THE ROCKING CHAIR.

Otago Witness, Issue 3525, 4 October 1921, Page 66

THE ROCKING CHAIR.

By

SILAS K. HOCKING

(Author of “His Own Accuser,” etc., etc.)

The Rector settled himself in his chair pith a sigh of content and began slowly to fill his pipe. His daughter stood opposite him with her shoulder against the mantelpiece, straightening out her gloves. They had just returned from a meeting of the Mutual Aid Society. The meeting had been a protracted one, but the result from a financial point of view had been eminently satisfactory. “Yes,” said the Rector musingly, “there can be no doubt whatever that Ijayner Dixon is a very generous man —no doubt whatever. ’ ’ Sophie made no reply. She appeared to ba considering the condition of her gloves. The Rector struck a match and lighted his pipe and for several moments smoked in sfience. Then he went on again slowly and reflectively as though thinking aloud. “Generous beyond doubt. . . . his gift to-night proves that. And yet—and yet. It is a nity-——” he paused and narrowed his eyes. ’ “A pity he is so generous?” Sophie broke in, and she threw her gloves cn the table. “You pick me up so suddenly, Sophie,” the Rector smiled indulgently. “You do ' not wait to hear me out.” “You should not break off in the middle,” she laughed. “Ah, my dear, I am afraid it is a habit I have got into. A bad habit, I admit; but I was thinking. One might say of Dixon as was said of the young man : n the Gospel, ‘But one thing thou lackest.’ ’ “Why don't you tell him so, daddy?” “I have thought of doing so. I may do so some day.” “I wouldn’t if I were you.” “Why, Sophie? Why?” "It might make him conceited; for I expect if the truth were known he lacks a hundred things. A man’s generosity is not to be measured by what he gives but by what he has left, and. by all accounts Mr Dixon has plenty.” “Yes, I supnose he has. Still one mud speak as one finds. . , , I wonder ne doesn't marry.” “Why should he?” Sophie laughed. “Besides, who would marry him?” “Oh, my dear, plenty—plenty,” and the Rector’s eyes twinkled. “You must remember they do not all look at him through your spectacles.” 1 “Oh, my spectacles are right enough,” she retorted, “but it is time I went to bed or 1 shall lose my beauty sleep.” and kissing her father cn the forehead she retired. As it happened, however, the beauty sleep refused to come. She wooed it patiently, but in vain. She heard the big clock in the hall strike eleven and twelve and one. Her thoughts persisted in travelling round and round the events of the, evening. The clear honest eyes of Rayner Dixon kept constantly looking Into hers. They had done so at the meeting and she had wondered why. She assured herself that she was not the least interested in him. Why should she be? He disliked all women and persistently kept out of their way. Perhaps that fact j piqued her curiosity and stirred her in- j terest. She wished that her father had | not talked about him on their return from the meeting. Of course she did not mean that no woman would marry him. A j hundred women in Langton would jump at *him if thev had the chance. Besides, there was no getting away from the fact j that he had a good deal to recommend j him: He was distinctly good looking, j well educated, athletic, and in a good ! social position. He lived in a beautiful j house, had pelnty of money, and could give | a woman most of the things she desired, j How silly of her to think of j these things. Why could she not go to j sleep? Rayner Dixon was a confirmed bachelor and would never marry ; and if he did, with his confirmed habits and settled ways he would be frightfully difficult to live with. Well, thank goodness, it was no business of hers. She would not have to live with him in any case. She fell asleep at length and dreamed that Rayner Dixon was chasing her round the Market Square, hut why he chased her or why she ran away she could not understand. When Dixon returned from the meeting he let himself in with a latch key and went at once to his study. The house seemed strangely silent and empty. Possibly his housekeeper and servants had gone to bed. He rarely saw of them after dinner. He dropped into an easy chair and stared at the empty grate. For a long time lie remained quite motionless. Then he took his pipe out of his pocket and looked at it, but he seemed in no hurry to fill it It was not very exhilirating t.o come j homo to an emptv house. He wished he had some one to talk to. Usually he found companionship in a book, but he was in no humour for reading to-night. For some reason life seemed unusually empty and barren. He could not understand why. He had nearly everyth in<r that a reasonable man could desire. He could indulge in any wliim that might assail him. 11° could go where he liked, do what ho liked, and there was no one to interfere with him. Perhaps that was the, trouble. He had no one t.o consider but himself. That, might be had for a man. ITe was apt to frow self-centred and selfish. A man who ad a wife and children He pulled himself up with a jerk, and beggn to fill his pipe.

People sa.d that he was a woman-hater and opposed to matrimony. He was nothing of the sort. They asserted that he was cold and reserved when he was onljf shy. How little a man might be understood, even by those who knew him best. His closest friends never realised how painfully sensitive he was. When he had filled his pipe he fell to thinking again, and all tho while a pair of brown eyes kept looking at him—soft, alluring eyes, gentle, trusting eyes, bright, laughing eyes; eyes that changed with every changing mood. He did not consider whether Sophie Wade were good looking or not. Certainly there were handsomer women in Langton, more stylish women, probably cleverer women, but no other woman ever appealed to him as Sophie Wade did. Ho could not explain why. He did not know her particularly well—lie did not know any woman particularly well—he had seen her grow from girlhood to womanhood—had met her constantly in the streets, and at meetings and functions of various kinds. They shook hands now and then, and occasionally she smiled at him from across' the way, but there had been no intimacy. In a shy, blundering way he had made several attempts to know her better, but she remained unapproachable. The clock struck eleven before he lighted his pipe, and as he watched the blue wreaths curling up from its bowl the face of Sophie seemed to materialise and become more and more vivid and distinct—a piquant little face, with small, assertive chin thrust slightly sweetly curved lips and laughing dimples, level brows, and a low forehead crowned with a wealth of hair the colour of a squirrel’s tail. He knew the truth before, in a vague uncertain way, but now it penetrated clearly and definitely into his heart and brain. It was Sophie he wanted—wanted as he had never wanted anything before in his life, and without her life would remain unsatisfying and incomplete. He fell to dreaming about the future, with Sophie as his life-long companion. How she would brighten the old home and change its atmosphere. Plow good it would be to greet her smiling face when he returned at the end of the day. How restful to see her sitting on the other side of the fireplace while he smoked his pipe. How comforting to have her near him when he was worried and perplexed. How inspiring to have her counsel and advice. But could he win her? He knocked the ashes out of his pipe and frowned. He was thirty-two, and she had only just passed her twenty-first year. It would be like a crow mating with a nightingale, or a tortoise with a weasel. He was so old for his years and she so young, ho so staid and she so buoyant. He rose to his feet at length and made his way upstairs. He. meant to have a shot at it, in any case. He might only succeed in making himself ridiculous, but, in any case, there was always an off chance. , During the next week he looked for Sophie everywhere, but without success. It seemed as though she deliberately kept out of his way. He grew restless and irritable, and his work became a burden. He found himself dreaming and speculating when he ought to have been considering indentures and contracts and pleadings. Then luck favoured him. He had to consult the Rector on a matter of business, and instead of writing to him he resolved to see him in person. He might bo able to kill two birds with one stone. On reaching the Rectory lie was shown into the study, and, espying a rocking chair near the fireplace, he dropped into it. It was an ancient piece of furniture and belonged to Sirs Wade, but the Rector had appropriated it. He liked to rock himself gently when he was deep in meditation. The chair had little peculiarities which the Rector understood. Raynor was a novice and quite unsuspicious. After waiting a few minutes Sophie came into the room like a burst of spring sunshine, and looking as fresh as a sprig of apple blossom. Raynor sprang to his feet and their hands met, “Father is out,” she explained, “but he will be hack again directly. Won’t you be seated?” He gave her hand an extra squeeze and sat down. He felt that fortune was favouring him. though his heart was beating uncomfortably fast. Sophie was unusually gracious, and they talked about the weather, and “The Mutual Aid,” and tho epidemic of strikes, and the influenza, and the League. <1 Nations” ; and Rayner was delighted to discover how completely they agreed. His shyness and reserve melted like frost in the sun. He felt that he was making headway, and lie edged himself forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. His conversation took on a more personal note —the difficulties of running a house, the domestic servant problem, the uncertain temper of his housekeeper, the loneliness of a bachelor's life. He was gradually leading up to what, he wanted to say, and Sophie in the depths of her easy chair seemed interested and sympathetic. His voice took on a deeper note, his eyes became brighter and more expressive, he edged himself still farther forward in his chair—he was on the point of an avowal. Suddenly the chair, true to its nature, resented the unequal distribution of pressure, and slid from underneath him with the swiftness of a landslide. In the twingling of an eve lie found himself lying full length on the floor. For a moment he was so bewildered that lie fancied an earthquake or some sudd'it upheaval of Nature. Then, discovering that he was unhurt, he turned over on his side, struggled to his hands and knees, and finally stood up with his hair slightly dishevelled and his face the colour 'of a. ripe tomato. When he, looked toward Sophie he discovered her doubled up in her easy chair, one hand pressed to her

side, the other trying to stuff a pockel handkerchief into her mouth. His first impulse was to walk out ol the room, but that he decided would b« ungracious and undignified, so he stooc his ground. Had he been a less sensitive man he would have laughed with her laughed at himself, and turned his momentary discomfiture to his own ad vantage; but he was not built that way He felt only that he had been made tc look ridiculous. “You seem to find me very entertain ing,” he said at length, with as much dignity as he could command. “Yes—l mean no.” She choked and then doubled up again. Ha watched her in silence. The situation, to say the least of it, was somewhat strained. Suddenly, and with a certain violence. Sophie pulled herself together and wiped the tears out of her eves. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she choked, “I am indeed——” “Do you always laugh when you are sorry?” he asked stiffly. “Oh, no, not always. Only— it was so sudden.” “Yes, it was pretty sudden,” he assented She did hor best to keep a straight face, but it was very difficult. “I ought not tp have laughed,” she exclaimed, “but—but—-—” “I seem to have made pretty much of an ass of myself,” he interrupted, and then the door opened and the Rector came in. Sophie took advantage of the interruption and slipped out of the room. During tho next few weeks Rayner Dixon passed through a. variety of moods, but the prevailing mood was one of extreme depression. He tried to feel angry with Sophie, but the attempt ended in failure. She was not to blame, and who could be angry with such a bright, happy, sunny-hearted creature? So he cursed his luck, and anathematised the offending chair, and railed at life, and made himself generally miserable. Of course, he had ruined his chance. No girl would look at a man who had made himself look ridiculous. And yet he wanted her more than ever; his feeling- of loneliness became more and more acentuated. Sometimes he felt inclined to run away from Langton and never show his face in it again. What was the use of working and saving? What was the use of anything ? 11l going to and returning from his office, he avoided the High street. He might meet Sophie, and he did not want to meet her. He might see laughter lurking in her eyes —might discover something in look or tone that suggested ridicule, and ridicule is a thing no man can stand. He could never think of that visit to the Rectory without growing hot all over. What a ridiculous ass he must have looked as he lay sprawling on the floor. He took to inviting his friends and ac--1 quaintances to spend their evenings with him. Any kind of company was better than being alone- with himself-—any sort of chatter was better than brooding. One evening Tom Naylor startled him by saying, “I suppose you have heard that Miss Wade is engaged?” “No—o,” he said with a little gasp. He felt a 3 though a knife had been run into him. “Nobody is very much surprised. He has been hanging round for months.” ‘ ‘ W—who ?’ ’ “Guy Lathom. Thought vou had noticed it. In mv judgment the young pup is not fit to‘black her boots. But there! Women are women all the world over. He’ll he Sir Guy when the old man dies, and they say he is on his last legs.” Rayner struck a- match and relighted his pipe. He wanted time to recover”himself. He hoped Naylor did not notice his agitation. That night lie lay awake till the small hours. Ihe rocking chair, he mused bitterly, had not been such a had friend after all; but for its vagaries he would have blurted out the truth. He had been saved the humiliation of a rejection in any case. Probably she would 'have scorned him as an old fogey, and laughed at him lor his presumption. Well, he would congratulate her at the first opportunity. She would never know that he loved her. Lord, how he loved her ; but he had never stood a chance He saw that now. Youth mated with youth, and women loved a title. He met her next dav in a quiet street near his office. She came toward him with smiling lips and dusky eyes, fiis heart missed a beat and the blood rushed in a torrent to his face. She mhdit not be beautiful—but., oh, she was— at least in his eyes. “What a stranger you are,” she said sh\ K. T have not seen vou for weeks and weeks.” Ho squared his shoulders and drew in a deep breath. It wasn t- easv to offer congratulations, but- it had to be done. He nated Guv Lathom at that moment \ Limp rose in his throat- which he choked back with an effort. She must never know that he loved her—never know how much he suffered. “No," he said huskily, “and now that we have met let me offer vou mv congratulations. I—l hope vou will be happy. "Voin- congratulations?’’ she questioned, lining Her eyebrows in surprise. 'T heard only la-ff evening," he explained. “Perhaps lam rather late in the day. but believe me—“ “Put 1 do not understand,” she interrupted. “What- did yo nhear last evening?” “1 suppose it- is stale news,” he said uneasily, “hut 1 would like to say—and believe me 1 don’t mean to flatter-—but young Lathom is an awfully lucky fellow.” “Really, Mr Dixon, what do you mean?” she asked with a puzzled look in her eyes. “What has Mr Lathom to do with me?”

“To do with you? Do you think I am not sincere ?—that 1 do not mean wliat I say?” T would not doubt your sincerity for a moment,” she smiled; “but really and truly I cannot understand what it is all about.” “Well!” he gasped, and he looked at her for a moment in silence. “Naylor told me last evening that you and Guy Lathom were engaged, and naturally I took the first opportunity of ” ‘Oh, what a cruel falsehood,” she exclaimed with flashing eyes. “Then it is not true?” “Of course it is not true. Do you think—— ? Oh, dear, how wicked gossip can be! How can people say such things? And—and I wanted to talk to you on another matter.” A ray of hope shot- through his brain like an arrow. “Will you come into my office?” he questioned diffidently. “It is not a dozen yards from here. It will be better than talking in the street.” She hesitated for a moment, then followed him. When he had closed the door he pointed to a chair. “No, no,” she said hurriedly, “I won’t detain you many minutes. I have been very miserable, indeed T have. I want to apologise and ask your forgiveness. Won’t you forgive me?” and she looked with appealing eyes into his. “But —hut there is nothing to forgive,” he said awkwardly. “Oh, but- there is,” she insisted. “I know I hurt you and offended you. You have never been to the Rectory since. Won’t you come again sometime?’’’ “I’ll come to-night,” he said impulsively —“that is, if—but do sit down. I musttalk to you first. Oh, I’ve a lot to say, and now that vou are here I’m going to say it. You may laugh at me again, but I hope you won’t ” And then followed a torrent of words—words that tumbled over each other, words that seemed to hiss and burn, words that- overwhelmed her, hypnotised her, thrilled her, carried her off her feet, and before he had finished she was laughing and crying in his arms. “Oh, Rayner,” she said at length, “if you had asked me then I should not have been certain ; but when you had gone I knew: and, oh, J. have longed and prayed for yon to co-me back. “I am coming to-night,” he laughed, and kissed her again. “And I will see to it that vou have a different chair,” she twinkled. ’ “One chair will be quite enough,” he protested. But on that point there is no evidence available.