The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXV, Issue 11, 16 July 1897, Page 21

The Storyteller.

THE ROMANCE OF PHILIP FAIRIIURST.

(By Mary Cross.)

I. It was the prime of summer time."' Apples were ripening amidst thick green leaves, and hay was spread in long straight lines down each field. The scent of hay and flowers, the hum of bee? and bleat of sheep added to the drowsy influences, to which Philip Fairhurst had succumbed ; not even the excitement of deciding what he should do with the largest sum of money he had ever possessed had sufficed to keep him awake. It was his birthday; he had just attained the mature age of fourteen, and his father had given him a new crown piece, with the pleasant advice to do what he liked with it. He thought that he wanted a great many things, and before he had decided what he should present himself with he had fallen asleep. And under the apple tree he had a curious dream. He dreamed that he was wandering about the old farm garden, with its gay marigolds and nasturtiums, its cool rows of lettuce and tangles of peas, when out of the heart of a rose fluttered something which seemed like a white butterfly, but which expanded into a beautiful being with radiant robes and wings of snowy whiteness. " I am the Angel of Charity '" murmured the vision, " and I can give you a joy such as you have never imagined — a power beyond that of king or conqueror ; you may buy for yourself lasting treasures, lovelier than any you have ever imagined. Come with me for one short hour." < They sped away from the green lanes to the crowded slums of a city, where tall tenements frowned at one another across dark courts and alleys, to which no sunshine could penetrate. Along a narrow passage which seemed like a tunnel a door suddenly opened, and Philip beheld a miserable room, where a gaunt woman sat aewing beside the lifeless form of her mother. She had little time to indulge in natural grief ; tears would only have rusted the needle or spotted the fine work, or wasted precious minutes that meant bread for the living and tuneral decencies for the uead. Indeed, the one already bore a terrible resemblance to the other in ghastly whiteness and attenuation. Soon another door unclosed, and two neglected children waited lor food, while a heart-broken^ foot-sore widow crept upstairs with a tiny parcel of dry crusts! And in another room, with no furniture save a broken lamp and a crucifix, an old man lay moaning on a heap of rags, alone until his son should return from the hard day's work, with scanty earning* that all too soon would melt away. Men and women well-fed, weflclad, came and wint. Some smiled, unseeing : others glanced, indifferent, uninterested, too well used to the bight of misery to be in the least touched by it ; others shivered with disgust and murmured : " Their own fault ! Why don't they go to the workhouse .'" One denounced existing laws and rulers that permitted such things to be, thereby gaining tor himself much applause ; one with swift brush transferred the squalid scene to canvas ; and his comrade, with swifter pen, weaved it into thrilling linos. But no hand was extended to help the sufferers, no voice whispered comfort or encouragement. " The world is filled with this. ' .said the Angel to Philip, ■ will you, too, look on .' "' Struggling to reply, he awaken d. At first he could not believe that he had only been dreaming. Hut there were the garden, the barn, and the meadow; the Angel and the city slum were "one. Philip pondered long and sadly. " 1 won't spend my money yet," was the sum total of his reflections. Twilight was deepening ; there was a clear green glow in the sky, and beneath the dark purple of the mountains Windermere gleamed silver-still. Philip ran to the gate to watch for his fa her. and as he stood looking eagerly from side to. listening tor the roll ol homeward wheels,^ he heard a low, pitiful crying almost at his elbow. A little yirl was sitting under the hedge, crying as if her heart would break. She was bareheaded and barefooted ; her shoulders stuck sharply through her garments like bones through fakin. Philip asked what ailed her. '• I think father is dying." she faintly answered. " Who is he ? Toll me all about it. Who is your father ? "" '• Oh, just father ' He's been ill ever so long. He came here to get work, but ho isn't able to do anything. We have no food and no money." " Don't cry any more than you can help," said Philip, soothingly " but show me where your father is." She rose slowly, trying to control her sobs in an old-fashioned unchildhke way ; and he gathered her thin hand— a mere wisp ot skin and bone— into his own. They walked some distance thus. until they reached a bridge carrying the road across the stream. On its banks was a tumble-down, deserted cottage, green btains ot damp creeping up the walls, and a forest of nettles clustering at the small shattered windows. The rotten door wa.s ajar. Philip caught a glimpse of wild eyes glancing fiercely from a white, pain-distorted face ; and he drew back, alraid to venture farther. And at that moment he seemed to hear the Angel whispering : •' Will you too. look on." ' He grew very red, and shuffled the sand into small heaps with his feet, thinking of all the good things five shillings could command. It was hard to give them up ; he did not often have money to spend ; ho had always wanted a knife with four blades, like the other boys. Perhaps his father would do something for these poor people if he knew about them ; it might be as well to ask him. " Will you, too, look on /" whispered the Angel of Charity.

Philip grew a deeper red. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out his treasure. " Look here, little girl," he said " give that to your father. I can do what I like with it, and I like to do this." Then he ran away as fast as he could. 11. Philip had grown to manhood through many changes and sorrows. Life so far had been a series of ups and downs,— the downs predominating. His parents were dead, and the old farm had passed into strange hands. Hia heart remained too big for his purse, and people said that he did not get on well, which meant that he had not the art of acquiring money. He had managed to establish a comfortable little business, when his partner absconded with all available funds, leaving him to face liabilities for which there were no assets. Worry and anxiety brought on a severe illness, from which he emerged with little more than sufficed to take him to a great city, where he believed he would have better chances than in the dreamy little country town. So he bade farewell to tarn and mere ; and, amidst strange faces and strange scenes, began that weary struggle only too many know— that search for work which means livelihood. He grew pale and worn as days passed in the sickening alternation of hope and despair, each beginning and ending in the same apparently futile quest. It seemed as if he were doomed to tramp through the streets night and day until he died. How hard life seemed with this strife and stress 1 It was a dismal night. The pavements were slippery with mud and rain, the air was raw and cold. Philip passed slowly along the street, and heard shouts of gay laughter proceeding from a brightlylighted public-house. He had still a few coppers,— sufficient to ensure him a welcome there. Too sick to eat, he must drink. What did it matter that hitherto he had held aloof from the snare ? He could not struggle forever ; by some means he must dull and <-eaden his pain. Out of the shadows suddenly emerged a woman, claspinjr a baby to her frozen bosom. •' Oh, for God's sake, sir, spare me a penny !"' she said. " I'm dying of cold and hunger." He hesitated. His first impulse was to answer the poor creature's prayer ; and then he thought of his own necessities— of the cruel pangs he was enduring and had endured. He reminded himself that he, too, was cold and hungry, and that no hand was extended to help him. " For the baby's sake, if not for God's !" the mother pleaded with trembling lips and eager, anxious eyes. ' Out of the past a low voice echoed in Philip's ear, earnest tender, appealing : ' '• Will you, too, look on 7" The Angel of Charity had not deserted him. He put his few I remaining pence into the outstretched hand, and walked on, a tearful blessing in his ears. He was more faint and weak than he had thought ; and as he essayed to cross the street his strength suddenly fail- d him, his sight grew blurred, his brain dizzy. He heard as at I an immense distance, a warning shout ; then was dashed amidst a contusion of hoofs and wheels ; for a moment was conscious of new and intense pain, and then existence seemed to cease. When his senses returned he was lying in the ward of a hospital ; from right to left stretched rows of trim white beds, and nurses went to and fro with that air of kindly cheerfulness which seems particularly to distinguish them. He vaguely understood that he had been knocked down and run over by some vehicle ; but he was too weak to ask or inde d to care, if he had been severely hurt and was likely to die' He submitted silently to the doctor s treatment, and swallowed what the nurse gave him without question. It seemed to matter very little what was done to him or what should befall him. But inch by inch his strength returned, and with it interest in his surroundings— a longing for life and action, renewed effort and endeavour. All about him was patient fulfilment of duty, however distasteful ; a calm confronting of all emeigencies ; a resolute battle against disease, which he found an admirable mental discipline. Lessons of fortitude were daily instilled by many a helpless sufferer. He was not maimed nor crippled ; health and vigour were being restored, and with them hope and faith, and that first requisite of perfection — courage. He had noticed, at first as in a dream, that amongst the visitors who came with books and flowers and kind words to cheer the patients, there was always one young lady whose very movements seemed in some undefinable way to express sympathy and understanding with the sufferers. She had a smile or sweet glance for all ; and to Philip she spoke with a direct personal interest that was flattering, if bewildering, on the part of a total stranger. He recovered more rapidly than he had expected, and would in a few days be allowed to leave the hospital. He had not told any one that he was homeless and penniless ; that for him. as for so many, the city was paved vrith mud, not gold. He would bear his burden now with the cheerfulness which is part of the fortitude of patience. How true are Thackeray's words, that to endure is greater than to dare ! One afternoon he was relating fairy tales for the benefit of a boy who had been brought in badly scalded, when he became aware that his audience had increased. The young lady— already there was only one in the world for Philip— was standing near, survevinohim with quiet interest. J h "I am glad you are better," she said. " Nurse told me that you will be able to leave on Wednesday. She told me also that your name is Fairhurst. May I ask if you ever were at Ambleside ?" •' Often indeed when I was a boy," he answered, seeing with eyes or memory the still, shining lakes, the light and shade on dark Helvellyn, the mist- wreaths low on Skiddaw. " Did you know Fairhurst's farm out there ?" she pursued. '• It belonged to my father," he replied, surprised "But why do you ask ?" J - My father wishes to tell you that he is most anxious to sec you ; but, being an invalid, he can not come to you, and he hopes that you will go to him as soon as you are able. This is the ad-

dress, and it is not very far away. Shall I tell him that he may expect you on Wednesday ?" Philip assented, wonderingly ; and the lady took her departure. The address—" Henry Elliot, .1 Queen's Avenue,"— revealed nothing, as he could not recollect ever having known any one of the name ; he wa* quite unable to account for the sudden, and he hoped, not unfriendly interest taken in him by a man whom, to his knowledge, he had never seen. 111. It was the hospital ward no longer, but a quiet, respectable street, with tall trees on either side; a comfortable, unpretentious house ; a pleasant, cheerful room : a cat grown portly and serene in doing nothing save sleep and eat ; and a man, bent and aged by infirmity, rising stiffly from an easy-chair to extend a welcoming hand to his puzzled and curious visitor. " Philip Fairhurst, I believe .' Sit down You're not equal to much exertion yet, I see. I know what it is-, having had years of illness to teach me. Take this chair beside mine. I've been looking for you long enough. When my daughter learned yonr name from the hospital people, and found them all praising your pluck and patience and consideration for others, I said : • This is my man at last.' You were at Fairhurst's Farm, Ambleside, twelve years ago .' Do you remember giving five shilling's, to a little girl you found crying on the roadside ? " Philip had not forgotten the episode of his birthday, but he had not thought that anyone else would bear it in mind. " Yes, sir," he answered, slowly ; " I do remember." " You took her home, and told her to give the money to her sick father, didn't you I You have seen Esther ; she doesn't look much like the wretched little thing you were kind to twelve years ago, does she ? But she is the girl, and I am the man who was lying agonised in that miserable hovel." " Is it possible ? " Philip ejaculated. "It is indeed. I have never quite got over those times ; they have left marks on body and mind that can't be effaced. But if lam crippled and sickly, lam not quite useless. lam happy ; and had it not been for you I should be in a suicide's grave, perished body and soul ; and poor Esther — heaven knows what or where ! It is perfectly true, though you look as if you found it hard to believe. Every happiness I have had since, every grateful blessing I bear, is something more to your score — to the debt I owe you." " I am still in the dark," said Philip. " I'll try to get you out of it. You remember at what low ebb I was when you gave Esther that money. I need not detail the circumstances which led up to my being in such extremity. It was partly my own fault, I dare say. Anyhow, I had got to the end of everything, and felt that I could bear no more. I smt Esther out of the way, simply because I could not bear to kill myself before her eyes. I was on the point of de-troying myself when she came in with the money you had just given her. Can you imagine what it meant to a man who hadn't a farthinar in the world, and who hadn't tasted foo 1 for two d.iys > Can you imagine how humbly and sincerely I th inked God and begged His forgiveness, and how grateful I felt to you — how different the whole world looked .' " He stopped, much affected. Philip, too. was deeply moved. "We lived on your alms until I was a trifle "better,"' Mr. Elliot resumed. '• Esther had somehow found out who you uviy ; but when I called at the farm, you had gone back to school. Your good father gave me some assistance ; and I next got work in town, and was doing fairly well, when news came of the death of my only brother in Australia. He had niadp a fortune out there ; ami. as he wasn't married, he left every penny ot it to me. And but for you I shouldn't have been alive to claim it. I tried then to find you, feeling how much I owed to you; but the search was \ am. However, you had .shown me what timely aid may do for a man, and I came out of myself and my own shadow determined to seek and succour the needy. So out of your one act of charity a thousand have sprung ; for one man's suffering relieved I won't how many others have been helped. It is Esther's whole happ ness to find poor homes we may save from ruin, troubles we can remove, burdens we can lighten And but for you where wcild it all be ! Don't you see now why I have been so very anxions to find yoa and to show you your work / " Philip could not reply : he felt overcome with joy that he had obeyed the dictates of charity and compassion. — had given up his own desires to relieve a stranger's n cessity. Ie may be that eternity will hold just such glonoas surprises for those who have heard the angel's voice ; that there indeed will be revealed and understood the harvest resulting from one kind act, — •• Not one might fall unnoticed, fade unknown ; but dropped a see 1 has grown a balsam-tree, wherojf the blosso ning porf uineth Paradise." IV. A year had passed since Philip, through Mr. Elliot's influence, had emerged from clouds which had seemel so impenetrably black. As a rich man's friend and favourite, he had found the way smooth, and had speedily found congenial occupation. This evening he was standing with Esther in the firelight. Pussy was purring -oti:y, a id meditatively clawing- up the nap ot a cushion. Outride, wml and rain struj^lei for mastery, and the trees swayed to and tro in the strife. " Father will bo hore in a few mo-nents," said Esth-r, a trifle nervously. " It has been one of his bad days, but he will be glad to see you. He has missed you very much. Your visits have become few and far between, and that is all there is of the angelic about them. Seriously, may 1 ask the cause of your prolonged absence ? " " I can give it to you in two words : John Douglas." At this abrupt mention of the junior partner of Philip's firm, a young gentleman who haunted Queen's Avenue, Esther blushed. "l am not much wiser," she said ; "and as half the troubles of life arise from misunderstandings, it might be well if you would make your meaning quite clear."

"He is your lover, is he not ? Ah, forgive me ! I have no right to ask that question. But I know that he comes here for yonr sake. That opened my eyes to my own love for you. Do not be angry, nor think me presumptuous, I would not have hinted at its existence had not your father said : ' Toll Esther, and then there will be no mistakes to be discovered too late.' He knows me too well, I am glad to think, to fear that I would trespass on his goodness and his trust." " Didn't he tell you that I had refused John Douglas 1 " asked the young girl, in a lo * voice. " Refused him ! " " Surely it does not follow that because he wanted to marry me I must therefore want to marry him ? I— l don't think—l shall ever mnrry." "Why?" asked Philip, miserably: for he read in her last sentence a srentle but effectual crushing of the small bud of hope he had been cherishing.— a checking of the words in which he would fain have told her how from the first he had loved her, seeing- in her the beautiful ideal of his dream— the angel of womanly pity ever pleading for the poor, the outcast and oppressed. ' " Because the man I care for wili not ask me. He can't forget that he first knew me as a starving child on the roadside, with 8 dear father crazed with misery ; he does not want to have anything to do with a little beggar-girl — " " Esther ? '" in an instant he was at her side, drawing her hands from her flushed and quivering face. " You said well that half our troubles arise from misunderstandings. All this time I have been wishing that my work waa for you ; that we were going hand in hand through life, as we did through the lane. All this time I have been saying to myself that there is only one creature in the world for my heart to cling to, and she has no need of me 1 " Then Esther whispered softly: "But she has need of you Philip." J '