The Story Teller.

Wairoa Bell, Volume V, Issue 187, 3 March 1893, Page 7

The Story Teller.

A CALL THAT CAME BY NIGHT. A strange story from tiie west. Poor Mary ! As I watched her sitting by the window day after day, careful never to go whore a gleam from the water could catch her eye, as I saw h; r pale face bend over her work and heard her subdued tones to the children, I know that the past was ever with her, and that she was hourly living over her dreadful sorrow. A few friends of us had found a little nook on the lake side that exactly suited us. Far from the gay, madding crowds which saunder up and down the country and are fast spoiling the natural beauties of our land, this lovely spot seemed to have waited for our coming. We soon built a number of cosy cottages and came down from the city to take possession, installing our household divinities, the babies, the nurses and children of all soi'ts and sizes, and before long were as much at home as the birds and squirrels whose quiet we invaded. Mary and Frank Hunter were the young married people of our party. Not exactly bride and bridegroom, however, for they brought with them a rollicking baby bov Never were there two gayer livelier mortal's, and so devoted to each other ; so well satisfied with life were they, that it was like enjoying perpetual sunshine merely to have them with us. Full of fun, and with as many projects as a pair of school boys, it was not long until the two were at the head and front of all our arrangements. Oh, what gay times we used to have ! Especially when our small fleet ot boats were scattered over the lake, and flitting like white-winged birds over the smooth and shining surface. But one night a mighty thunder and wind storm arose ; the placid water turned into a mighty cauldron full of seething foam that bubbled and tossed as from the fathomless depths of Inferno. Out on the shore we huddled together, all our little fair-weather community, eagerly watching if, perchance, we might catch some glimpse of the laggard boats. One by one they slowly came to their mooring place, and all the time the wind moaned, and the waves dashed up against the murky sky Hurrying up and down the shore poor Mary flew, wringing her hands in agony, her clothes drenched with the spray, her pale tace and gleaming eyes turned to the darkening water. In vain she cried, and called her husband lay name. All the other boats had by this time reached the shore, but no tidings came from Frank, All night we waited, the i:oatmen working hard to find some clue to his whereabouts At last, just when the cold light of early morning lifted a portion of the night’s black pall, a broken boat came floating up and was thrown upon the bank, right at her feet., as the poor wife stood waitinoShe had ceased her wailing and stood silent as one in a dream.

When daylight came we gathered round her and tried to draw her from the scene, but she gazed at us as one who hears not a single word. Tearless now, and overcome with grief, she seemed a pale image of despair. We tried to cheer her with the hope that, overtaken by the storm, her husband had found refuge in some sheltered spot ; but as the next day passed and no tidings came in response to all our inquiries even that belief no longer remained to us.

All through the second day and the long, long night poor Mary waited, while pitying neighbours searched in vain for the missing one. Her self-control was wonderful as the hours passed by. Only her compressed lips and the agony in her lovely eyes revealed the depth of her despair. Days passed and still the search went on, until at length all hope perished except in the bosom of the stricken wife. She could not —she would not—give him up, although the boatmen who spent their lives on the lake assured her that it was useless to fancy any man could have escaped alive from the fury of such a dreadful storm.

Weeks went by, and no tidings came to cheer her or to settle the question of his fate.

In the early autumn our summer party •was scattered, and the cottages on the lake side were left deserted. Oh, how hard poor Marf*begged that she might be left there to await her husband’s coining ! Poor young creature, of course we could not leave her there alone in that wild spot. It

was the brightest, gayest place in the summer time, but unspeakably dreary when the gloom of winter settled down upon it. We urged her to come with us, but she was as immovable as a rock until, at last, my husband laid on her his command as her minister, and the guardian of her boy. He urged her, for the sake of the poor child now left to her alone, to come with us to our own home, and there wait in patience the will of God, and after long persuasion she yielded. Very sadly our little party turned back to our home, and poor Mary moved as in a waking dream. As time passed by she faded into a mere shadow of her once bright, cheerful self. Patient and subdued, she seemed almost to forget her own identity, and to live only in her sorrow and her child. We could not allow her—she did not seem to think of doing so—to go back to that home now so sadly desolate. So for nearly two years she lived with us, a loving sister to the elders, a tender teacher to the little ones.

Accustomed as I was to her calm demeanour, I was surprised one morning to see her enter the breakfast-room with a hot flush on her cheek, and in her eyss a restless glitter that told of a troubled mind and wakeful night. I asked no questions, however, but waited until the children ha 1 left the room, when suddenly she came hurrying toward me, threw herself upon my footstool, and buried her tears in the folds of my dress.

‘ Maiy, darling Mary, what is it V said I, tenderly smoothing her hair. * Oh, Mrs Gray, do not think me wild,’ she cried, ‘ do not reprove me for my folly —bur, I know that Frank is still alive. All night I heard his voice calling, ‘ Wife, wife !’ He is not dead ! I have never bekeved that lie could die and leave me. What will become of me if I do not find rny poor Frank, who needs me so much, and calls for me with so much longing ?’ See seemed so excited, and so unlike her usual quiet self, that I was half afraid to dispute her, iliough I pitied her for the sad delusion.

‘ My dear little sister,’ I said, soothingly ‘ you are broken down with cares and grief and dreams have troubled your poor tired brain. Strange fancies come to us all when we are out of sorts, you know. Will you not rest to-day and try to overcome this strange fancy V

She raised her face toward mine and wearily sighed. ‘ It was no fancy, dear friend. I can not prove it, hut I know it is true. Frank is alive and called for me last night.’ Then, with a look of patient grief, she arose and left me. All day she seemed to be thinking deeply and avoided the presence of the family—even of her baby boy. Next morning I was shocked to see the drawn lines about her mouth, and the haggard eyes that told of another sleepless night. She came down to breakfast with that strange air of excitement a! out her. and through the day she moved about as one who hears a far off voice, unheard by other ears. At sunset wc sat together, after the little ones had gone to sleep, when suddenly the peal of the doorbell rang through the silent house. Maty sprang to her feet, her slender figure drawn to its full height, her face set and intense in the rays of the fading sun ; indeed, she seemed to me as the embodiment of an expectant bearer. It was but a moment before the door of our room opened and a rough but kindly voice exclaimed : ‘ Does Mrs Frank Hunter live here 7 Can I speak to her V Site sprang past me with a cry, to meet the man who stood there, all travel stained und dusty. ‘ Oh, sir, do you come from my husband. Have you come to take me to him ?’ ‘ Well, upon my word, that is just what I have come for !’ said the man, drawing a long breath of surprise. No doubt he had come expecting to be met with disbelief, or at least that lie would have to prove his word's-. With a look of great relief he said—- ‘ Yes, I come from a man who calls himself Frank Hunter. He is in our camp, up in the Piueries very sick with brain fever He hired out with us mighty nigh two year ago. When he came to our place he was a lonesome looking sort of chap ; the boys used to pity him, for he talked like as if he never had any kin above, ground, or any friends either. All along he has been kind of dull and slow in his ways, and two

weeks ago he suddenly took down sick with a fever. He lay in his bunk, moan • ing sort of stupid like, not speaking a word for several days. But two nights ago, as I was sitting beside him, a-watching to see if he wanted a drink or any such thing, all of a sudden he raised up in bed, and called out—

‘ Wife, wife 1’ two or three times, as natural as you please. ‘ Who are you calling, Frank ?’ said I. I ‘ Why, I’m calling Mary, my wite, of course ; isn’t Mary here ?’ and he looked around and called again several times, ‘I hardly knew what to do or say, for fear of making him restless, so I said : ‘ Never mind, she’ll come before long,’ • He lay there and looked at me and then clapped his hand to his head, and was still for a veiy long time. Presently he glanced up, and his eyes seemed more quiet and natural than I had ever seen them. He said ; ‘ ‘ Joe, I am too weak to tell you about it, but I have a wife. She must be at Greenfield. Won’t you go and bring her to me ?’ ‘ Now, I didn’t know what to think or do, for I thought that surely a man who had given his wife the bounce for nigh unto two years must be a queer sort of fellow, or else she must be a queer sort of wife, so I tiied to put him off, but, bless you, it was no use. The more I begged off the more excited he was, and I was afraid he would go into fits, and maybe die, and then I’d be to blame. Finally I says—- ‘ 1 don’t believe your wife will come with such a looking codger as me: maybe she won’t believe a word I say.’ ‘ He kinder smiled at that, and said—- * You only go and offer to bring her to her husband. Tell her that Frank is sick and wants her, and you’ll see whether she won’t come,’ ‘ Well, of course I couldn’t stand that, so at break of day I started. I rode fifty miles to the nearest railroad station, end here I am, ready to start right back with Frank’s wife.’ Mary neither wept nor fainted, but sank right down on her knees and poured out her thanks to the man who had come with such good news. Strange to say, she never doubted the story for one moment, and when some of the family gently hinted that it would be w. 11 to make some enquiries before trusting herself with the stranger, she turned on us like an angry lioness deprived of her young. We had no heart nor courage to protest against any of her plans, and could only give her all possible aid in preparing for the journey, and promised to keep the little, hoy until she returned. The strange man needed rest and refreshment, and these she urged ujeon him, waiting upon him herself, and trying to show her gratitude in every way possible. Very early the next morning she started on her long journey to an unknown place, and in care of an unknown individual, But she was like a new being ; all her languor, all her wearied, haggard looks had vanished, and she seemed endowed with wonderful strength. All traces of sadness had left her face and in her voice there was a thrill of victory. It was several days before we received any message from her, and then they were but a few lines to tell us of her safety, of her husband’s rapid convalescence, and that we might expect them in a short time, when she would explain all. The story of Frank Hunter’s discovery and his expected return was rapidly circulated about town, and all of his old friends and neighbours assembled at the depot to bid him welcome home. And to see him clasp his baby boy and wiFe once more together in his arms, was something never to be forgotten by any of us. In the quiet of his home he told us the >story of his life while absent, and it adds one more to the already long list of truths that are stranger than fiction. ‘ I shall never forget,’ said he, ‘ how happy and light-hearted I felt when I started out fishing that morning. You know I did not often have a holiday, so I thought I would get all the good there was to be had. I remembered how I used to enjoy paddling about alone in a row-boat when 1 was a little boy on the Illinois river, so that was why I wouldn’t let the darkey boy go with me. I fastened my lines to the fcoat, and made for the deep water in the lake, and there I had some, good luck fishing, and then I concluded to go ashore on the side where the woods were thick. I drew the boat up, but just then my foot

slipped on the wet sand, the boat slid back into the water and I fell down striking my forehead on a large, sharp-pointed boulder. Now you will be surprised when I tell you that I remember nothing more until I found myself in the Pineries, in the lumber camp. Yet the men say that I came to them in the middle of August, so that I must have wandered through the woods for several weeks, unconscious. I must have had the outward appearance of sanity, for I was somehow fed and clothed, as the days went by. When I started out fishing I had a considerable sum of money in my pocket, and when I reached the camp it was nearly gone. Then follows a period in which ray mental condition must have been peculiar. The men say that I gave my name in the usual manner, and seemed like other people, except that I did not like to talk ; but I remember nothing of my feelings, and each day passed by without my notice. At last my torpor was broken up by a simple occurrence, One day the mail was distributed, and I sat watching the men read their letters and papers It is strange that it never occurred to me to wonder why I received no letters. Presently I saw a man bide his face in his hands and sob bitterly. ‘ What can be the matter ?’ I asked, ‘ My child—my boy is dead !’ said the fellow, groaning and sobbing worse than before. And then he went on to tell me how smart his little boy was, how beautiful, how he loved him ; how he was trying to save money just for the sake of the boy, and so on, as men will talk when the very fountains of grief are broken up within them, I listened for a while, and suddenly my brain seemed to be on fire. For the first time since my fall on the stone, I began to have a conscious identity, I looked at my hands, my clothing, and tried to recall memories of the past, but in vain. My mental struggles were frightful, and terrainated in brain fever. Then all at once the past came back to me ; the rest you know.’ Mary looked at me with shining eyes. * He called me, and I heard,’ she said softly. ‘ You believe it, now V I pressed her hand in silence ; I could not speak : surely this was a love which passed all human understanding !