear that the talk was busy, and sometimes above the rush of the train sounded their happy laughter. At the station before Norton they got out and crossed the little platform to a white-barred gate, behind which stood a dogcart, a groom at the horse’s head. The young man put his companion carefully up in front, and hurried back into the station. She looked as she ought to do, if my surmises were correct, but her face had, I thought, more than a touch of sadness. I came back to the seat and side I preferred. “Well, I did my best for them,” I murmured, and settled myself contentedly to the enjoyment of the “Arabian Nights” of the beloved Magician sleeping now by southern seas. A shadow fell on the page; at the door was the young man, my fellowtraveller. with a touch of what was almost shyness in his intrepid eyes. “I—l want to thank you for your consideration.” he said, his bronzed cheek flushing. “It ■ struck me afterwards that you might have found it unpleasant to ride with your back to the engine. But lam very much obliged —the fact is. I leave for India to-night —and—it is along way.” 1 put out my hand impulsively, and wished him “Good luck and much happiness.” the train moving slowly along. I caught sight of them one? more—she driving, and he disentangling the whiplash from the ribbons of her hat. Oh. why had they the same kind of eyes ? Years pased. eight. I think. Being weakened by an attack of influenza, and unable to get strength in my valley home, I had taken rooms in an old inn for a month, part inn and part farmhouse. out upon the moors a few miles away. Unless you love moors, it is perhaps well to keep away from them, for they are apt to weigh upon the spirit in a sense of loneliness and quiet. But to a moor-lover nothing, not even the sea, can make up for the lack of them. Their shifting colour, their austere beauty, the honeyed scent of heather ami thyme, the peat pools lying in their hollows—and. above all. the wild, free winds that roam there, take the heart and keep it. I had a maid with me. a good girl, and oom near the spot. With her and my books and letters I was happv enough—getting strong r every day. ‘ This living so. I was not pleased when Ml- I.yatt told me that she had let the other parlour and the other bedrom to an Indian gentleman and his lady. I was a good deal disturbed by the thought of an Indian gentleman. His lady, too, w.u-t kind of a p rson night she lie? Indian gentleman, except of the most enlightened, did not, 1 knew, bring their ladies into the ojien world, not even into the solitude of a Yorkshire moor. I further learnt that they wore coming that afternoon. Before nightfall, however, I was greatly

relieved. The strangers were Anglo-In-dians. he, poor man, home on sick leave, after repeated attacks of fever. I met them the next morning in the passage out of which our sitting-room opened. They were quite young people; he was leaning on his wife’s arm, very thin and weak. We bowed civilly, and went our ways, but my memory was troubled as strongly as by the poppyleaf the other day. I stood pondering in the passage outside my door—a passage ordained never to be forgotten by me. Their eyes haunted me, but it was only after ruminating for half an hour that I remembered —they were mv fellow-passen-gers in the train to Norton long ago! My old problem remained unsolved for some time after I had made their acquaintance, and had heard much of their life in India. But there came a day which presented to me a quick and never -to- be - forgotten solution Mr. Formby, a Lancashire man, was an Indian civilian of the best type, already receiving the fruits of his character. The Government recognised his ready resource and capacity for work, also his keen and even affectionate interest in the natives. He had teen strenuous in sport as in labour, and had brought home a great pile of tiger and other skins, some of which were the trophies of his wife. Altogether he had behaved as his face and bearing might, have led one to expect. As for her, she was more beautiful than before. If her colouring had paled a little under the Indian sun, her expression had gained immeasurably in the years since I first saw. She was devoted to her husband, ever ready- to serve him, and her Irish nature —for she was Irish, though Yorkshire born — kept the atmosphere bright with fun and gaietv. On first going out they had been in the neighbourhood of the jungle, and had collected butterflies and moths, having as many as six hundred cages of chrysalis at once in the verandah of their bungalow. I shall not soon forget the sight of the opening of the two great cases of these butterflies. It was like a glimpse of the flashing hues of Paradise— I say Paradise, for there is nothing like them here. Every colour, and every shade of colour. And all prismatic as a humming bird’s throat. There were, however, two specimens, dead soft white, like ermine, barred with a luminous black, out of which gleamed vermilion spots, like angry eyes. I was never tired of looking at them, they fascinated me, and but for them my problem might have remained a problem for ever. Mr. Formby showed me many curious things, tine evening we were in the inn porch. The neglected ivy hung down on both sides of it. Upon his knees was a quaintly ornamented box — open—and revealing several bits of Oriental goldsmith work, amongst the rest a little golden idol with four burnished arms, which sparkled in the sunlight. The ivy curtain swayed at my side; it seemed to me that I caught a glimpse of a dark figure behind it. I pushed the mass hurriedly back, but could se? no one. nor any sign of one. “I do wish they would cut this ivy.” I remarked; “it ruins it to leave it like this, year by year.” “Indeed, it's to be hoped they won't while wo are here,” exclaimed Mrs. Formhv. “It’s just a plucked goose the old house will lie, and no beauty at all.” Her husband laughed. “It was only this morning that she

said to me, ‘Would you know I was Irish still by the way I talk?’ And she was indignant when I told her the truth —frightfully indignant.” His hand was on her shoulder, she laid her cheek against it for an instant. “The natives are given to lies,” she said. “He has been a great deal with them, poor man.” “My dear child, you were very —” “They reiterate their lies, too,” she said, looking at him with a pretty insolence, mocking him. I took up the idol and amused myself with watching the light radiating from the facets of the carving. “That's a proof of the evil influence,” she continued. “This,” “Yes,’ he flattered the old Maharajah so shockingly about his horses, that he gave that to him when he left.” “His stud is the finest but one in India,” exclaimed her husband. “Ah no, not till you said so, my dear boy—then, of course, it was better than the best. However,” she went on quickly to prevent his reply, “lies or no lies, I’m glad to have it, and I shall keep it to melt into a christening cup for our child’s child.” “Our child being just three,” muttered Mr. Formby. For some time longer the idol stood reflecting the light from his burnished arms. A few days afterwards we had the heaviest thunderstorm I ever saw. From my window, which opened full on the wide-spreading moor, and the hilly road cut deep into it, we saw the thorn at the bottom of the pasture struck by the levin-bolt. In the distance, great, lambent, pear-shaped balls fell from the lurid clouds. The heavens crashed above us, and the earth trembled under our feet. In three hours the road was a river, with freted combings of wav s in the middle, deep enough to drown a man, and carrying down a cart and the struggling horse even as we watched it. All day we had battled with a distressing sense of heavy depression. Mr. Formby-, who had had a touch of fever again, was an especial sufferer, and the terrible thunderstorm coming upon the weakness left by the fever, laid him prostrate. I had. personally, no fear for his future health, nor. in calmer moments, had his wife. He had an excellent constitution, stren Aliened by hardy and temperate habits from boyhood—• but for the time being he was much weakened. His fine features, never covered by superfluous flesh, were thin and worn. When the last drench of the rain had died into a slow dropping upon the earth, and behind the northward roll of the thunder clouds the clear sky was left above us. I crossed the passage to interview Mrs. Lyatt, my head still stupid and aching, as if the electric bolt had given it a buffet in passing. As I returned. Lena Formby stood at her open door. She beckoned to me, her finger on her lips. I went with soft steps along the flagstones, over which was laid a strip of home-made carpet, and stood by her side. Her husband was asleep upon the sofa. One long arm hung down, and a too white hand rested on the floor. His atitude was one of absolute exhaustion, his hair lay dark upon his forehead, and the hollows in his face wore very noticeable in th* slant of the evening light. “He looks so ill. Miss Pen,” she whimpered sorrowfully.

My name is Penelope, but —and it is a fact that I have often dwelt upon—• not only my brother George, with whom I live, but every body euts my elasie name to a syllable, when acquaintance merges into friendship. “My dear,” I whispered back, “it is the storm —nothing else. Come to my room until he wakes.” I drew her out, and gently closed the door. Her nerves as well as mine were still disturbed. The air tingled yet, and the house seemed full of an oppressive heat. As we passed the narrow’ slip of a mirror, above my mantelpiece. I thought ■we both had a very pale and shaken appearance. Mrs. Lyatt had herself admitted to me that she was in such "a dither” that she eould not knead her bread. “What w’t’ din, and t’ blaze, Ah thought t’ Judgment had begun. An’ Ah didn’t think mysel’ just tit for it, ah’d been so moitherd wi’ work all t’ morning,” she said. Telling this, and chatting to Lena Formby eased us both a little. She wandered about the room, taking up a book here, and a sketch there, and forgetting something of her anxiety. On the table lay a careful, nearly finished drawing of the two remarkable butterflies before mentioned. “Do let me see you put the spots in, and the eyes, Miss Pen,” she said eoaxingly. But the butterflies were in her room, where Mr. Formby still slept. 1 told her so. "That’s no obstacle,” she said. Tiaurie is never disturbed if 1 go in. Besides, I gave him his sleeping draught, he was so very weary, and yet excited. I wiil go and fetch the butterflies.” We were now’ standing by the window’. “Why, Miss Pen!” she exclaimed excitedly, “the stream is not in it’s old bed.” Nor was it. The old stony bed was deserted, and a new one cloven down a heathery slope, boulders washed into it, round which the waters frothed, and on both sides a quick-wrought ruin. The peat was torn into deep holes, slowly filling from the stream. “What a strange-looking object;” This exclamation was mine. Coming round the narrow walk, underneath the windows, across which the loosened creepers trailed and swung, was a man, a walking bundle of disordered clothes. Huddled upon him were a couple of coats, and a rough horse-rug, worn no doubt to protect him from the rain. He glanced furtively at us as he passed, shambling round the corner of the house. “Poor wretch,” said Lena, “I hope they will take him in and dry him. They ought to give him a handsome wage to scare the birds —such a rag-bag as he looked.” All at once we heard Mr. Lyatt’s hearty welcome. “Come in. lad. You can have a sup o’ beer an’ dry your clothes an’ all. It’s been a storm, an’ no mistake. Mv missus ’ll look after you.” We smiled at each other, and Mrs. Formby, with one more gaze at the clear beauty of the landscape washed into an indescribable fairness, turned to leave the room. She was not yet in the passage—a fold of her dress was still within the doorway when the near crack of a shot to the left startled us. The same thought struck us, the thunder was beginning again. But in a second —and I was at her elbow, where she stood, arrested by the sound — a fall in the kitchen opposite, a fall of something whieh burst open the door, and lay partly in the passage, a red trickle straying behind it. gave to us the whole dreadful situation. How to express to you that all whieh I am describing now, happened in a time so short as scarcely to be measured by time, I know not. It was so much to happen, and yet took but a moment. So it is that it remains in mv memory like a picture, not as an action—a horrible, yet wonderful, picture. What I saw was this —beyond the prostrate body of good Mr. Lyatt, lay his wife, a black scorched mark upon her bodice, in front. 1 heard her moaning. Betwen them, and vet suddenly beyond them, and in the pa-sage near to me. making swiftly for the door of the Formby'* sitting-room, was the man so lately welcomed. a smoking pistol in his hand. At the door was Lena Formby. Perhaps it was that he was so quickly at her and so close—but instead of entering she stoo|>cd and turned the key in the lock, throwing it far before her with a great sweep of her arm. and a triumphant gleam on her white face. Her

eyes were wide and keen —blue as steel under two straight bars of jet, her brows. At bay she stood, and yet with something of a smile, for her husband was safe locked within, and as the villain rushed at her, she met the raised arm with a blow. I heard him curse her as the bullet struck the wall above the door; the pistol dashed from his hand upon the flags. He shouted something about “the gold,” and, seizing the handle to open the door, found it locked. 1 saw him lift his arm to strike, and at that there was a wild cry that terrified me more than the man did. It was so wild and dreadful that 1 cowered on the ground close to the landlord’s helpless head, with my fingers in my ears, trying to shut out the echo of it. It had alarmed the wretch, for I knew that he rushed past me, and dropped out of the open window, scattering the gravel with his feet. But I never moved. I was frozen into speechless horror by the cry—which was my own. I knew that Mr. Formby had come to the door, and was speaking loudly. I heard Lena's voice, then the evening became night, in whieh 1 was swallowed upWhen I opened my eves again, 1 was in the Formby’s room on the sofa. He sat bv me, one hand on my pulse, and the other clasped in the hand of his wife, who was kneeling near. They were visible to me, but not more so than that picture of the last scene—with her as the dominant figure—her shining eyes and her smile. And my first thought was of mv old problem. "I know now why you have the same kind of eyes,” I said. They looked at each other pitifully, the brave grey eyes and the blue, but 1-y wits were not wandering, and in a weak, babling way, as we speak when we come afresh to consciousness I explained the words. “She would have sacrificed herself willingly to save you, you see,” 1 ended. He caught her to his breast, not ashamed of the tear on his ch?ek. “And the butterflies, Miss Pen, but for them —” she sank to the ground, leaning against his knee—as if the thought suddenly took her strength, and gently began to tell me the condition of our poor host and hostess. They were both living; indeed, Mrs. Lyatt was little the worse, the broad bone of her corset having repelled the bullet. Mr. Lyatt had a badly shattered shoulder. Two doctors had been sent for from Seathorpe, some way beyond the Yorkshire border, which ended near the inn. Mr. Formby had made him as comfortable as he could meanwhile. A day or two afterwards we went home together; my fellow-guests stayed with me until the fever was all but conquered. When they went baek th y left their boy with me for many months, and I still cherish the idol for the. child’s child of the mother’s dream. The inn upon the moor was the great object of interest to two counties, and Mr. and Airs. Lyatt made a little fortune out of their adventure, whilst the would-be assassin now and still wears out his long sentence in Norton gaol.