EVERSLEIGH'S DECISION.

Evening Star, Issue 15373, 23 December 1913, Page 11

EVERSLEIGH'S DECISION.

[By Wimfred Walton.] Cupid had armed himself with a. newbow and a novel kind of arrow, and tho arrow was a, pen. T)ora Desmond was a? pretty a girl as you would meet in a day'.? walk, even if that day's walk took you in the samo direction as that chosen on a. glorious mmnwr afternoon bv Hnrrv Eversleigh the very clever editor of the- ' Piccadilly Magazine,' which had hurst upon London in a blaze of success. It had hit the public taste, and, being run by a. wise and enterl'"s'nK firm . it had offered a competition •sf £IOO for the best short storv. and tho closing 4»,y was drawing near for the sending in of contributions. Alre;«,ly a mass of MSS. had been reat the offices of the paner, and .Tad«* through by Harrv Eversleigh, and in tli« phrase of the literaTy man ' he had turaed them down." a lordly starllinr storv had tumed Ut) '.vo far.

Ixi their editor, although a vming man, the proprietors of the • Piccadilly" Masa.Bine' realised that they had secured" a treasure, and Harry Eversleigh. was quite contented with, his'lot.

That is to say, he was quite contented Tir.ti! tho eventful afternoon when his eyes first, lighted upon Dora. Desmond, and then ho realised how strange it was that he could even for one sincle moment, have fancied that ho was contented at all. He. realised now that he ought not to Jiave been contented since ho had not mot this girl before, and that he would never no contented again until she had promised to be his wife. Cupid had shot his arrow well.

Ihe girl was sitting upon the trunk of a fallen tree in the heart of a. Kentish glade, where the sunshine filtered through the quivering leaves and made a golden mosaic of light and shade upon the 'carpet of emerald grass at her feet. And very dainty feet they were, too, enclosed in their tan shoes 'and open-work brown silk stockings. The man caught a glimpse of the. rid from a. distance, where, n long vista of overhanging boughs showed like come wood nymph, in her bower. Tho picture was an ideal one. Sunshine and summer warmth in tho skv, the twitter of birds in Ihe branches', tho drowsy hum of insects in the air, and the ripple of a tiny stream over its pebbly bed —-a stream that looked like a river of silver cut, through a cloth of green velvet. And like the Sleeping Beauty of the fairy tale, the girl, lulled by the soothing influences around her, had' fallen into a. doze, and the sheets of paper upon which fiho had been writing lav scattered at her Ice.t,

Arid' from one. of the avenues of sylvan glory that led to the,enchanted fairyland of "Love at First Sight" the. Prince Charming came across the springy turf with care fill tread that he should not awaken the girl, although his heart warned-to do so with the traditional kiss 'of fairyland. The Irish terrier at his heels crouched down in the grass, silent and watchful, at the mere movement, of his hand. Pat knew the moods of his master. Pat always looked forward—if a dog can count and calculate and think—to Saturday afternoons, when release from the cares of Fleet street permitted, his master to take him on a wild ramble; and Pat, a very intelligent animal, was now to help the course of true love to deviate from the rough route set down for it in proverbial philosophy, and for once in the affairs of the world to run smoothly. Pat rejoiced in the slirillest bark ever possessed by any canine quadruped of his size; and Pat, in addition, was a doc; frdnch was learned in tricks. Then an inspiration came to the editor. A man cannot introduce himself to a Strange young lady, no matter if he has suddenly fallen over head and ears in love with her—no matter if she be as delectably enchanting as Dora, Desmond, with her wealth of chestnut hair, her deep" blue lyes, almost violet in their intensity—and to some good-hearted chaperon© must be found, and what better for the occasion Ithan Pat, the Irish terrier? . . , "Speak, boy!" said Harrv Everslcigh, «nd Pat, nothing loth, spoke until he fwoke the woodland echoes again and Again, and with them the slumbering girl who sat up and with sleepy eyes looked out i« the patch of golden sunlight, where stood th« man and the. clog, and thev were pleasant in her sight. Letters, boy!" eaid the editor, almost beneath his breath, and, like a, hurricane of brown hair, the dog started towards the girl and seized one of the scattered sheets ot paper that had fallen from her lap to the ground, and " sat up and begged" vith it in his mouth.

The comical expression of the dog was irresistible, and Dora had perforce to "smile and then to laugh. ' And the merry laugh of a pretty girl on 6 summers afternoon would break the thickest ice that ever existed—if the anachronism of ice in midsummer mav be permitted—and thus the ice between Dora and Harry was broken, and the stream laid open for his plunge. And with the courage that W civrs. he took it. > "What a dear, svr(ttt> cmn j fal ' ] iuie dog raid the girl, as Pat still "sat, up" with a. «h*efc of written paper between his white teeth and endeavored to bark and ,< v " • tro P h y ab th e same time. \ee, said the yong man, jumping nt the chance the remark gave for conversation. J.e?, he's a very intelligent little "I v <la so love dogs," said tho girl. Ho looked at her with a glance of adwhich made the violet eyes droop, then there is a bond of sympathy between us," ho answered, "for I wouldn't part with Pat. for any price." Pat dropped the paper, gave Tent lo a, shrill, shrill canine "Hear, hear,!" picked it up agam, a.nd elevated himself upon his nwid legs once more.

loud better accept rour letter from him before he mates a meal of it" su*gefited the eoitor. ' ' *

Good dog, good doc." said the girl, as she took tho paper from Pat, and ii-d patted his head, much in his disgust, as hifi master was accustomed to givo him re-wards in kind, arid he bad naturally expected a. biscv.it. " But its not. a letter " flift continued to Eversleigli, w ith the eukprion of a blush, " it's 3. storv I'm writing.'

"Ok!" said the editor. "I write, a hit myself sometimes."

"Do you?' asked the sir!, in the manner of a -woman of making a qnerv in a reply when a man has just asserted ' a . fact "I wonder if you could help mo to the end of my story?"

He ignored the question for a moment J»nd went on to a, side track.

"What sort of a story is it?" Tic asked. The girl, with the further assistance of Pat, had gathered up the scattered sheets, and proceeded to rearrange them in consecutive order before she answered, and the man, looking over her shoulder, read 'the title: 'Lovo Will Find the War, bv Agnes Atherton.

"Agnee Atherton." He repeated the name mentally to himself. Yes, Agnes •wa* a pretty name. It recalled reminiscences of Dickens. Agnes and Dora. He •was not at all sure, when he remembered 'David Copperneld, that lie did not prefer Dora to Agnes of the story; but there could bo no question now of his admiration of Agnes herself in the flesh, and he told himself, with the sublime confidence of a young .man, that he woflld succeed in his conquest, and that Evertdeigh Otrtainly sctuinded a very pretty name. "ItsrealW a, fairy story," she said at Jfcst, -with, a lustrous flash*from the violet ores that disturbed the natural beat of his Wrt. "A fairy princess who cannot make hb Jier mind " "Which of a score of suitors she will accept," he hazarded. "Exactly," she murmured, "anrl I'd really dozed off to sleep in wondering what ehe would do."

"Well, the way to make a character human—that is, of course, if you'll condescend to bring your fairy from the ethereal blue down to earth——" "Now you'ro laughing at me," she protested. " No, no, really. The way to understand what a fairy would do in given circumstances is to put yourself in her place."

The girl sighed, but. it was not a sigh of discontent, only of appreciation of a man's logic upon the situation. "But I can't," she protested. "Tho positions are not the same. You see, the princess has a. score of lovers, while

If ever a man was tempted to throw discretion to the winds, to rush in and follow the advice of the poet: "Ho either fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small, who fears to put it to the touch, to win or lose it all," that man was Harry Eversleigh; the clever editor, and by no means unaccomplished author. He longed to tell her that he would willingly tight in single combat, one down and the nest to com© on, a whole scoro or scores of lovers who dare aspire to her hand.

That she was better, prettier, and nicer —on, a hundred thousand times—than any princess who over lived in the mythical days ot fairyland, in the medieval periods ot picturesque history, or even amongst the royal daughters of reigning sovereigns in the twentieth century, but ho decided, instead, to talk about the story of which the title danced in his brain—' Love Will Find the Wav.'

Tho title itself he felt was an omen, ■ a premonition, a forecast of success, for m hifi own case love must find the w n .y to the heart of Agnes Atherton. He took the "neatly-written sheets from the girl's slender fingers and glanced through them. The work, from a literary standpoint, was not bad. Thero were touches of originality and flashes of humor, while, hero and there an epigram sparkled, as, for instance, when the Fairy Princess remarked that "It was sometimes better that one should have a full hand of hearts than that clubs should be trumps." .-Harry thought of his own club, and decided that when he married Agnes—it had got as tar as that now—that the club that mid known him as its moving spirit for so Jong would know him no more hence, tor ward and for ever.

The man in love always has such unique, not to say extraordinary, ideas And then he told the girl how he would end the storv, and she laughed a merrv. nppling laugh as clear as the splash of iho water in the little brook close by, ns cheertul as the melodious songs of the birds that chirped their love notes in the leafy screen o'erhead.

"But," queried the girl, '■' f ] o you think a real nnncess-I mean. a rnl &■ •„. Ul - 1 I ' l °- t , hfltr And a S*in those g eat, hquid, vmlet eyes were turned upon Him. and his heart throbbed wildlv n„«i " oal I?" K ' e ?f'" " c *»d. sententious,)., ,s, alter all, a real woman, and a real woman would do that; therefore why not a princess:" WI Y not '" " ! T a - rrH ' "* 1 snail adopt, your idea."

And, ot course, you will make her live happily ever afterwards," he as the girl placed the sheets of .MS 'i,,' nor hltlc morocco leather satchel "lou think it would be quite safe'" she queried, roguishly. . "Quite," he "j t ' ? ;) l wn ,. s done in fairy tales." "Then I. will," she answered. -Thank you so much Good-bye ;- And she held out her hand. The. gesture meant, good-bye, but 'he look m her eyes belied her voice. - n d "repudiated her words. "I'd rather say an revoir," ] |r . murmured. Pat gave a shrill bark as in echo, ;,„,] described a few delirious circles 'round the couple, mad with delight to be on Um move »«;«„ for the newly-born lovers had dallied long. "Then an revoir," she murmured "We may meet again, the. world is very small and-and —she looked at the toe of her tiny tan shoe and deliberately destroyed a tiny wild flower which had" sorun-'un through the grass-" and I often come nere to write." "And I—v.-c—Pat and T." he -. a [,\ with splendid mendacity, for lie 1,,H m-v-r walked that way before, "always sfoll through these woods every Saturday Perhaps we shall meet again." "Perhaps," said the voire ~f the ■Surely," added her eyes, and walked on, a vision of gracefulness, until the curve of the path, at which she half turned and looked back, robbed Jho man ot the sight of her, and then he, too strode on, while Vat rushed in frantic hasts after a rabbit, whose white tail had shown for a. moment as it darted from it< burrow.

Less than a week—as a matter of tVt exactly five, days—had elapsed since Harry Eversleigh met- Dora, Desmond ]i,'« woodland vision, and to him it- had seemed at hrst. five weeks, then five years, and now five centuries. Would " Saturday never come?

10-morrow would see th- closing dav of the competition for the £IOO stoiw" and a* yet no MS. had come, from Agnes -\therton. true, she had not, told him she. was writing for that competition, and he blamed himself for not urging her to send her s tory in. It was not, he. admitted to himself, a great one, but it would have brought him into closer acquaintance with the girl had she so, and who should mv?_she mie-ht hr.'vo won.

Not that he would have let love, stand in tho path of duty on the matter "of selection, but, as he told a colleague in the, office, "Off all the, confounded piffle that was ever dashed on a, long-sufferiii" and unsuspecting editor, the stuff sent in for that competition was the worst." ''That comes of encouraging amateurs " said his friend.

_ Ins. It's a safer game to commission your yarn from a good man, and push him—except, of course, a £IOO competition makes a ripping advertisement, and vou may—mind you, I say you may—find a genius."

'I Have you selected anything as likely?" we've got to give it, of course, and we'll have to choose something. I've turned down a few hundred duds, and there are three or four fairlv decent varns 111 ( the final. None of them great." "Well, to-morrow ends it."

"It does, thank Heaven." iu A l d , Frida y morning's post brought the, final batch of stories, and with them—tor the fates were kind—(he neatlv written MS. of 'Love Will Find the War,' bv Agnes Atherton.

Harry Eversleigh informed the inkstamed office boy, who guarded the portals ot the inner sanctum, that he. was not to bo disturbed on any account, and sat back in his arm-chair to read the story by the girl he loved. He read it through earefullv, and, to his judgment, which he pronounced to tho heap of manuscripts in front of him. it was "the best, of the bunch": but, horrible thought, he was part-author. It was due to him—to hh suggestion—that the clever idea for the end had been adopted. Could he in fairness give it. the prize? There, were four stories in the running for Hie prize. He opened the drawer of a cabinet and took out the MSS., looked them over again, and discarded a corml° and that left, including the one that he desired should win, three.

Then he fought, a. light with himself and won. His tinner went to the elect™' bell-push on his tabic, and the boy came into the room, hastily hiding his taste for literature—which mainlv had to do with pirate chiefs—beneath his waistcoat '/Tell Mr Cooper Tel be obliged if he d spare me a. minute." said the editor.

Look here, Cooper." eaid Evorsloi"h when his colleague entered, «• do mc = .; Uivor. Ive winnowed these blessed prize yarns down t:j three, and I'm hanged if I can make up my mind which to choose I've thought of putting the titles in my hat drawing for it, but that doe?n't ivcem quite fair. Take 'cm into vour room and pick out th-3 best, will you? Let me know after lunch."

"Right you are, old chap—hand 'em over." And Cooper departed, leaving Eversleigb. as anxious as though ono of the storks were his own.

How lie killed the time until three that afternoon he, never knew, and as for lunch it was a farce.

"Well," he said, as Cooper came into his sanctum, "which is it?" "Why, man alive, there's only one worth wasting printer's ink on.. Wonder you didn't see it for yourself. It's an easv first, as they say ;n*thc classics."

Harry Eversieigh could feci Jii's heart thumping asrainst his ribs—only one worth printing—-which -was it? Was it Agnes's stury? "

"Which?" he queried, as nonchalantly as possible.

"The girl's yam. It's a deucedly good one ; the ' Fairy Princess,' you know " "Yes, I thought that the best myse.lf," agreed tho editor- " New writer, too," observed Cooper. "Yes; never seen any of her stuff before." "She'll make a name for herself," said Cooper. " I'll give her one." said Eversleigh, under his breath. "Well, that's fettled, thank goodness," he added, aloud. •' And the prize goes to What's it called'" he asked, with a fine assumption of ignorance. '"Love Will Find the Way.'" " Oh, yes. By Agnes—Agnes " "Atherton." "Good! Thanks, old chap." Saturday saw Pat and his master tramping through the woodland, where, the birds carolled sweeter than ever. Saturday saw Dora Desmond awaiting with fluttering heart the man who she knew would come. Saturday brought her the news that rejoiced her, and Saturday trave to Harrv Eversleigb. the woman he'liad loved at first sight. They greeted one another almost as old friends, and Tat careered around joyously, and barked his contribution of oongiatul'ations in chorus to the words of his master, ae Harry said to Dora :

"I am so pleased to tell you that your story, 'Love Will Find tho Wav,' has'won the £IOO prize in the 'Piccadilly Magazine. 1 "

A flood of color spread over the girl's face, a thrill of joy throbbed at her heart. '■ But—but how do you know?" "I happen to be the'editor." "Oh—oh—oh!" she gasped. "And you choso it?" "Yes."

"Really and truly localise it was good, and not because-—" and she broke- off eonscious.lv.

■'Realiv and truly; and now I want " "Y\hfl.l.':" r-he whispered, as she tinned her pretty face ever .«, slightly on one side. " '

Pat barked in an ecsta.sv of delight, and Harry Eversleigh took the girl in his arms. "I want Agnes—Agnes Atherton." •"Agnes? There "is no Agnes." she laughed merrily ; •• but you may' have Dora Desmond."

" Then I. Harry Eversleigh, take you, Dora Dosmond, to be " "Don't, he foolish'." she eikrl. and stopped the end of the sentence v.-i hj their lust kiss.