A SHORT STORY.

Dominion, Volume 3, Issue 828, 28 May 1910, Page 14

A SHORT STORY.

A LOVE CURE,

(By Rose Gardner.) My dear Vai, — Isn't our correspondence rather verging? I don't want to have .to put an end to it. ion know there was a subject which you were never to sil much as approach -again.

Always vour friend, Ve. My dear Vera, — It's no good. J know it's hopeless and silly and everything contemptible that you can possibly say about it. How could such a freak as 1 am ever expect anyon'o to caro about him ? But I can't write to you without letting you know what 1 think of you. I've tried—l really have. I have sat down here in my studio and made myself write lotters about the things that don't matter. And I know they've been so dull that you must have wondered what had come to me. And then I've tried not writing to you at all. And that has been worse than anything. 1 wanted you to think I'd forgotten—l wanted to persuade myself that I'd forgotten. But oh, Ve! I haven't.

I've got-no right whatever to worry you like this, and I deserve .anything you choose to say or do to me. 1 await vour scourging in all humbleness. "All I ask is -that it may be swift. - Valentine. It was this correspondence that made her feel acutely uncomfortable when sho noticed hini at tho other-end of tho room. Sho knew'from a flicker of his eyes. as sho camo in that he had seen her. He did not look again. She prayed that she might he' ablo to avoid him for the evening. It would be extremely awkward to, meet him with tho answer ,'to that last' letter of his still unwritten. Meanwhile," as he studiously kept his eyes in any directiov but hers,,-sbe. had; time ...to.„. cxaniino

him. " . _ ' Thcro was nothing Even the fresh interest of finding him ..to be so deeplv in love with her' failed to add any charm to the plainness which had so markedly distinguished him for all the years she had known him. It was not.as though he were even manfully ugly. 1 There was no other;word but "plain" that could fit those goggle eyes, that ridiculous nose,' that woeful lack of chin. He had not even a decently square pair of shoulders to save him. She knew him for a pleasant friend and a promising painter, and yet—it was impossible to connect anything sublime, anything other than comical, with such a figure. When dinner was announced she found to her dismay that lie was making his way through the other guests towards her. Ho gravely addressed her bent head.

"I'm to take you down. I tried to get out of it. You'll understand, won't you?" She rose without lifting her eyes. An excessively annoying blush, she knew, was creeping over her neck and up to the fips of her ears. She could not show him a face like a peony. They went downstairs in silence. She trusted he did not feel how the hand, which she would allow to hardly more than touch his arm, was trembling. The predicament vexed her. She felt that the proper and conventional reply to his letter would bo a severe reproof. And yet. he was so humble that sho would have welcomed any excuse not to give it. She had almost decided not to answer at all. And now here was this meeting to complicate matters.

She had to make up her mind how he was to be treated. It would not bo fair, sho felt, to behavo as if nothing 'had happened while...sho-held, a, repri-vmand'-.bver'his heSd.'" And,. in any case, with such a subject between them,'any attempt to get back to their old footing of easy companionship must seem' forced. On-the other hand, to sit mute through tho whole of a long dinner was out of tho question. She chose a moment at last when he was occupied with helping himself to the entree.

"I haven't answered your letter." "Oh!" was all he said,-but he spilt some gravy on the tablecloth. "Val, you mustn't send me any more letters like that." She found it difficult, when it came to the point, to say anything more severe. "I know," he said. "We were getting on so well. Why did you?" The question. ascaped before she realised it. A minute after she could almost havo bitten off her tongue. Ho was bending over his plate. "I don't think you're quite kind, Ve." "I beg your pardon," was the only possible, and that a hopelessly inadequate", apology. This-was no better. He was hurt now,, and she was in the position of culprit. She called down a mental curse on all emotional complications. Theirs was just as far from a settlement. She tried again. "Val, I'm 'not really a little brute. Isn't there anything I can that will do any good?" ' '

His tone was gently considerate in tho midst of gloom. "Nothing can do any good. Perhaps you don't quite understand."

She had to bear this, too. All . tho same, she went on.

"Look here, I have an idea. When you feel like writing that kind of letter, why not put down everything you want 'to" —for the first time he looked at her, goggling with wonder-—"and then burn it?" He threw up his head with a laugh; not altogether a pleasant laugh, but it was something.to have won it from him. "I really mean it," she . pursued. "You'll soon get of it—-and of me. I prophesy a complete cure in six weeks." He smiled. "You think I; shall wear it out, so to speak?" "I'm sure you will." . He shookjn's . head,.'-. :'• '.'Anyway, I couldn't write'if I knew..l.'was going to burn the thing directly afterwards." She smiled. "Then'l'll burn them for you. Post them to rric, and I'll put them on the fire directly, they come. Yes, that will be better altogether," she went on. ."Then I can be sure you're taking the. cure regularly'.,!'! prescribe two letters a week. l . And.when you've got tired of it you can put;- 'Open this one,' on the outside of the' envelope, and send me a letter inside saying that you're all right again." He turned in his chair so as to face her. She dropped her eyes before his glare. * "I'll Mo it!" ho■ said. '

She laughed. "Two letters a week, mind, regularly." Then she dropped into conversation with the man on her other side. Next morning she went • eagerly through her letters. , It was only when sho did not find one in his handwriting that she remembered that even if he had written tho'same evening, it could not have boon posted in time to reacli her. i'he delay made her impatient. It came in the afternoon, in just an ordinary envelope, ordinarily addressed. She weighed it in her hand. It was light, but felt soft. Thin paper, she guessed,' but several sheets. She held it up to tho light, looked at tho front' and the back of it. Had he really put down what ho wanted to? And if' lie had, what was it? The temptation to open it was strong. She loyally put it aside.

It was a bright June day, and no time for fires. The letter would have to be burned with the help of a box of matches. Sho found some and took them out by tho open French window,

down tho stoop flight of fancy ironwork steps into the pretty little London garden. To find a sheltered corner was not easy. Several matches were struck' beforo tho paper would light. A corner of tho envelope caught at last, and tho flamo crept up tho side. Tho blackened edges of tho envelope turned slowly back, leaving tho fluttering loaves. She tried another match. Tho envelope burned away to tho spot where she was holding it. She dropped it, with a little shake of her hand. A malicious breeze caught the sheets as thev fell and scattered them among the laurel hushes. ■' She had to collect them again—half a dozen of them. As she put them together, it was impossible not to sec a word or so. What she saw was too lnueli for her resolution. Sho debated with herself for at least two minutes. Then she gave way. How could ho ever possibly know'? In any case, what ill could come of it? Hers was not mere vulgar inquisitivoness, she assured herself; it was an interest in the psychology of the affair. She wanted to know what, under such circumstances, a man would say. She read :—

When she had finished a page, she stopped and looked round for a seat. She found a deck chair, and carried it to a corner behind some bushes. She read on, her lips parting in a smile of exultation. She dwelt long on tho end. The eyes sho raised at last were sinning. She drew a deep breath, and let it go again in a sigh. Her conscience made her a little uncomfortable. It occurred to her that she would not care for him to know that she had seen it. Sho was prying into the soul of the man merely for her own amusement, for tho satisfaction of her curiosity. A hot blush eamo to her check.

At tho same time, she hugged herself over it. She rc-rea-d certain of tho passages, delighting in the tingle of delicious thrills. This, then, was how lie thought of her. And yet tho turn of an occasional phrase- showed him not quite blind in his worship. He knew her, and, knowing her, he became almost her master.

It was some time before she picked up her box of matches again. Sho handled it uncertainly for a minute or two, and got up without opening it. Three light bounds took her up tho iron steps. She searched for and found a large album. It opened of itself, and tumbled out on tho table, a sheaf'of amateur photographs—portraits, views, groups. There wore several of him. Sho looked through tlieni one after tho other, choosing in tho end one that seemed to be least flattering. It was uncompromisingly exact as regarded his eves, his chin, his shoulders. That one she took to tTio window and examined minutely, point by point. She put it besfdo the letter and looked at them alternately. She sighed again, sadly shook her head, and smiled. ■

His letters were sent, as she had said they should be, twice a week —always on the same day and by the same post. Putting it down on paper-- had, at first, some little solacement for him. Ho wrote every day. All tho things he wanted to say and dared not, all tho things he had wanted her to know that he thought, all the little ideas about her that were so constantly occuring to him, oven somo tilings that might not nave seen the' light if anyone liad been likely to read tho letters, these he wrote. When tho time came ho put all the papers' together in an envelope and posted them.

To begin with, it was easy to lose himself in tho mere writing. Ho had so much to say. When ho had got over, tho notion that ho was really a bit of an ass, ho let himself go.

Before long, however, ho found himself repeating. That was abominable. It was unthinkable that he could have said all there was to say. All the same, ideas did not crowd into his mind in such profusion. He found himself sit- : tmg befqro a blank sheet wondering what to put .down. ■ After that ho did not write every day. He gave his sentiments time to accumulate. At the end of two days ho was .able to produce a respectable show.

This lasted for a week or so. Then one day ho forget to write till within an hour of post-time. For the sake of the discipline ho did it, but ho felt that, as an ardent love-letter, it was a failure.

The cure, apparently, was working. Ho was not.quite sure that-ho was altogether glad. Ho had loved her for so long; for so many months had her imago been with him, that .the prospect of a life, in which sho counted for little seemed rather blank.'

They had not met since the night when she had evolved tho plan. He had made (up his mind uot to see her again, until ho could send her that letter that she was to open; until, as he saw it, they could meet again fairly on their old friendly footing. Now he was wondering whether that letter could not go. It was a difficult decision. He was not by any means certain that this was uot merely a lull iu his desire, that with the sight of her it would not lay hold of him again as fiercely as ever. It might bo wiser to stop writing to her or seeing her until he was quite sure. ' In any case, ho must make up his mind to something. He took himself seriously to task one 'afternoon. This state of irresolution, he told himself, was playing the very deuce with his work. A model had been sitting to him for an hour. He had spent most of it chatting irrelovancies, had hardly put pencil to papor. He told the girl at last that she might go, shut the door after her, and caiue back into his empty studio, profoundly meditative. ' A piece of paper pinned up on the wall attracted him. He began absently to scribble—tho outlino of a cheek, a nose, tho turn of a .mouth, tho fold of an eyelid. He grew interested. A knock interrupted him; so light that he was not sure it was a knock at all. He' waited. It was repeated, smartly this time. He went across and opened the door. His' studio was ono of half-dozen, standing in a little gravelled court of their own. It had its tiny porch outside. Framed in the pointed arch of light, with the sunshine behind her, she stood. When ho saw her there, in her white summer frock, her hands clasped behind ber back, her face turned up to his with a pleading look, he know that the cure had not taken effect. He felt the tears prick into his eyes as he gazed at her. His decision was made for him. It was clear that ho must not see any more of her than he could help.

His form tilled up tho door. "Have you. come to torment mo?" he sail.

Sho put out a hand. "Oh, Val! have I ever willingly tormented you?" Her voice- had a tenderness that thrilled him dangerously. "Not perhaps willingly," was his rueful return. And still he squared himself in the doorway. She looked past him into the room. He did not hudgo. "May I come in?" was her next question, put with a >,diffidcnco that ho found adorable. The muscles of his jaw tightened. He drew' back without a -word to let her pass. She took the chair he offered, but only for a minute. She appeared to find it difficult to say what she had come for, or else she was deliberately teasing. She examined the sketches pinned in sheaves on the walls, making a remark now and then. She turned back the canvases standing on tho floor with an air of proprietorship.

She came upon a sketch of herself; then upon another. "Have you many drawingsof mo?" she asked, without looking up. "Lots," was his short and truthful reply. "Do you so much like drawing me?" He only just heard the soft question. "Vera, are you utterly rorkle.ss?" His voice had tho hard note of severe re-

straint. She was teasing him almost up to the last point of endurance. She hesitated a moment and then came to him, pushing him gently to a chair. "Sit down." He did it in some bewilderment. She went behind him. "You arc not to look at mc." There was silence for a short space. Ho felt a little tremor as she rested her hands on the back of his chair. "When she spoke her voice was clear and even, as though she had rehearsed more than once what she meant to say. "1 have to make a confession—l've read your letters."

He promptly disobeyed her by swinging round". Then lie got up r.iid faced her. "All?" She nodded. He bit his lip hard. "Was that quite fair?" Her face was raised to liis with a strange expression that ho could not make out. He went on bitterly: "1 hope they amused you.". "No," she said, "they hurt me." He smiled. She half-turned away from him. "It's because I read them that I'm here "now." "Wouldn't it, perhaps, have been kinder not to tell me at all?" he interrupted her. "I had to tell you because— because " she hesitated. "It seemed in the later ones that you didn't—care about mo so much— and—and I felt somehow that I couldn't hear it." *. She lifted swimming eyes. He swayed slightly as he stood. A dim glimmer of her meaning carue to him, but he dared not let himself take hold of it.

■ "Ve, you don't know what ideas you're putting into my htad." She could say no more. She only pleaded silently with him to understand. The sudden change of emotion threatened to sweep him away. Hq would have it all clear before ho let himself go. "Do you mean that you could care for a fellow like this?" He threw out his hands to mako' manifest the whole extent of his un~ comeliness. She made a little step towards him. "You arc positively morbid about your personal appearance—dear."—"M.A.P."