Picturegoer (1922)

M tr HIU I UkbljU i<: JUL the door, Margaret and Bob, watching the lights of the Osborns' car vanishing down the avenue. Night was near. The western sky still held its hint of orange and silver, but to the east was blackness, and between the two a compromising purple sought to keep the peace of night and day. " Is it not beautiful ? " she asked, turning to Bob. " Beautiful ? " Bob echoed. Beautiful ? Don't know that 1 should say it's beautiful. Ck)od engine and all that, but I hate those silver bodies. Too noisy. Give me a grey or a blue. Still, a wonderful thing for two thousand. Not beautiful — wonderful. Considering the price." At the corner the Osborns' car vanished into the cross avenue and Bob turned now and went indoors. With a deeper sigh than any yet, Margaret followed. That night she stood by^ her open window, looking on the lamp-like stars and the star-like lamps of the great city, and thought that sometimes a girl might mistake the one for the other so easily— wonder of Nature, and a thing of mechanism and the world unbeautitul and sordid, useful, but empty beyond its usefulness ; and yet so nearly alike unless you knew. Seven years to-morrow ! Margaret Meredith had the soul of a poet, if not a poet's gifts. She could never hope to write poetry, but once she had hoped to live it. Now — was the hope to die ? Bob, with his schemes and his companies and his dividends — what poetry had he ? What could he see in the world but street lamps ? What could he get from the sky but light to save the light that man made. To him the sun was an economy, the moon a failure. And yet — he was a good husband. Everybody knew it. Even Margaret knew it. A good husband. . . . The sort of husband that any girl might be proud to have. Almost any girl. Any girl but. . . . Margaret put the suggestion from her. and thought, oddly, of Daisy. A good wife, Daisy. Beautiful, charming, popular, in many ways quite brilliant.. \ good wife. A success. But. . . . But Margaret wondered what Julian thought ! Julian, too, was a poem that could never be written, his soul a rose that might very easily end, having blushed unseen. Daisy was a good wife, every thought given not merely to her own but to their — his, Julian's —social advancement. An excellent wife. . . . But, again, Margaret wondered what Julian thought. Seven years to-morrow ! Seven years for the Osborns soon. Wasted years ? For all of them ? Or not ? Margaret turned from her window and sought relief in sleep. As Julian bade her night, there seemed a subtle significance in the simple words Next morning two presents came for Margaret. The one, a bunch of flowers, sweet and fragrant ; the other in an envelope, a cheque for a thousand dollars. The one was from Julian Osborn, a little gift for her wedding anniversary, a token of their lifelong friendship. The other was from her husband, a scrape of the pen, a last-moment thought, and, naturally for him, money. A good husband ! Few would cast thousanddollar cheques at their wives' feet seven years after the honeymoon. But. . .• . I That night the Osborns and the Merediths sat together on the moonlit patio ot the Osborns' home. Friends dropped in, business men to charm the heart of Bob, social climbers and the already climbed for setting to Daisy's brilliance. And. Julian and Margaret found themselves together, apart from the others, where they could talk of things both liked, of stars without street lamps and suns without economy. " Life," said Julian, apropos of nothing in particular, " life is short." " But the years are long ! " said Margaret, bitterly, flashing a glance along the patio. Julian looked at her keenly. Dong suspected had the situation in the Meredith household been, but not a word had been uttered in confirmation. Now there was no disguise. The sham was dropped, suddenly, with little show, but surely. And Julian wondered why he had been selected for the revelation. He looked at her again, saw the look of sympathy, or the appeal for sympathy, and wondered if another man here to-night would have been so honoured by the appeal. Was it the moment, or was it the man ? Was he the man ? " Are things — not well?" he ventured. She shrugged her shoulders and looked away. Suddenly he saw in her not a friend of long years' standing, but a beautiful woman. In all the years she had been but merely Margaret Meredith to him. Now she was a woman, a beautiful woman, with tastes that were his tastes, views that were his views, troubles that were as his own. He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. " Margaret." But she rose and made as if to return to the house. Without another word he followed, and for the rest of the evening only conventionalities were passed. But, as each well knew, the veil had been torn aside, and these two could never be merely friends again. As he bade her good-night, there some subtle significance in the simple words, and an* unspoken response was in her grasp as she clasped his hand. That night at her window she sighed, as so often she sighed now, but a shade of the hopelessness had gone from her. Far from her grasp might the twin "soul be, but no longer was he far from her sight. A star shone for her in the dark sky — a star she might never hope to reach, yet one which she would now always see shining, a glimmer of what might have been, but still a glimmer. Small comfort, yet comfort, nevertheless. The weeks drifted slowly by. By day Margaret had her home and her little daughter Peggy to occupy her time, and by night the far-off star of the might-have-been to fill her thoughts. Intolerable life, but less intolerable than before. Sometimes they would go to the Osborns, sometimes the Osborns would visit them. There lingered the hidden significance and the unspoken responses that came from secret understanding, but opportunity did not offer for the twin souls to tread further along the road of wonder that had opened out