The Long Deferred.

Evening Post, Volume LXXXI, Issue 112, 13 May 1911, Page 10

The Long Deferred.

. By DOEOTHY BAIED, Author of "By the Path of the Storm," eto. [All Eights Eeserved.]

"How nioß and freshi it is out here sow that everyone has gone. It i» always -flat, stale, and unprofitable in a honse arfter a wedding, whereas nature is never flai, 6tale, and unprofitable." "Never?" "Well, no. I don't think it ever is. I can" imagine being bored by flat, sandy wastes, or monotonous rocky wildernesses, but not by country like this." And Sarah Wilmot's eyes' rested lovingly on the wide, rolling landscape that, was spread out befor© her, bathed in *s"pfin'g. 1 SunKght, already mellowing to sunset. "Vfl think nature'has her flat moods," said'- th«- man at her side, " just the same as everything else. Think of a rainy day, when- everything is dripping and fcb© grc-nn<J is' sodden and the skies unbroken grey.." ',',Yes, but think of the patter of th© raindrops, and the little cascades when the trees shake themselves, and the 6mel] of earth and wet grass and -flowers, and the twitterings of the birds ; and there's sure to be a thrush singing somewhere." *■ Sh© paused, and the man spread out his hands' deprecat'ingly. * "I perceive: that I am in th© wrong. I generally am when I talk to a woman. It is not nature who is dull, it is merely a/ matter of temperament in th© spectator.' 7 .She laughed! " "Exactly," . ehe said, '•^nd yet I hay© an idea you are poking fan at me." l" Not at all." It rejoices my elderly and soured sonl to find anyone who is never bored;" Never bored! Sarah Wilmot caught her breaih a little before sh© answered. The man at her side could never know of y ,the Itwtg^ days of misery, when hope wia3. dead ~«nd the future barren* of joy, tiEon|3i,wh3ci fihe'had passed befor© she ha^Wnooled herself to- her present calm. Ah welKfrihe had learnt her- lesson. Nature, tjad; been very, 'kind to her in thosfry terrible^ days — teaching her to find '' delights an"d beauties thatu,- r roth©CTds6_ she .would probably have" missed. And then there had always been Hylda, th© sweet young girl who ha<2 been th© bride of that afternoon. People had pitied her becauseyi&iJbSaCneeii -lei £' aa . gflar'dian ' t& a spcjflt child, "but in loving Hylda and training her sweet nature, Sarah had foun&*the great-, jpv^the one,_compefl6ation ,'gf her 1 J^e^ 4 once- Wad Hylda • disappointed*" h«>- and* that. 'WaiT when . she ©"fected to marry John Black. Sarah had afways hoped she would return the love ©f th© man at -her -.side. All 'these' years^she Bad planned and; schemed f or him t^ hay© the wish of hisr heart. But HykU^had chosen -elsewhere, and Sarah lovedvthe girl and her old friend too •well to wislr them to marry unless th© love Jpae mutual^ And' now Hylda was fone^-and sh© would have to take up er JJf© once more in loneliness. Was it pdfesible that she would never be boredlf Yet sh© forced her voice to its UsuaUjjbomposur© as sh© answered : "Ifeis quite easy not to be t>ored if you make up your mind for it. It is ratheS hard to keep £ntused sometimes, but i£ can be done. It merely requires energy and,, a cheerful' disposition." Snft'mighi hay© added that' though it is comparatively easy to fight boredom, misery is a ni&re .forftiidabTe. opponent. " Ijyidently X my J iilnate indolence Btandfl in my way. It invariably does." "Yes, you were .always shockingly lazy. 'X Why don^t you cure yourself of the bifbit?* -"'*•} Tbevman shook his head. "Uga late," ha said. "Look at my grey jKairs."- ,t, t ■ ,- " LSiconviiicing !" she replied. "You've no business to have^them at your age. Perhaps it is th© climate of th© outlandiflh. corner of th© globe you have sleeted to live in that has brought themi* 1 And she sighed to herself, for sh© Jtnew well that worry and trouble will bring grey hairs quicker than any climate- in the world. , ' He'iaughed softly but hardly mirthfully, 5 - ' "Perhaps," he said. Sh^[ looked back at the landscape, following the i windings of the shimmering river^with; her eyes. "M|n are the most exasperating things in m& m world," sh© said presently. "Yotf'put an obvious question, and they answer 'perhaps.' ; To add insult to injury, ithey laugh.'' He£ laughed goftly _ again. "You shouldn't look so charming when you're exasperated," he" said. She' affected to take no notice. •'Then/ she continued. "A man is always bored at what most delights a woman's heart. Confess now — " turning suddenly upon him — "You have been bored./ the whole afternoon" "Not quite th© whole afternoon. I have Enjoyed myself mightily since I came "-put hefceil' „_, :. „_ She looked away again. Compliment?' as a matter of form were completely abhorrent to her. "-And yet it was a perfectly charming iwedding," sh© said. "Th© bride was young and beautiful, the. groom young anfl:.haiids'ojhe, the dresses were perfection, and it was obviously a love match. '* There was an undercurrent of bitterness to her apparently flippant tone.' 6he was hurting him, voluntarily and of set, pjtrppsi^ A certain yindictivenofcs goaded her to it, her own hurt was »v keen, and she could nob a&k for sympa£hy~ '" ■" ."■'■'.; "Oh, yes, it was a very 'nice wedding," she saidl _ C ! "It was a very nice wedding," he repeated, t "Why do you say that? It'iis obvious" that you do not mean it."'** Your lone belies, it." . M l have alwaysrfound. it^Best to agree ,witn a lady. "It"Bave»^iiTr|reat many unpleasantnesses." ** ' ' • ■ , "Ifptt,are a^maddening* person totals to^" -f be retorted",-' "half -turning from him. ' '"If ftiere " iverß ' " the slightest, chance of anyone being free to talk tome up at the hous© I would go in and' leave you. But no one will want me, I ani the odd one, *o to speak, and veiging'^'cii old^maidisin.--"' I. am hopelessly uninteresting to the younger gougEation^ and tj the older generation ib J^^'ele^iy-uninieresiing* to me. Sine© I want to talk to someone, I will stay and inflict my chatter upon you. You are Hbored air eaay,-. so.- ii«Ayon.t<-Hiatter.: , T&£'mairiailghod again, but she took ni> ifltice^ ,_,„-,,. "What was 1 "talking about ?" sh© askeffij "Oht yes, I remember. It was a chsrmittg wedding, ie? I can* Understand why a" man hates weddingsJS^ tfs does/ Tifey are so amusing and;,'^ exciting. There's th© romance, youMcniow, and th© dresses, and the cake ancJ£tli& ices and-J^ne champagne " '*f^ deligfiw^ttfj food preponderate i perceive." .» ** "4&O", you'thitßiTpipted me/ ;But>;alK tho'^ainc, you must remember am get ting 'on— -in 1 ' yeafrs. /:When on© is youngs romancp is quite enough. When one gets older one wants! romance plual-comf orte. Xhibjs. -quite a parablo.. by fch.e wayrif :ycn» consider it deeply.'* "I "will gw&tfy'my best attention. "pQti't ,M sarcastic* . j A^ence fo;? 4 ew ipomeiit*. A yel< I lowj'soab'eam round under the bucW^g -lilac' clusters *above her, and peetfetfrbjto her eyes, so. jtha^she. turned, a' httlVatid faced, her-oarapanuntu- , „ "&, 0*» glad Bjlda chos§ May foT her

wedding. I think May an ideal month to be married in," she said. "Everything is so fresh and sweet and full of promise." "I like June better — the promise is nearer fulfilment." "M — yes," with her head on one side. "But May is more suitable for a young girl like Hylda. Everything young and' hajjpy together. Dear child, I cannot believe that she is married." "Nor I." During the pause that followed she eagerly scanned his face. It was turned away from her, but, yes, surely it was paler than before, and she noticed many lines across the brow and round the mouth which had not been there when ho went away. Oh A if he would only tell her the truth to that she could sympathise openly. She must either sympathise or be ' vindictive. Th© pain seemed harder to bear now that he was back here at her sid© than it had been in any of the dreary days of the past. When , first she had seen his love for, Hylda, and in the early days of his absence she had felt courage to be brave for both their sakes. Now she felt all the ■courage of the past, all the forced cheerfulness of th© intervening years dying away, leaving her hungry for her woman's meed of happiness, crying out at the injustice of her lonely suffering life. The tortured heart longed to wreak its vengeance for the past on somebody, something. Yet to the man at her side she would rather give sympathy. And so, with an effort to gain his confidence she turned to question him. "Was my letter the first news you had of,Hylda's engagement?" she asked softly. "Yes." "I'm glad. I wanted it to be. I thought you would rather hear it from an old friend like me. I hat©, to write it, but I thought it best. Hylda herself would have put it so differently." He turned and smiled at her. "You have always been a good friend to me, Sarah," he said. ""Sver since the days when we playea with Hylda in the meadows, and fought for the privilege of looking after her. Ah, well! She doesn't need either of us now. I think friendship is my mission in life," she continued after a pause, "I haven't any relations now, you know, but I have a great many friends." He did not speak, and after a while she went on. "But; there^ is something unsatisfac1 tory about friendship, I find — at least, ,' to it w"oman for \4fhom life holds nothing better. All those whom' l love the best hay© relations, or are married and have homes of their own, and children.- They don't want me very much, only now and then, or when they are in trouble. My niche in the world isn't very clearly defined. And now Hylda's 'gone, the on© being who looked to me for love and protection; I shall never; be 'the same to her again. Jack is her all now, as is only right. And to her as to -all the rest of the world, I am a woman apart — someone outsid© the dear, inner, intimate circle,; in no wise necessary to her happiness, although a pleasing adjunct to it." "And yet you never have moods when even Nature looks dull and dismal?'/ "No. Sometimes indoors I get depressed and wonder what will happen when all my friends are dead' or married, and I picture my old ag© with no relations to love me, no children^ to comfort me. But when I. feel like that, , I com© out' here, and uo matter how grey and dull it is, there is ..always a glint of light on the river to show that th© sun is seining somewhere, and everything seemil. to whisper that one's life is what one^makes it, and that therefore it is -stupid 'to make it unhappy.' Even the storms have their message. There is strength and courage in them, and they do their work in the world, proving .the strong, destroying the weak and worthless. I gain a wholesome fear of becoming weak and worthless." "It is not in you to become either weak or wori/uiess. You .were always strong and sterling. You ought to have married, Sarah." She spread out her hands, and in spite of herself sh© kept her voice indifferent. "Perhaps," she said. '\Every woman thinks married life must tie tho happier, but it isn't always, is it?" "Why don't you marry? You 'have been asked I know." "My dear man, there are hundreds of reasons why I do not marry. The men who interest me look upon me as a useful old maid whe-m, it would be a sin to remove from her rightful sphere of life. The men who ask m© to marry them are mert boys!, who must necessarily fall «in love wifah their grandmother as a sort of preliminary canter, . scr to s*peak. They are very nice, and I .lave them all, id a ,way. But I could not be selfish enough to take them at their "word. It 1 would spoil a young life, and I don't suppose it would better mine. Sometimes I think single life — ©yen that of a relationless old maid — is less lonely than marriage, to the wrong man." "And Mr. Wright has aever come?" Sh© shook her head, and th© man bent forward to look earnestly into her face. "Sarah, was there ever 1 a Mr. Wright?" The.question took her unawares. Had he asked it carelessly, casually, she could hay© passed it over, bub his man•ner showed he was serious. She could not evade him. Sh© blushed to th© roots of 'her hair and nodded. "It is hateful of you to ask," she said after a. pause. "But I suppose I musit put up with impertinence from an old friend." ' • Me had. 'turned away his head, and his' voice bounded eerily sad, almost disappointed. "Was it'"quite hopeless?" . "Quite. He loved somebody else, and he went • away." "I am glad you told me." ' "So am I now." She picked up 'her ■ courage again and faced th© situation squarely. "We have another bond of sympathy to add to our long friendship. But I don't fret, you know. It couldn't be helped. It isn't often I think of what might have been — it's such a profitless occupation After al}, my old age may not be entirely lonely. I hay© money, you know, and money generally 'begets friends'. '' ■ "Of a sort." ' ' > "Of a £orb, yes, but x my dear man, even the money-brought friends are better than utter loneliness. Some on© may be attracted by my money and learn to love me for myself." He did not answer, and presently she shyly put out her hand and laid ib over hk. "That's what makes me so sorry for you," she said. "It's a fellow-feeling. I know I was flippant just now, but, of-. course, I understood that this wed--dihg'was painful .to' you. . It was good of you to come. There would have been something lacking in Hylda's pleasure if you had not beer there. Ono would do anything to make her happy, wou'd not one? But it must be hateful to bee bho person one loves married to somebody else." 1 He moved impatiently, and his voice sounded irritable as he replied. ''Detestable ; but luckily I have never ;ex,perjenred- the sensation." "Not experienced the — but — - 1

"Exactly. You thought I was in love , with Hylda. I let you think it. Iti 'was better that you should do so." "Oh ! And I've planned for you, worked for your happiness all these years, suffered disappointment for you, and been unhappy because I thought you were unhappy. I've expended any amount of sympathy on you during these past months. Wasted eneTgy, wasted thought, it seems." He paused. Her tone was. bitter, so utterly unlike her usual calm utterance. "Not so," he said gently. "I still need your sympathy. Bub it is nob Hylda— --it never was Hylda. It's^ — her friend. There, I se© you understand at last ; I didn't mean you to. I didn't even mean to have a tete-a-tete with you like this. It's your own fault — yours and th© sunshine's and th© spring'^. I am young enough in heart even yet to find my mind turning to thoughts of love in the spring." So she had betrayed herself — after all these years of repression, and this was th© result. She must take refug© in ) mockery. 'Is that the only time?" she asked wickedly. " You little cat ! Now you are laughing at me. But lam serious. No. I have thought about it year in, year out, for years and years — I don't know how long now." Wild regret, regret for past years, surged up in her heart. " Then why, why did you go away? I don't understand." " Because I saw you didn't care a button for me, and because you were so confoundedly xich, and I so confoundedly poor. The reasons lack originality, but they'r© true, and they're valid. I've done my best to make some money during /the years of my exile, but I can't Bay I have succeeded. Things are pretty much as they were when I went •away. I shall go back next month, after I've looked round the old haunts a bit. You mustn't worry about me. I didn't mean to tell you, but it won't make any difference. You must be used to receiving futile proposals by this time." His tone was bitter now. , Her hand still rested upon hi&, and now her grasp tightened, but her face was turned away, towards th© river and th© hills. 'Tee, but not . . from the . . right . . man." He did not answer, but his right hand closed over hers as 1 it lay on his left. Suddenly she turned her fac© to his. " What made you think I didn't care?" she asked. Still he grasped her hand and looked at her. "You don't mean it," he said.' "You can't — after all these years. And it makes no difference — I'm still poor." "But we can still hay© romance plus comforts, and, you know, that is my beau ideal." The old habit of cheerfulness triumphed. -She was laughing through her tears "Sarah", you look ten years younger." "That is ffappiness. You're not going to bo proud and make me relapse into old maidism again, are you? I've^ — I've been lonely so long — and unhappy, in a way, and " "Shall it be a June wedding?" he asked after a long pause. "I would have liked May — next May. But I suppose I had better start giving in at once. I shall nay© to, you know, later on — men are so masterful. And ot course we're too old to. waste any more time apart. - But I shall look horribly yassee for a June bride. September would be better." 'No, June. It is the June of our hearts, even thougn it comes in the September of our lives. Age, like life, is what you mate it. We shall take our youth late, but it will have the 1 sweetness of the long-deferred."