THE DESPERATION OF MRS. DUNCOMBE.

Dominion, Volume 1, Issue 57, 30 November 1907, Page 14

THE DESPERATION OF MRS. DUNCOMBE.

"'Tho Siskin or Aberdovine,'" read on the Hov. Alexander Duncombo, " 'is a rare winter visitant-—' Did you speak, my dear?" "Oil! 110 Alex," said Mrs. Duncombo hurriedly, bringing her thoughts back to earth. "Hayo you any comment to offer?" continued the vicnr, looking at her gloomily. excopt—except, wasn't tho —tho sentenco just a little—long?". "Long!" repeated her husband. "Long, Mary? It consisted of nine words, two of which we Inay say aro in parenthesis." . i "I'm sorry," sho muttered. "I'm afraid you'must find mo very foolish." "Not, foolish, only a little -inattentive,",-.he commented. "To contjnuo, 'it immigrates'to our shores, soin'otimes in flocks of considerable numbers, at that period of the year wlion the swallow takes his departure. Tho bird "' "Shall wo. leave tho Siskin till to-mor-. row?" murmured Mrs. Duncombo with a note almost of entreaty in her voice. "Wo have done tho Goldfinch 'and the Brambling this morning " "I am particularly anxious to finish my book this year." "But, dear, you have boon at it for five years, so that it can't really— "Five years," he ropeatcd, "oxactiy, and that is why I am so desirous of completing it—this is my magnum opus. However, Mary, I have 110 wish for you to stay." Ho smiled at her, nodded, and then bqnt his head over the MS. while his lips moved. His wife watched him. , A shade grow into her eyes and her lips trembled between laughter and tears. The latter won, and a lorio. drop coursed slowly down her cheeks. Sho turned to the door and put hor hand on the knob. "Au rcvoir," she said trying to speak gaily. "Good-bye," he said mechanically bending closer over his work . • "Oh! it will bo," alio thought, "one day it must be —Good-bye! Not 'au rovoir'; not for a little while, but for ever!" She turned round and stared at her husband. Onco ho would have got up and kissed her, opened the door for her, watched her down the passage, listened till tho echo of her feet died away on the oaken stairs. "I don't expect that," sho told herself over and over again. "Indeed, indeed, I don't, expect it! There's too much trouble and worry and anxiety in the world for that. But just a sign of love ! just' to lcavo this groove—this killing, stifling monotony—0I1! for ono moment!" "Please shut the door when you go," murmured tho vicar, "you. fidget mo. Sho went to him swiftly and put her arms round his neck.

"I'm sorry, Alex.," she cried, "I'm a foolish woman. But I'm fond of you—l love you. Do you remember how you told mo you prayed for my love?" "Yes," he assented, "I do not forget oiie moment of tho glorious days of our courtship." • . "And now?" "Now?"., he ■ repeated interrogatively. "Now? What of it?" Sho, gave a sigh and straightened herself. A tear splashed down on the' sermon-paper before him.' He wiped it. away; with his handkerchief. . "It.worries you," he said oalmly, "litorary work is a great, tax. 1 often find niy'self 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. She went to the door once more and as sho closed it silently behind her sho heard him murmur. " 'I,'he favourite materials for tho nest is cotton'' — 'is' 0011011? Hutn-ui-ni-m-pli, 'are'? Let mo see—all 1 'is,' of course! The wages of sin is death ?'" "Your, brother from Australia anil a: friend," echoed the vicar, "how can wo house them, Mary? 'l'ho vicarage is small " ,v . V . "I.haveno doubt Mr. Franklin will go to the inn," said Mary, keeping the excitement from her voice. "Fancy, dear old Jimmy coming back I" " Your brother has boon in—in tho scrub many years?" quoried tho vicar. "Oh, yes—ten or twelve." ' ' "I'hope lie will conform to tho .rules and habits of the houso," remarked the vicar firmly. "Some pcoplo fancy , they may . ride roughshod over other peoplo's prejudices, nolinations, opinions " V. if. > "Jimmy won't,"' she said gently. 'Tlease try to'liko him. Ho's my only b'rothor—my only relative. He's all I liave in tho world.' ' . Sho said it purposely. Sho longed for him to be hurt, to remonstrate. ''All,"; she repeated staring over the urn at her husband. The Rov. Alexander continued his breakfast in moody silence. Ho cut tho top cf an egg with exaggerated care and gazed at the creamy white surfaco before plunging his spoon into it.

"I wonder if he has studied the migration of birds," he reflected aloud. ' ' '

Ho was always keen on'natural history,' 1 answered Mary eagerly. "All!" ■ The vicar looked across the lawn; "The cuckoo grows very hoarse," lie commented, "he will soon leave us." "Don't write to-day," said Mary as ho pushed back his plate. ."Not write !" he ejaculated turning to her m surprise. ."!• —1 want you—more than the; book," sho cried. "Bo with me to-day, Alex." "My dear 'Mary," ho observed, "tho two hours which 1 devote to my book' in the morning aro carved out of my, parochial duties by the exercise, of considerable, mental eltort. Tho choir meet at eleven, 1 have numerous calls'to mako in out-of-the-way cornors of the parish before lunch. A mother's meeting n the afternoon, the D'Aller.by's At Home,-my croquet match with the doctor, bellringers' conference, a christening, my sermon 1 for >omorrow, two letters to tho "Times" the one, 'Episcopal Apostasy,' tho other, 'Mimicry among Finches' a ——" "I'm sorry" she murmured, "of course you wouldn't have time." "When you married a hard-working and I hope conscientious clergyman," ho said, "you fully realised that your life would not be that of the doll-wife. You Mary went to the window and drummed -her nails on the window-pane. i "I shall not bo back i to lunch," lie concluded, "I shall go straight on to tho D' Allenbys and meet you there." "You forget Jim," she said slowly. "J must go to meet liini." "You can'scarcely omit your visit-—" . "I would omit anything to meet him I" she cried vehemently. "Do you think these dull parties, these never-ending meetings, these ghastly working aftornoons would stop me?" "The daily round may bo irksome," he agreed, laying his hand on her shoulder, "but we still have each other." "Have we?" she cried, "Have we, Alex? ■Oh, it's your duties,- your life, your—book before me!" * ' The vicar sighed. "I won't write to-day,'' ho said with tho air of a martyr. "Your brother will amuse you this evening. I will write then." "Our cribbago?" " Must bo omitted," he said, "you will havo your brother James, and I, my book." "The first timo for fivo years!" sho murmured dully. , "Let .us'go into the garden," he said, throwing up the French windows. "The blue-tits have built again in tho letter-box. From all cvidcnco I can • collcct, I helievo a pair has built for- tho last seventy-eight years.' The vicar came back to djnner flushed with his croquet conquest over tho doctor. "By four points! Mary," lie oxclaimed. "Most exciting—Ah I and is this James?" "Ja-James couldn't come," said Mary, with a strange note in hor voice. "This is Mr. Franklin, Alex." The guest put out his hand and shook tho vicar's. "I hear you aro a groat authority on bird life," he said. "I am delighted to meet you. I take a great interest in thorn myself, but only from an amateur point of viow." The vicar warmed to Mr. Franklin, and immediately carried him off to his study. "A woll-read man, an intelligent man, a good listener, a lover' of nature, and an excellent compauion,"iho observed to his wife -r|

that night, "so I would sum him up at first acquaintance." The vicar seized the opportunity while his wifo had a companion to devote his entire leisuro to the book. -Every oveniug lie would retiro to his study. r'i? u w '" excuse me," he would observe, if I loavo you. I find myself more attracted daily to my work. I love to watch it grow beneath my hand. .Mr. Franklin, I hope I shall see you at 10.30 for a last-pipe." He would nod,to his wifo and to his guest, lock himself into his study, write until precisely the hour named, collect his papers, thrust them into a box, pack his pipo with methodical care, open the door, and thrust out his head'with a call: "Mr. Franklin! Mr. Franklin! I am now at liberty!" smile benignly on his guest as he stalked- in, then throw himself back in his. big arm-chair, mount his conversational hobby-horse, and be consummately happy till eleven o'clock was wirire—se —hoo,- hoo—hoo, hoo'd!" from the cuckoo clock in the hall, and it was time for bod. "When does your brother come?" lie asked as he was leaving his wife one evening. "To-morrow," she said. Ho saw her glance at Mr. Franklin, and lie wondered at it. For the first time he folt a vaguo foreboding. Much the samo, only in a far lessened degree, as bo had folt when other men had talked to Marv beforo their marriage. o went to his study and sat down. But though Ills fingers caught up the pen ho did not write, but stared out of tho window. He heard Mary's voice drawing nearer. How inconsiderate of her, he thought; she 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 pulsing flood of song and suddenly the Rev. Alexander Duncombe leant forward. Oh, it moans nothing to him," lie heard her cry, "only a little , brown bird I But to me on, it s just love calling! Tho cry of a woman s heart,, John, don't you hear it? i l ' ( '°spainng, broken-hearted " „ ,'f- wt ) wait it will change,',' said rranMm quietly; "do you remomber what Coleridge says,, 'A melancholy bird I oil, idle thought, m naturo therb is nothing melancholy ; it's just because you're sad because— you re crying for the moon." "Is it the moon?" she quoried. "I wonder. "'No—I lied! It's not tho moon, Mary. It's somothing infinitely closer, immeasurably dearer. It's love, Mary; a man's love, and you have it—all." "Hush," ho heard her whisper. "Alex, will hoar us. . ." "Not he!" cried John Franklin, in a full voice, "lie's plunged in his book, ; Mary. Your husband! our husband! Why, lie's nothing to you worse than that. He doesu's care for you, neglects you, worries you—he's killing you. While I . . . . I'm just thirsting for you, Mary, Mary, my little heart, I love you!" Tho vicar.loant from the window. He saw tho man's arms about his wife in the moonlight. He drew back and closed tho window with a snap. "What have I done?" lie murmured hoarsely, nervously, fingering the sheets of paper on his desk. "You've killed her body and soul," camo the answer from his tortured brain. He sank down into his chair and stared into tho ompty fireplace. Franklin did not hear the usual call that evening, but Mary came to hor husband. She put her arm round him gently. • "Alex," sTio. whispered, "we " In a moment ho was on Jiis kiiees clasping her tightly to him and pressing his face against h'er hands. "Mary," ho cried, "I'm a'coward, r can't faco life without you. Oh! you haven't been wrong—you couldn't help it—llo woman—no angel could. I've been cruel, wicked —notiling to you, as. he said. But .I lovo, you, my little wifo, I love you —I want you. I've lost all that I would appeal to in you—l— I'vo'murdered it, except your pity,..and I'm cruel enough now to play on-that.' Pity me, Mary, don't leave me. No one'could blamo you. Oh, I sco. ifc all so easily now I Gut como back to mo —try mo once moro, try. to lot your doar heart grow a littlo fond of mo!" : He kissed her hands passionately, and gazed tip into her face. "Could you forgive mo?" she said. . "Forgivo; you," he echoed. "Mary, I could novor blame. Just thoso few words, 'a little brown bird,' have shown it :.ll to me. JusWs I've been deaf to its song, so I've been deaf to you. But I hear now, Mary, my wife, 1 hear and I understand and I'm—longing for you/' It is I who am just bogging for forgivoness " "Are you very angry?" she asked, stooping very close to him. "No —only with him," ho answered, "lie's— "Wait," sholcricd wildly, "I wanted your lovo—l had lost it, I missed it—tho lack of it was —was killing me. He lie; ——" "Ho is a scoundrel," said Alex, gravely, "but 110 man could help loving you." . "110-r—lie's—oil lit was a plot—l couldn't wait and watch your lovo die altogether—he's my brother Jiml" , —A. G. Greenwood, in "M.A.P."