Wa i t i n g !by Mabel Herbert Urner.Illustration by Luther S. White.“YOU—you will come over Wednesday evening?” She asked it hesitatingly, timidly almost.“I’m afraid I can’t Wednesday,” as he picked up his hat and cane.“Then Thursday—have you an engagement for Thursday?”“Thursday is the dinner of the Civic Club.”“Oh, yes; of course you must go to that.” There was a slight quiver in her voice now. “Could—could you come—Friday?”“That’s so far ahead. I don’t like to make an engagement so far in advance. But I’ll phone you some time during the week.”She smiled a wan little assent. With a brief good-by he was gone. His step down the hall—the click of the elevator—then she ran to the window and followed him with strained eyes as he swung down the street.If only he would look up and wave her a good-by as he used to—but he did not.She threw herself on the couch, her face in the pillows—the ache in her heart keener than any physical pain. Was it hopeless—the fight she was making? Could she never win back the love she had lost?“There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.”And she had never known how she had lost it—unless it was because she had grown to care too much and to show it too plainly. Could it be that? Had he cared only for the uncertainty—the love of pursuit? And without that—being sure of his conquest—his interest had died?Ah, no—no! passionately she denied that. The man she loved was bigger, finer than that! He could not have stooped to a merely cheap desire for conquest. If he had ceased to love her, it was some fault of hers, some failing, some lack within herself of which she was unconscious.She had spent long hours of torturing self-analysis trying to find where she had failed—what it was that in the beginning he might have thought she possessed—and then found she did not. So great was her love for him that she felt she could almost make of herself what he wanted—just by the sheer strength ofwillingit!If only she could be with him enough! If she could but have thechanceto make him care for her again! He used to come almost every day—and now—now, sometimes many days would pass.She knew it was a mistake to ask him when he was coming—to try to name any particular time. He seemed to resent that now. If only she could let him go without a word! But the thought of the long, silent absence that might follow always terrified her. Once, for two weeks, she had not heard from him; and the memory of those two weeks’ suffering always weakened her to the point of trying to make some definite engagement to escape the sickening uncertainty of the days to come.Oh, she was so helpless—so pitiably helpless! Wholly dependent on him for her happiness, yet powerless to break down this wall he was placing between them!She slowly arose and threw herself into a chair. There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.Then gradually there stole over her a sense of quiet—almost of peace. It was partly the relaxation that comes after any emotional strain, and partly because of a faint hope, a belief that sometimes came to her and that comforted her above everything else—the thought that because she gave of her best—because the love she gave was a great and good love—some time he could come to know, to understand, and to love her again, if only for her unfaltering love of him!If she could but wait long enough—patiently enough—in the end the love she so wanted might be hers!
by Mabel Herbert Urner.
Illustration by Luther S. White.
“YOU—you will come over Wednesday evening?” She asked it hesitatingly, timidly almost.“I’m afraid I can’t Wednesday,” as he picked up his hat and cane.“Then Thursday—have you an engagement for Thursday?”“Thursday is the dinner of the Civic Club.”“Oh, yes; of course you must go to that.” There was a slight quiver in her voice now. “Could—could you come—Friday?”“That’s so far ahead. I don’t like to make an engagement so far in advance. But I’ll phone you some time during the week.”She smiled a wan little assent. With a brief good-by he was gone. His step down the hall—the click of the elevator—then she ran to the window and followed him with strained eyes as he swung down the street.If only he would look up and wave her a good-by as he used to—but he did not.She threw herself on the couch, her face in the pillows—the ache in her heart keener than any physical pain. Was it hopeless—the fight she was making? Could she never win back the love she had lost?“There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.”And she had never known how she had lost it—unless it was because she had grown to care too much and to show it too plainly. Could it be that? Had he cared only for the uncertainty—the love of pursuit? And without that—being sure of his conquest—his interest had died?Ah, no—no! passionately she denied that. The man she loved was bigger, finer than that! He could not have stooped to a merely cheap desire for conquest. If he had ceased to love her, it was some fault of hers, some failing, some lack within herself of which she was unconscious.She had spent long hours of torturing self-analysis trying to find where she had failed—what it was that in the beginning he might have thought she possessed—and then found she did not. So great was her love for him that she felt she could almost make of herself what he wanted—just by the sheer strength ofwillingit!If only she could be with him enough! If she could but have thechanceto make him care for her again! He used to come almost every day—and now—now, sometimes many days would pass.She knew it was a mistake to ask him when he was coming—to try to name any particular time. He seemed to resent that now. If only she could let him go without a word! But the thought of the long, silent absence that might follow always terrified her. Once, for two weeks, she had not heard from him; and the memory of those two weeks’ suffering always weakened her to the point of trying to make some definite engagement to escape the sickening uncertainty of the days to come.Oh, she was so helpless—so pitiably helpless! Wholly dependent on him for her happiness, yet powerless to break down this wall he was placing between them!She slowly arose and threw herself into a chair. There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.Then gradually there stole over her a sense of quiet—almost of peace. It was partly the relaxation that comes after any emotional strain, and partly because of a faint hope, a belief that sometimes came to her and that comforted her above everything else—the thought that because she gave of her best—because the love she gave was a great and good love—some time he could come to know, to understand, and to love her again, if only for her unfaltering love of him!If she could but wait long enough—patiently enough—in the end the love she so wanted might be hers!
“YOU—you will come over Wednesday evening?” She asked it hesitatingly, timidly almost.
“I’m afraid I can’t Wednesday,” as he picked up his hat and cane.
“Then Thursday—have you an engagement for Thursday?”
“Thursday is the dinner of the Civic Club.”
“Oh, yes; of course you must go to that.” There was a slight quiver in her voice now. “Could—could you come—Friday?”
“That’s so far ahead. I don’t like to make an engagement so far in advance. But I’ll phone you some time during the week.”
She smiled a wan little assent. With a brief good-by he was gone. His step down the hall—the click of the elevator—then she ran to the window and followed him with strained eyes as he swung down the street.
If only he would look up and wave her a good-by as he used to—but he did not.
She threw herself on the couch, her face in the pillows—the ache in her heart keener than any physical pain. Was it hopeless—the fight she was making? Could she never win back the love she had lost?
“There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.”
“There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.”
“There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.”
And she had never known how she had lost it—unless it was because she had grown to care too much and to show it too plainly. Could it be that? Had he cared only for the uncertainty—the love of pursuit? And without that—being sure of his conquest—his interest had died?
Ah, no—no! passionately she denied that. The man she loved was bigger, finer than that! He could not have stooped to a merely cheap desire for conquest. If he had ceased to love her, it was some fault of hers, some failing, some lack within herself of which she was unconscious.
She had spent long hours of torturing self-analysis trying to find where she had failed—what it was that in the beginning he might have thought she possessed—and then found she did not. So great was her love for him that she felt she could almost make of herself what he wanted—just by the sheer strength ofwillingit!
If only she could be with him enough! If she could but have thechanceto make him care for her again! He used to come almost every day—and now—now, sometimes many days would pass.
She knew it was a mistake to ask him when he was coming—to try to name any particular time. He seemed to resent that now. If only she could let him go without a word! But the thought of the long, silent absence that might follow always terrified her. Once, for two weeks, she had not heard from him; and the memory of those two weeks’ suffering always weakened her to the point of trying to make some definite engagement to escape the sickening uncertainty of the days to come.
Oh, she was so helpless—so pitiably helpless! Wholly dependent on him for her happiness, yet powerless to break down this wall he was placing between them!
She slowly arose and threw herself into a chair. There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.
Then gradually there stole over her a sense of quiet—almost of peace. It was partly the relaxation that comes after any emotional strain, and partly because of a faint hope, a belief that sometimes came to her and that comforted her above everything else—the thought that because she gave of her best—because the love she gave was a great and good love—some time he could come to know, to understand, and to love her again, if only for her unfaltering love of him!
If she could but wait long enough—patiently enough—in the end the love she so wanted might be hers!