LADIES' COLUMN.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7923, 30 January 1904, Page 3

LADIES' COLUMN.

WHEN ELIZABETH WENT HOME. (By ETHEL BOWMAN RONALD.) (The Animal's Friend.) Ifc was only five o'clock, but the wide, prairie-land lay swathed in twilight. It was too early for stars as Set, and the oncoming nighb hovered down nbroken by any point of light, unbelievably still, full of a strange solemnity, and, Co Elizabeth^ unspeakably dre„ry. She »tood with ber face against tho pane, gassing out absently into the deepening dusk. "At home^' she mused, and the word vibrated in her mind with an aching tenderness, "the electric lights are gleaming along the streets, the trolley cars, are full of happy Christmas shoppers. Papa has come in now and hurries off to his room with various mysterious bundles ; Alice and Dick are hobnobbing together in a corner over mamma's present. After dinner^ some of the crowd will come in and there will be xnusio and dancing, then later a jolly little supper around) the chafing dish." She turned from her thoughts to the grey Btxetch outside. "Snow_ stillness — country, country.! I bate it !" she gasped, with a sob of self-pity. " I like noise and lights and* good times and people. Oh, I want •to go borne ! I want to go home !" Her husband wae coming now. She could nofc discern bis figure t but, she beard bis whistle, the notes dull and_ spiritless, mere ghosts of his old-time runs and trills. "But he doesn't bate Dakota as I dc_" she thought resentfully. "He likes it. He is troubled only because I am." Stamping the snow from his feet, be came into the warm room,- seeming somehow to fill it with '* his large personality. He stooped and kissed her tenderly z trying to meet her averted gaze. "You're nice and snug in here, Eliza__*t_," be began, with a tentative cheerfulness. "It's awfully cold outside." The girl-wife made no response, but began to Bet the table, and the "man said no more until she summoned him to the evening meal. He looked at her 'from time to time _Ss she sat opposite bim, hoping .that her sombre mood would pass, but she kept ber wistful gaze bent toward her plate, and the bitter lines of her mouth never relaxed. , "What a' dainty meal, dear," he said, with an attempt at animation. " Quite ■worthy of the season. It doesn't seem Sossible that the day after to-m.o-.r6w is bristmas, does it?" "Please don't remind. me of it, Robert, I beg," she cried sharply. The man winced •j,nd put down his coffee-cup, gazing- with E»t brows into its amber depths. Suddenly c gave his shoulders an . energetic little lhake and sighed with the stress of a firm _*_:B-o_V*6 "Elizabeth," he said, "let's hurry and tush, then we can spend tbe evening packg your trunk, for you must start home in the morning. You will arrive Christmas afternoon, in time for most of the festivities, and you can stay just as long as you like." Elizabeth looked at him squarely mow, with startled eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked. V You know very well " "Just this, dear. You must take the jeventy-five ■■ dollars we saved to get the pew. machinery in the spring. I'll manage Übout that somehow." "Why— why, I couldn't do that," rtammered Elizabeth in denial, but with hope mounting in ber heart. " I won't do It." "Oh, yes, you will," be replied, in bis most masterful tones, and witb an . air of finality. ■-. And then his calmness broke, and he cried from 'his heart, " Ah, dear_st, don't i you know it just kills me to see you sad and lonely, not to hear you sing about your work any more, or make, little-, jokes and laugb as you used to do? I think I can yet the machinery somehow, but let's not think about that now. Nothing matters | except for my sad little girl to find ber happy heart again." With a cry of remorseful tenderness she threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Robert, you're so good, so good! : And what a poor wife I am ! So selfish end unkind to/y ou! But, 'Robert, you can't understand. You can't realise how \\ . aahe to go borne. This snow and stillnessi and bigness of everything gets on my, nerves. Sometimes I think I'll go crazy !" "Yes, little girl, yes," be murmured', kissing ber bair. "It wasn't so bad in the early summer when the woolly buffalo-grass was so soft and pretty, and the sky was so blue ; and when mamma and Alice were here, it was fine, but oh, this winter " She broke off with, a shudder. " And we've been married a yea. and a half, and I've never been home once ! When we planned to go this Christanas I was so happy, and then things went wrong and we couldn't afford it, and I thought I should die!" she cried with the extravagance of youth. "Oh, Robert, I know I oughtn't to go, but I do want to !" " Yes, little girl, yes," be said softly again, " and you shall go." ' • The girl clung- to him, leaving ber tears ] and kisses upon his cheeks. "My dear, good, generous Robert,'' she murmured. "Well, I'll go, but I /won't j stay long, and when I come back I'll be the best wife in the world." So it was settled. The pretty trousseau, elmost unworn, was prepared for the eastern journey. • "Are you sure you won't look shabby or old-fashioned?" Robert asked anxiously, for pride was one of the strongest fibres of ,bis being. / "Oh, no, they won't expect a fashionplate to come out of the wilderness," she answered gaily, "and Alice will" belp me furbish things up a little." Stopping in her packing, she slipped on a •little rose-coloured evening gown-, and, opening ber fan, peered at him coquettishly oyer its filmy edge. "Why don't you ask me. to dance?" she demanded. Obediently falling in with "ber mood, he caught ber round the waist, whistled the bars of a lively two-step, and 'spun ber gaily up and down the room. Elizabeth was transformed. He looked at tbe flushing, glowingj rose-coloured girlcreature in his arrna. andl wondered if she could he the wan, heavy-eyed woman who had met bim when, he came in from his Jlt-ork. The great wide night held the lit,_k> bouse in its clutch, and the wind moaned under the eaves like a soul debarred from Paradise^ but for once Elizabeth did not hear it. Robert did. "What will it be when she is gone?" cried a voice in his Aeart. ••.' » . • Early the next morning they drove over to Wilkes, the nearest town,, where Elizabeth was to take the east-bound train. It was a wonderful day — white and blue and gold. The sky was as blue as a gentianEower; the snow-crystals flung back the .sun's rays from their glittering facets, and the air was a joy to the lungs. Even Elizabeth, now .thafc she was saying a fare,irell to Dakota, admitted its charm. ..' "Yes, I suppose this trackless white is . more beautiful than the mud and slush of ■my little Indiana city, but three cheers for mod and -lush all the same !" Robert laughed — with his L'ps. In bis heart was aft agony of loss. Arriving at the station, they learned to his dismay tha* the train was two hours late. To prolong this parting through two hours of (dreary waiting would be more than.be .Ould endure. Besides, various duties urgently called bim back to the little farm, jblizabeth divined bis thoughts. " Robert," she said, " you mustn't wait. JTruly, I don't want you to. It would be too bard for us both. And there are so many things you ought to do back at the Blouse." She never called it home, and the fact Juud stung bim many a time. " Very well, dear, if you wish ity. but I'll telegraph your people before I go." "Robert, if you>. don't mmd t I'd like to BO that myself. It'll help to pass the time, and, besides, I want, to send as funny and ' jolly a message as possible." j "Certainly,; dear, and) here's a note I jnroie you last night. I was rather wake- J

ful. Read it sometime along on the way. Well, good-bye, then, dearest one ; have a good time and be happy. Good-bye." He" kissed her with trembling lips and then ' turned quickly, climbed as hurriedly into the waggon, and drove without once looking back. j Elizabeth gazed after him with some of j the brightness gone from her face. She j tapped the sill of the station door discontentedly with her little foot. " There really isn't much pleasure in going without Robert," she thought, and then looked curiously at the note in her hand.. "I believe I'll read it now," ehe decided. "He said any time." She went into the station and sat down upon a hard bench. There was only one other personi in the room, a gaunt, flat-chested German woman. Elizabeth tore open the not c and read : "This id to be only a few words to bid my little wife God-speed, tell her how much I love her, and a few other things that I' want to say now while I see them clearly. It has come upon me lately thafc ; I have wronged you in bringing you to I this lonely place. My boyhood was passed in the country, and I love it. It seemed to me that there could be no freer, happier life than here in this virgin land. I knew that, there would be privations, of course, but I did not fear them, and you, catching a little of my enthusiasm, were willing to come. So I refused the kind offer of your Uncle Henry. The stifling round of the" office, the struggle of the world of men, fevers me. To grapple with wind and dust and famine — that was the battle at thought of which every sinew of me thrilled. "But you were differently made. You were born for the easier, more sbarkling life of the city. All th c pleasant and gracious things which society offers to a fair • and sweet woman were yours by right. " Therefore, dearest, I beg your forgiveness. The happiness of you is the happiness of me. It is a small thing to say that I would die for you ; rather, I will live for you, and in the way that is mosfc pleasing to you. If your uncle's offer is still open to me, I will accept it, if you so desire. But, dear, if' you could find it in your heart to give this life a few more months' trial, I should be so glad. I feel sure that the crops will be lis good this year as they were poor, last, and then we could make this home more like your old one. Just until the autumn comes, Elizabeth, and you can stay with your mother as much of that time as you wish. But if you feel that you do not desire to make the trial, then say so, dear, and yonr wish shall be mine. For, after all, wherever you are is the sweetest spot in th c world for me. "Have a happy visit, dear; stay as long as you like, and God keep you!" Elizabeth's tears fell on the note before she had finished. "There is not another in all tho world as good as Robert," she thought. "I won't, try to decide now about the farm. I'll -wait until I reach home. I'd better telegraph now." She turned toward the little room where the operator sat and then hesitated ; somehow the keen edge of her eagerness was dulled. The home vision was not so radiant, so fascinating, as it had seemed earlier. She remembered her brother Dick and his friends, with their well-groomed persons, tbeir polished flippancy, and then she thought of Robert in his worn ulster, his cheeks glowing from the wind of the prairie, but with loneliness in his sober eyes. She drew her hand across ber forehead with a childish gesture of trouble and dissatisfaction, and then her eyes fell on the German woman who still sat moveless on the other bench. A dull, colourless creature she was, who might have been anywhere between twentyfive and forty. Her complexion was of an unhealthy yellowish hue, and a few wisps of the same yellowish-hued hair straggled stringily down her thin temples. One would hardly- have noticed her a second time, but for the expression of grief that dignified her unlovely face. Every once in a while a slow tear fell from her eyes, and, rolling drearily down her faded cheeks, dropped into her. hands which were folded in her lap. Elizabeth, always tenderhearted in the presence of suffering, rose and walked; over to her. "Is there anything I can do for you J" she asked timidly. "Nobody can't do nottings," replied the woman with simplicity. "My man been dead." '"Oh!" said Elizabeth helplessly, "I'm sorry," and then as the woman moved over a little, she sat down beside her. The pathos of this bald statement -touched the girl's already overwrought feelings unspeakably,* and her face was very sweet yrith sympathy as she questioned gently: "Has he been dead long?" The poor creature began to talk eagerly. ' It was a relief to pour out some of the trouble in her heart to this kindly stranger. "No, miss; one week he has been dead. Ten years Chris and me's been married: Chris hadn't no learning, but be was goodlooking, yes. I bad learning. I could read, and some I could write. I worked in the canning factory mit Gussie and Tina and lots of other girls, and sooch fun we been having. Then 'long come Chris and asked me won't I marry mifc him and I did. But he ain't high-toned like me, and he want to have a farm, and we did come way out ■here. But I never . like it, no. It sads me to hear the wolves in the night-time, and everything is that still! And I don't like never, fco see nobody. I want to see i Tina and Gussie and work in the Canning factory again already, and I ask him to go, bufc he say no. And I sass him and sass him, and he don'fc say mooch, and never don't beat me, and now he been dead. My man been dead." She paused, her stooped shoulders shaken with sobs. Elizabeth's face twitched oddly, but she struggled -to maintain ber composure. "And now 1 what are you going to do?" she asked huskily. "I'm going to try to get into the canning factory again already. But _ don'fc want to work in the canning factory, no. j I want to live out on the prairie mit Chris. ' It wouldn't sad me no more. Mein Gott, I 'been one fool! Wolves don't matter. Never seem' nobody don'fc mabter. Nothin' matters bufc your man!" Elizabeth arose and grasped the woman's hand. The light that never was on sea or land was in her eyes. " Yes, you're right. Nothing matters but your man. Thank you! And goodbye I" Ifc was Christmas eve.- Robert sat alone in the little house and looked into the fire. The hook where Elizabeth's jacket had hung was empty. Her little overshoes were gone too. He was actually conscious of this and dared not turn his eyes in thafc direction. Suddenly he bowed his head in his hands. Strong and gallant soul that he was, there bad come upon him to-night an utter heart-sickness and despair. " I am a failure," he told himself bitterly, " a failure. I have failed with the farm ; I have failed with Elizabeth. I thought I could make up to her for the things she would lose. I thought, my love would be enough. But it was not enough. We will leave the farm. Perhaps I shall succeed after a fashion. Perhaps Elizabeth will be happy again. But I shall know it is -not I who have done it.. I shall see myself for what I am, a ghastly failure."Tears fell upon his tanned cheeks — not the quick bright tears of childhood, but the awful tears of manhood, that start in the deeps of the heart and come by a slow, burning pathway to the eyes. j • ' ' • - ■ ' * - 1 Then Elizabeth came. .- ■ : Her cheeks glowed witb the cold j' her eyes were two dazzling .love-lights. She fell upon him With a divine ferocity, she submerged him in her arms, she overwhelmed him with kisses. "Oh, Robert," she cried, "I couldn't go! It' was no use to try. I couldn't endure Christmas without you. I should die! I don't want to go to Indiana! I only wanfc i to stay with; you. And, of course, we'll try Dakota a little longer*— fow*-^ if youj

like. ,1 shall never hat c it again. Nothing matters but your man," she ended with a sobbing laugh. He did nofc understand as yet. He did not try. He only felt' that he bad leaped from hell to heaven. He held his angel of deliverance fast, and hoped his heart wouldn't burst with so much joy. Afterward, when they were a little calmer, he asked her anxiously : " But are J' ou quite quite sure you won't regret that you didn't go home?" She laughed softly, and • nestled closer within his arms. "Home?" she repeated; "dearest, this is home !"