OUR NOVELETTE.

Bush Advocate, Volume XVII, Issue 65, 18 March 1905, Page 3

OUR NOVELETTE.

— r~f A VERY USEFUL BABY. Tom Hampden'a married sister held her gloves as if she were less than half inclined to put them on, and at length she looked up from the baby in its prim black Jacobean cradle (an inherited discomfort) with puckers of positive doubt on her brow. "I don't think I'd better leave him with you, Tom," she said. "What's that?" her brother turned from his manuscript with puckers like her own. "Haven't yoxi settled it yet ? My dear Marion, what idiots young mothers do make of themselves ! Five minutes ago — ■ or was it half an, hour? — you asked me if I wouldsgive an occasional glance at the kid while you were out for an hour. I said I would. What more do you vtlnt of me?" ■ "Please don't be cross about it, Tom. You aro quite sure you won't mind?" ' "Quite." "And I will really hurry. And if I leave the outer door just ajar and mention it to Mrs Stronach — she's certain to hear if the darling pet cries— bless him! He will be good, though, will he not, my Sigurdkin ! And then she'll come up, Tom." ; ■ .'' Tom 'smiled rather derisively when his sister had that brief fit of passionate affection. But he like the nnresponsiveness of his nephew.. Sigurd' was asleep and chose to remain so. Very wise of him. It must, Tom reflected, be hateful to any self-respecting male child to be cooed over like that, even by its own mother. But the word about Mrs Stronach made him momentarily interested and eager. "Not at all a bad idea," he said. "I like the looks of that poor young widow." Mrs [Bunch said.. "Oh!": i>o you?" as if she wondered why: And then she noticed the clock, and with a gentle caress of the cradle clothes and a "Good-bye, Tom, my dear," she drifted away. Tom listened to her descending steps, I and then did what he had ten minutes ago determined to do. He went into the hall for his silk wrapper and into his bedroom for three clean handkerchiefs. The four togethe*r made a very effective bandage, which he tied over his ears and under his chin. "Now," he said, "you may yell as nmch as you like." He was in town for just one week, and his brother-in-law's guest, no mere pleas-ure-seeking gadabout, but strictly on business intent. That is to say, he had two or three stories to finish and place ; with his favourite editors. This was the third day of his metropolitan seven, and he meant the hour at his disposal to be an industrious one. He turnedTiis T)ack to thfc cradle. ' ■ . Yes, assuredly he was in the vein this morning. His brain moved even faster than his pencil. He heard nothing, saw nothing, thought of nothing except those personi of his imagination who were now driving him like a machine. I Suddenly someone touched him on the shoulder, and he looked round and up at a grey-eyed and, in that moment, rather sever.© young face. He was on his feet instantly and slipped the bandage so that it fell to his collar. And then, welcome though his visitor's face was to him, something else distracted him. The kid was screaming, was purple in hue, and its small fists were fighting the air in a temper to match its screams. "I couldn't help trespassing," said the intruder. "I knocked first. It was such an awful row. I thought — aren't you going to do anything for it?"' I

"It isn't mine," said Tom stuipdly. "What is to be done?" "Shall I then?" asked the other. She took young Sigurd out of the cradle and fondled him, danced him up and down, whispered something about "Baby bumpkin," and had great and brisk success. "How good of you!" said Tom, during the process. . Once he had got over the shock of contempt, for him which h© had read in her eyes, he began to feel elated. He had admired this young lady twice already on the Chesterfield House staircase. He understood that she was the young widow Marion had alluded to as Mrs Stronach. Poor child! She was quite a child to be a widow. And what aft excellent opportunity to make her acquaintance. "Have you tootache?" she asked him, instead of agreeing that it was good of L-er, or differing. > "Not in the least, tliazilc you." "I thought . But you don't mean to say you did it on purpose not to hear the baby cry?" Her humane and downright womanly indignation was beautiful in its way. Tom thrilled at the sight. What generous and comely histre in her grey eyes ! But — good heavens ! how young to be a widow ! "I'm ashamed to say," he replied, with a guilty laugh (very short), "that was my intention. You see, I have none of my own, like you. They're not in my line." The girl crimsoned. "You are rather rude," she replied quietly. And then she also tried to laugh. "Well, he is better now, and perhaps I have been of some use. Will Mrs Bunch be long before she returns?" She put Sigurd back in his cradle, tticked him up, and rocked the cradle with one of her feet. Such small feet ! Tom had stammered a concerned denial of any rudeness. But she didn't seem to notice. She murmured "Go to sleep, baby dear; go to sleep, baby," several times. "There," she said; and with a smile which completed her work on Tom's heart, sho stepped towards the door. "Don't tell his mother," sho whispered. "I couldn't help coming in." "But," urged Tom, following her, "it's what she asked you to do, Mrs Stronach. Do stop ! He'll begin again as soon as yoti're gone down." She turned round in the hall. "I'm not Mrs Stronach," she said, "and I'm going up. My diggings are at the top." And then Tom realised that he had made a quite unwarrantable fool of himself. What a fool! Of course she wasn't likely to be a widow with two children, however small. She was the solitary little artist girl Bunch had -talked about, who lived in the attic, 1 ' and, according to Marion, scowled at everyone who tried to make friends with jher. What a misconception ! But it shouldn't end like this. Out on the land/ng Tom begged her not tlThurry away. "Please," he said. "I've got to apologise and thank you, you know, I was so absorbed in that literary stuff of mine " "Oh !" she said, with sudden interest in her eyes, "do you write? Do you write things that require illustrations?" "Yes, yes," he said; and he were dense indeed not to read the impulsive yearning in the brightened eyes.

"Black and white stuff?" she whispered, looking at him almost as if lie were something reverend. And then she shrugged and laughed a bitter little laugh. "I wish mine were good enough," she said ; "but I know they're not — not yet. Are you a famous writer?" "Quite the contrary, but I would like to see- some of your work. Do lot me. I know editors who use it, and " "I'm sure you do not," she said ; "but someone is coming. Good morning." Even her impetuous flight to her attic was graceful in. her. Tom watched her until he could see no more of her, looked Rxter her indeed even when his sister had begun to address him. Then, with no sigh, but with a quickened and joyous heart instead, he greeted Marion, drew her into the flat with his arm round her waist, and rested not until he had told her of the artist girl's self-sacrificial labours in composing Master one brief' bit of howling. "You must go and. tliank her," ho said. "Alld look her«-, Marion, do asic Ler tc tea or dinner or something. I want tc see her work, and——"

In certain matters Marion was much under her brother's influence. She did not feel equal to going upstairs to Miss Hill, she said; but she would write a note of thanks and ask her to tea. She wrote the note, and, having written it, thought she had better wait and hear her husband's opinion. James, her husband, was a shy man, not at all eager to know, the other tenants at Chesterfield House. "Yes, Tom dear," said Marion, putting, the letter aside, "I must consult James. Besides, wasn't it rather cool of her to etep in here like that? * On« doesn't know anything about her, and it Isa't nice ior a girl to be alone in London. She can't be more than twenty-two. And — it's time I fed the little darling." This exasperated Tom, but he knew better than to argue .the matter with his sister. The wonder was that she had not already seen that his interest in Miss Hill (what, he wondered, was her other name?) was of somewhat advanced intensity! If ' he said anything more, there would be an end to his and her chance of meeting again in the Bunch flat. Yes, it was an occasion for self-repression and artifice. He took his hat. He would lunch in the city, he said ; but he would return to dinner. "You won't bo back before six, you think, Tom?" "Er— no. Why?" "Oil, because of the key. . I am going to carry baby round to James's mother this afternoon, but I shall be home by six." , "I think," said Tom, "I'd better have the key. One can't tell." Outside, with the key in his pocket, lie rubbed his hands like one who foresees a triumph. If only it could be managed ! The situation appealed to him like one in a story. Yes, and it should have scope i for development. At four o'clock he returned to the flat and found both mother and baby gone. What gracious connivance of Fate ! And there was Marion's letter to Miss Hill ready to hand. And up came the con- , cierge with a letter for him, and what more simple than to send the man higher J still with Marion's letter, and (yes, a' half-' I crown helped that) a verbal hope that Miss Hill would* answer it in person at once. What impertinence! Yet he didn't care. If only it worked! That was the main thing. '. Then, for many anxious minutes, he fidgeted in and out of Marion's drawingi room. The kettle \v r as put to boil, and — if only she would come ! A timid tinkle of the electric bell took him heavenwards. He sped to the door, paused ere opening it, and coaxed himself into a semblance . of matter-of-fact tran•quility, and then moved the latch. JJow sweet she lodked-ttiis- "time! She blushed, smiled, and he invited her in earnestly, with a cordial fib. "My sister will soon be back. Miss Hill. Do help me to make a cup of tea. I may not be able to wait for her." Naturally she demurred. But he overruled her scruples by a home appeal. "And if you would let me see some of your drawings. I wish I could fetch them, but it's such a capital chance to talk busi,ness, before Marion returns." # He won handsomely, as his knowledge of the general principles of human nature had made him hopeful of winning from the first. "I/audace, l'audace," what a serviceable weapon it is for those who know how to use it. She brought a portfolio, and found tea of a kind awaiting her return. She seemed disappointed that Sigurd was out of the way. Then she had an attack of shyness. "I ought not to have come in," she said. "What will Mrs Bunch think of me?" ; Biit Tom Umghed at that. He coaxed her to pour the tea while he turned over i the sketches and studies, praising generously. And then, with her eyes upon him oh [ so hopefully (for he praised like one havi ing authority), she made a remark which set him on a fresh tack. (To be continued in our next issue.)