HER HUSBAND'S ATONEMENT DAY

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXIV, Issue 4978, 30 May 1903, Page 2 (Supplement)

HER HUSBAND'S ATONEMENT DAY

(By Katherine Holland.) Grey twilight shrouded the golden October suuset; tho wind rose suddenly chill. Agues Burt, mt-urning from an endless round of duty calls, scarcely fell its discomfort; it was a dim ciplier in her sum of desolation. She crept shivering up the steps and into her husband's den. A low fire crackled on the hearth; tho room was warm, silent, empty. She untied tho florist’s box which sho carried and took out a cluster of pale lilies, heavily sweet. These she thrust into a vase which stood beneath a portrait hanging near the fireplace. She did not look np at tho pictured face. It is a bitter thing to bo jealous of the dead. She lay down on, tho couch behind tho tall screen and locked. Ivor hands over her eyes.- Her baby s’ cry came faintly from the room above; sho did not hoar. In her misery sho was deaf even to that beloved, voice.

It was four years ago to-duy since Robert Stono had died: Robert Stone, who had boon to hor husband from their boyhood days as his heart’s blood. Between tho two men there linked a bond so firm that John Burt’s marriage did not shako it This was -Robert’s day of reinombranco.

Tho woman who loves to the uttermost demands tho last thought, tho ultimate heart-boat, in return. Before her there can bo no other god. Agnes Burt, sensitive, reticent, adoring, ..suffered ©very anguish that tho soul of woman can know in a causo pitifully slender, hideously roa!; tho certainty that her lovo could not suffice to fill her husband’s life. The wife’s dearest right is tho privilege to console for that which is lost; to recompense, to satisfy.. And in this sho failed and must for over fail. Robert’s death was a loss irreparable,’a wound sho could not heal. Her husband’s face, drawn and dark with grief, as sho had soon it that morning, rase before her eyes. His loving words of farewell brought only an added sting. Even in his 'sorrow for Robert ho had bethought himself—of her.

Two men came in and sat by the fire. Agnes did not stir. It was only Jimmy Howland, a favourite pupil of Professor Burt. Ho was for over running in for advice as to authorities on Primitive Agrarian Law, tho topic of his major thesis. Sho need not go. Jimmy’s glanco moved about tho room. “Jollicst little library in town, this is,” ho remarked. “What’s that white thing under ‘ Stone’s portrait? Why-eel Lilies!” “Agnes must have put them there,'’ said Burt, ruudor his breathy “Ho died to-day; you know, four years since.” There was silence. “Ho was the friend of'my life,” said Burt, steadily. “Ho gave me everything that life holds worth the living.” “Everyone liked him, seems to me,” said'Jim, meditatively. “How we kids did trail after him whenever ho came homo from a cruiso!” “He was only 29 when ho died,” said Burt, slowly. “You know how it happened: a volunteer nurse in that fever camp. Ho gave up his life there; hat ho had yielded tho supreme gift to mo tho year before.” Agnes sat up; her lips • moved in a soundless cry. “Perhaps you know that it was through him that I mot her—my wife. You’ve hoard, too, that he cared for her; everyone else seems to have seen it, though I did not at tj}o time. Neither did sho, and sho dees not.know it now. "When he found that it made all the difference in the world to mo, he went away. I’vo tried to believe that the renunciation did not hurt him as it would have hurt mo. I can’t. ■ “Then wo were married. It made mb. selfish, I daro say, and the change vexed him. He couldn’t understand.' A man’s friends may bo dear to him; but his wife—oh, well, you can’t , understand,, cither. It’s a new heaven and a now earth.

“I, tried to keep things on the old tooting, but I could not make a convincing pretence. The old order had passed away. Then ho died. I miss him’; I’ll always miss him. Yet I feel guilty to think how little difference it all makes; how happy and absorbed I am, how unnecessary his life is to me. Tho day of his death has come to bo a day of atonement for the cruelty of my forgetfulness—for the ingratitude of my content.”

The last words, scarcely audible, seemed spoken less to the boy than to the 'pictured face above. “Guess I’d better bo going,” said Jimmy, rising awkwardly, embarrassed by tho strange coincidence. Burt picked up his hat. “I’ll go down as far as tho store,” ho said, his voice suddenly brisk and clear. The door closed behind them.

Agnes rose; she crossed the room to the portrait. She stooped and lifted the lilies, rearranging them with tender touches, infinitely motherly. . Then she knelt by her husband’s chair, her cheek jn-essed to the arm where his hand had lain.' Tho room was silent, save for the olick of a falling ember, the murmuring baby voice from tho room above. To her swift-leaping heart, her tear-filled eyes, it was indeed a very chamber of peace.—“ Everybody’s Magazine,”