THE ROAD FORLORN.

Hawera Star, Volume XLVII, 17 December 1927, Page 8

THE ROAD FORLORN.

When John Wallace smiled softly into the eager eyes of the woman beside him he did not remark that her eyes were surrounded by tiny lines, although he knew they were there, as he knew that her throat and the corners of her mouth were slightly drooped, and these were not the reasons he hoped the smile was convincing. The response in the tired eyes of the woman beside him that deepened the lines around them was so reassuring that he was emboldened to touch her hand lightly, but he was not pleased when she responded by touching his cheek even more lightly with her lips —as lightly as a butterfly settling on a flower. It. was not the knowledge that the lips that touched his cheek drooped at the corners that made it difliciilt for him to subdue a grimace of distaste, and breathe sileut thanks when a lurch of the car separated them. Nor did he think of the eyes or the throat or the lips of the woman beside him in the silence that followed the sentimental passage, and it was not because he had nothing to say that he hoped she would not break the silence.

As well as the wrinkled eyes and the drooping throat and mouth, John Wallace knew the mind of the woman beside him so well that he could have foretold what she did say when she broke the silence: "Different from when we were here last, John?'’ He delayed in the hope that her question 'was rhetorical, and demanded no reply, but when the eyes, with their ■wrinkles, insisted, he said, "Yes, nearly 25 years ago." There was no intention to be unkind in the reminder of the passage of years, each one of which had left a record on her face, but he had been thinking of those years; not their effect upon her, but upon him. "Sorry we did not go by way of Dean's Marsh, but it would not have been the same in a car. Remember the old coach rattling down the hills? There was no Great Ocean road then. ’ ’ He said he remembered, but he did not, and if he had he would still have gone on thinking of the 25 years, trying to distinguish between the years and the woman beside him, assigning each a .just share of responsibility. Not only had John Wallace forgotten the old coach that rattled down the hills from Dean’s Marsh, but until a week ago he had forgotten even that he and his wife had spent their first weeks together at Lome. He would not have remembered then had his wife not wished to make a sentimental journey to the place from which they began their journey of married life. He had agreed to join the pilgrimage, not because he wanted to, but because he always tried to please her. For although ft seemed that immediately they had left the place from which they began their journey of married life they had travelled separate roads, it seemed also that he had become two persons, one travelling a ‘lonely road alone, the other helping Marion along hers. The journey became more complicated when he remembered that Marion had always thought she was travelling with him along his road.

With the habit of thought he had developed recently, John Wallace supposed that at some time he had been happy with his wife, although he could not remember it, and although the 25 years seemed to have been unbrokenly desolate, lie did not hate his wife. Even estrangements or quarrels which had never occurred would have been a welcome relief from the monotony of misery, and he could best compare his feelings with the dull' heartache of a prisoner who, hope of freedom, dead, had grown used to his chains.

John Wallace did not see the views unfolded along the Great Ocean road, as he recalled the few times the chains had rattled and had driven him to the point of rebellion. Except for those occasions, and then only vaguely, his wife had never known that- life with her was an almost insupportable martyrdom. Until recently he had accepted his martyrdom with more or less resignation, because Marion had never ceased to love him, and he would not cause her a moment’s pain. Despite the new habit of introspection, he could not account for his recent desperation, and ,although he had not read the w'orks of Sigmund Freud, nor had heard of an Indian Summer, he had heard that it was the last straw that broke the camel's back. He did not know what' last straw had been applied to his back, but he had realised that, after forty, fifty approached with express speed, and he feared' that sixty would be even swifter.

Although he understood Marion, so well, he had not known that she had ever heard the rattle of the chains until she had suggested timidly the pilgrimage to Lome, He had known that his wife treasured her bridal veil in lavender and tissue paper, and he had guessed that her hope was to win him back in the scenes of their honeymoon. Because his knowledge of women was restricted to his wife, he did not know that all women attach their love to concrete things, scenes and anniversaries, and that the love of men is more abstract, and because it attaches to nothing material more easily passes away. When John Wallace had agreed to .join his wife on a journey to Lome he had felt something of t lie exquisite joy of a devout condemning himself to penance, even of a martyr going to the stake, an.fl the punishment was for having let his wife hear the rattle of the chains. He decided, however, that he was not a good martyr, because he had a sense- of humour, a quality he had always found sadly lacking in the religious, especially the founders of religions. Sometimes when Marion was especially trying, ho doubted his sense of humour, and he was glad to have it confirmed, as when Marion said: “Look, John, the Erskine River; do tell the chauffeur to stop a minute"; and he replied, “Better not, Marion; wc shall bo late for dinner as it is." He was amused at the thoughts of martyrdom that had filled -his- mind u moment before, and the primitive desire for food that had immediately excluded them.

Since he regarded the pilgrimage as penance, John Wallace had not resisted his wife when she had insisted on staying at the boarding-house in which they had spent their first weeks at Lome, although he had shrunk .from the intimacies and crudities of boarding-house life, and had desired an hotel. His wife was determined that the holiday at Lorno must be just like the first, and

he was glad that she did not realise what a mockery she was staging. What there was of dinner did not depress him so much as what there was not, for he had grown uncustomed to wine with his meals, but the coffee was abominable. Not only did he resent the absence of wine and the dark mess that the waitress pronounced "caffee nover.’’ but the din of his youthful fellow-boarders, as they all talked at once, and the clatter of their boisterous eating reminded him of feeding time at a zoo. He was forced to. listen to meaningless jargon about tennis l and swimming, and to the loud laughter that followed each stupid joke, but when a bright-eyed, healthy youth opposite tried to tell him of a walk that day to Erskine Falls the snub he administered made him feel better. •Since it was impossible to enter into competition with the unmodulated voices of the other diners, John Wallace did not attempt to converse with Marion, which left him uninterrupted with his uncomfortable thoughts. His feeling of superiority was only a mask for Ms envy of the youth around him, and, having admitted it, the knowledge that he was not unhandsome and had distinction, and wore a faultlessly cut dinner jacket, not even toying with the black silk ribbon of his recently acquired spectacles, with real tortoiseshell rims, restored his poise. He felt out of place. Even girls with shoulders and arms heavily powdered, to hide the sunburn and their low frocks showing the pattern of bathing bathing costumes printed by the sun, did not jar him so much as the carefully made-up face of Marion. And she was toying with her food, as if to prolong the ghastly dinner. John Wallace would not walk with Marion after dinner, but found her a deck chair on the lawn, and went to his room. He had the guilty feeling of a secret drinker as he poured himself a stiff whisky, but he felt better after the third had compensated for the lack of wine at dinner, and when he joined Marion he was receptive to the beauty of the night. The air was warm and soft in the twilight, the evening star had appeared, the surf beat a faint undersong on the beach, and the lights of a cargo steamer were low down on the horizon.

Marion asked what he was saying, and he replied" self-consciously that it had been something about the beauty of the night, but he had not been thinking about the night. Some craving for the sea that could not be stilled, even by three whiskies, was always inflamed by the sight of a ship, and he had been trying to remember the verse about the liners, white and gold, rolling down to Rio. Only the last lines, "And I’d like to roll to Rio one day before I’m old,’’ had been clear in his memory, and they had made him feel so poignantly sad as he repeated them aloud that he still felt a strong smarting around his eyes. He had not realised that he had been repeating them aloud, and when Marion replied to his excuse about the beauty of the night that it was beautiful, wasn’t it, he had a violent desire to plunge into the sea and swim in pursuit of the lights of the cargo steamer low down on the horizon until he drowned. He resented that Marion had felt the beauty of the night, and when she tried to hold his hand he snatched it way under the pretence of lighting a cigarette. But the cigarette was tasteless, and he threw it away, paced the lawn nervously, lit another cigarette, threw that away, and damned the night and the ship and everything. Especially did he damn his nerves, every one of which seemed alive.

The desire to seek oblivion in the sea was replaced by a desire to kick to pieces a tin-toned gramophone that had begun playing in a corner of the grounds. He did not object to gramophones. and had no great ear for music, but he had an acute sense of rhythm, and the rhythm of "Blue Skies’’ did not synchronise with the rhythm of "And I’d like to roll to Rio one day before I’m old.’’ As if the clash between two rhythms was not enough, a third was introduced by a piano playing a dance tune. Marion asked if he had forgotten the nightly dance, to which they simply must go. When they left the ballroom, after two dances, and after he had taken Marion to her room, because she felt tired by the journey, he had lost some of the restlessness, and his nerves were more quiescent. He returned to smoke a cigarette in the deck chair, and the lights of the cargo steamer were no longer on the horizon to taunt him with the Rios he would never see before he had grown old. His cigarette tasted almost normal, and there was comfort in the remark he had heard in the ballroom in praise of his dancing. His dancing, like his slim hands and carefully manicured nails, were among his vanities, and, atlhough he did not risk making himself ridiculous by essaying the Black Bottom, ho had the ease and grace of the natural dancer. He was vain of his feet, too, and his chiropodist was proud of them; not a corn or a callous harassed them, and lie glanced admiringly at the reflection of the moon in the polish of his patent leather shoes. Although he tried ever so hard John Wallace could remember little of the first weeks at Lome with Marion, when he was 21 and she 17. There had been no mixed bathing, and tlm circular waltz had been watched by circular chaperone. The piano in the ballroom, softened by the distance, seemd to be playing something reminiscent of the old circular waltz, and he was outraged when he realised that the pianist was jazzing "The Blue Danube. ’ ’

John Wallace was engaged in extinguishing the butt of his cigarette against the heel of his shoe, and did not immediately stand up when someone said. “Hello. All alone? Why ern’t you dancing?" He did not realise the words had been addresesd to him until he looked up, and saw someone standing in front of his chair. By the time he had risen to his feet he had noticed that the woman who had spoken was dressed in a white-beaded frock, that she wore no cloak over her bare arms and shoulders, and that she appeared little more than a girl. He would have said something banal had she not cut in with “Don’t get up, please. I spoke because I want a cigarette, and I saw the light of yours from rny bungalow." He said that it was a pleasure, and as he lit a match asked her why she was not dancing. He liked the way she shrugged her shoulders as she said that she was feeling fed-up and could not be bothered.

When she had accepted his invitation to smoke the cigarette with him and

he had found another chair he was com-, forted by her presence. He supposed that ho had been lonely, and did not know that she was satisfying an inarticulate desire for the company of a woman induced by the night. He had not seen her clearly, and could not now without turning his head rudely to stare, but he was content to sit beside her and blow smoke rings until he felt that politeness demanded him to say something. She did not accuse him of being superior when he asked why she should be fed up at her age, and supposed it was the night, and that because she was a woman, and would never do the things she wanted. " \nd I’d like to roll to Rio one day before I’m old.’’ He had not said the words consciously; they had just seemed to express the tone in her voice, as they had expressed his emotions of a little time ago. She said that was about it; of course, when she was married she would have more freedom; that her name was Edna, and her age 19; and asked for another cigarette. After he had held a match to her cigar otte a little longer than necessary, he had noticed that she had a high forehead, large dark eyes, surrounded by shadows that were eyelashes, a largo mouth that turned up humorously at the comers, and a firm young throat. She had noticed him at dinner, and. had liked the distinction of his hair, slightly grey at the temples, and his closeclipped fair moustache, and Sals aloofness from the noisy youths around him. He confessed that he had envied those youths .and she said that youth was like having teeth —necessary, but the sooner over the better. John Wallace had wanted her to stay for another cigarette, but she said that two was her allowance, because she had to play in a tennis final next day, and did not want to impair what she called her wind. No trace of his earlier turbulence was left when she had gone, and a pleasant internal glow he had nevei felt before sent him on a swinging walk that ruined his patent leather shoes before he went to say good-night to Marion. Marion had said that his eves were sparkling, and he had said that he had been for a walk; but he looked curiously in his mirror before he went to bed, and heard the faint undersong of the surf on the beach a long time before he slept. It was pleasant lying in the hot sun watching Edna play her tennis final. He had not noticed the night before how tall she was and how athletic. She reminded him of something he could not place until he remembered a statue or a picture he had seen somewhere, and decided that she was of classic figure, and he was pleased when he named her the New Diana. His wife sat upright beside him under a parasol, and Edna dared the hot sun on the asphalt court with no more covering than an eye-shield. Marion had looked interested when Edna had said a preoccupied "morning’’ to him aS she entered the court, but had asked no question, and he had volunteeered no explanation of how he had met her, but he was disquieted by the memory ,of the sparkling eyes, and hoped Marion had forgotten them. John Wallace knew nothing about tennis, but the excitement was infections, and so that he would not be out of it occasionally he echoed the "good shot’’ and "well played ’ ’ of the others. He was hurt when he threw Edna a ball and she’ caught it without even a glance in his direction, and he did not know the match had ended until people rushed the court and congratulated her. Another memory of those vague first weeks at Lome, of women playing tennis in long skirts, blouses and sailor' hats, had come to him as he had watched Edna frankly perspiring in her sliortf rock and unapologetic bloomers. Someone near him had said she played like a man. and his neck had grown weary trying to follow what he gathered were called drives from the back line. He had not joined in the congratulations because they might be an excuse for speaking to her later, but when she demanded an iced drink he met two youths returning with a tray full, and he was glad afterwards that they had been unconscious of his offensive glare. When he saw Edna- in a bathing costume before lunch he was glad that Marion did not swim, and he was glad that his figure was still athletic. He had been chagrined when Edna beat him easily in a race that had begun without 'prearrangement, but not so chagrined as when she left him at the edge of the sea and sat with a group of young sunbathers. John Wallace had found Edna, after lunch reading in the shade of a tree to escape the heat of the sun at its zenith, while Marion rested in her room. He had stammered something about her tennis, and she had seemed to have forgotten the match. It was she who had suggested the walk to the Sanctuary, and he had never been happier than when they sat together on a rock with their bare feet in the cool stream, and again he blessed his chiropodist. Beyond the shade bright birds wheeled in the sunlight, and if he kept his feet still little fish came close to his toes. The ageless, cathedral-like peace of the Sanctuary pervaded his soul, and he forgot Edna and remembered something lie had read about lying in the forest and hearing the earth revolve. There were no bounds to his elation, he seemed at once to be floating with the stars, and to have lost, his identity in the oneness of nature. His spirit soared as l on a winged ship, of which he had read also, sailing for some celestial Rio, which he hoped would never be reached, because the journey was so divinely pleasant. He did not think that Edna had anything to do with ecstatic, flight of his soul; has joy was too impersonal and indefinable. When some chattering young people came to the Sanctuary, and brought him back to earth, he became acutely conscious of Edna, and felt ridiculously old to be paddling in a creek. He wondered whether Edna, too, had been among the stars, but he did not dare ask her, for he knew that such bliss could not be shared. His thought of Edna made him remember guiltily that he had left Marion alone for some time, and he was glad when Edna suggested that they should return, because his joy had vanished. When he had returned and had left Edna at the gate he was relieved to find that Marion had found some friends and was having tea with t hem.

In the days that followed John Wallace did not attach any significance to the persistency with which -Marion avoided him, and without question left him free to be with Edna. Marion scorned absorbed in her friends, a married couple, whom John Wallace did not know, but whom she apparently had known for some time. There were walks to Raspberry Cottage, and gluttonous, school children feasts of freshly gathered raspberries and cream. As they walked home around the old tram track Edna placed one hand on his shoulder so that she could balance on' the rail, and he had a comfortable, protective feeling. There was even a perspiring walk to the despised Erskine

Palls, but the walk lie liked 'best of all was that after dinner along the road to the Pacific Hotel, and .the point be vond The moon seemed tangled m the avenue of gums, and the white surt around the broad bay seemed a gigantic feather, half-curled at the foot of the hills. On a headland, a lighthouse blinked a warning to unseen ships, and again John Wallace soared in his winged ship to delectable Rio. Sometimes he felt nearly suffocated with joy, as if his soul was beating wings against his throat, in fact, seeking the stars. . . . John Wallace was always alone in his winged ship, but there were moments when Edna was very dear to him. One moment had been when after a. dusty walk she had asked for a pint of beer' in a pewter-pot, as he had done, and although obviously she did not like it, and had been able to drink only a little, the gesture of camaraderie had given him a happy internal glow. The chief reason John Wallace knew lie was not in love with Edna was that he did not feel guilty regarding Marion. Had there been a trace of sentimentalitv between them he would have felt guilty, but he had told Marion of his friendship with Edna, and her unaffected encouragement made all his actions comfortingly overt. Several times they had jolly 'late suppers of lobsters and beer 'in a little shop by the river, and the knowledge that the lobster would keep him a wage all night did not mar them. Marion had said that- she was happy with her two friends whom she had met at Lome 25 years ago, when they had been honeymooning, and she wanted John Wallace to amuse himself as he wished.

When he told Edna of the winged ship, and planned breathless voyages, lie made her a passenger, so that she could enter into the sport. The fancy pleased her, and she was so insistent on starting at once that John Wallace forgot that celestial voyages in winged ships are made only alone and certainly not with youth at the prow and middleage at the helm. Sometimes he expressed his meagre philosophy, and planned a country cottage, where they would' grow old gracefully awtay from the futile world, and he .placed the cottage, in the valley of Raspberry Cottage, because it reminded him of Jack London’s “Valley of the Moon.” This fancy pleased him almost as much as the winged ship, but it did not please Edna so much, and John Wallace reflected that at 19 middle-age is a million years away. The earth reeled beneath his feet when Edna told him that -she was returning to Melbourne early next .morning and supper later that night would be their last at Lome. Their friendship had seemed so permanent, and as a healthy man never thinks he will die. he had never contemplated that their friendship would end. He sat' alone for hours, huddled in the lee of a bathing-box, not feeling the chill wind. What a fool he had been to delude himself that he was not in love with Edna; life without her was unthinkable, impossible. Why had he net realised that his winged ship had soared only when he was with Edna, and that' she, and not he, hiid been at the helm. Never again could he bear the chains of

life -with Marion, and he felt suddenly old, and his soul was grey. But he was rich, and not so old after all. He would live many years, perhaps for ever, and he and Edna could spend them exploring the Rios he had dreamed. (Softened by the distance came music from the ballroom, where Edna' was dancing, and nearer the voices of two who walked along the firm sand at the water’s edge. He doubted that' he had the courage to ask Edna to' come exploring with him, because if she refused life would be greyer than if he played for the rest of his life with that fancy that she might have’ come. That was weak; he would put his fortune to the test, and somehow he felt certain that Edna would say “Yes.”

The two •who walked arm-in-ami along the water’s edge came nearer, ami, despite himself, he heard what they were saying. He did not realise' that the woman was Marion until he heard her mention his name. The wind blow fragments of her sentences. —a tragic mistake—never happy—a married life of misery—never disloyal to John, because (he had always loved her, and she never would be, although she had always loved this man she had met at Lome 25 years ago.

So Marion was as blind as he had been, and had suffered as he, but more bravely. His path was clear, the same that he had always trod. Ait supper he would be gayer than ever before and at parting he would kiss Edna softly on the lips, and say that they must see one another again in Melbourne, but the his® would tell Edna they would not, and John Wallace know that they 4 must not. The chains would never Tattle again.