The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 21 January 1915, Page 3

The Storyteller

A CHANGE OF HEART

Mr Beauchamp made no reply to his wife’s question. He looked around at the luxuries of j the diningroom. The old copper plaques on the wall gleamed faintly in the shaded light of the electric bulbs, disposed in a dozen easeful and picturesque rings. The heavy black figures on the old Dutch sideboard stood half concealed in the artistic shadows of a room in which every detail had been made the subject of thought. Dinner was over; the Louis-Quinze clock on the chim-ney-piece rang 9 o’clock. Mr. Beauchamp smiled. He recalled his wife’s saying that they must have the old Dutch chimney-piece replaced by marble, as the timbre of the chimes was spoiled by the clock’s resting on the wood. That was all she could find fault with in this nest of luxury, —a crumpled rose-leaf, that was all. And yet she was not happy. The death of their boy accounted for this, perhaps,—but not entirely. ‘ Do you mean to say that we have everything we want?’ Mrs. Beauchamp repeated the question, ' putting her coffee-cup down. Beauchamp’s eye fell on the perfect little eighteenth century Dresden cup, in its silver filigree holder. It was typical, too. * Oh, I know,’ she continued, interpreting his glance, ‘ you’re thinking that, with all these things—mere things, —we have everything we need ‘ Except contentment; and I don’t see why we shouldn’t have that, if— ’

‘ I should be content,- you mean, if I would cease to grumble and to pout. Oh, yes, I have everything to make me happy, so far as materials are concerned!’ ‘ You admit that!’ he said, with a glow of triumph in his eyes.

‘ I must admit that. You refuse me nothing; and, Arthur/ she added, with a smile that made her small face seem like a sunlit rose, ‘you are as good as good can be—to me, I mean.’

Her face shadowed a little. His heart had begun to beat rapidly. He smiled back; and then, catching her last words, asked, his face changing: ‘Why do you say “to me’’? Am I bad to other people ?’ Her face became serious. She rose; her soft silken gown, with touches of gold and silver in its folds, gave, as it trailed on the polished floor, another touch of luxury to a room in which luxury, not comfort, had been aimed at.

‘Never mind she said. ‘lf we are to see the last act of—of something or other (I don’t know what we ax going to hear at the Metropolitan to-night), we’d better go. The car has been waiting for a quarter of an hour.’

‘Well, you are blase!’ he said, laughing. ‘There was a time when an opera at the Metropolitan meant something very definite and delightful to you. But, again, why “to me’’ ? Don’t you think I am nice to other people ?’ ‘ The Allens?’ she half hesitated.

He flushed.

* Oh, that was all in the game ! He’d have “done” me if I hadn’t “done” him. It was a question of a million or so between his syndicate and ours, and he lost.’

‘ But you made him lose.’ ‘ Of course.’

* And the Allens were such friends of ours ! When baby was —I can’t bear to think of it, —Mrs. Allen was so kind! And you and Dick were together so much, you know! And yet—- ‘ I played the game, that’s all,’ he said, shutting his teeth tight on his cigar. ‘He lost, Edith.’ Have you seen the Evening SunV 1 No; hadn’t time.’ * Well, he has tried to commit suicide.’ * What! Dick Allen ? I thought he had more nerve. It can’t be true.’

Beauchamp was silent for a minute. At any rate, we must show at the opera with the Marvels, and there’s the supper afterward.’ : The maid brought her wrap. In the motor car, on the way to the opera house, neither husband nor wife spoke. Ho was vaguely uneasy. As they were entering the Marvels’ box, he looked across at the empty place opposite, where Mrs. Allen, in a glory of diamonds, used to sit on gala nights. He noticed, with irritation, that his wife was looking in the same direction. ‘lt was all in the game!’ he said to himself. Then the curtain went up, and the music of ‘ La Boheme ’ began. It is good music; and, listening, ho forgot the Allens until the sad end of the opera. Then, with a rush of unhappiness, he thought of them. ‘lt was all in the game!’ he said again. ‘Dick took his risk.’

He looked at Edith; her eyes were full of tears. She was not so blase, after all. Her eyes met his. He read in them the question: ‘ls the game worth while?’ They were not talkers; they understood each other so well that there was not always need for words. Mrs. Beauchamp honestly disliked gossip. They had heard ‘La Boheme ’ too often to talk about it; and her husband did not dare to speak of Wall Street,— that subject was too near the cause of Dick Allen’s declension. Mr. Beauchamp’s secretary was waiting for him. Allen was still alive. He had admitted that he had committed the deed because he was ‘ all in,’ —‘ a pauper, in fact,’ the young man said. Would you do—that,’ Edith asked, with horrified eyes, ‘ if Dick Allen had ruined you ?’ ‘ Edith !’ Beauchamp said impatiently. ‘ I did not ruin Allen; he took his chances. Yes, I’d kill myself if I were bowled out as he isthat is, he added, ‘if I had a large enough life insurance. You see I am frank.’ ‘O dear! O dear!’ she said, as ho kissed her. 1 We love each other, and yet how unhappy we are !’ And then there came a storm of sobs.

He was silent, saddened, yet somewhat impatient. She had everything that a woman could wantdiamonds, motor cars, —everything. ‘You don’t mean that you’d really kill yourself? You can’t mean that!’ she said.

‘ Most men in my position would,’ he answered. ‘ If I lost everything, there’d be nothing to live for. No game!’

‘ The worst of it is,’ she said wistfully, ‘ that all luxuries spoil us for higher thingsfor God.’ ‘Men like me haven’t time to think of God; and even you, Edith— ’ ‘ Yes, I know,’ she said hastily. ‘ But when Ave were married, you became a Catholic— ’ ; Well, Edith,’ he replied, with a humorous gleam in his eyes, ‘ you oughtn’t to hold that against me. I must say you haven’t been very exacting. An opera and a supper on Saturday night do not leave us in a humor for Church on Sunday at 10 o’clock.’ Edith flushed.

• ‘ But Dick Allen, Arthur ! He was your friend, yet you did not hesitate to ruin him. It seems really savage.’ ‘ Why, my dear, you talk like a magazine muckraker before his conversion by the capitalists.’ ‘ Don’t laugh, Arthur ! Something is wrong. But I must begin by finding what’s wrong with myself,— that’s the Catholic way.’ ■‘ A bully good way ! But there’s nothing wrong with you, my dear!’ he answered; and she looked a picture of sweetness and grace. ‘ We’ll begin by going to Mass to-morrow,’ she said, firmly. ‘Then,’ he observed, laughing again, ‘no more operas or late suppers for me on Saturday nights. You can take your choice, my dear! If I must stay within four walls give me a short Mass to a long opera.’ ‘ It has been all my fault.’ ‘ Edith, you know that religion with me is skin-

deep. I’ve never felt the need of it. lam like half the male population of the United States. I needed you, ,my dear, and I took religion as a preliminary step to happiness. Of course I respect the Church. I like even the discipline of the Fridays. It’s a reminder in a practical way that there’s a law somewhere. But, you see, I’m not religious.’ ' - ‘ There’s something wrong with me,’ she repeated. ‘My dear dove and bird of paradise, there’s nothing wrong with you ! It’s the times. We’re part of the times, that’s all.’ . * ‘ There is something wrong with me, or you wouldn’t feel that way about our religion.’ ‘ That s a fallacy, my dear, which good women accept as a dogma. They think there’s something wrong with them when their husbands are not religious. It may be true sometimes, but not always. No example can make a man really religious. It may fill him with respect and turn his thoughts toward religion; but, unless it’s a very tactful example, it merely bores him. In the business world it is very difficult for a man to apply religion to life. • It would lead to chaos.’ ‘You mean that we can’t make up to the Aliena what wo have taken from them?’

‘My dear, be sensible ! If we did that sort of thing, the game wouldn’t 'be worth the candle. By the way, Dick’s doctor told me in the foyer to-night that ho might live.’ Thank God ‘But what a life!’ exclaimed Beauchamp, dropping his extinct cigarette into a jade howl. ‘ Out of everything !’ Edith Beauchamp sat very still, her hands in her lap, like one desolate.

‘ I sometimes long for South Dakota again. It was a hard life; but at Tangiers we had books and music and a little neighborly circle, and the fight was a fair fight against winter and rough weather.’ ‘ Well, my dear,' he answered, smiling, ‘we men keep up the game for the sake of our wives and for the excitement of the fight.' ‘ If our boy had lived, would you want him to bo in a game like this?’ Beauchamp started. ‘ What a question ! Should I ? I don’t think I should. No, I really don’t think I should !' Edith sighed. ‘ It’s all an awful puzzle,’ she said.

People were coming back to the city, —that is, the women of fashion were coming back for a brief season before Christmas. Many of the men remained in the city most of the time. The Beauchamps had been so —she with social duties, he with business burdens —that they had scarcely spoken a confidential word for a week.

‘ I’d like to spend Christmas at home,’ Edith said at luncheon. (Through a mistake in an arrangement with a great financier, Beauchamp had the unusual pleasure of lunching with his wife.) -‘ And don’t you think you might go with me?’ ‘ Ask, my love, for a pearl necklace of any value, a ruby tiara, —’

‘ Don’t laugh. I am serious.’ ‘ Don’t cry. I am serious. All the treasures of

the earth, within my means at this season of the year, are yours. But a journey to Tangier’s, South Dakota—impossible!’ ‘ Oh, Arthur, there must be some change in our ways ! This is not living at all. I scarcely ever see you except in a crowd.’ ‘ We’re in the game, my dear !’ ‘ The game that killed Dick Allen, —he’s dead!’ There was a long silence.

‘ But how are we going to get out of the game, ray dear ? I admit that my line of business is bad for the man that’s down—that,-- according to rules, at a moment’s notice I must ruin my best friend, if he happens to be on the other side. These things occur in the flash of an electric spark. But you wouldn’t like to be poor?’ ' - ’ «.

‘ Do you remember the story of Bona Donna, told in the Life of St. Francis d 9 Assisi you gave me last ■Christmas ? 1 forget her husband’s name; but he was a great Italian man of affairs “in the game.” He gave to the poor everything except a little house and garden, just sufficient to live on. Up to that time #he had “cornered” food, or anything he could, as brokers do now. .After* that, he considered only his duty to God. And, in return, St. Francis obtained for him the grace that he should live many years, tranquil and happy, with his wife, Bona Donna, and that they should both die on the same day.’ ; ‘ D would be worth it, my dear !’ He sighed. ‘ You can’t buy that sort of thing nowadays any more than you can get back to the sitting-room lamp, a book, and carpet slippers o’ evenings. lam sorry about Dick Allen.’

‘ I know you are,’ she answered. ‘ Suppose it happens again?’ Ho frowned. Well, I wish you could motor to Tangiers,’ ho said. ‘ But, as you can’t, make yourself as comfortable on the way as you can, ami see that your mother has a good Christmas gift.’ ‘ Then you can’t go ?’ ‘ It would be almost ruinous.’

Edith s heart was in revolt, not against her husband but against, the conditions of her life. Luxury, excitement, the whirl of society,—she hated them all. And, since she had slipped into the confessional before Mass on Sunday, the story of the converted Italian merchant and his wife, Bona Donna, had haunted her. ‘ I felt, somehow,’ she thought, ‘ as if St. Francis were taking a special interest in me.’ Then she spoke aloud: ‘Dear Mother! How glad she will be! John isn’t well, and she’s worried about him. He’s a good ■son, and, though he is the only one, not at all spoiled. He has made the ranch pay splendidly since the climate has changed out there. In the old days it was an awful fight. Father had to stand that when we were young. As we grew older, the fight wasn’t so hard, —and then ho died.’

‘ But you have the blizzards out there still,’ said Beauchamp. ‘Awful snowstorms!’

‘ Blizzards are not snowstorms,’ said Mrs. Beauchamp, evidently interested.

Her husband chuckled as he noticed this change. It had not been so easy to interest her of late. ‘ A blizzard begins all of a sudden. It comes like a swirl of white moist sand, only finer. It is not at all like the snow you know in the east. And if you’re caught in it, it’s hopeless to do anything except lie down under what shelter you can find, and wait. I have .seen house and barns covered out of sight by this drifting powder. We had to make a. tunnel through it to get to the stock. It’s up to your neck in no time. If you don’t know what to do in a blizzard, you’re gone. A compass isn’t of any use; all landmarks are obliterated ; you just have to wait, ’ ‘ How long V

‘Days often,’ said Mrs. Beauchamp, her cheeks flushed. Oh, Arthur, I wish you could go to Tangiers with me! Mother hasn’t seen you since our wedding.’

‘I wish I could,’ he said earnestly. ‘ But I’m a slave in the amphitheatre of Wall Street, torn by the bulls and the bears.’

She sighed. * We seem to be drifting apart.’ ‘ You’ll have to have two secretaries soon, to keep up with your engagements as the wife of a budding multi-millionaire. We’re not drifting apart; we’re busy, that’s all.’ 1 But not with real business of life.’

‘ What is the real business of life?’ ‘ Not to make money and kill one’s friends.Beauchamp’s lips tightened, and a gleam of wrath camednto his eyes. His wife’s speech in ordinary times would have made him laugh cynically, but it struck

hard to-night. He had . asked himself that question several times of late, and then brushed it aside. Hooking at him, Edith wished that she hadn’t asked it. She felt sorry for her husband. He and she seemed to be like restless creatures caught in a net. It s not -a nice way of putting it,’ he answered coldly. •* By the way,’ about those pink pearls you wanted to matchthe other twenty-four are here” ' She did not seem glad to take the Paris box so ardently desired a month ago. There was so much beyond the pearls and the other beautiful things. On the day of her departure for her Christmas visit, Edith was not particularly cheerful. Her husband tried to be. It was evident that the prospective journey had not raised her spirits. ‘ You’re not very gay,’ he said. ‘ How can you expect me to be gay, without you?’ she asked.

He smiled ; he said to himself that her tone was somewhat perfunctory. Yes, they were drifting apart, she admitted; and after her train had started, she buried her face in her hands and wept.

She found the house changed. The garage at the back startled her. There were actually motor cars in T augiers ! And there was a great glass structure on the sunny side, for winter flowers, above the heavy embankment she knew so well. Her brother had certainly been progressive. The line of thick wire, with its rope link, and the iron ring attached to it, stretched from the house to the barn, — had been really a safety line in the blizzards, and would doubtless be one again. And the welcome! And the big living room, bright with firelight! And the clasp of her mother’s arms ! It was childhood again. John was in bed, hopeful, and seemingly enjoying what he called his ‘ rest.’ Nevertheless, his mother was very anxious. It would have to be a long rest, the doctor said.

‘ The ranch has outgrown him, Edith. I wish there was somebody to help. Since we’ve stopped raising wheat, and we’ve bought so much more land, there is so much to think of,’ the mother said.

Edith’s days passed agreeably. The tranquil early winter life soothed her. She was unhappy at times because she was not. contented without Arthur. Her very presence gladdened her mother’s heart, and the old neighbors motored over to call. Edith could not cease to wonder at the motor cars and the telephones in this region of farmers; but modern improvements had not brought fuss or flurry. As Christmas approached, and the plans for Mass in the little church were discussed over the telephones -—visions of splendid decoration arose. Edith felt that she must see her husband, so she telegraphed; 1 I wish you could come for Christmas.’ Then she thought: ‘He can’t come, I know. At heart, he knows I miss him.’

In two or three days after her departure, her husband had been philosophic. There was much to do, but he discovered that all this work did not prevent him from thinking. Going home one night leisurely, ho dropped into the Cathedral. Here was peace, hero was rest, and a Presence that touched his heart. The story of the Italian merchant and his wife Bona Donna came back to him. ‘ And St. Francis obtained that, through the grace of the Crucified, these two should, not be separated in life or in death : for they had showed 1 their love for the Lady Poverty by becoming her disciples.’

It was odd that this passage should run through his brain like a strain of > persistent music., It was —to those who do not know that coincidences are the rule of life, such things are always oddthat he should see Mrs. Allen, bent and agonised in prayer, not far from him, across the aisle. He almost ran from

the church. ‘ Why did I go in V he asked himself, almost angrily. f--T; The next day his wife’s telegram came. Tie laughed when he read it: ‘She knows L can’t go!’ he said irritably. _ At any rate, she wants me.’ And this thought pleased him. - Already the genial touch, of the coming Christmas was in the air. The bustle of shoppers, the holly with the red ribbons among its green, made him think in a tender and sacred way of Edith. T believe,’ he murmured, ‘that I can never be really happy again unless I “throw away this weight.” V This absurd idea made him smile. He read Edith’s telegram again. Then he said to his secretary; * Write a note to Mrs. Allen, enclosing this cheque for fifty thousand dollars. Say I’ve found that it is due her, —that’s all.’

Mad the secretary said — mad ! But everybody’s crazy at Christmas.’ Then he telegraphed to Edith: * 1 am coming.’ ‘ Having mad !’ thought the secretary. ‘ Why, the L.A.O.’s consolidation is on for this week before Christmas! If he’s not here he may go to tho wall.’ By this time Beauchamp was on his way to Chicago. Fine, damp particles filled the air; it grew warmer. Beauchamp had rashly insisted on driving from the station to the ranch. The buggy was new and springy; the horse, young and fresh : the drive, exhilarating. lie had a good local sense : he had no fear of losing his way, and he wanted to surprise Edith. He laughed out loud when he thought of his returning to the oldfashioned way of ‘surprising people.’ I’ll be playing practical jokes next!’ Suddenly the world seemed lost in a whirling, white mist. The horse stood still, shivering. A blizzard had begun. It was not a snowstorm : it was an uncanny, white spiral, by which space seemed to be pierced and annihilated. Beauchamp managed to cover the horse. Then, wrapped in a spare blanket—how he thanked the foresight of the stableman for those blankets!—and in his fur coat, ho lay down under the buggy. The air -was filled with a perpetual roar. He felt as if he were touching electric currents every time he moved. His face was soon covered with fine, moist particles; they seemed to force themselves into his lungs, though he kept his mouth closed; he drew his cap over his face, and over it a flap of the blanket. He was buried alive.

It was a. long night. He could not sleep. The roar above him did not cease for an instant; an electric tenseness kept every nerve in a rack. His loneliness was like a black sceptre. For the first time in many years, he faced his own soul ; and he knew that the main thing in life was to save that soul. The lessons which ho had learned, rather perfunctorily before his marriage, from the Little Catechism, became clear to him. ‘ What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’ He now understood Edith’s restlessness in that round of splendors which a great part of the world believes to be the real paradise, for every American woman. And he was losing her Edith, the one loving creature bound to him sacramentally, to whom love for him was life itself ! Ho knew that; he had never doubted it. The roar above him continued, and, by some instinct he knew that the day had dawned. He was in a grave from which he might never escape. If I do, he thought, ‘I shall try to gain the grace St. Francis gave to the husband of Bona Donna.’ He smiled, even while death was near; for, though ho did not know it, another day had gone by. On the morning of the third day, he slept a little. He was growing weak, and tho horrible and monotonous roar continued. He awoke startled. There reigned a strange silence. With what seemed to him a terrible effort, he arose, the moist ■snow falling away from him. At his full height he stood, breaking the crust with his head. Ho was up

to his neck in the moist, clinging substance. He looked upon a glittering, white frozen world. The hors© and khggy were little hills of snowj the air was fresh and as cold .as ice itself. The surface of the snow was rapidly becoming hard. His weakness disappeared under this glowing turquoise dome. Millions of diamonds and pearls glittered in the sun. He was alone, and God seemed very near.

All day Edith had sat near the entrance door of tho ranch house, now closed tight and doubly tight. Nevertheless, on the second day of the blizzard the floor of the hall was almost covered by sandlike particles that had defied all barriers. Through the glass 'nothing could bo seen but tho perpetual white whirl. 1 He may have started, mother, Edith said, over and over again. ‘He did not say that he would nob come.’

Her mother tried to comfort her. ‘ I have drawn him to his death, Edith went on. ‘ And, Oh mother, I said that he had killed Dick Allen. That was almost my last word.’

JBy the heavy plate-glass door, she sat tearless and watched all day and half the night. At noon on Christmas Eve the nerve-racking roar stopped, and the white world shone and smiled. Now at least he could be searched for, and the telephone began to work. Bub shortly after noon, he walked across the sparkling world into the hall of the ranch, and there Edith met him.

‘No questions, child !’ he said. ‘ I have been alone ■with God. I know now what was working in your soul. Here I shall stay, as the husband of Bona Donna stayed, away from the world, with fees to fight worthy of a man. Happy Christmas!’ ‘We need you,' said the mother. ‘ You can lift the burden from my son.’ Beauchamp bowed gravely. ‘ I have made some amends to the Allens, Edith. To-morrow there may not be enough money for even a pearl or two. I can’t tell how stocks are going, but I've dropped out of the game. What do you say, Edith?’ he added, a little anxiously. He looked into her eyes and smiled. ‘ Happy Christmas she said. —Maurice Francis Egan.'