THE CANCELLED DEBT.

Otago Witness, Issue 2913, 12 January 1910, Page 94

THE CANCELLED DEBT.

By Gertrude Mvddlf.ton Butler, I was standing with my back to the fireplace, glancing at the headlines in the evening paper. Suddenly I laid it down, and looked across the room to where my wife sat at her writing-table, addressing the invitations to our forthcoming "Athome." , "Di," I said, "I want to speak to you." " One moment, Jack," she answered, without looking up. All her life Di had expected to* be waited for. The evening noises of Piccadilly came through the closely-curtained windows. At Di's elbow stood a small table crowde dwith silver trifles; on a chair opposite lay the latest novel and a piece of embroidery. She took another sheet of notepaper. " I'm sorry to interrupt you, Di," I said slowly, "but what I have to say is important." " Has Charles given notice after all?" She looked up quickly as she spoke, her pen held over the inkstand. Charles was my man. Di had a way of counting those things important which nearly affected herself; she obviously gave me credit for doing the same. " Charles will have no further opportunities of giving notice," I said. " The fact is, we've come to—the end." "To the end?" Di repeated, with a puzzled frown. "Absolutely," I replied firmly, gazing at the opposite wall. " I don't understand," she exclaimed petulantly, blotting an envelope. " The end of what?" " Our money."

" Can't we retrench?" she said absently. So far, she had barely paid me the compliment of attending. 1 must make her understand. " My dear girl," I said, firmly, "it's not a question this time of giving fewer dinners, or even selling the motor. It's a question of selling everything." "Jack!" she cried in dismay. 1 had her attention at last. She turned round on her chair, facing me. a frightened look in her eyes. "I'm awfully sorry, Di," I said lamely. "It's rathet futile to be sorry, isn't it?" she remarked with careless cruelty. " It's done now." "Perhaps it is futile," I retorted. " But it seemed the correct thing to say." "We haven't spent much time lately in—saving the correct thing," she said with a short laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh. Unfortunately, it was growing more frequent after five years of marriage. " Look here, Di," I began hurriedly, " we've made a most infernal muddle — I'm sorry." "Oh, don't apologise. I quite agree; it is a muddle." I bit my lip. Her face wore an expression I hated to see. She was too young to be cynical. " Di," I said quickly, "there oughtn't to be a muddle. It's only because we each go separate ways, and they happen to be rather expensive ways." " No more expensive than other people's," she replied. "Perhaps not, only other people may manage to pay for theirs; I can't," I said drily. "How long have you known this?" she asked with tightened lips. "I didn't know till this morning that things were hopeless," I answered evasively. " You must have known something before this. Why didn't you tell me?" she insisted. Since she asked for the truth she should have it. "I didn't tell you, Di," I said slow'y, " because in the first place I was a fool; and because in the second place I thought that in the midst of your bridge and dancing and—and flirting," I hated myself for saying it when I saw her wince, "I thought that you wouldn't understand." Five years before we had spoken exultingly together of the- perfect ur.der standing between us. Di was making aimless little lines with her pen. " Well, we've had our day, like the dog," she said shortly. " What do you propose to do now it's over ? " "I shall go abroad, anywhere—Canada, probably—and work," I said recklessly. Di laughed. Perhaps it did sound ridiculous. "My clear boy," she remarked slowly, "rather preposterous, isn't it? And might I ask what sort of —"work* you propose doing?" "Any sort," I replied, still more recklessly. "I'm strong enougn, and young enough." "And what do you propose that I should do?" she asked, after a short silence. I hesitated. The pink shade of the electric lamp shed an alluring softness over her white dress and delicate profile. She looked eminently feminine. "Di " I began hurriedly, when she interrupted me. "What suggestions have you on the subject?" she asked. "I had thought of a small house on the river," I answered, avoiding her eyes l . She made no reply. I thought of a certain summer afternoon in a Thames backwater, and of our plans to have a riverside cottage. I looked up at her; she was studying the nib of her pen, and there was a strained look on her dear face I had not seen before. Perhaps she also remembered that summer afternoon. " You see, Di," I said gently—anything to take that look from her face—"you see, as soon as things were better you might come out: or we might decide to live somewhere cheaply on the Continent. I've been working it all out, and I think we can manage to keep Henriette." I had a sudden recollection of Di as I had seen her that morning, struggling with a refractory veil and calling in distracted tones for her rna.id. " Oh, of course I couldn't possibly do without Henriette—here," she said slowdy. I looked up; something in the tone of her voice struck me. She could not mean ? But, no—that, of course, was impossible. " I'm most awfully sorry. I wish you'd believe it, Di," I said again awkwardly; " it seems so much more stupid when we both know that if we had only pulled together, it needn't have happened." " My dear Jack," she exclaimed in a hard voice, " for Heaven's sake don't say you are sorry again. Everything in this world has to be paid for, even the mistakes, and they are apt to be expensive. It's one of the little sweets of life. Unfortunately, our account for mistakes has " " Run on for five years," I interrupted dryly, " and is not paid yet." " We shall live through it, no doubt." she said shortly; "you in Canada—l in that riverside cottage—with Henriette. The arrangement is quite admirable," she added, with a slight movement of her head. " I think it ought to work all right," I rejoined, with a forced cheerfulness. I knew it would not. Di looked up. "You will of course be travelling for your health," she said satirically, " I shall be—hadn't it better be something of the same sort, say- a rest cure?" " As you like. I'll leave it to you to put a good face on our movements," I said, looking across at her. She was

tidying away her letters, and her bade was turned to me.

" Then it's all settled, Di," I said with a, quick sigh. "We shall both be busy, I suppose. There'll be the sale to arrange about later on. Let me know any wishes you may have about it, won't you? I'm going to the club now." She wa still sorting her letters, and I wanted some sign that she cared, that she was sorry. " Di, can't you speak, can't you say something?" She" kept her back to me and was perfectly silent. I walked to the door, and then paused. " Then there is nothing more to be said?" I asked, with my hand on the door knob. " No," she said slowly—" no. there's nothing more to be said, except " —with a quick movement she switched off the electric light on the table and turned to me with a little sob—" except—that I'm coming with you to Canada." "Di!" I cried incredulously. Our five years' account was paid after aII.—M.A.P.