THE CHORD OF LOVE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XX, Issue XXII, 28 May 1898, Page 673

THE CHORD OF LOVE.

Miss Van Cortland drew the small tea table nearer, an<! rearranged the dainty cups with fingers that trembled in spile of herself. Once or twice she glanced at the clock on the mantel —nervously, expectantly. Then she sat down and began to think—to think of ‘him.' of the years that had flown since last they met. Ami he. after a silence of ten years, had written to her that, he would call to-day. It had been like a voice from the past. She looked thoughtfully into the glowing coals in the grate. Would he find her changed? How would he look? Did he still care? She hoped not. for time is a great softener of all things; and then —he was married! There was a ring at the door. She rose and stood before the mirror that hung above the mantel, and looked at herself. Time had dealt gently with her. but then she was only eight and twenty, after ail. There was a knock on the door. She turned suddenly, and heard Parker's bland, well modulated voice ‘Mr Geoffrey Goddard to see you, ma'am. Shall I show him up?' ‘Yes.’ Parker bowed, and the curtain fell behind him. Miss Van Portland stood where she was, with an expectant face turned toward the door. She wondered how she could be so calm. The slight nervousness of half an hour ago had vanished completely. She heard steps on the stairs. Yes, she was glad she had arranged to see him here in her own little den —alone! It was more cosy than the library, less formal than the drawing-room. A figure stood within the doorway for a moment, passive, still, until Parker had announced him. and left. Then he advanced out of the shadow of the curtain, went straight to her, and took her hand. ‘Eleanor!' was all he said. It was only one word, but in spite of the contiol he had put upon himself, there were in it all the agony and regret, the passion and the love, of a lifetime. ‘Eleanor!' he repeated. ‘lt is good to see you again ten years is a long while for friends to be parted,’ she said quietly. Her tone and gesture were cordial, but that was all. He could hardly have expected anything different, and yet ‘Sit down here.' she went on. ‘and tell me all about yourself. What have you been doing? Where have you been living? And your wife—l hear you are married.' ‘Yes, I am married.' he said. ‘But you are Miss Van Cortland still. Why?’ Eleanor looked at him. and a slight! flush rose to her face.

’Oh, you see, I am such an old maid now, no one will have me.’ ’Nonsense,* he replied seriously. After a moment’s hesitation he went on. ‘We are old friends —such old friends; will you not tell me the real reason? Is it because you once loved, and—and it ended?’ ‘No,’ she said, speaking without emotion. Goddard toyed with a cup and saucer on the table. Miss Van Cortland continued: •It is only in novels that men and women remain single all their lives, mourning for an early love. It is not so in real life.’ The man dropped his eyes before her steady gaze. ‘You see that sort of thing is romantic—and unnatural,’ she added. ‘ls it?’ he asked absently.

There was a long silence. Miss Van Cortland lighted the little alcohol lamp beneath the copper kettle. ‘You must have a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Afternoon tea is such a sociable custom. Don’t you think so?’

Goddard did not answer. He rose and went over to where she sat, and laid one hand gently on her own. ‘Eleanor,’ he said, ‘why keep up this farce? I have come to see you, to talk about yourself, myself, the past. You must listen.’ ‘Geoffrey’—it was the first time that afternoon that she had called him so —‘Oh, Geoffrey, can’t you see it is not right for you to do this? Your wife —’ ‘She does not love me,’ he replied. ‘I

do not love her. We are wretchedly, miserably unhappy. I love only you, Eleanor. I have loved you all my life!’ The woman rose and faced him. there was a touch of scorn in her voice. ‘And yet you left me for her.' ‘Yes, I was mad, blind!’ The woman looked into the fire. She spoke softly, as if to herself. ‘That summer —you and I—the little ring!’ ‘Where is it now?’ he asked. ‘Locked away,’ she said gently—‘locked away with the other childish things I have outgrown.’ ‘You did wear it, then—after I went away?’ ‘For a time, yes.’ ‘Then you did care?’ Eleanor rested one hand on the table, and looked down upon it. ‘No, I did not care,’ she said. ‘“Care” is too slight a word. I loved you as I thought no girl had ever loved before.’ There was a silence. The faint humming of the little copper kettle was the only sound that broke the stillness of th§ room. ‘We knew each other always,’ she went on; ‘but somehow I never thought of you as anything' more

than a friend. You were more like my brother until that summer.’ Goddard bowed his head. He did not speak. He could not. The woman’s voice went on —so low, so tender, yet without a note of passion or longing in it. ‘And then my heart awoke and it was good to live—to live and love. You went away, and I waited for you to come back. Every . day I learned to love you more. But you, man-like, forgot.’ Goddard’s face was pale and drawn. And you have no reproof for me?’ he asked. ‘Not now.’ He went up to her and caught her in his arms. ‘Not now!’ he repeated. ‘Does that mean that you no longer care? And you said you loved me. Can such love die? Tell me it is not true. Tell me you love me yet!’ Eleanor wrenched herself free. ‘How dare you?’ she said. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, humbly. ‘Yes—this once I will forgive you.’ ‘Will you answer me one question?’ he asked. ‘I will try.’ ‘lf I were free again, and I came to you to-day and asked you to be my wife, what would you say?’ ‘lf you were free and should come

to me to-day,’ she answered gently, ‘and ask me to be your wife, I should say no.’ ‘Are you sure, Eleanor?’ ‘Yes, quite sure. In the first months of your married life, when I schooled myself to do without you, I did not learn the hard lesson in vain.’ ‘Then if some other man were to come, and you found you loved him, you would marry him?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And the reason you have remained single is because he has not come?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I hope, for your sake, he may soon he here;* and he stooped and kissed her on the forehead gently, tenderly, reverently. In another instant he was gone. Eleanor went back into the empty room, and stood gazing thoughtfully into the dying embers. Then she crossed the room and extinguished the little lamp. ‘Happiness may come to him yet, but love is not for me,’ she said. From a distant corner a photograph looked down upon her as she spoke. It was a man’s likeness. Was it but the flickering of the dying firelight, or did it really smile? A year rolled round, and lo! a master hand came and struck the chord of love, and its music was more mellow and more sweet for lying mute so long.