CHRISTINE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLI, Issue 12, 16 September 1908, Page 33

CHRISTINE.

BY

NANNIE HARRIS WALKER

Edward John knowles luui no moral courage-, or, as his sister Eliza expressed it, "lie let himself be sat upon bv- everyone who came near him.” He himself was not at all ignorant of this aspect of his character—as a matter of fact he was a man -much given to introspection, and he saw himself as clearly the universal office stool of the firm of Berberry and Co. as even did Miss Eliza. Moreover, he added to the mental picture variations that had never occurred to the reproachful little lady who kept house for him. Edward John had a habit of imagining the office stool one day rising to great height and taking on the proportions of a ma i. And the man cut a most tremendous figure and indulged in most heroic poses; he would stretch out his legs and put bin hands in his pockets while he told the impertinent junior clerk Jones to be gone out of his sight, or he would pull at his moustache in perplexity as to whether he would take a brandy and soda or a bottle of fiz, just as the manager, Mr. Moffitt, had done one evening in the saloon bar of the Dolphin; or—most daring pose of all —he would hold his clenched fist close up to the nose of the boss, Mr. Reginald Berberry, while he told him in loud and firm tones what he thought of his tyranny and rascality. But the man who did all these brave things was an Edward John unknown outside his creator’s brain. The real Edward John Knowles was he who, on a cold night in December was sitting in the loneliness of his master’s office two hours after everyone had gone home, checking accounts that other people were paid big salaries for keeping. The fire had gone out, and the gas. according to rule, had been turned oil at eight o’clock, and the little clerk was straining his eyes over miles of figures by the 'id of a miserable paraffin lamp. He was so deeply absorbed in his task that he did not hear the door open, nor know that someone had entered the room until the sound of a woman’s voice made him jump off his stool with fright. What happened in the next few moments made the one and only adventure in Edward John’s life. Yet he was never able to give a very lucid -explanation of it. There was really very little to tell. As he stood up he saw a woman walking across the dim-lit room; she stood for a moment in the centre; she stooped down, and said as she did so in a sharp agonising tone, "I don t care what vou do; I cannot help it.” Thon even more rapidly than she had come she had gone. Edward John took the lamp in a somewhat trembling hand to follow his strange visitor. As he went to the door he nearly fell over a large bundle. He knelt down to examine it. The next moment two cries rang through the room. One was a terrified surprise from Edward John; the other was the feeble whining of a baby, and it came from the bundle. The most feeble and helpless man in London was face to face with a live, mysterious baby—a something that already with its wriggling and its noise was fast driving his few remaining wits away. What was he to do? The most obvious thing was to call Mrs. Thring, the housekeeper, and that, much relieved, Edward John proceeded to do. He was already half-way down the stairs when he remembered that the good lady was spending the evening with her friends; the next obvious thing was to call a policeman. He went to the door to put his militant resolve into action, hut the distant step of a man in blue set his heart beating more furiously than even the crying of the baby. Like all nervous, sensitive men. Edward John Knowles had a terror of putting

the law into' motion; the nearer the policeman came the further he pulled himself back into the doorway; cursing himself for an idiot he heard the footsteps come to the door and pass on, and all the time the little whining cry from above kept ringing in his ears. He returned to the room. The whine had developed into a lusty scream, while the bundle was shifting and bobbing about, for all the world like a seal on dry land. Edward John once more approached it, and with desperate courage began to feel it—he even started to undo various safety pins. So soon as the wrapping was unloosed a blue-eyed, darkhaired babv sat bolt upright, smiling and unafraid; her sudden freedom had put her in a playful mood: she immediately grabbed at Edward John's finger and held it while she tried to stand up. It made a most ludicrous picture. The little man sitting on the floor, looking as terrified as if it were being clawed by a tiger, and the baby trying with all her strength to crawl over him. and evidently enjoying the novelty of the proceedings. The waning light of the paraffin lamp ended the situation. Tn another moment the terror of darkness would be added to the scene. Edward John stood up, snatched at the baby, wrapped it up exactly in the way he used to make parcels during the few months he was a grocer’s assistant, all of which proceedings the baby luckily took as great fun. Then, carrying the little one in his arms, still tn a fashion reminiscent of his grocery days, he crept down the stairs, and stepped guiltily into the street—an example to all of what comes to a man who had not cultivated strength of character. There was he. Edward John, instead of having the babv carefully disposed of in a workhouse cot, hurrying with it in his arms through the streets of London, not being able to recall a parallel for his state of mind but that of the Bible description of Cain as he fled aftei- the death of Abel. Miss Eliza Knowles had swept up the cinders from her polished hearth with her brass handled broom three times; she had quieted the kettle’s gay singing just as many times, and she had gone into the kitchen at least a dozen times to make sure that the dishes were hot, before she heard her brother’s well-known walk along the tiled front gorden path. It was many years since he had been so late in returning. Miss Eliza knew that nothing but business ever kept him away: yet she had to show some disapproval of the anxiety and uneasiness she hail been caused. Instead, then, of going to the door as usual, she sat stolidly by the lire and listened without the stirring of an eyelash to the turning of the latch-key and his banging open of the front door. Her calm, however, was not of long duration. Her immediate impression on Edward John’s entrance was that she must be mad or dreaming. How else could see her brother, with pale face, glaring eyes, and disordered hair, holding a baby in his arms? It was the last fact that most struck her observation, as was shown by her exclamation: “A baby?” Edward John had got by this time to such a degree of confusion and fatigue that he could only echo inertly: “A baby.” Then,, having gained a chair, he added beseechingly. “Oh, take it, take it.” The black bundle was perfectly quiescent by this time, and as she held forth her arms to take it the little sleeping face touched some chord of motherhood in the old maid’s heart. She handled it very gently, and said in a whisper.

hard and imperative, but very low, “Tell me all about it at once.” The waiting dinner, her usual solicitude for a hungry man were forgoten in this new amazement which had entered her home. Edward John told his story in a few rapid words. When he came to tell ot his hesitation about calling the policeman and of his hasty flight with the baby, he saw condemnation gathering over the little sharp blue eyes and the thin lips of his sister. To prevent the storm of complaint he saw lowering from falling on his already much beaten brain he ended the story of his pusillanimity with the protesting reminder: “And I’m so hungry, Eliza.” The dishing of the supper made a break in the explanations, and the awakening of the baby made another. Edward John, in fact, had lit his pipe and settled in for his usual hour of somnolent meditation before Miss Eliza was able to have her say in the extraordinary events of the evening. In stronger language than she had ever permitted herself to use before she told lier brother what she thought of his namby-pamby character and of his want of back bone.

“The idea,’’ she said, “of a man of your years blinding himself over a paraffin lamp doing the work of bounders. Little wonder that the first woman that had a Im by to get rid of thought of planting it on you.” Then suddenly Miss Eliza’s brows tightened together, her thin lips trembled, an expression of horror and suspicion came over her face. She raised her arm and. pointing a rigid linger at her brother, said: “Are you telling me the truth. Edward John?” ‘ The unaccustomed use of this name caused the little man to bristle up. “Why, bless my soul, what does the woman mean?” he said, hotly. 'lhe wondering simplicity and sincerity in his face settled beyond doubt and for all time in Miss Eliza’s mind the fact that however much of a fool he might be her brother was hot a knave. ()f course, after talking the whole matter oyer, it was settled without demur by Miss Eliza that the baby should go to the workhouse next morning, and, of course, her brother eagerly acquiesced. Yet as the night went on and the baby brightened up. and she took her bread

and milk, with chuckles of appreciation, and let herself be tucked into Miss Eliza’s bed, somehow or another the middle-aged lonely couple got less confident about babv’s destination on the morrow. Just before Miss Itliza went to lie down by the side of the baby she called to her brother: “I have been thinking. Edward John, that perhaps that wretched woman would get sorry and come back for her child, we might as well keep it for a few days and see if she will.” “1 have been thinking that too,” said Edward John. But Edward John smiled to himself ami mutered, “Bless Eliza's simplicity; that distracted woman does not know where she left her child.” Next morning when Edward John arrived as usual first in the office he was met by Mrs. Thring, the housekeeper, who said: . “Law, Mr. Knowles, I did ’ave a fright this morning in the master’s office. What do I find but the lamp on the floor. Nothing else so far as I can see was touch“I put the lamp on the floor, Mrs. Thring,” said Edward John, “because the oil was nearly out and it was smelling ba div.” “Law.” said Mrs. Thring. And that was all anyone in the office ever heard of the adventure which had brought a baby to the home of Edward John Knowles. Eighteen years is a space of time that marks the difference between youth and age in most people. It had left Edward John Knowles untouched, save perhaps for a more liberal sprinkling of grey hairs among his lank, black ones. His face had the same expression of resigned humility; his hands were as smooth, as unlined. and as nervous; his walk had the same hurried short stop, and the voice the same apologetic monotone, on the evening of the 22nd of December, when he was hurrying home to celebrate Christine’S birthday, as on the evening he had carried her as a baby home in his arms. Tie was still sat upon by everyone who worked with him, and he still'amused himself with dreams of the dav he would rise up in bis wrath and discomfit all his enemies. The old clerk, indeed, might be said to move as a shadow among living people: amidst the hurrv and bustle of ambitious lives his thin shabbv-eoated figure bent over his high' de=k was a warning to all who heeded against the stagnation andiatropliy of routine. Tie had remained without personal ties in the office, save, perhaps, for one curious half-timed friendship with the voung son of the head of the firm “Mr. Ernest” from the time he ,va< a small boy showed a preference for the quiet, elderly man: and ns the years went on the tie held and served Edward John as a sort of armour against many ot the stings of office encroachments. On this night, for instance, it was owing to “Mr. Ernest” that he was able to put pen and ledger away and hurry off to the jovful feast that he knew awaited at home. As he went along to the station his thoughts naturally went back to the night eighteen years before, and he smiled to himself as he remembered what a burden he thought the baby—the babv that had brought warmth and joy into every hour of his life since then: for Edward John had a wav of remembering what others gave him never what he gave to others. Tie thought of Christine’s singing and plavin" and her French and German reading with pride: but he never thought of the sacrifices her education had cost him. lie became so absolutely absorbed in his pleasant reminiscences that as he hurried along the Waterloo platform lie almost knocked against a tall, handsome athletic young fellow in grey tweed before he recognised him as “Mr. Ernest, and he was too flurried to give a coherent answer to the greeting. “Coming bv .this train. Edward? Glad to have you with me. ... Oh, don’t bother about your season ticket. Jump in with me. I’ll see it’s all right.” Edward John, of course, jumped in. He always did what he was told. As the train hurried on Mr. Ernest Berberry explained that he was going for a few weeks to study some agricultural method on a friend’s farm near Isleworth. That meant that he and Edward John got out at the same station, and they then found that their destination lay in the same direction. They walked on rapidly. Suddenly, whether it was the effort of keeping pace with

his young friend, or the undue excitement of the evening, just as he was within a few yards of his home Edward John staggered, and would have fallen had not his companion caught him in his arms. The attack was nothing serious, and a quarter of an hour later Edward John was protesting that he never felt better in his life, and begged Mr. Ernest not to take any more trouble. But Mr. Ernest insisted on inviting himself to the birthday feast. Needless to say its gaiety was increased tenfold thereby. The cottage quite trembled with the unusual strength of the laughter and song. A cheap wine and mineral waters had been the sole liquors at the feast; yet as Ernest Berberry walked along the fields towards his friend’s house after it was over he felt as if he had been supping with the gods—he was thinking of the most exquisite thing in girlhood he had ever seen and which he had found

in his old clerk’s cottage. And the thoughts of the first moments were not to be banished—they obsessed hour after hour throughout the long night, and as the first grey dawn of light came in through his window, a pair of laughing blue eyes were sfill mocking Ernest of his sleep. The next day. of course, it was but the merest courtesy that he should call at Appleblossom Cottage to make inquiries as to the state of Edward John’s health. It was quite a secondary matter that he assured himself Christine was. if anything more changing by daylight than by lamplight. A couple of days later, to carry a basket of hothouse fruit to the invalid was again a very natural attention on the part of the young man to an old friend. Edward John Knowles had never had an arriere pensee in his life, and when the first couple of courtesy visits were followed by a habit of dropping in every evening on the part of his master’s son he remained as blind to the object of the visits as the proverbial bat. Miss Eliza, on the other hand, kept her eyes very wide open, to the world that moved about her. From a very early date of his visits she knew that Mr Berberry didn’t care a pin about the gar-

den for which he brought her seeds and plants, and that he cared even less for the problems of chess that he patiently evening after evening, helped her brother to solve. The visits had continued for nearly three months, however, before she made up her mind to impart the result of her observations. Miss Eliza was not a person who believed in preparing people for shocks. In the midst of Edward John’s evening meditative smoke, when his mind had strayed to regions where chess problems alone mattered. Miss Eliza, with perfect calmness, threw the conversational bombshell. “What are you going to do about Mr. Ernest and Christine?” “Bless my soul,” exclaimed the astonished Edward John, “what are they doing?” “Only falling in love with one another as fast as they can,” sharply replied Miss Eliza.

“Bless my soul,” repeated Edward John again, “she’s only a child.” “It is eighteen years and three months since you brought her here,” said Eliza, “and she was then seven or eight months old.” “Bless my soul,” said Edward John once more. “If you don’t speak to him at once, I shall,” said Eliza. “I’m not going to have my darling’s life interfered with for all the master’s sons that ever breathed.” An hour or so later when Mr. Ernest called, he noticed that Christine was nowhere to be seen, that Miss Eliza at once disappeared, and that Edward John had on his Sunday coat and stiff black eravat, and that his hands were twisting about more aimlessly than usual, flow Miss Eliza would have scolded did she know that all her priming for the interview resulted in her brother starting to talk about a chess problem. But chess could not be talked about all the night through, and Miss Eliza was hovering in a very definite background. The plunge into the delicate subject had to be made. Fate was really unkind to so amiable a man as Edward John, to surround him with so much explosive human material.

Mr. Ernest gave him almost as bad a shock as his sister. No sooner did he mention Christine’s name than the young man cried out: “Edward, I love her with all my heart. Do you think that there is any hope that she would marry me?” And much to the surprise of Edward John the roof did not fall in or anything out of the ordinary happen after this declaration on the part of his master’s son and heir. It was about a week after this interview, while Edward John was in the middle of a long tot, that his employer’s bell rang with a more prolonged ring than usual. Edward John answered in nervous trepidation. As the old clerk entered he stopped short. “You rang, sir,” he said. Mr. Berberry put his hands in his pockets as if to prevent them from doing damage before he exclaimed: “Do you know anything of this low

intrigue my son has told me lie is carrying on with some beggar’s brat who lives in your house?” Then, before the trembling clerk could answer, his employer shouted: ’’Yesterday the young scamp had the effrontery to tell me that he intended to marry this person whether I liked it or not. You see that paper. It is my will, made this morning, leaving this young gentleman without a penny if he makes a fool of himself. I want you in the meantime to get the woman out of the way at once. Here's fifty pounds. I don t suppose you’ll have much trouble to persuade her. It’s hardly her game to marry a beggar.” He held out a bundle of crisp bank notes. As soon as he saw the gesture. Edward John the meek and lowly realised for the first and last time in his life Edward John the hero imagined so often. His white face flushed crimson, his mild eyes filled with a curious light, his pale lips quivered. He seized the bank-notes, and before Mr. Berberry had time to see what was going to happen they were scattered in a hundred pieces over the floor. “You dog! you coward! you tyrant! you beast!” The volcanic words came

from the little clerk who had been always sat upon. Then, as he was still gasping and his unaccustomed tongue was forming further verbal explosions, a boy with a telegram entered. Some instinct prevented Edward John from going out of the room, and kept him looking at his master as he tore open the envelope and read the message. From the lips of Mr. Berberry there came a sudden cry that was half snarl, half howl, and a purplish red veil seemed suddenly to fall over his face and obscure his features. He made a threatening movement towards Edward John, as if he were going to strike him. Instead, he tottered, beat his arms savagely in the air for a moment, and then fell prone at the feet of the terrified clerk. Mr. Berberry was dead! There had fluttered to the ground elose beside him the slip of pink paper that had caused his death. On it was written:— “My answer to your threat is I have just been married to the woman I love.— Ernest Berberry.” Love in a cottage may be a state of ecstatic bliss, especially when youth and hope lend their pinions of light. But love in a cottage without any money has its dark shadows for even the most sanguine. In spite of much mutual encouragement and much spirited defiance of fate, Ernest Berberry and Edward John Knowles made a gloomy couple as they sat in the sitting room of Appleblossom cottage one evening a week after the funeral of the late Mr. Berberry. Ernest had just returned from seeing the family solicitor, and he gave his confidences to Edward John in low tones so that no touch of shadow should reach his young wife, who was making believe at cooking with Eliza in the kitchen. “ft is the most nefarious will that was ever made,” he said, “and yet it is absolutely unassailable. I would not care so much if any human being, or even any institution, could benefit by it; but cutting me off and leaving everything to his next nearest of kin means claimants coming from all quarters of the globe, and every penny being frittered away in law. I can see his diabolical smile as he wrote it.” And Edward John with all his charity was not able to find an excusing or kind-

ly word to say in favour of the tyrannical dead. He had been paid that day the last week’s salary that he would ever draw from the firm of Berberry. And unless some miracle happened, he saw homelessness and misery for those he loved in a very near future. For all his unworldlineus the old clerk was well able to realise that Mr. Ernest’s capacity for earning a living was a very limited ami problematical one. Edward John broke a long and melancholy silence by saying: "I’m sorry now 1 did not tell the master Christine’s story, instead of losing my temper as I did. It mignt have softened hiu heart.” “ Don’t reproach yourself,” replied Ernest; “nothing would have softened his heart. I remember as a little lad hearing my old nurse say that he let his only sister die of starvation. 1 tried to tell him about you and Christine ami he would not listen to a word.” The mention of Christine’s story made Ernest suddenly ask: “And was there no writing—nothing that could' identify the baby?” “Why, bless my soul,” exclaimed Edward John, “there was a small packet of papers written in a foreign language. 1 forgot them until this moment. Perhaps you would like to see them. 1 have got them in this little desk here. Bless my soul, they may tell us something.” As Ernest was opening the packet, he said: “The letters are in Spanish. I know the language rather well. Let us see what we can make of them.” A loud exclamation a few minutes later brought the two women from the kitchen. Edward John was crying as if his heart were breaking, and working Ernest’s hand up and down as if it were a pump handle. “What is the matter?” exclaimed Christine, whose young feet brought her first to her husband’s side. “The matter, my darling,” said Ernest, clasping her in his arms. “The matter is that you are my first cousin.” “And heir to all the Berberry money,” sobbed Edward John. And such was indeed the case. The Spanish packet contained a marriage certificate and a birth certificate and other

documents which left the identity of the abandoned baby without challenge. She was the daughter of Hilda, only sister of John Berberry. In her distraction the poor mother had brought her child to the office of her brother. So a miracle had happened to Christine. Edward John, gloating over the story, was heard to say in a burst of literary enthusiasm, "The mills of God grind slowly.” But Miss Eliza interrupted sharply, and effectively: “The ways of Providence are wonderful.”