ESTRANGEMENT.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CXXII, Issue 15510, 10 January 1911, Page 10

ESTRANGEMENT.

• (By DOROTHY SAIHD.) Author of "Three 33[eetinge," "A Break in the Monotony,'' 1 etc. [All Rights Rssskvedl] Ethel Maynard sat over her hr 6 and shivered,' but it \f-as not altogether the cold that made her draw so neat to tho small grate; Keen a,<; was the evening air ? the thought of tli© appalling desolation and loneliness of her life as it presented itself to her mental vision struck a deeper chill. Ethel was brave enough. She had faced difficulties and poverty before with courage, almost with cheerfulness. Even now, she' told herself, alio could be bravo if the memory of other Christmas Eves would not keep coming so hauntingly before her, or if she could feel the promise ..of success in the future stir;within her." But with visions of past' happiness stabbing at her heart, a sense of numbness and inefficiency pressing on her brain, she felt goaded almost to despair.

Last Christmas Eve she ha-d been alone, but the world bad looked very different. Then she had been filled with a..new, exulting sense -of 'freedom, of release from something which had become well-nigh, intolerable; misery had been choked by what she thought to be righteous indignation; she had felt the throb of genius alive within her, panting to bo at work. Now that '.throb was stMl; it seemed as if she could never write again. There was no indignation left m light -down the ' ever-swelling waves'of misery, and alio alone was to blame. Zs T o, not that' .AH the old rebellion j rose within her. Harold was to blamo jas much as she—more so. ' With her I had iayi the initial mistake of marrying him, that was all. Fool, fool that ■ she had.been to imagine for one mo- ' ment that her Pegasus and his jog-trot I back would ever amblo peaceably to--1 gather in double harness. And yet Ser'mind went back to the days of their wooing, 3nd she realised "once more the simple-minded' uprightness, the' holiest devotion, the- steadfast courage which had called to her in the past. It called to her now.. In spite of herself she felt old - throbs of "admiration and love rise within her. She ' must admire the man who, by sheer' perseverance' and pluck, had carved .a niche for' himself m this overcrowded I world, and who, by dogged lore and faithfulness, had won her for himself. Literally in the past he had forced her I to'lqre him, and. that Jove stjil rang' true as far as it went. But it did not j go far enough. ; "'Where the heart lies, let the brain Ho also." | _ The. words repeated themselves mockingly over and over again in her brain, 'its they had done many and many a time before. There was the secret of the'whole thing. Her brain could never, rest where- her heart lay. Had she been of less, strong intellect- it would riot have mattered, perhaps;,she might have been content to give up all —evon the joys of her career-—for love's sake. But she wa.r. not built like that. > Ker brain was the strongest part of her. Her whole nature demanded sccpa ; for her powers, room to develop them, n sympathy which Harold, for all his love, was incapable of giving.

And so their lives had gone awry.. It was inevitable. The little things oflife were of such Vital importance to Harold: to Ethel's Bohemianisra they were mere boredom. She liked- the household to run on oiled wheels, but she could not worry if cook over-salted the soup. or . the- housemaid, scratched the furniture, and'because-.such things left her in unruffled serenity, they seemed to worry Harold all the more. It began with- little-annoyances, little sharp speeches, little hurts and stabs that rankled, and the pain was all the sharper because of the love which lay below. Soon they were quarrelling—disputing, rather.—and making it up with tears; but after a while it went beyond that. The apologies ar.d steps towards reconciliatiou.cn ■ either .'side, grow lamer every time, faltered, and finally stopped. Sometimes the position .would- be .smoothed, over .-by ..come short explanation, sometimes the latest dispute would be-mutually ignored, in spite of inward rebeU'rigs and unhappi-' ness. Ethel could have' borne it better, she thought, had they quarrelledon some really vital issue, something more worth the pain it caused. .If Harold could only for one instant see it all , from her ..point of view, if he could only once -peep with comprehending eves'into the world her intellectloved,' she could have gone on her way rejoicing.

As it was, she trod her path in life with weary, stumbling feet, conscious of a great bitterness* in her soul, because her work was being hampered and spoilt by the frets, and jars of every "day. It was hard to feel great thought* stirring within her, great truths of .life calling for expression, and instead of giving them free play, to have to fight down petty annoyances, and hurt, indignant, rebellious murmurings. Yet. in spite of all the drawbacks, she had written a book, and she knew it to be a masterpiece. She had dene good work before; but this was something apart from the' rest, far t-.nd away better titan' anything else she had done. Now, cowering before her tire, she lived again in memory the day when she had finished that book. • She and Harold had quarrelled at breakfast—briefly but bitterly—over an idiotic mistake of the cook's. Ethel had pone to her study at last, and Harold, locking in later, had told her he was going oat, and should not bein till late, adding that, although • his comfort seemed of no consequence to her, yet she might ace that some supper was left for him in the library. She had not. replied - She .was too hurt-, too angry. And so he had gone away. » For a time she had fought with her misery, going over, the old threadbare story." of their love and their anhappiness. And then,. suddenly, a comprehension, of the magnitude .of her work flashed into her Understanding. What were these frets and jars, what was. her happiness itself, that they should stand in the wav of what she -was striving to do? If'she .succeeded, and she had succeeded so. far, she would have done something which made (her lite worth while, no matter how it was jaded and harassed by misery. A divine scorn for herself and her worries filled her. It seemed as if she were given the power to fling everything aside for a timeeven her own personality —and- to become, as it were, intellect personified. And .so she finished her book. What she wrote that day was little short of an inspiration. She paused tor nothing. The hour:, of meals passed by unheeded, and at nine o'clock the la&t word was written—her ond gloriously achieved.

For the next hour she sat in a kind of dream. With the exultation ci victorious achievement a softer mood crept over her. At" that time she felt she could live with Harold happily again, as they had lived at the first, as if his fussiness, his irritating ways, would never have the power to annoy her again. She could almost believe that if. they wrangled again as they had wrangled so often; that the. hurts and stabs of mental 'discomfort would ho merely surface wounds, and that the even current of their love- .would flow on smoothly, undisturbed beneath. She knew that'-'to Harold she owed much of this book' which should bring her fame. The inna-fo nobility of his character had inipressjfli her, raising her work to a higher level. She had not been conscious of this in the effort -of creation ; but now she saw and realised it. and her soul expanded in a glow of gratitude. A yearning to express that gratitude came..over her —to give him- an outward and[visible share- in the work he had

helped to call into being 'She would write a dedication. She longed for the gift of poetry, that she might write such a dedication as Browning wrote to his "Men and Women "; but, failing that, the. must use prose. Inspiration stirred within her again. Hurriedly, and in pencil, shs put Her thoughts into; words—burning words, words which showed her love in all its force, and purity, words which must surciy atom, for all her negligences, all her sharpnesses. Any man reading them .must surely understand her, surely feel moved that she had . such reverence, such love for him. And Harold loved her. To him they ought to come as a weU of joy. blotting cut the past, sweetening- all the future. She took her MS. downstairs and laid it en his" writing-table, putting the dedication on the top, so that it must catch his eye. Then she went upstairs, suddenly feeling very tired, now that the glow of composition had left her. She would rest on her sofa till Harold came home.

It was after two o'clock when- she woke. ■ She sat up shivering, wondering what had happened. Then she remembered, and thought it strange that Harold should be so late. She rose and crept downstairs. Ifc was just possible that ho was hi, that, attracted by ber 515., ho had stopped .to dip into.it. But no, the library was ch'ill and deserted, and the grey ashes of the fire gave a desolate air to the room. She was just turning away when she noticed somo pieces of torn paper inside the fender: ■ They' had not boon there when she came down earlier. Was it, possible that Harold had been in and gone out again? She bent down to look at the fragments; there wero somo scribbled pencil jottings upon it. .AlrnC3t mechanically she read them,'to fed herself face tp face with some of the impassioned words she bad written in the dedication. For a time she stood looking straight before her, while the iron entered into her very soul. Harold had read her dedication, and had torn it to fragments, and then gone to his club. That was how ho received her love, and the best expression of it she could compass. Henceforward there could be no peace between them. t She made up her . mind then and there a.s she stared at the ashes of the lire. Before Harold cams homo she would go away, and she would never come back. . Nothing should ever, induce her to conic back. She could earn her living by her work, and she would cut. herself free from all trammels, and live her life as she mean freedom;, expansion, sr.ccess beyond what she bad attained before. A strange sense of elation filled her, and left no room for ..grief over her.. shattered love. She felt then that no affection was possible for a ■ man who so scorned her and all she offered him. And- so in"thft-morning, she left homo', leaving no word'of good-bye for Harold. If rhe ? wrote, she must write _ bitterly, and" it was no. use increasing bitterness. She preferred to have her departure unexplained.- 'Even the ■ servants thought she had merely gone for a night or so, and told their"master so when ho camo back." For a time all went well with her. She-went abroad. She wrote a little, easily, brilliantly, without any of the sense of effort that, hampered her at home. She lazed awhile, giving her Boheinianism full sway, and resolutely putting aside all remembrance of the past, stifling nascent regrets, and living- in a. world of books and art. Then," suddenly, her genius failed her. Her brain seemed numb and dead. She wandered from"r'l'A c e'*° place seeking inspiration, she toiled at, composition! but her work had no life, .it sickened and disgusted ber. ;Theu it was that remembrance would not be stilled, and she realised the emptiness, the dreariness of life without love, that she resllv understood the wound that Harold had dealt her when he tore up her loving words. Travel afforded no relief, and so she wen + back to London, hoping that in the in-ev. the cheerlessness, the monoton v" of" London in November, some chord- Of her dormant faculties rrnglit be stirred-to life. The yerv pain.of familiar surroundings might be stimulating: the poorness of the lodgings she could afford would serve to remind her that she must work.if she would.lire. , But, alas! in London it was no better, 'pain seemed intensified here, tthere the,happier portions, of her lovestory had- bean-lived.- The vary .fact that she must write'to earn her daily bread seemed, to paralyse her brain. What work she accomplished was so commonplace or so inane that she could not let it leave her hands. And so hor life dragged wearily until, the Christmas Eve.

Now she sat starin.cc at the. fire with real despair filling her .heart. ( Her niche in the world was gone. ■ There was no love for her this Christmas; the work which had been, for her a vaison. d'etre had failed; she was achiogly lonely, utterly dreary. . The,Christmas message of joy merely emphasised her sorrow and forlornnoss; her religion was us dead or dormant as her intellect —inevitably so. . .Nothing seemed left to her in the present., and of the future she dared not think- Once or twice an impulse tb return to Harold stirred within her. , He. would forgive her—he would love her again in his own faithful way. But she stifled ' the. .thought. There would have to be explanations;. Harold was not the mail to take anything lor granted, .He might even leature her. ' Not' even for the sake of Harold's love could she submit' Jo -he treated as a naughty child. She roused herself to mend-the .fire, and the movement reminded her that she had made no provision for the morrow. She supposed she must have something to cat, and'she rose.wearily. She dreaded going out into the brightlv-lit streets, cay with Christmas preparations, dreaded meeting the stream of people full of pleasurable itnticipation."* .her eschequtt was so woefully small, and her Christmas tare must bo both i limited and wear,.

Once outside in the chill, wind-swept streets, however, her impulse was to linger and gaze at the windows. M-a-mories of past_ Christmases crowded upon her, Christmases when she and Harold had gone out together to buy their gifts for one another. There waa the .time when sho had bought a Wilting set for his table as a surprise against his return on. Christmas Eva, and he had retaliated by taking her to choose a new ring. That had heen an imperially happy night. The very memory of it brought a glow to her numbed heart. How well she remembered the shop where they had bought it. It stood at the end of the very

street she was in. at the moment. She felt impelled to wander'on and look in at the glittering'array in tho windows. There was a ring, the very replica of the one he had given her. only in sapphires instead of diamonds and rubies. Perhaps, had she stayed at home be might have given her that.to-night. He knew her love of precious stones, and his affection was always seeking to gratify her fancy. She gazetl as if fascinated; Suddenly an arm was thrust through hers, a hand grasped her own in a warm, firm grin that sent the blood rushing through her veins. She did not need to look up. She knew who held her as if he would never again let her go. And so far a moment or two they stood in silence. Presently Ethel stole a glance at hirn, and the tears rose to her eyes—his face was so deathly white Perhaps he saw the tears, for he came to the rescue in his old breezy way. "Is it the sapphires?" he asked. Ethel nodded ; she could not speak. "Come inside."' ha commanded. "Why?" she, faltered. " It's Christmas Eve,'' he explained, with a laugh that choked with joy. " Last year I got a brooch. I couldn't think of anything else, and you weren't here to choose." Ethel spent into the shop in s dream. She was meeting with a love and for-giverii->s.s far beyond liar wildest imaginings. Sheer respect and admiration for her husband held her dumb.

The ring bought, they paced homeward.. Ethel never onco thought of doing anything eiso. Harold ts as 'winning her, conquering her onco more as he had done in the past, only pulling the bonds of love tighter than ever before, and .she began to realise how she had ached for him in the dreary months just g :ie. So- they paced into the cjuieter streets, into the familiar square. At the door she paused. "The servants "' she began. * " Hang the servants!! 1 replied Harold, fitting his latchkey into the door. Ho drew her across tho hall to the library—the room she had never entered since she had found those torn fragments of paper. Still he.did not speak. Ethel waited, trembling before the choerfal fire. ■ What now? Would what ho had to say be more unbearable than absence had been? ' . But Harold said no word of reproach. Gently he helped her off with her coat, and lifted her hat from her head : then: Ethel was laughing and crying together-. "What a. tragi-comedy!" she exclaimed, and then she told him the whole story. The dinner-bell rang late, that night. Cook reckoned on "'the master'' being too preoccupied to notice the time. It awoke the two hi the library to everyday life. " Don't step to dress," said Harold. '•'Remember you have been away to collect material for a new book. You've returned rather sooner than we expected, that's all." "In .the big things of life he's all right, just splendid," said Ethel.to herself, as she climbed the stairs to her r6om. '"'He's nobler and grander than ever I thought, and his love is the best thing in life." She was wandering round her room, unconsciously touching little things, altering the precise, methodical arrangements, making it look comfortably untidy. She drew herself together with a start, and set her lips tight. ''Little things don't matter," she said to herself. '•'They mustn't matter," she added, under her breath. " That is more homelike," he said, softly, with treuulous lips; and so he took her to his embrace. After all it was Ethel who demanded explanations. She was weeping softly, and not sadly, as a woman must when after much tribulation she comes into her own. "But my dedication," she said. *'l had rather you had struck me. It was like trampling on my very soul." He stared in amazement. " Your dedic.ation 1" he gasped. New light seemed flooding Ethel's mind. "Tell me what happened when you came in the night before I went away," she said. Harold laughed a little. "I was jolly wild," he said. ''"Sou forgot about that bit of supper, you know. And then I couldn't find the matches —you'd moved them. I'm afraid I swore, &nd I took a bit of paper off mv table to mak? a pipelight, and went off to the club. Forgive me, but I thought T would teach you a losson. I thought it was that that- made you too angry to stay."