CHAPTER XXI

Aunt Menelophe Holds Forth on the Subject of Marriage

A

UNT MENELOPHE and I have had our talk.

How adorable she is! She seems to have the

brain of a man and the heart of a woman and

the sympathy of an angel. Just when you think she is being a little bit hard on you a beautiful, soft look steals across her face, and there creeps into her voice that note of sympathy and kindliness which one imagines one can hear in the notes of birds on soft evenings in April. And she is prettier than ever. The old lace at her throat looked like a delicate cobweb mellowed in September sunlight, and her hands, as they lay folded on her gray poplin gown, reminded me of snowflakes.

It was good to be again in that soft-tinted, harmonious, beautiful room; good to feel my feet sinking into the thick carpet, and to drink China tea out of those fragile Wedgwood cups. I told her how good it was, how glad I was to be with her, how nice and soothing to feel I should see her every day for a month. "For you will have me for a month, won't you, Aunt Menelophe?" I asked. "You won't tell me to

HAZEL OF HEATHERLAND

leave at the end of a fortnight. I want to get braced up for for the spring-cleaning. We are having it early this year on account of Easter.”

"I thought spring-cleanings took place when fires were over," she remarked.

"We have another then. We are prodigal in the matter of cleanings; they are our one extravagance.' She sipped her tea meditatively.

“And yet you refuse to marry this man.'

“I should not marry for the sake of escaping springcleanings," I said stiffly.

She smiled.

"Now don't get prickly; it's a bad beginning. Nobody suggested you should. I was merely reflecting that there are thousands of girls who would jump at such an offer solely to escape the disagreeables and worries of their home lives. Such marriages are rarely happy; mine wasn't. I am glad to see you have more grit in you."

"Yours?" I asked in astonishment.

It

"No," and she sighed, "mine was a mistake. was my own fault. I married your Uncle Archibald to get out of playing bezique every evening with an aunt who lived with us, and who was stone-deaf, poor thing. It was difficult to make her understand what I had, and it was her habit to score my points as well as her own, so she invariably won. It was a small thing; but what annoyed me most was, I had to pay a penny into a missionary-box for every game I lost, while she [ 280]

sat and chuckled. Your uncle turned up one night at an opportune moment. I had lost four games running, and my aunt's cheating had been excessive even for her. Before your uncle left that evening I was engaged to him. The shape of his nose was very good-pure Greek-but I never really loved him. Afterward, poor man, he developed gout, and his temper became somewhat uncertain."

"But he loved you; he must have loved you,” I interrupted.

but the He was

she added in parenEven the shape of his

"Yes, I believe he was very fond of me; trouble was I could not return his affection. a good man, but he bored me. nose altered-it was the gout," theses. "But he never knew; that was my one consolation. I did him wrong when I married him, and the rest of my life I spent in trying to right it. It was exhausting at times, but I had my reward when he died."

"Aunt Menelophe!" I cried aghast.

"You misunderstand me, child. Strange to say, I
felt his loss deeply. My reward lay in the knowledge
that he never found me out. Something he said, just
before he died, has always been a comfort to me.
Her eyes became reminiscent, and I wondered would
she repeat it. She did. "Mene,' he said, 'you have
been a good wife, and I have been a poor sort of hus-
band. I was never good enough for you, and could
never understand how you could love me; but that
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you have loved me has been the greatest gift of my life, and I have thanked God for it every day.' A person with what is called a strict sense of honor would no doubt have promptly undeceived him; I didn't, and he died happy. Deceit is often infinitely preferable to aggressive honesty. Had I said, 'Archibald, you are mistaken; I have never loved you,' I should have felt that he would have been restless throughout eternity, gone wandering about with bare feet and catching his death of cold; and a man who has suffered from gout in this world deserves a little peace in the next."

She stared into the fire, and I could see that old memories were crowding in thick upon her. What a wonderfully expressive, beautiful face was hers, crowned with its soft white hair! And she had missed love; she had missed what she had once said was the best thing in life. Presently I asked

"Aunt Menelophe, do you think you could have loved ?"

She looked at me with a little smile.

"Most women can love, Hazel. I have not been an exception. Mine came too late; it was after I was married, and he loved me. So my work was doubly hard, to crush the one, keep it down, trample on it, and -build up the other-foster and tend and encourage the small growth of affection I had managed to raise toward my husband. It was very hard; but the man --he was good-helped me, we helped each other, and I suppose God helped us both."

"Did he ever marry?" I asked softly.

"No, he never married, and he is dead now. Men always die before women. It takes a great deal to kill us; women cling to life with the tenacity of a cat. You meet about one widower to every hundred widows, and then he marries again. I always contend that the Lord cannot love us as a sex, for He never seems to be in any hurry to summon us to His presence. I have told you my story-the small tragedy of my life-to make you think, pause, and consider well before either refusing or accepting an offer of marriage. Don't rush at a man; neither, on the other hand, be in too big a hurry to send him away. The moment he has gone for good you may regret it. Personally, I am of the opinion that girls of your age are unsuited for marriage; your hearts are in too wobbly and pulpy a condition. You never know your own minds, and you change in your opinions as rapidly as members of Parliament. Had I been a little older, I should never have married Archibald Menzies to escape playing bezique with an aunt, however deaf. But now tell me about this man; I believe I should like him. Describe him to me; I am very sensitive to looks. Is he big?"

"Yes," I said, "very: the kind of man who seems to crowd a room, and he has a slow gait and heavy tread."

She nodded approvingly.

"And he has a deep voice and speaks slowly."

She nodded again.