THE OBSTACLE.

Evening Star, Issue 11681, 13 February 1902, Page 2

THE OBSTACLE.

[All Rights Reserved.]

By Archibald EtrK. Success is a comparative term; no doubt there are many who would despise the measure which" had fallen to the lot of Mary Tiller. She, however, was satisfied. It is not. every woman who, treading the precarious path of a literary career, can nit.iin to even a modest competency at the sue uf thirty-five. Marv Tiller's income was drawn from two sources. She was the editress of a pc-nnv weekly paper for women, and for her services a grateful management allowed lirr a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Then, and this was the other source of her affluence, she was under contract to provide once every sis weeks a complete story for publication in the weekly series known as the 'Hearth Novelettes.' For each

story, running to about twenty thousand words, she received fifteen pounds. There were little odds and ends of literary work she accomplished in the year, which brought up her gross annual income to the truly imposing figctre of three hundred pounds. She lived for many years in the same. lodging-house in Blooinsbury, having gradually descended from her original altitude on' the third floor. Now that she was stationary on th? ground floor, with parlor windows' that looked out upon the street, the easv familiarity of her landlady was subdued bv traces of deference. Mary

was entitled, as of right, to the best china and to the piano, not to speak of the wax flowers and ornamental jars that decorated the mantelpiece. Mary had no ambition ; she had no desire for fame of any kind. She wrote for a livelihood, as a. carpenter might make a table. She. never called her work an art, and never attempted to disguise the fact that it was of no value whatever, save in so far as it was able to entice a copper coin from the pockets of a section of the general pnblic. She was the reverse of sentimental. She was a brisk, business-liko little woman, who regarded all things from the point of view of common sense, and possessed somewhere in her nature a whimsical tense of the absurdity of things. One morning she sat at the window, lookin-- out :it the business men hurrying to the Citv. Mrs Strong, the landlady, was clearin':" away the breakfast dishes. The front ooor .shimmed, and the next moment Mary Tiller sum- a young man pass the window. -A new lodger?" she asked. "Yes-'m. A young artist gentleman, name of Durrant; conies from the country. " "A few days later Mary Tiller met the new lodger "in the hall, and wished him good morning. He responded, reddening in ;i;: absurdly boyish fashion. After that liuv nodded to each other when they met, ,- "tli"v sometimes did, in Fleet street and '.s.v.here. Miss Tiller noticed that as time v .jut on there was a growing look of dei ;>-ssion on his face. ■• Not getting on," she said to herself, ;:i;i! felt sorry. One evening Mrs Strong, while getting tiie lea things, gave signs of inward perturbation. Miss Tiller, who was at her desk, describing in the present tense the attractions of a golden-haired governess who was playing havoc in a domestic circle, looked up. " Anything the matter!" she asked, pleasantly. Mrs Strong sniffed. "I've had to give the third floor notice,'' she said.

"Mr Durrant!" exclaimed Mary. "And whv?"

"'Not 'ad a penny of rent these three weeks."

" Dear. dear. I wonder if I could help him?"

Mrs Strong was of opinion that there was no necessity for her "round floor lodger to bother about a mere third-floor occupant: but Miss Tiller thought otherwise. '■ There was a time when I should have been grateful for a helping hand," she observed more to herself than to her landlady. " And it was when I lived on your third floor, Mrs Strong," she added. •• [ don't never remember your being in arrears, .--aid the landlady genially. Miss Tiller did not answer. Her mind flitted back to a time in the past when she had slipped out of the house with her w.ateh and chain, and returned with its equivalent in cash in order to satisfy her weekly bill.

'•l'should just like to talk to him for ;i few minutes," she said. "It can't do anv harm, and —and—he is very young." When she had finished her tea she went slowlv up the stairs, every step of which v,-as familiar to her, and tapped at the third-floor door. " Come in," shouted someone. She entered composedly. '• (rood evening, Mr Durrant," she said. The young man was sitting at the table in his shirt sleeves, a pipe in his mouth, sketching rapidly with knitted brows. He. rose hastily when he saw who his visitor was. " You will think it strange of me bursting in upon you like this," Mary remarked, '•but I thought you wouldn't mind my looking in for a chat." The young man found her a chair and stni'.ruled into his coat sdmultaneouly. Mary Tiller at down.

" I suppose it isn't quite conventional am j>U 1 ha:."'she went an; "but I understand we are both dwellers in Bohemia. So ii doesn'f matter. '• It's very good of you," he answered, in some embarrassment. She looked at him with her clear grey eyes. "You are an artist, aren't you?" she asked. "I do a-little in black and white," he admitted. She- regarded him kindly. "It's pretty hard to get on, isn't it?" "Very," he answered. " 1 have been through all you are going through, in very much the same way, I expect," she continued. " Perhaps as I am so much older than you, I may be able to—to advise you." "You write, don't you?" he asked. She nodded. "Yes," I write." There was a slight pause. "I wonder if you would let me look at some of your work?" she said at length. The table was littered with sketches. " May I look at these?" " Certainly," he replied. " I'm afraid they are not very good. I am sick oi turning out work which never seems to gc off my hands." He went and fetched another "handful of sketches, and put them before, her. standing behind her chair while the went slowly through the little bundle. When she came to the last she turned to him. " They are good, I think," she said briefly." "I am not an expert, but they strike me as first rate." His face glowed. "These are the first words of praise I have heard since 1 came to London." " Give me half a dozen of your sketches, ' said Mary. " L may be able to get you a job. The man who did the illustrations for the ' Hearth Novelettes' died last week, and 1 don't think his place is permanently tilled." " It is exceedingly good of you," he began. "Don't thank me," she said hastily. " You may not care about the -work. 1 expect the pay is pretty poor, and it isn't high class work. You may despise it." " Oh, no, T shan't despise anything," he replied confidently. " It- can't be worse than the sort of trash I have been doing for the 'Halfpenny Jester.' It caters for errand boys, I think." Mary laughed. " And my work is for kilchemuaids. That is a bond of sympathy, at any rate." She took the sketches lie had selected, and turned themi over. "You will get on; it Is only a question of time." She rose and held out her hand. " Good night, Mr Durrant; keep a good heart." He opened the door for her, and sho went out. On the lauding she turned. '" If you look into my room to-morrow evening I will tell you the result of my interview with the ' Hearth ' people." The next evening young Durrant knocked at Miss Tiller's parlor door, and was admitted. He was a little shy at first, but shyness sat not ungracefully upon him. He was certainly good-looking, with a boyish fvanknesn it was difficult to resist. Mary made him sit down. She had on

her Sunday blouse, but that was no doubt a comcidencj.

" I've good news for yon," she paid. 'The 'Hearth' people want yon to illustrate, a number on trial." She picked up a bulky manuscript. "It is some of my rubbish vou have to start on."

He regarded her with obvious gratitude in bis eyes. /'Thank you," he replied amply. "I'll put my best work into it, because it is your story." She laughed. "Don't do that, or you won't have a chance. You mustn't do good work —you must forget all you know about anatomy. The girls' waists must be abnormally smvll, the men's shoulders ridiculously broad. Neither man nor woman must have feet in any degree proportionate to their heighv, and you must not forget to give the hero a lovely moustache." "Really!" he said, rather bewildered. She went to a corner and fetched a heap of back numbers, and together they-went through the bundle, laughing at the absurdity of the drawings and of the letterpress beneath. " And what is my text?" he asked. She thought. Picking up the manuscript, she ran through its pages. " This might do for the frontispiece: 'Lord Affleck started back as Ermyntrude drew from her bosom a dagger. ' Stand back, my lord,' she cried, 'unless the next moment is to be your last V "

"It is certainly very dramatic,"' said Durrant, struggling to retain his laughter. "Very," assented Mary, drily. "And this might do for the centre page: ' I have always loved you,' she said, burying her blushing face on his breast.'" She pitched the manuscript on one side "There, you needn't bother to read the story. ' Lord Affleck' is a villain. 'Ermyntrude' is the heroine, and wears her hair down her back —a strange custom for a governess, when one comes to think of it; and the other man is the hero, with a moustache, of course, and he proposes in an orchard." " If I may, I will look in to-morrow and show you my drawing?" said Durrant, rising.

She nodded brightly. When he had gone she sat late staring into the dying fire.

Soon, very soon, an evening visit became a fixed 'nstitution. Mary was able to assist Durrant to a small extent. But the time soon came when he began to secure work on a higher plane. She had believed in his merit from the first, aaid now that others were finding it out she felt as pleased as if the success had been purely personal.

But success did not come to him ail at once, and In the meantime the friendship of the two steadily increased. One evening, some months later, Durrant enme into her room with elation visible on his face. " I see you have good news," Mary said.

"I have indeed." He sat down in his usual chair, with eyes that sparkled. "Go on," she said. " Perhaps it wont lead to much, but. " " Oh, yes, it will lead to a great deal. Only what is it?" "You know Egerton Moore?"

"Of course." Moore was a star in the journalistic heavens of the first magnitude. "He saw some of my work somewhere, and was struck by it. He has asked me to illustrate one of the articles he is doing for the 'Daily Hlostrated' in the series 'London by Night.'"

" Good indeed !" she cried. •" My dear boy, you are getting on." "I may not satisfy him," he replied, with that feigning of despondency with which the young veil their assurance of success. " Nonsense."

" I am to p> down to some Jewish plays in Whitcchapel to-night," he went on. "We are to work together. The things that strike him he wants to strike me in the same wav."

She looked at him thoughtfully. '' He thinks perhaps you may not quite grasp his point of view?" Ho got up and stood with hi> back to the fire. "I am going to do what 1 can, at auy rate. I bought some of his books thus morning, and have been ' mugging' them up. I think I understand the way he regards life. The question is whether I can put it into line." Mary Tiller poured him out a cup of coffee.

" I wonder ii you know how much you have helped me?" be continued. "I am glad,"' she murmured. " If I were only sure—sure that T were on the road to success, I would say more, much more."

Her color deepened. Her woman's instinct warned her that danger lay ahead. Her fingers tightened on the saucer as she handed It, for she felt it was a safeguard. " Success means hard work," she went on, assuming her old sisterlv tone, yet a little ashamed of the platitude. " I am prepared to work hard," he answered eagerly. "Is that all it means?" "I cannot "tell what success means to yon," she answered. " Everyone has a different interpretation." He was silent, and then a flush rose to Mb brow. "To me, success means money enough for—two." The words were simple words, but the cup commenced to tremble in its saucer.

She raised her eyes slowly, and tried to smile, but there was consternation in her heart. " What do you mean?" she aaked. '■ You snrelv guess." "I do not guess," she answered steadily. " Supposing I were to tell you that I loved someone —someone who had a sufficient income—l who have to struggle to pay my weekly bill No man in my position could ask that someone to marry him, could he'-" She did not answer. "He could not,'' he went on decisively, "unless he were a cad, or unless the certainty of success bad dawned. Has such a certainty dawned in my ca.se?" She smiled and shook her head. " Stupid fellow V" she said; " you axe far too young to think of marriage, and in any cusc you would not be justified in doing so in your present circumstances." " You feel that?" he asked. " I am certain of it," she replied with, decision, her eyes boldly meeting his. He turned away, relinquishing his hold on the saucer. Her grasp, too, had lessened, and the cup fell to the ground, breaking in pieces amidst a pool of coffee. In the confusion thus caused sentimentality vanished. AVhen he had gone away Mary Tiller sat musing. Suddenly she sprang up, and taking the lamp in her hand bore it to the mirror over the mantelpiece. For some minutes she carefully scrutinised her features. Then she sighed a little, and replacing the lamp on her writing table, sat down and began to write the opening chapters of a new novelette. The months passed slowly, and Durrant began to make rr-atenal progress. No word was ever uttered which bore upon the question he had mooted that evening. By mutual consent the subject was totally avoided, and they renewed their old, easy intimacy. One evening, however, he came into Mary's room, his face Unshed with excitement. Mary was, as usual, at her desk struggling with a young woman's love affairs. "At last!" he cried as he entered. Mary glanced round quickly. She guessed instinctively that the postponed moment had come, and felt her heart beat. " Sit down while 1 finish this paragraph," she said, and wrote on wildly. After a few minutes she flung down her pen. She rose, and came slowTy towards the fireplace. Durrant had sat down in his customary chair, and she stood with one hand on the mantelpiece looking down on him. "I have a great deal to tell you," he said. There was a note of confidence in his voice. "What is it?" she asked, subduedly. " The ' Daily Illustrated' people are sending Moore to tho States for the Presidential election. He wants me to go with him. They have offered handsome terms." "I am glad," she answered heartily. " That isn't all. Afterwards we're to ' do' Canada together. There is a boom in the colonies just now, and the 'lllustrated' is going to play them heavily. I don't know where else we are going, but we shall not be back for six months. Of course, I'm jjoing merely to illustrate Moore's work."

"Six months," she echoed. He nodded. "When we get back, I am to be engaged as one of the staff." " I am glad, so glad !" He jumped up and caught her hands. " Congratulate me, for I have achieved that for which I have been striving." She let her hands remain in his, and looked him. squarely in the face. " I congratulate you most sincerely," she said, "I am very, very glad." '' I am sorry to be away for six months," ho went on ruefully; "it seems a long time." "It will soon pass," she replied cheerfully. "When do you start?" "In a fortnight. We should have started earlier, only Mooro is going to take his wife and daughter. Of course they can't be ready at a moment's notice." ." I am so glad that you have got your chance," said Mary gently. "You might have had to wait years for it." , "I am glad too," he answered, "and you can guess why. Now lam no longer a waif on the ocean of journalism. I have now a rudder to my little boat, and—and there is room for two."

She drew her hands away. " And so yon are thinking of getting married," she said cheerfully. " What a precocious child it is! Who is the girl?" " There can only be one woman for me," he answered, " and you know' that well enough. You protend that lam a child, but you know well enough that it is not tho case." He spoke so directly that Mary felt her pretence at noncomprehension break down utterly. She lifted her eyes and smiled bravely. " It is a question of comparison merely," she said. "You see, I compare your age with mine,"

An angry flush rose to his brow. "Yot are most irritating, Mary—l will call you Mary. You pretend that lam a boy, and that you are an old woman. Really there is very little difference in our ages." "Oh, no, hardly any," she said mockingly. "Let mo see, you are nearly—what is it?—twenty?" " Twenty-two," he burst out wrathfnlly. "What"a great age!" she exclaimed. "And I am " she hesitated a little, looking at ham and then away—"much older. lam nearly thirty." " It is nothing !" A tinge of pink dyed her cheek. "As a matter of fact lam more than that. lam thirtv-five." "Well, what of it?" "Oh, yes, it is still youthful, no doubt. I don't pretend to be an old woman yet. But let us talk about your good fortune." " No, no," he cried. " I will say what I have to say, it is simple enough. Mary, I love you, and you must marry me." " Must?" she repeated. " Yes." Ho took hor hands in his and drew her towards himself.. "I love you more than any woman I ever met. For months I have worked hard that I might be able to say this to you. You know that. And now that the time has come you want to put me off. But I decline to be put off. Tho matter must be decided to-night" " Very well," she answered composedly, "wo will decide the matter to-night. Only let us talk it over seriously." " Very well." " That will necessitate your letting go my hands. Thank you." Sho whisked away from him. "Where is your pipe? Sit down, and light up." He sat down. "1 am going to keep you to the point," he observed, "but I don't mind smoking." He filled his pipe, and Marv brought him a lighted match. He kissed the hand that held it. She stood for a moment looking down on him with tenderness in her eyes, a smile half mocking, half wistful on her lips. '"When vou are older," she said, "you will understand the difference l>etwee,n the possible and the impossible." " There is nothing impossible in the proposition I have made." She moved to the table and sat down, her chin in her hand, and looked into vacancy. "No," she said, "in a sense that is true. And yet it is not true, for the possible is often the impossible." "Wherein lies the impossibility?"

She was silent. " Look at my side of the question. lam in love with you, and 30U are in love with

me . Her cheeks grew red, but she put the matter by with a laugh " That is a bold saving," she interposed gaily. '" I say vou aro in love with me." He became emphatic. " And I challenge you to deny it."

Her eyes, as she looked at him, were very soft and tender. "I am very fond of yon," she replied at length. " That is—you love mo." " Call it what you will—for the sake of argument." " Now admitting we love each other, what reason can there be for not marrying? I am certain now to make enough to support a. wife. You put great stress on the fact tha-t you are a few years older than myself. What nonsense it is! I know that I shall always love you. lam sure you will not tire of me." She thought. " Since I knew you, life has been happier," she said slowly. "If I were to marry you, perliaps my happiness would be made' permanent. You ask me why I hesitate? I can give no string of reasons. I have no reasons to offer. And vet " "You admit you havo no reasons:

She disregarded his question. "It may seem conceited to say so," she went on, "but it is true that I huve a faculty not very common in woman—a good judgment. Through life, 1 have found that when confronted with two alternatives, I have usually been able to choose the right course. And my judgment tells me that our mtimago would be a mistake." "I too have judgment," he cried, "and it tells me the contrary." She shook her head. " You are not letting it have fair play." "I tell vou I love you!"

" I am the only woman you have associated with since you came to London. And «it your age it is easy to love. Perhaps, too," you are a little grateful for any help I have been able to render you. We have had many cosy chats together, and so you think you love me." " My love is real." " I am sure of it; at this moment it is real."

"Do you think it will not last?" " I think it is possible it might not if you met a young and beautiful woman." "Do you "think your love would last?" She pondered the question. "If I loved you, which I don't admit, you know, J. don't think my love would ever fade." There was a smile on her lips, but in her eves a look of almost anguish. " " Then it is for my sake you refuse to marry me." " I have not said I loved you," her voice was almost inaudible—" but if I did love you, it would bo for your sake I should refuse." He sprang to his feet and came to her side, and put his arm round her waist. "You love me, I know," he said, "and for my sake you want to make me unhappy*! Oh, what folly! Of course, I will not listen to such nonsense. I love, you, and we will marry." He pressed her In his strong, young arms and kissed he/ face. She did not resist. At length she drew herself away from him. " Of course it is out of the question," she murmured, and looked helplessly around the room as if for a means of escape. " Come, Mary," ho said, " why should you hesitate? Can't you see it is useless to resist?"

She gave a little low laugh. "I almost feel that."

" Say just one word," he pleaded. " Say that >ou will marry me." "Let us leave the matter over till you retnrn in six months' time." He considered this. " No," he said decisively. " I should be restless and anxious the whole time I was away. I should be fearing that someone else was trying to take you from me. In fact, unless you promise to marry me, I don't think I shall go away at all."

'' Oh," she exclaimed, shocked. " How oan you say such a. foolishly wicked thing?" "It is for you I have been working," he answered a little sullenly. "Success is no doubt pleasant, but I value it for what it brings. I hoped it would bring you." "Would it.make you nnhap,£y if I s^£

definitely our marriage is out of the question?"

" It would wreck my life!" A flickering smile, which exaggeration of sentiment always brought, hovered round the comers of .Mary's mouth, but she became serious at once. " Perhaps it really might disturb you and make your work less satisfactory," she said thoughtfully. " I am sure I should be good for nothing. As I said, it would be quite useless going at all. ,r "You annoying boy," she exclaimed suddenly, a smile flooding her eyes, "I will marry you." "Really?" and his arms were around hei again. After an interval she pushed him away from her. " You seem really happy," she said, with a touch of wonder. " Happy!" he ejaculated. " Oh, Mary She glanced at herself in the glass, and sighed. "Ah, well, truly love is blind." " I must get a ring," he said with much importance. "In the meantime, I wonder if this will do." He drew a signet ring from his finger. y " Moore gave it to me as a remembrance of our first meeting." He took her hand in his, and pressed it on her finger, but it was far too large. "Never mind, I'll get another to-morrow." She slipped the ring back on to his finger, and stood for a moment holding his hand, and absently turning the ring round. "I want you to finish your pipe," she said slowly; "there is a letter I have to write."

He went back to his chair and smoked contentedly. " Come," Mary said, after a few minutes of busy writing, and lighting a stick of sealing wax as she spoke, " I want you to seal this envelope with your ring. It is a fancy of mine." He came across obediently and did what she told him. " Do you know for whom this letter is?" she aßked. She sat down and addressed the envelope. " Look!" "For me!" he exclaimed. "What is it about?" "I think you may call it a love letter," she answered. " Yes, I think that is what it should be called." "Give it to me." She shook her head. "No, not till you come home." She crossed to the mantelpiece, and unlocked a little carved wooden box standing on it, and put the letter inside. She turned the kev.

"I want you to keep this key until you return, and then you may read the letter." "Why keep me so long waiting?" he asked grumblingly. She smiled. " Never mind. You will enjoy it all the more when you do read it."

The six months that Durrant was away slipped by. The routine of Mary's life remained the same; each six weeks saw the completion of a love story, and her editorial work was never neglected. In the evenings, when her day's work was done, sho would sit by the fire and think. Dunant's photograph looked down from the mantelpiece, and her eyes would frequently glance towards it. Sometimes she would take it in her hand and scrutinise it closely, and once, in a moment of impulse, she had kissed it; but as a rule it stood on the little carved box, undisturbed save by the servant in her rare moments of activity.

The six months came to an end. One evening Mary was writing in her room, when she heard a cab stop at the door. She knew instinctively that it was Durrant. The pen dropped from her hand and she sprang from her seat, and then she sat down and went on writing. She could hear outside the bustle and confusion of an arrival, but her pen still formed coherent words. The beautiful governess who was being bullied by an overbearing Countess continued to deliver home truths in a telling and polite manner; the young Lord continued to look on in glowing- admiration. And yet the whole time Mary Tiller's own little romance was reaching its culminating point Her face was calm enough, and no one would have guessed how much inwardly she was agitated. When the door handle moved she did not turn round. It was only when a familiar voice spoke her name that she rose slowly. Her eyes with a single glance took in Durrani's embarrassed face, his faltering step, the want of the ardor and gladness of six months ago. " Back again ?" she said hrigbily, and advanced to meet him with outstretched hand.

*'Yes, lam back." His eyes did not meet readily. "Haw you had anything to eat?" " Oh, yes, I dined with the Moores. I havo just left them." " They are back, too ?" " Yes'." "All of them? Mrs Moore and—Miss Moore ?" "Yes." A touch of color tinged his cheek. There was almost a silence. Mary sat down, and Durrant sank into his ordinary seat. " The six months have gone quickly," said Mar}'. He looked at her. "It seems years to me." She nodded. " That is the effect of the continual change of scene." " You do not ascribe it to my absence from you?" he asked, with an attempt at lightness, wliich, however, seemed unnatural. She gave him a little shrewd look. " No, I don't ascribe it to that." He rose. " Mary," he began, looking down on her and speaking gravely, " I have not forgotten that evening before I went away. I have not forgotten your promise to me." She looked up. "You still -wisli to marry —me?" " Yes," he replied stubbornly. Mary rose too. "You foolish fellow," she said, and her eyes filled with tears, though her lips were smiling bravely, " you know that is not true." She put her hand on his arm and came near to him. "Own to me that it is not true." "I tell you it is true." There was an angiy emphasis in his voice. ' , "1 see you have been trying to convince rem self. Have you succeeded?" Ha turned away. "Do you think I am so fikle that six months can change me?" 'Yes," she answered, "I do." Then her eyes fell on the carved box on the mantlepiece. "Look, your letter still remains un» read. Now is the time to read it." Ho took the key from his pocket and opened the box. " I don't in the least understand yon," he gaid.

' ; Read," she exclaimed laughingly. He broke the seal and glanced down the page, and then with a quick glance at her began to read the letter aloud. " I axu not going to marry you, my dear boy," he read. "I only consented to make you temporarily happy, or rather not to hinder your success in life. Of course, the thing is quite out of the question', but I wanted you to see it for yourself. What could have put it into yonr bead that I loved you?" He turned to ner, and there was a brightness on his face that had before been absent. " la this true ?" he cried. "Quite true," she replied. "Ton do not love me?" Her eyes dropped before him, but the next moment she raised them steadily. '"I do not lave you," she said quietly. He seemed bewildered. " Have you been plr.ying with me?" "Only for your sake," she answered softly. "You—you are very young." For a. moment he looked as if he thought he ought to be offended; then Mary pointed to bis chair. , " Sit down and smoke a pipe, and tell me about—Miss Moore." The blood rushed to the roots of his hair. Confusion was on his face. And then ha laughed out loudly. " I believe you are a witch," he said.

When he had gone Mary took up her pen again. And as she wrote one or two tears, not excited by the woes of her heroine, fell upon the manuscript.