LOVE AND LONELINESS.

Auckland Star, Volume LIII, Issue 246, 17 October 1922, Page 10

LOVE AND LONELINESS.

(By CORA LIN A.)

(COMPLETE STOKT.)

Barbara Maynard was fighting a battle against the hide-bound prejudices that years of loneliness had formed. Loneliness! Oh! how lonely she ha<l been; how lonely she was. And here was a chance at last to break the chains that held her to the well-appointed flat in which she lived.

Jim Carson needed her. Jim Carson wouldn't care about the unconventional side of it. He'd never give that a thought. He'd be too wretched. She heard a din from the floor below. It wag that din that decided Barbara, and with a flueh on her pale cheeks and an expression of determination in her grey eyes, she hurried downstairs. There was no need to knock, for the front door wae ajar. Barbara pushed the door wider open. and made her way across the tiny hall to the room whence the uproar came. A queer scene met her gaze. The chairs were overturned, the tablecloth had been dragged off thy table, and in the middle of the threadbare carpet Jim Carson's children were indulging in a fight.

Maggie, aged five, usually looked like a little angel with her mass of soft yellow curie and lug blue eyes, but at the present time she was far from angelic. was clutching the coat of .Tim, a small man of four, and kicking him with all ■ her might. Pity welled up in Barbara's heart for these mites. The woman who had borne them had allowed them to grow up like wild things, while she pursued that elusive thing called "Pleusure."

For Eileen (arson had left her hueband for another man. It was common knowledge in the flats. Everyone had seen it coming—except Jim Carson.

Swiftly Barbara crossed the floor and. laying a hand on each combatant, pulled them apart. They stood panting and staring up at her. Kut baby qmrrels are transitory things, and Barbara had a wonderful wav with children.

Presently that awful din had givwn place to a quietness that was broken only by Barbara's soft musical voice, as, seated on the floor. Jim on one- Bide of her. Maggie on the other, and an arm around each, 6 he told a thrilling tale. Maggie loved to lie cuddled, anil the pretty mummy who had suddenly disa.ppeared from her horizon had never seemed to have time to cuddle her. Jim. the younger, listened with breathless interest.

It was thus that Jim Carson found them.

He wae a tall man of thirty-three, but the lines upon his careworn face made him look older. Already his broad shoulders were a trifle bowed. Vet Jim Carson had been one of the emarie.-t. b»st-looking officers in the Royal Air Force, when pretty, eelfieh. irresponsible Eileen Thorp had taken his heart by storm. Th«re wfts strength in the fine, clean lines of hi* well-cut mouth, and his eyes, vividly blue, had a charm all their own.

At first he scarcely recognised the girl with the Huehed face, but in a moment he realised that it wa? the rather dowdy Miss Maynard, who lived in the flat above.

Maggie jumped up with a eliril! cry of welcome, and flew to his arms.

Barbara scrambled to her feet, and now her cheeks were crimson with confusion. She ep~bke in quick, uneven tones.

"Mr. Carson—will you forgive mc? I simply had to come. I've wanted to come for days. The dear children looked #o lost, and— —" She broke off awkwardly. "Say it, please. Miss Maynard—uncared for! They are, poor little beggars."' Jim answered, with infinite bitterness. Barbara Maynard laid her hand on the man's arm and raised her wistful eyes to hie. "Mr. Carson, may 1 look after them?" The man stared at her incredulously. He knew that she lived alone now, that her mother had been an invalid, and that while other girls were enjoying themselves she had been her mother's nurse and constant companion. Then the old lady had died. Xow that ehe was free she wanted to take care of another woman's children. It was quver, Carson's experience of women had not inclined him to understand self-sacrifice.

"Jove! it's mighty gooil of you." hi stammered, "but they are young demons. "They'll drive you crazy."

Barbara laughed. "Oh, no. they won't; I'm sure I could make them like mc. I just love them. I've always wanted kiddies to look after," she explained, and there was a queer little break in her voice.

The flat to which Jim Careon returned each evening was a very different place from tlie one lie had come to that fateful day when he had found Barbara. There were always fresh flowere on the table in the dining room, and a dainty meal spread for the tired man.

But perhaps what had changed most of all was Barbara herself. She did her hair differently, co that instead of being screwed up it fell into ite own pretty waves. She dressed better, too. But it wasn't her hair, or the fact that she took pains with her clothes, that made her so different. She had found a place in the hearts of another woman's children. She had found happiness.

And Jim Carson—what place did he take in her scheme of things? She did not analyse her feelings in regard to Jim— she just knew that when he was near her the world seemed a brighter place.

She glanced at the cloc> in the dining room. He would be here in five minufes. She usually stayed to greet him: to see that, he had everything he wanted; to chat awhile before she said "good night" and returned to her own rooms. Thia evening ehe had put on a new gown of a delicate shade of blue grey tlrat fell in clinging folds.

In the centre of the table was a vase of crimson roses. Barbara took one of the blooms and pinned it on her dress. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and smiled. But gradually the smile faded, and panic swept into her big grey eyes. Knowledge had come to her in a blinding flash.' She loved Jim Carson. She had dressed to-night to please him— another woman's man.

With a moan of anguish she covered her faw. She couldn't meet Jim tonight; site must fight this thing out. She went out of the room and across th« little hall. As she fumbled with the lock of the front door, she heard a email piping voice calling to her from the children's bedroom. With faltering steps she turned away from the door and went to answer the summons. Maggie, eitting np in bed, stretched out her chubby arms. "Barbie, was you gotn' home and not comin' in to give Maggie a cuggle 'fore you went!" ehe asked reproachfully.

Barbara's eyes were wwt as she picked un the child. "Sweetheart, Barbie forgot," she said, awkwardly.

"Barbie mustn't forget no more. Maggie loves her, and Maggie can't sleep nice unless Barbie kisses her good night."' Barbara stumbled up the stairs to her flat, blinded by her tears. When she readied the drawing room she went over to the window, and, dropping to her knees, pressed her burning forehead against the "lass. Presently the door opened. Barbara rose hurriedly. Martha —the elderly servant, who had been her- childhood's nurse—ushered .Jim Carson into the room. He strode towards her, hands outstretched.

"Barbara, why did you run away, old girl?"' lie said. "But how fine you look! Perhaps you were going out with friends? Was that it—you couldn't wait for mc to-night?" 'No. I'm not going out with friends, .Jim," Barbara answered, jerkily. "But everything's going on well now, and Ellcii runs the place so wonderfully that I thought perhaps you'd not want mc pottering about so much." .Mm 1 cgardt.il Her Willi eyes in which lhere was n wistful exure-sinn. - I am afraid we've lieen an awful bother to you. The children were young fiends until you took them ill hand. I'm sorry I didn't realise what a nuisance we must be. Of course, you warn a l*ii iiimic i-iuv to Yourself," htf said, ruefully.

"Jim—don't!" Tlio iry was torn from her by a power stronger than herself. The man's hands rested upon her shoulder*.

"Barbara!" he said, hoarsely. And then she was in his arms, sobbing.

Presently she drew herself away"What must you think of mc?" she asked, pitifully. "I'm a bad woman." A tender, whimsical smiie played about the corners of the man's mouth.

"Are you a bad woman. Barbara*" , he said, and there wa- a i]iieer thrill in the tones. '•Thank Heaven for sik-li--bad women. Oh. my dear. Why didn't I meet you earlier? Barbara, 1 love you, 1 love voil."

She took his face between her hand* and gazed at him. "You love mc. Jim It seems too wonderful to l>. , true."

-Barbara, I went to my lawyer to-day. lie's starting divorce That's why I haven't spoken before I wanted to come to you and say, I am free. Bar baraj will \ou be my wife'; , " "Your wife —Jim. your wife." lie kissed her gently. Barbara Maynard hummed a tune to herself as .-he dressed. Then she regarded herself critically in the lookingglass. What a wonderful beautilier love >vus! It panned liio ciieek.- and linglitened the eyes, li softened the imprint of the years.

Then- were piling to t'.ie theatre tonight, and (hen to -upper at the Savoy, in honour of her birthday.

She lUt.-ned tajH-rly ior .li.ii. And then she heard footsteps. -lini"* footsteps. Oil, yes, tliev were hi< all ri>;lit —she could never mistiiko them. Hut they wore slow, dragging. h< , i-iuiK' into the mom. and when siic aaw hi> whitr. drawn face, something clutched at her heart. "Jim," sin , whispcH'd. "Tell me — what is it ?'' He came across the lluor and stood beside her. "Kilppii," lie answered, hoarsely. "'.She—she wants to come home."' Barbara's form stiilVncd; hor features grpw hard and sot: her fingers clenched. The woman who had left her husband and children without a thought—wanted to come homo. Homo! VViirl rigiit had she to ea.ll it homo?

'-ITave you i-oine to tell mc that you have decided not to "o on with tiie divorce—that you want her back?" -he asked, painfully.

A groan left thr man's dry lips. "Barbara, don't torture mc." lie cried. He held a crumpled sheet of paper towards her.

"Head that: ,, Nlie took it. It fluttered in hrr shak iujr lingers.

And then, before >he could read it the man's hands dosed hard upon hers. In a voice hoarse and broken, lit- said: '•Barbara, 1 love you. I shall always love you. It is for you to decide. I never really cared for her. Tt was just a mad infatuation for a pvettv fae». Perhaps if [ had loved her .I'd have understood her better: perhaps she would never have <rone away. That's till' awful thought. Barbara. Perhaps the fault wasn't all her*—and she's the! mother of mv children.''

'•The mother of my children." The words were like b!ow s u]ion Barbaras heart. And then she read that lettvr. It ran: — Jim.—How dare I write to you ? Hut I mu>t because I am a coward and T'm afraid. We had a 'mash-up—Tom* ear ran into another. Tom wasn't hurt, but I Rball he a cripple for the rest A my life- and he's left mc c-Hians 1 don't deserve a better fate. m>, i loved him.

I'm bad. 1 know, but for the jake of old times, for the kiddie>" sake pity mc. . . . I'd love to sec Mairgie and Jim. . . T see them in my dreams. Jim, let mc come home.—Ki'ren.

For a lonjr time Barbara sto.irl quite still. Jim liar! sa.id that it was for her to decide. Kileen's futo hung in tlie balance. And Barbara, what of heri She who would be quite alone afrain?

Her eyr's c'oserl, her lips moved, and the man knew that she was praying. Slowly. deliberately, with fineers that were quite steady now. Barbara folded up the letter and gave it back to the man. She met his gaze squarely, and her eves werp bright with unshod tears.

"Jim—perhaps the ki ldie= will help her not to mind «o much— beina; a ! cripple when she romp? homo." A queer, hoarse sound rame from Tim Carbon. '"Barbara! What a woman you are!" Slip took hi* qtiivprinc face between her hand*, and look".) at it as one storing a precious memory. "•Tim. kiss mc. good-bye " His arms closed around her. • • « Slowly Barbara Maynanl walked along the glaring pavement. The hot afternoon sun bent down upon nor mercilessly, and she was tired, so tired. A year had gone by -lnce she had passed out of Jim Carson's lifo. Shp had not seen or hward of him since, for ehe had given uy» her flat and left London. At last work ha,l come her way. and to-morrow she was starting for a missionary station in' India. She had come to say good-bw to oil) haunts. Had Jim forgotten? Men were different from women, and time dulled the keenest edge of pain. She stood in the friendly shelter of a portico, gazing at the familiar block of flats. ' And then her hand went to her breast A sudden faintness overcame her as she saw a figure emerge from the entrance.

It was Jim (arson. Older, more stooping, grey at his temples, but lim, her .Jim. lie was quite close to her now. He had not seen her. for liis gaze wan fixed upon tho pavement. She watched him go his way through a blur of tears. And then he looked back and caw Barbara gazing after him. For a second lie stood staring, as though afraid to believe the evidence of his senses. Then he came back almost fearfully, and in a moment her shaking hands were clasped iv his. "Barbara." ".Jim —oh, my dear, why did you look back? It would have been easier for us il" you hadn't." '•Barbara, where have you bevn hid ing? I've searched and searched." "I'm sailing for India to-morrow, •Jim." she said, jerkily. "India! Barbara, now that I've found you. <lo you think I'll over hit you go again?" ho cried, exultantly. "'•Jim,'' she whispered. 'What —what do you mean?'' ''That I'm Iree. Kileen died just a month after she came home.'' For a time neither spoke. It was a silent requiem for the soul of the sinner who had passed over. And tlo-n. with a little quivering sigh. P.arbara slipped her arm through his! "I—l want to see Maggie and Jim. I,et"s go to them." And side by side they made their way up the, familiar stairs.