THE IMP INTERVENES

Auckland Star, Volume LXXI, Issue 46, 23 February 1940, Page 13

THE IMP INTERVENES

Short Story

IT really was too bad! Young Mrs. Stannier leaned her pretty bare elbows on the mantelpiece and beat an angry little tattoo on the tiled kerb with a brocade-shod toe. Probably, if she had not been quite so angry, she might have relieved her feelings by bursting into tears, and, even a 9 it was a foolish mist would suddenly blur her vision at the sight of the two slips of paper stuck up there at the side of the glass, which had meant so much only a short quarter <>f an hour ago, and now meant so pathetically little. Delia could hardly believe that less than 20 minutes had passed since she w aa -putting the final touches to her toilette before the mirror upstairs, mid feeling, as she surveyed her own radiant image in the glass, utterly and entirely on good terms with herself and the rest of her world. Wa« it not her wedding anniversary? And was not Delia still young enough, still enough in love with her husband, to regard that occasion as one of firstrate importance? It was an occasion which Tom and she always celebrated in some special way. And this year the celebration was going —or had been going—to be a very extra special one. They had tickets, sent by Delia's godmother, for one of the newest and jolliest shows in London. Stalls, too—an extravagance such as she and Tom never dreamed of. There was to be a niw little supper—chocolates—a taxi It was just as Delia was finishing pressing that the telephone went. "OH, bother!" said Delia. She ran down and took up the receiver without the slightest premonition of what was coming. A strange voice spoke—a woman's voice. And it said, in the most matter-of-fact way imaginable: "Is that Mrs. Tom Stannier? I am •peaking for Mr. Stannier. He is very lorry, but he is unavoidably detained. He cannot possibly get home in time for the theatre. He suggests that you ask someone else to go with you, so as Bot t'o waste your tickets. Have you got that? Good-night." Delia stood there for quite i.vo minutes, saying stupidly, "But —who— why—" into a completely unresponsive receiver. She might have continued to do 10 even longer had not Mrs. Home fro/n next door happened to run in for a chat. Mrg. Rome was of the type usually described as "a bright little woman"; and, while she was thoroughly sentimental at heart and just as much in love with her husband as Delia was with Tom, she elected to adopt a pose of hard-broiled, worldly-wise ultra-modern-ity- • ■ She opened her eyes very round when Delia mentioned her disappointment. "Oh, my dear J" she exclaimed. "How too bad! I'd have loved to go with you, only unforinnately we're having some people lor bridge. Oh, these men! Aren't they awful ? 'Business—unavoidably detained!' You wait till you've been married as long as I have, and

iSHUII' e it from me, they're all niiL-c< t» »ou k„.„» W .i/ZSL't ' v „?4 rt with Delia n ? nse nse ! " exclaimed iJeiia, stiffening involuntarily. "Tom doesn't dance. He can't. tried." never "Oh, well," replied Mrs. Rome, with a takTnTf n ° d " " H f ry ai » ht be S e "' , we modern wives must learn to do a bit of -ri V e AW Ta < 7a m H ßt,l ' t r' And nOW 1 " J ta ' dear — she paused on the doorstep to add "why don't you rin- up Rupert Gold? He'd go, like I shot!" P f« l r sl,a *i? hut the door on her visitor feeling thoroughly ruffled. Of course, it Z .rot. But she couldn't helo remembering that Tom had been late at the office several times lately, and had looked—well, yes, he had looked a little odd about it! She felt so completely miserable that she didn't mind if she PI' 6 , " p . th l e . theatre altogether. It was hateful, feeling that people were talking saying that Tom was neglecting her! that she was the sort of woman who can t keep her husband. She looked round for a cigarette, but her case wai empty. Perhaps Tom might have some in one of his pockets. She felt in his golf jacket—none there. None in his mac.—nothing but a ticket which she had pulled out, and casually glanced at. It was a few seconds before the words printed upon it really penetrated her understanding. "Palais de Danse—First Session— 7-9.30." She noted the date. It was one of those when he had been "late at the office." The printed letters performed a ne.it little dance all on their own under Delia's eyes. It was true, then! Tom was leading what people called "a double life"—the sort of thing you read about in the papers or saw on the screen— not the sort of thing you ever dreamed could happen to you. A calm, cold rage took hold of Delia. Tom was going to have his fun; well, she would have hers! Mrs. Rome's parting words came back unbidden to her mind. She took up the telephone and asked for Rupert Gold's number. Rupert Gold was a smart young business man living in rooms, whose social gifts were at once the envy and admiration of most of the young men of that not over smart suburb. Rupert was dark, handsome in a rather slick fashion, and always well dressed. He played dashing tennis, he had partnered Delia in the doubles at their club tournament, •nd they won it. Tom didn't mind. He ««as an unashamed rabbit at the game. Rupert danced well. He was Delia's partner again when they won the spot prize. Tom didn't mind that either, so he said. He didn't dance himself. Rupert had played opposite Delia in a little duologue that fairly brought the house down at the cricket club concert. No denying it, Ke was a great lover on the stage.

By DAN RUSSELL

He also drove a high-powered car—a slinky, stream-lined affair with a lo.i-r bonnet. c Tom didn't like Rupert. "Feller's a bounder, was his terse comment. Well Tom should have his lesson! "Ra-ather," came Rupert's well-bred drawl ovar the 'phone. Rupert wouij love to bw Delia's escort. What luck that he had cut a simply ghastly bridge invitation! He would be round in 10 minutes or less. He had already changed nothing to do but hop into the car. Delia caught sight once more of her own reflection in the glass as she turned to leave the house when the car's purr was heard outside. It looked like the face of a stranger rather than her own self that looked back at her—a stranger with a spot of hot colour on each cheek, and eyes that burned with a new hard brightness. She snatched up her bag and flun r > r open the door. And just as she did so a small reproachful whimper caught jier ear. ° The Imp! She had very nearly forgotten him. The Imp was a Scottie pup who had just attained to a lively and mischievous adolescence after a difficult and delicate infancy. He had been off by himself in the afternoon, and returned smelling more strong than pleasant after a deli" cious roll in something of an ancient and fish-like nature, and Delia had popped him in the garage, where his bed w , as "it didn't run to a car yet—to run himself clean in the straw. Tom alwavs gave him his supper and a short run la'st thing if they were going out at night. He would have done so, no doubt, on this occasion if Delia called out, "Coming!" as her flying feet took her into the kitchen. She snatched up a handful of the Imp's favourite biscuits. A lump of sugar. He loved sugar. "Here, Imp! Here, boy! Bikkies! Sugars! No —not to jump on aunty's dress! No—not walkies—Walkies later!" But the Imp didn't want bikkies for once. He didn't even want sugars. He wanted walkies—walkies and human society. He lay on his back and waved his short legs to indicate the fact. Delia slipped quickly out and shut the door just in time, and the Imp's reproachful yelp 3 pursued her as she fie I. "I expect he'll settle down all right when I've gone," she said, as she nestled down in the comfortable seat beside Rupert. "He hates being left, poor little chap! I can't hear him now—he'll be all right." Rupert didn't respond. His handsome countenance wore a slight, but not nr.becoming frown. Rupert disliked dogs. He particularly disliked the Imp, who had once gnawed his gloves with more satisfaction to himself than to their owner. Delia was wishing that she hadn't had to be reminded of the Imp at that moment. He was so much a part of all the happy times she and Tom had had together since his coming—oh, bother, she wasn't going to let herself think about tbftt now—she was going to have her furi —her fun—and forget

And yet she couldn't help straining her ears for the familiar whimper as the car slid off down the road. She would enjoy herself much better if she were sure the Imp wasn't crying, all by himself. No, she couldn't bear anything now. He would eat his supper and curl up until she got home. "We'll go somewhere after the shaw and dance the stars down the skv," Rupert was saying in that thrilling exciting voice of his. "You're not going to run off home to dull domesticity on | the stroke of twelve, you rather wonderful person! I mean to keep you all to myself now I've got you, as Ions: as ever I can." Delia laughed—a hard, reckless laug'i that almost frightened her. "All right," she was beginning. And it was just then that an unmistakable sound caught her ear. She had heard that sound many times before—that joyous shrill squeal or succession of squeals which indicated that the Imp had successfully got out of durance vile and was in hot pursuit of master and missus. She had heard it when he had arrived in church amid the titters of the congregation—and when lie had appeared, mud-plastered and slightly odoriferous, at Mrs. Fitzpucker's sherry party. Oh, lots of times. There was r.o mistaking it! Delia's fingers were already fumbling with the door catch. "It's the Imp," she said. "He's got out. I must get him. Oh, dear, he'll be run over. He's so silly in traffic." The car had been held up at the traffic lights—not long, but long enough to enable a very determined little dog, which had succeeded in scrabbling open the hastily shut door of his prison to catch up with the departing vehicle in which Man - who-kicked-when-no-one-was-looking was carrying off Beloved Missis. The Imp's mind was made up. Missis had got to be rescued from Man-who-kicked! He made a wild leap for the running board. Alas! his legs were too short; he missed his jump, and as he rolled off with a piteous yelp the traffic once more moved on. "Imp! Imp!" "My dear girl! What are you trying to do?" Rupert's long arm reached across and jerked the door to. "What on earth's the matter ? The little brute'll soon get tired of following this." "This" shot forward as he spoke at fifty miles an hour. Delia's agonised eyes could no longer make out the small determined form on its short legs toiling manfully in the rear, but her imagination pictured the little red tongue and panting mouth, and heard the despairing yelps of a poor little short-legged doggie whose Missis had so unaccountably deserted him. A hundred memories of the Imp's short life raced through Delia's mind. The day when Tom first brought him, a tiny, ugly morsel with a head much too big for its body, and he cried for his mother till Tom went down and carried him up to bed. The dreadful, dreadful time when he had distemper. The vet. had given him up, but Delia refused to, and it was her determined nursing that saved him. Then their joy when he first feebly took hold of life again. The time—oh, it didn't bear thinking of!—that happy little bundle of joy and love and mischief crushed into stillness before those merciless wheels! "Rupert, stop!" Delia held an urgent hand on his sleeve as she spoke. "I must go back. The traffic—he'll be killed "

Rupert laughed. That low, musical laugh of his, that had sounded so effective on the Btage. "Nonsense, m'deart All this fuss about a dog! Why, we shall miss half the first act as it is." "He could sit in the back of the car," Delia urged. "He's perfectly good in cars. You must see—surely you must — I couldn't leave him like this " "No dogs on my upholstery, thank you!" said Rupert. He laughed again, and accelerated as he did so. "Come, be sensible. If the little brnte gets killed—Oh, dash!" Ihe traffic lights were once more holding the car up, and on a sudden impulse Delia opened the door and slipped out. She was only just in time. The lights changed as she did so, and with a vicious snarl whose purport she did not hear, Rupert let the car leap forward with a suddenness which all but dragged Delia to her knees before the on-coming traffic. The night air struck coldly on her lightly-clad body. But it was not the cold that made Delia shiver from head to foot. In that brief moment of time before the car shot away from her she had looked through Rupert Gold's eyes into the man's very soul, and had seen him for what he was. And the sight had not been a pretty one. The pavements were wet with recent rain, and a fine cold drizzle was beginning to fall. The damp was already penetrating her thin shoes. And her bapr, she realised too late, must be speeding London-wards in Rupert (Jold's car. Nothing for it but to trudge all the weary way on foot. So Delia set out to do it, whistling and calling as she went, and starting at every piece of paper or patch of shadow that might have been a little dog lying still and crushed by the way. But dead or alive there was no Imp to be seen. Nor did he, a« she had hoped against hope that he might, greet her with delirious barks and waggings of his whole small body when at last, weary and footsore, she turned in at the familiar gate again. She felt chilled to the bone. Chilled and unutterably weary. She thought she would make herself a hot cup of something, then get into dry things and go out to look for the Imp again. And then for the first time she remembered that her "atchkey, too, was in the bag she had left in Rupert's car. It was raining hard now, but De..a felt she simply couldn't face the curious eyes of any of her neighbours in her present plight. She turned into the only shelter that offered—the empty garage, where the Imp'a rejected sugars crunched under her feet as she entered. There was an old basket chair in it, and into that Delia suddenly collapsed, sobbing with weariness and despair. "Delia! Why, Delia! My own darling!" She hadn't heard footsteps on the gravel—hadn't even heard anyone come into the garage, what with the rain on the roof and her own sobs. But there was no doubt about Tom's voice, and the feel of Tom's arms round her; and when the flash of a torch lit up the darkness there was Tom himself, looking rather white and strange with a bandage round his head, and one arm in a sling. "I'm all right," he protected, "right as rain. Stepped off the kerb without looking, and a fellow knocked me down. I asked 'em to ring you from the hospital—told 'em not to tell you what was up, or else it'd spoil your evening. But— what's happened, heart's dearest? Tell me—"

Tom didn't apeak for a minute when Delia's tale was told; he went on tenderly stroking her hair, though his lips made a grim line when, he heard how Rupert Gold 'had left her. "I'll be even with that blighter one daj," he said at last, "and —and—look helt, Delia, I've got a confession to make, too. I very nearly told those people at the hospital to as»k Gold to take you to-night. But I didn't. Do you know why? I was jealous—oh, as jealous as hell—of the fellow. It just got me down, seeing him doing all the showy things I couldn't do. Dancing. Playing tennis. Acting. I—l've—don't laugh, Delia, will you—l've been'learning to dance this last month. Shuffling round with an awful kid with red fingernails. Oh Lord! And after all—well, seems to ine I've nothing to be jealous about, have I?" And just at that moment there came a scramble and a scuffle of feet and a small, hairy whirlwind hurled itself panting and quivering upon them, licking both their faces at once as if it were the most natural thing in the world for Master and Missis to be sitting in aa old wicker chair in the Imp's own sleepyhouse, in the middle of a cold, rainy night. (The End.)