TRAGEDY OF DIVORCE

Evening Star, Issue 19274, 12 June 1926, Page 9

TRAGEDY OF DIVORCE

THE CHILD PAYS TBy Muhiei. Cooepit, in the ‘Sunday Chronicle.’] The injury inflicted on tho child—-the obviously innocent party in every divorce suit—is a consideration that has acted powerfully on the-, consciences of men and women, and has again and again induced them to make up their differences, control their passions, and sacrifice their desires. that their children may not suffer. If only tho suffering and heart-ache that children endure in these cases were understood it would surely be impossible to advocate divorce as a simple, reasonable way for the “ high-spirited wife to be free from tho bullying husband ” or “ the peace-loving husband to get rid of tho shrewish wife.” But tho children’s point of view is seldom brought forward, and tho outrage to their natural feelings caused by the separation of their parents ia simply not understood. Among an enchanting acquaintance of some hundreds of children I have known not a few small victims of the divorce laws; one little tragedy haunts me still whenever I read impassioned pleas for men and women that they may “ free themselves quietly and decently” . . . that “those _ who have made a natural human mistake may undo it and begin again.” LIFE COT TN TWO. It was a sweltering afternoon in midJuly. I had watched a crowd of men and women in the High Court absorbed in the dreary details of tho latest society divorce- suit. The judge suspected collusion, but the case had been well prepared and the evidence was complete. A few searching questions, more revelations of human weakness and criminal folly, a last appeal to reason and honor, finally the cold, measured judgment passed on the whole mean history of love and hate, and two more lives that God had joined together by man wore put asunder. With a stab of pain, I remembered a third life that would be cut in two by tins inevitable verdict—the child in tho case, who was my friend. The court emptied quickly and the crowd of sensation-mongers hurried off and the fashionable world went gossiping on its way, tho sordid little drama was forgotten, and .all was over—no, not quite all, A few days later I went to stay with my child-friond in her beautiful home in the north. According to immemorial custom, I went to ’ say good-night to her in. her bedroom—an old, square, low-ceilinged room with lattice windows; a table of childish, treasures stood by the little white bed, and on the mantelpiece a row of photos of a middle-aged man, good looking; with a weak, sensitive mouth and kindly laughing eyes. The summer moon shone white on the small occupant of tho room, seated in her nightdress on the window-sill —a pathetic atom of humanity outlined against the far-off stars. I began to tell her that sho _ ought to be in bed, but the words died on my lips as I .caught sight of the child’s face and realised that sho knew. BLUE DEVILS. She turned away from me, and a husky little voice, breathless with nervous misery, asked: “ I suppose you know what has happened about chiddums and mummy?” “Yes, darling, I know,”. “ They didn’t tell me at first, but I bothered mummy till 1 made her, because I. knew inside me that something dreadful was happening; but I never thought—l never dreamed how horrible it would lie.” X waited, for I felt that words would only hurt, and presently, in a shaky whisper, she went on: “Do you know what mummy said when she got to the real Irath about what the divorce meant? She laughed and said. ‘ Cheer up, it will soon bo over, and then yon and I will have a good time together, and she told ma not to look like—well, like what I did, because it gave her blue devils,, ana she said sho couldn’t bo bored with any more scenes.” “ And you, my lamb, what did you say?” * “Nothing, because there was nothing I could ray; but I thought—well, no, I won’t tell anyone what I thought.” “ Perhaps it will all come right some day.”>* THE PHILOSOPHY OF NINECoward that I was, I couldn’t face the truth, as I knew it to lie, with that rigid little figure beside »m, her eyes dark with pain, looking past me into the night. “ No' it won’t, it’s only in storybooks that terrible things like this eomc right; in real life you have to bear them, and I. shall have to bear this for always and always, and—and protend that—l don’t care. Thus the philosophy of nine years old, and as T listened I cursed tho devilish folly that had power to torture this child’s .soul, and laid robbed her childhood of its birthright. I’m sorry, so very sorry, dearest* for you and for mummy; you will try and lie good to bor, won’t you? For she is really very unhappy; she_ talks, to you in that strange way to hide it.” “ Yes, I see, and 1 will try to be nice to her; I am sorry for her tqo, but—do you understand ?—in spite of what’s happened, in spite of everything awful that lie’s dono it’s dadduras that 1 love—and I want—l want so terribly much to see him again —once more, just—to—-to ask him—something.” “ Yes. darling, why shouldn’t you write ? ” A CHILD’S REQUEST. “ No, mummy wouldn’t like mo to, without telling" her, and I couldn’t, I simply couldn’t explain to her what i want" to know; she wouldn’t understand, she might even laugh, and I couldn’t bear it.” Her eyes searched my face with an agonised appeal ior understanding—sympathy, for help. “Shall I write?” I suggested weakly. “ Well that was what I was thinking ecu might do; hut you must promise to toll mo really truthfully what he says when ho answers, every word ■without hiding anything—howevtr much you think I—-might—mind.” “I will, darling;what am 1 to say? ” Tho pain-drawn little lace WSS hidden by the pitiful darkness, as for a few moments of sickening silence sin® tried to steady her voice. And. then came whispered the difficult words; — “ Ask him—ask him if —he still loves me—like he used to, if he—over wants to—sq© me again, and whether—whether he hopes, like I do so dreadfully much, that some day—l shall—livfT with him again ? Will you-writ® that, and tell me truthfully what he sins? ” THE COSTS. What could I do? I knew that hope' would never bo fulfilled, that there could only he one answer.,to that agonised appeal, and—l. bad 'not courage to tell her the truth, I held her in my arms and, ns I felt her sobbing breath on my cheek, it seemed as though kune relentless wave of tragedy had broken on the threshold of her peaceful little room and swept this white young life into the whirlpool of men’s passions, beyond the reach of human help and pity. Later came tho verdict. It was:— “ Tho petitioner was granted a decree nisi and custody of the child—with costs.” And the heaviest item of those costs was tho broken heart and shattered faith of a little child-