THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LI, Issue 275, 14 November 1908, Page 3

THE STORYTELLER.

MBS. MALWARIXG'S HUSBAND. By lira. Irwin Smart. A poup of people hail assembled to w tho guests come out from tliel annual conversazione at the Scribblers' Uul>. ihey were not many i u numb r. only those specially anxious to see those ot their fellow creatures who had become more or leas celebrities, had braved the fog of a winter evening. Glimpses ito the brilliantly-lit hall showed groups of men and women talking together; the rippling sound of laughter was every now and then distinguishable when the door opened In allow of some early departure, for t,lie night was still young, and the "Scrioblers" as a rule were late birds.

A tall, dark man came slowly down the steps, his overcoat thrown open over the immaculate evening dress of the well-bred Londoner. His appearance spoke oi distinction, proclaimed him the well-bred man of the world, his face betokened individuality, his chi n alone would have been enough to toll even a casual observer that here was a man of determination, a man above his fellows. "Who is that?" said a woman in the

crowd of onlookers to her companion "looks as if he were somebody, doesn'l he?"

■'Oh, no!" was the reply, in a voi-e in which surprise and amusement were blended, " he's nobody at all, only Mrs. Mainwaring's husband!" The man coming down the steps heard distinctly what was said, and an ugly look flashed into his dark eyes. "Cab, sir?" asked an attendant stand-

ing at the door. Edward Mainwaring waved him impatiently aside; he did not feel he had the patience to drive, walking was easier, his brain felt clearer when his body was in motion. Quifckly he strode along through the gathering fog, which seemed imperceptibly to thicken as he neared the luxurious flat in Chelsea which was his destination.

The light burnt low in tlie hall as he entered.

"Your mistress not at home vet?" he said to the maid who emerged sleepiJy from the kitchen regions—rather a superfluous question, to which he hardly waited to hear the reply. " You can go to bed, I shall wait up for her myself," and he shut the dining-room door behind him.

There was not much need for him to have asked such an absurd question, lie said to himself miserably, as .he sank into one of.the luxurious chairs. Was not his wife the centre of the brilliant scene he had just left? He could close his eyes and see the tall, handsome figure, and that wonder in her face which never seemed to have left it sin;e the time of her marvellous success. Again he heard the soft voice replying to some more than usually audacious compliment from one of the group surrounding her, the music of that low sweet laugh—the same laugh she had given in those long-ago days when be knew he was all the world to her, and he had condescended to be a little losing to her—the woman who was working so hard for that success which so far seemed only somewhere in the distance, like a chimera of their imagination.

Now it had come in real earnest; tonight Mrs. Mainwaring was the guest of honour at the Scribblers' Club, the much-coveted blue ribbon of a literary woman's career. How distinctly he could remember how she looked as she stood up to answer to the toast of the evenhig—herself. The light danced in her eyes, there was a quiver about the sensitive mouth as if she were nervous, then confidence gained with utterance, and she made a] speech brilliant in wit, great in eloquence, perfect in style. And he—her husband—stood afar off. If, like Peter of old, he did not weep bitterly, it was not for want of feeling bad enough to do so, but of course appearances had to be preserved. How long they had struggled to keep up appearances in quite another way on the tiny income which was their portira before this wave of success came along! how hard they had both worked to make the pot boil—that pot with which thay so light-heartedly set up house in the days of their poverty —their youth—and whit now seemed to him—their happi-

ness, though perhaps he had not always been as considerate of her as he might! have been, as others were now. But then, of course, a man has so many worries to contend with; now he also ■was successful, to a moderate extent, r. his profession. He thanked God that at least he had not to be dependent on his wile's earnings, although to gi 'e' to him out of her scanty store in those liard-up times had always seemed a quite incomprehensible joy to the man of such a different nature. No, it wis well he had not to profit by the success which he looked on with such jealous j eyes, the success that had slowly, surely come between them like a snake in the green grass of plenty. Lately he had not even read her work. Somehow he felt angry about it, and could not hear to think of it. A copy of her last book—the one which had brought so much increase of fame—lay upon the table. He took it up, and looked at the cover. " A Flame of Eire," by Ida Mainwaring. "Mrs. Jlainwaring's husband"—again the voice came mockingly back to him, and he flung the volume back upou the table.

Yet Hiy should he not read it? it would pass the time until 'his wife returned, and, after all, it was ratlr-'r silly for the husband to be the last man to read the famous authoress's literary production. He opened the book half way through, and commenced reading with an inward protest, 'flv-and-by he forgot the lateness of the hour, the dying fire, even his unreasoning jealous}', in an absorbing interest in the book. Surely, surely, this woman knew humanity with almost an uncanny knowledge! Something wenifd oddly familiar to him in the plot, the situations of the story, a •hrase here and there sounded as if he must iliavo dreamt it; then bit by bit it all came back to him—it was their own love storv lie was reading, thc'.r brief courtship from a woman's point of View. Why had he not thought of it sooner? Of course, lie would have guessed at once, but there seemed so much added, the little frills of imagination with ■which a woman always endows what are merely episodes in some men s live?, courtship and marriage. He sup]Kised he had been as mu<" in love as most men—he remembered how her appearance fascinated him, how his heart beat quicker when he fir=t clasped her in his arms, with a lover's embrace. But still, it never appeared of much consequence, when, ow;n<T jo what seemed some more important engagement, he had frequently w break his word about meeting or coming to see her—how could he tell >■ would travc affected her as it did the woman in the book-how was ho to know women took these little things ro hardlv? Then aftcrward—lll the first, year of matrimony—he had -ometimrs called himself a fool for marrying voung; but that night be had gone tm> far to draw back and retain the honour of a gentleman, that night he had wrun„ a „ admission of affection from her trembling lips: that had, n ■> i settled the question. After all, lit had toe what seemed right in marrying lier, and, after all, perhaps it was best for a man to be married, it- kept him out of mischief. And he had a »«. ■ cared for her. of course lie had. W i-» a sudden punu' he realised that now • loved his wife a hundred tbousanl times more than in those long-.iso daVnow when it was too late. I'irst, tli hard pull of poverty brought them nearer together, in a way. then ihc which sundered their lives, now fired h heart for her with a passion he had never deemed conceivable m those daj of their early married life. He threw the book upon the table, and leant his face on his hand*. How long he had remained in this position he tow not. when he was stai tied bv I?erht touch on his shoulder. "Are vou asleep. Edward? Why <H sit un? It was foolish of you, didn't you know I always carry a la^ A tokeil of woman's independence;'■ he sneered, jumping to His head felt strange, as if he had iwikened from a dream. , prise ill her eye-. Toddv! "How funnv you are In-ni-ht. whatever is wrong with you . It struck her as a terrible ' had he been drinking? But no. I.i idea was absurd. „ I "Mrs. Mainwarmgs husband. i vornful phrase came to hnn

lash of a whip. He almost hated his wife as he looked at her in all the brave I beauty of her evening ftuery. She thr;w her sable cloak upon a chair, and came near him. "Teddy!" she said, with real alarm, "What is wrong—won't you tell we?" "This!" he cried taking iu his hands again the book he had just thrown down, and with trembling lingers opening it at the passage he had just read. 1 "llow could you make 'copy' of what' surely ought to be must sacred in a woman's heart, if she has any woman-' lines* left in her, if she is not so eaten I

tip by love of the world's admiration, so ruined by success, as to forget she is a woman*"

: "Teddy!" she cried, with growing ' terror. "What do you meant" " What do mean'; This—that von have made money out of those long-ago days when you at least pretended to love me, before this curse of success came between us." " Tllie love oil my side did not need much pretence," she said a little bitterly, " it was so horribly real, it was yours that was pretence." "Mine! how? 1 married you " '• Yes—because you were too much "f a gentleman to draw back when you had gone so far, and knew that you had won a woman's heart. But you | were merely carried away by the impulse of the moment, you never really loved 111 c. Do you think 1 didn't know, that my writing was not a oilild born of bitter birth-pangs, my success a llower watered by a woman's tears? 1 married you because 1 was so infatuated I could not help it —but 1 always knew you did not return my love. Then came those days of struggle, when 1 vowed to get on, if it were only to show you that others could appreciate lue. Slowly, surely success came —ar.d with it, as I had dreamt, your love illcreased, fanned by the flame of jealousy —the only rival you had ever known. Men never care for what thev can get easily, I became precious in your eyes only when my life became filled with an opposition power. -1 wrote that book for the first time

in my life from nature, thinking perhaps you might condescend to read it, and recognise the love we had both outlived, the love you never felt. But your jealousy was such you could not even bear to read my writing—till now—now —the night wftieh has crowned my womanhood as well as my ambition, lor now I see you have learned what love is | —too late."

"Too late?" The man looked up at her with grey, miserable eyes. " Yes—now perhaps you will understand what suffering is. Love is a liar.l, hard lesson if it is real; to love truly one has to learn humility, to strip oneself of self, as I did many a day, when I was ready to count myself of no \ccount for your sake. Ttttis you couid never do. You were angry, jealous that the world should count me of more value than you. Had you loved truly, it would only have been an unspeakable joy to you to have shared in my success."

"To love truly one has to come in all humility," he said, slowly. "Yes; many a day 1 did so to unseeing eves, laid, my heart, naked and unashamed, at the feet of your indifference. Head tihat book to the end, and

"Does it end happily?" She did not answer his question. "Does it end happily?" he repeated, taking her by the shoulders. " Read and see," was the answer, almost too low to be heard. " Ida, tell me it is not too late. I have learnt my lesson in all humility—the lesson you lhavc taught me—it is not too late" yet—my wife—my wife—" Slowly and surely crept round her, and she was . Miing against his heart. " And in future I suppose I must just be content to be 'unlv Mrs. Mai:iwaring's husband'" —lie laughed happily, after a silence too sacred to be broken. - And I proud to be Mrs. Mahrwaring!" And she looked at him with shining eyes.