THE DESPERATION OF MRS BUNCOMBE.

Press, Volume LXIII, Issue 12989, 17 December 1907, Page 3

THE DESPERATION OF MRS BUNCOMBE.

A. G. Grkeswood, in "iLA.P."

■• The Siskin or Aberdevine, , " read .! the Rev. Alexander Dunoombe, " tb ;. rire winter visitant ' Did you .i'XMk, mv dear?' .

Oh! no Alex." said Mrs Dunoombe hurriedly, bringing her thoughte back to earth.

'"Have you any comment to offer?' , continued the vicar, looking at her giooiniiy. ■\Xo—none except—except wasn't t-he —the Ecnteiice just a little—long?" •'"Long!" repeated her husband. ,- Loii2, Alary? It consisted of nine words, two of which we may say are in parenthesis."

''I'm sorry," ehe muttered. "I'm cfraiel you must find mc very foolish." '"Nc-t foolish, only a little inattentive. -, ho commented. "To continue, 'it immigrates to our shores, sometimes in flocks of considerable numbers, at tint period of the y«ir when tho swallow takes his departure. The bird '"

"fcJhall we leave the »Siskin till tomorrow ?'' murmured Mrs Dunoombe with a note of entreaty in her voice , . ''We, have done- the Goldfinch end the Brambling this morning "

"1 -iin particularly anxious to finish my book this year."

"Hut, tiear, you have been at it for five years, so that it can't really " "I'ivo venrs, ,, lie repeated, ''exactly, nnd tint its why 1 am so dtsirous of completing it—t'lu's is my magnum opus. However, Mary, 1 have no wish for you to etay."

Ho emilcel at her, nodded, and then bent his head over the MS. while hie lips moved. His wife watched him. A shade grew into her eyes and her lips trembled between laughter and tears. Tho I'ittor won, and a long lone drop coursed slowly down her cheeks. She turned to the door and put her hand on tho knob.

'•Au revoir," she said, trying to speak gaily. '"Good-bye," he said, mechanically bending closer over his work.

""Oh! it will be," she thought, "one day it miw-t l>e—Good-bye • Not 'au revoir' ; not far a little while, but for cvor!"

felio turned round and stared at her husband. Once ho would have got up c.id kissod her, opened the door for ncr« notched her down itihe passage, intoned till the edio of her feet died aivi-y on the oaken stairs. '"I don't oxpeot that," she told herself over «nd over again. ."Indeed, indeed, 1 don't expect it! There's too B.uch trouble and worry and anxiety in tho world for that. But just a sign of love! just to leave this groove—this Killing, monotony—oh! for one moment!

'Tleuso shut the door when you go," murmured tho vicar, "you fidget mc." arSrr^undl^^r^ 3^15^1161 - ---"I >n sorry, Alex.," she cried. "I'm * foolish woman. But I'm fond of %I~L? V Ar U - you Yemenite Jove?'' m ° yCU Pmyed for m y

"Yes," he assented, "I do not forget ScSSp/ the gl ° riOUS ***><* "And now?" "W W? Wha°tof ™W intfir "gatively. Sho gave a sigh and straightened herself. A tear splashed down on the eermon-paper before him. He wiped it away with his handkerchief. 'It worries you," he said calmly literary work is a great tax. I often find myself strangely despondent, silent and overwrought when I have concluded my labours." She brushed away another tear and a hardness, born of disappointment and hopelessness, came into her eyes, tell© went to the door once more and as she closod it silently behind Jior she heard him murmur.

' 'The favourite materials for the Dp&t J f cotton P. Hmn-m----in-m-ph, -'aro'? Let mc see—ah 1 'is' of course! The wages of sin is-death?' "

"Your brother from Australia and a friend," echoed the vicar, "how can we house them, Mary? The vicarage is small "

"I have no doubt Mr Franklin will go to the inn," said .»lary, keeping the oxcitement from her voice. "Fancy, dear old Jimmy coming back!" "Your brother has been in—in the scrub many years?" queried the vicar. "Oh, yes—ten or twelve."

"I hope he will conform to the mica and habits- of tho house," remarked tho vicar firmly. "Some people fancy they may ride roughshod over other people's prejudices, inclinations, opinions " *

•'Jimmy won't," she said gently. "Please try to like him. He's my only brother—my only relative. He's all 1 have in the world."

She said it purposely. She longed for him to be hurt, to remonstrate. "All," she repeated staring over the urn at her husband.

The Rev. Alexander continued his breakfast in moody silence. Ho .cut the top of an egg with exaggerated care and gazed at the creamy white surface before plunging his spoon into it. "I wonder if he has studied the migration of birds." ho reflected aloud. "Ho was always keen on natural history," answered Mary eagerly. "Ah!" Tho yicar looked across the lawn. "The cuckoo grows very hoarse," ho commented, "he will soon leave us." "Don't write to-day," said Mary as he pushed back his plate. 'Not write! ho ejaculated turning to her in surprise. ' ''I—l want you—more than the l>ook," she cried. "Be with mc to-day, Alex." "My dear Mary," he ohserved, "tho two hours which I devote to my book in the morning aro carved out of my parochial duties by the exercise of considerable mental effort. The choir meet at eleven, I have numerous calls to make in out-of-the-way corners ot the parish before lunch. A mother's meeting in the afternoon, the IVAllenby's At Home, my croquet match with tho doctor, bellringers' conferonoe, a christening, my sermon for tomorrow, two letters to the "Times" the one, 'Episcopal Apcstswsy," th|* other, 'Mimicry among Finches' a " Tin sorry." she murmured, "of course you wouldn't have time."

"When you married a hard-workin?; and I hope conscientious country clergyman," he said, "you fully realised that your life would not bo that of the doll-wife. You

Mary went to the window and liummed her nails on the windowi'.an«i.

'•I Rhall not be back to lunch," he concluded. "I shall go straight on to the D'Allcnbye md meet you there." "You forgot Jim," she said slowly. "I must go to meet him. ,.

'You can scarcely omit your vieit

_''I would omit' anything to meet him!" she criod vfJiemcntly. "Do you chink these dull parties, these nevereikliru? meetings, these ghastly working £tternoons would stop mc?" '•Tho dnily round may }>c irksome,." ho afreet!, laying 1113 hand on her shoulder, "but wo still have eacJi othor.' .

''Hare wer' , she cried, "Have we. Alex? Oh. it's your duties, your life, yuiir—book l>efore mc!"

The vicar si.zhed. 'I won't write to<lay," hr> said with the air of a martyr, brother will aaiiise you tha cvt'tiing. I will write then. :.

"Our cribbi^e?' , "Must be omitted," he said, "you will have your brother James, aad I niy book."

"The first time for five years!" she murmured dully. "Let ue go into the garden," he said,

I throwing up the French windows. "The blue-tite bare built again in the letterbox. From all evidence I c*ji ooUeot, I believe a pair has built for the last seventy-eight years." The vic*r oaine back to dinner flushed with his croquet conquest over tee doctor. . "By four points! Mary." he exclaimed. "Most exciting—Ah! and is tiue James?" ■ ~ "Ja-James couldn't come," «ud Mary, with a strange note in her voice. 'This is Mr Franklin, Alex." The guest put out his hand and shook the vicar's. • "1 hear you are a great authority on hird life," he eaid. "I am delighted to meet you. I take a great interest in them myself, but only from an amateur point oi view." The vicar warmed to Mr Frankhn, and immediately carried him off to his "A well-read man, an intelligetat man, a good listener, a lover of nature and an excellent companion." he observed to his wife that night, "c? I would sum him up at first acquaintance." • ~ The vicar seized the opportunity while his wife had a companion to devote his entire leisure to. the book. Every evening he v.ould retire to his

study. "You will excuse mc, ho wouid observe, "if I leave you. I find myself more attracted daily to my work. I lore to watch it grow beneath my hand. Mr Franklin, 1 hope I sliall see you fit 10.30 for a la&t pipe." He would nod to his wife and to hie

guest, lock himseili uito his study, write until precisely tiie hour named, collect his papers, thrust them into a box, pack liis pipe with methodical care, open the door, and thrust out his head with a caJl: "Mr Franklin! Mr Franklin 1 I em now at liberty!" smile benignly on his guest as ho stalked m, then ttarow himself back in his big armchair, mount his conversataonaJ hobbyhorse, and bo consummately happy till eleven o'clock was "wirire—se —hoo, hoo—hoo, hood!" from the cuckoo eilock in the hall, and it was time for bod. "Whon does your brotihar come? , ' he asked as he was leaving his wife one evening. "To-morrow," she said. Ho saw hor glance at Mr Frankhn, and he wondered at it. For the first time ho fdt a vague foreboding. Much the same, only in a fair lessened degree, as he had folt when other men hud talked to Mary before their marriage. Ho went to his study and eat down. But though his fingers caught up the pen ho did not write, but stared out of the window. He heard Mary's voice drawing neaxcr. How inconsiderate of her, he thought; die must know how imperative* silence- was to him. Why couldn t she keep to another part of the garden? A nightingale was thrilling the air with his puking flood of song, and suddomJy the Rev. Alexander Duncombe leant forward. "Oh, it meajiß nothing to him," he heard Jior cry, "only a little brown biird! But to me—oh, it's just lore calling 1 The cry of a woman's heert, John; don't you hear it? Love-lorn, despairing, broken-hearted " "And yet if we wait it will change," -••aiid Franklin quietly; "do you remember what Coleridge says, 'A melao-

choly bird! oh, idle thought, in nature there is nothing melancholy'; it's just because you're cad because —you're crying for tihe moon." "I* it tho moon?" sihe queried. "I n-onekr."

<<Xo—l liodl It's not the moon, Mary. It's something imfinitely closer, immeasurably don/ror. It's love, Mary; a man's love, and you have it —afl." "Hush." he heard her whisper. "Alex, will hear us. . ."

"Not he!" cried John Franklin, in n full voice, "he's plunged in his book, Mary. Your husband 1 Your husband 1 Why, he's nothing to yon—worse than that. Hβ doesn't care for you, neglects you, worries you—he s killing you. While I ... I'm just thirst-

Ing for you, Mary, Mary, my Jittie heart, I'love'yoiir?: , "-''"--'^^' , ""-: ' ■

The vicar leant from the window , . Hβ caw. the/man's.arme about his wife in the-moonlight. He drew back »nd closed the window with a snap. "What have I doneP" he murmured hoarsely, nervously, fingering tho sheets of paper on hie desk. "You've killed her body and soul," came the answer from his tortured brain. Hβ sank down into his chair and stared into tho empty fireplace.

Franklin did not hear the usual call that evening, but Mary came to her husband. She put her arm round him gently. "Alex," she whispered, 'Vβ ." In a moment he was on his knees clasping, her tightly to him and preesing his face against her hands. "Mary," he cried, "I'm a coward. I can't face life 'without you. Oh! you haven't been wrong—you couldn't help it—no woman—no angel could. I've been cruel, wicked—nothing-to you, as he said. But I love you, my little wife, I love you—l want you. I've lost all that I would appeal to in you—l— 1 ye murdered it, except your pity, and I'm cruel enough now to play on that. Pity mc, Mary, don't leave mc. No i one oonld blame you. Oh, I see it al! so easily now! But come back to nu> —try mc once more, try to let your denr heart grow a little fond of me!' . He kissed her handi passionately, and passed up into her face. "Could you forgive mc?" she said. "Forgive you." he echoed. "Mary, I could never blame. Just those few words, ' a little brown bird, , have shown it all to mc. Just as I've been deaf to its song, so I've been deaf to you. But I hear now, Mary, my wife, I hoar and I understand, and I'm longing fer you. It is I who am just begging for forgiveness ." "Are you very angryP' , she asked, etooning very close to him. witll bim> " h® answered,

"Wait," she cried wildly, "I wanted your love—l had lost it, I missed it the lack of it was—was killing mc. Ho

"He is a scoundrel," eaid Alex gravely, "but no man could help loving you.' , "He—ho'©—oh ! it wee a plot I couldn't wait and watch your love di altogether—he's my brother Jim!"