The Wheels of Time

by Florence L. Barclay

What did she know of Deryck's work? Of all the people who came and went in the rooms below? Of the lectures he gave, or the essays he wrote, eagerly attended, eagerly read by hundreds? What share had she in the great interests of her husband's life? Jane had tried to speak of them more than once, and she had changed the subject.

And sitting there, deeply convicted by the grave little voice of her own tiny boy, she remembered times when Deryck had tried to talk to her of these questions so near his heart—of the methods he had thought out for curing diseased or weakened wills, for restoring shattered nerves and unbalanced brains, for giving a new lease of sane and healthy life to those who now walked fettered in the valley of a shadow worse than death. And she had taken no interest, had not tried to understand, had listened without hearing, and, at the first opportunity, talked of her own trivial doings. Was not an intelligent sympathy with his work, one of the white roses for which Deryck well might ask?

Slowly she passed to her bedroom and dressed for the evening's function, wishing all the while that she need not go, and partook of an early dinner alone, with her thoughts far away. Now it was eight o'clock, and she sat in her boudoir waiting until it should be time to be whirled through the noisy, lighted streets, to join the gay throng at Myra's crush.

Oh, how different to have walked on the pier with him, nestling into her furs, enjoying the cold night air and salty smell of brine and seaweed! And then to have returned to their warm, bright room, Deryck, pleased as any schoolboy, to have her away without her maid, amusing her by his delightful attempts to take Marsdon's place and assist at her toilet.

The fire, which had received so much unconscious attention from the baby's godmother that morning, fell together in the grate, signifying its need of coal. The doctor's wife rose and ministered to it, then knelt on the hearthrug and watched the brightening flame. Her mind had gone forward in its contemplation of that evening which might have been. Her eyes were soft and tender. Her sweet lips parted gently. Her hair gleamed golden in the firelight.

How wonderful was his love! Jane was right when she said, "He will always be a boy where he loves. He is so young in heart, so eternally, passionately young." How did Jane guess it? Only she, his wife, could know it to be true.

Seven years of married life had only added to the wonder and romance of Deryck's love. Each time he took her away with him was like a fresh honeymoon, more perfect than the last. Why did she forget when she came home, how sweet it was to be away with him? Why had she defrauded herself and him of the perfect hours which might have been theirs this day? Why had she failed him in his time of need?

Oh, selfish! shallow! self-absorbed! Loving to be loved, not rising to the joy of loving. Taking his care and thought and adoration as her due, giving no tender service in return. She bowed her head upon her arms.

"Oh, Boy," she said, "not Jane's, but mine! Oh, Boy, it shall be different! You will come back to find a wife who understands, a wife whose hands are filled with roses white, ready to give them now."

The doorbell sounded. She rose and wrapped her cloak about her. She had little inclination for Myra's party, but he would be thinking of her there, and anywhere would do to pass the hours till his return.