THE WAY DOWN HILL

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 34, 24 August 1905, Page 23

THE WAY DOWN HILL

A wife sat sleeping before the library fire. She was dressed for the opera, the white of her neck and shoulders gleaming through the scarf which she had thrown about her, the ivory sheen of her trained skirt tinted by tho firelight. Her cheeks and eyes were red and swollen with weeping and her lips quivered in her sleep. And as sihe slept the wife dreamed that she stood upon a hill in the golden light of a summer day. All about her lay the roughness and wildness of a new country, b)at above her head the sky was clear and the sun hung in tho blue. Away at the bottom of the hill tliie sky lowered bjack and threatening, shutting out enery trace of sunlight, and the giant trees were bending to the earth in a mighty wind storm. A petulant laughing boy was tugging at her hand trying to drae her down hill.

■"Gome, come,' he cried impatiently, and pulled her toward him.

The wife awoke with a start. The front door had banged and someone was stumbling along the hall. She waited, tense and breathless, her whole face reddening with shame. Presently her husband lurched into the doorway and seated himself there, clinging to the casement. His clolhes weie dishevelled, his "eyes bloodshot. ' Isn't it rather late for you to be up ? ' he demanded, thickly. He stood clutching the framework of tho door, his face bent upon her in a maudlin scowl.

' I don't know,' th& woman answered dully. She got up nervously and walked slowly, wearily away from him toward the other door. ' John will help you to bed ' she said She lifted her silken train in fingers that, were shaking and dragged herself from the room.

Slio prayed so long and so hopefully with all the faith of a pure young Catholic heart, and was this to be the end of it •> Her married life had started in with happiness and prosperity. Was it perhaps that in her joy of life and love she had forgotten her God ami

her duty to him ? Often now in her hours of grief and trial she brought her mind back to those first sweet days and realised that that had indeed been her sin. And now God in His justice was punishing her for it. Her husband, already a drunkard and a gambler, without will or wish, seemingly, to fight against the demon of his pjassion ; their fon time— for they had been richdwindling surely and steadily beneath an incompetent. hand and leaving her, unfitted as she was, to face ' a possdtoie future battle with the world ; her child, the only fruit of their marriage— and hers God's hand lav heaviest— a_ cripple from infancy. In his mad passi6'n her husband had railed against his Maker and his'lucK,' but she in her woman's way sought .solace and atonement in that religion which happily was heis. ' Wiih Mary's help,' slue was wont to say, and ou her Inws sought some aid, siome consolation. It would all corao right some day ; perhaps not. As it had been before wrath had visited her and* hers, but as she deserved, for her child's sake. She leally believed and adored and repealled for the forgetfulness of her too groat, happiness, and if the clouds were blacker than usual, as they were to-night, she hoped again that all would be. well, and carried her aching heart to Mary's feet. She flad not slept well, and slhe greeted her husband at the breakfast table next morning with a pale face and heavy eyes. lie was in mnc too good a temper, vhe result of his last nights brawl and a new business difficulty.

' I suppose you ran ride out and look at it with me? ' said he. 'It isn't north hanging on to, and it I raise the taxes on that, something else mil ha-\e to go. As I've toM you,' he added, with sudden irritation, ' I'm in the devil of a hole !" l

Mrs. Warner locked her fingers ahiove the brea\fast cloth. ' I know,' she answered, patiently. ' I understand how matters are , hut the city is growing out that way, and your lawyer s a y.s thai it is only a question of time—'

The man interrupted with a harsh laugh. 'Oh yes,' ho said, 'if I could keep that farm, say fifty years,, maybe I'd get some money out of a. But, what is to pay the taxes on it till then— will you till mo that ? '

•' I thought perhaps,' said his wife, hesit itingly, 'the house on the beach—l'm the only ( n,: who goes them. you know— and your lodge in the woods— j'ou ha\on't been there far two years— if you thiow both up, Vincent would have the faim to look forwaid to.'

Warner got up and kicked back his chair savagely. 'Oh, Vincent,' he said, hittcily', '"Wncent must' be rich i Curse the luck ' Why should our child he h'. c that when other children ' He stopped, stiuck by his wife's white face. r J hen he added sullenly, Mtcr a moment, ' Come out and koV at it, auyuay. I do-u't think much of the ])lace.' They tfoarded a suburban street car, for tlidr days of free J ha»ndad cab hire \\eiro\cr Alls Wau'iier \\L not a complaining woman ; her veiy patiei cr^ often nettled her husband , but her face of late lad woi>i <i tense, white look, pitiful in its hopelcSMi^s- Hushnul and wife were strangely silent dining the udo, !-lu'Ltcauso her heart ached too deep for vioids, he' liccause his savage mood could ha\e found utter.iiicc cn!y m heapod-up complaining against the fate that he* had brought ufpon himself. An old couple sat opposite them <n Ihe car The man's clothes were thin anl ]ioor, his whi'e shirt was frayed at neck and wrists, and his old hat slump d.illy from much brushing ; his compatiicnn wore an antedafod cotton gown, and her queer little bomifi was fadi»d They were ncrvoais and ill at c\uc, but Vr^. Wamci thought that they were ha\mg a \civ good time- indeed. They exohamged frequent shy read's. irinn smiles, ana once when the old laxly 's hand lcstcd upon the seat the old man slipped his work-haraencd fingers o-.crhers. Tho rido to the end of the Hue was not a long one 'We get out here,' said Warner sfiortly. 1 1 is -\ufe arose aivd followed him without a Avoid

'Let's get out hcio and iest a spell,' sml thp hi tie old man. He Mlped hi-, wife fmm the cr m(li cl.iborate care and took hei arm as she pic! cd her way through the dust of the road.

The wide stretch of highway, unshadowed by the yotimo] trees that had been planted along it-- odgo, led tip a gently sloping hill. Th-s was the country, Hit houses ol city aspect, with slotting Livns, stiiT p/id bare in Iheir newness, weie scattered a'ong hero. Mectnc lights followed the street raihv.iy to its tri minus, and a bricrht new firebox on the List pole sford out ' tcO and shining. Surely a lawyer was jusliOel i n saying that the city was growing out Mis way.

On the brow of the hill stood an old gray farmhouse, the fertile fields about it stretching "away down the hill on the other side and to the distant woods, a dark line against the sky. Its bains and yard were

well kept and extensive. Mr., and Mrs. Warner made their way toward the farmhouse, walking apart at the edge of the road and still exchanging no word. The little old couple were going that way too. They trudged along, arm in arm, their peaceful pinched faces turned to the upper air, and both panted a little with the heat, for they were old.

' Sorry I can't p.ay the farm taxes with debts ! ' said Warner as'they went in. " 'God direct us what to do,' said his wife. Warner turned on her with a feoble laugh. ■« God has forgotten us ! ' ho said.

' For shame ! ' died Mrs. Warner, with a little soft. He is better to u& than we deserve.' She camo out ot the farmhouse first and stood at the gate, looking down the lotng stretch ot sunny road through blinding tons. If only they could keep this farm It was a line piece of land. The doctors had said that much might be done for Vincent as he grew older, but they must have money to have it done. And the farm would certainly bring a big return some day. clenched her hands and strove to calm herself. Surely God would not let them lose the farm-not for her sake nor yet for her unbelieving husband's, but for the sake of the little innocent sufferer. i r Th fn Ol f k- d y was siUin S on the weather-beaten horse Mock. Her husband was standing at the opposite side of the road, looking off over the fields. The summer wind (blew the tails of his coat with a flappingnoise and he held to his hat with both hands He was a '(^ia.int f]jr Urc in the dusly sunlight. The Uttle o,ld lady stared shyly at the younger and sK lonab c cnc - Then she diew aside her shabby

'P'raps you'd like to sit here? ' she ventured Mrs. Warner took the proffcrca seat mechanically. It d a pleasant day,' she said listlessly. Sho spoke without interest or animation, butttheold lady was gairulous and needed little encouragement. 1 a aiul me's. had such a nice time,' she said ' Sary is a good daughter,' she remarked. ' Law, yes,' cried the old lady, an' s'ne's got a good man, too. He earns good pay an he's awful good to us. He'd do anything for sary and the children, an' he don>'t drink, neither.' inero was a note of reminiscent sadness in her voice. Airs. Warner looked at her sharply. She sat lunched up m the way of old ladies, her folded arms i'pon her Jviioes, hir wi ink led face quivering with ea&-

'Mo an' pa ain't been poor allus,' she hastened to cvplain. He u ,cd to ho a carpenter, an' he earned good pu.y. lhat uas when Sary was little. Then I d.mno, somehow he got to drinkin', an' he went down 'ill Pietty fast. I had 1o go, too. There wasn't nothin (Lse to do,' sno sighed. ' 1 never really give up boheviPt. it d (i.mcii^lit, though sometimes it was pietty hard, (Jod k'nov.s. I Knew lie 1-new best an' though if.s w,ijs aic not -nir wajs. lie allus brings us out n^-i.t in the end ttaiy she grew up an' then she went o w0,,, im x i iCll shy g.)l married. We've had a nice h tic over su.te, an' I ami had to work Pa's all ii-ht. now iH.v,' she added quickly, ' hut he's too old to worn. I dunno what we'd do without .Sary ' Warner came out of the farmhouse just 'then. Mrs Uar.icr got up b-'indly '1 hope that you will enjoy th'j r.de lack,' she said. 'Ue-uc must go now.' She fallowed her husband down the road. The blood had come into her palo, set face and her oyes were fever bright. Iho old Lily's story had affected her strangely. At tin- c.ir track she si.ddenly turned upon her huslanc,^ Sic v.as usually s> calm and patient that her a't.K-, took i,i: U quite by s^-piise. ' Look at them ! ' she criod, p(i,itiug back up the road. 'They are old' and poor. \on nnd I v, ill he like that some day. He drank and wont down the hill, and she went too even as lam go.n- Ay.th you. But they have a daughter, Sara to take care of them, and we— we have only Vincent < ' J

The man stared at her. ' What are 5011 ariwngaf" ho 1 iqnire»l it stily.

liyt his wite wtnt en, unheeding: 'Last night you said thai we no-iUI iro to the opeia with the McCarthys, aid I belied v<m and dressed and waited for von to coive The McCarthys ha\e influence anS they c-u he l.i you 1o leep your place in the bank, and I bchc^cd yn-u whMi yo'i saM that you were anxious to keep their r^onl. Him you had lied to me again You memt to no and .think, and gamble. And while f was wnitinp; for 101 I slrpt and dreamed that I was on a high hill n the sunshine, and dovin at the bottom of Ihn h.ll all Mas blackness and storm. T knew that destruction awaited me there, but a laughing boy with yo'ir face was dragtrir,a; me down hill, and I was going co-no; ?gainsf mv will. Oh » don't say that I believe in droams, 1 'h»oiicd. 'My faith is my only support now. I am praying; to see my duty to my Maker and

my child. But I know that that dream was only a continuance of my waking thoughts— the thoughts I have scarcely dared express.' Warner struck at the weeds witto his came. ' You are melodramatic,' he said, curtly. ' I cannot say that 1 follow you qjnite. The old parties went down hill, did they ? Well, they look -like it ! '

' Yes,' she said, wearily, her passion spent, ' they went down hill. We'll look just like them some day, only worse, and Vincent won't have any nickels to give us for street car rides.'

They, took the homeward trip in silence. In the lonely grandeur of their home that night Mrs. Warner went into her child's room. She had a bit of sewing in her lap fl fciut her trembling fingers lay locked above it and her lips moved in disconnected prayer. Vincent's gentle breathing was mingled with the insistent rhythm of a small clock on the mantel, and outside in the distance the burr burr of the electric cars was borne to her ears. Only heaven knew how heavy her heart was. Early in her married life, when things first began to go wrong, she had learned that neither pleading nor storming brought her satisfactory results. Warner preferred his club to his home, and of late he was coming to count a night enjoyably spent only in gambling and debauchery.

He came into the room and stood before the fire, idly tapping his foot against tne brass fender.

'.Did that old lady tell you all that stuff this morning ?■" he asked abruptly* ' Yes, the woman answered.

' Mighty strange dream you had,' he said, after a pause.

Mrs. Warner crushed her hands together. 'It was not strange,' she said. ' I told you that it was (but a dream of what I think hourly and never cease to pray for strength to endure. It was myself and all that hurts me most. I have stayed with you so long only because I love you. The little old lady loved her husband and she stayed with him through thick and thin, but her child was strong. I know to-night that I am not made of the strength of which she was made. She stayed until the bottom of the hill was reached and after, but she had Sara. I have only Vincent, and I cannot stay—much longer— even for — his sake.'

The face of the man had changed strangely. He was frowning, but he bit his lip nervously.

' Come, come,' he cried. ' What a state you are in ! You are not yourself to-night. Down hill ? It's not so b«ad asi that. I know I've been pretty much of a devil, but we can pull together again- Didn't I tell you ? I'm going to throw up the house at the beach and the lodge in the woods, as you suggested, and we can keep 1 the farm. It will make Vincent a rich man some day. 'II "will quit drinking ] I will quit gambling! I will— there ! ' s-aid Warner, with impatient contriteness-. ' Don't cry like that. God knows you have been an angel, and 1 do not deserve your forgiveness, but just trust me this time, dear wife, and help me to bo a decent God-fearing man again.'

Mrs. Warner was trembling hysterically. 'Oh ! I've prayed and prayed so,' she sobbed, ' and sometimes I have almost doubted that God would answer my prayers. I don't deserve this ; I don't deserve it ! '

'It is I who desene nothing good,' said Warner humbly, with his arms about her. ' I have been so black and sinful and I have visited the fruits of my folly upon those nearest and dearest to me. We'll cure our boy by faith, little woman. God is as good as He is merciful. He will help us back to prosperity.' And he did. — ■' Benziger's Magazine.'