THE STORYTELLER.

White Ribbon, Volume 19, Issue 223, 19 January 1914, Page 13

THE STORYTELLER.

HER WIDOWHOOD. (By Constance Clyde.) The servant tame into tie daikem I room, and the furniture outlined it elf against the light as lie pulled up the blinds of each window. “Now, that’s a relief, after them three days.” A slight knock was heard at the door leading into the courtyard, and there entered a lady and gentleman, both dressed in bla< k. 1 he man turned to them. “Why, you’ve come, Mr Reid, and you, too, ma’am.” “We got the news too late, Railston. W e were at the seaside.’ 1 lie newcomer spoke a few words of explanation in a hushed voice ar he proceeded to remove hat and gloves. “The funeral party has set out by now.” “Oh, yes, sir, I’m expecting them back any moment. I’m just getting the room read) for the reading of the will,” he added as he bustled about putting pen and ink on the brown covered table, and rearranging the chairs. “You’ll have tea or something.'’ You, ma’am? No? Then you’ll excuse my going off. There’s a lot to do in a house when the master’s buried, and the missus as usually helps can’t attend.” “Yes, everybody knows what your mistress has done for the business, Railston.” As the servant quitted the apartment he took a < hair. “Poor Hannah, poor old girl.” Ilis wife was glancing round the commonplace parlour, with its ornaments beneath glass cases, its unused books in a semi-circle on the side table, and between brac ke ts, wreathed in c rape, the portrait of an ill-tem-pered looking man with -ide* whiskers. James Reid followed her ga/e. He was some fifteen years older than his wife, who was little* more than a girl, a good-looking man of the* commercial type, with a naturally bree/y in inner temporarily subdued. “Ah, > >u’re looking at the place. It’s not too familiar to you, is it? Not as familiar as it should be* even to me, her only brother. Hut there, we were* separated by interests .is well a> by circumstances, and then you and she* not taking to each other. . . Of course, I know you’re different, still . . . it’s not Hannah’s fault

if she* hadn’t the advantages I had, belonging to the first family, and brought up on a rough farm. . . .’’ The* girl wife Hushed a little indignantly. “You have no right to speak as if I had been . . snobgish, James. It's as much Hannah's doing as mine that we* aren't very intimate more, in fact.” “Oh, I’m not blaming you for it. Of course, I know that women . . . well, they have their own little* ways, and, after all, I’m her brother, not you. No, 1 haven’t done right by Hannah, especially considering what a hard life she’s had. Twenty-five years of it. Nothing but toil. Not a real holiday all the time just working for her husband and Jack. That's been her life. \\ hat affection she must have had for Josiah to have been able to do it, and no compensation, mind you,” he added reminiscently. “Josiah one oughtn’t to say it nov , perhaps, poor chap, but he could show the rough edge of his tongue at times. 1 tell you,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, “a life like* Hannah’s does more good to the true cause of woman than all your suffrage women’s platform spoutings.” Mrs Reid took her seat on one of the hard, shiny chairs drawn up to the table. Such talk was not unaccustomed to her, though the present seemed a strange time for it. She could not help speaking. “Don’t you think it does harm, James?” His commonplace bright eyes widi ned. “Harm “Yes, a man begins by admiring self-sacrifice in a woman as something special, but by and by he takes it as the standard for all, and so it < eases to be special, and in time w ins no recognition. I noticed, for instance, and perhaps this helped to keep me apart from Hannah, that whenever you came home from seeing Hannah you were always a litdc* more —what shall l call it? —oldfashioned with me.” He took his seat, laying his hat upon the table. “I know what you’re driving at, my dear —the old question. 1 thought we’d thrashed it out long ago, . . . wanting to be treated like a servant, that’s the* up to date wife, to get her wages every month, from her master. That’s what it comes to with your new notions, the acknowledgment of a mas-

ter. No, my dear, 1 give in to you in most things, or so i* seems to me, but in this respect 1 honour you more than you do yourself. To be the wife, not the paid servant, that’s the true ideal, and Josiah, 1 know, thought so too. When Hannah wanted money, all she had to do was to ask for it. So also is the ca-e With you. Why should you ob ;ec t ?” Mrs Reid gave a slight, almost inipcrc eptihle, shrug. “Well, this isn’t the time or place* for sue h financial disc ussions, of course. Hannah will be back any moment. There, 1 hear them. 11l go upstairs. My luggage* lias been sent up by now, 1 suppose. Not that 1 can make* any change. I’ve* no black dress but thi>. A salmon pink si k wouldn’t be quite suitable for the present occasion.”'” -he* addc I with unreal flippancy. James often made her speak so, but she hoped he had not heard. Janies ha.l heard, but, unlike him sofl, did not notice. He was at the window as Mir disappeared. A little* later he* wa> >pening the* door of the passage and h id taken his sister into his arms. Those that were with her kept in the background for the time, and brother ant. si>ter entered the apartment alone. “Poor Hannah, poor old girl. . . .” He felt her draw herself away from him after a mil ute’s pause and smooth down the rape edgings on her sleeve. She straightened the widow’s train and bonnet beneath which the smooth, dry hair looked merely painted. She had a small figure, lost in its new rustling “weeds,” and the wr nklcd, resolute face of the* woman wc rker of fifty. He helped her to a c hair, with a confused man’s notion of what bereavement means to a woman. He sat beside her, ;nd continued his words of consolatic n. “There, there, dear,” as she put a blackedged handkerchief to h r eyes. “I know just exactly how you feel. Life seems over, . . . you don’t want to see anyone, . . . even to step outside the door.” Hannah Patterson removed her handkerchief. Her tone was surprised. “Why, of course, I can’t he seer, outside the door, not for a week at least.” “Of course not. 1 quite under stand. It was how you felt . . .

that was what I was thinking of," he explained awkwardly; “but we’ll help you to win through,” recovering himself, “1 and Kdith too. Wc haven’t seen a> much of each other as we should have done those past years. . . “1 know,” she assented calmly. “Kdith and me . . . wc didn’t quite take to each other, she being different, not th.it she made me feel it, and so we weren’t quite intimate, so to speak. . . . ” “Ye», yes, pity too. You’d have learnt from each other. Edith, she’d have got to know something of woman’s real duties, her place.” She interrupted in her simple fashion. “You and Kdith don’t quite hit it off; 1 know that; not like poor Josiah and me. The trouble with Kdith is, she wanted too much from marriage. . . . Now marriage isn’t for ’appiness not for the woman, anyways.” Me moved a little in his chair. “Not for self-indulgent happiness, of course,” he agreed in his grandiloqu< nt style, “but, of course, there is a higher happiness.” “Well, for ’oly happiness, perhaps,” >he admitted, “but for real ’appiness, now is it likely."’’ expanding a little. “You marry a man, work for 'im, nurse ’im, put up with all his man’s ways, because anyway you’re saved from being an old maid, which is worse than being unhappy, being ridiculous. Hut ’appiness, real ’appiness, that is what you don’t get at the time. That comes afterwards !” “Afterwards r” he echoed, with a touch of alarmed wonder. She rolled her black-edged handkerchief round her worn fingers, speaking a little brokenly. “When it’s all over, and you know you’ve done your duty by him, alive and dead, . . . and . . . and you can look back and say. . . .” Her voice trailed into silence. She was not used to speech; on her brother’s visits during those last score of years she had never spoken like this, the meek housewife and silent servant-hostess of her “men folk.” She did not notice her brother’s disturbed, bewildered face till his voice broke in, “Hannah, didn’t you love your husband?” She turned upon him. red with the indignation natural to her class and

training. “How dare you ask that James Reid, and me with those tin yards of crape and all? Crape isn’t worn nowadays, so the dressmaker told me, but I believe in doing what’s right, and being a widow as is a widow, as the Hible says. And so I’ve done all 1 should do, ’is tombstone ordered already, and the motto, ‘With 1 hce All Joj Departs.’ . . . I saw — l thought of it when he had double pneumonia . . . three years ago. . . .” She sat still a moment, ruminating, and her brother, too, thought. 1 his was not the loving silent wife of whom he had made an ideal for at least a dozen years past. He realised now that the difference in their ages in youth, their long separation afterwards, had built up a vision of “womanliness” which in these few minutes of intimate talk simply vanished away. Like so many democratic middle-class men, he had a vague impression that if a woman was simple of speech and uneducated, she would possess what he called the “higher education of the heart.” At this realisation of another side to his ide.il he sat still dazed. He was aroused by the tout h on his arm, and looked round eagerly for some softening of the shock. “Yes, dear,” he said gently. “Are rates and taxes high in your place, Kelveston?” she asked. “Rates and . . .” he began in new bewilderment. “\\ hat do you t f She interrupted him, her eyes speculative. “That’s where I thought of settling down. A hen run, that’s what I’m thinking of having. I’ve always wanted to keep poultry. . . . I don’t forget I’m a farmer’s daughter, for all the time I’ve spent in the hotel business. I could have kept some here, but Josiah couldn’t abide them, and so I just ’ad to look forward to it. Oh, don’t you look upset, James. I’ll ’ave a companion, my cousin Katie. Josiah couldn’t stand ’er, some’ow, so I never ’ad her here, but so 1 had that to look forward to also. I’ll do well with the hens. . . . Perhaps I’ll make a hit . . . just as I did something with the business here. Perhaps I'll be able to come and see you and Kdith in my own gig. Think of that. I’ve often wanted a gig, only

Josiah he said what was the use? Yes, that’s what I’ll do with my little bit. I’m in a hurry, 1 am, to have that will read.” (To be Continued.)