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"For Father's Sake," or A Tale of New Zealand Life

Chapter I

page 7

Chapter I.

"Is 'ou there?" lisped a small voice, and two little hands began knocking at the closed door.

"Yes! but go away dear, I am busy." And a close observer would have noticed an impatient ring in the naturally calm tone. How often trifles effect mighty changes. Hundreds of lives depend upon the accuracy of the compass that rests upon the tiny point of its needle. Life and death may often depend on one word. Relenting her impatience the girl opened the door with the intention of speaking more kindly to the little one.

"Why, Essie," she said, stooping down and taking the child up in her arms, "What does my little Essie want?"

"I's want to come in. I's run away from mamma. I's be dood." The child looked pleadingly at the girl, then yearningly at the tabooed ground.

"Very well, Essie, you may come in, but you must not touch anything." For a moment she had forgotten everything but that the sweet face was before her, and that the soft voice spoke. She took the child in and closed the door: then remembered where she was. Pushing the un-page 8conscious offender away, she gazed around. Perhaps you wonder at her resentment, but if you understood the feeling of possessing a private room, where none but the sacred dead are admitted, there, their spirits breathing forth in the living record of their lives, they become fit companions even for the angels; a room within whose four walls all thoughts and hopes and despairs are uttered. If you understood such a feeling you would not wonder at the flame of anger that was kindled in the young recluse's heart. Oh it is hard to reconcile the material with the immaterial. To join the hands of the spirit and the flesh. To make body and soul minister unto the wants and sufferings of each other.

Her eyes fell upon the little upturned face, so pure, so innocent. A face betraying no signs of jealousy or selfishness; no scornful curves lurked about the sweet mouth, and through the large dark eyes, "the windows of the soul," could be seen a soul as pure as snow; a soul untainted by contact with the earth or earthy. Throwing her arms around the child, and leaning her tired head upon its bright curls, the girl burst into tears. For a few minutes the proud frame was convulsed with sobs, but only for a few minutes. The self-reliant independent will soon asserted itself, and, raising her head proudly, she began pacing the room. The child, attracted by its strange surroundings, moved off, and, after having carefully surveyed the wonders of her new elements, settled herself in a corner, puzzling her little brains over the mysteries of pencil and paper.

With hasty unsteady steps the girl paced up and down. But true reasoning has always a soothing effect; and five minutes silent meditation wove its spell, leaving the heart serene and peaceful, changing the unsteady steps into their wonted firmness. Little cricket, chirrup on! We need page 9your help; for your cheerful song lures our thoughts from that which is harsh and crude, and we wish to remember this troubled, child introduced, scene. Beside the opaque sorrow we shall see the rare transparent joy.

There is a magnetic influence in nature which has the power of drawing to the surface all that is pure in a soul, and by the same power, of soothing to rest all that is in discord.

The girl paused before the window and gazed out upon the scene. It was perfect. All that was noble in her nature responded to the voice she felt was calling to her. Trees, hills, sea in unity spoke her name. "Come with us," they seemed to say. "Leave the dark dreary valley wherein thou hast been walking. Come with us. We will shew thee the bright light beyond. We will teach thee truth and purity. We will point thee to love." Her whole soul responded. With a passionate cry she stretched her arms out, as to a lover, "Take me, oh, take me with you."

"I's finished my lessons." A piece of paper, all marked and torn, was held up for the dreamer's inspection, while a tiny, innocent face sought the critic's commendation. With a start the girl awoke from her reverie. She raised her head from the arm upon which it had sunk, and looked at the baby face. If it be hard to connect the material with the immaterial, the soul with the body, one thing is certain; the first step towards that union is the interruption of reverie by a baby face. Sweet child! the odours of the land thou had'st quitted but three years ago hang about thee still. Well might'st we look to thee for traces of what is to be. Folding the child in her arms, the girl rained passionate kisses upon the little face. In wonderment the child endured the caresses, but the mother's voice was heard, and the little one slipped off the girl's knee and page 10ran into the open arms of her mother. Little did that baby comforter dream as she, in her childish prattle, poured into the ears of her mother a description of what she had seen in that wonder-land, what a fearful strain she had shattered, and what a mighty torrent she had agitated in the breast of that sorrow-stricken girl.

When we return to the room she is seated before an easel, and upon the canvas she is painting a picture of her childhood home. With her permission we will take a peep at that picture, and follow the movements of the artist's brush.

Far away in the misty distance could be seen the faint outline of hills; they seemed like one long purple line standing out as sentry guard over the middle distance and oreground, while their irregular tops appeared to sink into the blue sky as if they were its granite pillars of support: distance has indeed enhanced their charms, for their bold and rugged features are hidden by a misty veil, and a soft reflected light is cast over all. From the left hand side to almost the middle of the picture, and reaching from the base of those hills to a little past the middle distance, there lay a wide stretch of blue water; this, too, was bounded by the sloping sky, where the line of hills made an abrupt termination. The right hand side and part of the foreground was filled up with beautiful green pasture land; here and there arranged in clusters and groves were painted massive green trees; their deeper shades contrasted with the lighter green grass, thus throwing the picture in perfect relief; while through even paddocks and among trees, a tiny stream quietly threaded its way; so gentle, so peaceful did it look, that one almost paused to listen for its ripple as it flowed over the rocky slabs and nestled into the arms of the sea. At the western corner the small town of Bonsby was situated. Small indeed is the town of Bonsby, page 11but larger than it seems; for the thick green foliage of its poplar trees hides, from the gaze of the inquisitive, the meaner habitations. Only a few white tops could be seen peeping up here and there among the green fleecy shroud.

Dear Bonsby! Love has given life to the picture, and I am afraid it has intentionally wiped out all imperfections. But is that all that constitutes a picture? Me-thinks 'twould be a poor picture indeed if it were so. Far beyond, far more important and far more effective is the light, and when that light is the light of the setting sun, who can describe its glory? Other lands can boast of splendour, other nations revel in luxury, man may glory in the marvels his hands produce, but the light of the rising and setting of the sun upon the land and waters of New Zealand, in its naked brilliant grandeur, towers far above all such wonders. Throughout the day the sun appears to be hoarding up light for its brilliant exit, and as if to reconcile us to its departure, it throws all the pathos and power into its last few glances. The whole sky glories in every shade; from deepest crimson to radiant gold, then softening off into a pale mystic silver. Earth, ashamed of its dullness, borrows light from above, and becomes beautiful in its humility.

As we mark every varying shade of that unskilful, though natural painter, we are tempted to turn away, praying that our life's setting sun may be as glorious as this.