Tales and Sketches.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 35, 23 September 1871, Page 16

Tales and Sketches.

the lights of the town. By J. M. C. [From the Austbalasian.J There were several passengers in the coach. There was a dark bank gentleman in it, going all the way to Oakton, who was a great negromelodist, only his chanting in the vehicle couldn’t exactly show anybody else that he was this—but that wasn’t his fault; and there was a young lady with him whose face was very easy te read by anybody in the trick of reading women’s faces at all, which commonly is best done, not by looking much at them, but by letting them look at you. There was a bluff brewing gentleman, who was very ambitious and very opiniative, and who knew what was right in a large sense, and no doubt did it too. There was an auburn legal gentleman, who had chin enough to know anything decisively, but who seemed carelessly to do everything very indecisively, though he was about old enough to lead others in the proper way if he took the trouble, instead of being led by others in no particular way at all. A good, motherly, middle-aged lady was there too, who had already travelled more than 300 miles in order to meet her daughter and carry her home under her protection.. Then there were two gentlemen of no particular pretensions, who might modestly be going anywhere and for any purpose. And lastly there was a young mother, with her child in her arms, who had that morning arrived from England, and who was on her way to her husband, under the protection of one of the unpretensious gentlemen. Now, this young mother was a pretty little mother, and a dear little mother, and a sweet little personage altogether. Her husband, to whom she was going, was a young surgeon, who, upwards of a year before, had left her and baby in order to find a home for them in this new land, where there is a home for all who know how to look for it. He had found it and now she was coming to inhabit it and reign there, bringing her only child—the only one, the doctors had told her, she ever was to btive —as prime minister. As to her husband, he was big enough through her love, which magnified him, to carry the home and all its contents in his pocket, so baby couldn’t think of entering into any ordinary sort of competition with him. The only competition there could be about baby at all was as to who should love him the most, the mother or the father, the latter of whom had been so distractingly fond of him, even when only a few months old, that there was no knowing how extra-distractingly fond of him he mightn’t prove to be a few hours hence, now that his boy was a middle-aged baby of nearly two years’ experience in the world, and that he could lisp out ‘ Robert’—his father’s name and his own. The big Robert was indeed fond of the little one. He knew it was the only child of his that he should ever possess to be fond of; and he was one of those good men who, in their absorbing affection for their offspring, show a woman’s tenderness to the whole world, and who often possess other gifts which they do not show vaingloriously to any part of the world; for their own singleness of heart teaches them to value those gifts, not not because they look well, —glass will do that, —but because they hold their worth for ever, —a diamond does that. Like the diamond too, they can be transmitted to posterity, shining and sparkling, mayhap in one setting, mayhap in another, but being pure and true always. It was now five o’clock in the afternoon, this beautiful October day, and the coach travelled on. It had started at noon and would arrive at its destination at about seven. There were birds flying by it and singing, whose music was not heard. It swept under boughs, and struck out perfumes from them which reached no nostrils. Its wheels plashed through running waters which cooled no lip. Its sides made moving lines upon colors, green and brown and golden-yellow, yet these never touched an eye. I hey were all unheard, unperceived, unfelt, unseen, by the body which has form. But what of that? Were not still greater than they there to the mind which has no form, there to the mind of her to whom, in this day of her joy, love gave the power of creating beauties of its own which enveloped her and baby with their presence ! How happy she was. It shone through her eyes; and when others looked up at it and smiled, her eyelids came down and covered it, as if they would keep its full vision for him only who should see and understand it. If she looked joyous to all who saw her, how glad all things looked to her who saw them! Everything seemed Robert’s ! When the coach stopped, and the tire.d horses, standing with their legs far apart, looked round for the man with the bucket, and then drank and let their heavy eyelids fall and the water drip lazily from* their mouths, surely they were not distressed at all; they only joked and pretended to be half drunk. When the coach stopped a<*ain, and the fresh horses came out and threw up their feet and raised their necks, they were glad also. They were affectionate horses too, ann scratched one another’s heads, and tickled each other with their teeth : but that was because they had no fingers. The cocks and hens which came forward to see whether the people in the coach were enjoying their journey, were Robert’s too. True, they appeared somewhat vain, and strutted about as many biped cocks and hens in this world are believed to do; and the gentlemen sometimes trod on their own toes and took big steps to draw people’s attention to them, and then shook their wings and tucked them up to their Bides as gentlemen who feel themselves to be of importance would put their hands into their pockets. And the ladies with the feathers jerked their necks as ladies do who are in the depths of satisfaction with their own individuality; and move their heads and feet together as individuals possessing the inestimable secret

of the true Grecian bend should do—the hen do it. Even the pigeons came and cooed under the horses’ feet. Dogs of var^ 3 na * tionalities curled up before fences and do° rß > and tired of meditating on the ennui of a bus 1 life, jumped up, and ran, and walked, an lounged to the coach-wheels, putting their mouths to them, as if to ask whether they hadn’t brought somebody up from Melbourne who was clever enough to understand them and tell them the latest news of their countrymen in town. There was nothing which didnt seem to welcome the coach that carried his wife and son to him.

The coach travelled on. It was bound west. The sun was bound west, too ; and as coach and sun happen d to be going the same way, it was not very clear which would reach Robert’s house first. But what did Hmt matter F There were other lights than that of the sun, and other influences than those which came from him. What could happen that could bring adversity at such a time as this ? Even the frightful circumstance of one of the unpretensions gentleman’s hat falling off, and of himself desperately going to jump out after it—for it had been into too many public-houses during the journey and he, no doubt, considered it to be wanting in gravity in not staying on its own seat —even that was nothing but pleasant. True, the hat must have been somewhat crushed, for the hind wheel went over it, and the owner seemed a little crushed too, for the weight of Martel pressed upon him. But he would forget all this in the night. Surely no headache could come in the morning to remind him of his misfortunes, and his throat would not seem to him like a blacksmith’s shop in the aogdays. Was he not in the country of Robert ? The coach travelled on very slowly now, as it appeared to her who was owned by the owner of all the land ; and the sun travelled on too, but very quickly indeed, and before seven o’clock was come he had won the race, and then, no doubt, because he was very tired with the constant excitement of the struggle, he lay down aud went to sleep where nobody could see him. But what of that? There were other influences than his! There was the influence of the great negro-melodist, who sang very hard, now that it was dusk ; and of the auburn gentleman who tried to sing because somebody else was doing so ; and of the brewing gentleman who wouldn’t and couldn’t sing, but who uttered original conceptions about music which were very delightful to hear. There were other lights, too, than those of the sun. There was the light of the stars, which reached you, though you could not reach it; and there were nearer lights which would soon reach and be reached to the lights of the town. ‘ Shall we soon see them ?’ said Margaret, whose heart; seemed to come up and try to speak too, though it could not get farther than her lips, and it kept them open as she spoke, and kept them still open and pulsating with joy, as itself did, while the answer came. The driver answered the question. He heard it, for the coach was slowly going up a hill, and there was no noise that could der his hearing. ‘ln a few minutes ma’am,’ he called out; ‘ when we get over this rise we shall see them.’ And in a few minutes they did get over the hill, and Margaret saw the lights, and the other passengers saw them and pointed to them, and the coach seemed to Bee them too, for it ran towards them so fast. They were in a cutting through the hill, and its sides seemed to run away past, them, as if eagerly drawing up the town and its pretty lights towards them, and the love that dwelt in it in silence waiting for some one to whom it should utter itself in sound. # « We shall be at the hotel in twenty minutes, said a passenger. ‘We’ll stop at the doctor’s bouse in ten minutes or less,’ cried the driver heartily. ‘ Who’ll bet a nobbier on it V Margaret, any more than baby, did not know what a nobbier was. But she .would like to have wagered twenty of them with the driver, because she guessed that they were something nice to him, and that he would have the power to win them for himself, and to win time for her and baby. How cheerful the lights were after the darkness of tlie bush. Some of them seemed to look towards one another and wink, as if they had heard of the wager about them, and derived much importance from the transaction. One or two of them shut tbeir eyes altogether and retired from view, as if they were modest and didn’t care for being talked about; but all the rest appeared so wonderfully grand, that Margaret stood up to look at them ; and baby was in her arms, and they both leaned out of the coach in their eagerness. Were those not the lights that had shone upon Robert, and had been near to him all the long, weary time she could not see him ? _ Had he not eaten and drunk and slept and lived m their presence while she was so far away from him? working for baby and her —she. knew; loving baby and her—she knew ; longing for baby and her—she knew; and now why should not baby too know the influence under whose light he would soon be and remain lor ever! ‘Look, baby dear,’ she whispered. And baby looked and smiled as if this was the supreme day of his life. The whip gave a crack as if it was in a passion; and some of the horses walked while others cantered, though all seemed by the sounds they made to gallop. The two front wheels turned, first one way and then another, as if they were in doubt. ‘ It’s a bad bit of road,’ said the passenger on the box seat. »Whes-s-s,’ said the break to the as if that was the nearest it could say to ‘ yes‘Hep, hay!’ cried the driver. And the coach gave a plunge down and rose, made a second plunge down and rose, and began to travel on again very fast indeed, only that a scream stopped it.

Baby had fallen from his mother’s arms, and was now—ah, where was he now!

‘ Here he is !’ cried three of the passengers who had leaped out to his rescue, one of whom held him up triumphantly to his mother’s reaching arms. Baby cried a little, but it was very little indeed.

* Is he hurt ?* asked everybody eagerly. But Margaret couldn’t answer them. How could she answer while she herself was asking —asking with her hands that passed trembling over her child, as if they were her anxiety, which touching him could make him know what she felt for him ; asking with her eyes that tried to turn the darkness which kept him from her sight into light that could bring him to it; asking with her bosom, to which she pressed her baby, as if her affection, in her desperate trouble, had become flesh, and that her child could feel it upon his tender face and receive it into his body; asking with her memory, and her foresight, and her knowledge of what her dear husband’s love was for bis only child. ‘ Oh! will Robert blame me P will he love me any more ?’ The passengers struck matches that lighted the face of the child. The driver handed a lamp in, which showed the pity that was in all the faces, and the sympathy for the mother who suffered so much. Everybody gazed twice and thrice upon the baby and many times upon the pretty mother ; and they comforted her because they believed they could do so in truth.

‘ Bless you, he is not hurt,’ said one man. ‘ Babies never break limbs,’ said another. ‘ I am sure he is not in pain,’ said the lady going to Oakton, in a low voice; and as she spoke she looked as if she knew that she too would one day be a mother, and have many loves, and many tremblings because of those loves. Baby was quiet now, and his face looked calm, and he gave little sighs as if answering all the sympathy that lived for him, and as if he knew that all the sympathy they gave him was great indeed now, and yet would soon be greater still. ‘ May I go on now ?’ cried the driver. . ‘ Yes, yes,’ cried the men. ‘lt is all right;’ go quietly.’ And the coach -went on, and went quietly ; and the mother’s fears were quieter too ; and baby was very qniet, and ceased to cry, and cea«ed to sigh ; and the lights of the town peeped into the coach, and they looked quiet also. Then the coach stopped; and instead of more quietude still, there was tumult —tumult and gladness—a tumult of thanks, and a tumult of love. ‘Thank God baby is not hurt. Thank God my husband will love me still. Thank God ’ But Robert came, and Margaret saw his happy face ; and then more thanks and more love seemed to mingle together in a pleasant strife. As he took baby in his arms, and whispered ‘ Dear Margaret!’ that,was the completed utterance in words of the thanks and the love, for she had no more power to speak them. . ' - * I’ll run in doors with the baby,’ he said to the unpretensious gentleman who had Margaret in charge, ‘ See to her. I shall not be a moment.’ And he hastened through the garden, and she saw him kiss his child as he went. The coach went on, and the unpretensious gentleman with it, for he had to go on too, and Margaret was left standing alone. But it was not for long. Robert came hurridly back to her. She took his arm, and pressing it to her side, they passed into the garden. She held up her sweet face to him, ‘ Dear, dear Robert,’ she whispered, and he stooped and kissed her. His face was very pale, and his lips were very cold. She could not see the one, but she could feel the others, and she put her arms round his shoulders as they stood on the doorstep, and kissed him again. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘you have been anxious about poor worthless me, and about baby. Your lips are cold, and, and ’ ‘ And what miss ?’ he said in his old merry way that she knew so well; but she did not know the effort that it cost him to say it in that way. ‘ And I am so afraid baby may be hurt.’

‘ Why, Margaret, dear ?’ ‘ He fell, Robert, he fell out of my arms—out of the coach,’ she said softly and quickly, and then she hastented to say more loudly and more quickly, ‘ But he is not hurt at all. Everybody says so; and he is asleep now. Is he not ? You have seen him, and a glance of yours, she said trustingly, ‘ would tell you all about him. Is he not well and asleep ?’ ‘ He is asleep, my pet, fast asleep.’ ‘ Then I know he cannot be hurt. The driver laughed, and said he had known many babies to fall out of coaches, but that none of them were ever injured much. He is not in any pain, is he, Robert, dear ?’ she asked eagerly. ‘No, my love, he is not, I can assure you,’ he said firmly. And she was satisfied. When he carried baby in he had seen how far from pain it w»s. Now he knew why. They went into the room that was made ready for her coming, with its table furnished. Oranges were there, and all the fruits that she liked, and that the season brought. Flowers were there—violets and roses —such as they both loved best; and the room overflowed with their presence. Baby was there too, on the sofa, with his face covered. ‘ Why did you not put him into our own room ?’ she asked.

‘ I was afraid to leave you alone with him for fear you might keep away from me because of him,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘ Now run away and brush your hair, and come back to me.’ And she went.

The servant came into the room with the tea. ‘ Shall I light the lamp, sir,’ she asked. ‘ If you please,’ he answered gently. And she lighted the lamp and left the room. He went to the sofa where the only child of his which he was ever to love lay. He looked upon his dear, dear child. It was dead. He had laid it there, dead. Oh, how the sight rent his heart! How another sight too rent his heart!—the sight

which his eyes could not see, but whioh his mind showed him he must so soon behold—the sight of the anguish of that wife whom he loved so much; the sight of her agony in believing that she had made a cruel sacrifice to Moloch, where, in truth, a beautiful sacrifice to God had gone from her innocent hands ! ‘ According to her need in her weakness, so should my strength be,’ was his thought. But what a cruel thought it was that she should be weak and suffer because of such trouble, and that he must try to be strong and suffer—more than her, perhaps, though he was humbly willing to do that; less than her, perhaps, though he knew how hard he should strive to make her trouble less !

A footstep sounded. It was hers. It was a light footstep, and a well-known footstep, and a joyous footstep. But how it trode upon him ! He turned down the light hastily. ‘How dark it is,’ she said pleasantly ._ ‘I want to see my house. Turn up the light, Robert, dear.’ It was the first house she was mistress of. They had made a foolish love marriage ; and she had lived in her old home where she was born up to the day she left England. He came to meet her at the door. ‘ Don’t ask me to make the light greater,’ he said, trying hard to hide his grief, and to seem to her as he ever had been. ‘Do you not know that my eyes are very bad ? lam seriously thinking of mounting spectacles. Come in a great hurry, miss, and sit down and take your tea, and make yourself very strong indeed with it. If you do that, I will tell you a secret afterwards.’

She laughed. ‘ 0 you merry boy! are you never going to be done with your nonsense ? Fancy your wearing spectacles ! I should just like to see you doing anything so grave !’ ‘My eyes are really bad, Maggy, dear. They are quite swollen. lam serious.’ ‘ Serious,’ she said, sitting down at the table, ‘ serious, sir P How can I tell what you are unless I see your face ? When you pretend to be serious, that’B the time when I suspect you most of going to play some ridiculous tricks with me.’

What heaviness her dear light words brought to him. ‘ Then go on with your tea, miss, and suspect me as much as you like.’ And she went on with her tea. There was very little lamplight, and that little shone altogether on the table.

‘ Tell me all about your voyage, Maggy,* he said, and she eagerly took up a theme where he knew he would have a little to say, and talked and eat and talked and drank. How glad he was to see her making herself strong for the dreadful trial she must so soon undergo. She once stopped suddenly in he midst of her narration. ‘ Are your eyes really bad, Robert, dear ?’

‘ Really, Maggy,’ he answered, * but they will be quite sound agaifi by-and-bye. It is a common thing in this country for the eyes to ache.’ He was sitting opposite to her. ‘ Shall I come and sit by your side, Robert ?’ ‘ No, dear, stay where you are now. When you have finished your tea, you shall sit on my knee at the window.’

And she went on with her pleasant meal and talked ; and he pretended to be eating and drinking too ; and she noticed that he had no appetite ; but he made excuses satisfying her. And the meal was over.

‘ Now,’ she said, rising, ‘ you are to take me on your knee.’ And as he moved bis chair she went towards baby. ‘ I want to look at him,’ she said.

‘ Don’t go to him, Maggy,’ be called out, hurriedly. ‘ Come to me.’ And she came and sat in his arms by the window. This was the room he had prepared for his wife and his child. It was colored with the colors that were becoming ; furnished with what furniture he could procure, which should show the genius of man upon it above the mere handiwork. Pictures hung upon its walls —sights which gave power to the eye to pierce far beyond walls, and to look at scenes of loveliness which no walls ever bounded but the walls of heaven and earth. The windows looked out upon a garden, a small garden with trees and flowers, but a large garden in the thought which formed it. This was the room where he had looked forward to live with his wife, giving her all he could, and receiving more than abundance in return. This was the room where he had looked forward to receive his only child, loving him and showing him day by day those true gems which a true man prizes and cherishes —humility and honor and truth —and whose worth he would endeavor to teach to his boy, and whose reflection should in the growth of time become tangible beauties in him, perfect enough to shine in their own light. This was the room. His wife and his child were now in it. But

‘ Are you really sad, Robert, dear ?* ‘ Sad, Maggy ? why should I be sad, having you here ?’ he said fondly. * Are you sad, thinking that dear baby might have been hurt ?’

‘My wife,’ he said tenderly. • I think of you now, more than of dear baby. Whom should I love so well as you ?’ ‘ Whom should I love so well as you ?’ she repeated, with her hands in his hair. And he leaned his aching head downwards, letting her dear hands rest upon it, as if they were the weight of her grief that was so soon to come, and which he should try and help her to bear, teaching her to bear it too—all of it that he had no power to take upon himself. ‘ O Robert, you are really, really sad now. I know it. Are you angry with me ?’ ‘ How could I be angry with you Maggy ? If baby was even dead, why should I lovo you the less dearly ?’ * If he had died through my fault,’ she said, asking as she was saying and searching with her voice as if her words had eyes, ‘ you would never love me more ?’

‘ If he was dead, I should still love you, my wife, love you all my life and pity you, loving

you the more dearly, if that could be for pitying you.’

‘Dear Robert!’ she murmured, with her cheek pressed against his. ‘Dear Maggy!’ he murmured, with his cheek pressed against hers. Her tears began to flow ; and they flowed upon his sorrowful face that moved in the duskiness more than he could dare to let it move in the light. How could he show her the truth? At such a time too as this, when his love told him there might have been no truth shown her but that which enclosed pleasure and happiness. But he must speak; he must tell her. Would you not still love me Maggy, if baby had fallen out of my hands instead of out of yours, and if he had died ?’ he said gently. She pressed her face the tighter against his, and was silent. Her sweet breath passed into his nostrils, as if her answer to him had come in that way without speech showing him that her fears were such as no words could express, and her love for him such as no words could interpret.

‘ Whom do you love best Maggy—baby or me ? If one of us were to leave you, which should it be ?’

‘ You or baby to die and leave me !’ she said affrighted ; and her tears stayed at the moment as if they too were affrighted. * Maggy,’ he said softly, so softly that his words seemed to break uDon the air as if they were the tenderness of his spirit which could brook contract with nothing material, however light, though it suffered from things unmaterial, which were cruel in their strength—- * Maggy, my child, could you bear to lose baby, having me always with you, loving you as you know I love you, and trying patiently to bear our loss, taking your own dear self for my wife and my child in one ?’

She did not speak. Her face fell upon his shoulder, telling him much of her fears, and more of her trust in him.

‘lf I vp ere to die Maggy, and baby to live, would the loss be the less to you or would it be the greater ?’ She was sitting on his knees, and she moved then nearer towards his body, as if to assure herself that she was so close to him and so dependent upon him. ‘ I have been very ill, Maggy ; I have been very near going from you. Do you not remember those two months in which you received no letter from me ? I could not write. I would not let others write to trouble you. If dear baby were —*—’ She leaped up from his knees and tried to fly towards her child, who no longer had need of her protection. But he held her fast. ‘lf baby were gone from us, my child,’ he said, clasping her firmly in his arms ; ‘ if you knew that I would love you all the more dearly because of his leaving us; if you knew that I might have left you instead of his leaving you, could you make the exchange ?’ She did not comprehend him. The silent voice which came to her from her child, and the audible voice which came to her from her dear husband, clashed together, and showed her no perfect meaning. ‘ What, what, Robert ?’ she cried. He repeated his words, ‘ Could you make the cruel exchange, Maggy ?’ ‘Robert!’ she said wildly, ‘Robert!’ and she pushed his face away from her with her straining hands, not to make it the farther from her but to bring it the nearer to her—to see it all, so that she might read and understand it. ‘ I could make the exchange,’ she uttered in tones that issued from every mental power and from every bodily power with which her love had endowed her. ‘ You should know that my husband.’ This was the mind in which he wanted her to be. This was what he had striven for.

‘ And if God called upon you, even now, Maggy, to make the exchange, would you not try hard to bear doing so, not solely for your own sake, but also for mine ?’ He still kept her love for him before her, for he knew that this would give her strength. Her hands were upon his breast, pressing against him, as if he were his words, and that she blindly tried to push them away from her. Now they crept up to his shoulders and threw themselves across them, clasping each other over his neck, as if to give one another the strength which came from each, and that both should lean upon the strength which came from him. She cpuld not speak in words, but she laid her quivering lips upon his. They spoke to him without words.’ ‘My wife,’ he whispered, ‘my own wife.’ He tried to tell her then. But he could not tell her as he struggled to do. Something else told her which he had striven against, so that it should not be heard. Now it overcame him, and was heard. It was a sob which, in its misery, tried to reach as high as heaven, but which his love for her dared not to let reach its destination less it should take her aAvay from him with it.

She saw the truth ! And he knowing she saw it, and beholding not alone his own terrible trouble, but pitying hers, broke doAvn utterly.

Even she found the power to comfort him then. Her love gave it to her. ‘Darling,’ she faltered. ‘ Ah, my husband—oh, let us try and bear it patiently, or my heart must—must —break for you!’ And her hands supported his head, whose face was covered with his own hands, and bowed down, trying to hide from her knowledge the agony which he suffered. And her bosom trembled as it leaned upon his that shook, shook as if his heart were trying to come out to his child and to his wife, and to bring them back to that happiness which they had known such a short time before !

The time passed. As they sat there at the window on the hill, the lights of the town below them went out ono by one, and left them in darkness.

The time passed. They arose. In a light of their own they went to baby. Their light shone upon him, and from him came back to them is lofter rays. She lifted the covering

off baby’s face, and they bowed over their child, 1 and gazed long and earnestly upon him. Then she turned to her husband and clung to him, looking up into his pale face through her grief, showed him greater to her sight. Her tears fell down upon the ground, bringing enshrined in them that image where the object must one day be. But as the waters would rise again to heaven, so would he ; so would she. Baby was already risen. That was the issue of their great grief then. What would be the issue of it in the time to come, would it be as the issue of all sorrow in this world, in purifying, and softening, and making meek and patient those upon whom it tails.