Page:Weird Tales Volume 44 Number 7 (1952-11).djvu/19

 shamefaced laugh, she hurried after him.

Jet released, was ecstatic. Like an arrow from a bow she flew out, circled the house twice and then leapt to Charles' face over and over, with an hysterical abandon not to be denied.

When Charles finally pushed her away with a soft, "Down, girl!" she seemed suddenly to recollect Moira, standing rather stiffly to one side. Cringing, wagging her tail, her whole body writhing in exaggerated submission and supplication, she crawled over to Moira and began licking her hand. Without thinking Moira drew it away.

"Why do you do that, Moira?" Charles' voice held displeasure. "Don't you realize she's sensitive? Why must you show so persistently that you dislike her?"

"My God!" said Moira, and stopped herself. Never—and Mrs. Bunty still in the house. "Let's go in," she finished lamely. "You must be starving."

Jet followed them, walking close beside Charles, wagging abjectly and shrinking away whenever she caught Moira's eye, quite evidently in mortal fear.

"As she always does," Moira thought bitterly. "As if when Charles is away I beat her!"

Dinner over, the washing-up concluded, she stood at the window watching Mrs. Bunty pedal away, sternly erect, into the gray dusk.

"Let's go for a walk, Charles," she said, with a touch of wistfulness. "On the rocks. Just—" No, not just the two of them. Never just the two of them. Only at night, and even then that haunting tragic presence just outside their closed door.

Charles looked up from his paper.

"I'm a bit tired, dear. Why don't you go—and take Jet?"

At sound of her name the dog moved closer and laid her head on his knee.

"That's—not what I meant." There was a lump in Moira's throat. She sank down on the hearthrug. "I don't—think she wants to go for a walk. Do you, Jet?"

The dog's tail wagged. With an almost imperceptible glance at Charles, she groveled across the rug toward Moira.

"What an affectionate thing she is!" Charles' voice was fond.

Moira stretched out an unwilling hand. The dog cringed and drew back with a faint whimper, her body wagging apologetically as she shrank toward Charles. He put down his paper.

"Why on earth docs she do that, Moira? She tries so hard to win your love—over and over I've seen her. But what have you done to frighten her?"

Moira sprang to her feet. She was shaking from head to foot.

"diaries Glenn, do you realize what you're implying? Are you really out of your mind?"

"I realize exactly what I'm implying," said Charles deliberately. "That your harshness and unkindness have hurt Jet's feelings so badly that she's afraid of you. A child could see that."

"I've never been unkind to an animal in my life!" Moira's voice rose. "You've put me in an impossible position ever since I came here—you and that dog between you! I've tried to be understanding, I've tried to—"

"Understanding!" His face was flushed with anger. "You don't know the meaning of the word! You're hard as nails where this poor dumb beast is concerned, and you know it. Jet's loving and sensitive—you've cut her to the heart. Don't you think a dog has feelings?"

"Don't you think a woman has feelings?"

Moira suddenly found herself screaming.

"Jet—Jet—Jet! Damn you, why did you get married at all? You don't need a wife—you've got Jet!"

She slammed the door behind her and ran up the stairs, weeping.

Charles slept in the guest room that night. He was gone when she came down, listless and swollen-eyed, to breakfast. Jet lay in the corner, her black body relaxed in easy grace. At Moira's entrance she raised her head but did not move.

Moira crossed the room and stared down at her. The dog's yellow eyes met hers without wavering.

"I hate you!" she said softly, bending