“WILD GRAPES”

Waikato Times, Volume 121, Issue 20268, 10 August 1937, Page 10

“WILD GRAPES”

By THEODORA WILSON-WILSON.

SERIAL STORY.

CHAPTER XXXV. — (Continued.)

Manifestly he was In love with J aula, and she had not the heart to snub him.

‘‘l want to stand by her," he said. ‘ I know what people will say—" “Yes, they will say a good deal more than they know.”

“That’s it,” he replied eagerly. “Mercifully, the talk will not reach those most nearly concerned," said Miss Hammond.

“No, I suppose' not,” he said dubiously “You see—l love her, Miss Hammond. I want to marry her one day, when I’ye got through.” “So that’s it.”

“Yes. Do you think It would be dreadful if I were to send a letter — just half a sheet?” “Half a sheet can carry a good deal,” and Miss Hammond smiled. “Oh, but this wouldn’t. I mean, of course, I shouldn’t say a word about —well about anything 1” he replied anxiously.

“Then why send it?". “She is so wonderful, and this will hurt her. Why should she be hurt?” “That is a big question. Mr Smith." Yet when shortly afterwards Stephen took rather an awkward leave, he had fully made up his mind. He would write a letter, even if he did not say a word about anything. Gordon Tate felt that he had been a fool to come to the north even into the loneliness of the more lonely dales. !He had hoped, vaguely, to And a battleground on which he might fight out in privacy* the battle between-the Light within him and the Darkness which overwhelmed. Yet words, words, followed him inescapably. There was the hint given him by the landlord-tailor, “You could be a gentleman.” But beyond all, there was growing up within him a subtle Influence which tended to cut him off from his old life. Every time he put a glass to his lips, it was as though he could feel something holding him back. Sir John lllammond, only a few moments before his death, had urged him to “make a fight for life.” Had reminded him that there still lay before him the possible “splendid years.” Yet his response had been to fling back the rescuing land, and lie to Sir John that Marie had been the thief. Could contemptibility descend deeper? One ray of satisfaction gleamed dully. He had returned the stolen Corots, and had held back the “Oliver Cromwell” and “Marie Antoinette” pictures from being smuggled abroad. lie also recognised within him a growing passion for creative work. These passions came and went, as he knew, but if he could seize upon them he micht make money. If he were in London, he might pick up some book for which he might offer illustrations. It was easier to sell illustrations than pictures. People wanted wallpapers and colour-wash—not original pictures. I-n the make-believe of an Tnn, situated on the edge of a tarn in a lonely dale, where he had taken lodgings, Gordon picked up a small book entitled “The Hound of Heaven” by a certain Francis Thompson. Gordon had heard the poet’s name, and the title of the poem, but knew nothing more. “That’s a queer book." said Vipond, the landlord farmer, as he looked into fhe parlour. “Our old doctor left it. But I can make nowt of it.” “Would he mind if I looked at It?” RSked Gordon. “Bless you, sir. not he. He’s everything for evervbodv—is the auld lad !” and he laughed. “You should get some fresh air, Sir, on top of t’fell. You’re too much of a town-feller to my thinking.” “I will," and Gordon smiled. He had a wonderful smile which had won him through more tight places than it ought. “And here’s “The Times”—not much

A Charming Story with Delightful Appeal

of a paper to my idea. I’d rather have our own Dale Weekly,” So Gordon put the book Into his pocket, and “The Times" under his arm, and set off up a steep path which zigzagged up the face of a scaur, to a great width of sheep-walk and sky. It was a good idea to get on the top of the world, and woo Inspiration for his work

Still, the walk was an absurd strain for a man of his age, and he was ashamed of the relief he felt, as he flung himself down with his back against a boulder, and looked out towards the far east.

It was past noon, and the sun was already behind him, and the distant tinkle of quarry work rose from some dale he could not see, but which was below him as he guessed. Having smoked half a pipe, he opened the book, and found a short biography of the unknown poet. He began to read with indolent Indifference, but at once his attention was caught. This poet, Francis Thompson, hailed to-day as a genius, was a failure—had wrecked his life—was guilty of Incurable Indolence and Impracticableness, and was for ten years a drug addlot with all the agony and degradation Involved.

He had gone froin depth to depth, and then, rescued by friends he had made the Herculean effort to free himself from himself and his vice.

He had died at forty-eight, when a man ought to be in his prime. Gordon laid .down the book, and It was as though the very heavens cried out to him, “Thou art the man!”

No, no, he had never taken drugs—■ he remonstrated. And yet—■He took up the book again, as though fascinated by some compelling authority. "What had this poet written from out of the depth of his failure? The very first lines shook him to wildest attention.

“I fled Him down the nights and down the days;

I fled him down the arches of the years;

I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways

Of my mind .... From those strong Feet that followed—followed after,

But with unhurrying chase And imperturbed pace, Deliberate speed, majesty instancy They beat—and a voice beat More instant than the Feet—- “ All things betray thee, who beirayest Me’. " What was this amazing conception of a Hound of Heaven, chasing man down his destiny. Gordon had to read on, even though at every dine his whole artistio nature quivered, as the Hound pursued and the Soul fled, and closing every stanza came the voice speaking out in relentless love. “Naught, shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me 1” And yet again.— “Lo naught contents thee, Who contents not me!” And this the poet in his agony cried; “Naked, l wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke, My harness, piece by piece, Thou hast hewn from me And smitten me to my knee. I am defenceless utterly *. . . . I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years— My mangled Youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have cracked and gone up in smoke—” Should he throw down this electric current of agony—He must discover the end—death or life. “That Voice is round me like a bursting sea .... “Lo all tilings Gy thee, for thou flyest Mel Strange piteous futile thing! Wherefore should any set thee love apart .... Alack, thou knowest not. How little worthy of any love thou art; Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee Stive Me—save only Me?” The Hound of Heaven had won, and Gordon closed the book with an involuntary reverence. Then he flung himself face downwards and let the rising wind riot in his hair. “Do get up, you lazy man I” said a voice. Gordon swung round and saw a little girl, daintily dressed, with a ball in her h a nd, looking down at him scornfully. Why can’t you look at the sky and all the sky sheep, going home to bed?” she demanded. I di*n t know I” he replied, not knowing what else to say. “That’s silly.” she retorted. “Where did you come from?” “From nowhere—l just came,” she answered. Then she pointed to a smart j fox terrier, “He brought mo. He is ! niv own hound who takes me where lie wants to go.” “Stand still. Just as you are,” he said, pulling out a sketching block “I want to make a picture of you.” “You can’t,, she said scornfully. “You haven’t your camera with you.” “My camera is inside my head,” he Insisted. “Do stand still, child!” and he drew rapidly. “A camera Is snip snap,” she objected. “Yes. I know, but wait—wait—” And then the terrier yapped, and she threw up her hands. “I can't wait, you silly man! Don’t you hear my hound calling me?” She was gone, and lie turned lo the poem again, to find lines that had stabbed him. “But still within the children’s eyes, Seems something—something that j replies, They at least are for me, surely for me 1 I turned me to them very wistfully. \ But Just as their young eyes grew sudden fair. With dawning answers—then. Their angel plucked them from me. by the hair.” There might be. somewhere in the, wide world, a little girl, about, the age of the child who had darted from him —her Guardian Angel had made sure that lie should never come near tier in i his filth. Still lie could not move away from j Hie spot where the child had stood,' Whv, there—she had dropped her handkerchief—a filmy bit of muslin, printed over with fairies. He picked it up, and liid it as though it were found treasure. But tiie anguish still seething in that little book must wait. He could endure no more, and he picked up “The Times.” From force of habit, ho glanced ! down the “Birth, Marriages and Deaths.” A sense of abject terror gripped him. | “No, no. not Marie. My God—not i

Marie 1” There had been two women In Gordon’s life. The one, the foolish adoring sister, who had spoiled, him and indulged him, i and with whose nature he had played 1 for his own self-indulgence. Yes, he i had loved Marie in a strange sort ol' i way, even though he had despised her. He had used her for her undoing and for his own. And' now—-Marie was dead! She had died at Monte Carlo, and Gordon thought what so many had ' thought who read the announcement. J There was still another woman, she j had been different—a beautiful woman, ! who had withstood his lower self, had tried to lift him, had failed, and under the terror of him, she had left him and taken with her his child. 'lie was alone under heaven—who I would care so much as an exclamation j If he passed out? He took from his breast pocket a ; small bottle of rum, and drank It i empty. Then he sank down and thought whimsically that that .Hound of Heaven could have nothing to do with a man , —drunk amongst flic heather. CHAPTER XXXVI. The Auld Doctor. There was no need to call Dr. Ben- ' son the Auld Doctor, for he bore his j sixty-five years well, and probably the j title was born of affection. ! On this afternoon tie had called at 1 the Grey Mare, and was soon rounding , up the landlord for having lent a book of poems without his leave. “You’d all tear the skin off me in this place If you could;.” rumbled Dr. Benson “You’ll And it right enough, sir. if you're crossing over tlie fell to Govvthwaite.” said the landlord comfortably. “You’ll And a gentleman without a hat and golfers’ breeches, when you get up yonder. Just take him by the scruff of his neck and shake your poetry book out of his pocket! I said he could have it, for I- could make nowt of it!” “Because you expected It to give you tips on Hound breeding!” and the doctor laughed. “And when you do find the fellow, sir. you’ll find one of the sort You're after!” said the man signineanf'ly. “I spotted him right away, though there’s been no harm in him. so far.’-’ Dr. Benson went up the sleep scaur path with the ease of a schoolboy, and then started off east wards towards Gowlhwaile. There was no sign of the golfer. or sb he thought, until somewhat off the path, he notieed a man lying asleep. His hook was elose by. and a sketch book was fluttering its leaves against the rising wind. “One of Hie sort I’m after,” muttered the doctor. The doctor stooped and looked into Hie sleeper’s face. Ho al*n spied an empty bottle amongst I lie ling. (To be continued.) j V '■ I