THE DISCONTENTED WIFE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLV, Issue 13781, 20 June 1908, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE DISCONTENTED WIFE.

Duncan FBASER sat with his back to the engine. As the train jerked forward he waved his hand to the little group on the wayside station. Two more-than-half-envious bridesmaids, soino grinning Sunday-school children, and a stout old gentleman in a rusty black churchwarden of St. —waved violently in return, but Duncan's new-made father-in-law, the grey-haired clergyman, stood motionless as a dark statue of desolation. Duncan felt like a thief for having robbed him of his only child. He glanced at his bride. How fair and sweet she looked. And how calm! Meeting his gaze, she smiled, and shook some grains of rice from her simple white gown—her wedding-gown. During his short courtship he had felt elated at having discovered this lovely, unsophisticated girl—this sweet flower of the Australian bush—to share his life. He was a wealthy man, bored infinitely by society; he pictured sharing with Elsie wholesome, happy years in his dearly-loved home—his birthplace —pictured her joy and pride in that home. His prosaic exterior was snub-nosed, redmoustaehed, and freckled, with bullet-shaped, close-cropped head— a sensitive, somewhat romantic, temperament. Stooping forward, he said: " Put your head out of the window, dear, and wave to your poor old father." " In this scorching sun, Duncan she exclaimed, and her red lips drooped pensively. Was he air unreasonable brute? Or He pushed away an unwelcome thought, reached for her handkerchief, and waved it from the window of the car door, until the dark, still figure fused into indistinctness. They were alone in the car. She had taken off her hat. Her dark hair, parted and drawn back from a narrow forehead, gave her an apDearaneo of purity, or was it merely coldness? She had a clean-cut, high-bridged nose, red lips, thin and drooping at the corners, large eyes, dark and clear, but set a thought too close together; a long-peaked chin a beautiful figure. She twirled her new,' wide band of gold round her finger. Her hands were too soft and white to bo honest hands for a poor man's daughter.. Duncon caught them in his, realising suddenly how little ho knew of the soul, the real self, that dwelt, within this alluring clay. "Elsie! Darling! My own sweet wife ! Tell me it was for love, only love, that you gave yourself to me." "Of course," she said, thinking contemptuously "what sentimental, bothering creatures men are She had been very gracious to him/before, but now there was no need to play'a part that bored her. She drew her hands away. " You are so hot, Duncan. We cannot talk in this wretched, rattling train. I'll) try to sleep." With much composure, she settled herself comfortably unci closed her eyes, to dream

waking dreams of pearl*, and gleaming jewels on her white beautiful gown*, and admiring. envious friends. Glancing owe _at her bridegroom, who sat moodily watching the sun-sconesed field. fly past, she muttered. "I wish, he hadn't such a hideous nose." She spared no thought to her old father. The old clergyman muted on the platform until the train vanished from sight. Elsie ' had parted from him gracefully, but calmly. Ho was gore she felt the parting—-male, quite sure—but she disliked emotionalism. How pood she was to wave to him so Ions:. Perhaps she was crying, and had spared him , the sight of her tearful faro. ''Still water* • run deep," he told himself, as ha had done so many timet before. The little vicarage seemed empty and forlorn without her. In her disordered room ' he knelt by her bed and sought peace whore so many torn and tender hearts have turned for refuge. .Maurice Darlton was a graduate of Cambridge. Intellectual , enough, he had dived into life's struggle* with zest for the struggle itself, not merely the hope of success. But a blow, dealt by a wife's uoworthine*s, disabled him. He gave up a good living in an English town, and drifted, -after his divorced wife's death, to a small farming village in New South Wales, where he lived contentedly enough, because usefully, measuring Elsie's affection for himself by the wealth of love he had poured out to her her whole life through. Youth turns instinctively Jo youth. he told himself. It was but natural that as she reached womanhood she should grow discontented with their secluded life, and lone for gaiety and companionship. He welcomed Duncan's addresses, but with a sortheart. With Elsie gone, life for him would lose it* zest. Elsie's letters were few and short. The anxious-hearted father told himself that after the honeymoon was over, and she was settled in her new home, she would write oftener. Th" dailv mail-hour was dreaded as much as longed for by him, for so often it brought him disanoointmont. Keener, perhaps, when her letters did arrive, for they were seldom satisfactory. Time passed on. After a silence on her part of many -weeks he wrote to his son-in-law, fearing that Elsie, was ill. Duncan's reply set the* old man praying for a new barque soon to sail life's ocean. Each fortnight after that brought him let 1 tors from Duncan, letters that overflowed soon with whimsical anecdotes of the most wonderful bady ever horn, but said surprisinsh- little of Elsie. Duncan sent snap-shots of their lovely, home and garden, and of a bullet-headed. sturdy-looking youngster. Elsie, he explained, disliked being caricatured. Books and magazines also Duncan sent it quantities, filling his father-in-law's quiet life with new interest. Elsie's (infrequent letters distressed the old man. " Duncan was selfish, greedy, and obstinate" she wrote; "and was already teaching their little daughter—a disappointingly ugly child, just like its father—to disobey her. Often she wished herself a girl again. Life was but vanity, disappointment, delusionparticularly for married women who had no private income." There was a sting in the last sentence. The old clergyman denied himself all but the bare necessities of life, that lie might send his daughter a cheque as often as possible. He found it difficult to reconcile the Duncan that Elsie's letters described with the Duncan ho read between the lines of the fortnightly letters. Was Elsie perhaps exacti ing? her husband growing indifferent as pasI sion cooled'^ The years slipned on, until the grandchild .Maurice Darlton had never ween was nearly seven, when, to Ids tearful surprise, he was presented by his flock with a purse of £50, and requested, for his health's sake, to fake a long holiday. The Wednesday before Enster found him hurrying by a crowded excursion train to Melbourne. The din of the city was painfully confusing to hint, after years of quiet country life. The rush of holiday-makers depressed him; gave liiin a haunting fear lest humanity should, after all, bo but unnumbered grain's of unconsidered sand, on beaches soon to sink forever beneath oblivion's onward-sweeping waves. He did not breathe freely until his cab left the noisy streets behind, and reached the quiet, suburb where the Feasors lived. Duncan's snap-shots did want justice to his beautiful home. It' Stood far back from the road in well-kept grounds. A short avenue of huge, old, interlacing pines led to a fine sweep of gravel, where waited, as Mr. Darlton's cab approached, two motorcars, a landau, and several smart carts and hansoms. The house itself was a palatial mansion, being white-plastered, having a lower, wide balconies, and verandahs, and a fine pillared porch. Everywhere roses bloomed in rich profusion ; no English lawns could be greener or more velvety than the lawns facing the house and on each side. With nerplcxity that was twin-brother to doubt Mi-. Darlton looked about him. Of late, Elsie had complained that the house was inconvenient and isolated. A vision of the small frame vicarage floated before his tired eyes, as he mounted the porch step?. "I am Mr. Darlton. Mrs. Eraser expects mo,' ho said to the Japanese houseboy, in spotless white, who opened the door. " Mlisus no tellin' me," responded the . Japanese, and retired to consult a smart-look-ing parlourmaid, who, • recognising a gentleman beneath tho dusty, shabby clothes, ordered tho Jap to pick up rug and bag, and led the way through a hall of magnificent proportions and fittings. Through an open door they passed came the sound of laughter and gay chatter. Mr. Dalton was shown into a sitting-room, whoso open windows faced glints of glimmering son peeping between orchard trees. Close to thewindows graceful bamboos rose from the sides of an artificial fishpond, above a blaze of scarlet geraniums. "After the burned-up north, this is liko paradise; Elsie must bo happy here," the father said to himself, then turned from tho window and looked at tho room. A man's room, the golf-sticks, guns, fishing-rods, and hunting-whips disclosed. A scholar's room, the lxiokcases said. And what did the toys say that were scattered about tlio floor? On a writing-table Euripides: lay, face downward J close to a pipe and sorno tin ' soldiers; three dolls were propped rip in ono of the deep, well-worn chairs. They were young ladies of much magnificence, and the old clenrvman looked at them uneasily, as he thought of tho baby-doll he had that, afternoon bought for his grand-daughter. Ho had slept but little iii the crowded train, and lunched lightly. Woarilv, ho sat down and waited. The frou-frou of the bamboos lulled him into slumber, from which the bang of a door aroused him, and he heard a sharp "Good gracious, father! Who ever dreamed of seeing you?" He sprang up in confusion. Was this Elsie? Her jewels, her rich gown, her hair artistically dressed, and not only much more I plentiful, but much lighter than of old, momentarily perplexed him. The plaintive droop of her lips had deepened to-lines of permanent discontent. Holding out his hands, hungry for love, bo cried tremulously: "Elsie! Daughter!" She peeked perfunctorily at his livid cheek. "Why in tho world didn't you warn me?" Voice and manner expressed injur}- done, not pleasure given. " I wrote, dear." "There was a letter. I remember now. I opened it, but had not time to road it." Flushing, ho sat down heavily, and gave jerky answers to her indifferent questions about old friends. Ho felt as if ho wc-ro talking to some strangers, with no common interests. After one of many pauses she glanced at the clock, and yawned. ; "I am tired. It was my 'at home' day. buch bores. No ono worth knowing will come out to this slow place. I want to move to Toorak. I'm dining out. and must have a doze before dressing or I'll look a perfect wreck. Where are you staying*" ■ I hoped— thought—" he stammered, bhe flushed, and laughed uneasily. " My dear father, town is not like country 1 I have engagements for almost every hour I would love to have you here, but Duncan is a perfect bear about visitors. Last time 1 invited some people to stay with us he took Lisa, off to Portsea, and did not come homo until they had gone away. Let me see"-— she stood up and twirled a diamond ring reflectively—" all to-morrow I am engaged, and on Saturday. Come out to supper on Sunday, but do please get yourself a new suit; your clothes are positively disgraceful. ' _ " Can I see Elsa first?" he asked, swallowing doivu his disappointment as best ho could, and following her to the door. "She is out riding with her father. He is turning her into a perfect hoyden. She a so ugly, just like Duncan. You shall see her on Sunday." He stopped her, asking breathlessly: You don't look happy, Elsie. Tell me. Is Duncan kind to you? shrugged her shoulders affectedly. "Well, he doesn't bent me! But he is as obstinate as a mule, and terribly slow." The flippancy of voice and manner made him shudder—recalled with hideous force a woman for whom even death had scarcely brought forgiveness. He realised perhaps for the first time the gn'mnesa of hereditary instincts. "Elsie!" he exclaimed, with a. sternness that surprised her. You hud no right to accept a good man's love if your only desire was to dive into a rich man's pocket." There is no happiness for either man or wife in » one-sided bargain. You must, be as ready to give as to receive, if you want happiness*." " You arc just the same as ever, lather. You measure everything by the Prayer-book and Ten Commandments. Now, I have a wider standard." "Where will it lead you? Where— did a heedless love for pleasure lead your mother?"- [^

■ Finn Jcrpw that tale of disgrace and misery* • She shivered. "You might have spared U* . both that memory," she said, and hurried : him away. Forgetting his baa, he walked : off, his heart, seething with bitterness, neither • knowing nor caring .where he tra going. Ho' '* i felt that in outliving hi* daughter** love* ha had lived too long; but it- #*» Duncan'.* fault, he told himself. All Duncan'* fault. , > The light was dim under the pine trees. He did not notice the approach -of twef '" rider*, until a voice called; I "Took out! Where ant you going?" Glancing up, he saw Demean, on a qnieS . ! cob, and a bourne.. red-inured, freckled child i rutin? astride a Shetland pony. "By Jove! It'* Mr. Darlton! And 1 nearly rode yon clown!" exclaimed Duncan. ■ He sprang from hi* horse snd shewed th«! , trembling, reluctant hand:*, hi* eye* *nw»- ■ j ning with eager questioning the twitching i i face. •■ -, I " This is your i-ratV-r. Rl*a. Jump > I off and kiss' him. You look tired, dr. Yon j must go to l>*xt early, and to-morrow you'll ■ | feci itpth a.« a lark." he continued rapidly.' ; "I will not intrude. _Kl«i» ha* explained to mo your dislike to visitors." i The would-be *ttffner* was very tremukm*, i j and a bitter, comprehending ■ snub' twitched i | Duncan's red moustaehe. He pushed hit • | hand through the clergyman'* arm. saying. ;j " I must plead guilty! My inliospitality ! often worries El.de. She docs not understand » that you are as dear to me as to her." , | The old man rnbhed his hand over his i | eyes with a harsh faugh, but stooped to ki« ■ ; Elsa, and permitted himself to bo led back . { to the house, - ! Mrs. Eraser was re*itmr, the parlourmaid . j told them. Elsa stumbled at the ton of the. . | staircase. Her look of fear, and Ounean** , quick whispered, "For heaven'* sake. d.it/fc 1 | disturb your mother," escaped Mr. Darlton. ■ i Worn out with the journey and excitement* . j he could scarcely walk. Duncan led him In the cosiest «(«w room, i ordered and poured out ten with a tastn 1 of cognac, unpacked the little travelling-bag. ' i j and with tactful geniality dispersed llw old i | man's bitterness. > : Then be sought the nursery, and lifted ' | Elsa into his arms, raying gravely; "Your grandfather is sad. sweetheart. k When he has routed a bit go and see him. Don't say I sent you. I'm your arms around ; his neck and love him. He needs love. Nol thing helps like love when the heart is twre. i | He has brought you a doll. It's a far better ■ i doll than all your grand, ones put together, > j for there is love and thought behind it. • ■ Nurse it a lot. Let him see that you value it. Do you understand?" She nodded wisely, and patted his cheeks. "Yes. dad, dnrliif." With sudden fierceness he kissed her, then . demanded: ' " You will stick to your old dad through thick and thin?" She bugged him. and laughed: ' "'Course I will! I don't get tired of things and people dreckly. like mother." He put her down hastily, and waited in ' his dressing-room until movements in hi*« wife's luxurious bedroom told him that she. was awake. lie knocked at her door, ami entered. A jewel-case was in her baud. Sh« said, without turning: . " I wish you had bought me the turquoise, necklet instead of these tourmalines, after till." 1 "Elsie," he asked gravely. " how Could you send your poor old father away";" She turned swiftly. / " Did you meet him?" " I brought him back." " What a thoughtless, silly tiling to do. A lot of people are coming here to dinner on Monday. He is too shabby, too countrified 1 to meet them or tiny of my set." "Hung your set! Have you no feelings? He is a Christian gentleman, and good enough to meet tin emperor. Poor old' gen- : tleman! He looked quite broken-hearted." Shrugging her shoulders, Elsie looked into her husband's red, .angry face, and sneered:. "You tire as. sentimental an a love-sick . schoolgirl Go out, please. I wish to dress." "Do first go and welcome him." Her selfishness and ever-growing discontent seemed to him like a ghustly disease that could be, must be, thrown aside. Catching her by the shoulders, he said passionately: " Elsie, dearest, you will never be happy until you learn to care for, think of, others. Why cannot I make you see that ingratitude and heartlessness are base and hideous crimes?" She jerked herself free. '' Wliat exaggerated terms you use. Oh, Duncan! I must have some ready money. My account is overdrawn. To-night wo play bridge." She spoke with apparent lightness, but her hands trembled as she lifted the gleaming necklet from its white velvet bed. Tins sudden, jerk to the prosaic made Duncan turn on his heoT and pace the room. When ho . paused again, and looked at her— eyew were on a level; he was not tall—his face ' was white and sot. "So!" lie exclaimed. "Bridge again! Another broken promise! Your word is nothing to you, but I'm not rondo that way. For Elsa's sake I have hoped to avoid scandal, although I dread your influence over her. If you will throw discretion to the winds for the sake of pleasure that is fur removed from happiness as the North Polo ' is from the South, then, as I told you last week, wo must part. I cannot let you ruin Elsa's future. You shall have tho allowance 1 promised you, but not, one sixpence more.'" She threw the empty case • down on the dressing-table, and laughed. "Words! Words Empty threats! If I left you, you would come crawling to ma on your knees.to come back." : "Do you think, then, that your constant ■ complaining, boundless extravagant*, your—your indiscretions"she flushed slightly, and tapped her foot .impatiently on the floor "your neglect of a wife's duty, of a mother's duty, are so endearing? God forgive you. . not me, for tho words, but I would rejoice if Elsa's future and mine could be spared from further sight of you, remembrance of you.", Stern and indignant, he semed to towel over her. " Duncan !" site exclaimed breath-. ■ lessly, but, not heeding her, ho passed from the room, and shut the door. - Passionate appeals to her better nature had left her unmoved. The suddenly unveiled ** contempt and almost hatred of her husband's ■T* last words moved her strangely. As she -!h dressed, with less pleasure in her beauty than jo ordinarily, she, spite of herself, though of tho '", poor dead mother who had lightly thrown away a good man's love, a happy homo, to meet neglect and shame. She weighed her husband's and her daughter's krvc agarose tho companionship of people to whom sh< was nothing—less than nothing. She recog« nised dimly that her lifo had* been spent i* ; grasping after a happiness never captured. Was perhaps tho best path to happiness car< ' and love for others? . ' . Shrugging her shoulders impatiently, slid clasped her necklet, and walked to a wardrobe for an evening coat. Footsteps passed hor windows, and the sound of voices. Sim switched off the electric light impetuously, and lifted a blind. ,', , ..,.., Hdr room looked seaward. Behind th* bamboos, sea and 'sky flamed crimson as tho geraniums at their feet. nor father, her husband, holding, each, one of Elsa's hands, were standing, looking into the fishpond < three linked together, and she stood alone! The thought angered her. She scanned Duncan's face eagerly for signs of tho misery' their late interview should surely have left there. Ho looked care-worn, prematurely ■ old, but not agitated, and as she watched hirai "''■ he laughed out loud and clear at some remark of Elsa's. They were all laughing, as, ' still hand in hand, they walked away under the orchard _ tree 3. Undeterminate, bitterly angry, Elsie stood! still a while. It was one thing for her to dine, and gamble, and seek after enjoyment on the eve of a domestic tragedy; it wtw quite another thing for her husband to bo able to laugh. And then—for she inherited instincts fron» not only the dead mother, but tho living father—she threw off her rich evening gown, washed the rouge and powder from her face, and put on a simple pale-pink muslin which Duncan had once admired. Opening tho window, she crossed the verandah and walked rapidly to meet the group of three who were turning back to the house. Something more lasting than the fleeting fire of sunset lit up her dark eyes as sha lifted her face to her father. lies voice wai a shade less composed than usual, but nob agitated. " I am so glad you came back, dear father. I will manage to put off all my engagement.?. I am really tired of colng out, and we four will have a lovely Easter-time together, " Her ringed fingers fell from her father's shoulder to Elsa's head; then she swept round to her husband's side, and pushed her i arm through his. | "Duncan!" she said inarticulately. He read the world of remorseful, half, reproachful, questioning in her voice and a! tion, and his strong brown finger;} closed tightly over hers. NEW SERIAL STORY. BEGINNING NEXT WEEK. We commence in nest Saturday's Supply mesit a sensational new- serial story from the > pen of Fred M. White, whose previous novels published in these columns have always proved highly popular. The new story, which i* tho '/latest of this gifted) author's work, is entitled "THE LONELY' BRIDE." The first instalment will bo published on Saturday, Juno 27, and there-, after hlio story will bo continued daily in the columns of the New. Z&jUiyp Hsiulu jtill iva conclusions, ' ' A