The Storyteller. HER HASTY WORDS.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXV, Issue 47, 25 March 1898, Page 23

The Storyteller. HER HASTY WORDS.

I. The express was flying: through the heat of later August, — now between deep cutting waving 1 with broom and gorse and seeding grasses ; now past floods of golden grain, fruit- rich orchards, and lovely little villages. I was travelling northward to spend a few weeks with my sister, who was married to a solicitor ia Edinburgh. A lavish supply of papers and magazines fortified me for the long journey that lay between me and Lucy's loving welcome. I had the oompartmenb to myself, except for a man who had entered in a quiet, unobstrusive way ; and had immediately subsided into an opposite corner, where he sat so still and motionless that I almost forgot his presence. It was only when I looked up to rest my eyes a little that I happened to catch a full view of his face, and instantly found it much more interesting than a printed page. A living romance, a breathing mystery, was before me. The man was sunburnt as if by foreign travel ; ia him nature had achieved one of her fine partnerships between handaotne features and a tall, well-knit figure ; but for me the fascination lay in the intense dejection which overshadowed all. The kindly mouth had a melancholy droop ; the eyes gazed, pathetic and mournful, into some sanctuary of sorrow far away. The face was pre-eminently a good one, but intensely sad ; the premature silver threads in his dark hair completed the evidence of an unforgotten grief. It occurred to me that it might be kind to take him out of himself and away from gloomy reflections, if only fora time ; so I broke the ice by offering him a journal and a commonplace remark on the weather, after which we gradually drifted into conversation. Beyond his wall of quiet reserve there lay a pleasant well cultivated garden of thought and observation. He had. lately returned from India, he informed me. " And is it true, as Kipling says, that ' when you've 'card the East a-calling, you won't 'eed nothin" else .'" I asked. "It may be, only in my case it is the West has been a-calling until I could resist her no longer. It is ten years since I saw bonnie Scotland, and it seems like twenty. Her grey cities and lonely hills and hushed gloaming seem to me to typify a rest which is not found elsewhere — which some of us indeed shall never find on earth." " Don't you think we all feel like that toward our own country .'" I asked ; but the question was never answered. For at that moment the carriage swayed violently to and fro ; there was a crash and a roar, and I felt myself being hurled through darkness into space, to receive from some unknown source a stunning blow that summarily disposed of my few remaining senses. When they returned I found myself lying on the embankment, the night air blowing into my face, and doubtless helping to revive me. A porter was be.iding over me, lantern in hand. " What is it ? — what has happened /" I asked. " Train off the rails, sir. Are you hurt /" Slowly I raised myself. I was stiff and bruised and giddy, that was all ; and when 1 had leaned for a moment or so on the man's stout arm, the faintness passed, though the aching remained. " A trifle shaken and sore, that is all. Has any one been injured ? I'm a doctor, and will gladly help where I can." "A gentleman's lying here, sir, seemingly pretty bad." He turned his lantern on a p o»trate figure, with arms extended, blood oozing from a wound in the temple ; and I recognised my fellow-traveller. He was so still, so marble-white, that at first 1 thought he was dead. Then I found that he was only insensible : and, kneeling besida him I gave him what attention v\ as possible under the circumstances. Lights came flashing down the line; there was a chaos of voices, footsteps, and excited oiliuials hastening from the neighbouring station to our assistance. Fortunately, the majority of the passengers had escaped with a shaking ; and, though some were buffering Iroin nervous shook, no serious results were to be feared. My fellow-traveller had fared the worst ; and, under my directions, he was carried to the nearest hotel — a primitive establishment, turning its back to the railway as if in acknowledgement of its lack of all that attracts the tourist. However, nothing better could be had ; and the landlady — four square yards of good nature — was filled with helpful pity tor the unlucky stranger, and endeavoured to second my efforts on his behalf. Once he opened his eyes to burvey me through a haze of pain. " What has happened .' Am I ill ."' he asked. '• You wilL be all right in a day or two," I assured him. I watched buside him that night and the next, admiring the fortitude with which he bore the discomfort of his surroundings and the pain I was obliged to inflict. I had wired to Lucy not to expect me for a tew days yet. Once I asked him, in an interval of consciousness, if he did not wish me to communicate with his friends, who must be anxious about his non-arrival. " I have no friends," he replied ; " I was going to Scotland to visit places, not persons. There is no one to care how I come or go — whether I live or die. At times like this such a state of things saves a great deal of trouble." He had a vigorous constitution ; and, as I had expected, wakened one morning from a deep, refreshing sleep with oyts keen and clear, senses on the alert, voice strong and steady. '• I don't quite understand how I come to be wherever I am, or how long it is since you and I were travelling nn a c/.v," he said : so I told him briefly what had happened and when. "I am sorry you also ha\e been a victim, Doctor. Were you much hurt ?"' he asked. " I escaped scot-free : but, of course, I could not leave you here unattended. I thought we might as well finish our journey together, if you don't mind." He raised himself on his elbow rather excitedly.

"Do you really mean that you gave up part of your holiday and stayed in a place like this to befriend a stranger ?" '• It is only what one should do," I replied, awkwardly ; and he turned his head aside, with tremulous lip. For when man is physically weak he is touched by very little things. At length there came a day when we were again travelling northward together, this time thoroughly at home with each other. " If you have no friends in Edinburgh," I said, " you will be able to spare me an hour or two. I shall be very glad, to see you. Will you come ?" He coloured deeply. " I should like very much to do so. Dr. Grant. One can't help a longing for tocial intercour&e and human companionship. Whether you would care to receive me under your roof if you knew all about me is anotner thing. I believe you to be a true, simple, kindly gentleman, and I can't accept your hospitality on false pretences ; for I suppose I look respectable, which is what those who think they know me best do not believe me to be. You have shown me kindness of which I can't trust myself to speak. But to trespass further on it might be making you a very poor return. I am an outcast from my kith and kin — branded as a thief amongst them. If you care to hear my story, I will relate it as briefly as possible, and you can draw your own conclusions." " If it is not too painful, Mr. Reid ; if you think the telling will do any good." " Well, you have a claim on my confidence and my gratitude, for one thing ; for another — and a more selfish motive, — it would be a relief to me to tell you." " Then by all means do so." " I will try to be brief, and not to magnify details. To begin. My cousin, James Lindsay, and myself were brought up by an uncle, one of the wealthiest men in Edinburgh, and one of the sternest too. He was very severe with us, totally out of sympathy with all that youthful, and probably his harshness helped to drive James into all kinds of folly. I fancy he admitted as much to himself, otherwise he would scarcely have twice paid James' debts. We were both in love with the same girl, Madge Moray, uncle's ward. She preferred me. Let me not dwell upon my feelings for her ; it suffices that I shall go to my grave loving her. How happy we were, how full did life seem of most glorious possibilities ! Uncle consented to the engagement reluctantly and ungraciously ; for I had never been a favourite of his ; he had always liked James best, and thought that Vladge's choice should have fallen on him. That mattered little. I had my dream of delight, in happy ignorance of the sharp awakening so soon to come. ■' It was Madge's birthday ; and uncle, in a generous mood, had presented her with a magnificent diamond necklace. I remember that James examined it closely, saying that half of its cost would set him up for life. Later the same evening he came to my room and confessed that, in spite of all his promises and pledges to the contrary, he had been gambling again and was heavily in debt. He declared himself at desperation point and implored me to help him • if he toll uncle, he ran the risk of being disinherited. It was out of my power to assist him ; my allowance was small, and my savings had been swallowed up in a bad investment ; so that I was not quite free from difficulties myself. There was nothing for it but to appeal a^ain to uncle, and this James declared he dared not do. He went away, muttering that he would blow out his brains before morning. " There was to be a family gathering in Madge's honour a dinner-party, to which our nearest relatives had been invited. James, uncle, and I were awaiting the guests in the library, when Madge came rushing downstairs, exclaiming that her necklace had disappeared. She had intended to wear it, and had left it lying on her dre^ing-table whilbt she fetched some flowers from the conservatory. When she returned trinket and case were gone. She had searched every corner of the room, but no trace of either could be found. " ' You have been grossly careless,' declared uncle. ' Pray why could not your maid get the flowers for you, or remain in charge of your jewels V ■' ' She is in bed with a headache,' said Madge. ' I never thought there was any danger in leaving the necklace. Surely the servants are above suspicion !' •' 'I will search the room myself,' said uncle ; 'and if I can't find your necklace, I will send for the police, and every person in this house mu&t submit to the strictest investigation. The theft it theft it be — can't have been committed from outside.' " " He left the room with Madge, and James was about to follow when I held him back. •• 'James,' 1 said, ' you have those jewels.' " ' Upon my word ! I shall have to knock you down !' he exclaimed fiercely, raising his arm. '■ ' I can't prevent your trying,' I said ; 'but I don't think you will. I read guilt in your face when Madge spoke. For Heaven's sake, spare yourself such disgrace, such abiding shame ! Do not force me to accuse you to others.' " He looked fixedly at me. his colour fading. '■ ' You are right, Frank. I am a thief, and there is the plunder,' he said, thrusting his hand into his breast and drawing forth the necklace. ' I told you I was at desperation point ; and when I passed Madge's room, I saw these. Why did she 'leave them there to tempt me ? ' " In the silence following this question. I heard uncle's step and presently he and Madge appeared. ' '• ' The diamonds have gone — that is clear,' he said, angrily. ' The next thing is to send for the police ; and it shall go hard with the thief, I promise you.' '•James stepped forward, the diamonds in his hands. '• ' I beg that you will do nothing of the kind, uncle,' he said. •I entreat your mercy for the guilty person. After all, his repentance has been swift." " ' What on earth does this mean,' gasped my uncle,

" • It means,' James sinoothJy replied, ' that poor Frank, having lost money lately, being in difficulties and afraid to tell you, yielded to a sudden temptation and appropriated the diamonds. His face a id manner when Madge announced her loss led me to suspect him, aid I have happily just prevailed upon him to {five up the stolen p;operty. There it is. Do not judge poor Frank too harshly.' " Power of speech or motion failed me ; I was struck dumb by his villainy, and quite incapable for the moment of uttering: a s ngle syllable in defence. No doubt I looked guilty, and Madge all at once flung her hands before her face and sobbed :—: — " ' 0 Frank, Frank ! how could you stoop to such a sin ? ' " With those words my every desire of vindication died. I simply did not care what next befell me, when the girl whom i all b it adored had no faith in me — believed me a thief and a hypocrite, {■icorn, anger, resentment, faded. I had no feelings — or, rather, all were held in a dreaded catalepsy. I cared nothing for James' smile oJ triumphant malice or uncle'B bitter reproaches. When he bade me begone, and henceforth be dead to him and his, I obeyed in s lence, only thinking in my heart : ' This, then, Is a woman's love !' I left the city that day. and soon after took leave of my native country. Why I should have so longed to see the old. places a<»ain, and why I should have returned, I know not, unless God wills that I should sleep under Scottish daisies, after all. I believe that soon after my departure uncle died, leaving half his fortune to James and half to Madge, on condition of her marrying James. I hope she made a better man of him." "You should have remained — you should have vindicated yourself," I said, after a pause. " I see that now," he answered, " saw it long ago, and have not, therefore, been happier." By this time we had reached Waverley ; and, as I caught a glimpse of Lucy's face in the throng, I shook hands with Reid, saying : — " I believe what you have told me. Come and see me soon. ' And with his whispered "God bless you!' we parted.

11. "Lucy, where did you get this?"' I was in my sister's sanctum, examining a beautiful bit of furniture — a lady's antique writing desk, finely inlaid, unique of its kind. " I bought it at a sale," she said '• Ido not use it, but it is a handsome ornament, and a relic of a perfect museum of curios in one of those mansions in Maxwell square. Everyone said it was a shame to disperse the collection. The owner died suddenly and without leaving a will, and the heir at law— a miserable old K crew— sold everything. I don't often go to a sale, but this was exceptional ; and I thought I might pick up a bit of good china. You may laugh if you like, but all the tune something seemed urging me to buy the desk ; therefore 1 did." "I dare say the stouirthiny was your love of pretty things. Has anything happened to justify your purchase ? " " Not unless there is some treasure hidden in the secret drawer, which I have never yet contrived to open." The desk had seemed empty ; yet, as I tilted it on one end, I heard a slight rustling sound as if there were some letter or paper inside. " Who was the owner ? '" I asked. '•His name was James Lindsay. He was very rich; bat his money didn't do him a bit of good, and one day he droppel dead in the street.'' My face was hot, my hands t -en blin?. " Was he married .' " '•No; he had had a disappointment, people sail." Lucy answered ; and as she spoke I found the trick ot a secret drawer. It opened, and within lay a sheet of note-paper closely written. I read the lines as in a dream, almost doubting the evidence ot my senses. Hereby James Lindsay bequeathed all his earthly possessions to his cousin, Francis Reid, "in atonement for the bitter wrong I did him." Next day an advertisement in the Srot,\mini entreated Francis Iteid, cousin of the late James Lindsay, to communicate at once with Dr. Grant, The Lodge. Morningsiue. And in a perfect fever of suspense I waited. After dinner a card was handed to me, with Ihe information that a lady wished to see me. As the card born the name of Madge Moray, I lost no time in hastening to her presence. She was a tall graceful woman, her pale face quivering with emotion. "Dr. Grant," she said, eagerly, ■• I am here in consequence of your advertisement. Do you know anything of Frank Reid .' Are you a friend of his ? " " I think I may claim so much. I know, at least, that he is a cruelly injured man ? " "No one knows that better than I do," she replied, with intense feeling. •' He left his home because of a wicked and jalse accusation — went away believing me unworthy of his love, believing that I doubted his honour. Appearances were strongly against him, and I was we.ik enough to be guide 1 by them instead of by my knowledge of him. But the hasty words which cut him to the quick, and sent him from me estranged, weie scarce uttered before they were repented ; for I knew in my heart of hearts that he was innocent. Oh, it he could only know that every day of those long years I have prayed for his return, that I might say that I am sorry, and ask his pardon on my knees ! " Her voice died away in f-obs. and for some time "he could not speak a?ain ; when she did so it was to ask when and where I had seen Frank, and for over an hour we remained in close conversation. Another day elapsed before Frank suv my message to him, and then he replied in person. He lo >ked worn and haggard. and had doubtless suffered acutely in re/isiting the grave ot lost happiness.

" Did you wonder why I had not patience to wait for your coming — why I found it necessary to give you a public invita* tion ? " I asked. "Your motives could never be anything but kind," he answered. '•I have strange news for you. I have in my possession James Lindsay's will, which, not only enriches but exonerates you. It is virtually a confession. He died suddenly ; and a far-off cousin succeeded, as you also were supposed to be dead. Now, however, your good name and your heritage are restored." '• And Lindsay's widow, Madge Moray ? What of her ? " " Madge never married. She forfeited wealth and idle ease, working for her daily bread rather than be false to your memory. One hope has sustained her — that she yet might meet you and ask you, for old love's sake, to pardon her part in the past. I know it, for I have seen her — she is here." His face flashed into sunshine with a smile. " She remembers me ! She did love me, after all ! " " 0 my beloved, she loves you now more dearly, more fondly, than ever ! " At the sound of her voice, trembling and broken, he turned with a cry ; and I did not wait to see or to hear any more. The old wrong was righted, the hasty words blotted out, and for both a happier day had dawned. — Mary Cross, in the Arc Maria.