WOMEN'S RIGHTS

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 128, 2 June 1938, Page 30

WOMEN'S RIGHTS

By MABOTH MOSELEY

Short Story

i"»OLLIXGHAM opened his eyes, but in the darkness he could distinguish

nothing. He realised that he was lying down, and that he felt very cold.

All at once he felt strangely weak and helpless; so weak that he wanted to cry out of sheer self-pity. A terrifying thought struck him. Had he died? Was this hie first awakening on the other side ?

His thoughts were confused and disconnected. He was suddenly disgusted to find himself afraid. If he had actually passed over, what was going to happen now? It was so lonely. Surely someone would come soon. Someone. . . . But the dead inhabited this

place. There was no "someone." Supposing the dead lived on, they were merely spirits.

He choked back a maudlin sob and reflected that he literally felt like a lost soul. Unpleasant idea.

Cautiously his fingers began to explore. They touched a leg, hie own. It seemed to be quite normal, made of ordinary flesh and blood. He moved his head, but hie neck was stiff, and the slight jerk sent a shooting pain right down to the base. Ho raised his fingers and touched hie head. It was swathed in landages.

The knowledge gave him pleneure, and intense relief from the sickening, horrifying fear of the unknown. So he wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. Thank God. Curious that he, of all people, should be afraid of death. . . . Xever b<--en afraid before. With infinite care he moved hie head to the left, and saw that a woman was sitting before the fire. The glow was very faint, but it made his eyes ache. It was so faint that he failed to recognise the woman.

Hie teeth began to chatter. He was suddenly afflicted with what he described to himself as the "staggers." Xo matter how much he tried he was powerless to stop that hideous, spasmodic shaking of the limbs and body.

"I say!" he cried suddenly, "I'm cold, desperately cold!"

The woman moved her chair and got up. He could see the dim eilhouette of her figure.

"Lie still," she said, "I'll get you another hot water bottle."

As he recognised her voice, he knew that he was neither dead nor dreaming; yet, at the same time he knew that something dreadful had happened. He tried to remember what it was, but the pain in his head prevented it. He found himself growing vaguely angrv as his memory defied him. Vaguely angry and very nervous. The idea of losing hie memory had always filled him with horror and loathing.

"I don't want a bottle," he said, "I'm going to sit by the fire," and made a weak, pitiful attempt to get out of bed.

The woman, Mrs. Brunner, his landlady, crossed towards him and .grasped his shoulder. The grasp was firm, but quite unnecessary. Collingham fell back on to the pillow. It seemed as though all the strength had gone from Ins body.

"Get me a bottle, then," he gasped

"I will." Mrs. Brunner returned to the fire. He heard the sound of water being poured from a jug into the kettle. It was a homely sound, and gave him confidence.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Brunner? How did I get to,bedT Was I drunk?" "No. You've had an accident." "Oh. What sort of accident? What's happened to my head?"

"You've cut it. Lost a lot of blood. Now try and go to sleep. The doctor said you'd got to have as much sleep as possible."

"The doctor . . ?" He paused, trying to capture his elusive memory. Vague, shadowy recollections began to pierce the Veil of oblivion. Yet the effort made his head ache so much that he was content to let them disappear. "Yes, we sent for the doctor. Xow try and go to sleep. The water's nearly on the boil and I can push the bottle in between the sheets without disturbing you."

Almost before she had finished speaking he had slipped again into unconsciousness. Mrs. Brunner yawned and drew her dressing gown closer. The nigbt was" cold. Xo wonder poor Collingham felt it. As she poured the water into the kettle she thought of the bloodstained towels in the bathroom. What a mess! Blood on the landing, down the stairs, in the hall. Blood everywhere. Like a shambles. Thaiik heaven Horace had been at home. In some respects Horace was not the ideal husband, but in an emergency, and when it came to doing unpleasant jobs, vou could rely on him. At four o'clock she'd go and make him take his turn as night nurse.

It was after Horace had taken her place in the chair beside the faintly glowing gas fire that Collingham had another brief return to consciousness, which was followed by a relapse into delirium.

Horace could make no sense at all out of rambling sentences. What he did understand was the injured man's constant repetition of the name Diana •Do send for Diana. . . No, I despise you. . . I don't believe a word of it. It s frightfully hot ... yes, the climate in Brazil is Very trying . . . Moscow? No, not the first time ...» Collin"--ham's voice trailed on. "If only I could see her, just once more. Diana! Why aren't you here? Didn't they send foV you? I say ..."

Horace shook his head sympathetically. Poor chap, he thought, it sounds like one of those unhappy love affairs you read abotit in the papers, where the chap ends up with his head in the gas oven.

Collingham continued to ramble. His mind, it seemed, was in far away places, amid strange scenes and extreme climates. Must have travelled a good bit, thought Horace, sighing heavily,, as he recalled some of the place names which never failed to fascinate him— Rangoon, Mandalay, Java, Lima, Eio de Janeiro.

ColJingham's mind was a strange, confused phantasmagoria, the motif of which was his quarrel with Diana. Although in imagination he was again visiting familiar places, Diana was with him, always there, always elusive. And, somehow, he lived over again that period of his life which had culminated in the final quarrel and ultimate separation.

Strangely enough, he realised in his unconscious state how - foolish and intolerant he had been. When, as university students, he and Diana had fallen rapturously in love, time had seemed to stand, still. Six. months later youthful

dogmatism had caused him to announce tha.t when they were married she must give up her career.

Diana, equally youthful, equally dogmatic, retorted that nothing on earth would induce her to give up her career.

"My dear John, it would be a criminal offence after all this hard work, all these examinations. A sheer waste of time and energy. Besides, I love my work." "You love it," he had said, in a rage, "Setter than you love me. Are you really conceited enough to think that you'll ever make enough money to live on? All this careers-for-women 'business ifi nonsense. Women were made to look attractive, to be charming, and to be kept by man. You can't get away from it. It's one of the fundamental laws of nature. It's persisted throughout the centuries, and it'll persist as long as life endures."

"So that's what you think, is it ?"' Diana had been dangerously calm. "I'd no idea you were so reactionary. Well, I think it'e only fair to warn you that I intend to go on with my career, and that marriage to you. in view of our widely differing opinions, would be disastrous."

With that, she had left him. slamming tbe door as she did so. He had uttered one single cry, "Diana!" but she had not returned. It seemed that in his heart of hearts he had been uttering the same crv ever since.

As he lay muttering on his bed he began to realise subconsciously that the whole of his subsequent lif<> and actions had been influenced by that dormant desire for his one and only love. She haunted him in his dreams. She pursued him, eluded him, but woe never absent for long. Often he found himself picturing her as she had been in those far-off, happy days. Tall, shapely, brown curling hair, large hazel eyes. Xothing of the blue-stocking about Diana's appearance, yet. somehow, she radiated an air of efficiency, invested others with confidence.

That was ten years ago. He often wondered if ehe had "gone off" in looks, if she had kept her word and pursued her career, if ... she had married . . .

His. own life then had not been conspicuously successful. Failing to obtain his degree, he had drifted from one job to another, drifted half across the world, from Ch,ina to Peru, ending up as the impecunious author of two brilliant 'books, which, perhaps owing to that same brilliancy, had failed to sell.

It wae nine o'clock on a lovely spring morning when he opened his eyes again. The sun streamed in through* the window, over the chimney tops, and into the shabby little room where Mrs. Brunner was making tea. "I say," he began, "do tell me what happened. I'm feeling much better. I think I'll get up." "Oh, no." Mrs. Brunner's tone was firm. "You fell down the stairs, cut your head open on the bolt at the bottom of the front door, and you had had—now what's the word?—con—con — concussion. That's it! The doctor says it's a miracle you didn't fracture your skull. It's lucky we manacred to get one at all. A doctor, I mean. Coo. I was that frightened. You might easilv have bled to death."

"That's what doctors are for," Collingham grunted. "To prevent people bleeding to death."

"Yes," Mrs. Brunner was silent for a space. "Still, you never know." she added mysteriously. "If it had got about it wouldn't have done the hoiiee any jood."

"What wouldn't?" Collinpham was beginning to feel irritated. His broin seemed to be wrapped in cotton wool. "Why, your accident, of course, sir." "I don't see what difference that could have made." She thrust her fingers through her tousled gi-ey hair. Her plump face looked haggard and worn, a fact which escaped (ollingham'e notice. "Well.", she said, "you know how gossip spreads. If it h«ul got about that you'd fallen down'the stairs and cut your head open they'd all have eaid you was fighting drunk—and that's enough to give any house a bad name." "Fighting drunk?" he repeated. "But was I drunk?" "Xo." She paused, gazing down at her bedroom elippers. "But I must say when I saw you lying at the bottom of the stairs I thought you'd killed yourself. The blood was- something awful. I thought there wae certain to be an inquest." "Most unpleasant for you." Collingham's tone was sardonic. "But, Mrs. Brnnner, this is worrying me very much. I eeem to have lost my memory. I don't remember a thing about falling downstairs. What happened before then i" "Why, don't yon remember the gen-tle-man what came to see you? About nine o'clock, it was. You'd had your supper and was writing. He looked like a foreign gentleman. Very dark, tall and really quite handsome." "Very dark . . . tall . . handsome . . . Collingham's face was distorted in his effort to think. But it made his head ache. "Go on," he murmured. "When you went to see him out you was quarrelling on the landing and you must have missed your footing, or—well,

I wouldn't like to say what happened. You never know, he might have pushed you down. Wβ were lip at the top of the house, but we heard the thud all right. When we got into the hall the man had gone, and you was lying in a pool of blood," she concluded, with that love of sanguinary detail so common to her class.

All at once, without any effort at all, •the veil was pierced. Collingham'e first, reaction was one of relief. Then his face darkened with anger. Geoffrey Xeedham had called to sec him—■ Geoffrey of the dark hair and olive but as English as Mrs. Xeedhani herself. Geoffrey had called on the pretext of looking him up on his return from Central Aasia.

The. two had kept up a desultory friendship for ten years, although Collingham had never quite trusted him. There was something deceitful about his way of avoiding a direct gaze. His conversation was too sprinkled with variations of the personal pronoun to inspire much confidence.

For quite a, long time the conversation had been confined to small talk. an interchange' of reminiscences had occupied most of it. Then Geoffrey had mentioned Diana.

"Saw her the other day," he'd said, gazing anywhere but «t Collingham. "'Getting on quite woll, I believe, but of course there are those who say she's no better than she should be." Collingham had felt the blood rushing to his faee, but he'd muttered, "Go on, gO Oil." Geoffrey had obeyed. "You see, no one can understand why she's- never married. She's a good-looking woman, charming, cultured . . . and successful."

Swallowing his anger, Collingham had said, "So she's not married?" and his soul had been filled with a wild exultation, which hud changed, the next moment, to a hopeless despair. For what would Diana want with a dissipated, penniless waster like himself?"

It was immediately after this that Geoffrey had made the remark that had led to the brawl.

"If an attractive woman hasn't married at the age of 32 you can bet vour boots there's a jolly good reason" for it," he'd begun.

But Collingham, in a sudden paroxysm of rage, had shown him the door. Geoffrey had seemed surprised, and then angry. Collinghatn's own tongue was working freely by this time, and then. . . . well, the accident had happened. Thinking it over now. Collingham was still in the dark as to what had actual]v occurred. Either Geoffrey had knocked him down the stairs or he'd missed his footing and tripped. Better give him the benefit of the doubt, thought Collingham, but he's certainly got that yellow streak I always suspected him of . . .

otherwise, he'd have stayed to hear the verdict, or at least to have helped the Brunners clear up the mess. . .

Half an hour later, he was dozing again. It seemed that Diana had answered his appeal and was sitting beside his bed. She was an older, more mature edition of the young Diana, but very beautiful, radiating confidence and happiness. Xeitlier of them seemed to experience any embarrassment. It was as though they had parted the day before.

"Well, John, how are you?" She peeled off her gloves. Suddenly she might have been 20 again.

"What are you doing here? I know I'm delirious and all that, but still, what are you doing here?"

"I thouglft I'd like to see how vou looked after all these years."

"All these years," he repeated slowly. "Ten long years. Why. you must be 32! You don't look a day more than 2.">! Hut I—well. I'm a poor fish. After you left me I went to pieces."

"I read your two books," she said "And loved them."

"Oh. they were no good. They didn't sell. There was no one to inspire me. I always seemed to be at a loose end. Nothing to do. Xo one to care about. So now, I'm a complete failure." He broke off, feeling extremely sorry for himself. Her eyes softened. She placed cool white fingers on his burning forehead and smoothed the ruffled bandage. "Poor darling, don't worry about these things. You'll make your head ache. Just lie still and be happy." "There's only one thing that would make me completely happy—to know that you never married because—wrll, because ... "Because I love you?" she asked. "Yes." "Well, that's the reason." "Oh, my darling!" He raised himself in order to kiss her; then fell back, his expression one of sudden misery. "Oh, what's the use? It's all a dream, an illusion. I'm delirious." A smile crept into her hazel eyes. "Darling, it's not a dream. In spite of your Victorian views on women. I pursued my career. I was the doctor Mr. Brunner called in last evening." "The doctor?" That was all Collingham said. But he gave a mighty roar of delighted laughter that brought Mrs. Brunner down stairs in a sudden panic lest he'd lost his reason altogether. THE EXD.