‘T he Chatelaine, October, I929

The Tender Millstone

C071f1.?1ll€(1fT()n1pggg 10

of her, of the wee white house, of their ordered
existence there that had had its beauty, for
she was true, loving, gentle, always. Had
she been otherwise~—a scold, a whiner, a
virago, it would have been easy to part,
since no man can love such a woman. But
it was hard to leave Carmela, the mild and
uncomplaining.

Slowly he walked toward the railway
station, trying not to think of the past that
was thraldom, but of the future that was
release. He must not be haunted by the
image of her and the ghosts of their colored
dreams or his freedom would mean nothing.
He was footloose now; he must remember
that. He had no ties; he was the free, the
emancipated.

“Nase!”

The call came from across the street. A
motor car swished past between him and the
man who was preparing to cross. He didn't
want to be bothered now with any of his
friends. Not that they'd think it curious,
his being in town at this time, but just that
he liadn’t the heart or inclination to talk.
It was young Steve Priddis, a school chum
once, a doctor now—doing well, they said.
Hadn’t he been Carinela’s sweetheart once,
Phillip wondered vaguely. What had she
meant to him; and he to her?

“Glad to see you, Nase.” Priddis was a
dry-spoken, dry-looking youth, his body
hard, his face old and stem beyond his
years. A good doctor, Phillip had heard
said.

“How are you?” Phillip could never be
ungracious to anyone, but he showed his
surprise that Priddis, with whom he had
many years ago ceased to be intimate,
should be talking with him now. It was
near midnight; the wide street was quiet,
and leaf shadows dappled the moonlit white
of the concrete.

“Have you seen Car—Mrs. Nase?" asked
Piiddis eagerly. “I guess you haven't or
you’d be with her. Still, you might want to
be alone to think it over. It is, I imagine, a
wonderful sensation. I’ve seen how other
men acted in such circumstances and . . .”

“What the devil are you talking about?"

“Your wife was in to see me tonight.
Can’t you guess why, man? Or are you too
busy writing books to see the realities of
life around you? You two are going to
have a new interest . . .”

Phillip laid strong fingers on the young
doctor's arm.

“You mean she's going to have a child?"

“Precisely. Carinela—don’t mind my
calling her that, Nase-«I loved her . . .”
He stopped, and Phillip, who could not see
his face well because of the leaf shadows
upon it, wondered. “I was glad for you
both. It's a splendid thing. Made me
feel . . . alone. I’ve never bothered much
with girls since, you see. Carmela said
you’d be surprised. She seemed nervous
about it all. Natural, I suppose. I told her
I knew you’d be delighted . . any man
would. Isay. . ."

But Phillip had gone with a short,
“Thanks, Priddis,” flung over his shoulder.
Priddis heard the hollow slap of his shoes
on the pavement and stood unmoving there
for a while, thinking of Carmela Whitney
whom he had wanted for his, of her child
yet to be born that might have been his
child. And he envied Phillip Nase whose
soul was in torment.

Different torment now. He was going
home, and he did not know what awaited
him there. Perhaps Carmela lying lifeless,
bioken, on the floor, his letter crumpled in
her hand. He thought then of the silly story
he had planned and derided. But women
are stricken down in life as in stories, by a
car, by a cruel deed . . . The letter’s effect
on her under ordinary conditions, he knew,
would be destroying. Now that there were
two . . .

“What have I done to her?" he asked
himself. “What have I done?" His freedom
was a trivial thing, piteous, ignoble. She
mattered. She had always mattered more

than all else. Where had gone in his hour of
cowardice those shining vows and promises
that he had made her in youth? How he
would work, suffer, brave anything for her,
and she would do the same for him. He
believed her. Had she not likewise believed
him?

Happily, fearfully, no doubt, even though
she believed he would rejoice with her at
this unlooked for event, she had gone
home . . to an empty house, an in-
comprehensible silence . . . a letter . . .

Some nights she had stayed in town,
called up to tell him she’d be out next
morning. But, of course, not this night.
He had seen her in the passing bus——the
gallant little white helmet, the gay foulard
scarf. Her gaiety, her gallantry, would
have hard shift to survive this blow. She
would smile when a few days had gone
lonely by. Yes, she would smile-—a gallant
smile, too, but no longer gay—neverrnore
gay.

Unless—it might be that he could in
time bring her to forgive him. He did not
see quite how. She would never forget that
letter and she would not want him to stay
with her, whose staying was a sacrifice.
She might have gone oi forever with him,
blind and unaware that she was the weight
that kept him low to the earth. She would
have been happy in her fashion because she
was with him. Nor would she ever realize
that if he failed badly in his work, she had
caused his failure. But now it would be
clear to her. What, he mused, would be her
reaction when she learned from his letter
that she, whom so often he had called his
inspiration, his greatest aid, had proved his
worst, his insurmountable handicap? He
could never live again on the old terms with
her, never run his fingers through her soft,
smooth hair, nor kiss the pale lids of her
deep brown eyes. He could not leave her
now. Not that a sense of duty to her or the
child bound him; it was something else,
something new that he could not name, that
was, perhaps, a primitive instinct holding
the man to his woman who is with his child.

SO, PONDERING all these things, he
went to her. He had told the driver.
bribed him to hurry, and the man said there
was a detour to Crescent Park where the
little white house was, that would cut off
two miles from the journey. That wouldn’t
help now, but it would, get him to her
sooner.

Their meeting—drama that he could
have appreciated in his own work or in the
work of others. Pathos—perhaps heroics.
He had no taste for any of these. He longed
for a cold mind that would let him observe
both herself and him and set down what
went on. She would look at him bravely
enough, he thought, and might even pre-
tend, saying nothing of the child, that she
was glad it had come, this separation. Or
that, since he looked at it thus, it would be
wrong for him to stay with her. Or again,
she might break. She might weep and plead
and look beseechingly at him; and his
words could never be unwritten.

Home? So soon! He had been lost in his
previsions. No light burned in the house.
It was ominously dark, without life. Was
she there? Had she gone? He hurried up
the white walk . . .

He went in, calling “Carmela!” But
there was no answer, no sound save, when
he paused to listen, the tick-tock-tick-tock
of the accursed clock. He hated it now as
he had never hated it before. He switched
on the lights, hurried to his desk. The letter
was there as he had left it, propped against
her picture in its silver frame, and as he
snatched the thing greedily away the
picture seemed to smile at him. Then the
letter was grey black ashes on the white tile
of the hearth. ,

He sat at his desk, just sat there weak,
somehow, with relief, with almost joy. And
there he was sitting, writing steadily, when

Continued on page 62

All tired
out . . . early

in the day

THE old energy that used to
carry her buoyantly through the day
and out to parties and dances at night
seemed to be lost.

Her husband never mentioned it, but
she knew he felt it, and was puzzled
and disappointed .What was the reason?

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