THE STORYTELLER

Taranaki Daily News, 18 September 1915, Page 9

THE STORYTELLER

(By M. L. Chalmers). j

9 FULL TIDE.

The tide had turned and was making fast as the old "swagger" rounded the . point, and came into the bay. He was old and bent, worn and weather-beaten. His'eolthes were torn and shabby, his toes protruded from the broken shoes; and yet, the man had an air—an unmistakable air—of a gentleman, which the disreputable condition of his clothes could not hide. It was summer, and the sun was pouring down with intense heat. The glare of the white beach was almost unbearable. The man looked up at {he sun for a moment: —'Tour o'clock, or thereabouts, and si?t miles vet to go," he said dejectedly. The sand was aoft, and he was unutterably t weary. The pain in his side, which had troubled him for weeks, gnawed and gnawed, and would not be stilled. Something bright cajight his eye; as he drew nearer he saw it was a pohutukawa "tree in full bloom. He looked longingly "at it." "I might rest there in the shade," he thought, "for half an hour, it would not be wasted, it might revive me, and I could make up the time afterwards." He decided to do this, and, throwing down his swag, sank wearily on to the sand/ stretched himself at full length, using the swag as a pillow. He looked up at the sky, of which he caught glimpses through the boughs of the pohutukawa. "It is beautiful, I Suppose,* he said. VI remember the time when I should. nave raved about it,-but that was "before I thtf deluge!' Christmas Eve—but it doesn't do to think, and I won't—l won't." He turned his head and looked resolutely out to sea. The day was intensely hot, ais he was very weary. Gradually his eyelids drooped, he fell asleep, <md dreamed a dream. It was Christmas morning an& the ehurch was full. Nell was there in her new frock—how fine she looked—she saw him and smiled. His father was in the pulpit, preaching of love and charity, and" "goodwill towards men." His mother was there, too, sitting in the front seat. She was dressed in soft grey and looked lse a-Quakeress. She also glanced at him and'smiled. Then old Harley began to play the organ—it was: 0 come all ye faithful, Joyful and triumphant. .7 Then a clear boyish voice rang out, nigh and sweet, like the note of a bird —it was he, Cyprian, .who was singing. Nell was- watching him, with that rapt expression on her face. He sang, as he bad never, "sung before—he felt that • Then he' heard his father pronouncing the blessing—and the picture passed. He was walking up and down the lawn, ills mother's arm in his. "Dearest, you are so young to go so far away. If it had only , been Canada, Cyprian, or America, but New Zealand! Right the other Bide of the world. I feel as if I could not bear it." "But, mother, dear, I am not a child. 1 am nineteen, and you talk as if I were going a\wy for ever. I shall be back in a few years, a rich man, and then you will see what I will do for father, and you, and the boys." "Cyprian, I want you to promise me that, no matter what may happen, you will come back in five years' time, if only for a little while." "Yes, mother, I promise." 1 "And there is' something else, Cyprian. Oh! my dear, my dear, I want you to* . promise that, God helping you, you will never do anything that you would be ashamed for your father or me to know. Dearly, dearly as we love youj we would both rather gee you dead than that shame or disgrace should come upon you." "I promise, mother, to do my best." He felt the dear arms about him. "Don't cry, mother, don't. Five years jrill soon pass." He was on the*railway station. It was crowded witli his friends. Nell was there, looking very white; he'managed to get a word with her alone. "You'll write, Nell; you'll never miss \ a mail, and—and—you'll wait for me—■ \ it will only be five years.". 'Til wait all my life." "It will only be five years ,and I'll work like a nigger, and come back with a ' fortune." "Oh, Cyp., I don't eare if you come back a beggar, it will be all the same to me." He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her, but with that crowd about them he could only hold hor hand and presi it closely. Then he was in the ivain, the last "good-bye" said. The train began to move—they A*ere off. He saw all the dear faces through a blur of tear?. It was very hot. He lad been marching for hours. Suddenly a shot rang out—the man in front of iiim fell; twothroe —four shots rang out. A sharp order was given to take cover. The sniping went on, the enemy was not to be seen, except at long intervals, when a head would bob up, and disappear as rapidly. '"Dalesford, said the captain, t; vou are ■the best shot, here; just fix your eyes on the tussocks over there to the right, and see if you can pick off those d d snipers!". He did as he was bidden. Presently up came a black head. Bang! ''Got Jiim!'' said the captain. "That's one." This was repeated several times. "That's fixed them,'' said the captain; let ns alone now. But we'll camp here to-night, and wait for reinforcements. It's too late to do much." They were storming a <; pa." They'd been at it from dawn, and had met with a stubborn resistance. The Maoris could fight, there was no doubt about that. , They were not only brave and stubborn, but clever too. Time after time they had attacked, and had been replnsed with heavy losse.?; and, heavens! how hot it was! How the sun poured down upon them! Then tlio order was given to "Fix bayonets and charge!" and, with a rousing cheer, they charged up those Bcemiygly impregnable earthworks; the British cheers mingling with the war cries of Maoris. A fierce-eyed warrior came at him. With a shout he drove his bayonet home. He saw the fury in the black eyes, and the twisted face of agony; as the man fell backwards the blood spurted on to his hand. Horrible! horrible! He was standing in a hotel bar-room. | flie men about him were laughing and talking. Some were swearing. The room was packed, and yet he only saw tne face—the face of the girl behind the tar, blue-eyed, red-lipped, alluring Beas

o'Shaug!i9e3sy. He heard voices behind him; — '•'There** young Dalesford again." "Again! Why, he'a always here! He's going to the devil .as fast as Bess O'Shaughnessy can take him!" "Ah! She's got him, has she? Poor beggar! What a pity someone can't get hold of him and take him away. Such a splendid-looking fellow, too! What a Pit}*!" He was sitting by a rough wooden table in a barely furnished room. In his hand was a letter, badly written, and worse spelt. This is what he read:— "I am ded sick of it a], an' you to. Sow that the little un's been took from me I ain't goin' on with this life. If 'e'd lUed I'd a done me best, and try'd to keep strate, but now 'e's ded I don't care fer nothink. I'm a-goin' back to the old life, and yer ncedent bother eny more about me, but jist thank yer lucky Btars that I'm not yer wife, an' yer free. —Bess O'Shaughnessy." He read the letter over and over stupidly. Was he sorry, or was he glad? He was not sure. The child was dead—his child. He had just laid him in his little grave, and piled the earth high over him. He had had to do this himBelf. He was far away in the bush, and there was not a neighbour within thirty miles; and on his return to the rough bush home he had found it deserted, and this letter on the table. "Was he glad—or sorry? He was not sure. But he was thirsty. He was sure of that. Was there any whisky left, or had Bess taken it all? No, there was half -a bottle—enough to help him to forget." "Drunk and disorderly, your Worship, most disorderly, indeed, your Worship, most violent; took three of us to arrest him." "Ah!" said the Magistrate, looking at him over his spectacles, "I seem to know your face; have I seen you here before?" "Yes, your Worship," said the constable, "he has already had six convictions for drunkenness." "What name?" asked the Magistrate, "Cyprian Burleigh Dalesford." The magistrate started. "Ah—him—yes," he said meditatively "Seven days' hard labour, without the option of a fine." A bench in the park with the rain pouring persistently, drenchingly. A gust of wind rose suddenly, blowing a paper to his feet, and at the same time the rain began to slacken —then stopped altogether. He wa3 wet and very cold. He had not one penny in his pocket—he had spent his last sixpence half an hour ago in the hotel at the corner. He stooped down and idly picked up the damp paper, and turned it over aimlessly iu his hand. Suddenly he caught a name—his own name. "If any persons knowing the whereabouts or present abode of Cyprian Burleigh Dalesfo.J, of Herts, England, can give information to Brodie, Son and Phillips, Queen Street, they will be well rewarded." , He sat for a long time staring at the words. What did it mean? Who was advertising for him? Not his parents, nor Nell. They were dead —all dead. Then who ? Who. He rose unsteadily to his feet: he would go and see for himself. "Brodie, Son and Phillips, Queen Street.' •He would find them—he would ask a policeman. He did, and got minute directions. He walked up the steps and into the outer office, and told the clerk he wished to see Mr. Brodie or Mr, Phillips, either would do. ' -, The clerk looked at him disapprovingly. "What name?" he asked. "Never mind the name, say I have come about an advertisement." He was shown into the inner office. An elderly man, with a kindly face* and white hair, was sitting at a table. He inquired what the visitor's business might be. He showed him the advertisement. "Ah!" said the elderly man, "can you give us any information on this subject." "I can, but first, I must know who it is that requires the information, and for what purpose." "I can let you know that. The inquiry comes from a firm of solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Blake and Furnival. Cyprian Burleigh Dalesford, has; by the death of a distant cousin, inherited a title and very large estate. Now, will you tell me what you know, please?" Cyprian had stood very still for a long time, looking into the eyes of the man who sat opposite to him. At last he spoke in a sort of husky whisper: 'T am Cyprian Burleigh- Dalesford," he said. He saw the look that leapt into the man's eyes—the look of incredulity—of horror—and then, pity. It scorched him like a flame, it burnt into his very heart. For the first time in his life he saw himself through another man's eyes. He could not bear it—it was unendurable. "It is too late!" he cried. "Sir, write and say that Cyprian Dalesford has disappeared, leaving no trace behind him!" and, turning he left the office. Somehow, he never knew quite how, he found his way into the street. That look in the man's eyes. Oh, God! could he ever forget it, ever get away from it? He seemed to see the same expression in ilie face of every man he met. "Cpyrian Burleigh Dalesford, seven days, without the option of a fine." The tide had come in. Higher and higher up the sand it had crept till it was at the full. It lapped at the wornout, broken boots-'of the old man as he lay beneath the shadow of the pohutukawa tree. The sun had set in a blaze of crimson and gold, and' now the moon rose, coldly, serenely beautiful. Its rays fell on the battered, worn old face of the sleeper. The body of Cyprian .Dalesford lay on the sand, in the radiant light of the summer moon—Cyprian Burleigh Dalesford—swagger, drunkard, waster —possessor of one of the oldest titles and one of the grandest estates in all the length and breadth of England. But his soul, with its sins and its virtues, its weaknesses, hopes and despair, had crossed the dark river to that far country whence no traveller returns.