THE MOTHER

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXVI, Issue 22, 4 June 1908, Page 3

THE MOTHER

(Concluded from last week). Raymond went on, lost in 1 the mazes of his own beautiful dream : 'If you could only see her and know her, you would realise what taste she has, what wonderful in--telligence. She gives a charm to all she "touches. Her toilets, always simple, are perfect. Her fairy fingers could transform the most unattractive room. When she arranges flowers in a vase, she groups them with the eye and hand of a painter. Those violets, now, she would — ' He did not finish the sentence ; some bright thought, some reminiscence of his adored, interposed and carried him away. But- the mother had seen the stray glance that had wandered with involuntary cruelty of comparison, to the table in the centre of which stood the stiff little bouquet of violets, the flowers crowding each other, surrounded by their regular collarette of green leaves, and they seemed to her, as they did to him, things of vulgarity and ugliness. What a pity that between their petals, between those blossoms so inartistically arranged, the painter could not see the poetry, the love that had made them that day, to one poor, lonely heart, the expression of joy, gratitude, long-delayed happiness ! Why could he not divine that in the pure, delicate perfume that filled the room they adorned, there was something more than the aroma of violets ? He had rudely plucked the flower of joy from his mother's heart— poor mother, who had still so much to suffer ! The frosty night, spangled with stars, smiled serenely down upon the sleeping city. It was a time of respite, when men, forgetting the cares of the day, slumbered peacefully ; when suffering souls, unable to sleep, hid their anguish in the pitying darkness. Heedless of the icy .cold of the February night, the widow wept and prayed at the foot of her narrow bed. Her joy had been short-lived indeed ! ' My God,' she murmured, ' help me to support this blow ! I thought myself unhappy before the good news came, and then I believed Raymond's heart was all my own. Why did he tell me to-night— to-night, when we could have been so happy together ? As he spoke, it was as one talking to himself ; I was outside of it ; I was not included in his dream, not even in his happiness, A stranger has taken my place. I am banished ! Forgive me, Omy God— forgive me ! We mothers are egoists. The day was sure to come. Why should I be so selfish ? How can I be ?It is only natural that he should wish to marry. And yet how was it that I never suspected what was passing in his mind ? I might have prevented it. But no : I could not have done so. The last time we were at Fon-taine-Vielle, Madeleine's grandmother told me she knew the little one loved my boy. Madeleine, the richest heiress in the town, and so' sweet, so loving, so pious! It would have been an ideal marriage in every way. And now this stranger ! Alas ! Alas ! ' For a moment longer she knelt, her face hidden in her hands. Then she rose softly and went on tiptoe to her son's room. He was quietly sleeping. She pushed the long hair from his forehead, and, bending, softly kissed him. A tear fell, but it did not wake him. The mother stole away as quietly as she had come. After two or three days, Raymond brought his fiancee to see his mother. Madame Lestrade, who had been informed of her coming, was preparing some slight refreshment in the kitchen when she arrived. The door was slightly ajar. She could hear the frou-frou of silken skirts, the tones of a high, clear voice, unconconscious of ' its own carrying powers ; could fancy the quick, penetrating gaze flashing from place to place as the words left the thin red lips. ' Ah, how old-fashioned, Raymond ! And how clean r I can already describe to you how the little mother looks. And I am sure she loves every piece of furniture almost as well as she does you. . How glad she will be to take it all back with" her to Threuil ! ' She heard no more,, though more was said. Her poor head, low bent over the chocolatiere, began to throb as though it would burst. ' Back with her to Threuil ! ' So it had all been arranged : they had taken it as a matter of course that she would return to Threuil. They had not consulted her— had not asked her if she would have preferred a little corner in the new household. She was not necessary to them ; they did not take her into their scheme of life at all. Then Raymond came into tke kitchen, and, laying

his hand affectionately on her shoulder, said in a ioyful tone : ' Mother, Artemise is here. Come in ! ' She followed him, all the kindness and hospitality of her nature rising to"' her gentle eyes, all the dignity of her fine, steadfast character asserting itself in her quiet manner. They 'were soon gone again. When they had departed, Madame Lestrade opened the window. She did not like the odor of patchouli ; it seemed to her vulgar. After putting back the chairs from the table and removing the cups and saucers, she went to her own room. It seemed to her that she must throw herself upon her bed and remain there till they carried her back to Fontaine-Vielle, to rest beside her husband. But her tear-brimmed eyes fell upon a picture of the Sorrowful Mother at the foot of the Cross, and she knelt before it. And it seemed to her she could hear a voice from that cruel bed of death saying to her : ' Come to Me, poor soul ! 1 am the consolation of those who sufier, because I have suffered. I will take care of thee and protect thee, though all the world forsake thee. I will never abandon thee. When thou art faint and weary with the burden of life and its sorrows, I will lift them from thy -shoulders. Take up thy cross and follow Me. I will give thee comfort and peace.' And Mary's eyes also were full of hope and compassion. ' Ah, my crucified Saviour,' she cried, ' I will bear patiently the cross Thou hast laid upon me ! Mother of Sorrows, be my Mother also. But thou— thou hadst St. John, and I shall have no one ! ' Sobs shook her bosom and the tears fell fast. But the outburst relieved her. She no longer thought of abandoning herself to grief. Raymond must not see her tear-stained eyes, he must not know that she suffered. She bathed her eyes in clear cold water, smoothed her hair, and began to prepaie dinner. When it was ready, a messenger brought word that her son would -not be home ; he was dining with the Loriziers. She went early to bed. The next morning Raymond remarked : ' Artemise is lovely, isn't she, mother ? ' ' She is very attractive,' was the reply. ' I hope you will be happy, Raymond.' ' There is no doubt of it. Our tastes and ideas are alike, our -ue\vs of life the same. Our happiness will be ideal.' ' God grant it ! When do you think of marriage?' 'In about three months. We are already looking about for a flat. We want to be entirely suited. We enjoy it so much, going about so. Artemise has exquisite tasic. We are picking up furniture here and there already.' ' Three months ? That will be May. We left Fon-taine-Viclle in May ; it is beautiful then. I shall be glad to see the spring at Threuil once more.' ' I can imagine how happy you will be in the old house, among your old friends and the familiar places. What a blessed change it will be for you, mother ! ' ' I hope so,' she rejoined. Her voice, in spite of herself, was cold. ' I shall go before— before, Raymond. 1 ' Yes, perhaps that will be better. We shall be so busy just then. But you must come to us every year, at least, for a visit ; and we may go down to Threuil sometime for our vacation.' She did not reply. Ho went on eating his roll without looking at her. He was not thinking of her at all ; he had not even observed the coldness of her tones, which she had striven in vain to make pleasant. He was entirely absorbed in himself and his great happiness. Taking his hat, he went briskly away, humming a tune. She thought her heart would freeze within her bosom. In April the mother returned to Threuil. The house there was her only source of income. Raymond did not speak to her of money, and she did not mention it. She sold a few things, which left her but little ready cash. In the back garden of the old house there was a cottage of two rooms, formerly inhabited by the schoolteacher, an old maid, who had left it in fairly good condition, and had kept it very clean. In this cottage she established herself with her beloved goods and chattels, and adjusted herself to the new life. After a while she began to feel comparatively happy. She had been there nearly two years, when, seated one afternoon near the fire with her knitting, she heard a knock at the door. She opened it ; a tall, large, prosperous-looking woman stood before her. They fell into each other's arms. ' ' Eugenic ! - ' Melanie ! ' each exclaimed joyously. ' But come in— come in from the March wind ! ' cried Madame Lestrade. When they were seated together by the fire, she said : ' And so you have returned

from America ? They told me you were expected. And is it to stay ? ' llt is to stay. I have always longed for home, but Armand would not come. Since he died, I have waited only to put my affairs in order. And here I am ! ' ' You have not changed, except to grow 1 stouter and a little gray. Life has gone well with you, Eugenic ? ' ' Yes, thank God ! But you, dear one ? ' ' I have suffered— yes. But now, in the evening of my days, I am content.' ' Content, yes. But are you happy ? ' ;' Is happiness for old people, Eugenic ? I question it. 'It ought to be. But why are you not with your son, for whom you sacrificed everything, whom you idolized ? ' ' I sacrificed nothing unusual. The life of a mothpr must be a perpetual sacrifice. Paris was always distasteful to me. This is home.' < ' But Raymond wanted you ? ' Under the merciless scrutiny of the eyes of her old fiiend, Madame Lestrade's eyes fell. She remembered that Eugenic was not easily deceived. 1 AVell— no,' she answered slowly. ' Nowadays young people prefer to be alone. Apartments are small and rents high in Paris, Eugenic. They are fond of life too, and of amusements ; both artists, both gay. I should have been out of place in their menage. Raymond knew that as well as I. It is natural.' ' I see. Is she nice, the wife ? ' ' Very nice, though different from the girls of Fon-taine-Vielle.' ' Naturally. Pity he did not marry one of ours ! Little Madeleine now ! They tell me she would have taken him.' ' Perhaps. But Raymond would never have been content to live here, and Madeleine is not the kind of girl Parisian life would, suit. She would have been out of place there. I fully realise that now, though at fust I was disappointed.' ' They come to see you ? ' 'No : their vacations have to be spent, they say, where they can find material for future work. Of course they arc not rich, those two.' ' But he has a fine salary, has he not ? ' ' Oh, yes.' ' Does he send you money ? It is the interest of an old friend and playmate, Melanie.' ' No,' lcpliod Madame Lestrade, lifting her head. ' I do not need it, Eugenic. I have my fixed income, which io quite enough.' ' The income of Threuil ! ' responded Eugenic, almost contemptuously. ' Yes, and it is quite enough.' ' Fur this little hut, yes. I have come to take you out of it.' ' To take me out of it ? ' ' Yes. You arc coming to live with me. ' I have bought your old home. I always liked it, as you know. I bought it five yeais ago.' ' And kept it waiting ? ' ' And kept it waiting— for myself at least, and I confess I had a hope it was for you also. Melanie, I have never had a child, and right glad of it lam ; for I know something of the ingratitude of children, especially sons.' ' Don't, Eugenic— don't, if you love me ! ' said Madame Lestrade ' I cannot bear it.' ' You poor thing ! ' said kind-hearted Eugenic, folding her friend in her strong warm embrace. Madame Lestrade sobbed, but she was comforted. Some one still loved her, then. She was no longer abandoned, no longer to be alone ! ' Ah, but you are good, Eugenic ! ' she murmured, as they wept together ; and the other woman felt how sad and empty the life of her old friend had been until this hour. ' I good ? ' said Eugenic. 'No:I am of the earth, earthy. I love fine clothes, a fine house, a fine table— all creature-comforts that I can have. But within bounds, af course. But you, Melanie— you are a heroine, you are a saint.' Madame Lestrade smiled feebly— the ghost of the smile that had irradiated her sweet old face the day of the violets. ' A heroine ? A saint ? ' she repeated. c Nothing like that, my dear faithful friend : I am only a mother.'—' Aye Maria.'

Never neglect a bad cold or cough ; there is no • knowing what it may develop into. Take TUSSICURA (Wild Cherry Balm).