Discords

CONTENTS A PSYCHOLOGICAL MOMENT AT THREE PERIODS THE CHILD, ...... THE GIRL, THE WOMAN, I PAGE 8 .20 HER SHARE, 67 GONE UNDER, . . 82 WEDLOCK, 115 VIRGIN SOIL, 145 THE REGENERATION OF TWO, 163 A PSYCHOLOGICAL MOMENT AT THREE PERIODS I. THE CHILD THE lamp on the nursery table is yet unlit, and the waning daylight of the early spring throws the part of the room near the window into cold grey shadow. The fire burns with a dull red glow in the lower bars it has been slacked just one little bubble of gas seethes like a ball of molten jet and flickers into a bluish flame. The quick patter of little feet, and the sound of quarrelling child voices, broken by the deeper note of a womans voice raised in gentle chiding, comes up from below stairs. A child is crouched on the old hearthrug, holding a book to the firelight. Her eyes run greedily along the lines, one little red hand holds the top of the right-hand page in eager readiness to turn it over her long, tangled elf-locks catch a ruddy glint each time her head moves. A bit of coal drops, and the flamelet goes out she lifts her head and draws a deep breath she is trembling with excitement, for she has been holding it unconsciously. She makes a move to stir the fire, but a shade passes over the questioning child-face as the inner voice that she alone knows of, of which not even the tender little mother has an inkling, begins its warning and reproach. Shut the book now now, just when the exciting part begins. No, you may not read to the end of the page no, not even a line more. If you want to be brave, if you want to be strong, sacrifice sacrifice, mortify yourself. If you dont want to No, you are weak, you cannot do that, not even that smallthing, for God. No, not after supper Not until to-morrow, to-morrow evening The small head with the straight white parting bends over the closed book, and a sobbing sigh floats out into the room full of shadows. She rises slowly and puts the book away, high up on a shelfon the old bookcase, and then looks fearsomely round her. If she were only round the next lobby, past the closed door of the empty room where the coffin once stood, where the chill air seems to rush out and play down ones back like the cold, cruel taps of long, clutching fingers. She steals out hurriedly, tip-toeing unconsciously, and whispering with throbbing breathlessness, Guardian angel, O dear guardian angel take care ofme leaving a space for the angel on the side next the door. A flying jump, a clutch at the balusters, and the lobby where the tall clock mounts guard is safely reached. The light streams up from the hall below, and the cheery rattle of the milk-boys can on the steps, and the smell of rice slightly burned, strike warmly to her heart. But the face of the old clock seems to look mock- ingly down at her, and its tick-tock speaks with a jeering voice to the panting child the house is full of voices. You be a Grace Darling you be a Maid of Orleans coward go Afraid afraid Coward back right to the nursery door yes, to the very door, and count ten outside of it She is rolling her holland pinny into a mass of hopeless creases, and the look on the grave small face is half defiant, half pleading. Tick, tock, afraid, afraid Leave you be No, you must be strong...