A Short Story.

Matamata Record, Volume II, Issue 80, 2 May 1918, Page 4

A Short Story.

I;; Tanua Parts. (p,ol l-.v Ar.ingcnienf v.'iih tlio Prop. i£ior.i of the Copyright.) KHOQK. AT THE DOOR. By SHAN F. BULLOCK. Author of “The Barrys,”- “Robert Thorne,” etc. PART I. It was nearing; Christinas time. Outvie upon hill anti field lay a crust of mow, iron which the trees sprang like sentinels it tTie misty dusk and the black hedges rose like companies of riflemen waiting for the sullen flame to die cut in the west; but in the bedroom, whose single windows looked upon the farmyard and offices, night had already gathered, and only the leap of a peat fire, revealing now the fourposter bed along the wall, now the shelves laden with medicine bottles in a further corner, made cheerfulness there. Before the fire sat two women—the mother large and strong-featured, w.th whitening hair and wise eyes and a kindly brow, her feet on the fender rail, pillows behind her back and a shawl round Iter shoulders, for she was recovering from a long illness; the daughter tall and handsome, seated low on a hassock, with her back against the wall, knees upgathered, and .her cheek resting on a hand. Both watched the fire. They were very thoughtful. For same time now neither had spoken. So quiet they were that'■•they seemed asleep— or maybe only hearkening attentively to the rumble of voices that came up to them from below. In a while the daughter drew a deep sigh, clasped her knees with both hands, and looked round. “Mercy, hoyv dark it has got all of a sudden. Black'—black!” She shivered. “Ugh! I hate, this wintry weather. No life and lib sun—and no hope. I’d better light the lamp and draw the blind, mother?” . “Not yet. I like the firelight. It soothes me and makes me think easily.” The mother drew' the shawl close about her shoulders and folded her hands. “You’re not content, Hetty?” she said. “What is it.-?” “Oli, nothing—only’ the weather, 1 suppose. • Tt makes mb feel as though someone was-walking on my grave. ’Twill go. Everything does.” The girl compressed her lips and bent towards the very thing does,” she repeated. ' * “Not always—and often it’s too late when things do,go" Better try and get rid of them, maybe* than wait too long. What is it, Hetty?” “I’m worried, mother.” The girl bent nearer to the fire and leant her cheek upon a hand. “I can’t make up my mind. I don’t know what to do. One thing pulls me this way, another pulls me that way—and I’m perplexed between them.” & “It’s about James?” '‘Yes, it is. Tell me,-mother,” cried the girl, turning suddenly and laying a hand on her mother’s lap—“tell me what I ought to do.” “How can I, child?’* She fell to stroking the girl’s hand, softly,, tenderly. “I know so little. Why should you be perplexed? Is it James’ fault or yours?”

“It’s, mine, I suppose—most of it. I’m unreasonable. I want too much. I expect too much. And I’m changeable. One time I like him—the next time I don’t. Why is it? I try so hard. I lie awake thinking and thinking. I vow and promise. I do my best. But it’s no good, no good. I was never meant for the life, I suppose, I can’t be interested in his talk and ways. All through dinner-time he and father'talked cattle and sheep. When I left them they had got to prize pigs. Listen, they are at it still. Tf .Tames stayed till midnight it would be just the same. You’d think that on a Sunday they would consider other things. Once—once it was different. But now he’s got used tc me, I suppose, and if I went in this minute he would only laugh and say a pleasant word or two and then, go on talking crops, and markets. ~ . . And it doesn’t interest me. And it hurts me, too. Oh, I’m foolish: and unreasonable, but I can’t; help. it. I’m worried and perplexed. . . . Mother,” said the girl, turning her tear-stained face, “you understand me, don’t you?” Hannah Myers sat watching the fire, quiet, thoughtful, a hand resting upon her daughter’s hand, her lips close. To *n extent she understood Hetty’s perplexity. Such a pity—such a pity! Both she and Robert had been so content with the girl’s prospects. In every way James Morton seemed the right man ifor her. He was honest, industrious, kindly, respected by everyone. He had a good farm and a good house. He had and herds. Ho had a balance at the hank. Did Hetty marry him she jwould be comfortable and well-settled, Jand the chances were she would he i hjippy tf James was very fond of her. pf late his attentions, maybe, had not so marked. He came only twice a week now, and when he did come, fastead of giving all his time to Hetty, [was content to spend most of it with \ Robert, discussing hulls and pics in the parlor, or wandering ip the fields. But men were like that. Their hearts and Binds were only corners and nooks for |gor creatures of women. And surely pines was not entirely to be blatfied. HjStty wp-s peculiar, had notions, askel more ’than a perhaps could Iwe, andnsW seemed to give Ker trape hfirt % James. Ah, no. There ||§|&b> ?jj|l (fcouVli- jfsr long she had

kept him at hay; then had lot him como nearer and nearer still; at last, one day, yielding of a sudden, not joyfully, but it seemed against herself, had promised to marry him. And for James that was enough; but for Hclty it was not. Why elso had she r.nis to tears sometimes, sat moody at James’ side, kept refusing to wear a ring and fix the day—kept waiting and waiting still as if in hopes of freedom, or in hopes of someone else? it was all very strange. And now this had come, i “My dear,” said Hannah, “I dt I understand—but not everything. Have ~..1td Janies had any quarrel?” , “No, mother; none at all.” “Does ho care less for you, then ?” “No. I can’t say that he does. He’s just the same in that way. I think he would do anything for me. 1 like him There’s no hotter ntan, I’m sure. But —hut I’m not content; I'm not happy, mother. God forgive me, I don’t love James. That’s it,” cried the girl, laying her face in her mother’s lap. “I don’t love him, and I’ve never loved him.” “And never can, Hetty?” “I don’t know—l don’t know. 1 thought at first I may some day. I’ve tried hard. But it’s no use; and the trouble is on me; for how can I tel’ him now, after all this time, niter giving him my promise? He couldn’t understand. He’s content. And Ic: marry him—yes, I would, and do m\ best, God helping me—only I fee’ afraid of what’s to come. If he founc. out, or if I repent, or if—or if Ah. it’s hard,” sobbed the girl. “Mother tell mo what I ought to do.”

Again Hannah sat quiet for a while watching the fire. How might slit answer? It seemed to her even then that something was hidden from her. that something secret lay between Hetty and James, keeping her love from him. And surely it was strange enough among those Ulster hills, to hear : girl—her own girl, too —talking of lov< so much. Many she knew .who hac married without it, and never repented, or seemed the worse for its loss. “You know best, child,” she answer ed. “I’m loth to advise you. I can onl\ say this: Read vour heart and do wliai it tells you. But be sure. Don’t throw away the affection of a good man, anc the chances he offers you in life, fo: sake of a whim. But if you’re sure and if a dread of the future is upor. you, then for his sake as well as yoiii own, he honest with him. That’s best. I think; and it’s all I can say.” “Then—then you think I ought tc ask him to give me back my promise?” “It’s for you to decide, Hetty. B; honest, I say, spite of everything.” “You’d think no worse of me, mother if I did?” “No matter what I think. Let mt think well or ill—and why should 1 think ill? It’s yourself must live voui own life and bear wliat it has for you. Listen to me, child. Have you told me all; or is there anything elso between you and James?” (To he Continued.)