A SHORT STORY

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 135, 29 August 1927, Page 12

A SHORT STORY

THE BACKWOODSMAN’S DREAM

By

Olive Lethbridge

‘ Speech!” ° The applause died down suddenly, and a little silence fell, as the man at the head of the long, glittering table rose and stood, surveying the brilliant company, a littlgp whimsical smile playing around his clean-shaven mouth. “Ah! my friends,” lie said; “I will make you a speech, and at the end of it I wonder how many of you will still remain—my friends.” A surprised murmur arose, and rippled into a laugh. He was given to curious jokes, this strange dark man from the west, and he was doubtless playing one upon them now in his own queer vein of satirical humour. “We are all your friends. Try us.” jested a woman. He gave a little gesture. “That is just what I am about to do.” Again the laugh rippled out, but this time there was a vague discomfort behind it, the discomfort which senses an unusual situation and shrinks from it. “Speech! Speech!” someone cried again, as if trying to break the tension which they felt but failed to understand. “Ladies and gentlemen.” Their host’s tones, with a slight burr in them, which seemed to speak of the winds and the prairies, broke forth again. “I will begin by asking a question. I wonder if any of you can guess why I have invited you all to this dinner party to-night?” “Of course.” A boy into whose head the champagne had mounted a little too freely sprang up in his place, his eyes alight and reckless, as if challenging the shadow of tragedy which seemed to be trying to creep over the scene. “Of course we know. It has been an open secret for weeks, and now you are going to share it with us. Ladies *and gentlemen, I will propose a toast. AVe will drink to the future happiness of our host and the Lady Enid Vane.” There came a sudden creaking of chairs, the guests rose, the glasses clinked, and a little sigh of relief went round as if at sanity restored. “To our host and to Lady'' Enid.” “Stop.” Quietly, but with tin unmistakable ring of command, the tall dark man spoke once more. “Pardon me, but you are a little premature. I have asked you all here to-night to tell you that the marriage between Lady Enid and myself will not take place.” A sudden hush followed his words, and all eyes turned involuntarily to where pale, silent, white as the gown she wore, sat a girl, the most beautiful perhaps of all the radiant women there. Still, she was as one of the pieces of priceless statuary which adorned the house, her clear hazel eyes gazing straight in front of her, her vivid Titian hair, tlie only note of colour about her; while not once did her glance waver, nor a ripple stir the calm of her perfect face. “Breeding!” muttered someone. “By

.God! How it shows.” The man heard, and turned swiftly. “I agree with you, my friend, and tonight will go far to prove the truth of your words. And now, may I ask you all to drink the first toast with me. AVe will call it ‘To the Backwoodsman's Dream.* ” Mechanically, half bewildered, the guests drank, and then resumed their places while their host remained standing, fingering his glass thoughtfully, the same curious, half-bitter smile playing around his mouth. “A year ago” (his tones now were a little wistful), “I too was but a backwoodsman, as you all know ” The guests stirred uneasily. Of course they knew! Had not the romantic story of this millionaire from the AVest, and his subsequent love affair with the beautiful daughter of one of the oldest and most impoverished families in England, been the topic of the season? “Js this a film play?” The boy who had spoken first, muttered, but not so low but that the other man caught it. “No,” he replied, and there was something about his manner which commanded respect. “It is the story of a life, but those of you who prefer to regard it as a film play, pray do so, and see it as such now with me. Here is the picture. See the backwoodsman away out there in his hut under the stars, with but the camp fire for company, and the howl of a wolf upon the trail the only sound that breaks the silence. Tie sleeps, and as he sleeps he dreams. Dreams of a great city, and lights, and music and laughter, and wine and fair women, and oC one fairest among them all. Then, even as he stretches out his arms to grasp the vision, longing to possess it, and, thinking it is his, the music changes to discord, the laughter to mockery, and he awakes to find himself a lone sleeper beneath the

stars.” He paused, but no one spoke. All eyes were fixed upon him, and in some measure everyone was conscious of the same curious feeling, that they were _ indeed part of an audience, seeing, as he had suggested, a great life drama being played out. “One day, my friends,” again his strong tone rang out, “the dream came true in approved movie fashion. He struck a trail, this poor backwoodsman; he found gold! And after that, no perils nor adventures that film heroes are supposed to pass through could have been greater than his. He fought, he starved, he struggled, he almost died, but in the end he succeeded, he won through, he established his claim, and he found himself a millionaire. Then came the call. The call back to the old country. He was young. Life stretched out before him —life as he saw it then —life in all its joy, its promise, its fulfilment. So he went, and London opened its arms to him. He was welcomed, courted, feted, flatered on all sides; he had unlimited money, the key which opens all doors.”

Again he x:>aused while his dark, fierc< eyes swept the faces of his guests, anc his words lingered in the hushed room but upon the face of the girl liis glance rested not at all. “Money!” Again his bitter tones renl the silence. “Bad taste, you think, nc doubt, to mention it: but remember he was but a poor backwoodsman this mar I tell you of: one, very simple, who had learned but little of the great world’s ways. For all that, for a time he became the fashion, and as one of my friends here reminded us so short a time ago, ‘breeding will show.’ But what does it matter? Let the film play continue. He found himself involved in a glamorous, highly-coloured dream. A little dazzled, a little wondering. perhaps, but very happy, for into his life had come the greatest dream of all—a woman more beautiful than any he had ever seen, the thought of whose love took his to the gates of heaven itself. It seemed that for - a time he was transported there, my friends, for film plays, you know, are proverbially sentimental. Then, as I hinted to you at the beginning of my story. quite suddenly everything changed. The music turned to discord, the laughter to mockery, and he awoke.”

He gazed for a moment down that long table once more. That table, with its priceless decorations, its gold plate, its drooping flowers, its radiant company, but his eyes were keen and hawklike now. seeing none of these'things, las one who watches the horizon afar, j far off. “Mv friends.” he said. “I am no lona-er a millionaire: I am penniless as the ’ beggar who begs outside my door. A pauper, an imposter if you choose. T have invited you all here to-night to tell you this, and to ask vou to drink yet another toast —To the marriage that will not take place.” . As a vista he saw before him the

I rows of faces. Polite, indulgent, uncomprehendng at first, and then amazed, incredulous, and lastly angry that they should have been subjected' to such a scene. The one face he longed to see his eyes still carefully avoided, though he knew that with his last words she had looked at him at last. “My friends . . . he said again, watching them writhe as they realised that even yet this hideous inquisition | was not ended. “Let me repeat once more, I am no longer a millionaire, nor even a rich man, but whether that fact is or is not my good fortune, it is difficult to say. As soon as I learned the facts, the idea came to ask you all to this farewell dinner, the best that I could choose, and then to bid you all good-bye.” “AA'hy?” someobdy asked. He gave an expressive gesture. “Because I can no longer entertain you, feed you, lend money to you, nor be of use to you. I can, in fact, no longer afford to foot my bill; therefore the only course open to me is to send in mv resignation. You see, my friends, during the year that I have lived among you I have learned to know you very well.” “You have asked us here to insult us.” a woman cried hysterically. He shook his head. “Believe me, no. I I am merely saving you the trouble of i turning me out. Had I not taken this j course, it would have been so difficult j for some of you—those who are under shall wc say, obligations. You would either have had to put up with me, or to pay your debts—a most intolerable situation, you will agree. I am sure, for ladies and gentleman of breeding.” An electric bell at his side thrummed to his touch. “The cars,” lie commanded; then, as the servants flew to obey his orders, he turned once again, the bitter smile upon liis face intensified. “Those, my servants, will follow very soon after you,” he said, “for I shall not be able to pay their wages either. Now, in return for any little favours I may have done you, may I ask one small one in return. It is that I beg of you all not to keep silent regarding this night’s affair, but let it go the round of the clubs and the tea-tables. Tell them how the once rich vulgarian staged a melodrama, and made you all play in it. Let it be known how he broke every code and ethic in good breeding, and outraged every law of duty and hospitality. Then quickly forget' him.” He bowed ironically. “The film play is over, my friends, and I see that many of you are tired, and wish to go, so 1 will not detain you longer. Goodnight.”

They went out in turn. Some hurriedly, some lingeringly, some with excuses or regrets, but they all went—all save one. She sat there silent and alone, impassive as she had remained through the nightmare of the hideous scene, her pallor accentuated by the glory of her flaming hair, only the dumb pain in her clear eyes showing that she still could feel. Eyes that she veiled swiftly so that when he returned he should not read- the message that she could not hide. She could hear the whirr of the motors passing away into the quiet night, hear the voice of the powdered footmen as they called on the numbers one by one, and in her mind’s eye she could picture him still, a dark, ironic figure standing at the head of his steps so that he might miss no iota of this last bitter scene. Bowing his farewels, murmuring his biting jests into the ears of those who in his days of affluence had taken from him all that he had, and who now were leaving like rats, driven from his door with words like the sting of whips, beaten to the earth by something which they affected to despise, but which was bigger than anything that was in their nature to understand. He had beaten her, too, beaten her in public, humiliated and crushed her to the earth. Why had he done it? AY as he mad, this strange, uncouth man, whose money had been the fairy wand which had lifted from her impoverished family the burden of debt and mortgage which was dragging them down to the depths, and given them peace? “Enid A r ane and her wild man of the woods!” AYith the airy badinage of the set in which she moved, this had been the way in which they had been spoken of She had heard it many a time, and smiled, little knowing how one day those words were to come true, and the. man had become wild once more and fly back to his primeval forest, leaving her with only the laughter of her friends ringing in her ears.

She rose up straight and tall as he re-entered the room, and faced him, her slenderness in striking contrast, to the bluc-black shadow on his dark face. “Have you not gone, too?” he said. “I missed you among the others, but it never occurred to mjs that you were not with them. Why have - emained?” “To ask you a question,” she answered proudly. “AA’hy have you done this thing?” He looked down upon her, and for . the first time that night a great pity shone in his eyes and softened his face; sorrow for what he had subjected her to, and for what he knew she must have suffered; sorrow, but no yielding. He gave a powerful gesture, and she was reminded of a great wind sweeping down from the mountains into the miasma of cities—devastating, cleansing, purifying. “I wished,” he said, “to set you free.” Her pale face flooded with sudden colour, and her voice rang cold as sheeted ice, quelling, rebuking, scorning.

“So you thought to send me from 5 your doors with those others! Thought that 1 would remain silent after all , that you have said and done; that you could thrash me publicly, and I would go out quietly like some meek woman, silenced by your brutality. I asked you why you did this thing, and you say it was to set me free; you asked me why I remained, and I will tell you. It was so that you should have your beating too.” The clash of their wills was like the shock of steel. It seemed to him that never had she looked more beautiful, nor had he ever loved her more. For one moment when he had returned and seen her waiting there, a sudden wild j hope had flamed up in his heart; but j now, at her next words, it seemed to j him as if his soul died. ! “Do not be afraid; I am going soon, j for this is a house, as you have truly said, where we count our wages. I j have mine, and you can no longer pay i them, so I go.” ' “Oh. my dear,” his face was swept ; by a strange gentleness as he spoke. “You are angry and bitter, and I am not surprised. Yet what I did to-night I did for your sake. So many things would have made it hard for you if I had done otherwise. Honour, pity, pride, a thousand things would have tried to hold you to me when you wanted to go. Now I have made it impossible for you to stay.” “Why?” she asked, and she trembled so that she could scarcely stand. “I no longer have anything to offer you,” he replied. “Neither money, nor position, nor a home —and the only! thing which could have made up fori the lack of them is not there.” “What is it?” she questioned. “Love,” he said. “You have never' known it. 1-Tad you done so, it would 1 have made all things different. You ! accepted me because of my wretched! money, for the sake of your family, j and because it seemed the right thing i to do. I knew it all along, but 1 could J j not bear to lose you. Then this blow I

came, and I knew that I must set you free. I dreaded lest my courage should fail, and the temptation tortured me to trick you into marrying me, and not to let you know what had happened until it was too late. So I determined to do something that would place you out of my reach for ever, and I insulted von before them all to-night. It is' so simple now. You will go back to your own people; I shall go out West alone.” “Yes,” she said, and her tones were bitter, too. It is so simple, as you say. Simple for you. but what of me? You will go out West, away from it ail: I am left here with the' laugh against me. My friends will not so easily forget as' you. Memories are long here in London, and the story of to-night’s scene will be told about me until my dying day.” She crossed to the door, and stood there for a moment, beautiful as a dream. "1 go, dismissed,” she flung at him in a. last bitter cry. “A paid hireling like those others, whose post is no longer open. Good-night.” The door closed, and he was alone in the great silent room, where the flowers were drooping, and the musicsilent. and only the faint scent of the women’s gowns lingered like a fragrant memory which, too, had alI most passed. She was gone, lost to him for ever: ! "We count our wages here, you can I no longer pay mine, and so I go.” j Her cruel words returned to him, and | with them the memory of her as she stood there hut a moment ago, the tears making her eyes more brilliant than any jewels she wore. And with that memory something wild and tin- i tamed surged up in his heart, stronger i than will or reason, or love itself, i Something that brought him swiftly to!

his feet, the red blood staining his dark face and making his eyes blaze. He flung open the door. She was just coming down the staircase, having gone to fetch her cloak. It was oj white fur. wrapped closely around her, in contrast to which shone her glorious hair. Step' by step she came, while he stood there like a. figure of carved granite, with something almost terrible in his dark, rugged strength; then as she reached the last step he seized her roughly by the hand. “Wait!” he commanded. “I have one more thing to say to you.” He drew her into the dining-room and shut the door, standing with his back against it. You say you have counted your the cosd in a^i yOU i,ave not counted the cost. All these months I have worshipped you on a pedestal, loved a ® a woman only to be knelt to. Now you are no longer that, and I w2\ my , dUe - 1 shall kiss you as I ha\ e loved you before I go.” He took her in his arms, and she Wore p ? S as a ,eaf which is blown dreom storm - Kissed her as in his dream long ago he had kissed the woman who had faded from his grasp eV| TM 1 HS ** ieir S had met. Lhen a great moan broke from him and he hid his face in his arms. The’ awake WSS ° Ver n °w: soon he must But what was this? Arms th-it or, lips that clung, and i soft vo.ee whispering m his ear. “Oh, foolish man, I loved vou all marriage was I’nW^fZtTon ° Ur Why did you Wss°me°be V foTe e " Ce ’ *ou love me?” His voire wac t ‘“credulous, “Although iam poor and

a nobody, in spite of all that happened to-night, though 1 have nothin? to offer?” “You have love.” she whisp***-"; “Surely it is the greatest gift of allAnd as their lips met once more I" knew that his dream had indeed true, in a joy that surpassed reality-" “The Australasian.”