FOR OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

Auckland Star, Volume XXVII, Issue 3, 4 January 1896, Page 3 (Supplement)

FOR OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

A Dear Little Girl.

BY ELLA HETWORTII DIXON,

Thin-k I shall have urgent business in Paris,' announced Jack, with a portentous yawn, 'if ' you're going to fill tho house wiih schoolgirls for Christmas, just when we want to amuse ourselves a little. What in Heaven's name are you going to do with her ? Ton my word,' he finished up with a groan, • it's absolutely uncivilized of you, Cecil.' I glanced at Jack's broad shoulders and handsome, woe-begone visage, and burs!; out laughing. lam devoted to Jack. We have been married seven years, and he is certainly tho moat outrageous flirt) I hava ever come across, hub still—l am devoted to him. If good digestions, tolerable tempers, and a decent banking account can make two young people happy, Jack and I ought to be in Paradise. 1" don'b think there i& really a more contented couple than we in all London, for my husband ia of opinion that I am the ' best fellow going,' and he certainly confides in me in the most flattering way. Of course, if women choose to make fools of themselves over hi* gray eyes and square shoulders, how can I help it ? How can I blame them, when I made & fool of myself too, reven years ago ? And he is auch" a good sort1. Bab I don't »poi! him with sweet speeches—not a bit of ifi ; I know my young mau too well for that. 'Don'b be an idiot, Jack,' I replied, tartly; 'it's oaly one girl, and she won't bite. You talk about; Misa Underwood as if she were some strange animal or other. We shall have you falling head over ears in love \vifch her bcrforo she goea to L'idia. If she's h&Jf as nice as her father I'm sure you will.'

'You bet,' replied Jack, laconically, pensively dropping a third lump of sugfir into his tea-cup, ' Infaata in pinafores are nob my style. If you v/aofi same one fco talk to this interesting ingenue of yours, why, turn Biii on. Perhaps he'll appreciate the common or garden school-girl of tho Britinh Islands, after live years of Anrjlo-Indifin "spins."1 We were having tea, aa usual, in the coziest room in the house —ray especial ''en with its amber walla and white wood fitmenta and low eastern Jonnges. Thn P.?»: burned cheerily among tho red tiles, a yellow-shaded lamp glowed like come giast i:ropical flower, and a bunch of pale violet i from Nice softly perfumed the little room. Outside, one could nee tba bare branches and bine miste of the c;ree:i park. Is x/a'j ~haif-pafct four on a December afternoon, and my only visitor wsa Billy. Next to Jack, my brother Billy 13 my | I greatest friend on earth. Was it not he, j indeed, who taught rao how to carve bonfcs, make sails and fire off toy gans ; who fir: ■■<: upset me on the liver and then iiahed mo oub ag"»in, bringing me home, a email, doluroas, and damp atom of humanity, to our distracted parents? Was it nof Bilty who trotted me cut at) my first Sandhnr*i> ball, who, later on, introduced ma to Jack, and gave thab lovely libcle dinner at Hurilington to celebrate our engagement ? Though far from handsome, he has s bright, aimpk, honest face, and ho i.;i well set-up n,nd soldierly, an bscooaos an cllicer in her MajcKty's —th Hnesara. 1 Biily ia an sngel,' I announced v/ith emphasw. 'If it bored him ever so much Fax* sure he would be nice to Dorothea Underwood. He h.iß a perfect talent for making a martyr of himself v/here a woman is concerned.' This was a Machiavellian piece of strategy on my part, for in this way my brother's attendance for the next; fortnight is secured. By appealing to his chivalry, I am Enre of Billy. 1 Anything to please yoo, Cecil. On Christmas Eve I go down to Losmshire, him until then you may count upou rue—even for Madame Tusfmud's and tho Tower of London,1 added ujy brother, resignedly. 1 Cheer up, old roan !' said Jack encouragingly. ' Jii won't be for long. I give you leave to take the missis and this ylrl wherever you like.1 ' Ib isn'O paying us much of a compliment,' I retorted. ' I tlo wish you wouldn't treat ma as if 1 were fifty. Wo shall just be a nice quartet, as it happens,' I hinted, darkly. ' One of my loves is coming to town next) week.' 1 Who ia ho V demanded Jack, grinning. • A male relative of Mrs Hr.rrb, I should think. My dear Cecil, don'b try and perpjadens that you've pot a real "mash." Everybody loves you, we know; bull I'll take "my oath nobody is in love with you.' ' For'Heaven'B pake, don't try to bs epigrammfttic,' I retorted, loftily ; ' anrl perhaps you'll leive fome tea for Mtas Uaderwood. I expect her every minute.' • Well, go yotir owa ways, al! of you, only for Heaven's sake keep her out of my eight as much as you can.' ' All right. TbsiS's »< bargain. Only don't ynn coins 1 inrerferin^ in onr concerns. Billy and I taka this girl on our baud.", aod yon ecV'; phfinge your mind now. Whatever she turns out yon can't go back on yonr worn,' I announced, at the top of cjy voice ; for we were all talking at once by this time, and woman-like, I wanted to have the last word. Standing m I was rica? the lire-place, j with my back to tho door, I suddenly taw i something in febe long narrow mirror which cent a cold shiver down my buck —m'.meiy, h Jr.rgc feminine hat, and the anxious face of Jsakiss trying to naii'onrce some one in tha genural hubbub. In anofcher insfnnt I wa1? eonpeionri that a Ufct]*i hi:-:(3 was clasn> ing mine, aad s soft childish voice was saying, in somewhat monotonous, but perfectly wr 11-brt'd tones: 'BcGir Mr;? Ki?.icsidl, it ib so aweet of you to hay/i! me, Father has so often written to me aboni you, eayi»g all sorts of charming tilings.1 Bad phfi heard ?' To this day I do not Izvr.;-.'. W«i all o'i'-'.d to look tii if nothiag ; had hs.pp".ned. I?« nyhc: ~A her sevwlecn yea», my visJtoir \ looked a perfect cbiki. She vow her lonß | heir twieted iato o. Marguevite plait, acd had the blues", mof.l) iaaocsct eyes ia tho work. Doroihen, cast an aypsiilrog look r/j! the two man. Ono \?ould have nwuru it was an ioaiinct i'or tliis gill to appeal to raasaulitie irather t'ton to forairdn« eyrai pahhy. Jack v:as sf/Ul sulking in c. conv;i-, ;ao 3VIO tnrnad to Eil.ly. ' !■■ rbi.i your hisa'iw.rid?' she cflksd shyly, ai eb« dasnKraty ?usi]3ee(.";.t!. ray brother. 'No, ao, I>crothc-ft. iTbaft'o my brother, you kaow. Ho bw?;w yorif f*t>ner very well in India. This is J«ck,' I expln>izted, giving roy spouse a ptayfal pvsnh fovwsid. Jack was eevteialy in a bad temper by this time, for he only" mumbled something uuintciligible iv answer to her pretty phra&ea, and murmuring aomethiß.^ aboat 'club—appointment—fellow'—niacaged to slip from tha room. Dorothea's eyes turned Piter his vanishing figure, and a enrions littJe siuile juat flickered for an instant on her lips. Half an hour later, when s'ae had drnnk bar tea and disappeared to her room tinder the maid's wing, Billy rose to go. When he was half-way down stairs he came back again, and put hi 3 head in at the door. ' • I say, Cecil, yon needn't mind about my beiug bored in'helpine; to (jnbertain Miss Underwood. I shall be only: too glad to be

of nse, and all that sorfc of thing, I don't fancy, you know, that she'll be any trouble to you. She seems a dear little girl!' ; CHAPTER 11. The whole effect was capital. She stood in front of the grand piano, a small virginal figure in a white gown, with the fronds of & gi.icb palm behind her head, her welltrained voicß rising and falling in the hushed drawing-room:— ' Dv bist wie cine Blume So hold, und scncn. und rein, Ich aeh, dich an, und wehmuth, Schleicht niir ins Horz hinein!' It was perfect, it was quite complete; the white dress, with its modest folds over her breast), the uplifted chin, the far-ay/ay blue eyes, the hanging arms, the clasped hands. lam the last woman in the world to grudge another woman her ' effect,' so I answered Billy's nudges with effusion. 1 Dorothea sings like an artist,11 whispered. 'By Jove !' rejoined Billy, devouring her with hi? eyes, • she's awfully fetching !' A week had gone by sines Dorothea. Underwood came to stay with me—a week which had proved her to be a somewhat strange person. I had already a shrewd suspicion that sbe v/as by no means so innocent as her appearance wd mannera would indicate. Why, her dress alone betrayed the raosi) consummate taate —no'o to say worldly wisdom. No ingenue on the Pari sian sfca^e ever dressed the part, better, and in this case the simplicity was' never overdona. Your modern young girl, perfectly aware of the market value of youth, not only acts, but dresses the role to perfection, j What clever little minxes they &11 are nowadays ! The worst of the affair waa that Billy ■was so ridiculous about her—Billy, whose society I had "clamoured for dming the fortnight the girl wa« to be with me. He came nearly every afternoon, and then we all three wenS off somewhere together. Of course it wouldn't lasts, I told myself every day, and it didn't mean anything; but still, it was amusing to see him gazing an her rapturously as we drove through the foggy streets in the intimacy of a tiny brougham, with Dorothea perfectly aware that he waa looking at her, and turning her eyes steadily cway out of tag window o,ii the time, with her tiresome, Innocent blue stare. Mks Underwood talked very Hfcfcle to women, bui seemed, by fits and starts, to have a great deal to say to men, loangiug in the twilight) o'a tha sofb cushions in my room, or cooing soffcly over her shoulder to some one in oar box of an evening at the play. She was evidently a girl who had interminable confidences to males—to her men friends ; but she did not appsar to flirt in the ordinary sense of the word. As to my husband—true to his threat, he took no notice of her; such a v/onder for him, for &aybhirig presentable in petticoats is gars to attract him, as a rale. Why, he h?Mi hardly .spoken to her since she came—as fa? as I "knew—except) to poea tho ordinary civilities of mesl times. It wap cud, too, because I sometimes noticed him staring 'ai her hard —almost m.deiy ; b«>i that ic&.i ! I;hs oorfc of thing that Dorothea alwr-ya pra--1 tended not to see.

To raaka tliiaga cheery for ray visitor, I had aaj> t .cs fed a dinner party, and now the room tt'sa ?.u)l of people—sleek, well-bred, aelf-cosrplaceiit) people—a trill: dense pwhaps, haii all wearing that/ beniga expression which in bora of a good dinner. Not too ready ■wiih their tongues, maybe, bub all the more grateful for anything which might help tn pain tba time batweea cc-ffce and the carriages. Bnt I, for one, had retained my critical fanolcies. Had I nor. already politely ignored the fact that a pink-facsd subaltern was nob only sitting ominously near the piano, buii had left a bundle of comic songs on the hall table 1 Ba!))t) was Kostl himself who had iashted on Mlsa Underwood's song. She was oce of his pupils, he said. These was quite a little crowd round the piano when tho girl had finished, and I had made my v?ay scroas the room to thank her. I was astonished to ccc that Dorothea bad grown deathly white, and was holding on to the piano to steady herself. ' It ia only the hot room,' she said ; ' I often ieel like that if i sing,' 1 Mademoiselle is a real artie*,' said Roati, in his queer English. ' She feels what she sings—artists must always suffer.' 'My dear, you had better go and sit quiefciy in ray little room. It in cooler there, and I will send you some sal volatile, Billy will keep you company,' I added, laughing. At this imxnnt'e, greatly to my surprise, my husband came foiward, offered f)he girl his arm, and drew her away into my sanctum on the other side of the passage. ' 8i11.?,' I whispered, half aa hour later, ' something must be going to happen, Jack in actually bßiog civil to Dorothea. What can ife mean ?' 4 Hanged if I know, 1 muttered my \ brother, with something like a s?eowl on ibis good-natured face ; ' but I really don't see why Kiacaid should keep her sitting in fchera trie whole night. Thought he didn't like Do—Mihs Underwood.' ' I bolievo he hates her,' I said, with conviction. 'Well, good-Bight, Cecil,' said Billy, dejectedly ' I—l've promised to look in tiumewhere else.' Everybody began to go soon after, so I was obliged to go and fetch Jack Bway from hia post as nuree. 1 found Dorothea quifce recovered, and leaning in her favourite attitude among ray cushions, as usual, engaged in serious talk. * Jack,' I said, a few minutes later, when v/ 8 were alona, ' I'm awfully sorry you ■were bored with the girl to-night. What en earth did you talk to he? about all this tiPMi?' Fir once my beautiful Jack was grumpy —giumpy with me. Bad it been one oi liiw 'mashes,' as ho calls them, he wonlrt hftve favonrsd me with a long nnd detailed aecorrat of evaryfching thab had passed. 'Oh,' he said, carelessly, lighting a cigarette, 'nothing, She was talking a flood deal about—abrmt her lonely childhood, and all that. She seems a sensitive, impressionable girl.1 'Oh, does she? Odd,' I added, dryly, Miinkiag of tha mai>y hours I have spent alo;a?- wibh Dorothea in which she has never occe evinced any desire ipv my sympathy ; ' thab she ehonid have chosen you, of all people in the world, to confide in.' ' You don't undent and,' said Jack, Joftily. ' Of course she's been Sonely ove? b?re wiMJOut her psople; bns ehe sgema to bate the idea of coisg out to India,' I answered noiihing. After all, our most unkind speeches are thoss which we ieave ansaid.

CHAPTER 111. A black, fiitf.y, depressing December affceracon. I an:'all alone, wihh so&biag to do cßci nobody to ?pcak to. Dorothea TJadsrwood wend out) after breakfast, sc.yijjg the is fco BpF.ad the day and dino with eoioe cousins at Upp'M' Norwood, and won't ba home tail lats to-night She is to sa:' fo? Cftlcntta ab noon to-morrow. Jock wenti oil" to hani by an early train, aud i Haavpa knows at what hour I may expect! him Lack. .Dear old Jack ! I wieh ba were rij home to-day. I've gob the fcln.es, i and I would give anything to hava him here—yes, even in my favourite rockingelkiv. When Jack is away I always endow him with a bnadred virtues and charms which he can not truthfully be said to possess. I juiap op, poke the fire into a blaze, and turning once more to the window, flatten my nose agataafc the f;lass. The grimy trees stretch their gaunt arms to sha lea-Jen sky : drip, drip, goes the rain as I stars up and down Piccadilly; one or two rare hansoms, wish closed, rain-beclouded windows, rattle by. There is an omnibus, full of steaming, packed human beings ; it doesn't look luxurious, that omnibus, but,

for the sake of human companionship I almost wi3h I were in it.

' What nonsense !' I tell myself, severely, • Get a book and read.' ,

Igo to the shelf—my shelf of favourite books—and take them down one by one. 'Pfohenrs d'lalande,' by Pierre Loti? Nice, cheerful reading when you've got the blues already! • Anua Karenine,' the lad y who throws herself under a tk-ain ? Worse still. Who was it thai) advised persons suffering from a plethora of high spirits bo read Tolstoi ? ' Ibsen's Plays ?' ' A Village Tragedy ?' No, none of these melancholy modern classics tpnipt me this afternoon. I wander to the window once more. Steady rain, every drop of which contains a London smut. Here is another hansom ; there is a young man inside—a young man with a nicely-shaped hat and a'trafcfconhole of Neapolitan violets. Ib is Billy, beautifully ' gotten up' to call on Dorothea! Poor boy ! he little knows she ia at Upper Norwood.

The cabman pulls up at my door, and his fare, gingerly opening an umbrella, steps out. EiiSy was in the thick of it ai) Abu Kiea, but he won't risk spoiling his hat.

1 You dear boy !' I cry, when he is finally landed io my presence. ' It's so sweet of you to come. Everybody's onto —Jack ia hunting, Dorothea's gone to Upper Norwood, and IYe gob the blues.' I always envied Billy hi 3 pretty manners. He doesn't show his disappointment in the eosti,

' We'll have tea—lamps—fireworks !' I continue, incoherently. 'You'il stay to dinner, won* yon? Ido hate sitting down to dinner all alone. Jenkins and the fooftman eye my plate severely when I don't eat.'

Half an hour later we have settled that Billy ia to go home and dre3s, dine here at/ eight, and afterward take me to the Imperial Music Hall. What a dissipation lot me ! I h&ye never been to a music hall in ray life.

They are finishing the first ballot as I 'cake my place in a corner of the box where I Khali be quite invisible to the audience. Aa yet moHtj of the other boxes are empty ; the Kmart folks, it would eeem, come late. It n all very bright and light, and there ia a great deal of imitation marble, many iihowypluoh curtains, and much '"'•Ming. The smell of the amoke below.m; 1:33 me cough. The entertainment proceeds. A young woman, with a highly rouged visage —described in the programme as one of ' Nature's 'Wild Flowers '—has informed us ixi tha intervals of alternately biting a, comer of her apron and reciting some sufficiently dubious adventures, that f e'aa's really ho awfully shy.' An elderly individual, ia a blonds wig and cheeked gait, lias patriotically declared his irrevocable determination to become either a n Kcwldjpr' or a ' ftilor.' The Siatera Roeeblusb.,^ tivo buxom women attired in Bun-bannets, vhava fi'ang a duet, in which frequanb mention ia mafic of a litßJa church at tha and of the jane, aad hava kindly interspersed it with <i step-dance ; and bow five etoui monstaelied gentlemea in spangles—ail surprisingly alike—ara preparing to stand on their heads on huge globes ssd roll about the stags. Aa I iook ronad the house aov? from behind the velvet curtain where I had hidden rayeelf, I can see that the place is full. Young gentlemen in gorgeous away aad esagges&ted buttoa-holee. One o? two smart woman I know, who are back in town between some visits; a good many women I don'i) know, and don't want to.

Aij that icsia"at I tarn and look at Billy. He has suddenly grown a pleasing lobster colour, and is staring hard at a small box near the stage. I follow his eyes. Good heavens ! why, that) is Dorothea! Dorothea at a music hall by herself V No; there ia a man in tha comer, bat he is bending devotedly ever her, and we cannot ace bis face. What does it all mean. Upper Norwood—cousins ! The girl has been fooling us ! At that moment the man taiscß bis hoad and laughs. It ia Jack! ' Come aloDg, Cecil,'says Billy, hurriedly, 1 this ia beastly-' slow. I don't think, after ail, yon care about this sorb of thing.' 1 No. I don't think I do,' 1 say, dryly, aa I slip on my opera wrap. In the hansom, bowling along Piccadilly, poor Billy is ominously silent. Us is harder hit than 1 thought. ' Cecil,' ha blurts out, in a disgusted voice, ' I was really fond of that girl. Why, I was within an inch of proposing to her two aighfcs ago —at that dance. ' But you didn't, I break in,' and that is why our young lady is amusing herself with cut hnsband to-nighb.' *' Well, from what she said, I certainly had a right to thiuk that I might have a chance. Bab then, she's very young, you 4 Oh, very young,' I answered, dryly. 5 That's her role. And as to Jack,' I add, after a pause, JI shall have a good story against him for the rest of Ms life.' 1 Well, it's all over now,' sighed my brother; ' and if the truth be known, I expect I'm well out of it.' Once at home, I order the lemon squashes to ba brought to my sanctum. Dorothea, who drives up alone in a four-wheel cab at half past eleven, is the first to arrive. Dorothea is tired out with her day at Norwood—some tiresome cousins that she hardly knows—a big, nerv bouse with many conservatories—half an hour to wait for the train to Victoria. I sympathize and condole. Billy is ominously silent, and occupies himself in squeezing lemons. I notice that ths girl casts more than one appe&liag glance at him in vain. At a quarter paat) tweive my errant spouse appears. He masti have be<?n to the club while Dorothea came home alone in her lowr-wheeler. ' What sort of spoit ?' I inquire. I mean to have some fun. • Oh, no end of a good day,' says Jack. ' The fastest thing I have ever scan! Fifteen miutitea up wind, and not a man there but me when they threw their heads up. We killed in the open—the best run of fcho season.' The f&Blest thing ho has ever seen ! So I should think. Like all men, Jack can lie on occasion, but, unlike moot men, he doesn't do iii well. Jack's apology is capital, were It not fchac it is slightly overdone. As ifc i% there ia a smack of fcha 1 sporting novel' in his phrases. Where cat! they have been till day ? ' How nice !' I rejoin sweetly. ' And here ia poor Dorothea who has been bored to death at Upper Norwood. Get up to bed, my dear child; yon've got such a tiring day to-morrow.' A few raurates later, and my husband and I have the amber and white room to ourselves, lit is a cosy little home scene. The fire crackles bravely among the shining tiles, the curtains are drawn, the yeliowsfeaded lamp is lighted. Jack is lounging in a saddle-bag chair by the fire, looking awfully handsome. But I'm not .'going to bs.ve my heart softened by that. I drop softly on to tha floor by his side, and loan my head 6a th.c back of his chair. I don't of lien indulge ia fibbing, but the time for Jack's punishment has arrived. ' Jack,' I say, meditatively. ' I'm afraid iVa a casa between Billy and Dorothea Underwood. It was qnioe idyllic at the Brownes1 the night before last. They sat out five dsncen in the.conservatory ; in fact, he as gooil as told me to-night that they're engaged.' ' What?1 says Jack, disgustedly. ' You don't mean to say—it can't be—io'a simply impossible—'• 'WLy not?' ;i rejoin, cooly. * Billy is fairly well off, and he is going back to India ?a a few months, so thas they can be married over there, you know.' ' Well, I don't pretend to understand the feelings of a young girl, but I'll be hanged if she's in love with your brother —' 5 la that what .she was telling you tonight in that little box at the Imperial ?' I suggest, abstracted.ly. , ' Imperial—lmperial! I believe you're

the devil, Cecil! How on earth could yi know—'

•I was there,' I reply, meekly, 'with Billy. And then, aa I catch Ms eye, the absurdity of the whole thing becomes upparent, and we both go off into a long, uncontrollable fib of laughter. It is several minutes before we are sober again, aad throw ourselves, exhausted, into our favourite chairs. At last) Jack finds breath fco explain. 1 The fact ia,' he confesses, • she little girl wanted to go to a race-meefcing before she went to India, and so I promised to run ap with her to-day to Newmarket and aea the Cambridgeshire. When we got back ib was too late for dinner here, so we had something to eat at the station ; and thaw, as she had on her walking things, I could only take her to a mnsic hall—and—and—» that's how it was, you see, Cecil.' And so it ends. Jack, as he always doeg, has made his little confession, aad'l—aa I always do—have laughed. Meanwhile, in the room overhead, there is an ominous rumbling and scraping noiss. It ia Dorothea tackling her last trunk. _ • And how am I, with my plain, unsophisticated v?ays, to console you both when Miss Innocence is gone V I demand, nodding my head in the direction of the noise overhead.

Jack lights a cigarette meditatively, sad proceeds to mix himself a whisky and soda. 1 Suppose you try it at Cannes or Monte Carlo V he answers. ' I think we could do a month down there.'

• And what's to become of Billy, pray— Billy, whom you have bereft of his brida V

Jack actually blushes and looks sheepish as he answers:

• Oh, drop that, Cecil. Billy 1 Why,<*of course, Billy will come with us.'