A Nice Girl.

Auckland Star, Volume XVII, Issue 202, 28 August 1886, Page 3

A Nice Girl.

I saw her first in an omnibus. I remember that morning well, for if ever a man had an undeniable right to be cross and ill-tempered I had that time-if ever a man hugely availed himself of that undeniable right, again 1 say I was that man. • To begin with, the morning was wet—l detest wet mornings with a hatred worthy of a better cause —my breakfast was late, and I had to run for the omnibus ; I hate running even moro than Ido ra . Lastly, my mourning suit was new, and new clothes are my pet abomination. My uncle's funeral had taken place but two days before, so the clothes could not well be other than now and glossy, but none the less surely were they a source of aggravation. One moment, dear reader, before I proceed, for in my last words I perceive I have laid myself open to the charge of heartlessness on the ground that I am objecting to the results without bewailing my uncle's death. Allow me to explain. My uncle and I had been co-editors of a weekly journal of which ho ruled the roast in town, and I humbly undertook the country branch, and obeyed his behests down in Liverpool. I had only seen him occasionally, for though he was reported to be as kind as he was eccentric, we did not pull very well together. Hence my grief at his decease was deep enough to be respectable, but no more, and having installed our chief clerk in my chair at Liverpool I cheerfully came up to town, and took over the London office as my uncle's sole heir. This identical morning, on which I was rolling townwards in a Fulham 'bus, was the first on which I was going regularly to work. There were eleven of us inside, and when tho conductor gave us a hasty survey, and then opened the door I am sure there was not one amongst us who did not sincerely hope that the new comer might prove a tolerably slim man. Instead of a man it was a girl. She slipped into the vacant place, which happened to be opposite me, and thon we were off again. We had not gono a dozen paces before I was congratulating myself on being thus favoured, for she was a particularly nice girl. Her hair was yellow, her lips very red, and her oves very blue, and such a vivid little bit of colouring was quite a relief after the stolid monotony of the bearded faces round her. Her ulster was thin and worn, and her gloves were a miraculous proof of how much darning one pair could stand ; but it was neither her pretty face nor her shabby clothes that so attracted me. No ;it was her own exceeding happiness. She was childishly happy, almost idiotically so, I thought at last, for the omnibus was damp, and, closely packed though we wero, she must have been chilled to the bone, and the pelting rain was changing to sleet, and altogether it was a morning that made one think charitably of suicides ; but there she was, with her big eyes sparkling with fun, and the dimples playing at hide-and-seek round her mouth. What on earth was sho thinking about '! I grow quite annoyed with her at last, for it seemed so unfair on her part to be the possessor of such a good joke and not to impart it to tho world at large. Next I wondered who she was and what she did to bo capable of producing such content, for the girl did not look as if the world were treating hor very we 1. She could not have been moro than nineteen or so, and was evidently a worker, for she carried with her a roll of manuscript, and carried it, moreover, in a business-like, determined sort of way as if the precious document were her own. When I was put down in Fleet Street I noticed that she, too, left the omnibus, but I was certainly not prepared to see her precede me into the office and vanish up the dingy staircase. Now all my life, much as I had admired and reverenced women in general iv their home capacity, I had had tho finest contempt for their brain-power, and nourished quite a special defestation for writing-women ; so it was with a considerable amount of anger that I turned round on old Jones, who had a seat in the lower room, and asked him who on earth was the lady who had just passed me.

Old Jones was my uncle's foreman—an ancient, highly-respectacle, not-to-be-got-rid-of sort of man, who had come into the office at such a remote date that it was lost in the midst of the Middle Ages. He knew everybody and everything connected with the paper, and my uncle's only advice to me, when speaking of my future sovereignty, had been to the effect that the whole concern would go to pieces, and crush me in its fall, unless I retained old Jones, and followed his suggestions. " Who is tbelady ?" I repeated impatiently. "Lady!" echoed the foreman. "I Oh yes, to be sure. I beg pardon, sir, but for the moment I thought you meant someono with letters or manuscript, and they always come in hero. If she went straight up stairs, it was Miss Charity Landor.'' " What eloes she want, and who is she?" I asked ; and if old Jones had thrown a thunderbolt by way of answer, I could not have been more astonished than I was by his reply. "Sho is your secretary," he said. I really thought for the moment that tho poor old man was out of his mind. "My secretary!" I exclaimed. "Good heavens ! I won't have a girlfora secretary.' "You must," said old Jones, and then he proceeded to explain. Mr Landor, it appeared, had been my uncle's secretary for some three years, when, ono morning, his young daughter had arrived in his stead, saying that hor father was unwell, and might she not undertake his work for a couplo of days. My uncle agreed—Horace Blake, said his enemies, would agree to anything that common sense negatived—and the girl did the work, and did it so creditably, old Jones declared, that his master was only too glad to retain her when it proved that, as regards writing, a paralytic stroke had placed Mr Landor on the shelf. " And so Mr Blake, sir," pursued my informant, " Miss Charity has been here going on a year now, and if* you dismiss her—you'll excuso me, sir—but you'll get yourself into a pretty pickle. She knows all about everybody, and the correspondence, and " " This is pure rubbish I" I interrupted loftily, for it was hardly a soothing suggestion that my future success depended upon a slip of a girl. "You must know all this kind of thing yourself, and I do not approve of women meddling in business." "Well, sir," as obstinately as ever, "you just try for a month, and then you'll see;" and with that he went back to his stool, and I on the stairs.

I had snug quarters up there—a tolerably good-sized room, whore my uncle used to sit in state, and an inner one, very much smaller, where Ifound Miss Charity Landor. She looked desperately industrious, a perfect model of a secretary, in fact, when I peered into the room, for she was seated at the table, with a whole pile of papers before her, and her pen was skimming rapidly along, while the orthodox little business frown drew the pretty eyebrows nearer together. "Good morning," and I walked into the room. "Good morning, Mr Blake," said the girl. She rose and held outlier hand. "I hope you will approve of me, for I will try very hard to give satisfaction." "lam sure you will do so," I said, warmly, and then stopped, for it suddenly occurred to me I had not intended to commit myself. While I hesitated she spoke again, "Perhaps you don't approve ot woman secretaries ?" " No, I don't," 1 said bluntly ; " but I should be very sorry to cause you any inconvenience ; so suppose we say that for one month things shall go on as they are." The girl's face fell. "Oh !" she said. Such a melancholy " Oh !" and, recalling the beaming face in the omnibus, I felt a perfect brute for speaking to her as I did. But still business is busines, I did not want a girl in my office, and I told her so. Furthermore, I explained my views of. women's duties in general, and finished by hinting pretty plainly that I thought she would be far better at home nursing her father. So far from being crushed, this girl actually laughed in reply. "I am sure father would far rather havo what I earn," sho said merrily; "but please do not be afraid I shall worry you. If I cannot satisfy you as woll as I satisfied old Mr Blake of course I must go." That sounded well and so it was finally settled that for one month Charity Landor should continuo at her port.

I went back to my own room feeling exceedingly thankful to her that she had not tried to coax a more gracious answer from me. With such a face, with such eyes, who could resist her? Did she know how beautiful she was ? Pshaw ! Every woman knows that. And yet it was not so much that she was beautiful, but that she was evidently a nice girl-a particularly nice girl, I thought, as I recalled her frank greeting, the pretty action with which she indicated her work, and the loving stress she had laid on the word "Father."' I glanced at my watch, and was horrorstricken at discovering I had waited full ten minutes in thinking of Charity Landor, and then with an ejaculation that was hardly self-complimentary, I turned to my work. Our paper was simply chit-chat, on the topics of the day, and steered tolerably clear of scandal. There were soience papers, book papers, and the only

amusing column was one that was devoted to miscellaneous gossip, and was signed " The Man About Town." The stykTwas clever and easy, and my own writing being of the heavy essay order, I nourished a Becret but profound admiration for my unknown contributor. Wero 1 only possessed of his capabilities, I used to think, John Blake should die famous. Looking ovei his latest articles, it suddenly struck mo j had uever been told his name, and I put my new secretary to her first use by asking it of Miss Charity Landor. " Hope," said the girl promptly ; " but he never calls at the office. Mr Blake used always to write te him." " What a pity 1 I should like tc sec him," I answered, while for the first time it occurred to me that this inner room, where she sat, was far the snugger of the two. "Do you not admire his writings very much, Miss Landor ?" "Not particularly," she replied. "It reads to me as il he put iv a good deal of rubbish by way ol paclding." The envy of women ! I need not have feared this girl being too clover il she could not oven appreciate my favourite " Man About Town," and though, as time went on, I discovered that in most mattersmy secretary was gifted with quite an extra amount of sense, I could never get her to share my admiration for Mr Hope. I say as time went on, for, of course, Charity stayed with me. For the first week or so I found the girl's presence was irksome, but as the strangeness wore off it seemed to make my work doubly attractive. She was an immense help to me, for one thing, saving me hours of labour and days of inconvenience; but, try as I would, 1 could not persuade myself that it was simply her assistance that was so valuable to me. I began to listen for the soft voice, and laid many a deep plot to win from her a laugh or a smile. I grew jealous of the time she spent in tho inner room, and ono memorable afternoon—l blush at the remembrance—l even put back the hands of the office clock, and thus detained the whole staff, while I sat talking to Charity. In short, I was in love with my blue-eyed secretary. In that secretary-part of the business lay the whole difficulty. If she were willing to listen to me, I was only wasting so much precious time ; but if, on the other hand—and I was obliged to confess that this last was by far the most probable —she refused me, I should lose her from my life altogether. I tortured myself by endeavouring to look at the matter from a hundred different views, but when at last it came to a crisis it wa3 unexpected. One sweet spring morning, when I was working alone, an envelope was brought me—a long, greyish envelope, which I knew to contain the weekly effusion of " The Man About Town." The address was written in his customary style, but when I slit the cover and the MS. tumbled out, to my intense amazement it was written in the well-known rather peculiar hand of my own secretary. I looked at it once, I looked at it twice, I turned it, I twisted it, and finally I read it straight through. Yes ; there was no mistake at all about it, and I sat in sore perplexity. Was it possible that Charity should be tho author of these clever papers ? Impulsive for once in my life, I went straight into the inner room, laid the tell-tale paper on tho girl's desk, and asked her what it meant. Her answer was so eloquent that words of mine are powerless to describe it; she simply looked up at me and flushed hotly. " Why Charity, you " I began, then stopped abruptly, with my face as red as her own. "I beg your pardon, Miss Landor." " No, Charity, please," said the girl softly. " I like it better." I drew a long breath. "Thank you. So do I," I said gravely. " And now, Charity, tell mo, dear, how did you do it?" Such a mischievous glance shot from her blue eyes. "I am very penitent," she said, though she did not look it in the very least, " but it was so easy. Father used to write them first, and then, when he couldn't, I took it as well as his other work. Mr Blake did not mind, but I knew you would, because I am a woman, so my brother always copied it out for me. He copied it this time, and must have jiosted the original by a stupid mistake. Are you angry ? Ah, please don t be angry —please don't !" I had wondered onco if this girl could coax, and, as if in punishment for my past doubts, I was now brought to an instant and shameful surrender of all my preconceived notions of women's work. " Angry ? Why, I am proud of you !" I answered her. "So happy, too, that I want ■ to tell you something else; may I, Charity ?" " Yes, Mr Blake." " Say ' Yes, John,' " I urged; "it helps me to tell you." Charity did not repeat the words, but I saw the sweet face as she half turned from me, and seeing, I gained courage to continue. "Charity means love," I said softly. "Darling, am I too vain or mad if I hope " The words failed me, and I held out my arms, "Charity, will you not come to me?" and then, with a new, bright light in her glorious eyes, Charity came.

And so this is the very commonplace ending to a very ordinary tole. Even so, dear reader, and as this is. a most veracious little history I daro not embellish it for your edification, for my wife is not at all tho sort of woman of whom a thrilling novel could be written. She i* a tolerably wellnown novelist at present, but she neither neglects her husband nor leaves her children :« rags. Like most clever women, hei convictions are apt to be strong ones, and I am told, on good authority, thather writings have more than once been instrumental in doing away with certain abuses, but Charity herself is wont to declare that she never achieved so thorough or lasting a victory as when she first reconciled me to the idea of receiving her in the character of my unknown contributor. "But, after all, dear, what a terrible come-down it was for you !" she is apt to protest, when I repeat the popular opinion that I am not good enough for my wife; " for you only married 'The Man About Town.'" And, for my part, I answer that he may laugh who wins, for, writer or not, I certainly married a particularly nice girl.—Household Words.