MARRIED OR SINGLE

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 240, 10 October 1934, Page 18

MARRIED OR SINGLE

K. F. Brodrick

/' Author of N. I / "Through Deep \ Waters," "Against N. the Wall," / N. etc / ! V S

CHAPTER XXXIII. Stephen Hale's play was produced, and was a great success, and on the lirst night, after the third act, when the young author was callcd to face the cheering of the audience, he felt the greatest moment of his life had arrived. For this he had toiled all these months. His face, as lie came forward to bow, was tense and white, and Sylvia, looking down from a box, saw he was trembling with emotion. Before the play began she had sent round a little note, asking for a message, and telling him where she was going to sit, and before the audience would let him go Hale turned and looked towards hen She was leaning forward a little with the light falling on her face, and with her eyes full of admiration. For a second or two he gazed at her very intently, then a little smile came as greeting. "Selfish pig," said Rose Hadley to herself as she sat beside Sylvia. "He likes to think she has witnessed all this rotten cheering. These people think him, a wonderful fellow, of course, though, personally, I can't see anything in the silly emotional stuff. Would they cheer, I wonder, if they knew how lie's treated her?" A few minutes later a note was handed into the box. It was from Stephen. "This is the moment for which I have toiled all these months," he wrote. "And the end is triumph. Forgive .me if, to you, I have seemed unkind, Sylvia, and tell me where we can meet to-night." Sylvia held the note in burning hands. At last Stephen was finding a little time for her. For a moment or two her heart grew rebellious (it had been so hateful, the way he had treated her), but as she thought again of that emotional and deathly pale face she had just seen again after all these months, and of the great triumph, which she now almost wished to share, she began to think only of how she had been longing to see Stephen and to speak to him again.

"The boy's "waiting for an answer, Sylvia," whispered Rose in her ear. "Let's see the note, may 11" She took it, and qnickly read it through. "Slightly condescending, isn't it? I'm going on to a dance with your little Miles friend who's coming round here for me, so why not have the great man to my flat and have a jaw with him?" "May I?" Sylvia gave a little gasp. "Thank you," and she scribbled a few words on the back of an envelope, and told the boy to give it to Mr. Hale. At the end of the play there was another stupendous burst of approval from the audience, and Stephen came forward to bow again, but this time he hardly looked at the audience. With his whole heart in his eyes, he turned towards the box wlierfe his wife sat. "The poisonous little viper," said Rose to herself, biting her lips in vexation. "If he puts on those sort of dying lover's eyes we may be done." "Who can she be ?" asked several members of the audience, as they noticed Hale's acknowledgment of the lovely woman who sat, wrapt with admiration, in the box. "Can he be in love with her? She may be his wife, perhaps. She is very, very beautiful, anyway." With a heart full of expectation and a little fear, Sylvia rose to go. CHAPTER XXXIV. It was growing late when Sylvia arrived at Rose's flat, where she had already arranged to stay for the night, and, drawing off her cloak, she sat down by the open window with a heart full of excited expectation. Stephen was coming, and what a great deal there would be to tell him. And how much she would have to hear, and to ask him to explain. Clasping her hands nervously together, she began to think feverishly of the days at school when he had made love to her in the moonlit garden, and held her so adoringly in his arms, and begged her to come away and to marry him'. He had been a perfect lover, and all her girlish dreams of love had seemed in those marvellous moments to come true. She tried to recall them now, and to bring back many scenes which had grown a little blurred. Half an hour passed, and still she sat there, lost in those bewitching memories.

The time went on, and still Stephen had not come, and, getting up at last, she crossed the room and sank on to a sofa facing the door by which he would enter. Her foot tapped on the floor with a restless impatience. Relentlessly, the clock behind her went on ticking, and at length her head sank back wearily on to the cushions. Her face was growing a little piteous as her heart sank with a new dread. Suppose Stephen had repented he,had sent that little note, and was not coming after all? On and on slipped the minutes, and at last her weariness grew too much for her, and, in spite of her restless fears, she fell asleep. It appeared, however, to be for only a minute, and she moved to find Stephen waking her with his kisses. "How beautiful my little wife has grown!" he was whispering, as her eyes opened. "I have been terribly long in coining, but I couldn't help it, darling. Oh, my Sylvia, it's famous to see you again." Quickly she raised her head, and the blood rushed into her cheeks, making her still more beautiful in Stephen's eyes. Looking with feverish admiration into her face, he still bent over her. The young man, who had.been immaculately garbed in the theatre, had now taken off his dress coat, it for an old brown velvet one. A strong smell of rather vile tobacco came towards his wife, and seemed to stifle the air, as lie leant over her, and Sylvia, afterwards, tried to forget that this was the first thing she noticed about the man for whom she had longed. "I meant to come before," Stephen was saying now, rather excitedly, as he came and sat down beside her 011 the sofa and eagerly grasped one of her

hands. "But I couldn't get away from the others. You see, there was so much to say to them—especially to Honoiia Willings, who has practically made the play. I told her so. She was wonderful wasn't she, Sylvia ? An exquisitely beautiful creature, and has put into her part the very soul of my Nina— the very spirit I created. Without Honoria the play might have almost failed. But as it was —what a triumph! Oh, my darling little wife, hasn't it almost been worth while —all these months of separation—to be able to produce such a masterpiece as that?" Sylvia looked down at the hand which was resting 011 hers, and sub-consciously became aware that the nails wer6 a little grubby —but, of course, Stephen never had bothered much about appearances. She felt strangely bewildered. She had not expected, somehow, that when Stephen did come he would talk like this. She had thought lie would want to know —well, about all sorts of things—and would explain why he had never, in all these months, sent her a word. "Stephen," she whispered, "aren't you going to ask me about our boy?" He started, a3 if to talk of such mundane matters as babies on an evening of this kind was almost impossible. "Why—of course," he began, a little lamely. "Splendid, wasn't it? I'm longing to make his acquaintance, and very proud I shall be, I suppose, eh, Sylvia? Is lie going to be a poet, too?"

"You—knew about him? You —got —my letters ?" she thrust in sharply. "Why, yes—in fact, now I come to think of it," he went on playfully, "I believe you wrote rather a good deal, didn't you?" _ j# j ."And—you couldn't send me a line," jwas the hot retort. J "Now, my dear, don't begin to scold me directly we've come together again," said Stephen, beginning to pat her hand soothingly. "You see, my dear little soul, it was the —principle of the thing. If I'd written I'd have begun to remember the part of me which had to be hidden absolutely until my work was done. Rather rough on you, I'll admit, but you took me for better or worse, didn't you, and though, perhaps, it seemed for a bit to be rather for worse, yet—how could I help it ?" "Oh," she cried bitterly, "if you only knew what I've suffered!" "Come, come, sweetheart, don't make such a song about it. It wasn't for very long, after all," he said airily, "and there is, I'm afraid, always that thing to remember, Sylvia darling, about me. I'm two beings, as it were. There is the artist, you see, and there is the man. The man loved you, Sylvia—oh, my darling, devotedly—won't you believe it? I adored every bit of you, from the crown of your head to the tips of your lovely little feet. For all those weeks we lived in a paradise of love, didn't we? —and we are going to return to it, Sylvia darling." As he spoke, he came nearer, half leaning over her, and ,as she felt his body touching hers a faint feeling of disgust crept over her. Stephen was now drawing back. "And there is the other side, Sylvia," he went on ponderously, "the side when only the creative forces hold me. Then I must go away —to do the great work which some day I may present to a world which is expecting it of me. Oh, Sylvia, don't you, in the bottom your soul, feel as T do, that even if one has to suffer in some ways, a man who is an artist must never fight the power which makes him create—and that the result is worth while— Did you hear them cheering to-night, Sylvia, darling?" he continued excitedly. "Did you feel the great throb of their hearts telling me that I had done well —that I hadn't slaved in vain? To-night held moments I can never forget, Sylvia— my life." Getting uj>, he began pacing the room up and down as the memory of his triumph returned to him. Rising, too, Sylvia walked to the window, and looked drearily down into the street. "I have counted for very little, I see," she murmured bitterly.

She stood very still, a white-robed figure silhouetted against the darkness of the night. Her head was thrown back a little proudly, her bosom heaved, and she made a lovely picture as she stood there. Stephen caught his breath as he looked at her, and came swiftly over to the window. "You counted for more than you think, little one," lie whispered passionately, taking her into his arms, and, again she was conscious of that little feeling of repulsion. "And I'm going to make up now for everything, my beautiful little Sylvia." Drawing her closer into his embrace, he pressed his lips to hers, holding them, and pushing back her head oil to his shoulder; then he kissed her brow, her hair, murmuring little endearments over her, and crushing her body to him. With a little struggle she, at last, was able to free herself. "Then —then," she almost panted, "you want to come back to me ?"

"Want to come back?" His eyes filled with a horrified surprise. "Why—you didn't ever suppose—did you ?" "I have supposed—many things," she said in a choking voice. "Well, my little precious, that's been all nonsense, of course," put in her husband with a light laugh. "Anyway, you must know, my darling little angel, that I'm now yours for life, and look here, we must make all sorts of plans. I've often thought of them, I can tell you, though I haven't dared to speak or write of them. It would have been soi dangerously distracting. But we can make them now, can't we? First and foremost, what about the 'Towers'? Could we live there for a bit?" "The 'Towers' is—let," said Sylvia. "Daddy has gone to America, and—l'd— I'd —grown to —hate the place." "Hate it? Why, my darling little thing, surely that would be impossible," he returned with a slight frown. "I remember how you used to show me pictures of it, and how we planned to be, one day, there together. And now, it would suit me admirably, Sylvia. "We could have the kid with us, of course. In a place of that kind I fancy there would be an atmosphere to suit me, and I'm one of those foolish fellows, you know, who must create in the right spot. So what do you say to —to-morrow— going down to the house to make necessary arrangements?" "But —it's let, Stephen," Sylvia thrust 111 sha/ply again, her heart growing heavier and heavier every moment. The idea of returning so soon to the place where she had suffered so much was more than she could bear.

"It will be too late, I'm afraid, if the papers are signed and the people in," she continued, and, as she spoke, there came regretfully before her mind's eye a homely little house with soft carpets and pretty furniture. Into it came the sound of the sea, the cooing voice of a child, and, not far off, was the kind face of a man who never would have failed her. She could not have that little house now. "John said," she murmured sadly to herself, "that I'd been living in a dream. Perhaps I have, and now I've to pay for it." (To be continued daily.)