The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 3 August 1911, Page 1143

The Storyteller

THE CALL

(Concluded from last week.) It was early morning when Steve mounted the last long swell of prairie that stretched across the part of his domain which faced the front door of his ranch. He slowed up his horse, dismounted, hung his sombrero on the horn of his saddle, and began walking leisurely the last mile to his home. It was a long ride from Payara to his ranch. The dawn was breaking away off in the eastern sky; a slight breeze was coming across the land; it blew the hair back from his temples and cooled a brow which had become heated by mental combat. During that ride home a mighty battle raged within him. The power of music had taken hold of him; it was forcing him to think of things which he didn’t want to think of —things which he had been trying to forget, which he had almost forgotten. We can’t realise how it happens, but we have all experienced that wonderful something in music, that something which recalls the forgotten friend to mind, the old boyhood home, the distant form of a father or a mother. This ‘ Ave Maria ’ to-nigho was the first potent something from Steve Randolph’s past which he had felt in many years, and it stirred him to the very foundation. Now as he walked, he saw again the picture which had photographed itself on his mind as the musician played. Then he thought of the quarrel with this very girl; and how it in itself had forced him to go away, forever, into the south-west. Then the picture came again. He closed his nostrils, because he imagined he could smell the flower-perfumed breeze as it smelt in that gloaming time. Something irresistible was forcing him to return to the reality of that scene. From without the days of his childhood and young manhood there arose ideals and phantoms of persons, long since forgotten, as he thought. The teachings of his youth stood up before him and faced him. He combated all these thingshad combated them the entire way home from Payara., but the strength of the reminiscences that overflowed him was too great. * The next day Steve started, because he could not resist the painful longing which came over him. As he journeyed eastward he changed his western clothes, and when he stepped from the train in his own city he was the typical Southerner once more. He came to the house in the older part of the townthe home which had been his in days gone by. He looked upon it with that joy in his countenance which usually belongs to all of us when gazing upon something which once meant happiness. This rambling house had been his home when a boy. Randolph noted with pleasure that the house though closed, bore unmistakable signs of having been taken care of. ‘I guess old Mammy Liddy is still living on the place,’ he mused. He entered the gate, and went round to the back door. Sure enough, there was old Mammy Liddy sitting in the sunshine, peeling potatoes as though she had never left off since the morning he departed. She arose, gazing at him curiously. 'So it am you at las’, Marse Steve? I ’spected you d come' back to de ole place some ob dese days. I wants to look at you closer; dese ole eyes am growin’ “ im - After a nearer inspection. ‘ You looks more like oe ole Marse dan when you went. All but de eyes. Dere you s still like de Mistus, your mother.’ ' ‘ Are you glad to see me, Mammy Liddy?’ ‘Glad, is I? Ob course I is. Dis house, an dis ole nigger as been a-waitin’ a long time to see you. For dat reason de place am ready to receib its marse. 011 J[ ls come in an - rest while I prepares de dinner.' _ She led the way into the house and into the library which she soon lit up by throwing open the blinds You see, Marse Steve, it am ready for you as I Red. , 1 1 J US’ go an open de front doah, an’ let some air into de hall. Den I’ll hurry de dinner.’

She was gone, and Steve looked about him. The place, as she said, was in readiness for him. He couldn’t notice the slightest change. It seemed now, as he gazed upon the familiar objects, that he had always intended to return. Somehow the last ten years appeared as one night. He felt as though he had fallen asleep on yesterday’s eve, and had dreamed a dream of western lands and ranch life, from, which he was awakened this morning by a wandering musician playing an ‘ Ave Maria,’ With the eagerness of a child he began going about the room, examining the familiar objects. Ah! his mother’s picture! He looked upon it long and minutely, then kissed it. And this was his father and this other onewhy, yes, it was himself at nineteen, just after leaving college. He turned to the old familiar books. There they were, each on its accustomed shelf. Here hung the testimonial of his reception into the Sodality of the Blessed Virgin Mary; beside it was the certificate of his First Holy Communion and Confirmation, signed by good, kind Father Ward How had he been able to forget these things! How had he been able to forget the teachings of his youth ! .How had he allowed himself to drift on life’s current! Yes, he had drifted, and the tide had carried him whither it listed. He approached a desk in one corner. ‘ Her picture is here, somewhere,’ he mused. ' Ah, yes, I remember put it in this desk-drawer. Here it is— picture of Marie,. Marie Whitely.’ He was intent upon the picture, thinking of the place she used to hold in his heart. Mammy Liddy came in unnoticed. ‘Here am somethin’, Marsc- Steve. When I opened dat ar hall doah, dis ’pistle fell from de ole letter-box. I specs it am yourn. It ’pears as dough it war in dat box a long time, ’cause it looks ole. °I never opened dat doah since you left, Marse Steve.’ Steve looked at the yellowed envelope, then hastily tore it open. J ‘My dear Steve, —I want you to come and see me, because I desire to tell you how sorry I am that we have quarrelled. I was wrong, and you were wrong. Come out to see .me to-day, just as if nothing had happened. We won’t explain ; we will simply forget, and that is the best way. I feel sure that you will forgive. ' Marie Whitely.’ He looked at the date. ‘ Thursday morning, October 10, 18 —.’. It had been written on the very morning he had left so hurriedly. Had he delayed his departure for six hours, he would never have gone. He sat very quietly amid the surroundings of his youth, holding her letter in his hand, while many, many thoughts sank into the sanctuary of his heart. He realised more fully now why something almost miraculous had called him home. It was to see this letter—this letter which had been waiting for him for ten years. * It is evening time—evening time in the South, in the fall of the year. The rays of a setting sun cast a sheen over the golden-brown, red, and yellow-hued trees. A woman is standing on the open verandah of an old-time Southern home. She is gazing off to a little Southern city. The sunset glow as it falls upon her face reveals that she is no longer in her first youth. The face is somewhat commonplace, perhaps there are persons who would call it grave. But let that pass; her eyes are still in their fullest youth, and from their depths shine forth constancy, devotion, truth, and love -—things not always in the possession of beauty, but things which remain long after beauty has been withered by the cares, storms, and winters of life. Her attention is drawn to the figure of- a man who is walking leisurely down the road. She looks more carefully Can it be? Yes, yes, it is Steve Steve returning after ten years. When he turned in at the gate, she left the verandah and met him half-way to the house, with her hands extended in welcome. He took the hands tenr? if 1 i S , own ’ and then she shrank back .as though she felt she had been too impulsive. She looked into his eyes, half-afraid of what she might find there. What she saw must have reassured her, because she Sciicl ;j t

‘ Steve, it is with joy I welcome you back.* ‘ I have come to be forgiven, Marie.’ ‘I knew you would come some day, because I prayed, and ’ •• She paused. ‘ And what else did you do ‘ I used to sing your “ Ave Maria.” ’ ‘lt was that brought me. 0 I heard it a week ago, and I was forced to come. When I arrived home I found your letterthe one you wrote when I went. Here it is.’ He handed it to her. She read it; and then they walked towards the verandah. Benziger’s Magazine.