The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 30 June 1910, Page 1003

The Storyteller

THE BEST OF A BAD JOB man maid was a model of indiscretion. 'Honeymoon? she laughed m the servants' hall "wl™ ■ llone y mo on (. little honey about it ' ' Theie was Pilous a face that a woman in heed would instinctively truft ArS SaSlSc?#=S-E unTon. elem6lrt ° f ha PP" kerned lacking in their

vent ß whe f n e llone *fiftS concealed before a stranger find v*iJ e thv*JT^7 d '^ ollt a toUch voice, tnanked her for the opportun ty of telline In tones too cool not to carry conviction, th^t her true ° nly - be - Caus . e she could not m Sry ZS*a l * T^f - Heated recriminations had followed everv off or victor WlllCh WaS a Stab - And the soman's tongue Tame

rnno Muttering something about his club, John Harman rose. In Ins hurry he upset a glass of wine Hi? ciear which, up to a certain point, had helped him to 'cnntrS W\* temper, was a finger of living ash. P He Shed Tt against Aole house! 11 ' he gave the front door WFg _ Nora planted her elbows on the table and wedged her chm between her quivering hands. Her eyes were &en the pool of spilt port. Had she been in the mood she b?ood ° Ü B?i+ e Sf H + liken V Crimso ? t 0 her own heart's blood. But she felt too angry for sentimental comparisons Angry, less with John than with herself. Lom F»«sons. „ i?+l WaS T? uch *? be l )itied as she, she thought, orS Ji t s e i t If she had carried the wrong man, he had wedded the wrong woman. It had shockeS her somewhat to learn that he felt that-she had imagined that he had some affection, for her. But, far from giving her min the shock had i relieved hermit removed all further need of a painful self-deception, tore aside the veil with which she had tried to blind her eyes to the truth. The truth was that she loved Dick Westell. And she had heard that he was coming back to New York. ™ l ■ e i-j.'W/ fOl ? was '' she moaned, 'to treat him as I Instead—-' my insane pride >' l should now be his wife. And up went her hands to her face, as if to shut out a vision of horror. -■ Dick's people had considered her beneath him, and threatened to cast him off if he married her. But that would not have deterred him; a little encouragement from her, and he would have gladly linked his life with her b encouragement she had been too proud to give. She had assumed indifference to him, treated him with chilling disdain. Her plea to herself was that the man whom she loved must not suffer disinheritance for her sake. She had exulted in her self-renunciation, gloried in her martyrdom without counting its real cost. She now. saw that she had been too proud to enter a family the members of which looked down on her. Dick's mother and sisters, being a Senator's wife and daughters, resented alliance by marriage with the Senator's girl stenographer. What she (Nora) had really feared was being cut and i slighted by them And, somewhere in the back of her mind, had lurked the thought that,, if cast off, Dick would be poor. Her awakening was bitter; she knew now that, with all her pretence of unselfishness, she had thought more of herself than of Dick. f-:i^'-::-;; : --- - : - ; ' .•"■.■".■/-,/ ::'• Ut-f :.:/.....'-'".•■ -;^: ; ?:',-:, :.vi-v -~ : . The scorn of Dick's relatives, poverty—what would they have mattered ?.-•-' She > was a - stenographer, truean employee, earning her bread ; by her work. But work was

honorable; Dick;had respected her for it, and told her that her family was quite 1 as good as his. Then a wife always takes in large measure her husband's rank. Had she married Dick, they, would have conquered all difficulties. He I was not the man to remain poor long, but clever, strong, well able to fight the world; With her at his side, he would have made his mark in life. What a sham had been her profession of fear that she would drag him down! .She would have helped him to rise. , With her beauty, her ability, her adaptability, and natural savoir-faire, she would soon have shown his relatives that she was their equal if not their superior. The love of the man she loved would have inspired her. For that she could have faced scorn, poverty, anything. ' What 'had she done instead? Bound herself beyond recall— was a Catholicto a man for whom she eould never care. Her promise to honor and obey mattered little; honor and obedience were the natural consequence of woman's love. But her promise to love had been perjury. There : had been great excuse for her. John Harman had surprised her in the hour of her need. Mrs. Westall had induced her husband, whom she ruled completely, to send Dick away to England, and to discharge the objectionable stenographerr Thrown out of work, Nora had fallen ill. Nervous breakdown laid her prostrate for weeks, worry about arrears of rent prevented her recovery. Her uncle, who was also her guardian, would have assisted her, but she was too proud to apply to a man with whom she had quarrelled. When she had seen her last "cent go in paying doctors' bills, John Harman found her. He paid all her debts and placed her where she could be properly nursed. The fact that they had been playmates took some of the sting from his kindness, but it did not remove her keen sense of obligation to him. ' How can I repay you ?' she had asked him, in a tone too resentful to be quite grateful. 'By becoming my wife,' had been his simple answer. His offer meant a home, wealth, the social position for which her heart craved. Who shall blame her if what she had just gone through made the prospect doubly alluring? For these things,' she now said bitterly, 'I sold my soul.' Meanwhile, John Harman's clubmates were wondering what there could be in marriage for a month of it to '*change a good fellow into a bear. It was his first appearance among them as a Benedict, and they had welcomed him accordingly. / . , 'Hullo, old man!' exclaimed a would-be wit with a genius for saying the wrong thing at the right time. Feeling the need of a little bachelor life again, eh?' » ' Don't be a young fool,' hissed John through his closed teeth. ' Waiter, bring me something.' His manner forbade any further attempt at conversation. For two hours he sat alone, moody and silent. And it was remarked that he drank too much. One member who had intended to propose to a girl that evening resolved to delay a little longer. John's meditations travelled back far before his marriage. Why had he not proposed to beautiful, brilliant Amy - Randall, whom he could have had for the mere asking? Because circumstances had forced him to be kind to a girl stenographer with whom he had played at being sweethearts in childhood! He could not see little Nora Sheehy penniless, starving, ill, and not do his best to help her. It was unfortunately his way to do nothing by halves; when he was kind, he was very kind. The Nemesis of kindness is that it strongly draws those who exercise it toward the object of it. There is no logic in the attraction; it mistakes impressions of the imagination for impulses of the heart. It was Nora's accidental dependence on him that invested her in his eyes with the qualities of his ideal wife. On her sick-bed she looked so thin and frail, so much in need of being taken care of. His ideal wife was a woman whom he could protect —Amy had never seemed that—a woman whose need of his support would demand all the strength of his big and loving heart. But marriage had proved a rude awakening. From the first he had perceived that he had not won Nora's heart. The discovery had stirred up retrospection. Her ill-concealed aversion had reacted on him memories of Amy had done the rest. A month of drifting apart had ended with: a quarrel too bitter not to end all. He knew she would never forgive him, and he could not forgive her. At last he rose, and, without saying good-night, set out for home. Home The mocking irony of the word! The house was in total darkness. He stumbled up the stairs, and entered the drawing-room, where he switched on the light. He started. His wife was lying on the sofa. ' Don't trouble about me,' she said in her most freezing tone. 'I shall spend the night here. You will find my last message to you on your dressing-table.' Some revulsion of feeling drew him toward her, something stronger than will bent him over her. "" '" "Leave me,' she said, pushing him away. ' You have been drinking.' / •-.' He sprang back, his face whiter and tenser than ever. Then he went to his dressing-room. A note lay on the table. He tore it open. John Harman,' it ran, 'I meant every word I said. ft can live with you no longer. You must contrive some way of obtaining a divorce.' - m * I will,' he hissed. ' There are States in America •where the law makes that no difficulty.' ;

Nora passed the whole night on the sofa. Not until 4 o'clock did she close her. eyes, at 6 she woke with a shiver. She had thrown herself down in her thin dinnerdress, without rug or wrap to cover her. Her bare arms were cold as stone. When her husband bad gone down she crept upstairs, and locked her dressing-room door till he had started for his office. Then she washed, did her hair anew, and put on a morning frock. The sight of her face in the glass frightened her. It was wax-pale, unrelieved by a touch of color. ~ > _ What should she do ? She could hope for no sympathy from her uncle, nor did she want any. But a strange impulse seized her to tell him how things stood. He was a priest, by name Father Sheridan. His parish, though called a country one, was only just outside the city. Half an hour's journey by rail brought her to the presbytery. ; He answered her ring in person, and showed her into his study. He was a big man, quite six feet in height beside her he looked a giant. His age might have been fifty, but his strength and perfect health suggested the very prime of life. The fact that they had quarrelled made her feel somewhat uncomfortable, but she succeeded in telling her story. ' What did you say you wrote to him?' asked the priest sternly. , ' I told him to get —a divorce.' 'You want a divorce?' 'Yes.' All the spirit of Catholic Ireland, all the true priest's hatred of rending asunder what God has joined" together, raised Father Sheridan to his feet. Seizing his niece with both hands, he shook her as if she had been a child. Take back that word,' he thundered, or, woman as you are, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life!' Frightened, cowed, Nora sank into a chair and sobbed. 'You,' he flashed, my niece, my dear dead sister's child, brought up a Catholic, trained in-a Catholic school, dare to talk of divorce ? . And to talk of it, too, to John Harman ? Poor fellow I He was my most promising pupil at college, and I loved him. I watched his career after he left; his falling away from his religion was one of the keenest sorrows of my life. The day he came to ask my consent to his marriage with you, he went to confession in this very room. I never saw man look happier than he did when he acknowledged how very good God had been to him. He spoke glowingly of your love for him and or his for you as graces that would keep him true to his new resolutions. I knew you to be a mere —and a proud, wilful child. I could have told him that you had quarrelled with all who had had your best interests at heart, that your headstrong temper, which you have taken no pains to govern, had caused nothing but pain to those who loved you. And you have counselled a Catholic who is struggling for his faith to seek a divorce! You have told him, that you, a Catholic, want a divorce! You have ruined John's faith, driven him from his religion. And if he is lost, God will demand his soul at your hand.' '":;■■•; This torrent of hard, straightforward truth overwhelmed Nora. Her pride seemed gone, the wilful girl looked meek and humble as a child. .. - ' Will *you come back here this afternoon?' he asked as they parted. 'I may then see some way of. helping you. There is a train at five.' 'I will,' she answered, as one who meant what she said. '■:,' -.;'" % While Nora was waiting for her train home, Father Sheridan had harnessed his horse to his buggy, and was speeding away toward the city. He caught John Harman coining from his office. The two friends lunched at a hotel together. There John Harman gave the priest his version of the quarrel. At the stroke of five Nora rang at the presbytery door once more. Again Father Sheridan showed her into his study. ■. - ■ -■ ■ # . She started. A third person was in the room. It was her husband. , Father Sheridan allowed neither to speak. 'I have heard both your stories,' he began, ' and they are too painful for me to wish to hear them again. If they are as true as you think them, you made precious fools of yourselves in marrying each other. If you wish, you can make still bigger fools of yourselves making the worst of a bad job. But, if you are wise, you will face the situation, and make the best of it. Now I will see about some tea for you. While lam gone, see if you.can't make it up.' For a minute each stared at the other, stiff and uncompromising. But, as the priest's returning footsteps were heard, Nora flew to her husband and kissed him. It was two years later. Jack was writing in his study. ■.•■-' He looked round to see who had nudged his elbow. - It was Nora, and in her arms was Baby Jackie, come to kiss Daddy good-night.. . 'The best of a bad job!' smiled Jack the elder, obviously alluding to his son and heir. 'No, indeed pouted Nora, hugging her darling to her breast. The best of a very good one, you mean I'— Benziger's Magazine.