The Storyteller IN THE DAY OF FATE

New Zealand Tablet, 4 November 1909, Page 1723

The Storyteller IN THE DAY OF FATE

'<h*<Mn!£ fitting- at,. the end of a bench in the orangeshaded plaza basking m the warm -sunlight, his shoulders fingereS hands clasped together on his knees, and his slouched hat drawn down low over his eyes He mieht have been supposed to be asleep, as he thuf sat rnotioS " «k& e ? ry TBcleT Bcle r f^ ed > iJf c had not Itarted percep! ' fell^on h?s c!r SS ° U l\ d ° f VOiCeS s * eaki »S English suddenly ■ Ska. h f hSh- s om srs s^ d j&ji 1 " 8 , 01^ "ordinary little Mexican town, - |^^a£l^ SiS a noSS;bo^ wafleS&or^fc. Slain frni!° n 1 & ""I 6 , ° r + S ° distan ? across the sun-parched ?w'« f rr 9m9 m Jkere the town, with .its' adobe houses and tropical gardens clustering around itsr graceful church tower, made an idyllic picture, which, tempted- the adventurous among the passengers to' explore it. Bui— " ■frSTo 1 ,;,, d^'ta I ]^" 16 -"»♦«-««• *° 4S » -" • ' ' ° hh ' J I don>t . a S re f.with you,' a softer, better modulated - voice said-a voice which made the man at the end of the frmn n^l fP m ' **"? vio ll ce j rtl y> a *d glance furtively fiom under the run of his, down-drawn hat at the speaker, in fro-it of e hiin OmPaniOllS had paused alm ost immediately i« A* t>a all iSOi S0 adorably picturesque,-"! think^he tall, ; handsome girl went on, sweeping the, sc%ne-thssountain-Plaza, the old church with its- Carmelite- belfry, the arcaded public buildings, the vistas. .of househunted in soft distemper colors and covered with - brown -.tiles— with IS, g I llOpel lOpe * W i U get my ca merain. tinfe to Take some pictures before we have to .go back to the-S-'ain ' You 11 probably have 'time to take' as man# pictures as there are points of view in the place,' a maii?s deeper tones assured her. 'We'll be lucky if'we get aw'ty in the course of the next two or three ifours. At least^hkis , what I gathered from the conductor's remarks.'I w^h you had asked him what there was of interest here, the first speaker observed. 'The church? Oh yes, of course we can go and see the cKurch; but all the churches are so much alike; and if there's anything else— - PerhapsJ— hopefully— 'we might find something to buy' or — cr — to eat — dulces, you know.' ' »-««• '° r i,^' d I rink 'T ev ?^,^ ulque not declined,' the masculine „ voice chinfed in. I ' While ~ we're waiting for Laidlaw to bring your forgotten camera, Miss Sylvester, we might put in the tune rather agreeably with some-, liquid refreshme ™ ; But the question is where to find them? ' The man at the end of the bench" did "not stir, but he was intensely, horribly conscious that three 1 pairs of eves were fastened on him, and that three minds were considering whether he might not be able to answer >his question tie Knew what was coming when he ~ heard .a feminine { Perhaps he isn't asleep— perhaps he's drunk ' ""-; Just the right party, then, .to tell us what we want to know, the jovial masculine tones replied. 'Anyhow nobody who goes to sleep on a bench in .the plaza can mind being waked. Hello— senor .'—sorry*.** to disturb you, but can you tell us— Oh, hang it !" doesn't - anybody know enough bpanish to ask him where we can get a drink ? ' 'I haven't the faintest- idea what is the Spanish for .a drink Margaret Sylvester began with a laugh: but paused abruptly as the man addressed rose to his feet *or an instant— barely an instant— he lifted his hat in acknowledgment of the presence of the ladies, showing a ' sharpened, ghastly face beneath, but replaced it quickly as i he pointed across the plaza. f - ' At- the -canton a over there you will find what you '.want, he said; and then, turning stumbled^ away, tor walking became difficult when even the bright sunshine grew black around him, and he found himself hoping agomzedly that he might not drop until he had gained tf place of shelter, a refuge from the eyes that had met his in one lightning-like glance, in which he read amazement, incredulity, struggling recognition. .. ' She'll think it was only a chance resemblance — she'll be sure she was mistaken,' he muttered 'to himself as he concentrated all his will on maintaining an upright position and walking — yes, walking away, instead of being. , carried, as would certainly result if this blackness? rncreased before lie gained the friendly shelter of the-aigade, where he might halt, lean against "a pillar, and take • breath. - »• - ... - He gained it while, the group left behind looked anxiously after him,- and then glanced at each other. 'Apparently,' Mr. Harkeson-Smythe remarked, 'if wasn t a sleeping but a dying man that I roused. Poor ' beegar!— he seems pretty far gone. I hardly thought he'd make it over to the portales".'

.'And, he spoke English, too,' Mrs. Warren added in, an injured tone. ' I suppose' he" heard me say that perhaps , he was drunk; but how could I know? I thought he was of course one of the — cr — peones, don't you call them ? ' 'He is probably -an American,' Miss Sylvester said, ' and he looks very ill ; so I am going after him to apolo- ' gize, and — and see if I cannot do something for him.' ' Oh, Margaret ! ' Mrs. • Warren remonstrated, ' I—lI — I really don't think I would.' Margaret gave her a significant glance. ' I daresay you wouldn't,' she replied, 'so you and Mr. HarkesonSmythe can get something to drink while I go.' She moved away, her graceful head lifted, her clear eyes very bright, and followed the path of -the man who had stumbled across the plaza to the' shade of the portales. Perhaps he glanced back, as the darkness cleared away from his vision, aud saw her coming,- and perhaps the sight lent him fresh strength. At all events, when she reached the arcade he was gone. She looked around, and meeting -■ the eyes of a Mexican woman seated by a pile of beans, her lips formed a stammering but sufficiently direct inquiry. ' The senor — Americano ? Where has he gone ? ' A su casa, senorita,' the woman replied, divining the question, though she did not understand the words. ' Ah, to his house,' Miss Sylvester quickly translated. ' And where — endonde esta la casa ? ' The woman lifted her hand and pointed to a house distant a few paces down a street opening from the plaza." The door was closed, ft had shut quickly behind aNshaking, flying form as Margaret Sylvester crossed the plaza to the portales. Perhaps she divined this, but she went on, down the sunlit street to the one-storey dwelling, and knocked at the door. There was no answer. Again she knocked, and again there was no answer ; but it seemed to her that she heard something like the panting of a trapped animal within. But the latch yielded to her touch, the door opened under her hand, and she found herself entering a room which, after the blinding glare of sunlight outside, seemed of an almost cave-like gloom and coolness. Drawing in her breath sharply, she looked around the meagre, povertystricken interior, saw the flat, hard bed, the plain pine table with its few books and writing materials, and the chair in which the figure of the man she had followed sat, or rather lay, with head thrown back, in an attitude of spent exhaustion. She moved across the floor and stood, her hand on her heart, immediately before him. He" opened his eyes — eyes wonderfully large and bright in the white, sunken face — and looked up at her. Then she advanced a step. ' John ! ' she cried with a thrilling and exiutant note in her voice. ' John Graham, it is you ! You are — alive ! John ' — she made another step nearer — ' why have you left the world — why have you let me think for two years that you were dead ? ' He could not. resist the imperative challenge of her., r tone. It forced him to rise to his feet and meet her gaze fully. But he did not offer to touch her hand; and they stood looking at each other as spirit and flesh might look across the gulf which divided them. ' Margaret,' he said, ' you must know why I have allowed the world to believe that lam dead. It seemed — the shortest way. And it was only anticipating the truth. You see that I shall soon be dead.' ' But I see that you are not dead yet,' she replied, with the exultant note still in her voice. ' You are alive," and the first' thing I have to tell you is that I never" for one instant believed that you had died in the manner it was said you had.' ' You— didn't believe it ? ' 'No; I never believed that John Graham — the John ■ Graham whom I — knew, had been coward enough to kill himself to escape anything.' A vivid light leaped into the eyes of the John Graham whom she— knew. And then died out as quickly. ' Yet,' he reminded, her, ' men have often killed tnen> selves to escape disgrace.' ' ' Yes,' she returned, ' men capable of doing disgraceful things have often proved incapable of facing the consequences of their acts. But lam sure that if you had ever done a disgraceful thing you would not have escaped the consequences by the coward's road of suicide. • Margaret ! ' — the man grasped tightly the edge ot • the table by wliich he stood — ' you say, if I had done a disgraceful thing. Surely you know—— Her brilliant glance met aid held his. > 'Shall I repeat my words?' she asked. 'The whole matter is a mystery to me— no deeper mystery now, when I find you hiding here, than when you disappeared two years aao ; but through all the mystery I have held fast to mv belief that you would never shirk the consequences ot any art of yours, and therefore it has Keen to me unthinkable that to escape disgrace you had either absconded or °° m He te put S htf d hand to his eyes for a moment, as if overcome by the greatness of her faith— or, perhaps^ by the weTght of hi. own unworthiness. Then lowering it he looked at her again with a gaze as direct as it was clear and < But now,' he ur^ed, f now you must believe it, when you find me here— hiding, as you have said,

, She threw back her head, smiling at him superbly. 'Now that I see you again, I believe it less than ever ! ' she declared. ' And by my faith- in you, a faith .that has never faltered, I demand that you tell me why you' have done this thing.' He made a gesture of protest, while he sank back, as if overcome by weakness, into "the chair from which he had risen. His head dropped on his breast, his eyelids fell. . ' Surely it is plain,' he said. ' Would a man give up his life, his ambitions, his friends — above all, would he give up the privilege of sometimes at least seeing you — to go away secretly to a country where certain offences are. not extraditable, unless he had been guilty of one of those offences ? ' - ' It would hardly seem so,' she . admitted ; 'yet what I have said holds good. Tell me why you have done this?' ' Have you not heard ? ' ' I have heard many things,' she answered. ' I know it is said that you used money which did not belong to you, and that when you were • confronted with exposure you\gave up your fortune to replace -what you had taken, and then — disappeared.' -. He nodded gravely. '.That statement seems to cover the case,' he told her, ' and therefore what can you say ' to me, except good-bye ? ' Her eyes suddenly blazed on him. 'I can say just this,' she replied, 'that I refuse to believe one word of that statement unless you tell me on your honor — on your honqjr, John Graham !— that you truly did those things.' 'On my honor!' he repeated as if to himself. 'She asks me to tell her — on my honor ! ' . - ' Yes,'" the inflexible voice said. ' T demand it — on your honor ! ' .... ' Oh, but this is absurd,' he remonstrated. ' A man who has fellen into the class in which I am, is not supposed to have any honor left.' Then Margaret Sylvester laughed, and as the clear music rang oxit, the man started and let his 'glance pass swiftly around the walls of the room, which since he first entered it had heard many sighs, but never before such a laugh. 'How you betray yourself!' she cried. 'And how foolish — oh, John Graham', how foolish you are, -to think you can deceive me ! Haven't I known you since we were children; and haven't I always known that honor was to you an idol, a fetich, to which. "you were willing to sacrifice yourself and everybody else? Do you think I am a fool to believe that you could change sufficiently even to "consider the doing of a dishonorable act? I might believe it possible of myself, or of anybody else that I ever knew, but never, never of you.' - John Graham regarded the speaker with a glance, in which something like a flicker of ' amusement, brought from the depths of past memories, shone- ' Yes,' he said, ' I remember. You have prophesied it — often.' ' But although I prophesied that you would some day sacrifice yourself,' Margaret continued, ' I did not expect 1 you ,to sacrifice me.' He looked at her now with mingled amazement and s> apprehension. 'How have I sacrificed^ou?-' ;he asked. Her proud, bright gaze met Eis" unwaveringly. 'Do you think,' she said^ ' although you-xn^ve'r -' acknowledged it in words, that I didn't know that you loved me? And did it never ot* cur to you that I might — love you ? ' ' Margaret! ' he cried in a voice in which rapture and agony blent. And then in a lower tone : 'My God, why have I not died ? ' The passionate bitterness of the last words made the girl fling herself on her knees beside him. ' You have not died,' she said; seizing his thin, cold hand in the warm, strong clasp-of hers, ' because God meant to give me the happiness of seeing you again, and ending the anguish of doubt and anxiety about your fate-which I have endured. Oh, how could you.' — her voice rose in keen reproach — ' how could you have, been so, forgetful of me, so careless of my sufferings? For you surely- knew what I felt for you, and what I mush suffer ! ' ' No,' he answered quickly. 'If I had known, if I had for an instant dreamed of it, I could never have done what I did. There was a time when I fancied that you miglit care for me; but then Laidlaw, came, . with his boundless- assurance and his great wealth, "and seemed to — absorb your attention.' ' And you never guessed that he absorbed my attention because I wanted to give a lesson .to,. another man who angered me by his stupidity ? 'she asked in a tone which seemed still scornful of that stupidity. 'It was the woman's old, foolish device ; but if it deceived you, it did not mislead him — at least not for long. Before you went away I had refused Mm.' Graham stared at her incredulously. ' You refused him before I went away ! 'he repeated. ' ,Are you sure of that ? ' ' ' I am sure,' she replied. ' I not only refused him, but I told him the truth — told him" that I had never' cared v for anyone but you.' v " The veins stood out like whipcord on the man's fore- : head now as he leaned toward her. ,' You told- him that?' he queried again hoarsely. " * ' Yes,' she- answered, ' for I felt that I owed him

candor. And lie was very generous. I can never forget his sympathy when you disappeared. He gave me hope at first; and then, later — later ' ' Tried to induce you to surrender hope — yes, I, see ! ' From his tone it was to be inferred that John Graham' saw a great deal. ' And now he is with you, is he not ? ' I heard his name by one of your companions. Are you going to marry him ? ' - " The question- was harsh in its abruptness, but she answered it quietly. " " " 'If that had", been asked me an hour ago, I should ' have said " Yes." .It did not seem to matter — then. But now everything is changed. You are"alive ! ' She looked at him joyously. 'Is .it not strange that my heart always -iold me you were alive^ even while ' he tried to convince that you must be dead? ' 'He tried to convince you of* that?' ' He has argued often that if you were living, and if you loved me as I believed, that nothing could keep you away from me.' , . 'Nothing could keep me away from you?' " .f. f ' vv - He appeared to repeat the, words mechanically, .-while his glance turned toward a letter lying on the table beside him. Involuntarily he extended- his hand, as if to push it out of sight;- but Margaret's quick eye followed the motion and passed to the letter. . .The next instant : she was on her feet, and it was in her hand. ' ' . - ' Laidlaw's -writing ! ' she exclaimed! There was a moment's intense silence as she stood staring at it, then, her- flashing gaze- turned again on Graham. 'What does this mean?' she demanded impera-. tively. ' You will tell me the truth now, or I will make • him tell it. He writes to you — he knows that you are ' alive! ' ' . •_ - ' Yes,' the .man answered quietly. 'He knows — he has always known.- I would not have told you, but. ~the matter -has been taken out of' my hands. It seems thkt for us three this is the day of fate.' . . x _ ' The day of fate for me, indeed,' she echoed bitterly, ' since in it I learn that you not only tossed me out of your life without a word, or apparently a thought, but - that you left me to be deceived by a traitor like this I* She faced him passionately. ' What is the meaning of it ? ' she cried. 'If you cared nothing for me — that" As plain enough now — had you no care "for yourself, for your own broken and ruined life? What -power has this man to mak« you serve him by dishonorable silence — you, John Graham, whom I thought a very paladin of honor? What bribe has he given you ? It is at least ' — her brilliant, scornful glance swept over the bare poverty around — ' not money.' ' No, it is not,' John Graham said calmly. He rose as he spoke, supporting his weakness by leaning against, the table. ' I understand now,' he went on, ' why death has delayed so long in coining to me, and why fate_ has . brought you here to-day. "It was too much that I slrould go out of the world and leave you to one whom you are right in calling a traitor — one who has betrayed me asjyell as you.' _ ' : - She looked at the letter. 'How can that be?' she asked. ' A little while ago,' he said, ' you spoke of what you have heard — what everyone has heard — of me. Do you - not know that* Laidlaw is president of the company whose '" funds were — misappropriated ? ' - 'I suppose I knew it,' she answered indifferently, • e but -. what then? Are you going to tell me that you did — what is the euphemism? — misappropriate those funds? -It. is possible that I might believe it now.' ;j? r >c 'No,' he replied again, 'I am not going tc^tell. you that. It is time for the truth to' be spoken between" us. - I did not take the money, bui> — my brother did.' 'Your brother?' 'My half-brother, Lucien Kent. He is, you know, much "younger than I am, and has. been more like a son " than a brother to me ever since our mother gave him into my care on her death-bed. He was only a little chap then, but so winning, so brilliant, always so lovable. - -^ Ah,, well! r v — it was a short, quick sigh — ' those were' the qualities - which were his undoing. , Every one spoiled him, and, I, no doubt, worst of all.' -, She nodded. ' Yes, you worst of , all,' .she said^ ' for you allowed him to be a burden 'on your life and a 'drain upon your fortune. I have always known that. And soit was Lucien who has ended by ruining you, who had done everything for him ! ' 'It was- my fault,' Graham said. 'I should have held a sterner hand over him, but I ne.ver imagined how far dissipation and extravagance had carried him until he came, in an agony of shame and fear, and told me that he had taken thousands, many thousands, of the money -of the company in which I, as one of its officials, hp,d given him a position of trust.' His voice fell, he moved across the floor, looked ior an instant out of the iron-barred window on the sunny street, and then returned to where Margaret still stood,, erect, silent, waiting. ' Surely you see how it was ! ' he said in a tone ( of appeal. ' I had to save him — the boy at the beginning of his life, whom my indulgence had allowed to go astray. Besides, putting all -feeling for him aside, I made myself. - responsible for his act? when I placed bun in the position which rendered his defalcations possible.'

' Ah, the ideal of honor ! '. she murmured. ' I knew it would demand its sacrifice.' 'There could not be even a question of that,' he declared firmly, fl went at once to Laidlaw, told him of .Lucien' s confession, offered all^l had -to replace, in part what had been taken, and assured him that the remainder would in a short time be covered by my life insurance. All 1 asked was that. Lucien' should not be prosecuted nor his guilt be made public/ .And then ' • 'Well, then — -' ' He made difficulties, talked -in a high tone, of morality, of setting a bad .example. " Such a- crime cannot possibly be condoned," he said. "We cannot refrain from prosecuting if the embezzler remains within reach of the law. If you wish to save your brother from the penitentiary, you must, send him to Mexico — unless you are willing to go in his place.' Once more the speaker paused-, and once more there was tense silence for a minute in the strange, bare chamber.- Then he went on • 'It was "some time before I grasped what he meant, - before I understood that he was offering me the opportunity "to save Lucien from , disgrace and degradation by. taking the burden of his misdoing on myself. When I finally understood, I had no idea why he offered this — I was so ■hopeless with regard to you that it never occurred to me that he wanted to .remove a rival from .his path — but it flashed upon me that it was a step which' would cut many knots, end many difficulties.' Margaret Sylvester put her hand to her throat. 'Without,' she cried in a' half -strangled voice, 'a single L thought of me ! ' ' On the contrary, with more thought of you than of - any other human being,' Graham told her gently; 'for it ■was in thinking of you that the road of sacrifice opened as.a^way of escape from intolerable pain. You see, I not only-. believed that you would marry Laidlaw, but there was every reason why I was -debarred from any hope of even trying to win your love. What had Ito offer you?" I was not only a ruined man, whom disgrace touched nearly, but, more than that, I was a man whose deathwarrant had , been read. Do . you - understand now ? I . was ready to efface myself, since Laidlaw demanded that as the price of giving Lucien another chance in life, because, in the first place, I did not believe that you cared for me; and, in the second place,- I had the assurance of more than one physician that I would be dead within two - years. So I went away ' ' And pretended to be already dead ! ' ' No ; that was an accident with which I had nothing to do. A" passenger on the ship on which I sailed was lost overboard soon after we left port. No one knew him, - so a rumor went abroad that it was I. Laidlaw was accountable for the rumor, but it mattered little to me — j indeed, I was glad of the peace -and freedom which it .secured to me. I have lived here very quietly, unmolested even by curiosity — a dead man yet alive, for whom everything has ended, except just to sit in the sunshine and watch death coming a step nearer every day.' Perfect quietness, the quietness of one for whom indeed all effort is over, and the end of the journey in plain sight, was in his tone, his face, his manner; but all the passion of human love and hujxra'n< anger was in. Margaret Sylvester's voice when she suddenly- flung herself upon him. 'John,' she cried, 'I canno.trn-I," will not endure it! We have been tricked and deceivetlpyou. and I ; but if you - will take courage, we can yet have our ..life together. Trust me to deal with the traitor, as he deserves, if you will come back to ythe world. John — for iny~ sake — you will 'come? ' * . . ' -i He smiled exquisitely as he- put his arm around her. ' Dear heart,' he answered, ' I had a strange sense of lightness when I waked this morning that- 1 said to myself: "Surely the end is near at hand — surely I shall die before night comes again." For I could not guess that what the day was bringing me was — you. It is a wonderful happiness to be given as a nirnc dimittis, not only this glimpse of your face, but the knowledge of your love, the assurance of your faith. Ah, never mind the traitor — give him no further thought V After all, what has' he done for us but to help us^tolearn, through pain and separation, that, love is of the soul, not of the- body, and that even death-r^death itselfer-will be powerless to separate ' - - ■ "He. put a handkerchief to'"" his lips, there was a moment's struggle, "atfd t"hen the- red tide jrushed forth, while with her strong "yoiine: arms the girl laid him back in his chair and knelt beside him. , \ "- A little' later- a, persistent knocking at the door was followed by an impatient hand pushing it open, and as a flood of sunlight rushed into -the -room, a man's figiire stood in the brightness. ' Excuse me,' he said, ' but I wish jto inquire if Miss Sylvester, is here? ' . Out of the gloom a clear voice answered him: ' Yes,- Miss- Sylvester is here, Mr. Laidlaw ; and so is John Graham— dead.' — Catholic World.

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