The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1909-10-21
THE EVENING STORY
A Matter of Giving.


After a dinner silent save for the
| merest courtesies, Mary Goodwin
watched her husband go away down
the silent street. Once he would have
told her where he was going, when ne
would return. and would have waved
her a farewell. Now he did not even
glance back at the window. How could
she know that the last time he had kiss
ed her. several months before, her pas
sive indifference was taken by him as
evidence that the caress was unwel-
come? Eugene Goodwin was not the
man to offer love where it was not
wanted.
Now his wife wondered where and
| how he spent his frequent evenings
away from the home where she sat
alone mourning for little grave only
six months old, and which was surely
his grief as well as hers. She resent
ed the transientness of his sorrow.
Could he think a mother could SO soon
forget? At first the mutual passion of
loss had bound them more closely to-
gether. But finally. as she resented
his attempts to bring life back to its
old gladness, they fell apart. She
wrapped herself so exclusively in her
loss that he had come to let her alone
entirely. 1t had become unbearable.
She rarely spoke to him. save In cour-
tesy or of necessity, lest she should
bitterly upbraid him for his seeming
heartlessness.
standing alone in the little nestlike
home she reflected that she could not
have gone out to enjoy herself. Why
did he not stay with her? She began
terminabIe, sleepless night, another
empty day to follow.
Her restlessness drove her to sud
/ den resolve, and she wrapped cloak
about her. AS she stepped out, the
crisp September air struck her wan
| cheek. and she started off at a brisk
pace. intending to walk till she was SO
physically weary that she could not
| fail to sleep and forget. And she
| would gain strength for the bitter NOR
| row.
Though it was growing dark she felt
| no fear. A woman about to leave her
husband because she is sure he no
| longer loves her. because he no longer
| remembers their dead baby. is too
miserable to be afraid Unconsciously
| she had taken the path Eugene took
while before. only she turned off into
the little path that led to the wood,
| then past the simple dwellings of the
| hollow to the hill-and the little
grave.
AS she walked she made practical
| plans, born homemaker that she was.
order for his comfort. She would take
| nothing but what she had a few years
| ago brought there as a happy bride.
| After she had seen the lawyer she
would go to his Office and tell him her
| decision. She could never do it in the
home where the baby had been born.
She had passed the wood and had
come to the narrow streets of the hoI-
| low, where lights shown from humble
wind ows, where tired women were
| calling children in to bed, where men
were coming home with their dinner
buckets, with packages under their
arms, hungry, eager for their simple
fare and needed sleep. A few stag
gered on their unhappy way to I'M
| happy families. Then she saw the
| lights of Anne Martins house. Anne
| who had been in school with her and
who made happiness out of poverty
by reason of the great heart within
her, who mothered not only her chill
dren but her husband, who radiated
affection and help. She had not seen
Anne for months. =
Mary first decided to stop at her
old friends but pride forbade her, and
certain unwillingness to tell what
she was going to do. So she passed
by, as she had often done, her feet
almost of themselves turning to the
hill.
The darkness had deepened, and
coming to a clear space she looked up
| at the stars, and not watching her
steps walked straight into a woman,
who gave a cry of surprise and then
grasped her arm.
Mary Goodwin What are you do
ing here alone?" 1t was Anne Mar
tin. 1t was quite like her to rebuke
Mary for what she herself was doing.
| The friends grasped each others
hands, and then as the moon came up,
| each saw tears on the cheeks of the
other. Anne was the first to recover
| herself.
"why, Mary. child. what's the
trouble?'
wretched!" sobbed Mary. who had
hold her peace. "oh, Anne. you are
always so strong and brave, be sorry
for me! Gene has quite forgotten
| little Junior, and he does not stay in
to. and I don't know where he goes
evenings! He leaves me alone! r
could stand it if I thought he was
miserable toe: or cared at an but , ne
woman was looking curfously at the
| lovely worn face of her girlhood
friend. looking at her with under
standing pity.
Its queer matter. marriage is"
Anne replied with seeming irrelevance.
Its a matter of constant giving-giv-
ing love, whether you see it returned
or not, whether you can see that 1t is
deserved or appreciated or not 1t is
a matter of steady holding to love and
tic nothing else. I came out here to
make myself give what is part of
TIE a11-inclusive home love-I mean for
giveness. Have you learned to forgive
even where forgiveness is not asked?
1t will be hard. but it Is lesson wo-
men have to master. my dear. 1 am
older than you'll was born older" She
stopped and wiped away her own tears.
Mary chung to her.
"Oh, Anne-I must tell you, and you
will think me wicked--I am going to
leave him! I can't endure things any
lcnger! There must be a separation"
Anne took her friend by the Shout |
ders and whirled her face to the moon
light.
"You love your husband" she said.
land love does not know such a word
as separation That-little grave you
think he has forgotten binds you al |
ways together! Forgive me, Mary, but |
do you know you have had no right |
to make his house .eternally a house of