Short Story: LOVING IS GIVING

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXXVII, Issue 19523, 24 June 1933, Page 9

Short Story: LOVING IS GIVING

By MARY STUART

■ROM the shade of the gnarled apple tree, Judith Lancaster , gazed over the * hot, white road that curved across the common. A stone path, between long beds of drowsing flowers, wandered from the wicket gate in the hedge to the cottage door, and the windows, like kind eyes, watched the garden as if wel^contented.

Judith’s heart was joyful. On a day like this anything could happen! Earth seemed very near to heaven, she thought, as she felt the hard wad of a letter in her pocket. Harry Connor’s letter, which she knew by heart. He was coming, and he had “wonderful news” to tell her, he said, news that would change his life altogether. The sleepy sounds of afternoon were suddenly burst asunder by a fearsome, high-pitched roar, and a small boy in a blue romper dashed out of the tall grasses near Judith, and threw .himself into her arms. Behind him came another boy, on hands and knees. “I’m a elephant!” he screamed, clawing the air and shouting wildly. “When I’ve ate Bobby and you, I’m going to get Mr Fleming! I’m going to eat everybody.” The elephant sprang upon his victims, and the three rolled together in the dry grass. At last a warm, pink face disentangled itself from the mass, and sat up. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “I’ve ate you now, Aunt Judy, and Bobby!” “Oh, have you!” said Judith laughing. “Well, you won’t want any tea then, Dick!”

“Is it tea-time?” shouted Dick, dancing about. “Is there honey, Aunt Judy?” “We shall see,” said Judith cautiously.

She shook off the pieces of grass from her frock, and with a small boy on either side, walked up the path to the cottage.

“We’ve been playing jungles, Aunt Judy,” explained Bobby, the younger one. “We found a little round hole in the hedge right at the bottom, between our garden and Mr Fleming’s. “The hole’s just by the elm tree,” said Dick. “We never saw it before. If course you can go through whenever you want to, Aunties,” he said magnanimously. Dick and Bobby were Judith’s nephews. Three years ago, her brother and his wife had met with an accident while motoring. In the white stillness of a hospital ward, the weeping Judith had promised to look after the two small boys who would be orphans. Judith at that time only twenty, was the political secretary of an important politician. Since then he had risen to Cabinet rank, and his name already was given as a choice for the next Prime Minister. Often

Judith saw his photo in the papers, but she resolutely crushed the tiny feeling of regret that sometimes came to her at the loss of her own wonderful prospects. She wanted nothing more than Bobby and Dick, and the quiet cottage on the common, she told herself. It was lonely enough, her nearest neighbour was David Fleming, whose garden adjourned her own. He was an artist and Judith and the boys were on the most friendly terms with him. Then one day, Harry Connor came. Judith had made up her mind that she would be an “old maid.” With Harry Connor, whose car had broken down not far away, came a breath of youth, of romance, of the glorious things she had left behind in London, so long ago, it seemed. After that he came often, bringing something almost a fear into Judith’s life. She dreaded his coming, she thought sometimes, and yet she looked for it, and counted the slow hours as they passed. And he was coming to-night, sure that she would be waiting for him, sure of his welcome. And Judith told herself that he was welcome; that his visits meant a great deal to her. Yet that persistent little voice . . . that lurking fear still remained, refusing to be banished. The August sun had crept behind the tall elm trees, and Dick and Bobby, with a last goodnight kiss, were tucked in bed, when Judith waited by the wicket. Footsteps on the hard road made her turn sharply, but it was only David Fleming and his dog, taking an evening stroll. He raised his hat, and stopped for a minute. "A glorious evening. Miss Lancaster,” he said in his pleasant, deep voice. "It’s lovely,” said Judith quickly. I “The boys have been telling me about J the hole in the hedge. It’s awfully good of you to let them come in and [ worry you! ” i His brown faca took on a deeper tan,

and he laughed to cover his embarrassment. “Worry me! Not they! It’s such a long way round by the road, I thought it would make them a short cut,” he said apologetically.

He passed on into the scented evening dusk, and with an effort, Judith dismissed him from her thoughts. Soon, quick footsteps brought the blood to her cheeks, and that little, furtive feeling of fear in her heart.

A man swung through the gate, and crossed the grass towards her. “Well, Judy!” he said, and his voice had a confident ring. “Waiting for me?” With an effort, the girl made her voice level and cool. “I’m excited about your news,” she said lightly. “It’s something about your job?” “It is,” said Harry Connor, and the two passed into her cottage. I’ve had to leave my bus in the village, but they’ll have it ready for me presently.” Suddenly he stood up, and his tall figure towered over her. “Now I’m here, little girl,” he said, “I’m not wasting time. I want you to marry me!” Judith felt her heart miss, then race on, chokingly. “Perhaps you’re surprised,” went on Harry, “I love you, Judith girl, and now we’re going to be happy at last.” Suddenly he seized her tw T o hands in his. “I want to hear you say you love me!" he whispered. In the quiet room, lit by a golden glow of lamplight, the silence seemed intense. Judith stared at a little bronze beetle that dropped from a rose on the table. She saw the patterned curtains swaying gently by the open windows.

She saw the clean line of his jaw, the crisp, dark hair beside her, the strong hands holding her own. This was a man such as women loved—a strong man. But, yet there was that little fear that would not be banished away—the little fear he heart knew. With an effort, she drew her hands away, looked at him. “I don’t know!” ■she whispered. “You—you must let me think!”

He nodded, as if well pleased. “Carried you off your feet?” he said. “All right. Now about my news. Well, in three weeks we’re going to be married, and then we sail for Bombay. I’ve had a marvellous job offered, and accepted it. It’s the chance of a lifetime, Judy. It’s what I've always wanter!"

“India!” Judith’s voice trempled. India! The land she had dreamed of, the land of romance, of strange, mysterious people, of secret palaces, and veiled women! India—for her, as Harry Connor’s wife!

“It’s . . . it’s glorious!” she gasped. She felt cauglft in a web, a slowly tightening web from which there would be no escape. She tried to grip herself mentally. She wanted to go! She had always wanted to go to India! And she loved this man—she would go anywhere with him!

“I knew you’d like it! A bit of a rush for the wedding, but there won’t be much to do. You’ll easily get someone to take over here.”

Judith looked up sharply. “But Harry, won’t it be too hot for Dick and Bobby?” she asked.

The man looked surprised. “Hot? Well I reckon it would be. But we can’t take the kids, if that's what you’re thinking.”

“Can't take them?" repeated Judith. “But I can’t just go off and leave them. Surely all India is not too hot for them? Perhaps we shall be in a coolish place?” she asked hopefully. Harry Connor frowned. “I don’t know about that. But my dear Judy, the idea of taking those two is absurd. They have a legal guardian, haven’t they, and enough money to send them to school or something? You surely aren’t expecting to give up your life to them?”

“Harry, you don’t undersand,” faltered Judith, trying to push away the coldness that was coming over her. “I promised my brother that I’d always look after them, till they grew up. I can’t go back on that!” “That’s all right,” said Harry easily. “A promise forced out of you isn’t binding. Don’t be silly. The boys will be a lot happier on their own than with you always fussing around! Besides, the idea of taking them is out of the question, so that’s that. You must just arrange something in the next month.”

Judith's firm little mouth hardened. All her dreams fell about her. She saw the cottage, deserted. Dick and Bobby at school somewhere, with even

their holidays arranged for by strangers. Herself away, enjoying life, leaving them to grow up as they would. She knew she could not do it. She knew then, that life was not to be lived as one chose. It was all prepared,’ the path laid down. No one could lead that path chosen for them from the beginning of things. She looked at Harry Connor. His brown eyes were puzzled. He took her hands again. “Judy!” he whispered. “My darling! You’ve got your own future—our lives—to thing of! You do love me, don’t you?” A sob burst from her. “Harry!” she cried. “I can’t just leave them! I—l think 1 want to come—with you, but I can’t, I can’t! In three years, perhaps, or four, I could, but ” He drew his hands back roughly, and stood up. His face was angry and incredulous. “You mean you love

those two better than you love me?’ amounts to!”

“I don’t know!” cried Judith. “Oh Harry! Can’t you see how it is?”

“No, I can’t!” he said. “You don’t care 'for me as much as you do those wretched orphans! If you’ve got any common sense you’ll come with me. Do you think they’ll thank you for it when they’ve grown up, and you’re an ugly, soured old spinster." His hand was on the latch of the door. “I’d better go now before I say something I shall be sorry for. I thought you loved me!” The heavy door slammed behind him.

Judith stood listening to his steps, then they, too, passed out into the silence. Dry-eyed, she stared round the familiar room. Harry had gone! Unless she called him back, she would never see him again . . . The grandfather clock in the corner seemed dropping the heavy minutes into eternity. Each tick a second gone—never to come back. Days and months and years—all passing—passing. Outside a little wind, newly risen, wailed round the house.

The end of a dream! And yet, why need it be? Why need she sacrifice her happiness? Surely everyone had a right to what life offered! Her brother—he would not have wished her to do this for him. She could find a good school for the boys. She could write to them often. When they grew up, they wouldn’t w:ant her, as Harry had said. They would be happy at school, with other boys.

She took down a heavy brass candlestick from the mantel, and lighting it, went softly upstairs, and into the room where Dick and Bobby lay sleeping. Dick was breathing steadily, his face flushed with health, and stooping, Judith kissed him. Bobby’s chubby arms were flung outside the coverlet. He tossed about in his sleep, then suddenly opened his eyes. “I only came to tuck you in, darling,” said Judith, soothingly.

He put his warm arms round her neck as she stooped over him, “I do love you, Aunt Judy,” he whispered sleepily, then turned over, and in a minute his breathing was steady again. Suddenly Judith’s eyes were wet. She couldn’t leave the boys! She didn’t love Harry enough for that! She was sure now.

The pale golden beams of the rising sun were falling across the bed when she awoke to a new day. Stiffly she rose, as memory came back. Something was gone. But there was work to be done. Life would gon on as before—on and on—into a dreary waste of empty friendless years. She bathed her face in ice-cold water, brushed her tumbled hair, and put on a crisp print frock. In the dewwet garden the birds were carolling joyously. The flowers gave off their fragrance on the clean air. Insensibly her spirits rose. Away through the elms she saw the chimneys of David Fleming’s house. He would have missed the boys had they gone away, she thought.

A cigarette-end lay by the gate. Harry must have tossed it there. Suddenly realisation came to her. She was aware of a new feeling. A sound behind made her swing round. David Fleming, in his torn and buttonless jacket, stood there. “I—l beg your pardon, Miss Lan-

caster!” he stammered. “I had no idea you’d be about yet. I—-er—l came in to see—er if there was anything I could—er—do—in the way of gardening.” He waved his hand vaguely round the garden. Then Judith saw that the trim beds of flowers, the tidy paths, the freshly tied up rambler roses, the dead blooms picked off, and put aside to take away, betrayed the care she had not noticed before. Surely she had been blind! “It’s—-very kind of you," she said slowly. “You know you may come in when you wish, but I can’t let you do my gardening for me.” Suddenly her eyes smiled. “Did you come through the hole in the hedge?” He flushed “Er—well, I did. You see, it saves so much time,” he apologised. “But surely you don’t get up often as early as this?” “It’s so delifhtful at this time in the morning,” he said evasively. “Anyway,” and he suddenly smiled, “you’re up yourself, so you can’t grumble at me!” Suddenly he was serious again. “Couldn’t you sleep?” Judith felt a wave of tiredness flow over her. She knew now what she wanted. She fought down the impulse to turn and run from this man with the understanding eyes. The tears were coming into her own. “Judith!” he gasped. His arms were round her, her face pressed into his rough jacket. “My dear, my dear!” he whispered. “You’re overwrought!” He picked her up as easily as if she had been a child, and carried her into the living room. “Judith,” he said hoarsely. “My dear, tell me what’s wrong!”

The sobs sank to little breathless gaspings, and Judith, all unconsciously, gripped the lapel of David’s coat. He did not speak, and the silence seemed a tangible thing, born of perfect understanding, perfect trust. Presently the girl drew away. She rose, an apology trembling on her lips. David Fleming stood by her, and lajd his steady hands on her shoulders. “I love you, my dear,” he said. “If I can help you, give me that happiness!” A new Judith looked up at him in that quiet house. “It’s all right now— David,” she said. “My David!” For a little they forgot the world, the summer morning outside, and the singing birds. And then Judith told him everything, her blue eyes looking into his steady clear ones. “And so you see,” she said. I was so blind. I didn’t know—l’ve loved you ever since I’ve been here, I think.”

A little laugh trembled about her. “Oh, David!” she said, “Loving is giving! It’s all the same thing!” And she laid her head down on his shoulder.