THE VICAR'S WIFE.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXVI, Issue 10060, 30 January 1909, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE VICAR'S WIFE.

(By I. A. R. Wylie.)

"There' 6 them that grumbles," said Mrs Gummidge in ..tones ,of indignation, "and says as 'ow the gentry and...haristoeracy ishalways a treadin' us meek and 'umblc. But I says—and-I ; 6aid it. to Mrs Jones this- very, momin'-—l, r says. it's."a . downright perambulation, aa. your tisbarid, said in 'is last sermon, Mrs Vicar." . fT'revarication, ..perhaps .was the word, ■Mrs Gummidge," said ; the little lady by the fire, raising a white .hand to her forehead with a gesture ,of fatigue. Mrs Gummidge nodded violently," 'so that the bonnet with the bedraggled .ostrich, feather assumed a more .thaij; usually alarming angle, over one ear. '"May be, .Mrs Vicar, may be. Them words in'' atioii ' is .that niuddlin' there's only one. I'm .6ure-,of—and- thai ainteither 'ere nor .there, as the .sayin' goes. What I mean is, that it's' a downright thumpin' lie!" She snapped her.: .lips. together and looked defiantly round the room..as though in search of' some one to "contradict her—possibly Mrs Jones. ■ Seeing no ohe but her hostess, she went on. "I said to Mrs Jones, 1 said; "Call them 'ard-'arted brutes, do yer ? . I tells yer, if I goes to Mrs Vicar to-day and tells 'er the 'ole truth, 'ow Jim's been out of work for a. fortnight and dead drunk 'alf-the time, and no food .in the 'ouse and the rent owin' these ten days, I'll bet my last sixpence,' says I, ' that Mrs Vicar'lL up and say, "Mrs Gummidge, I knows your troubles, I knows your sufferm's, and 'eroic struggles against diveiv sitv—'ere's. the rent and Gawd bless yer!' And I says to Mrs Jones, who is a pert woman—' Say. one word to the contrairy and, e good 'churchgoer as I ham, I'll'give yer a black eye yer won't—" The flow of eloquence ■ was here interrupted by a yell pi.. boredom from the child seated on the,, next chair. Mrs Gummidge' shook the peace-disturber and boxed, both ears impartially. -- Old your noise, Lizfcie! She tikes after ,'er father, Mis VicarJ halways making a row and no good to ao one: There, look'what the good lidy 'as guv yer; yer little varmint!" Eileen Salhound, otherwise known as Mrs Vicar, had got up and l produced a bag of sweets. The sobs ceased—a largo peppermint bull's-eye putting an effective stop to further sounds of distress. At.the same time Mrs Vicar drew but her purse."There, Mrs Gummidge," she 6aid in her tired with your rent." Mrs Gummidge got up, made a curtsy, and took the coin, into her grimy palm." • . "Mrs Vicar, yer proves me an hupiioioer of the truth, for 1 says to Mrs Jones —-'I ain't the woman to go round a beggin' and a whimperin' over me 'ardships, but Mrs Vicar's a lady. She knows our wants afore we says a word. It's 'er hinstinkt. There, Lizzie, kiss the kind lidy!" Lizzie put up her pale and pepperminty face, and Mrs Vicar bent down, and performed the task required- of her. Her own face was quite expressionless. "Be a good girl and help your mother," she said as though she were speaking a formula. Then she opened the door and bade her visitors good-by with a - smile which was as automatic as the rest of her movements. She went to the top of the stall's and listened to Mrs Gummidge's hea.vy descending step, the sound of a man's voice and Mrs Gnmmidge's voluble reply. Then

she went back- and closed, the door. It was only four o'clock in the afternoon, but a* dense London fog crept through the crevices of the ill-fitting win*dow and filled the room with gloom and smut. There was smut on the white teacloth and, for the third time that day, Eileen Calhoun took it off and gave it- a vicous shake into the fender. After that she took a duster out of a drawer and carefully removed the mud which Lizzie's boots had left behind them. This done she went back to the fire and, placing the kettle on the hob, knelt there, watching the play of the firelight with thoughtful eves. " They were very pretty eyes and, though her darK curly hair was already streaked with gray, they had still plenty of life and energy in them—thwarted life and energy, if one might have judged from the line of bitternes around the mouth. She was dressed simply in black. There' was onlv a wedding T ring on the white hand held out to the blaze, and other jewellery she had none. Everything about- her was shabby, and yet she did not look altogether shabby. It was as the spirit of a Redfem or a Worth had breathed over the cheap* material of her dress and lent it an inimitable grace and elegance. Just so was it with the room whose furniture had never been beautiful, even in its youth. Still, there was a flower here, a" flower there, and a gracefullv arranged hanging, things which proclaimed a steadfast struggle against mediocrity and ugliness. - n. The door opened and a man in clerical dress entered. He was tall —very tall, but for a marked stoop, and his face, with the dark-bTOwn eyes and finely cut features, was pleasant to look upon. Obviously, one would have 6aid, this man is a dreamer. Win dreams may be beautiful, but they will he impracticable none the less. At the present moment his expression was one of subdued sadness. His wife turned from the fire and greeted him with a smile half tender., half unwilling; ""You needn't tell .me what you have been doing," she said grimly. "I know." ".Know what, my dear?" with great innocence. • _ "You have just given Mrs Gummidge her -rent." "Well, the poor woman has been hard put to :it, and—" : • "The poor woman has had her rent twice over,- once from me, once from you, and you have been--taken in again. Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey!" He laughed, and his laughter matched his young face rather than the premature gray hair. He came over to the fire and seated himself; in the large chair, his arm resting on his wife's shoulder. ■ "You may laugh," she said faintly impatient, "but- this folly of yours has made our . to-morrow's dinner a problematic matter. Didn't we arrange that yon should leave these pejpie to ■ me ? They deserve their misery,' tor the most part. They are all cheats and humbugs, and so are we for to love them. I had to kiss that Lizzie and call her a pretty child. Is it Christian to tell lies to please one's neighbor?" "Hush, Eileen!" he interrupted quietly. "We must try and love them, that's all. And, if they are cheats and humbugs, we must remember that their lot is-a very hard one. Our business is to give them what they want, both for body and soul." She 6aid nothing,- and he bent down and kissed her. "Why shouldn't I give them what they want?" he went on whimsically. "I liave everything I.want." She looked up at him with the old mixture of bitterness and tenderness. "You mean me, I suppose? Yes, I am quite surprised that you. haven't given me away with the rest of your goods and chattels before now.. Geoffrey"—drawing back to see him better. "Dear, how dreadfully long your hair isl I shall cut it myself if you won't spare twopence for ; the : hairdresser ! And that waistcoat ! . No selfrespecting man would ever wear such a thing! Were you.like that when I married, you? How* could X have done it!" He shook his head. . "Oh, no; I was rather a smart young man in those days, especially when I -began to—well—think life wouldn't be worth living without-you." She-leaned-her-el-bow on-his knee and.returned! to her contemplation ,of the. firelight; - ... >. "Yes, I remember now. . And I was the best-dressed-woman in "London, so they 6aid." He pressed her shoulder. "Those were-light and foolish diays," he said, as though to excuse himselfandher. "You proved what a noble; heart beat behind the.trumperies, when you gave,your whole fortune into my hands to help-me in my work. There are many who -, bless vour name, • Eileen, . and their blessings must make you-happy;"-. • • She made no answer. - The face. turned to the fire was not altogether the faoe of a happy; woman. So they..remained for some(■ moments, each", of .-them ./deep inthought, then Geoffrey Calhoun started as though struck by a sudden recollection. "iTy dear;- ho<V; caxdess of me!>-iThese two-letters were waiting-'for- 'yon. 'down- " stairs. One is '-from Langly; I think, : and "the other from a lawyer; . What have " you, to do ! with lawyers; little womab?" - She caught the letters'ifrom hiVihand

andj opening them,' began to read' them by the iiickcriiigjight. She did not speak, but any one -watching the changing face would, have read breathless excitement in the eyes and parted iips Geoffrey ; C!alhoun saw. nothing. He was considering tho. iinancial difficulties the Convalescent Home .he-.had. erected .with his.,;.wife's- money,.; and which was now threatened with debt.;: He _ saw 116 way out of the difficulty—except it were,closed andtlie needy invalids .sent back into the misery of the London.; . streets.The thought made; him knit.rhis fine.brows irt sudden pain. ' ''Geoffrey!'' ; he 'heard' his wife say frbm afar off, "Geoffrey, Tead this." -He.took the .letters from her and read them, the first, rather absent-mindedly,;, ,the„ pecondwith an excitement. lalipost ■„ equal :to ; her own. When he had finished he _ leaned back and they looked; each other in the face, half.laughing, hilf. overwhelmed., . • 111. : "Isn't it strange almost fate!" she said with her hands clasped, before her. "First the invitation and then' the money which makes it possible to acceptOh, Geoffrey, think. what it all. means,!- Six thousand pounds!. I .never thought. I should, be.jleft so much!" It's a, lot of money!. -You could get a substitute. Wo could go away perhaps forever—from all this* .dirt and squalor! Let me see, first we could .go to Kachel Langly.'s—they have. askixl 1 \is to their lovely place in. Surrey. .-,There, what does she say?" • t ; She caught up the letter and read it again. She spoke incoherently, and her hand shook with more than ordinary excitement. Every .tone and movement was that of a captive who ••begins. again to breathe the pure air of freedom. "She says—'Your must come, too; and bring all your pretty olothee —I am sure you must be_tire<i of slumming!' Tired of d™ 11111 ™®!" She .got up, crushing .the letter between her-hands. "Oh,' Geoffrey, I never said it -before-to you because it -couldn't.' -be helped. But now it can be lielped.-—and lam sick'of it all —sick of it all-!- Only-' this' afternoon I felt I couldl have murdered Mrs Gummidge and !her Lizzie and! every one. of • them! X loathed ; the sight of them, and the-ugliness of it all !" She .came --behind his chair and took his face between: Jher hands. •: . "There, my darling old-saint-, don't,be Shocked;; don't mind anything I say. I am only wild, with excitement and joy. It has all been smothered and l bottled up so long. Think, Geoffrey, what it-will be to get away—■ our first holiday .-. for three ye^ars.! Say you are jglad.—say something!" He patted her hand fondly. His face was stall flushed-with the,-reflection" of her. delight, and there was a far-off look in his dreamy:eyes. "Yes, dear, I, too, long for fresh, pure sunlight. 'Do you know, lately, I- have had:such a L hunger for the smell of hay and the sight of roses and the song of birds. ' There are never any roses or birds here, are there?" - "I should think not!" She answered laughing. "I wish we icould import, them!" with a sigh of regret. "It would do the poor people so much good." "Never "mind them for once. Besides, I don't suppose even Mrs Langly will be able to supply us with hay and roses at -the beginning of April,-you silly townfellow! But, there, we shall have the fresh spring igreen and the violets ! Won't it be -glorious " "Yes, wouldn't it be glorious?" He echoed her future tense with the conditional, but she did not notice it. "Mrs Langly 1 says I am to bring my pretty clothes! ■ Poor .Rachel! She thinks we have been playing at poverty. She doesn't know how real it has all been. I haven't any pretty -clothes—but I soon shall ha.ve. Just think of a pretty muslin dress, and not this"—she ran her hand over her skirt almost as though -it were something repulsive—"this cheap serge, of all awful tilings. And you, Geoffrey, shall have a new waistcoast at Jast!" She clapped her hands, but, as though the sound awakened him from a pleasant dream, he got up, his face pale and resolute'! "AIV flour urn. Vin\-o Vippn -fwn -fnnlish

-My dear, we have been two foolish children wandering in a fairyland which doesn't belong to us," be said. "It was beautiful—but it isn't true, and we mustn't waste time with what isn't true." He had folded his arms and gazed straight ahead of him into the gathering darkness. "The mon&y has come as a Godsend," he said wiffx feverish enthusiasm. "All to-day I have been wondering how the Convalescent Home could be kept open—your home, Eileen—and- there are so many sick and ailing who need its Now the problem is solved, for I" know, dear, how you will wish the : money spent." "Geoffrey!" she said under her breath,but he did not seem to hear her. "It is a God-send!" he repeated fervently "The poor creatures can still enjoy the country air, and room can be made for others there. It is a real weight from my mind." Then she interrupted) him. She came and stood opposite him with' a face as resolute as his own, but paler, as though she felt the coming conflict of their wills. "Geoffrey, it is you who are in a fairyland now," she said. "You are dreaming of things that cannot" be. No, dear, let me say what:l have to say." I—we have sacrificed our all for these others — 'not money only, but the best years of our jives. Somewhere the sacrifice must stop —it must stop here." ; "It is no sacrifice," he said sternly, more sternly than, he had ever spoken to her before. "It is our simple duty." His tone stung her. ■ . "Have we no duty to ourselves?" she demanded half-appealingly, "but with grow-ing-passion. "Have we no right-to eirjoy the fresh air, to laugh, to be glad and happy? Must we, our whole lives, sit and suffocate in this murky atmosphere, never meet our equals, never forget the pinch of our, poverty ? Is there no end to our sacrifice —■" "I have told you," he interrupted dogmatically. "It is-no sacrifice." She threw up her head and her eyes met- his for. the first time with hot defiance. "Not for you, then-, but- for me! Geoffrey, I have borne it all these yeans. I -have been, patient' through all .the dirt and squalor of our lives. It was hard to be patient, for I wasn't used to such things. I have seen our money flung away on drunkards- and humbugs whofooled you and - laughed" at you behind your back. I have .fought out the. problem of our daily bread. I -have seen you ill. And I iteH.you,-I have borne:■ it all, . and would have home it to the ■ bitter end but for-this."hope of salvation—yes; salvation, Geoffrey! - It is ■ like a breath of fresh air in a' dungeon, a note of music out of an old song, a. call from a world to which I x belong, -body and' soul. It's true, Geoffrey. - I can't help it. It's true!" , He looked at her coldly and critically. Even in her excitement Ms iciness chilled her into silence. She did not know that behind that iciness. there burned a temper as hot, as obstinate, as headstrong as her own. "I thought differently of you," he said. "I thought you w,ould be my comrade to the end, giving in "money what I give in actual . labor. -.You have : spoken very poetically, but in the simple ; language I prefer, you . mean that '-you have 'been sacrificing yourself all through our married life,; and = that you are wearied- of it. Let- nib tell you-that-1 ask" sacrifices' of ho one—least of all,-you." He paused. Tie may or may not have known it—angry - people are . often con- - sciously. and tactless—but he was aggravating her with every look and tone into hotter rebellion. "The money is yours.- You -have already 'sacrificed' one-, fortune, and, no doubt, consider your duty • done. Do what, you please. Do with- 1 the - money what' you please. . But-, -if you go - away from here in-this time of need and'-sick-ness you '.go alone—and- - you. :-will .return only of your own -free -will; I jeave: you to make'your choice."- ■ ■ lie went 7 . ouU stiff and: erect, and left hei in a\sta.te of. bewilderment, . torn between anger; and -t-lie desire to' call - him back. It- was l the tfiist disagreement; the first time; ; that- their wills had»;:broken asunder, and it hint -her..-. -For .-a moment she bated the typewritten letter , fihe v still - "held^then 1 she : rem"embered-:all.<:it;ineimt, -and', her 'heart; beat'.high- with? irrpressible hope! It 'meant freedom The walls of' the-'shabby, ugly room, faded away and she saw. a bright, sun- v

lit" world spread itself out before her, filled with t flowers ..and green pasfcuags.. She went mechanically" to : the waiting- ■ table, and haying lit a, candle, stood: there looking dowß on the white" note-paper. She was going to answer one of the. letters. What- was she going to say? What? She did not khowi. She seated herself and the, pen' hovered' _°vct paper. The ibvely: gardens faded.. .The habit and'.ilove of a lif^iine:;rained_ its old. ijiominioii over her, -the-.strength; or an irou' ".will crashed Ker energy, the . very Toom seemeA' to close' in - upon her like a She began to write. It was her deathwarrant, Vand, she knew ity but she went o'n. ..'She "wrote just, as 'she kissed Likzie's "dirty, face, as she had 'sacrificed the necessaries of life, as she had listened day after.'.dfty to the moanmgs ot .her husband's -parishioners—withoat l 13 ' 1^ ' signe<}iy, submitting to.the custom of seltabnegation f ... "My Dear Rachel: - "It i 6' good' -of you'to ask us both to -Sunningdean. There is nothing we should like better, but unfortunately- ' The door of the ' litUe ' drawing-room opened aiid a disordered head, surmounted by a crumpled cap,-' made, its appearance in the aperture. "Please, muim, Mrs Gummidge is ere. She says ; Lizzie has come hover hall a queer color and she don't know what to ao. Will you come at- onc&? And Mrs Jones is 'ere, too. She says the bailiiis 'ave seized 'er -furniture' and 6lied_.be .- 'crlad if you'd!-see er' . for .'a moment-.. Her couch's hawful troublesome,- and she m thank you for some .of them lodgenses—"Tell Mrs Gummidge.'to go'to..-the doctor, and Mrs Jones that I can't help her, The lozenges.are in the-dining-room cupboard. And please don't disturb me again to-night." . The door closed noisily, and with an exclamation that was half a-sob . Mrs Vicar took up the-letter of refusal and tore it across again and again. - • .y. " IV _ -•' The Eev. Geoffrey Calhoun looked round the little sitting room with sombre angry, eyes. He had : never realised before what an ugly place i,t was..- The.furniture was probably the same ,as it had l always been, biit .he \coulct not understand why it. had never struck' him *as being so atrocious. ..It certainly-looked; no - better for a -week's coating of dust, nor S for the decoration of long-dead flowers stuck aboutin extre,mly. ugly vases.. He -rang the bell impatiently. The. call was answered after a .long interval ;t)y .the maid of all work, now minus a cap,. T>ut considerably dirtier. Hef expression' was aggressive, and.said more plainly than.-words—"Now, w.ot are. yer .a-wantin' of ?" The-Rev. Geoffrey's frown faded. He felt ; that his daily..existence was'at the mercy of. this Medusa,* and he felt equally sure that she knew .it. . . . . "Why is this room not dusted,' he inquired mildly. Mary Ann tossed a wisp of hair out of her ; face. "'Tain't.my job. When the missus was 'ere she did it." '"And the dining-room? I could l hardly sit in it this morning." • " 'Tain't my job, neither. The missus did it." "Oh, might I.ask wh'at 'your job' actually is?" "I welshes hup and' does a bit of the cookin' —wot I knows." "Oh!" The vicar shuddered in recollection of his last meal. "I suppose we shall have to have another servant to help," lie. said with a sigh. "We hought to 'ave, now the missip 'as gawn. She weren't no more than a- 6ervent—'cept that she did. twice as much as Hi'd do on double wages." The vicar sprang up. A" hot flush had mounted to his pale cheeks. ' ;"How dare you —" he began angrily, and then stopped, surprised and ashamed of his own lack of self-control. "Well, it's true,'' with another toss of. the head; "and please, Mrs Gummidge wants to see yer, sir." "Show her in here." The vicar seated himself again and, drummed idly with his fingers, on the pile of letters before him. There was a photograph of his wife

on the table. It pictured'her in the full bloom of her youth, and 1 he noted; with a. suidden interest, how gaily she laughed at him among her rich sables. - Slie had always been so fond, of tasteful, expensive things : not because they were expensive ; but because she had a natural love of the beautiful. Even in her wealthy days, when she could have had anything for the asking Ghe had been so grateful for some unexpected' innocent pleasure. Innocent pleasure! Yes, he admitted it—innocent pleasure. There- had been no unnatural .craving iri her ■ pleasure-seeking —only she liked to laugh and to see others laugh. Of late she had not laughed much. _ Now he came to think of it, whatever wa6 there in her life to laugh, about? Against his will he began to study the details in th© little room. He remembered how she.had refused to spend money on the furnishing, and the results of this economy were indeed awful. He-began to understand how those plush chairs and cheap vases must have jarred' on htfr nerves, seeing them all day long.-as she did. And 3.lary Ann had said she was no better than a servant. What did- the girl mean ? '. The vicar grew hot and uncomfortable. He flung open the window to let 'in some fresh', air, and was surprised, to. find that there is no fresh, air to be had if you live in. rooms' looking out. on a street little more than twelve feet across. "He had just flung the. window down again when his visitor entered. Mrs Gummiilge looked paler and thinner, but her volu.biiityj.had not diminshed. "I 'opes I 'aVeri't L disturbed you, Mr Vicar,'' -she said with-a ponderous bob, "but- I felt as 'ow I 'ad: to thank you for gettin' me and my Lizzie into the Convolescent, 'Ome in the. country: ; We're both that poorly and'.we 'opes-it'll do us : a. world, o' good." : "That's all right, Mrs Gummidge," the vicar returned kindly:' "That's all right." He . hoped that she would go, but Mrs , Gummidge had .other intentions. She looked around the room and her gaze was , critical.. ''Lawks! 'Ow the place 'as changed since your missus went, Mr Yicar!" she , ejaculated. "Ain't it in -a state! Arid i the paw lidy always a tryin' to make it . look decent-, too! I remember them bits ■ of flowers she.'ad about. One could see i« she werenVborn to these sort of things." The yicar- asked himsejf, impatiently, how. he had. ever come to let his parishioners get so familiar, but he. found nothing to', say, and Mrs Gummidge iwerit on placidly: . "Wot I says when I sees wot a 'iggledypiggledy you lives in, sir, is that- you : were quite right to let- 'er ,'a-ve 'er 'oliday. . You halways.-sees that us paw folk, 'ave . , our turn in the fresh- air, so you let your j missus, 'ave 'er, turn, too. . Quite right. Charity begins at 'ome. That's wot I says." : . The Rev. Geoffrey turned scarlet. "The paw lidy "was tliat- pale aiid-peeky," Mrs Gummidge went on, "wot with 'er workin'.so 'ard and hall—" , . The . rest; of Mrs. Gumisidge's conversa-, t-ion was..spoken: deaf ears;'"' The vicar wae : looking, at the faded picture, and for the 'first time' in that, bitter, month of solitude he adinitted.. to himself that his heart ached —-with .'regret and..; Icinging/.', Had his. charity f at'hpme? _;, Far' rather had hp. not poured it,&brpa'd.'on; the 'tardy weeds. tliistles, neglecting tW delicate flower entrusted to-His i'riimeaiate,. care'.'? \ ..- He. hqd:-, hardened ..his ~.heart—-lie,: the man of . Godthe preacher of. mer'ey and v pity, o\vtl -wife, the woman': who jhad given .up -beautiful,: .things;, gf . fpfipw him into thp.. midst.' of dirt', and\ lini&ry:, ! And he ~"loyed -!. JvTjjfe; of that, love, caind .with a ; .ble§§ed-sens'6'of "relief.. His own Hajd'. heart. i liad t .torlured . him: . It melted ;i n.osv .at, the" '/"wayip,. bpeath. of. memory, and" V^urn_^- to Mrs . Gummidge was: ful-I.of 'hop.e:. , . . ." , "Mrs ■ Gummidge," 'lie ' said, breaking - into.-that,,lady's .category of wpe/s, "my wife—my wife may be coming Borne-soon, and ■ I've been.. thinking—this place isn't fit.jor her.. I can't change . -just-, ppw,' but I want to make - it ,more—more as shewoiild like it. I want you to. help t me ; . .before you go -. away.;, "will - Gummidge opened her eyes wide.' . L - ) : .'"That. I will," she said highly' flattered. "That there.islattern,.downstairs ain't, no-: J •good'.., ;.I.knows.'j..- Tlie-:-.-vicSr .sprang up. Hi^- : ;,eyes-: flashed, energy , and < "• eagerness ..of, / the. "smart ' young-man,"

whom he thought had 1 died out of him > years ago. ■,. * . ... v „ "We'll' clear out all this hideous stuff, lie .said with, a wave in the direction of the plush chairs. "We'll have it "all repapered—a pretty paper with roses, blie loves., roses.' Everything' must be fresh and clean. New carpets, 'new chairs, flowers -everywhere. " Conie this afternoon and "we'll begin. iturning. out.''j ' :' His' 'excitement was ■liifecnous. .Mrs Guinmidge. was' fairly, agog,: so much so that in'*hfer excitement she smashed the hideous H-ase which Geoffrey had treasured' as a family heirlom against -:lus wifes wishes. 'He laughed light-heartedly, and then taking up a- pen' began to write : ".My Darling Wife : '.V *'Thi§ - is' the first real letter I have written to you. All the others were humbugs ;' 'cold,. : frozen. things, ' born of my stubborn pride./ I'have thought, it all over and I think I very thing. I know how you must have suffered". I was such,-a selfish' briit'e, so' feiigrossed in my schemes for the good, of others that 1 foigot my own wife ! I am but I'in ,: afi-aid 'it's 1 true. : Can yoiiTorfeive me? Will yOrf let; me. try and ni'iike it up to you? ' Will you come home?" Dear, you don't know what it is like without- you—so''drearjV The'' very sun seems'to have forgotten ..to shine-; —" He stopped suddenly. He looked out of the murky window onto .the miserable street. Despair: crept over liis face. "I can't!" lie said, aloud., ; "I can't! It wouldn't bejair. She's; gone away to the -world where she belongs, body and soul—s'lie;,.said. so. "1 can't call' her. back. I have -.been selfish eliough already. She won't co.nie back, of her-own free will —and I. can't, sail her! '■ 1 caii't!" L He pushed the letter roughly on one side and biuied his face .in his .hands. V. Eileen Calhoun leaned back among the cushions, and with half-closed eyea watched the water drip from the idle oars as their boat floated with-the stream. She avoided 'looking. at- the oarsriian and fqi'ced iiei-ielf ; to listen to the ' wbman Either 'side. ."'My/dear Eileen," the latter said, shifting. her parasol to catch a' troublesome siiii'beam;'. "it's.'tlie''Very thing for you. You niiist iome.' Six months' travelling with us would .feet you up for a lifetime. , Ybu wolild be my guest, of course, .and Captain Arnold will look after you when'he joins us. Wouldn't you, captain?" The oarsman leaned forward as though to force Eileen to look at him. - "Mrs. Calhoun knows I wil," he said significantly. .As though hypnotised l , she returned his gaze for a brief instant. Something in his bronzed face disturbed her. .. She looked away again. . . , "It- is very good you you, Rachel," she said. "J should like. it. very much." felie 'spoke, however,., without enthusiasm. Somehow, her thirst for pleasure and everlasting sunshine had been slaked ,to satiety. And still she fqlt unsatisfied^—she could; not explain why. ."Bravo!" .Captain Arnold exclaimed with a triumphant tug "at the.oars. "Write that, down as settled, excellent- Cousin Rachel!" Eileen started. ■ "No, no,"- she said impulsively. ''Nothing is settled. It can't, be. Six months is a long time. I must consult- my husband." Arnold stopped rowing and laughed. "After your own showing, Mrs Calhoun, your husband is too busy to bother about your movements," he said. "He will be only too glad to get you settled." . She made no answer, oppressed with the bitter truth of his words. Geoffrey did not care; obviously, probably never had. "Look here," Captain Arnold went on, "I have been indiscreet enough to pee that the letter in your lap is from your husband. . If there is a word in it asking your return or inquiring about your movements, I won't try and persuade you. There's a bargain !"' Eileen picked up the unopened letter. She had not 1 cared' to read it before starting. She knew so well what was inside—formal words, written out. .of a sense of duty and conveying no meaning to her but the one—that, he did not care. These letters came every Monday. Every .Monday hope had been born afresh and frozen

afresh. Yet, what if to-day's letter were different? What if the barrier between them should be broken down at last by one loving word? What if in the nick of time he should liold out his strong hand to save her—perhaps from danger and temptation? She tore the envelope open and began to read. Then hope died as ithad died before, and a smothered - sigh forced itself to her lips. There was no difference, no change, or scarcely any. The sentences were jerkier,, more stilted, less coherent, as if the 'writer had been in trouble or preoccupied. was all. Eileen put the letter down. She was pale and. her hand unsteady. "You are quite right, Captain Arnold, she said. "There is no tvord about my return —so I suppose I must agree. Its Fate. Whyshe exclaimed, suddenly, pointing to a little house not- far from the water's edge, "what a- pretty place! •To whom, does it belong?" She had sii iken more to put an end to the subject than for any other "reason. Rachel gangly put- up her lorgnette. • "Xhatj my ..dear?. Some Convalescent Home, 1 fancy, for the everlasting poor —" She got no further. Eileen laid an eager hand upon her arm. - "Put t .me -ashore,, captain!" she said breathlessly. "I see people I know. I want to . speak to them !" Her eyes shone with, eagerness and pleasure. Captain Arnold obeyed, though unwillingly. "I don't see any ond}" he said as the boat Lumped .against the ground, "except an ugly old washerwoman and an -ugly child in need of washing. I don't suppose those are friends—' : ' But Eileen had already : sprung ashore and was running toward the despised pair with a delighted cry of "Mrs Gummidge— Lizzie!'' -Mrs Gummidge, who had just rescued the" too venturesome' Lizzie - from a watery grave, gave such a start of surprise that she nearly fell in herself. ' "Lawks!" if it- ain't Mrs Vicar 'erself!" she exclaimed, shaking hands with a vigor , which instantly dislodged! the precarious bonnet. "Now, ain't-'that-a-'treat-, Lizzie? And in that pretty dress, too ! Wouldn't your 'ushand -be ;proud of you,' even, though 'e be a clargyman?" Eileen seated herself at the foot of . a tree and beckoned Mrs Gummidge to do likewise. Mrs Gummidge dbeyed, having first, with town-bred care, felt- the grass—"for fear of them roomatics," as she said. "I - was in a boat when I saw you," Eileen explained, "and I thought I'd come and hear all about- you—and every one else. It- seems such a long time since I left." "Aye, that it is, mum. And a lot 'appens in no time, wot with them-motors and such like. There's Lizzie ,'ad'.the measles, me the roomatics, and Mrs Jones a summons. We've 'ad liyely times, I can tell you, Mrs Yicar!" Eileen smiled. The .smile was meaningless-. ' Her heart beat almost to' .suffocation. A question trembled on her' lips and. she dared hardly utter, it, so much did the answer mean to iler.- ■" "And ill ijobum anything happened . there?" she said, striving, to speak"'with" great' indifference. Mi's Gummidge's eyes-twinkled- knowingly. , "I ,'specks there ain't much tliat, 'appens there you don't''ear qf, ; miim;'' she said,' "wpt withhall .them '.letters .Mr Vicar writes."'' ' /' . ' : "Letters! -Mrs Gummidge waved her fat hands apologetically. • "I .cant 'elp seeing' 'em',""'she said ;" 'e leaves j-them , about-, 'is table, and 'as I comes fo, : do.'is., dusting . 1.-as- to see' em. owii;,darliAg. wifej they.begins. -Not ..ihjitthey 'ever. Jjets /posted,.it seems," she added ' "P'i'aps.,* 'e sends 'em to "relieve 'is "paw 'feelings." ' There, .was a- shout, of-, .admonition,-from the waiting boat, ;but Eileen, to. hear.' . - ~ more, - deaf Mrs ,!Gummidge,'' she" said.' '"You../ know, my , .husband "pyrites, K)f course; ..buii, thenj ypu,-aSe, on the spot. - - well?. „Js ; my , jiusbahd./all. riglit—^h^ppy?'-'•• Mrs ' •t.'l'a.piiy;?;..-.•^w il ', l '."Old ; 'e ' looks...and .a'' woman " t^loofc:'after ,'im,. L'says. .','C^ly,"'^^'©'.)^^' ■I- ; "saw.y' : ipi". laugh—swhfen'./a.li*;ihe . poo ! iur- • nutjir-;\ was. a. being..tirougKtj;v.v " thumped.;.Kerself^pn l tife'mqu.th.'i , ; - "There , now., ain't '• I; a fool ! Liet th« cat out, I ,'ave. ; \Vell T 1 suppose I'd bet-, t«r tell-you. 'adn't I?",- *

"Yes, yes." "Well, 'twas this way: Mr Vicar, 'e sends for 'me and 'e says, .'Mrs 'Gummidge, my wife may come back soon, ami I wants things made fine for 'er—d'yer understand? —lit for ''er. None of this hold:'eithenish 1 gear. You're a clever woman, 'Mils Gummidge, and 1 wants you to 'elp me"make-'it hall prutty.' Well. I was doddering with-them roomaties, but '■e's a kindly .gentleman,"il-"'elpodi ,im. We'chose the d'iritadit.ipaipers you hever saw —hall'-roses —and' wot with ' our two 'eads together we've" made .the place fit for a dooches! And t'he' flowers!" Mrs Gummidge flung up her hands because _no words of hers could convey tlie "impression she intended. "livery-day '© comes with 'is arms full of 'em and fills the vases. 'E ain t- no good with flowers, blit "e does _'is best. 'She loves flowers, Mrs Gummidge,' e says, 'and'she "may come 'ome to-day. But- 'e loses 'ope, paw feller. I was that sorry to leave ';im; but ■ 'e sent me and Lizzie down 'ere. 'He it- was the place you 'ad built, Mrs V-ieilr, an" . ow grateful we was'to' bo'to you .for making sucli a.- noble sacrifice.' Eileen looked bade af. the little house. Perhaps the wonds,"'-'Cast your bread upoh the' waters," -occurred to her in that moment of intense '-gratitude to the Power which' had. led her to this rough, simple woman. She got up, and the tears stood burning in 'her eyes. Mrs Gummidge looked up at. her, and a shrewd smile twisted! the lined face. "It may be pert, 'Mus Vicar," she said, "but I'm >-in h(»ld woman, and 1 says to you—go ''ome. ". You and your usband iooks as though' you wanted one another. Eileen' laughed' brokenly. ' "I'm going," ' slni' 'said, "I'm going. Suddenly she bent down and kissed, first the child, and then Mrs' Gummidge, with a warmth she would' not 'have believed possible- a month Befor'e. _ "God bless you, All's Gummidge," she whispered, and ran back to the waiting bbat. She looked, at both, occupants steadily. » -'"Row me badk, : please, Captain Arnold; she said ""Rafchel, I.iViust take the afternoon 'train 1 ' t-o London —home."' - 'VI;" "■ '< It was-the beginning, of May, but no one in Roburn .Street would have known it except for the -"calendar. Ihe rain poured down, the glitters -had* become miniature torrents, a piercing oiust wind whistled round the corners as :if to prove that- in this part of the world its authority was not at an end. , The ,Rev. Geoffrey' Calhoun turned up his coat-collar, .indifferent to the fact thattli6; rain was trickling down his neck, and that he was standing in the midst of a large puddle. ..He looked first at one -end of the street and; then to the other 'with. a. glance o! expectation, as though he hoped to see some well remembered- form. But there was no one in sight. A laden fourwheeler jolted , round the corner,, and he turned away with a sigh. Somebody was coming home to somebody—and, being a. conscientious clergyman, he fought- hard against the pang of envy which .-shot, through him. No one was coming home to him. So lie went his way and visited his sick parishioners and listened to their woes with the old sympathetic smile. They were too-absorbed in themselves -to notice how. pale and tired he, looked. It was late in the evening; when he returned-. He took off liis coat and hat in the dark hall, and stood there a. moment with his hand pressed; to ,'bis aching head. Then he opened the door # of their little drawiing-room and entered. A lamp burned on the table, the kettle sang merrily on the bright fire, his wife sat in the pretty arm diair he had bought for her, and looked up at him and. smiled;. .".Yon are late, dear," she said. "Tea is ready." The half-merry, half-tearful smile grew more tremulous as he drew nearer. He saw that she was dressed in the'old serge, and her lap was full of his neglected mending. It was all so peaceful, so homely, so like his dreams, that' something caught him by the throat and a mist, swam before his eyes, lie had lived under a hard strain, and the. revulsion was more than lie could bear. "You have made things so beautiful, Geoffrey," she went i "so beautiful ! But I would "have bpon contented it" nothing had been 'changed. You see—l wasn't bound! to that other world, after all. I haven't found any .happiness there." He sank down in the cliair opposite her, still silent. But she looked into his face and was satisfied. There was nion l written there than mere surprise and welcome—there was a whole history of love and thankfulness. She (lung her work away and dropped on her knees beside him. "My darling," she said brokenly, " I have come home—don't you. understand ? I have come to the only place in the whole world which I love most —to my 'home j"-'--

S'he,buried' her facie in the shabby old coat, and; he held her pressed: to him. So they remained—at first silent, and then talking in hushed voices. What' lliey said matters to no one. They were very happy, and the stormy world outside was forgotten.