A Dangerous Mood.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 10, 5 March 1913, Page 42

A Dangerous Mood.

By

Silas K. Hocking,

Author of “Her Benny,” Etc.

(All Rights Reserved )

©II, Jack, I ought not to let you see how much I love you,” she suid, looking Shyly up into his face. “Why, not, sweetheart?” he questioned, his eyes aglow with pleasure. “Oh, 1 don't know,” and she withdrew, her -yes momentarily, from his—“only, people say, you know, that a woman should never let a man see how much she loves him.” “People say foolish things, darling,” ha answered, quietly, and he drew her close to his side. "1 have never tried.to hide my love from you—indeed, I have wanted you to understand how great it is.” "But men are different,” and she lifted shy eyes to his once more. “Men can say and do so much more than women dare. Women are supposed to bo- , "Never mind what they are supposed to lie, sweetheart,” he laughed. “1 love you for what you are ■” . .'And 1 do love, you, Jack,” she answered, pressing her face against his shoulder. "You see, dear, wise or unwise, I cannot help letting you know.” , "If. that is a confession of weakness,” he said, fondly, “thenl’m thankful not only for the confession but for the weakness. I prize your lore, Dora, more than everything else on earth.” "1 like to liear you say that,” she answered with swimming eyes, “and yet ought you to prize so much so poor a thing ?” “Is it a poor thing, Dora?” “Oh. 1 don’t know,” she answered, blitshin-r and smiling, “perhaps it is—■ perhaps it isn't. Anyhow, dear, it is the Lest 1 have, and all I have, and I give it nil to you. ’(live it without stint, and were it a thousand times greater, I should give it all and glory in giving ‘“You dear, sweet' gild,” he responded. “I pray that it may never grow less.” "Less?” and she laughed joyously though her eyes were swimming. "Oh, jack, when a woman really loves—she loves for ever———” ■ “She. is not usually credited with so jnueh constancy,” lie answered with pretended gravity* “At least by the novelists." “The novelists don’t know, dear,” she Interrupted, her face still aglow. “At least, they' don’t know me. You must pray that my love may not increase—tha t f do not become-an. idolater —that’s the right word, isn’t it?” “No, quite the wrong word,” he laughed. “Your danger, let me assure you, lies in the very opposite direction. I am so full of cracks that you will need all the charity you can muster ” She put a Whits, hand over his mouth and prevented him completing the sentence. “Hush.,” she said, “not another’ word. Tiie faults and weaknesses are mine. Indeed there is nothing about me except my love for you.” He looked fondly down into her eager, trustful eyes, and gently took her hand in his. For several seconds he did not speak, then he said quietly, “It augurs well for. th.o future, Dora, and we shall be able to commence our married life Understanding each other so perfectly.” “Isn’t it glorious, Jack?” was the quick reply. “I wonder if people are always so sure of each other.” “And you have no doubts, sweetheart?” “Neither a doubt nor a fear,” she answered joyously'. “Oh, Jack, I only want to be with you.” He bent over and kissed her again and again. They were alone in the big old garden— in a secluded corner where no one could see them. The evening was warm and still, the pate blue sky .undecked by a single cloud. Jack Stewart felt as though everything about him symbolised his own .life. He saw no trouble ahead, no sigh of coming storm. The beauty of the old garden, the calm of Oho summer evening, the blue of the sky. The gracious form nestled close to his side, all whispered to him of happiness unbroken and unclouded. He had reached middle life, and until

he met Doya Forrest girls had scarcely entered into his scheme of things. Becoming acquainted with her, he felt as though he had discovered his twin soul. He set to work to win her with all the strength of a robust and resolute nature.

Dora was equally attracted. Here was a man after her own heart. A man such as she had often pictured in her girlish dreams- He was a good many years older than herself, it was true, but that rather added to h's charm in her eyes. The youths of her acquaintance made no appeal to her. They seemed so raw and unfledged. But Jack Stewart was a man—strong and self-reliant. He had already made his way in the world, and was spoken of by all who knew him in the highest terms. Her heart leaped out to him uncon-

sciously; her admiration swiftly ripened into love. Their courtship had been idyllie. Her love for him seemed to envelop her like an atmosphere, and made all the world beautiful. Their marriage had been fixed for early September, and she was already anticipating and eage.-ly anticipating—the long honeymoon they were to Spend together. With her head nestled against his shoulder, she wondered if there was another girl in all England r.s happy as »he. Of her love for Jack she was absolutely certain —of his love for her she was equally sure. In the months of their courtship they had seemed, to reach a perfect understanding of each other, ami neither had a doubt respecting the future. The cloudu came up slowly and al moot inijiereeptibly- None anticipated anything serious at the beginning, least of all the family doctor. Dora felt languid, and her appetite left her. At find she

refused to see the doctor. It was nothing. She had caught a chill or eaten something that had disagreed with her. Dr. Simpson confirmed this view of the case when he called. Just a chill On the liver. She would be all right again in a few days. But this convenient refuge for failures in diagnosis proved a snare in the present instance. Dora did not get well in a few days. On the contrary, she grew gradually worse. Dr. Simpson puzzled hiis brains over the case, until he lost his own appetite, and ultimately suggested calling in a specialist. The great man from Harley Street talked of anaemia, and suggested change of air and scene, and Dora was whisked away to the East Coast, where she remained" till the end of August, and then was brought home, not better, but a great deal worse. The day fixed for the wedding drew near, and Dora lay in her white bed a wreck of her former self. She was allowed to see Jack now and then in the presence of her nurse, but she him without enthusiasm, scarcely any sign of interest. She had got so far down among the shadows that nothing seemed to matter. The world and all it contained seemed gradually -slipping from her grasp, and she was content to let it slip. In a vague way she was sorry for Jack. She knew how

disappointed he would feci For herself it did not matter. She had got beyond the point of worrying on her own account.

Jack motored out to Burford Chase every day, and every day ho received the same answer to his question. Dora was no better. What he suffered during those long months of deepening darkness no one knew. Dora had become to him the meat precious thing in life, and the thought of losing her—of living out what remained of hia life—without her presence was as the bitterness of death to him.

A second specialist was called-in, ana then a third, her father was resolved that nothing that money and medical skill could do should be left undone. Dora herself remained supremely unconcerned. She had lost interest in everything — even in Jack. When he was allowed to see her Mie received him without emotion, '["he day fixed for the wedding came and went, but she made no

allusion to it. She appeared to have no regrets. She was content to lie still and quietly drift out into the great unknown. The third specialist spoke obscurely of septic poisoning, as difficult to diagnose as to trace, but after her visit she began to get better —yet so slowly as to be almost imperceptible. Only * the skilled eyes of the doctors and nurses were able to mark the improvement.

Jack received the reports with a thrill of joy that no words could express. The world was getting bright again. He did not mind waiting. The knowledge that ehe was getting better was like a new. life to him.

So the days grew on, and crept into weeks, and every week showed a distinct step towards recovery. By the end of October she was able to sjt up for a few hours each day. A fortnight later she was allowed downstairs. A little later oh sunny days she took short walks in the garden.

Jack was in constant attendance during these short excursions. They did not ■talk much. She seemed shyer of him than during the early days of their love;: but that he imagined would soon wear away. A week before Christmas her father and mother took her to Nice, and Jack had to content himself with two or three brief letters a week. He wanted to make one of the party, but the suggestiori was not encouraged. The months that followed proved an unhappy time for Jack. He wrote long letters out of the fullness of his heart, but they evoked no adequate response. He hungered for the old words of endearment, but for some reason they did not come. He plied her with questions from time to time but got no’satisfactory answer.

She was getting better and stronger. Her colour was coming back, she was enjoying life. She had begun to take long excursions into the surrounding country. She was having the gayest time she had ever known; but the things he looked for in her letters were not there.

He could not understand it. He grew almost angry sometimes; at other times he became despondent. It seemed almost as if the Dora he knew and loved had really died and that another and totally different Dora had taken her place. When he met them at Charing Cross on the day of their return, his heart leaped with a great joy. Dora cam? toward him with laughing eyes and parted lips. Her radiant face seemed to glow with health. She was lovelier than before her illness. In such a crowd, however, there was no chance of any demonstration of affection; nor even at Burford Chase. The excitement and bustle of home coming banished all other things. For the moment it was almost joy enough to look at her—to see the light shining in hen eyes and hear the music of her laughter. She seemed to have grown younger—< gayer, and certainly more inconsequential.

On the following day he sought to restore the old sweet intimacy, and discovered that it was not to be restored. He wanted her to name the wedding day, and she put him off with a peal of merry laughter. He recalled to her some of the things she had said before her illness, and she laughingly replied that she had grown older since then. He grew grave and troubled. “ You have changed, Dora,” he said. " You no longer love me.” “ Of course I love you,” she answered. You are the dearest thing in the world, and there is not another man on earth can compare with you — not even the dad.” Then why not fix a day for our marriage ?”

“ Because I want to remain as I am. Don’t you see that I have a lot to make up. I have come back like one from'the dead, and I am brimming over with life, and I want to enjoy myself.” ’But you were brimming over with' life, when you fixed our wedding dav. Dora.” ' '

"But not in the way I am now. And, oh, Jaek, marriage is not everything.” ■ “It is the crown of love, dear, as love is the crown of life.”

"Oh, that is a man’s view,” -she laughed. “Why cannot we remain as we are ?”

“You are content to remain as you are ?” ■ “Quite.” .. i •

He turned away from her, baffled, pained, and not a little angry. She might not he conscious of any change in herself, but be was conscious of it through every fibre of his being. Whether it wag only a passing mood, or whe.tbqi it was a fundamental change (hf did not atop to

consider. In the bitterness of his disappointment he chided'her on her fickleness And inconstancy, and for the first time they parted in anger. lie did not see her again for two days, tend when they met her mood had changed from inconsequential merriment to sullen tears.

It was cruel of him, she declared, to charge her with fickleness—she had never thought of anyone else. She had been true to him always. She loved him as much as she ever did, but she would not be coerced into marriage. He had had so little experience of the jvays of women that lie was completely Raffled. He tried to argue with her, but pho was in no mood for argument, and .was too proud or too headstrong to look at the matter from his standpoint. He became. humble and penitent and pleaded with her, but she liked his penitence less than his anger. Women would rather be mastered than fawned upon, moreover with that instinct for cruelty Which is latent in most women she found a morbid pleasure in hurting him arid peeing him suffer, and an equal pleasure in hurting herself. Old Dr. Simpson would have told him that she had not yet got back to her normal self, had Jack taken the trouble to consult him, but he was too proud—too belf contained to take anyone into his ponfidenee. It might lx> a mood, but he was impatient of such moods. It was absurd for her to protest that she loved him as much as ever when she discouraged and (even resented every sweet and tender intimacy that had been so dear to them both.

He had passed through dark days during her long illness, but these days were 'darker still. He grey cynical at times, and denounced all women in his heart ns fickle and inconstant. - Moreover, her inconsistency chafed him almost beyond endurance. Why did she pretend to love Jiim still—refuse to be released and protest that he was more to her than all the world beside, when she persistently kept him at arm’s length, refused all the endearments of a lover, and declined even to discuss the question of marriage? The position was not merely absurd, it was maddening. Dora had her dark days also; but, having taken up her position, she was resolved to maintain it. He had called her fickle and unstable, and she wanted to show him she was neither. If she capitulated now he would have reason for his complaint. All the warm impulses of her heart were coming back, and gathering strength day by day, but she made no sign. She knew the mood was a dangerous one, but Jiow dangerous she did not realise, had she known there would have been a different ending to this little story; but knowledge in this life often comes too late.

Jack was miserable when he was away from her, and more miserable when in her company. So he chose the lesser evil and remained away for days at a stretch. He took to tramping the Surrey Hills in all winds and weathers, and at all fifties of the day and night. He was too restless to sit at home —too miserable to visit his friends. The spring was unusually cold, with bitter east winds and occasional storms of sleet and hail. Often enough he returned home drenched to the skin, and worn out in mind and •body, and creeping miserably into bed would sleep from sheer exhaustion.

Dora grew anxious after one of bis long absences. The strange reserve she had hugged so long was melting like snow in the summer sun. She wanted him more than she knew, her heart was beginning to cry out for the old intimacy. To be with him always was beginning to loom before her as a shadowy and beautiful dream.

; The postman’s sharp rat-tat made her start, and she went to get the letters. There were two. one for her father, the other for herself, and both type-written.

She walked into the library where her father,was reading, and handed him the letter, then opened her own. (She did not notice the look of consternation that swept over his face, she was too startled and alarmed at what she read.

The letter was marked ‘'Dictated,” and was type-written. “My darling Dora,” it ran, “1 am very ill, and would like to see you once more. Do come if you can dear heart; it may be my last request. Your loving Jack.”

“Oh, Father,” she exclaimed, “Jack is ill.” And she felt as though she had been wakened suddenly out of a dream. 'AU the reserve slipped from herlike a mantle that had been cut loose. Alt the old .lotting came back with tenfold in-

tensity. The pent up passion of months had broken free at last. “Father, we must go to him at once,” she cried. “Yes,” he answered, quietly. “I fear there is no time to lose.” “You have heard also,” she questioned, with startled eyes. “Yes, the doctor has written." “Oh, let us be quick,” she cried passionately. “I will be ready in a few minutes.” “I will get the motor round at once,” he answered. An hour later she was kneeling by his bedside, her slender body convulsed with sobs. The doctor and nurse had left the room. “Oh, Jack, Jack—my own. my darling, you .must get better,” she cried. “You must. you. must—” , He turned his dim eyes and smiled feebly on her, he was almost too far spent to speak. “I have come back to myself, darling,” she sobbed, passionately, “and I want you —oh, I want you. You are my life. Jack—my all. I cannot live without you. dearest. Do you understand—l want you.” “J understand, dearest,” he whispered, “but it is too late. Kiss me before I go.” “I carinjot let you go,” she cried with streaming eyes. “Oh, I cannot. 1 cannot,” and she kissed him again and again. A happy smile spread itself over his face, and he looked long and lovingly into her eyes. “I have wanted you. dear heart,” he whispered, “but ” he did not finish the sentence, and there was no need. Nhe understood only too well. Wet and cohl and exposure had brought on double pneumonia, ami this was the end. Her father came and led her away at length, for Jack had passed out into the land' of'silence where they neither marry nor are given in marriage. • -< -,4»J!.. „ia ~s . ~. _.,. t _«