A DANGEROUS MOOD.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LVI, Issue 159, 5 January 1914, Page 6

A DANGEROUS MOOD.

(By Silas K. Hocking.)', I w "Oil, .lack, I ouglit not to let you sea >.d( how'much 1 love you," she said, looking i' shyly up into his face. j tl "\Vliy not) sweetheart?" he question- d ed, his eyes aglow with pleasure. "Oh. I don't know," and she with- ')) drew her eyes momentarily from his — t .< '•only people say, you know, that a wo- c i jim» should never let a man see how" w much she loves him." _ w j 'Teopie say foolish thing's, darling," u he answered quietly, and he drew her n close to his side. "I have never tried „ to hide my love from you—indeed, I u have wanted you to understand how u I great it is." . j "lint men are different," and she lifted | 0 her shy eyes to his once more. "Men can I n say an.! do so much more than women 1 jj dare. Women are supposed to be——" "Never mind what they are supposed g to' bo, sweetheart," he laughed. "I love y you for what you are —' "And I do love you, Jack," she ans- fl wcred pressing her face against his s shoulders. ''You see, dear, wise or un- ~ wise. 1 cannot help letting you know." £ "Jf that is a confession of weakness,.' ( lie said fondly, "then I'm thankful not only for the confession but for the . 1 weakness. I prize your Jove, Dora, . I move than everything else on earth." ' I "I like to hear you say that," she ans- | wered with swimming eyes, "and yet ought von to prize so much so poor a thing?" "J- it a poor tiling, Dora?" '•Oh,. I don't know," she answered blushing and smiling/ "perhaps it is—perhaps' it isn't. Anyhow, dear, it is the best t have, and all I have, and I ' give it all to you. Give it without stint, 1 j and were it a thousand times greater, 11 I sjiouhl give it (ill and glory in giving—" * I "You dear, sweet girl," he responded ! "I pray that it may never grow less." J "Less?" and she laughed joyously I. though her eyes were swimming, "Oh, ' Jack, when a woman really loves—site | loves fqr ever " j ".'she is not usually credited with so | much constancy," he answered with preI tended gravity. "At least by the novellists." ' ' . «( "The novelists, don't know. dear—" II she interrupted, her face still aglow, j "At least they don't know me. You must pray that my love may not increase —that 1 do. not become an idolater—that's the right word, isn't it?" I "Jfo, quite the wrong woyd, 7 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' * white hand over his mouth, and prevented him completing the sentence. "Hush," she said, "not another word. The faults and weaknesses arc all mine. Indeed there is nothing about mo except my love for I yon." 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 the future, Dora, and wo 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, sweet- _ heart?" "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 I garden—in a secluded corner where no one could see them. The evening was warm and still, the pale blue sky tin- • flecked by a single cloud. Jack Stewart felt as though everything about him symbolised his own life. He saw no trouble ahead, no sign of coming storm. The beauty of the old garden, the calm of the summer evening, the blue of the sky. The gracious form nestled <!o-e to .his side, all whispered to him of happiness unbroken and unclouded. He had reached middle life, and until he met Dora Forest, girls had scarcely entered his scheme of things .Becoming acquainted with her, he felt as though he had discovered his twin'soul. He sat to work to win her with all the strength of a robust and resolute nature. ° Dora was equally attracted. Here J 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 his charm in her eyes. The youths of her acquaintance made no appeal to her. They seemed so raw and unfledged. • But Jack Stewart t ■ was a man—strong and self-reliant. He had already made his wav in the world and was spoken of by all who knew liinr m the highest terms. Her heart leapt out to him unconsciously; her. admiration swiftly ripened into love. Their courtship had' been idyllic. Her love for him seemed to en-' velop her like an atmosphere and made all the world beautiful. Their marria»e had been fixed for early September, and she was already anticipating—ami eagerly imticipating-the long Koneyniooli I f they were to spend together. With her head nestled against his shoulder she wondered if there was an- . other girl in all England as happy as she. Of her love for Jack she was absolutely certain—of his love for her she was equally sure. In the months »f their courtship they had seemed to reach a perfect understanding of each other, and neither had a-doubt respecting the future.

The clouds came up slowly and almost imperceptibly. Xone anticipated anything serious ut the beginning least of all the family doctor. Dora felt languid and her appetite, left her. At firsfshe refused to see Hie doctor. It was nothing. ■She was sure it was nothin". She had caught a chill or eaten something that had disagreed with her. Dr. Simpson conlirmed this view of the case when lie called. Just a chill on the liver. She would he all ri"ht 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 Gradually grew worse. Dr. Simpson puzzled his brains over the case, until he lost Ins own appetite and ultimately suggested calling in a specialist, ' ° The great man from Hartley 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.

'flie day fixed for .the weddiiH' drew near and Dora lay in her white," lied a wreck of lier former self. She was allowed to see Jack now and then in the presence of her nurse, lmt slie receivod him without enthusiasm, scarcely with 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 slippii," from her grasp, and she was'content tc let it slip. In a vague way she wa< sorry for Jack. Slie knew liow disap pointed he would feel. For herself i did not matter. She had got lioyon. the point of worrying on Jier own a count. * •J<«* 'o" BurforA Cli

no better. What he suffered these long months of deepening darkness no one knew. Dora had become to him the j most precious thing in life, and the thought of losing; her, of living Ills'iife ', without her win as the bitterness of >. death to him.

» second specialist was called in, and then a third. If. r I'.ither 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 wasallowe.l to see her she received him without emotion. The day fixed for the wedding came and went, bat she made no allusion to it. .She appeared to nave no regrets. She was content to lie still and quietly to drift out into the great unknown.

The third specialist spoke obscurely of septic poisoning, as difficult to diagnose as to trace, but after his 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 agaiq. He did not mind wailing. The knowledge that she was getting better was like nnv life to him. | So the days crept on and grew-into weeks, and every week showed a distinct step towards recovery. . By the end of October she was able to sit up a few hours each day. A fortnight later she was allowed downstairs. A little later on 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 suggestion was I not encouraged. The months that followed proved an | unhappy time for Jack. He wrote long | letters out of the fulness of his heart, but they evoked no adequate response. He hungered for the old words of endearment, but for some reason they did not conic. He plied her with questions i from time to time but got no satisfactory answer. , She was getting better ami 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 hail 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 ho knew and loved had really died and that another and totally different Dora had taken her i place. • When he met them at Charing Cross j on the day of their return his heart j leaped with a great joy.' Dora came tojed lips. Her radiant face seemed to '] glow with health. She was lovelier than before her illness. In such a crowd, however, I here was no chance of any demons'tratioii of affectisn; .nor even at Burfoid Chase. The excitement and bustle of homecoming banished all other things. For the moment it was almost joy enough to look at her—to see the light shining in her eyes and hear the music of her laughter. She seemed to luive grown younger—graver, and certainly more inI consequential. On the following dav he sought to reI store the old sweet intimacy, and dis- / covered that it was not to be restored. He wanted her to name the wedding day. and she put him oil' with a peal of I merry laughter. He recalled to her | some of the things she had Raid before her illness, and she laughingly replied that she had grown older since" then. Ife grew grave and troubled. "You have changed. Dora," lie said. "You no longer love me." "Of course I love you.' she answered. "Yon are the dearest old thing in the world and there is not another man on earth that can compare with you—not even the dad." "Then why not fix a day for our marriage."

"Because I want to remain us I nni. Don't you see that I have a lot to make ii)). I have come back like one from the dead, and I am brimming over with life, and I wan't to enjoy myself." "But you were brimming over with life, when you fixed our wedding-day, Dora."

"Hut not in the way 1 am now. And oh. Jack, marriage is not everything." "ft is the crown of love. dear, as love is the crown of life." • "Oh. that is a man's view," she htugh■ed. "Whv cannot we remain as we are?"

"Yon are content to rcuuiin as you are?"

"Quite." He turned away from lier, battled, pained, and not a little angry. She might not be conscious of unv change in herself, but he was conscious of it through every fibre of his being. Whether it was only a passing mood, or

■ whether it was a fundamental change lie ' did not stop to consider. In the bitter- ! ness of his disappointment he eluded her 1 on her fickleness and inconstancy, and i for the first time they parted in angu. Ho did not see her again for two days, and when they met her mood had changer from inco'nsequeiitial 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 .

lie. had so little experience of the ways of women that lie was completely baffled, lie tried to argue with her but she was in no mood for argument, and was too proud or too headstrong to look at the mutter 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 and ..seeing liinv 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 self-contained to take any-one into his confidence .

It might be 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 site discouraged and even resented? every sweet and tender intimacy that had tiecn so dear to them (both. ■ /

He had passed through dark days during her long illness, but. these days were darker still. He grew cynical at times, and denounced all women in his heart as fickle and inconstant. Moreover, her inconsistency chafed him almost beyond endurance. Why did she piWnd to love him still—refuse to be released and protest that he was more to her than all the world beside, when she persistency I kept him at arm's length, .refused all i the endearments of a lover, and declin- [ ed even to discuss.the question of marI rage. The position was not merely alij surd, 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 how 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 choose 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 times of tho day and night. He was too restless to sit at home—too miserable to visit his friends. The spring was unusually ecrld, 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, ao,d creeping miserably into bed would sleep from sheer exhaustion.

Dora grew anxious after one of his 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.ery out for the old intimacy To be with him always, was begining 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 were typewritten. She walked into the library where her father was reading, and handed liim 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 typewritten. "My Darling Dora," it ran, "I am very ill, and would like to see once more. Do come if yon 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. All the reserve had "slipped from her like a mantle that had been out loose. All the old longing came back with tenfold intensity. The pent-up passion of months had broken free at last. "Father, we must go to him at once." she said.

"Yes," he answered quietly. '--J 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 lie ready in a few minutes." "I will get the motor round at once," lie answered. An hour later she was kneeling bv 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—" No turned his dim eyes mid smiled feebly on her, he was almost too far spent to speak. "I have- come back to myself, darling," she sobbed passionately', ''and T want you, oh, T want vou. Yon are my life, Jack, my all. I cannot live without you, T want you, dearest. J)o you understand?—l want you." "I understand, dearest," he whispered, "but it is tor. late. Kiss me before T go." "I cannot let you go." she cried, with streaming eyes. ' "Oh, T cannot. I cannot, I cannot," and she kissed him again and again. A happy smile spread itself over bis face, and lie looked long and lovingly into her eyes. "I have wanted yon, dear heart," be whispered, 'but -" be did not finish the sentence, nnd there was no need. She understood only too well. Wet and cold and exposure bad brought on double pneumonia, and 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 iir marriage.