A SHORT STORY.

Waipa Post, Volume VIII, Issue 354, 2 October 1914, Page 6

A SHORT STORY.

(All Rights Reserved.)

In Three Parts. THE SELFISH MAN. By MARY TENNYSON. Author of “Reaping "the Whirlwind.” “Within Her Grasp,” “A C’uel Dilemma, ” “Scout Law,” &c. PART I. A suburban middle-class sitting-room, the furnishing of which evidenced the refinement, if not the pecuniary prosperity, of the man and woman who sat on either side of the table staring gloomily at a scintillating little heap of precious stones, which would have gladdened the heart of most women at least. But on Mrs. Martin Redmayne’s countenance there appeared not the slightest trace of satisfaction, while her lips quivered; as she regarded the jewels wit a eyes of almost fierce disapproval. And her husband, watching her, felt his heart throb with the silent but yearning sense of sympathy. Redmayne loved his wife after his fashion; but his fashion was not of a demonstrative order, and many people wondered at the intensity of his wife’s affection for her somewhat cold, and apparently selfish, husband. They were obliged to admit, however, that there might be qualities in the man which did not appear on the surface, since he was positively idolised by wife, child, and-terrier dog. “You do not understand, Martin,” Mary Redmayne said with a tender smile, when her sister criticised him. “Only Patty and Gyp and I, and perhaps Henry Dent, understand him; and Patty only in part. He is honest in word and deed.” “Honest because the bank money is safe in his hands?” the girl interposed. “Elsie!” “And he is selfish, Mary.” “In trifles he may be,” the wife admitted.

“Mary! Do you call it a trifle, then, to sleep, and let you be up all night attending to Patty ?” Mrs. Redmayne’s eyes grew very wistful. “He didn’t sleep, Elsie.”.“But he told me he slept all through Patty’s coughing.” “That was one of Martin’s ways, which you do not understand,” Mrs. Redmayne responded, softly. .“He did not sleep; I saw his eyelids quivering, but he knew how terribly I worried over his wakeful nights.” “Why should you? They are not worse for him than you.” “I am not sure of that. I am strong, and he is not.” “Not strong? Has he been complaining, then?” ' “Oh, no, Martin would not complain.” “Mary! Why, Martin makes an awful fuss about things. About draughts, and bad cooking, and organs, and street-cries ” “Aboht trifles, yes,” Mary interrupted; “that is Martin’s way; but he is nor strong, and after the day’s hard work he is over-wrought. Elsie, I often fear Patty inherits her delicacy from him. Ho pretended to be sleeping for my sake, and the strain of lying still all night must have been terrible.” “Mary, I can’t believe it.”

“But I am certain of it. And two nights ago I moved Patty’s bed into the front nursery. Of course, I hear her cough in an instant, and go to her.”

“But that makes things even harder for you, Mary.” “It doesn’t; for now I can hope that he gets some rest. I slip in and out of our room almost noiselessly. Ah, no, Elsie, Martin may monopolise the easiest chair in the room, or ihe newspaper, but if he were called upon to make a great sacrifice, I know hcwould do it willingly.” “For Patty, perhaps,” the sister rejoined, grudgingly. “Yes, for Patty or for me, or for anyone he .really loved. What do you say, Gyp—does your Marno love you and little Patty and me?” The terrier, at the mention of his adored master’s pet name, ran whimpering to the door, quivering in an ecstasy of anticipation. “Gyp couldn’t express himself more clearly than that if he had the gift of a thousand tongues,” Mrs. Redmayne remarked, quietly. “He and I know Martin thoroughly—only he and I and Henry Dent. Patty loves blindly.” Then crossing to the door she smoothed the excited dog’s sleek head, murmuring apologetically: “No, Gyp. It was too bad of me. Marno’s not coming yet, poor Gypsy—no, no.” At which, with a sudden slackening of his tremulous stump of a tail, and an almost human reproach in his bright eyes, the dog returned to the rug in front of the fire. \

This had happened two days ago, and now Mary Redmayne fingered the sparkling jewels irritably. ■ “If Aunt Edith had only left us a little money!” she cried. “It seems such a ghastly mockery! I the possessor of family diamonds—l, who haven’t a farthing of my own; who am obliged to sea you slave in that stuffy, unhealthy office, when you, too, need care and ease. I, whose child is actually in need.” Then both faces contracted with a sudden spasm of pain, and the woman, starting to her feet, hurriedly left the room. When the harassed mother had gone, Martin Redmayne groaned aloud, and Gyp, creeping to him,' laid his head against his knee and shivered and sighed. The man took no heed of him, but the dog did not stir, nor did he relax his fixed upward gaze until, five minutes later, the wife came back. “Patty is not so well to-night, I’m

afraid; the cough seems harder,” she said, almost harshly, walking restlessly about the room. “Oh, Martin,” she cried at length, “it’s maddening! The winter is com< ing. How can Patty struggle through) the winter ? Dent talks about the South of France—the South of France for paupers like us!” For once the woman had lost control over herself; her tone was bitter, and her movement irritable and almost rough. Martin winced painfully at her words, but he sat with his face shaded by his hand gazing silently into the fire. v “Martin, say something—for Heaven’s sake, say something!” she continued. feverishly. “I fed to-night as if I had reached the end of my tether.” But when he did speak all he said was: “Sit down, for pity’s sake, Mary! That rushing about the room is really too dreadful.” A gleam of anger flashed into Mrs. Redmayne’s tired eyes, to be immediately succeeded by an expression of keen compunction. Martin had not moved or looked at her, but she noted that the thin hand that shielded his eyes trembled strongly. “I am sorry, dear,” she responded, more quietly seating herself once more, “but the disappointment of finding Patty worse again is almost more than I can bear. Oh, Martin, do you really mean that we cannot make any use of this dross?” “Make any use?” he repeated, with! a dreary smile. “You can wear the jewellery, Mary.” “Wear it? I hate it, Martin! The glitter of it mocks and tortures me! If the things are mine, why cannot I sell them?”

“They are only yours for the time, Mary,” he said, wearily. “I have tried to explain that before. They are left to Patty after you.” “To Patty! Oh, Martin, the ghastly, cruelty of it! To Patty, who is pining for sunshine and warmth. ’ To Patty, who may not Martin, a new idea:! Surely we can pawn the jewels?” But Martin Redmayne shook his head with a sigh. “We cannot pawn them, Mary. Your Aunt Edith, I suppose, was afraid of me.” “Afraid of you ?” “Your people are not perjudiced in my favour, you know. Any way, it is expressly stipulated in Mrs. Dean’s will that these jewels are not to be pawned during the minority of Patty, and Patty is just eight. We shall have to keep them, my dear.” “I detest the sight of them,” she said, brokenly. “I don't regard them agreeably myself,” he responded, “and really it seems hard lines to have to insure them. “To insure them, Martin ?”- “Yes, against burglary. If anything happened to them I should be awfully blamed if I hadn’t insured them. I shall do it to-morrow. They were valued for probate at eight hundred! pounds.” “Eight hundred pounds,” she repeated bitterly, “and less than half of that would take us to the South of France, and keep us there all the winter.” “Yes, a couple of hundred might.: But you say ‘us,’ Mary. I couldn’t go. I’ve had my holiday.” “But you’d let us go, Martin, Patty; and me, if we could?” She spoke eagerly, as if she hung upon his reply, and yet she knew that the matter was hopeless. “Yes, I suppose I should,” he answered, slowly. “But it woidd be aw- ■' fully hard on me.” „ “Oh, my dear,” his wife cried, “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that! You do yourself such cruel injustice.” “With whom?” he asked, curtly. “Why, with my people. It’s such’ a remark as'that which impresses them' as being selfish.” “Ah! they consider me selfish, do they?” He paused for a moment,, and then, with an effort, he continued: “But I am willing to give up my own inclinations in one respect. Mary, if you wish to ask your father for the m?ans to take Patty away, do so.” But the wife set her teeth grimly.; “I will not beg of my father,”, she said, hoarsely. “He insulted you, and me through you. If mother had lived I could have humbled myself to her.: But father would certainly refuse to help.” “That’s provable, because indirectly I should benefit,” Martin assented. “It’s strange how that old man hatea me for marrying his daughter.’!. (To be Continued.)