Copyright Story. One Touch of Nature

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 23, 8 December 1909, Page 55

Copyright Story. One Touch of Nature

By

HELEN MATHERS,

author of “ Comin Thro’ the Rye. 99

▼ OUR comb is loose.” Involun--41 tarily the girl addressed leaned . I forward for the speaker to adjust it, and the attitude was so natural, so unconscious in its grace, the other responded so instantly in making fast the comb in so womanly a way, that a man standing just inside Sammells and Taylor’s book-store, thought he had never seen a prettier, more charming incident, till both girls, straightening themselves, recognised each other, and with an abruptly muttered “Thanks!” the one passed on, and the other stood still for a moment, a shadow falling on her sensitive delicate face, so full a moment ago of eagerness to perform a gracious action. As she, too, disappeared, the man laid down the book he had been glancing at, and moved slowly away, thinking deeply. By one of those chances that only seem extraordinary, he had been witness to the first meeting, face to face, of the two women he loved —yes, there was no doubt at all about it, he was in love with both of them at the same'moment, and for widely differing reasons. Now. there was Sandra, the girl at whose falling comb the other girl had been looking, not at her, or she might never have proffered her aid; pretty as a picture, as daintily petulant as every man likes his sweetheart to be before he makes her his wife (but not after) with a knack of choosing and wearing her clothes that avoided smartness, but reached distinction. And on the other hand there was Maggie, diametrically her opposite in every particular, nothing to look at, indifferent to clothes save as regarded their suitability, anil perfect freshness, dhd with a stability of character, that deprived him ‘ of tiipsc enchanting surprises; of tamper and tegperairfe'Tlt; t to which Sandra constantly! treated him. The lust of the eye. . how w-11 Marwood Rules knew himself tp be the slave of it. as all meh are, only'oflen'they do nob-know it, and they; trip because unaware of their vassalage, a strong man who knew himself very thorouglily, and in a kind of vision had often seemed to sen himself, and his career, ruined through choosing the wrong woman. The actual strength of a chain is its .weakest link, and he knew only too well what link was, and Sandra knew it also, Sandra who had just now responded so discourteously to a kindly act, as for once to give him the impression, not of delicious contrariness, but of downright ill-humour and ill-breeding. Yes, there was Maggie, whom his intellect and heart approved, a clever, brown-eyed, brown-haired maid, who had long headed her father’s housenold, and who from much dealing with her little brothers and sisters, had young motherly ways, not only with them, but with men as well, so that Marwood would sometimes smile, for he was so much older than she was. And when he smiled, she would smile back, and nod her head in a little comprehending way she had, as if he were only a child of larger growth, who unfortunately could not be corrected, or dealt with in summary fashion. “Men were so stiff-necked and obstinate,” as she told him one day with a sigh, it was their selfishness that made her glad she had been born a woman! Both Sandra’s father, and Maggie’s, were old friends of his people, and he was frequently at either house, and had as many opportunities of studying the two girls’ dispositions as he could possibly wish. But oddly enough, though they lived in adjacent parts of Town, they had no mutual acquaintances, and while well aware of each other’s existence, (as any two' women beloved by the same man usually are) they had never actually come face to face with each other until that morning, when, chapce had made him an onlooker at their meeting. He had never spoken of the one to the other, never asked them at the same timp to his bachelor tea-parties in Brook Street. They must have discovered each. Other by the photographs about,, for

there were many of them, and it was significant that each girl had “spotted” the other as a rival, asking no questions, but parsing by as harmless the likenesses of his other more or less good-looking woman friends. The expression of Maggie’s face as she secured- the comb in Sandra’s hair, had been at the moment full of a natural goodness and pleasure at helping a fellow woman. But this had abruptly altered, not to one of anger, or rudeness, a.s in the case of Sandra, but to one of eager admiration, of curiosity, the swift colour, the half-stopped breath attesting to her suddenly aroused interest, that changed finally to one of keen regret as Sandra’s curt word of acknowledgment reached her ears. And neither had the faintest idea that lie was looking on —had seen the whole thing—suddenly a burning desire seized him to see both girls, to acertain what each thought of tiie other. He felt sure Maggie would mention it—there was in her an irrepressible candour, a spontaneity of feeling and expression, that possibly did not make for her own happiness, while rendering her clear as crystal to those she loved, and who loved her. Sandra was too riisee to say anything, unless she could score by it's Marwood thought he would take Maggie first that afternoon, and call on Sandra after. That was the worst of being a moderately rich, idle man, that he had plenty of time for paying visits and falling in love with two women at the .same moment. He could not possibly have done the latter had his hours for play been severely limited by the struggle for existence, or his means so large that lie’ had the irksome duties, of looking after his estate. As it was, he lunched lightly at his club, played a game of bridge afterwards for sheer love of the game, and walked across presently to the Delacourt’s house in Holland Park, where it was quite easy to believe oneself many miles out of town. For the great gardens of Holland House seemed softly to overflow like an emerald sea, the end of the quiet road so far removed from sound of traffic, the scent of lilac and

may was in the air. and somewhat irritably Marwood asked himself, why should not humans have their reerudescene of Spring, as the hoary old earth does each year? He was not thirty years old yet, but he felt himself old and stale, in the untainted freshness of the day, and wondered if Maggie and Sandra, who were twenty and twenty-two respectively, felt more in tune with the season than he did? Maggie was at home —she was nearly always at home—and at that particular moment, darning the boys’ socks in the apartment through which too swift a current of young life flowed turbulently the whole day, to allow it to be dignified by the name of “drawing-room.” Wonderful to relate, she was alone, the children had all gone to a party, she said, and she nourished her darning needle at Marwood as he came in, and put a little thimbled finger in his big hand, but something in her glance, her colour told him that Sandra was in her mind, and he wondered how soon she would bring her out. Maggie’s hair was very neat and pretty, her gown of butcher-blue linen, in the lofty, homely room, that spoke everywhere of her activities, her unselfishness of life ami aims, struck a distinctly pleasant note of colour. There were no rings on her clever little hands, and he noticed for the hundredth time, how the corners of her mouth curled up, and what a pretty dimple she had in her chin. “Have you been out to-day?” he said, then, suddenly ashamed of himself, added quicklv: “1 saw you.” “Where?” For a moment her colour faded, and swift alarm looked out of her eyes. “At Oxford Circus.” “I—I—” he saw that she was thinking back, trying to recall if by any look or gesture she had given herself away. Then her brow cleared, and she said, “She is very pretty.” “And you are very, very kind,” he said quietly. “It is only what any woman would do for another . . . and her name is pretty too.” He raised his brows a little, and she said: “She wrote it on her photograph, you know. When I saw it on that little table, close to where you sit, I knew—” she paused, brave as she was, she could not make her voice quite steady. “But—there is another photograph there, where I can always see it,” he said slowly, not knowing if he were behaving like a strong man. or a beast. “Yes. It’s a good foil, isn’t it?” Maggie thrust her fist through a hole in Duncan’s stocking, made a face at it, then filled her needle with wool, while his glance fell on a portrait of himself —alone—on Maggie’s writing-table near

by. Suddenly it struck him what a sweep he was how would he have liked to see another man’s photograph th<TS beside his—he had placed himself in the position that he must behave badly to one or the other of these girls. . . until this morning, until he had seen that little unrehearsed incident outside the book store, he w'ould have said that Sandra was the more clinging in disposition of the two, the more likely to be crushed by a love disappointment, but it was Maggie who had been knocked out in that brief encounter. “Where were you?” she said suddenly, “.lust inside Sammells and Taylor’s. 1 go there every day to see what new books there are —and to be adviaed what to buy.” “You read too much,” said the girl with some asperity. “If you won’t do anything, go in for sport —” She frowned as she looked at him, and yet, somehow he knew’ that her attack on him hid an aching heart, that the accident of replacing a comb in the hair of a passerby, had altered the whole current of her life. And he was not sure, as he watched her, that it had not altered his. “You might have told me,” said Maggie, reproachfully, (her lips trembled a little), “we are very old friends —now, don’t you suppose I should have told you if I had been going to be very happy?” She looked at him so frankly, so sweetly, unaware of the treacherous pallor of the cheeks which gave her away, that only by a great effort he reminded himself that he had yet to hear what Sandra had to say’in excuse of her’illbred conduct. “1 am not engaged,” he said deliberately, and turned his eyes away. None but a coxcomb surel\ could willingly surprise the look that he felt to b? on her face then. “’1 he children grow so fast,” she sain hurriedly, “Duncan shoots out of hi.-? clothes—and Kiddie is beginning to look like a telescope dre.-ssed in a kilt! Poor father looks helplessly at them when he comes home at night, and declares they have grown a foot during the day!” “I wonder what your father would do without you?” he said, thinking how nearly all the women ho knew worked in some way for their living—all but Sandra Hertford. . “Get married to be sure!” said Maggie briskly, “fion’t you know’ that old Methuselah. bad-temp'Fed,- selfish,- un kempt — hateful in every way (and fathei is quite young and presentable) can got his pick of nice women nowadays? Wo stand” she sighed deeply—“in the proportion of about fifty to one of you.” Marwood shook his head. “Not fifty.” he .said. “Yes—becauso half of you men, wh<y could marry, don’t want to! You know too much about us altogether—the fash-

lon papers give us away—there is no mystery, and consequently ne cha-m, about womanhood now!” She spoke mournfully, as if the humiliation of woman in the eyes of man, was lier own personal affair. It struck him then that he had never heard Maggie say one jealous or spiteful word about •ny other girl—he could not remember ©ne kind one that had fallen from the lips of Sandra. All women to her were "cats”—ready to turn her up at a moment’s notice—long ago, she had made tip her mind to have men friends only, and had stuck with laudable perseverance to her resolve. A sudden desire to hear Sandra's mordant criticism of Maggie suddenly se zed (Marwood, and he jumped up to go. just as tea came in, departing with a celerity that struck Maggie as curiously abrupt. When he had gone, she sat for a full minute with the untouched tea tray by iicr side, and her little fist showing through a .stocking heel, thinking intently. “She is not good—or nice,” she said Bt last aloud, “but she is quite lovely -—and deliciously dressed—and poor Marijvood is that hateful thing, a good match •—and he could pay for any amount of finery . . . but he was meant for tetter things—and he will be a—miserable —man! ” She protestingly wiped away a tear, With a determined air, poured herself out * cup of tea, then forgot it to conclude tier darn.

Sandra Hetford's boudoir in Bolton Street -was full of Howers, yet did not seem to hold the clean, sweet spring as IHolland Park had done, and the perfume iihat came from her trailing draperies for the first time since he had known her, an some subtle way, annoyed Marwood. That orange-backed French novel, only half thrust out of sight, those tiny hands swath rosy finger nails cut to a point, (that handled a cigarette so deftly, turned Ulis thoughts to Maggie’s surroundings, and a young brave face with quivering lips seemed to rise before him. Sandra was very quick—these women iwho do so little else but observe men’s moods, always are—and when she had given him some tea, she laughed, and •aid: “I have seen your little brown mouse at last!” He was silent, only looking at her inquiringly. “The. original of the photograph beside mine on a table in your rooms,” she said. “I have been looking out for (her for ages, and this morning I met her, What is her name?” “Margaret Delaeourt.” “A pretty name. Did you know her before you knew me?” “Yes.” To himself he wondered how long it had been going on —when it began—that lie wanted the beauty and graee of the ©ne, and the sterling goodness of the other, ear'll side of his nature being •Iternatelv satisfied bv each of them—it

only body and character could have been merged in one personality! "And you like her better than you do 1 me?” He was silent not daring to look at Sandra, for though a man may flout beauty behind its back, even become valiant in slighting it, he is the moat arrant coward on earth under the pers~nal Spell of it—and he knew that he was under her spell still. She laughed softly, but he thought of her common behaviour that morning, trying to harden his heart against her — then he looked and was undone. For Sandra was a siren, and her beauty of a type that in all countries, and in all ages, rules the world, and enslaves mankind. Full well indeed Marwood knew his own weakness, for he recognised to the full the flaw in her breeding, or mind, or heart, (often the three are one) that had made po sible what he had witnessed that morning. Perhaps instinct told Sandra that this rich man whom in her fashion she loved, was in danger of slipping away from her to the little brown mouse whom she had always secretly dreaded, but she exerted herself to please him with such effect, that when at last Marwood escaped from the room, it seemed incredible to him that he had got away without saying the words that must have bound him to her for life. Going straight to the spot where he had that morning witnessed the reeontre between the two women, in imagination he beheld it vividly, as if actually re-enacted before him, and from that time forward he suffered the ceaseless flux and reflux of emotions, pitted desire against love, self-mastery against moral weakness, knew that good and bad angels were fighting for his soul. But while with every wile and fascination at her command Sandra had set ■herself to beat the girl who had always been her only real rival, Maggie made no fight for herself, only went calmly on, doing the daily duty set to her hand, and doing it well.

The Hetfords went out a great deal, and it seemed to Marwood that whereever he went he met Sandra, while Maggie, even if looked for, was not always found, for two of the boys had been ill, and she had gone with them to the sea, returning with so radiant an air of health as made Sandra’s beauty assume almost a wilted air toward the end of the- season. Marwood sometimes wondered what it would be like, when he succumbed at last to the fate that seemed inevitable, and he would ponder drearily over the women’s journals that littered Sandra’s rooms, and note the illustrations, and read the advice as to massage, eradications of wrinkles, and all the time-hon-oured signs of the approach of gracious middle-age. He would ask himself, “is it any wonder that men, seeing these things, sicken at the endless ritual of the temple of the body, and turn away from them to a clean, homely girl, innocent of paint, false hair, and all the rest of

it?” Often he thought of how much better women were loved in the ' last generation than in this, how chivalrously they were treated, and in return how gentle and forgiving they were—perhaps because they were just ugly or pretty, as God made them, and the gospel of make up was absolutely unknown: to them. He thought, as every true man must think to-day, that the enormous amount of time wasted over their personal appearance by women, is so much stolen from the treasure and usefulness of the world, and he did not think the results achieved were good, especially in their clothes. And when one day he told Sandra that he thought a brown Holland frock delightful, she frowned, knowing that he had recently seen Maggie in one. Sometimes an uncanny feeling would come over the beauty that this invisible, modest rival was bad to beat, and that it was her influence in the background which made Marwood say everything and anything in the way of love, save “Sandra—will you be my wife?” It is possible that the season would have ended, and the girls and the man have gone their different ways, the situation unchanged between them, but that something occurred, which even more startling emphasised file difference in the two girls’ natures than the incident to which Marwood had been a witness at the Circus, and which suddenly brought matters to a climax- Accident brought all three of them together one morning towards the end of July in Park Lane, when Marwood, returning from his morning ride, was just leaving the Park by Grosvenor Gate, as Sandra was entering it, and Maggie unobserved was approaching them on the pavement outside. She walked more slowly, not wishing to meet them, as the man cheeked his horse, and he leaned over, talking to Sandra, when suddenly, there came staggering across her path a forlorn, wildlooking woman, from whom the passersby shrank as though she were the plague, though at the same time the crowd gathered, that springs up we know not whence, at any unusual or horrible sight, intent not on help, but the gratification of a base and cruel curiosity. Sandra turned her head, curled her lip. and murmured, “She has vine-leaves in her hair,” then at the same moment saw Maggie, who had not drawn aside but was looking earnestly at the poor, swerving figure, and at the very instant it fell headlong, sprang forward, and caught it in her arms, gradually lowering it to the ground, where she knelt beside her, supporting the tousled head on her breast. Marwood uttered an exclamation, and sprang from his horse, leading it towards Maggie, while Sandra gathered up her skirts and fled—she loathed the sight of human pain and sorrow, excess of sensibility. she called it, but perhaps Marwood called it by a harsher name when, glancing back, he saw her swift evanishment. Grimly he said to himself, that she had run away from him. for the first

and last time, as he met the beautiful light of welcome in Maggie’s eyes, when she looked up. and saw him. “It is illness—help me to get her into a eab, and take her to a hospital,” she said, and throwing his horse’s reins to a man near, and pushing back the prying humane who pressed close around, he had hailed an unwilling cabman, and got the woman and Maggie into it, before the crowd realised that its sport was escaping it. And as he rode behind them, the short distance to the hospital, he knew that his mind had made itself up, in the moment when the one woman played the Samaritan, and the other ran away. If he failed to profit by the lesson offered to him outside the book store, this second one was not so misunderstood by him.

The doctor gave some learned name for the vertigo that had first deprived the poor woman of the use of her limbs, then stricken her to the earth, but after she had in a measure recovered, Maggie whispered to Marwood. "It was a broken heart really—and starvation—her child was dead—don’t you think often there is a mistake made —by people who do not understand?” “Thank God,” said Marwood, and kissed her hand, “that you are one of them.” Yet he knew that if Sandra had acted the womanly part that Maggie had, and taken that poor battered head on her shoulder, he would have married Sandra . . . and Sandra knew it too, in that last interview they had, in which she fought so desperately her losing battle, realising that she had lost everything for the want of that touch of Nature which “makes the whole -world kin.”