A RECORD OF LOVE.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LI, Issue 275, 14 November 1908, Page 3

A RECORD OF LOVE.

It was uigU —starlit night—and a narrow ribbon of a road, padded deep with warm dust, ran into the summer darkness. - On the seal of a sturdy spring-waggon a man sat with the lines hanging limp from 'his fingers and slapping against the fat sides of the farm horses, which plodded -silently and contentedly in the cool oi the night. The lines sagged from John L'lbine's hands because his eyes s ared ahead into tile soft shadows and his mind was filled wit-h all old tumuli. oil tlie seat beside him stood a bo*;, which, in the half-hour it had been .11 "his possession, had torn open an old bitter memory, had carried him back to the full of ten or fifteen years, lia.l stirred up the anger, the unforgiving resentment that had embittered his life. It was a small box, easily capable ot being carried in a man's arms, and on one side it bore a label with his name and address. It was a white label, and it gleamed dimly in' the dark. John Urbine looked down at it from time to time, and the tumult of old feelings surging through his heart was tempered with a queer uncanniness, an odd shiver of the soul, for the on the label was written in a hand that had been dead thc.se many months—a hand that he remembered as having once written the sun out of the —a hand that he lad loved beyond cx- ' prcssion, that he had never forgiven 111 all the lonely years. It was a woman's -liana, bold ana strong; and he remembered every curve in everv letter, because they had wound through the only days 01 his life that were worth living. These had been wonderful days, fifteen years ago, and he had heen a boy then 0,1 f»"iei *> farm, and she was a rosy-cheeked girl. There was only a lane between the two farms, an old, unused lane even then, shut at the ends to keep the stock from straying in, and it was there that the glory of life had dawned upon lum ■ It was a grassy lane, and the ta l trees from either side gave shade that was dappled in gold in the early spring, deep and cool in the later months and about the rotting fence he could always see the face of the girl. • She had curls that hung bcs.de liei cheeks, even past the age when most girls put them up 111 combs and V>l.l and the curve of her laughing lip» ad been one of the memories that lad wrung his heart the hardest in t.ie e.nntv vears. He felt again a thrill 0. the failure that had leaped through hi, blood in those first spring days. At first she had lingered halt Jijlj, o„ her side of the lane with some T»e- .. of .mtherins the tall red Howe's tl.at "rew in a little patch there, and he had hung over the fene.his fingci, -it-lliu" to Stroke the long > (,lou c " r '? tat "were her pride. 11- - » her tlowers then, the purple !hgs tU "rew over bv the big spring bubbling ?„ the lonesome hills, and hollyhocks stolen from the rector's garden. irow she had loved (lowers! He had thought with sharp bitterness since how her passion for them was to he gi.uli.il. Hut 4,e »■,- the ..lie gi|l m world to him then, and -he U...1 nu ben. even when -he broke his heart. Me had remembered ibe bin,.

eves, all'l U.'i- v.i ". emrtiiiii". He liii'l remembered beltel to Wished. It «« the ."» ,, . nory 01 h M r ,-oicc that lmd haunted him ioievei, tj- l : „ r to him across tho sunny mead'n wliisi)crin <l ' a «liv word 111 t,U! llo * l f he no'"!? and 'even vet when his w;li «vevin;r at the temples ami 1'« n,s alo.m i.'i the old farmhouse whew ,is father ami mother ha.l died, & rtr'fatwV mX-yard crops' the lields at du*k. He had evenj tZ uneasiiv to tlic gate and listened memory that Inhaled the horde that l»-t .or t was this that wrought his nun, t> ilv voice that u*ed to ilow and*^ " 1 "f ™ 110 looked down at the seat and mused a while HsS;|is tl.o'fence and she had rui , t . r aero-- t<• ll 1 ■ t „ a gu oi iway bill* '> <-■ , j ow ' n i,pv dresse M and she had I t ld

f VI,II "I'l"! 1 '!,.,,! known that tin"l'l u'i full of tilings to do r;! sv" i„,t«^ r oll w 1...W - oorwr !f i utu" parlour ot Sunday WgMs.

; The r»ui;ig skeleton of the little • house was -.till standing. U was newi finished. He went down now and looks ed along the dark sky-line. It was-just 1 visible above the undergrowth. • ( She was busy with the needlework ( of her wedding things when the num from the city came. Ue was whitehaired a lid benevolent, and he had dropped into the quiet neighbourhood quiet |by accident. But he was the harbinger of evil to young John L'rbine. It wis at hastertide. and the woiuc;i of the church had planned a lime of prais;\ and she was to sing a solo alone. | lie recalled that splendid morning - j the young .sunlight, the spring (lowers, | the country girls in their muslins, aad | her stepping out at last to lilt up her | wonderful sweet girl-voice. He had sat , in a back pew and listened, and felt his | very drift up to the high white ■ clouds, such power it possessed to make one forget the earth. And it was not until the services were rudely broken into by the old man striding up the aisle and catching the young girl by the arm to ipour out a .stream of excited words, half in laughing English and 1 half in tearful German, that he realised that something great had happened. But it had. That old man with the long white hair was a world master, and he claimed the startled girl as a gift from Heaven lo the world of music. lie remembered the day when she

told him she was to be .sent to the city, and then across tile sea. .She was tearful and half rebellious, and clung to him, promising all fidelity, but circumstances were strong, and the little wings of ambition had already sprung up with a flutter in her soul. So she went. And John l'rbine was sick at soul with the missing her. The days that followed were long and filled with many diverse thoughts and fancies to the youth working away on the little house. Sometimes he pictured her as coming home and lending the choir—a glowing pinnacle for a girl to reach—and again he was troubled with a vague fear that she might fail to win so far. But, usually, he was firm in his faith. And all the time her letters came from the city.

Slit- whs installed in a wonderful academy of music, and the white-hair hI master taught and scolded her. Then she was to go across the sea, and John L'rbinc was filled with fear. In September she sailed. Those at home followed llev in marvelling fancy. It was a great distinction for the neighbourhood. Still from Italy ller letters came. He bounded his days by those which

■saw the arrival of the envelopes with the foreign stamps. By spring they b - gau to be of .Tented satin heaviness, and they bore wonderful tales of triumph. She was in a dream of amaze at her own performances. Victories which were the usual reward of years were piling themselves upon the intoxicated head of the slender girl from the New England farm. Her voice was a passport to fame. It was as a song from Heaven, and the ever-ready arms of the might were being held open to her. Then he saw her name one day staring at him from the page of a newspaper, and his pride swelled to adoration. And all this time he never doubted, had not the slightest premonition of disaster.

She was already great. Two continents were paying iher tribute. And then one day came the letter that he remembered best of anything, lie could repeat it all still. As he stared into the dusk its worJs and phrases passed through his mind, stinging yet with their cruelty. She asked him to release her—she could not marry him now. Fame was more to her than anything else. She could not sacrifice her future—she was not coming back to the farm. Life was too brilliant now. Ambition was ridns rampant. Her love, she said, had been but a childish fancy. And John Urbine had read this letter and stopped work on the little house. Also, he had stopped hoping and believing, and almost stopped living, so great had been his anguish. And after tint he had been as lie was now, hard and embittered and unforgiving. Great tales had come, of her conquests, the courts she visited, the lands she travelled, winning gold and applause, and her greatness had been established these many years. The neighbourhood died, married, and lived on, anil he stayed on the old farm, though 'jc never went to the shut-in lane. Then, last year the news had come, suddenly,- "like a lire in the night."

She was dead. Dead, in the south of France, and ill lier glory. Even then lie had not forgiven her. lie could not. That was many months ago, heart harden against every gentle thought. She had not loved him. That i was the unbearable .point. And driving home in the -summer night from the station, hj« carried beside' him 011 the seat a box sent to him as. from the 13eyond, directed in her own hand. lie put, up the team for the night and took the box into the house, lie lighted his mother's best lamp in the company parlour ; for some involuntary instinct made him do homage to her greatness, inid put trie box on the centre table, lie opened it, and disclosed the shine of a a small but very perfect phonograph, lor a moment the hideous commonality ol it chilled him, though he had not been looking for anything. There was nothing in the box besides, except a carefully protected package of records. With a'little wonder lie took out tin- machine and set it up. llis hands did not shake, lie was dull and bitter. When he had put it together he lifted the top record anl set it in place. It seemed the obvious thing. Then he set it going, and sat stiffly down in one of his mother's horsehair 'chairs. There was 110 sound but the soit whirring of the instrument. Jlc was alone, with his hard old memories, the modem machine, which was the best money could buy, and the stiff old par-, lour lighted dimly by the best lamp, I He sat upright, wondering. The machine purred 011 softly for a niomenT, seeming to make the silence ready foi something, and then a voice came lightIv drifting up its silver throat, a woman's voice—soft, undulating, vibrant. ".Johnny,''' it said. The mail 011 the chair started bolt upright. At the one word his soul leap.'d back to the beginning. It was her| voice—her living voice—with all its old power of seduction, but fuller, richer, the wouiaa's voice grown conscious oil its beauty. And then in the mellow light she began to talk to him from the place behind the veil, talk as if she sat across there in the shallows somewhere and looked at him with her blue eyes. "It's been a long time, Johnny. l;ilteen years, hasn't if! 1 was conning it up the other day as 1 lay watching the blue waters of the bay. 1 was dreaming of the old lane and the l'cd patch of dragon-lilies. "1 wonder if the lane is still theicf I could just see how the trees leaned over it. and how green, the grass was. I know just how far up against your blue blou-.e the top v;IU " f the fence Used to collie. And I know that the sun turned to auburn the patch ol brown hair that showed through, the torn crown of your old hat. "And the day you kissed me across the fence. Have you forgotten, Johnny! The man shut his hands into lists, Iving awkwardly. 011 either knee. ' " And the little house. I wonder it von finished it, and maybe lived m it with the wife you chose, for a while. Nut for long. 'You were never improvident. 1 suppose there is a big wdiite house 011 the south knoll by this time and probably children scampering about. " 1 have often wondered about the little house. I have known for a ong time how sweet it would be to he.u the bird-r in rtuuut nicadtiws,

I and l witii anouu'i imm » u. t..v l,<,!lvii<H-ks. Those wit.! happy day Vmi i put " K ' m " wi, . v 1111 ''dim 'in... mil bioku my jtViglit- to yon" "It was "wtoiij/, -Jolmny. ' vou n" w * .VV tliil it lor. I 1"- 011 u - 110 I,e( -' 01 " llicro and lisioii.'* . The voice stopped, and for a lonjr interval the man sftt without m»Uo: listening to the whirr of the. nuiclnn ]l was oiilv when it said •Johnny in,.n' (hat lie sprang up ami l»w 1 I t.lie other record, lU'Mt down on i. eliair again, holding Ins f '/' liL'lit notes from an orchestra float* ' into tlie study room. . . Then arose a woman s voice m Ui LMUIv lit fust, lifting ami f » u of a 1 M wod wonder, hesitating, waiting a monienl. then swelling- into full confidence a <<,ut turned loose the first nioining in the wonder o£ tlie world. Swelling. Zoning deeper as it went, the vmee swept inlo full paean, rising in a gioij of adoration, pealing iir great notes ol "olden praise, filling the plaee. and Ilie silent night without which such nianel I of sound as was beyond imagining.

The man's nails cut into the palms, and within his tliroat a storm 01 tears ached lor expression. On through the wonder of that splendid music sang the great voice, through i the agony of the fall, the dropping • pathos of the ejection, and at last crying through the tenderness of the peni- . tenee. It sobbed down to the low -soothing cadences at the Unish, and when i; fell into silence a hush as of inlinitude i lay about. With ha;uU that shook now in spite | of himself, the man replaced the record, , and once more the woman he Juid loved spoke to him. j ''That was why, Johnny, and in one way it has been a glorious reason. 1 have been proud of it all, revelled in it from the bottom of my soul, because it was about what 1 was made for. "But now, at the last, when it is •nearly over and my golden bubble is about to break, 1 can tell you the thing I have a fancy ior your knowing, .«t may be but a passing incident, to you: no doubt it will, but 1 am whimsical these days, and this is my method of telling you. lam arranging this all as 1 lie here on a white terrace above tin 1 sea. 1 could not sing like that now; it was taken at niv best, but I can talk to you, and it is once again the girl across the fence. "And this is the secret, Johnny. It was false, the letter of long ago, when J said 1 didn't love ymi —false, every word of it. 1 did Dim, only the allure-

t meats of fame and glory made me cru-'l, and 1 have never teased to love you. I love you still, my boy-lover of the "Id lane. 1 have been as true in heart as if 1 had never left tlie farm. 1 have never had but one idol on love's throne. " And now 1 tell you this, and am satisfied. This I have left until tin l hist. There remains my farewell to you, but I think T will sing it, Johnny; it is so much easier. The sunset tonight is red, like it was one night -n the lane. iS'ow, for the 'Farewell.'" The voice ceased, and the gray-haired mail in the chair rose and crossed the room unsteadily. He dropped oil his knees beside the table, clasping the sil-ver-mounted box in his arms, and his lace fell on bis mother's best tufted cover. The tears that had waited fifteen years for utterance fell upon the record of ''Creation." He had forgiven. —V. E. Roe.