AN AWAKENING.

New Zealand Graphic, 1 July 1899, Page 25

AN AWAKENING.

By

NORA VYNNE,

(Author of The Blind Artist’s Pictures.’ ‘Honey of Aloes,’ etc.

The landlady showed Clement and his mother upstairs with grudging civility, and left them on the landing with an apologetic gesture towards a half-open door. ‘That’s ’er room. She’s in—or if she ain’t, she will be in a moment. When she leaves the door open, it means people ’as comes is to go in and wait. When she’s not coming back she locks the door. She’s only at the post—most likely—she told me she expected visitors.’ And the landlady disappeared abruptly downstairs without waiting to see if her lodger were at home or not. Clement knocked softly—there was no answer, so he opened the door wider for his mother to enter. ‘We will wait, of course— ’ he said in his pleasant measured tones— ‘I fancy we are before our time.’ But a clock striking the quarter outside proclaimed them a little after it. Mrs Hearne’s prosperous suburban propriety had already been a little ruffled by the cockney accent and undeferential carelessness of the landlady; she shut her lips lightly as she entered and looked around the room.

‘How shockingly untidy,’ she said. The room certainly was very untidy—scattered and torn papers lay around the high-backed chintz-cover-ed ehair at the writing table, books and newspapers had been flung down at random on other chairs, a hat, coat,

and gloves, with one or two paper parcels, disfigured the sofa. The fire was half out, and the hearth littered with cinders —worst of all, a meagre luncheon array remained on the table, a cat had pulled a chop bone down from the plate, and left it on the carpet, as it .ran out at the door, spitting defiance at the visitors. Clement’s glance followed his mother's round the room. ‘lt is untidy,’ he said, ‘I have never seen it so before. She has always had it in perfect order when I have called upon her.’ Perhaps he, too, would have found the disorder shocking, if his mother had not, but in protest against her tone, something in him called the disorder pathetic. He felt flattered that the girl should have taken so much trouble on his account as, it seemed to him, must have been needed to regularly prepare her room for his visits, and yet rebuked that she had not cared to take him in her confidence in this small matter. ‘There’s not a chair to sit down upon,’ said his mother. ‘Sit here,’ Clement said—lifting the parcels and noticing the lettering on the covers, ‘Stott, Confectioner—,’ ‘she remembered to get us some cakes for tea, however.’ ‘And carried her own parcels home like a shopgirl,’ said his mother. Clement had a healthy fondness for cakes—he and his betrothed had always eaten a great many when he

came to tea; had she always snatched a frantic five minutes to rush out and buy them between her work and his visits? Had the room always been as squalid as this ten minutes before he arrived—and found her prettily dressed and light-hearted—so delicately a lady—so well read —so refined? The many torn sheets of manuscript that were scattered on the floor, showed how hard she had been working that morning. ’He wondered if she had ever had to work extra hard to make up for those pleasant hours spent with him. ‘And her lunch not cleared away a a quarter past four,’ Mrs Hearne said. ‘Her dinner—probably,’ corrected Clement. ‘Stale bread, ginger beer, a very meagre chop, and no table-cloth. But I assure you, mother, if she had been here, our tea would have been served most elegantly—l have no doubt that there are some very nice cakes in that parcel. He stood a moment musing over the centrast, and then moved suddenly between his mother and the fireplace.' ‘Does she always leave her slippers on the hearthrug.’ ‘I wondered if you would notice that,’ he said with a pleasant laugh, ‘I v. as trying to hide them, because I knew you would be so shocked. No, I have never seen her shoes so distinctly before.’ He stopped—and picked one up, handling it with certain respect, ‘See, mother, isn’t it ha f that a girl who can V'eai such small shoes should 1-ave to w -ar such shabby ones.' ‘You never told me she was so—so uncomfortably poor.’ Mrs Hearne was the widow of a wealthy merchant, and had all the bourgeois contempt for poverty. ‘I never knew, I never renew—that is, I knew, but did not realise. Of course, I knew she was a journalis:, and had to work —-but she has a’ways kept all this from me.’

He gave another pained glance at

the discomfort of the room, and his tone was that keen self-reproach. ‘I should call that hypocrisy,’ Mrs Hearne said coldly.

He considered a moment, and felt his mother’s charge unjust. 'Why not courage?’ he eaid. Mrs Hearne was not altogether hard, or unsympathetic, but ties untidy journalist girl had known that her lover's mother was coming to call upon her; if she had not been as much impressed by the honour that was to be done her as Mrs H ‘arne had expected she would be. at least she need not have been rudely negligent. Mrs Hearne considered she had a fair grievance. ‘I do not want to be hard on the girl of your choice, Clement. I came here, as you know, with the kindest of intentions towards her. Though I considered you were most unwise in your choice, I was prepared to receive Miss Trent as my daughter-in-law. But it is exceedingly rude of her not to be here to receive me,’ she said. ‘Excedingly rude—worse than rude —inhospitable—so I am quite sure she has not done it on purpese. There must have been some accident. She has ben detained against her will. She will be very much more worried than you are by the mishap. Don’t be cross, mother. I’m sure Nan is not to blame. Take off your gloves, and set your bonnet straight; I’m sure she’ll be here in a minute.’ Clement spoke with emphasis. Yesterday, he too might have doubted whether his charming financee would pay as much deference to his mother as she —or as he himself would have wished. Now, he was quite sure that the girl who had so bravely hidden her struggles, lest the sight of them should pain him, would grudge no effort to spare the susceptibilities of his mother. Only he felt that he had been to blame, or it would not have occurred to her that such concealment or any effort was necessary.

In carrying out his suggestion, Mrs Hearne changed her position and gave a little start. The missing hostess was lying back, hidden in the great chair at the writing table, fast asleep. She had on an old dressing gown—by no means clean. Her untidy hair was pushed back from her pale tired fac?; the table was full of papers she had written, and her hand, still loosely holding a pen, lay on the last sheet, a letter. Beside her was a glass with a little brandy and water left in it. Mrs Hearne and her son both drew near the chair, and waited to see if the little cry of surprise, the former had given on seeing her, had roused the girl. Finding that she still slept fast and silently, Mrs Hearne looked sternly at the worn face and untidy figure —the sunlight showing mercilessly every line on the face, and every stain on the old gown—; she looked once again round the squalid room, and then severely at the empty glass.

She spoke under her breath in mixed pity and resentment.

‘And this is the woman you have chosen?’

He had seen all that his mother had seen. He answered in the same quiet tone:

•Yes, and what is very much more important, this is the woman who has chosen me.’

‘She looks thirty.’ •Quite thirty. She is twenty-four, 1 believe. How hard she must have worked, how deeply she must have felt, to look so worn at twenty-four!’ "You speak as if you admired her for it. 1 should have thought you would have been sorry to find yourself engaged to so passee a woman.’ ‘l’asse. Is that what you call it?’ "Don’t you?’

...... . . ‘No. She is beautiful. I should say life has written her character on her face, and her character is even more beautiful than her face.’

‘You are getting quite poetic, Clement, but no amount of poetry can do away with the fact that she looks older than you.’ ‘Y’es. she does. I am ashamed of myself for it. It is because she has lived and thought, and felt, and I have only grown and eaten, and slept, and amused myself. Oh. yes. I know, I have been in the office from ten to three, with an hour for lunch when I have had no other engagement. That's not a man's life. It's a vegetable's. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I wonder what she saw in me to make her care for me. It must have been my good looks. It could only have been my good looks. His half whispered tone was one of deep humiliation. There was not a trace of vanity in it.

‘She has been drinking whisky and water.' said bis mother severely .

"And a very good thing to drink too,’ he answered with a quiet laugh. 'Much better than ruining her nerves with eternal tea. I daresay the doctor ordered it. You will notice that it is a very small glass.’

‘Oh, you are infatuated,' said his mother impatiently. ‘Since you can see no faults in her you had better wake her and let her know we are here. Perhaps I may be able to like her better when I hear what she has to say for herself. Y’ou had better wake her. Clement.' ‘No.' he said. ‘lf you don't mind I would rather not. I am sorry that you should have so much trouble for nothing, mother, but do you mind going—going home. I mean? I think that would be best. I will stay here and make some excuse for you. and persuade her to come down to see you in the evening.' ‘I shall only be too glad to go.' said Mrs Hearne. ‘lt is certainly more fitting that she should call on me than I on her. 1 ean promise I will receive her better than she has received me.’ ‘lt has been an accident, mother. I am sure Nan will satisfy you that no offence was meant.’

‘Oh. I am not offended, though I must say that I am surprised and disappointed. but I am more sorry on your account than on my own. lam afraid you have not made a wise choice. But I suppose there is no getting out of it. so I will do my best to help yon. I suppose it will be better not to let her know that we have ever seen her in this state.’ ‘I shall tell her that.’ he said. ‘You mistake me. I am not afraid that she will be distressed at this afternoon's mishap, but I should be ashamed for be r to know how much it had distressed us.’

‘Any respectable people would be

shocked,’ Mrs Hearue said, not noticing the generosity with which her son included himself in his blame, though except for one moment, perhaps, he had deserved none. ‘Any respectable people would be shocked.’ ‘We are such very respectable people.' he said. ‘That is what I am thoroughly ashamed of. You and I, mother, are the sort of people who go on caring all their lives for things that do not really matter. What will it matter at the Judgment Day to have always remembered to send in the clergyman’s wife to dinner before the doctor’s aunt, or that the housemaids have always had on clean caps and aprons by four o’clock in the afternoon? But to have lived, to have thought out right from wrong,"* and made your choice between them; to have been sorry for the sorrow of life, and glad of the joy of it; to have done your work well in the world, and held your tongue about your troubles, — that, I think, will count for a good deal. This brave girl never let me see anything but the pleasant side of her life, because I was not fit to know of the other: but I have read a great deal through the lines on her faee. Leave us; there's a deal soul. I want to make love to her. I have only loved half of her till now, a pretty*, lighthearted girl who was pleasant to me. Now I want to make love to a strong, brave woman. Go quietly, there’s a dear soul. Don't wake her. I want to wake her myself. Don’t worry, mother. You shall never see anything but the bright well-dressed girl, but I love this dear, tired woman best.’ Excited as he was, he had remembered to speak in a low tone; as he finished speaking, he coaxed his mother gently to the door, and she left him silently. Then he turned, and drawing near the big chair again, laid his hand firmly on the girl’s shoulder and kissed her. She opened her eyes quickly, with a cry of ‘Clement!’ and reaching for her handkerchief passed it over her face. 'Am I dirty?’ she said apologetically. T daresay, after your morning’s work—it wouldn’t be unnatural. You have an ink-smut on your cheek. Aren’t you going to kiss me?’ She said ‘les’ passionately, and kissed him as she had never kissed him before, and laid her untidy head on his shoulder. ‘You dear, dear boy. How happy we shall be together,’ she said. 'Why, you love me better when you are in deshabille, too?’ he cried, surprised, but triumphant. ‘I have just been finding out that I love you better so. I have a confession to make, but let me kiss you again first. Howtired your dear face looks. How hard you have been working. What a lot you have written this morning,’ and he bent over the writing table. ‘Five —seven —nine sheets and a letter—“Dear Clement," —why the letter is for me.’ ‘Don't read it.’ She snatched the sheet from under his hands, and flung it on the fire; the half dead coals lighted it slowly; it kept its shape as it burned; they stood hand in hand like children watching the blaze. When the last red flame ran out into the air the burnt ink showed white against the burnt paper. A legible line or two stared them in the face. ‘ . . . not in the least suited to each other. We had better part . . . release you from your promise, ....

hope you will release me.’ He looked from the white writing to her flushed face—puzzled. There was a moment’s silence.

‘But you burnt it,’ he cried triumphantly. and strengthening his hold on her hand. ‘You wrote it—but you burnt it.’ ‘Y’es, I burnt it.’ she cried. ‘I wrote it because I thought you were a respectable burgeois; but I burnt it because I found you were a man. Y’ou had been brought up to be so convent tional, and I so haphazard, that I was afraid we should never get on. and when I had your mother's note saying she would call this morning, well—it was rather a stiff note, Clement. I thought I had better tell you the truth at once. I knew your people would dislike my unconventional ways, and I thought I could not possibly enter a family that would regard me as a grievance—a discredit, but now, what does that matter? 1 have heard you take my part. A man's family only matters when cne isn’t sure of the man. but I am sure of you, I heard you speak for me. Yes, you were right, I did love your handsome

face and pleasant manners; but you, too, have a side even better worth loving than the one I saw —I couldn’t help hearing, dear, and I am so glad I did. I fell asleep over my work, when I should have been getting readv to receive your mother. I had been up working all night nearly. I heard your first words through my sleep, but I was quite awake when your mother saw me; but I thought it would be so painful for her to find that I heard her discussing me, that I pretended to be still asleep, thinking that in a moment you would wake me, and I would just have apologised for

not being ready. I think I wouldn't tell your mother I heard anything, Clement; let us spare her. She was going to spare me, you know—that was kind of her •' "She is kinder than she seems,’ inten upted Clement. ‘I know—you see she was so dreadfully sorry you were going to have sueh a shocking wife. You shall take me down this evening, as you said, and I’ll try to show her that I’m not altogether horrid. I can cheerfully undertake not to shock her, now I know there will never be any fear of niy shocking you.’