The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXI, Issue 24, 11 June 1903, Page 23

The Storyteller

A WIFE'S REPENTANCE

' Roses, roses nil the wav ' ; for it was summer at Rostrevor, with a haze of heat hanging over the tremulous radiance of meadows, and over the billowy sweep ot hills, divided by the blue waters of the lough, wheicon yachts lay at anchor, with here and there a boat slowly swinging to and fro with the lazy \va\es. A little wav back from the road which winds from Hostrevor to Killowen was a pretty cottage, with a tangle of musk at its door, and a wilderness of frivolous poppies tossing gaudy heads at the llickering butterflies. Slowly along its narrow path, and languidly as if exhausted by the heat, a young man walked, bearing the insignia of his prolession, a sketch-book, under his ttum. He was tall and pale ; his cheeks had fallen away from dark, hollouv eyes ; his lips had a melancholy curve ; his hands were thin and bloodless ; and a sharp line, as of acute pain, dnidcd his fine black brows. The cottage door being open, he entered with still reluctant step and many a backward glance at the exterior loveliness, which contrasted painfully enough with the interior disorder. He seemed suddenly to find himself in a region of ' penny novelettes ' and unmended stockings, their monotony varied by an overturned vase ol laded ilowei\s, whence trickled a sluggish stream of green water ; a soiled tablecloth was Hung across one end of the table, which was further adorned with a can of sardines (a fork, sticking in them), a stale lovaf, a dusty dish of ' pitiful-hearted butter that melts at the sweet face of the sun.' Gerald looked askance at this tempting lunch, and examined the cupboard, only to share the fate of Mother Hubbard , ho shrugged his shoulders and walked out again. Hot and tuod though he was, Hacked with headache and an unquenchable thirst, he preferred to be out of doors. There was little charm at home. Oh, the bitter irony of the word ! He walked slowly on, his drooping shoulders telline: of fatigue , and at length he Hung hansel! on the grass at the 1 oadside, gazing at the hills, which now seemed to be reeling away from him, now closing in. Behind him, hidden by a golden mass of gorse and broom, a woman was sitting with a crumpled journal m her lap. She was young and pretty, but her fair hair, on which the sunshine laid a hand ol light, was unkempt and disorderly ; the lace on her print gown was carefully secured here and there with pins, and one shoe uaa tied with a bit of tape. Iloanng footsteps, .she noiselessly raised herself, surveyed her husband, lrowned. and resumed her reading ; whilst he, quite unconscious of her proximity, blessed Cod (or sky and sea and air From Killowcn a lady young. beautilul. with a sunshade that seemed made of pink foam and a gown that expressed the last most dainty caprice ol fashion, was strolling As she passed Gerald she glanced at him — carelessly at lirst, then more intently — then stopped with a startled utterance of his name , and he sprang to his feet, both hands outstretched ' Laura, Laura r Is it possible ? My dear, dear Laura ' ' The unseen watcher, peering out, beheld in either face a rapture of amaze, delight, affection. E\eiy word reached her strained and eager ears. ' To think ol meeting you hei o ! ' said Laura, with an air of bew'ildei ment " Oh, I am painting some local scenes for a "Helfast merchant-pi mcc ' It seems much moie wonderful that you should be here ' 'We are yachting — my husband and I,' she replied 'We sailed into Carhngloi d the other night. 'Wo are now staving at Killowen ' ' I ne\er heard of your mariiage,' lie said, with a faint sigh ' 1 hope you are \ cry happy 9 ' ' As the day is lon#. lie— my own especial he— is Colonel Desmond, of the Twenty-Fifth Hussars You shall hear the whole romance another lime. Just now $ want to hear all about voursell 1 have nc\er seen \oii nor heard of jou since your mai l l.igc five veais ago Gerald, 1 did tiy so haid to find you. 1 wiote, I advertised in vain' When I heaid that you had been disinherited and sent away because of v our mariiage, I was most miserable Why didn't you write to me, Get aid ? ' 1 There were leasons ' he answered, with constraint 1 T was cut adrift from all my old associations , your way and mine were very far apait.' •You aie changed,' she. said 'I hope tilings have gone well with vo'u ° ' His lace was white and h>( , he looked at the sliining hilltops, and the secret listener caught her lip and held her breath for his reply. 'We have been very poor, Laura M"y wife was an o.rphan, quite friendless and alone. T cultivated my one talent as best I coj.ild. and we got on fairly well for a time. Then our child died, and somehow my powers failed and my pictures didn't sell I can tell you theio are times when the world seems \o\y empty ' 'You have your wife.' said Laura, softly (and the wife's face fell crimson on her hands) , 'and you must have loved hvr very dearly to give up everything for ner — home and friends and prospects. But you are looking very ill and worn You were never fitted for " roughing it." dear I think if he could see you now he would relent and lw glad that he had you still to brighten his solitary old ape.' • I can not seek him, Laura uhen baby died 1 wrote to him, crushing my pndc lor my sick wile's sake,

and he returned the letter without the smallest word of human sympathy. An only son might have some right to that— but— but— of course I married in direct opposim°' n of°the S w i eS| » and should not murmur over the payThere was a troubled look in Laura's eyes, a nervous quiver in her voice that told of grave anxiety ' Y,oii must come with us, Gerald, and bring your wne Ihink of all the good the cruise would do you ! And mv husband has influence which he can and will use or you. 1 want to see your wife, to know her, to be kind to her if 1 may.' A^ strange expression crossed Gerald's face. Was it fear or shame or what ? Very reluctantly he told her where he lived, and again she gave him both hands. 1 shall call this evening, Gerald, then,' she said : and he turned to walk with her along the sunny road Gerald's .wife, rising to, her knees, strained her wild eyes after the graceful figure of the sweet-voiced woman ' She might have been his wife, perhaps, but for me !' she muttered ' And to think he gave up everything— home and father and friends— for me!' Then she fell down and gave way to a fit of passionate sobbing, knowing m her inmost heart that she had been a drag upon him— a curse instead of a blessing to the, man wno had sacrificed all for her, whose way had seldom or never been brightened by helpful, encouraging words or wifely sympathy from her. Her reproaches and her constant complaints had been not the least of the burdens he had silently borne. She went home pensively, shutting herself in the bedroom to bathe her tear-stained face. Her own dishevelled aspect, contrasted with the refined daintiness of Laura, struck painlully home to her. On the dressingtable lay a flask, round which her fingers closed convulsively , but with a blush she laid it down, and, shuddering, turned away. Her glance fell upon a small rosewood box, and, after a slight hesitation, she opened it lhere were some llowers— funeral flowers from a wreath long withered— a little frock, and a tiny blue shoe down-trodden at the heel, much rubbed at the toe. Well, the restless little feet were quiet enough now I It seemed that to Isabel that in one swift flash her whole life passed before her— all her lonely, neglected girlhood, into whose monotony Gerald had come like a star Hashing into a dark sky ; and she saw him as at Jirst, the light-hearted young artist, the constant lover ; then the quiet, saddened husband. But never until today had she known what his marriage had cost him ; ne\er before had she known that for love of her he had lor lei ted so much— lor her, the unworthy ! He had kept his sacrifice a secret ; and, with shame and humiliation, she thought of her bitter reproaches for his inability speedily to achieve fame and fortune. She contrasted his steady work, his unchanging care for her, with her own slothfulness and neglect of him — and worse. After the child's death she had been weak and lowspin ted, and she had had recourse to stimulants instead of to prayer The craving, once created, had grown upon her, and tho Inghtful habit threatened to bind her body and soul ; the most terrible blight was hovering o\cr her youth and beauty, over brain and mind and will lUit the ghost of her former self was before her side by side with his ; and it seemed as if from the grave and the quiet, green earth to-day a little hand was stretched to save her from herself ; as if those tiny fingeis pointed to what had been, what was, and what still might be. The love of her girlhood, the graces of her couitship, reawakened in her heart ; a whole tide of pain and remorse and fondness swept towards him who had stood between her and the unkind world, an angel of tender strength and protection ; enduring with patience, lot-giving with generosity; hoping all things, believing all things ; and she clasped her hands in a very agony of pia.ver for help, for grace, for strength. When she went in search of Gerald she found him 1\ ing on the couch in the dismal sitting-room. She saw with a. pang the whiteness and sharpness of his features, the heaviness and hollowness of his eyes. Was her punishment to be a repentance come too late ? ' ' Geiald, are you ill? ' ' 1 don't feel veiy well, 'dear. Perhaps it is the heat. But you have been crying. What is the matter?' She knelt beside him, her hand on his burning head. ' Gerald, 1 was out to-day, and I heard all that you said to " Laura " Neither of you saw me, and I saw and heaid everything. Oh, I never knew that I was the cau^e ol the estrangement between you anci your father ! 1 thought it was an old quarrel, and you never told mo any thing of your family and your home.' ' Why should I ° I did not want you to think that my father was haid or unk.ind, or to tell you of his piejudico against you, whom he had never seen.' ' You never should have given up what you did for me : lam not worth it. Oh, why did you — why did you > 1 was, 1 am, utterly beneath you. Why didn't you tell that lady that I had been your curse, your gieatest enemy Theio was no reason why you should have spaied me She is willing to help you, and you must leave me and save yourself. You have lost enough alieady through me.' ' l">o you really wish me to leave you, Tsabel ? * The young wife shuddered, turned pale, and gasped forth • • Yes ' ' ' And who will take care of you if I go away ? No, Tsabel : I shall stay with you and strive for you until death do us part.' There was a pause, durinor which she wept bitterly— tearsof a strange, shamed gladness. IHflßfliMlttilflßSiSittH&K&^rß' ••■»-•- *15SS!(SS I PBSiSS ! <?W* a BOTN tm

v, m YoU *u O r T how weak I w am ' Gerald. But I will show you that lam sorry, grateful, loving. I will win your forgiveness if I can. Tell me just one thing : have you never regretted — Laura ? ' 'Laura? She is my sister. After mother's death she lived with an aunt in Paris, and did not know ot my marriage until it had taken place and father had cast me off, as he had threatened. She is coming here tonight ; so dry those eyes, love.' But when Laura did come it was to find her brother in the delirium of fever, and Isabel in a half-distracted state. She had neither eyes nor ears nor thought for any one but him, and she answered Laura's questions at random. ' Oh, if only the doctor would come ! ' she cried ' I have sent for him. Why isn't he here ? ' ' I will send again for him.,' said Laura, soothingly ; and there was another for whom she also would send The unhappy wife pleaded with all the fervor of her heart that this one dear life might be spared, that the possibility of reparation might still be left to her ; and was so praying when a tall old gentleman entered, and, approaching the bedside, uttered an inarticulate sound of pity and dismay. • Oh, doctor ! ' she cried, ' you don't think he will die ? He must get better ! You must save him ! ' ' You— yem are his wife ? ' ' Yes ; and his illness is all my fault. He has killed himself working for me. He has gone without necessaries lest I should want. Do you know, Doctor, we had a little child — a dear little girl— and she died. Oh, I cannot lose him too ! Oh, don't tell me that the only one in the world who loves me — who truly loves me — will be taken from me ! ' ' Hush, hush ! You will be ill yourself next,' he said, answering with difficulty. And Laura, who had re-entered, and down whose cheeks the tears were r/unning, gently laid her hand on the woman's arm. ' Come with me,' she said. But Isabel resisted. 'No ; I must watch him, I must nurse him ; she answered wildly. 'If you wish to help him you must be calm and composed. Come with me, and when we return the doctor will tell us what is to be done.' She half forced the girl from the room, and then, smoothed her hair and bathed' her face, and made her swallow some soup, speaking all the while hopefully and reassViringly. ' Now be brave, Isabel ! ' she urged. ' Perhaps his recovery may depend on your fortitude.' The fairy gloaming crept over the hills, and a wind, soft and faint as a human sigh, rippled the waters and lost itself amid the grass and clover ; a single star hung high above Cloughmore. The birds came and went without a sound. One almost seemed to hear the 'Peace be still.' When they returned to the sick room, a dark, wiry little man with eyeglasses was talking in a low voice to the grey-haired gentleman who had come first ' T am Doctor Power,' he observed, addressing Isabel. ' I think, you had better have a trained nurse, Mrs Boyle.' ' You are the doctor ? Then who is this ? she asked . ' I am Gerald's father,' said the elder gentleman. ' I came to Killowen to meet my daughter and her husband, and from her 1 learned of Gerald's state.' Isabel's head dropped in pathetic humility. Doctor Power, glancing from one to the other, withdrew 'He has suffered much,' said Isabel, sadly. ' I am the cause of the quarrel — the coldness between you, sir Say what you wish to me : I deserve it I was ne^er worthy of your son ' ' Ah, my poor girl, you have enough to bear without harsh words! I have been hard, unjust— how teinblv so I did not realise until Laura told me of my boy's altered looks. May God spare him to us! ' Then began for Isabel the long anxiety that attends the sick-bed of a dear one— now hope, now fear in the ascendant ; with thoughts ever rushing back, to the days of old when the great Physician walked on earth, and health and healing followed His gracious footsteps. Slowly Gerald's consciousness returned and the fever left him, 'but wasted to a skeleton and weak as a child. Ono day Isabel was sitting in her usual place beside him. when his dark eyes unclosed to recognise the grey-haired old man who had shared many of his young wife's vigils and all of her suspense. ' Father ! ' he faltered. ' Yes it is I Will you come back to me. Gerald, my son, 'and let the past be forgotten? Will you bring your wife, to the old home ? ' . With an effort Gerald drew Isabel's head down to his shoulder, and then extended his hand to his father. Strong and warm was the returning clasp. They realised at length, each heart through its own bitterness, that life is too short and death too sure and eternity too near for anything save loving kindness.—' Aye Maria