Our Short Story. WHEN THE WOMAN WOOS.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LX, Issue 143787, 10 May 1912, Page 8

Our Short Story. WHEN THE WOMAN WOOS.

By EDWIN PUGH.

The famous author of “The Enchantress,” “Broken Honeymoon,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER Xl.—(Continued. “Lily I” ~ . . , “Stephen 1 It is Stephen, isn’t ft ?’ “It’s the weary bones and aching feet of him at any rate.” She looked at him with a tender light of compassion shining in her steadiest eyes. At first she had hardjy recognised him—he was so alterou. Pale and hollow-eyed, with sunken cheeks and lantern jaws encumbered with a three days’ growth of beard, the lips looking shrivelled and bloodless as they shrank back from the teeth, the hair dull and lustreless, the whole aspect of the man eloquent of abject misery and pain past bearing. He was caked with dust and mire from head to foot. Instead of a collar he had a soiled handkerchief tied round his neck. His hoots were burst and broken, the laces had snapped; the hem of one trouserleg was Hitched in behind the heel-tab. It was the very ghost of Stephen Blyth. He stood there in the middle of the road, a most woebegone figure; and the brilliant morning sunshine poured down upon the grotesque tragedy of his degradation and seemed to mock him with its chilly brightness. The birds seemed to mock him with their jocund song; and the lowing of the kino in the meadows and the bleating of the cheep upon the hills seemed to flout him and deride him. Only Lily was compassionate. She had been unable to sleep last night. Her thoughts had kept her awake. To her it Had seemed that her Drain was like that whirlpool in the milfraee which-she had just looked down upon from tile bridge. In the whiri- ■ pool there were dead leaves and twigs and wisps of straw and pieces oi paper, all maimer of oddments of flotsam ami jouam for ever eddying about, now rising to the surface, now disappearing in.o the depths—to reappear again and revolve again giddily until they were again sucKed under. So it had been with the thoughts in her brain. They had twisted andapun like that, and she she never neon aide to lay firm hold upon any one of them. At last, as soon as the sun was dp, she had risen and dressed herself, and gone down into the fresh dewy fields to ease her pain and lull her' unrest on the broad uosom of Mother Earth. That was three hours ago. She had wandered far since then, and was now returning to the Mayor s house. Suddenly Stephen had appeared in her path. “Lily,” he gasped, “I’ve been in torment these last two days.”

In spite of her griet at the spectacle of his woeful plight her heart leaped with gladness to perceive that all the anger, all the resentment, had died out of him. He was stricken and ailing, helpless and broken. There was nothing left of the strong, self-sufficient man that he had been. And in his weakness and helplessness he turned to her instinctively, all his grievances and jealousies wiped out by his clamant need of her sympathy and assistance. Ho held out his two hands to her in unquestioning supplication, as a child that has fallen on the' gravel holds out its wounded palms to its mother. “I walked hero,” he said, as sho tok his hands in hers. “I walked here —all the way—from I had to come. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t rest, I couldn’t sleep—above all 1 couldn’t sleep. There were wheels—great whirring wheels—in my head, uhen I closed my eyes they threw off bright sparks and blue flashes of fire, iso I just had to come here—to see you. 1 knew you would pity me, help me.’ I knew you would forget and forgive’. And even if you did not love me any more I knew you would be kind to me.”

“But—oh, ray dear!—l do love you— I do love you I’’ she cried. “I think I never knew how much 1 love you until this moment. And I will help you—l will make you well again, and strong and happy. What has happened does not matter. What may happen matters least of all.” She pressed her hand to her bosom to repress a rising sob. “I love you. You are my Stephen, and I will look after you. . . They tell me,’' she went on, “you are in danger of your life. Oh, but I know you are innocent. And even if you wore guilty ” “Thank you, Lily,” he said, and again in that hoarse, parched voice, “Thanh you, dear.” And he leaned upon her. Sho put her arm about him, whilst her brows were puckered in thought. , “I know what we will do,” sho said. “We will go to a cottage near here—there is someone there who will tak--you in, 1 know, for my sake. And 1 want you to see her, Stephen, because” —and she smiled wanly—“because when you have seen her, and when you have heard her story, you will love me again. Y T ou will know then that 1 have been true to you all along —in spite ot what you saw that night— ■ true to you always, in thought as in deed.”

Ho stared at her, seeming not t< understand.

“So long as I am with you,” he said “I am content ”

“'Dais way,” she said, and turned upon her tracks and led him up the hit ;;ntil they came to a narrow, winding lane, down which they turned. A little way down the lane was a cottage, embowered in creepers and surrounded by. a tangled garden. Lily opened the garden gate and led him up the path between a double row of

old-fashioned flowers to the rustic porch festooned with young hop-bines. She was about to knock at the door when it opened, and a tall, gaunt woman appeared on the threshold. She was quite young—not more than forty, hut her face was so thin and grey and haggard that at first sight she appeared to be quite old. She wore a plain stuff gown and a white blouse. Her hair was cropped close to her head, like a man’s, and there was something, indefinably mannish in her general aspect. "This,” said Lily, proudly, “is my mother.” “Your mother!” echoed Stephen. “How do you do, Mr. Blyth?” said the woman, in a soft, refined voice. Stephen clasped the lean hand she offered him, staring at her aa if he wbra dazed. “But,” he stammered, “your mother is dead, Lily.” “No,” said Lily. “We let. it be understood that she was dead, but really—- “ Really,” the woman broke m, “she .was only dead in the social sense. Bui come in. Sit down, and I will try to explain.”

As in a dream Stephen followed them into the littlo parlour and sat down in a chintz-covered armchair against the window. Lily brought him a gloss of water, and when lie had drunk thirstily and was somewhat the frail, gaunt mother told her amazing story. “My name was the same as that which Lily has adopted for professional purposes, ” she began. “I was an actrees when I married Mr. Harden, Lily’s father. He took m© off the stage, and for a time I was very happy. My child came, and I thought that my theatrical ambitions were dead. i • But by and bye ,1 grow dissatisfied with my humdrum lot. I longed for the glare of the footlights again. You don’t know tliat longing, and I don t suppose I could explain it to you. 1 shall not try. It is sufficient to say that I ran away from my comfortable home, from my husband and my child, to go upon the stage again. “I offer no excuses for my conduct, she went on. “I thought Mr. Harden a hard man; he was merely a good, God-fearing man. But his code was not my code—his notions were not mine. And so, in the common phrase, we got on one nerves. I was only a gfrl; ho was old enough to be my father. (To be continued.)