CHARIS.

Press, Volume LVIII, Issue 10986, 8 June 1901, Page 4

CHARIS.

Queer Story From "Truth." Charis? Hoav like you Charis as a name for a girl? What? You do not approve of such outlandish names? You prefer Many, Martha, Jane, Ellen, Elizabeth, or something of that style. Well, there is some sense in your contention, I admit. When a podgy, flabby, and more or less shapeless infant of seven weeks is christened there is no forecasting what will be her appearance after seventeen years; except, in a general way, that the odds are long on her growing up into a Mary, Martha, or Elizabeth rather than into a Charis. Phyllis, or Gladys. So it is much safer to bestow upon her one of those homely names. For look about you, in the streets as you walk, in the shops as you shop, in the "busefas you ride, at the social functions at wind you are martyred; *vateh the girls and «r praise them. How few—how very fewCharises and Phyllises! But what a bey, of Janes and Ellens 1 Christen, therefore, your infant daughter by commonplace names; for it is abou twenty to one that they will grow up t-< suit them. And if, by an off-chance, oth of your Ellens or Janes tjfrns out a Gladys, what easier than to drop her baptisma" style altogether, and adopt some fancy pel name for her, say, Birdie, Tiny, Rosebud, Pearl, or something of the kind? whereas, if the process is reversed, if your Gladys grows up to be an Ellen—well, you can't possibly drop the Gladys and call her Ellen, can you? It would be too cruel a comedown, just as if you once promote your kitchenmaid to be cook, you can't, in decency, ask her to go back to kitchenmaid. -Therefore, I say, christen'your daughters, so to speak, beneath their future potential (capacities rather than above them. Since Ellen will be pleased and proud to proceed, if need be, to Pearl or Birdie; but Charis, if required to descend to Martha, will-die rather than submit to so gross an affront. Some 'parents, however, prefer to take the off-chance, and sometimes the off-chance eventuates; that is to say, a Charis (de

bapfcismate) - grows' tip mto .« unaru *(de ; I facto). And when that so,falls -oot, then. ] " is the sweetest and pleasaatest case of all, .< 'Twas-thus, with the particular. Charia of « whom I write.. -She was k> named by> her : godfathers and godmothers at the font. \ She co grew up and fulfilled the promise of ] her name. . I refer to her form and features! 1 In character-— Bnt 1 shall ,come to that, . presently. Let mc describe her Appear- < aace. t ~ ■ \ , 1 Charis -was of middle stature —perhaps a 1 little taller—and very' slight. No single . point in her form or 'figure struck you (as ] in the well-proportioned it never ddesj: You were only conscious of a general effect of perfect gracefulness. Her face was pale, yet of a clear, healthy pallor. . Nature had chiselled her, features delicately. Her eyes were a soft brown. The deep chestnut of. her hair and brows and lashes formed a pleasing contrast- to -her pale skin. Yet would I not call her beautiful, nor even pretty. These are hardly the adjectives ! that, 'describe her. No stately, handsome ! Hera: no rosy, sensuous Aphrodite was Charis; but rather some fairy denizen of the woods and mountains —a Hamadryad or ' ' an Oread. ' , It was lamentable that beneath so fair an I exterior dwelt so .sordid and tjnamiable a i nature. In this verdict everybody—and I ! among them—rconcurred. We remarked upon her frigid manner, her entire lack of . geniality, the patronising and almost contemptuous tolerance with which she treated us. We noted that it was only those who weTe rich, or of high social grade, to whom she was at any pains to be agreeable, and, of course, we disliked her accordingly. But perhaps we should have made more allowance, and, while passing judgment, have taken her bringing up into consideration. Both her parents weredead. She had lived from early childhood' with her aunt and guardian. "And if that aunt and guardian would not have spoiled the nature of the sweetest girl alive, I do. not know who would. ' ' • Mrs Tipscomb was fairly well-born, and quite well-connected; but she was a Snob of the Snobs. Bank she 'worshipped. To gold she said her prayers. If your blood was very blue, or sufficiently yellow, she was your attached and effusive friend. But failing to find in you either of these* requisites, she held you in contempt. Such principles she bad p-rsistently instilled into Claris, until, by the tinia she grew up, the girl was steeped in them. Nor, unfortunately for her, had she her aunt's dissembling "skill of affecting,- when she met you. to be friendly and cordial. Those whom she despised in her heart she made no ■ attempt to be civil to iii her manner. I cannot accuse her, indeed, of rudeness. Charis was never rude. She just treated you with - a languid and ladylike tolerance. . I. myself, bsing"poor and of no particular social rank, was one of the many to whom Charis thus behaved. It used rather to annoy mc; for I had a good conceit of myself, setting some store-both by my person and my ■ abilities; and although I had " hitherto proceeded no further in literature tbfn' ephemeral potboiling, yet I felt myrelf capable of doing, and fully intended to do, much greater things. And, if the truth must be told, one ground of satisfaction i beyond others which 1 discovered in my in- - tended success, was the prospect of makr ing supercilious Miss Charis open her eyes. t But it is one thing to intend success, 5 and it is one thing to be conscious of the . capacity for success, but it is quite another 3 to achieve. You see, there is the question 1 of external conditions. The azalea which : will blossom prodigiously under glass will , be nipped and chilled in the open beyond i the possibility of bearing flowers. Applyr ing the metaphor: 1 had it in me —or so . I thought-—to flower well in a hot-house; r but then Fate had placed mc in the open, r ItVas this way. I had no capital nor pri- , vate income;' and, in addition," I was •■ crippled with 'Varsity debts when I started. it was impossible, therefore, forme to deTie time to permanent work, for which -2ven if successful—money # would not come ! for a twelvemonth. The necessities of \vs day, and the persistent claims of ere- ♦ .tors, who .worried my life out, demanded hat I should be perpetually employed on omething which yielded immediate remui isration; something, consequently, on rhioh, :if the return was quick, the,profit vas small; something into which I could I ifEord to put only just so much work as , would make it passably and temporarily ;, readable to those who shimmed the popular s levrspapers and magazines to which I oont tributeo. , I was often being advised by my friends - to write a novel; but, as I pointed out to r them, they might as well advise a journey- - man cobbler, who depends for his daily . bread upon the shillings and half-crowns tj 'he gets for mending shoes, to. devote, his 1 time to the turning out of expensive, highe class boots, and sell them, on credit, at two guineas the pair. The business thus ;, established would , , be-.-much better and the c profits much larger. True! But if I am iv imperative want of 20s this week, I must c do the. work that will bring mc in. 20s this c week. Large, prospective profits in the c future may be very alluring; but, situated

turns, he was extremely well off and even Hchl m M» Tipsoqmb was careful to let He i* a sw f t fellow. And he has such a lovely P^ e f Cheshire. His estate* are worth quite iwrfve thousand a year. £o <»c could be "better Suited to my little Chans. bellow" used to come pretty frequently to stay with Cham and her aunt; and on one of these occasions I was privileged to meet him, Mrs Tipseomb (who SSri muroect, hard-up for men) inviting mc, at a daYs notice, to a big tea-party. I 1 went simply, because I wished to see what sort of a man Harpingham m And 1 was agteeably surprised in him. I had supposed—l don't know why, except from the circumstances of hjs relationship to Mrs Tinscomb and Charis—that lie would be Btuck-up and conceited. But nothing was farther from the fact. When I got into conversation with him, I found him an agreeable' and friendly young man, without a scrap of "side" or self-consciousness, and eminently sensible and -well-informed. Hβ frequently read (it appeared) some of the papers and magazines for which I wrote, and liked my style of stories very much. He questioned mc, in an evidently interested manner, on my literary methods, etc., etc., and seemed to regard" the fact of my authorship as something that entitled mc to positive deference; which was,' of course, absurd, but nevertheless rather pleasant; and ail the more so because* it was obviously unaffected and spontaneous. . When I took my leave, and was bidding him gocd-bye, he'said: — "I'm-very pleased to have met you. Hope I shall see more of you while I'm down here." "Thank you," I replied. "The hope is mutual. Perhaps some evening, when you have nothing better to do, you will look in on mc and smoke a pips?" "I should like it very much," he answered. Nor was this mere verbal civility. Two nights later he turned up at my lodgings. And twice again, during the course of his stay at Mrs Tipscomb's he repeated his visit. ' On the third occasion he said to mc, when we had been talking literature for an hour or so: ■■■•■■■ "I wonder, you dont 'write a novel." "I mean to" do so," I said, "as soon as I can. afford the tjme." » "How long would "it take you? , ' he asked. "Six months at least, if it was to be worth anything when written." He nodded. "Do you know," he observed, removing his cigar from his mouth, and speaking with decided conviction, "that• from what I've read of your work, and. from what I've heard people who are much better judges than I am say, I'm certain that, if you would dievote your energies to a novel, you would score a great success." * "Very good of you to think so," I murmured. "No. no,' , was his serious—l had almost said his enrnest—rejoinder; "I'm not gassing: I'm giving my honest, unvarnished opinion. I tell you, my dear fellow, that you have in you all the essentials of a most successful novelist, and you have only to try your hand at it to be sure of making a hit. Why don't you?" ' "I can't manage it at present," I answered, for I did not feel disposed to explain my real reasons to a comparative stranger. "But as soon as I have leisure I mean to try, and I only hope," I added, "that the result may tally with flattering forecast." He sat silent for some moments, puffing vigorously at his cigar. Then he said, with an air of nervous diffidence, unlike his usual possessed and easy manner: "I say—excuse me—don't think mc impertinent, but I've somehow taka'n a tremendous interest in your, work and—and prospects. Is—is it a question of money ?' : ' It was bluntly asked; but, withal, there was a' friendliness —a delicacy—in his demeanour as he asked it which compelled m« to candour. "Yes," I said, "it is a question of money." "You mean that—well, you cannot afford let us say, to do six months'. work and b receiving nothing for it all the time!" "Just that," I answered. He shifted uneasily in his chair; mada v great business of lighting his cigar, whic! had gone out; then, looking hard into th, fire, as though his gaze were riveted on sony object among the coals,- exclaimed, hurrie ly: "Forgive mc! I'd—l'd take it as a. awful favour, if—if you'd let mc help." "You are very good," I replied, pleaser

3 and touched by his kindness; "but—but—" 3 "Dash it all! don't refuse mc. I've a great deal more money than I know what a to. do with—dash it all! And-—and " r "I owe some hundreds already," I told him, frankly. "It Avould not be honest in mc to borrow more. I "But that is just the reason why you ought to borroAV," he insisted; "because—don't • you see?—by accepting a small loan from ii mc you'll be able to do work that will soon result in your Aviping off all your indebtedness and something to spare, instead s of Avasting your talents—which I only wish i to God I had been blessed with—on Avork c that is ' really beneath your capabilities. "1 Come, Vereker, my dear chap; you've got I these talents, and it is your duty to make - the most.of them. .In fact—dash it all! — i you've no right to refuse mc. You must accept this trifling help, I tell you; you - must—you must." "I—l don't think I ought," I replied, t beginning to waver, for the offer was mighty - tempting. i "Nonsense," he cried, energetically. "I t say you shall." t And in the end I did. I had every reay son to be thankful, too. The success of my first novel was so decided that -1 > was - able to pay off all my debts. And from that time the tide of' mv popularity and pros- .- perity has never ebbed. It was noticeable hoAv complete a change 0 of manner towards mc my change of fore tune produced in many of my acquaintances. .. Even Mrs Tipscomb began to treat mc with tolerable affability. But Charis remained jj as frigid and formal as ever. Probably, fj from the height of her social self-appraise- __ ment and her grand matrimonial prospects, she looked doAvn on any literary man, however successful, as very small beer, con--1 sidering herself (silly girl!) of a caste too __ exclusive to cultivate, under any circum- •• stances, "with one of my profession more than a bowing acquaintance. How different from her cousin, Charles Harpingham, to whose appreciation, friendliness, and generosity I had owed the open- )• ing for my success! He waa a different ■ stamp altogether. I began to feel quate sony for him. Such a man deserved a better Avife than proud and languid Charis. I felt quite bitter towards her. I hated her. ... Did I? .". . . Was it, after all, ,' hatred? And then, after three years, the truth began to daAvn upon mc, slowly, . slowly, yet very surely, and -with convincing certainty. It Avas not hatred; —No! It was something even more gloomy and bitter. It Avas the black gall of a despised, a hopeless, an impossible passion. - Yes; now, after deceiving myself for all these years, ' I saw the truth. Charis—haughty, frigid > Charis, Avho contemned mc as "beneath her notice, was the girl whom, without knowing it, I had always loved. When I discovered the truth, I took a quick resolve. There was, indeed, only one thing to do, only one way to cure myself of this absurd, this hopeless passion. That way was t6 trypan alibi—to leave the neighbourhood. I made immediate arrangements for my departure to another, part of England. Two days before I left, as I was returning from a round of farewell calls, I met Charis. She bowed to mc as she passed, and I raised, my 'hat. Then, before I had proceeded many paces, I heard (to. my surprise) her voice call "Mr Vereker," and looking round, saw that she 'had dismounted and was wheeling her machine towards mc. ' "I hear tftuat you are leaving ua, Mr Vereker," she said. "Yes," I replied; "I have taken a house in Devonshire." "We shall be sorry to lose you, she.remarked, in 'her languid way. "You are very kind to say so," I answered, with a conscious tinge of sarcasm jn my formal rejoinder. She stood fumbling at the brake-handle of her bicycle in a manner strangely awkward for so cold, so self-possessed a girl. Then suddenly she held out her hand. "Good-bye," she said. I took her proffered hand. She wore a glove. But there was something in her ■touch at that moment, and—and—as it were, an electric something that thrilled mc through and through, that impelled mc to say—me, who had never in my life addressed this haughty, chilling damsel by any style more familiar than Miss Tipscomb'—it impelled mc, I repeat, to say: — "Good-bye, Charis." Yes, and to linger on her pretty Christian name, as though my lips were loth to quit themselves of so sweet an utterance. And she replied. What do you think my proud princess replied? For her pride seemed melted and gone, as if by magic, and nothing now but tenderness trembled in her soft voice as she answered, "Good-bye— Reggie!" . . . • ,». Ten minutes later—or was it twenty, or fifty ? Dashed if I know 1 There's no count. ing time on these occasions—but, at any rate, some little while later, I thought of Charles Harpingham. "Charis!" I exclaimed, my conscience smiting mc, as well it might under all the circumstances, "we—-we have forgotten your cousin." "Have we?" she inquired, smiling archly. "I was not aware of it. Did—did you suppose that I was engaged to him?" "I had always understood so." .; "Ah! then you were mistaken, Some of our relations —my aunt in particular—took it into their heads that there was an understanding between us, and she favoured the belief all the more readily becaiise it was what she wished. And, an undei-tanding, indeed, there was, but of an entirely different kind. I mean, Charles and I" were in each other's confidence; and I knew that Charles liked some one else oetter; and —and Charles knew that—that 4 liked some one else better, and—and "'' & "Charis!" I cried, as a sudden flsbspicion flashed upon mo, "are you-r-do yon know what I owe to that splendid fellow's kindness?" . Charis nodded. .- "Yes,*' she said; "he is a splendid'fellow. But he is so honest, so downright, so tremendously truthful, that—that " "That—what?"" I inquired, eagerly. "That—t&at," she murmured, in a low, confused tone, "that—-he would—would make a hash of the—the wmm_Muon---w_ich---I m.an—l mean ■ J*

She paused, but her face, rosy with ;v blushes, and her eyes, averted in tender con— '}•■ fusibn, told the rest. And so I knew my r l '",."■ guardian angel. '-'".T- 4 **