Short Story. A Lover's Luck.

Bruce Herald, Volume XLV, Issue 5, 21 January 1909, Page 3

Short Story. A Lover's Luck.

A J3TQRY. QQNQERN ING A RIJNOR POET, WPM NISWI - LOST HIS SWEETHEART, Hamlet B'air poured himself out ano her'cup of coffee; he always reg'ar ded it : ai - a' 1 'go'od' pick-me up. ! And he wanted one as he reviewed his mbfnirfg's Ifittefcs, for they were ejiough to'depress the soul> of' an ordinary man, let alone a .minor poet's. ; And ,np ope could . challenge his -tight to belong to the ranks, of that minority. Yet thia .was what that confounded publisher's letter suggested. He read it once more: Dear Sir,-~We regret to inform you that 'have riot&otd a single cOpy of your poems " Love's Lodestar,'; and as we find "it inconvenient' to' store so many unsaleable 'publidations; we shall, pending Couhfet instructions from you, offer the entire edition for sale at a somewhat reduced rate. Faithfully yours, GAFFER AND DOBBS. And to this pass the Muse had cornel The least conceited mati would have felt the irony of the situation; and Hamlet ■; Blair- was—well,- by no means destitute of vanity. What bard is withouthis share ? But yet another letter rankled, and it must be confessed it was a somewhat bitter billet doux that morning's post had brought him from the lady of his affections. He. looked again at the dainty sheet with its rather obtrusive gold crest. "The Towers, Twickenham, June 1. "My darling Hamlet, —It is too dreadful the news I 1 have to brgak to you, arid I tremble to thiirik hOw your sensitive poet's soul will feel it. Think of it, my lather declares our engagement must be broken off at once, because you have no prospects; he says—ob, darling, I shrink from writing it—that you have hot made a name in the World,'and that 1 if you were famous, it would be a different affair. I told him I should nevfcr,; never, love anyonfe else," But the rejected lover read no further; it" Was bad eripugh to be " (chucked" by the public; it was worse still to be thrown over by the girl ho adored; who,' moreover, had inspired his finest sonnets, As he flung the letter down, the : postscript on the outer sheet caught his eye, " Prfcy come and sefe tne as so6n as you can to talk over this'horrid affair; father is frantically busy having his new library fitted up, and so you won't see much of him, but I will be in' the garden to-morrOw afternoon to ; give you sotaie tea under the trees; perhaps you will be able to write a poem about it,*—Your broken-hearted Ptfssie."

The ■poetgroatjed. Dear little soul, she was still faithful to him then, in spite of her father's prejudice in favor ot " a name."

Mr Theophilus Wiggins had himself made, not a name, but a successful " corner" in soap. When you have only written unsuccessful sons nets, it is a bit depressing to be reminded of your inferiority in this way. • • • • •

Fussie was as good as her word. She had tea for her poet under the trees, and poured it out " with her own hands." Moreover, the charming pink summer gown, with its " froufrous "of lace and knots of ribbon, was in itself enough to inspire an ode. Hamlet Blair played regretfully with his Dresden teacup as he gazed on his idol.

"So you really think he means what he says, Pussie, darling ?" " Oh, certainly, dear, I know it; he's so determined; it's determination, as he often says, that has made his fora tune. Yes, it is, really." *' Well, two people can play at that game. As it happens, 1 am determined, too, determined to win you for my sweet little wife at all costs," Hamlet Blair set down the fresh cup of tea his hostess had just haaded him, untasted, and frowned gloomily at the tempting tea-cakes she offered him, though they might have • appealed to the most epicurean. " Ob, Hamlet, don't let it spoil your tea!"cried Pussie. " Spoil my tea spoil my life, you mean. As if it did not mean spoiling my whole career, to lose you. As if 1 could write anything without you. Where would ' Love's Lodestar' have been without you ?' But just then the poet remembered his publisher's letter, and where ihe book actually was. And hehadni't y6t answered lhat confounded letter! "Of course, you are a great poet," went on Eussie soothingly, "and"!

told father so, and he said—he said—" but poof JPiissie ;could get nd further with her revelation. I It took" some little time to dry her tears-;i wrflftj r lover 1 would! wish hasten ih'ab'jfrcfcessf But hi was apxious .to/lcrip*w ri what-it -wasthat Mr WiggiK§ had .really saipV and persuaded Pussie to tell him, after a good qeal of hesitation. ' y - : '- 1 ' ,v '■''■'■' : '■ ■ " How ever dab 'I tell you ?' She murmured, between her sobs; " well, he put it so unkinly, I don't know how to." ■•' ! " Nonsense,'darling, we must all face the bitter truth soW "time or other,"! anil the pbet thought' of his publisher's letter once more. "He said,' sobbed Pussie, "he would never let me marry a man who wrote poetry that—that-r'ri6body read. And he Said—oh, dear me.'hbiiv can I ever tell it you ?•!—that (f you had invented a new soap, he could have seen the sense of it, but that to be a minor poet was worse than being nothing at ally., • ':''" s :;.' ; *■*•'■ '. And Pussie's revelations being out, she abandoned herself to a fresh flood •oftears, only, checked; by the appear* an ce of Mr Wiggins himself. The soap-king's jolly, rubicund face clouded as he glanced at the lovers Pussie's red eyes told their own tale.; He threw the cigar he was smoking aside ft and nodded to his guest; " do, Blair ? How's the poetry ?" Hamlet winced, this was adding insult to. injury—" By the way, you .should have been with me this afternoon. Fitting up the new library in fine style. Had Dobbs the bookseller here from town. Knows his business, too. Going to fix the whole thing up, choose the' books and all." Pussie poured out some tea in silence, and Hamlet fidgeted nervously with his hat. : " I'm Sorry,-sit,- I must be going. I have to go and send a wire,", he said) for there was that wretched letter to ; : answer. " Aha, Blair, that reminds me, I want a word with"ybti," and ';lrtfj ; soap .magnate rose to escort his guest to the drive. The poet shook hands with( Pussie, not daring to meet her gaze, and turned, reluctantly ;awayi; it might be the last time ever 'destined to look on that fair face. Mr Wiggins lit another cigar, "Look here, Blair," he said, when they were out of earshot Of Pussie,- " you, understand, I can't have this sort of thing going on any longer between you and Pussie. When my daughter' marries, I want her to choose a man who has made a name in the world.—at his own trade, at any rate. Whether it's pork or poetry, it's all the same to me. Now, as a pork merchant you might have been famous by this"; as it is, no one knows you, and no one seems to read you." The neglected poet repressed a strong desire to swear. " Now take it once for all.. When I see your books in active circulation, I'll consent to this engagement, not before. So no more minor poems for me. Do something substantial to show before you come here again." A quarter of an hour later, Hamlet was in the telegraph office " Do as you like," was the laconic message that Messrs Gaffer and Dobbs received that evening. And they acted on instructions.

Mr Dobbs contemplated his work with undisguised satisfaction, as he regarded well-filled bookshelves in the newly formed library at " The Towers." " Guaranteed complete, sir," he was explaining to its mister proudly. "Complete in every respect. I told you I'd do 'em at the cheapest rate, and if you don't call ten shillings a yard cheap for that upper shelf, all I can say is you are hard to please. And all of'em well-known authors. After all, you don't buy your books to read, so why shouldn't we fit you out with some to look at ? Of course, it would dost a fortune to fill these dozen of shelves with rare books. Our plan of supplying them by the yard works wonderfully for' fill-ups,' and all these books are readable, even granted they, are ' throw-outs,' . Good covers, and all that Sort of thing." And Mr Dobbs looked admiringly at the rows of miscellaneous volumes overhead. "I hope you've thrown in some poetry," suggested the soap-king timidly. "My daughter likes poetry." "Poetry, I should just think so! Why, here are the complete works of the rising poet, Hamlet Blair; she can't ask for anything better than bis verses, they are the latest out." And the purveyor of books pointed to a long line of volumes in delicately artistic bindings. ■'• Why, bless my soul, so there are. So you do look upon Mr Blair as a rising man, then? I had an idea his books didn't go. And you really think he will make a name ?"

"Make a name? Why, of course; he has done so already! I shouldn't have given his works a place in 'The Towers' library if not,'' exclaimed Mr Oobbs in an injured tone. He did not explain that the poems only ran into" . UN

hree volumes, and that ik less than * yard and a hall of book; ai the top of the shelf were all copies of" Love's Lodestar," but they were too high up for;,anyone to find it out, and they maile,an excellent, show. pondered the owner ol the library to himself," " queer thing that, about Blair. I've made a wrong shot, after all. v Perhaps he'll l?e Poet Laur* eatt betpti, hj dies. Dbbbs: wouldn't have to&»W-lh0m if thdy l hadh*t been popular. Why, there's Pussie; looks as if she had been crying her eyes out." That was exactly what that "young lady had been doing, but at her father's request she came in to inspect the new library. " There's one author represented you know, at any rate," said Wiggins, soofhirfgl jf; as he pointed to where Hamlet Blair's dainty volumes stood out in their delicate bindings over the others.

" Oh, papa " cried Pussie, ' Why, you have got "-—she: faltered at the name— "' Love's Lode star.'" ,

"Yes, Dobbs says : he is quite a rising man," admitted her father, " and "He ought to know, And perhaps I was a bit hard on him this afternoon. When his books; are reckon'e'd ' the thing for up-to-date library shelves they must be read, And Dobbs is doing it finely, ten to thirty shillings a yard! But you had better write and askßlair to dinner tomorrow to, see the new library, and how his books look." And that letter was soon posted!— Andrew Harleston, in "M:A.P."