LITERATURE.

Patea Mail, Volume IX, Issue 1066, 30 July 1883, Page 4

LITERATURE.

BITTER SWEET: A GENUINE LOVE STORY.

( Continued.) Windborough is a country town, seated in the midst of a smiling plain which stretches to a line of low wooded hills on the north, and loses itself in the far horizon in every direction. It is built in the form of a cross—indeed, its main street is called Orossgate. In one of the arms of the cross—the one towards Woodleigh, with its famous old castle—are the best houses, in which the smaller gentry and the professional men live. At the end of the Woodleigh road was Dr Enderby’s house, large and old-fashioned ; and hither ho brought his wife Margaret not long after their first meeting in the Cloverleigh woods. It was a change from the intense quiet of her girlhood to a largo circle of friends, and a few secret enemies. But she was John’s wife, and her sweet gaiety filled his house with sunshine ; and she shaped herself a home in all gladness. The old red brick house had pleasant rooms, filled with comfortable furniture, softly cushioned chairs, and low tables, and plenty of flowers ; there were no dingy looking dados, no sad looking discoloured blossoms worked on kitchen towels. As Margaret was not cesthetic, she preferred cheerful chintz and soft velvet. Her own sanctum was a small room overlooking the garden, and furnished with soft shades of green. There were oak shelves filled with her favourite books, a writing-table, and a few low chairs. At the window were white lace curtains, and on the mantelpiece ajar of Venetian glass that looked like a fragment of sunset. Near the window was u stand of flowers that varied according to the seasons. Outside iu the garden " was a great elm overhanging the lawn, and the flower-beds were as old-fashioned as the house. In this room of Margaret’s, John Endorby loved to rest iu his intervals of leisure, watching his

wife with an interest and a strange timidity that grew deeper day by day. Poor Margaret felt him farther from her, and a shadow fell across her life that the birth of her little son could not wholly chase away. When the child was about nine months old, it happened that she was often alone, for it was an unhealthy autumn, and Dr Enderby’s services were in great requisition, not only among the rich, bat also among the poor—for he was gentle as well ns skilful. Now and then he would come and resume his old habit of silently watching and listening to her talk about little Jack. How she loved that child ! What sweet music his tiny fingers discoursed on that mother’s heart-strings I One afternoon her husband came in as she was sitting with her child on her knee —a bright, brown-eyed boy, very like his father. The baby streched out his dimpled arms to his father, then with a child’s mischief withdrew them, and hid his face on his mother’s bosom with a cooing laugh. She bent her head down on the fluffy curls, and caught his little bare feet in her band (he had pulled off his socks, the liny rogue !), and she kissed the rosy toes with lovely mother-worship, „ ‘ Look, John,’ she said ; ‘ isn’t he the most wonderfully sweet child, this precious baby ?’ What should we do without him ?’ She was flushed and laughing, arms and heart full too ; but a sharp pang flashed through him. He answered quietly, * Yes, he is a fine boy for his age,’and, bending down, kissed him ; but he went away after that without farther speech. It often happened so now, and Margaret could not divine the cause; so she was hurt, and turned more and more to the baby for comfort. On this occasion the doctor went to his study, locked the door, and sat down to wrestle with himself, also to take stock of his forces for that wrestling. Terrible and sweet revelation to the man 1 He had, as the phrase goes, fallen in love fortunately with his wife. This, then, was the meaning of his silence, his jealousy of the tearing ■ away of his old pleasant friendliness towards her. This love of his was no flame that would flash and die out, but the strong white heat, the very soul of the heavenly fire. He remembered now how she had said, ‘ I am not worthy.’ Now he understood—she had loved him at that time—how far away it seemed—with the whole force of her being; and he—well, with selt-depreca-tion and, some well-deserved self-blame, be saw his blindness and the terrible risk bo had run. He wanted only his wife, his Margaret; but what if he, Margaret’s husband, had never felt this delight in her ? Might he not have met some other woman for the sake of whom he would possibly have been tempted to repent his marriage ? He was a good man, upright and true ; but he had often played at love before his marriage, * ere life-time and love-time were one,’ and he was being punished now; for he doubted whether her love had not declined into that friendliness which he had given her before, and she was absorbed in the child. The very names of Eliphaz the Temanite, and Bildad the Shnhite, and Zophar the Naamatbite, carry us back in thought to the world’s dawn; but their modern antitypes are to be found everywhere ; in the fullest perfection amongst women, sad to say, and more perceptible in a county than in a city. And when poor Job—feminies Job especially—is sitting in the ashes of desolation, then do they, softly seated on the cushion of self-righteousness, proceed to comment disparagingly on the sufferer’s past behaviour. Now, Eliphaz and Co were not wanting in Windborongh society, and in the case of John and Margaret soon perceived 1 the rift in the lute;’and being low, mean souls, they set to work to find a low mean cause for it, baying no idea of the higher love between man and woman. They were three middle-aged spinsters, who had failed to enter the holy estate of matrimony, in spite of an

earnest desire to do so. When the roses of youth and riches Ivere no longer for them, they would fain have culled the chrysanthemums of life’s autumn ; but alas ! even those sad and scentless flowers were denied them. So these three had been soured, or rather were unloved through -.a certain sourness of nature which the masculine portion of mankind had had sagacity enough to perceive and to avoid. Miss Moss, Miss Brown and Miss Jones were friends, and much of the mischief in Windborough might be traced to them. For instance, had they not discovered Mr Blight, the curate’s shameful flirtation with little Miss Wilson? And here was Dr Fndorby taking to his old flirting ways again'. If be had married a sensible, intellectual person, she might have cured him by carefully looking after him ; but now his atttending the meeting of the Hook Club without his wife, and walking home with little Miss Fry and her Quaker mother, boded no good. So said they, shaking their heads. This was after morning service on Sunday, and they resolved that on Monday morning, while the, doctor was on bis rounds, they would call and enlighten his wife. ‘ It will do her good, poor thing,’ they remarked. (To be continued.)