A MATTER OF COURAGE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10301, 4 November 1911, Page 3

A MATTER OF COURAGE.

(By DOROTHEA DEAKIN.) [Am, Rjotits Reservbo.] "If it's true," Peter said uncomfortably, "tho only thing to do is to fight it. Take eacli thing . you're afraid of and tackle it. Make yourself do the thing that terrifies you most. A man I knew cured himself, and he was a regular funk. But I don't believe you're a coward, Ida." He smiled affectionately. "It isn't true." he said again. " Oh. yes, it is quite true," said Ida sadly. " I hsve no courage at all. I never had, except of the moral sort, and that I suppose does not count." Peter looked at her thoughtfully for a few seconds before he answered. He was >x ruddy-cheeked young roan, with close-cropped mouse-coloured hair and bright grey eyes. '•' I don't like to hear you talk like that," said he in troubled tones. "If it were true you would be sure to wantto hide it. 'it's the kind of thing a man's bound to conceal, don't you know?" " I'm not a man," said Ida quietly. "I'm a weak woman." Peter smiled. " That's all out of date," he said. "'Women can be almost everything now. Look at the way they go mountaineering, and exploring and shooting big game." Ida shuddered. "I coiild never learn to swim," she said. "And as for the sea, I'm terrified of it. All I ask is to lie in my bunk and shut my even",'and pray for the end, and it is not because I am sea-siok either, for 1 never have been. It's sheer cowardice and a terror of drowning." Peter walked about the room, uneasily and then pokod the fire with much noise. " Look here>" he said uncomfortably. "If you feel like this you should never let anyone know it." Ida laughed softly. "Wouldn't that be carrying cowardice to rather extreme lengths?"/she asked. "I thought we had decided to tell each other all our weaknesses. Oh! yes; I am ashamed of it. I've always been ashamed of it. My school days were a perfect horror to me because of the games. I hated hockey, I was so afraid of being hurt. I. hated crickek-I was so terrified of being hit by the ball. One of the girls had her ankle broken with a criekeb ba/1. I didn't want to have my ankle broken." It was a very slim and pretty ankle in a mignonettegreen" ttocking, and even Peter was obliged to acknowledge that it was a good thing it hadn't been hroken. "I suppose," she said presently, alter a. long pause, "that, aa you admire courage so immensely, you approve of Barbara and those other suffrage women?" Peter reddened. "No, indeed," he said shortly. "Hysteria." "Hysteria?" Ida repeated thoughtfully. "Isit ? It seoms to m© awfully plucky." "Oh! they're plucky enough, said he impatiently. "The modern girl's got a jolly sight too much pluok " "With one exception," put in Ida softly. "Oh! Peter, Peter, I'm. not a modern girl. If I had lived in the days of the young Victoria and swooned at the thought of danger, or at the sight of blood you'd have adored., .me for my charming sensibility." _ Here Peter camo and sat down beside her with an unmistakable look in his eyes.

'■' l adore you now," ho said. "No one could adoro you more." •'ln spite of my cowardice?" said Ida earnestly. "I am the sort of person who hides behind a commissariat waggon when the fighting begins in battle—if I'm a man! I'm the sort of person who gets under the bed, when ib hears a burglar downstairs. I am the sort of person who loses its head in a shipwreck, ami fights its way to the first boat. I am the sort of person who screams when ib is in a hansom and the horse stumbles. I am the sorb of person who runs for the- entrance when there is an alarm of fire at the theatre, and tramples clown the weaker ones." The thought of his frail delicate little Tda trampling down anything or anybody amused Peter considerably. She stroked his hand very gently with her little white fingers as she went on. " Ah! Peter..'" she said halfsorrowfully, half amused, "' I. am one of the traitor woman.' Barbara told me so only yesterday. I am one of the wretched creatures whose happiness makes them blind to the misery of others. She told me that too. 1 tis aw hi! to think you're not lit to lire, Peter, and I'm not. It is worse to think that you're not fit to die, and I'm not that either, Jlosides, I should be afraid. T want to live for ever." "J hope you will," said he. " Well, we'll change the subject," said Ida cheerfully. ''You went to see, your uncle, yesterday, didn't you?" Peter's healthy skin took a redder tinge at this question. ' l'ea." " You went to tell him about me, didn't you:"' " Yes." '" Did you tell liimf" "No."* '•Oh. but. why ?" Peter moved uneasily and looked awn v. " There—there didn't seem to be an opportunity," he said. "We —we were talking about such very different tilings. You must lead up, more or less, when you are breaking '■' "I see," said Tda gravely. "I should have, thought, Peter, that a young man with your straightforwardness of purpose would hare broached Ihe. subject without any leading up. It mnst be quite easy to tell n thing like that if you are full of courage.'" Peter regarded her uneasily. He was nnvrr quite sure whether Ida wasn't getting at him. " Don't. Tda," he said. " Yon krj-mr it isn't, that. You know what mi okl misogynist he is. He never forgave- my father for marrying- I don't haßeve it has over entered his head that I might want to. It—well, it is finre to be a shock, don't yon know, and. tbongh, of course, when he sees voir " Tda laughed. lt Oh. Peter, Peter," site said. "Do you think he is aciiss;

to see me with your eyes? He woiM ' ' think my hair's golden; he'll call iti. f a «* won't think my eyes hud; I he 11 call me a green-eyed little cat-~| you see if he doesn't! Ho won't sea- . • me through the rose-coloured spectacles of a bewitched young man. He'll see me m the liard electric light of com-, mon sense. Ho'll see mo in the grerj and. gloomy daylight, and he'll call im\ a sandy-haired minx." i As he dressed for dinner that night,J uncomfortable little stings of memory;! began to prick Peter. Chi© or two ! things Ida had.said that afternoon had' almost unset him. That allusion to' moral courage, for instance. PeteH sincerely hoped that she hadn't meantr tliat he was wanting in moral courage! because ho hadn't told his uncle yet.! Ail his happiness and expectations were 1 clustered round Uncle James, aad tJuclai James's money. ]t was Uncle James • who generously doubled the inadequate ' . income ho earned at Somerset .House, and he honed it would be Uncle James who would double it again to allow of, the speedy marriago with the girl it[ was impossible to wait for. "I'm not a coward,"' said Peter; firmly, as he wrestled with his white tic. " Certainly I'm not a coward. I'm 1 not wanting in moral courage either; it was only bucauso I didn't want to up-: s set the old man, and Ida shall not have a chnnce to juicer at mo again. I'llJ go and see him to-night. It is always] a mistake to tell a man anything be-! fore he has dined." ' Before dinner he wrote a little note; to his sweetheart and posted it. "Ij can't bear 'that you should think that" I've funked tailing uncle about our en-' gagement." he wrote. "It's not-only 1 , that, really it isn't. I'm not going'} ' to wait any longer. I shall go downj] directly after dinner on purpose to tell] him. Good-night, my darling little gixO I wish 1 were coming to see yon iiw stead.—Your Peter." \ Peter's uncle received him with mucK surprise and not much pleasure. ' Peter sat down suddenly in a bag' chair, clutching the arms of it as ffil he had been at the dentists, " Look! , here, uncle," lie said, "I—l want to, speak to you seriously." His uncle! James didn't look at him. He wenty on carefully sorting stamps. j " "Who's the girl P" he growledw Peter' started. \ " Good heavens ! Who told you P''ha;

cried. . j "Told me?" said the uncle'sharplyyj " t've got eyes in my head, I sup-\ pose. 1 never saw a young man IK such a dithering state of mind. It,is at least three months since you hare\ taken an intelligent interest in any-*! thing. Go on, lad, get it, over. Who's] the girl!"' ■ i " i-Icr—her name's Ida -" Petem , • began feebly. ' I "Got a surname, I suppose P." " Ida Pol green. Her people live iH Lancaster Gate." " Money?" ! t Peter grew riink. "No,'' said h# ; bluntly. "At 'least, she won't hftT»i for a long time, and then very little."} " It is no good asking' you whether-'. she's pretty, in your present state , of j mind. Beautiful as the day,' 1 sup* pose?" "Yes," said Peter stoutly.' "Modem girl?'' • Peter hesitated. "She—well, it «*. pends on what you call a modern girl*] uncle. She's not athletic." The old man grunted. "Playil hockey, I suppose? Drives a motor P"! "Sho hates hockey,"' said Pet«p-; .\ eagerlv. " She told me so only to-daj\j She ha« never driven a motor herself iai ■ her life." "Why?" Peter blushed for his fiancee. "Th«h fact is," he said in an ashamed voice,) "she's rather nervous. N She's- —she'a not like other girls, uncle." His uncle laughed, and Peter didn't like it.

"They never arc," said the old mati'f brusquely. " Suffragette?" I. " No,. indeed," cried Peter hotly*l " She doesn't take the slightest inter*,; est in it." _ ( Uncle James put down hisV stamps, i and came and placed himself on the hearthrug with his hands behind hisj back, staring keenly down at the- un-/ • comfortable young man with the littloj twinkling grey eyes which were so like Peter's own. " Young Peter," said he, " I won't) deny that I am disappointed in you, but I should have been a fool to expect you to he more than human. The only Lope was that you might fall in Jova and get thrown over, as I did. Well,! there s still a chance that things mayj ! turn out as I wish. Let us have th»', truth about this girl. I can't do with, I ', these advanced women. Woman's bad'j enough in her own sphere, but when! she comes outside it she plays the very: deucfe. I don't want to out you off] with a shilling, Peter, but if you/had chosen one of these Holloway Gaol' women there would have been nothina else for it. Let us have the trut-S' about this girl. Is she a nj.ee, quiet, i ' modest little thing, who's old-faehionoct) enough to make a home for you, and'l modern enough to be a companion to! you?" I "Yes," said Peter delightedly, fori if his Ida was anything, she was this. "Ohl uncle, you should just see her uplifted hand. " I've seen 'em," lie said shortly. "Dozens of 'em. Whisky and soda?" "Thanks," said Peter gratefully, for, this tiring 'scene had quite exhausted him, but when lie got back to his roomr that night h© felt that he could indeed| say that he hadn't a care in th»j ■world. I He was bitterly disappointed to findthis note from her on the breakfast table next morning:—" Peter darling* I had) your dear little letter by the las*! - post. It was hateful of me to jeer at; you yesterday for want of moral conr» age. I don't know how I dared speait to you like that, when 1 am such »j coward myself. Yet I'm glad I to]<f you the truth about my cowardliness?} because yon know the worst of me, an<B I am going to do as you say, and tryi • to conquer it. I nearly lost ■ Barbara!' hecauso 1 am a traitor woman, and. if 1\ don't take care, I shall lose you beoausel 1 am a- coward. lam afraid I shall bo! out this afc-ernoou when yon call, but! you will come just the same and seel mother, won't you? Good night, my! darling Peter.—Your Ida." ': Peter was considerably puzzlodVby this letter, but at four o'clock, when his work was finished, he went out and' bought quantities of primroses, and' 1 ' took them to Ida's mother hi Lancaster, Gate.

"I don't know -where Ida is," shti I said. " BRrhara Dell called for her] [ just before lunch, and she forjjot to, say what time- she'd l>e in. I hops, Barbara hasn't persuaded her to goV any of those tiresome meetings. Ida's such a fragile little thing, and, it-.wonkP' be sure to upset, her dreadfully if ther* was anything; like a row." Peter stayed on talking to Ida'tf mother till six o'clock, ar.d then sh« persuaded him to wsiit a little longer. ■■ " Stay till seven. She's sure to be illl soon.'' jj Was she? At seven o'clock a littl» note was brought in to Ida's mother,l written on a rough piece of m&nscripfcf paper in pencil:— | " Des.r Mother, —I'm,tired of being ■» coward, and I'm tired of being called, a traitor woman, so I Itave offered my-' l , self i o go with the othsr delegates to j the House of Commons this nrtejmoon. ; Of course, they won't let us in, and our instructions are that we are to try ami force our way. Don't worry about m©» I am sure I shan't be hurt, though we shall probably all hav« to go to pa-ison» Tell Peter I really am au awful coward, because I'm frightened, to death., and; am. only making myself go by sheer, force of will.—'ronr most loving Ida." "My God!" said I*et«r. hoarsely. ' And oven as he spoke the sfcrMent cries of the newsboys broke upon their earn Ke flung open the window, and tit* cries floated into the wssrcn, primrosescpntcd room. "Attack on trio House of Oonaaoiisl Nineti«cn. suffragettes arrested?" Peter ran down, bonghfc a paper at the front door, and tore it open with trembling fingers. .Ida's name' was the sevraith. on tb-o list,