A VALENTINE'S MISSION.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 2170, 20 August 1897, Page 4

A VALENTINE'S MISSION.

I was in am uncompromisingly bad temper when I ploughed my way tkroogh the ??now-slush of the London streets to my modest room In Merton Chambers cn the eve of St. Valentine. _ T h®d Just spent two blood-chilling hours furtively watching Lady Northerton's house, in the foolish attempt to catch a momentary glimpse of a certain young lady as she stepped from her brougham; and she had not appeared. But I had seen Lillington alight and enter the house to which T had not the entree, and that had gangrened my simple disappointment.* Ellington could go. Lillington could see her, talk to her. dance with her, wait npon her, while even a passing glance was denied to me. Hang Lillington! why should he glut on hor smiles while I hungered for a single look? Of course I wt*s foolish and monstrously ungrateful. Tt was only three months since I had loft my country nome and arrived in London with fifty pounds in my pocket and a life's work before me, and I had run against Lillington the very first day. He had taken me to three social satherings, and at each I had met Miss Sons Blake. Yes; I was distinctly ungrateful in cursing nis better luck. Moreover, my chances of winning her WCTe infinitesimal I was poor, unknown, practically alone in London—ever. Lillington, my old friend, had dropped me *ince I evinced an interest in Dora Blake. With Lillington as a rival, what chance had I? Never before had my little studio-sit-ting-room looked so cheerless and desolate. With one match I lit fire, lamp, and pipe, and sat down at the table with pencil and drawing-block. My mind was not in reading form; I ; had no letters to write—alas! I had no correspondents; but I could sketch. Moreover, while drawing my thoughts **n as freely as my pencil—and always fa the same insane direction. How many evenings had I spent cooling my heels in the shadow of some awninged portal in the hope of feasting my eyes for one brief rapturous moment «pon Dora Blake as she arrived at or deParted from some social gathering announced in the morning paper! And yet I had but spoken to her thrice, and not even know where she lived! "What are the chances that we shall ever meet again?" I cried aloud. My door opened without the warning knock. ""Lillington! Why, I thought I saw tered. Lillington closed the door and quizzed me. "I like the way you welcome an old BChool-chum, Blanchard r" he said. "1 am surprised to s?e you," I replied. "Because you saw me go into Lady Northerton's?" *1 saw you—yes. You don't flatter Tour hostess by being here now. She wasn't there, I suppose?" "Ton know that as well as I do." He laughed. "'I am not an X-ray," I said; "I was mtside, you know." "And I was inside, you sec." The superiority exhibited in his re- I Joinder set my teeth on edge. "Tt was cruel of her to disappoint you," I said.

"Her aunt—she lives with her aunt, •s you probably didn't know before—was taken ill to-day:" ""Ah! By-the-bye, where does she live?" I asked, perhaps with too great a show of eagerness. "Where?" He smiled satirically. Tteally, hadn't you better inquire when you next meet her?" I bit my lip and scratched my name fct the bottom of my sketch —I had been drawing all the time. Then I thrust it tside, and Lillington picked it up. "Phew!" he whistled. "A valentine, by Jove! Cupid clinging to a cloud. Ah! so Love still clings to Hope, eh, Blanchard? But I'd stick in a bit more Hope if I were you, old man. On my lienor, I wouldn't like to hold shares in the company that undertook to insure your cherub's life. More Hope, Blanchard! Think of something more tangible than clouds to cling to. You can't reply upon their stability. Tour Hope is too frail, Blanchard; don't trust to 1t Take my advice, or you'll come a nasty cropper." For a fact, I was more astonished to

hear what I had been drawing than to tear Lillington's scarcastic comments g. upon It. I took it from his hand and scanned it. There, sure enough, was a small, chubby, winged figure, airily clinging to a cloud. But Lillington had embellished it. Across the cloud he had printed "Hope"; to the little figure he • had affixed the word "Love"; and at the top of the picture he had scrawled "To my Valentine." "Thanks for improvements," I said. ••Welcome," he replied. " Unfortunately, you have already signed it or—by the way, I thougtrt you dropped your family name with your family connections when you left your native heather?*'

It was a curious fact that I had, the test time for three months, signed my real name—"George Upton"—instead of the one I had adopted when, as Lillington remarked, I broke away from my unhappy home for ever. I determined to destroy the thing, and began to peel the topmast sheet of paper from the block. "What's its missfon?" inquired Lillington, nodding at the drawing. I indicated the fire, now blazing cheerfully. That's its destination," I said. "Nonsense!" said Lillington. "There's many an unattached girl in London -whose heart would eat for a month if she received your valentine to-morrow anorning. Don't destroy the thing. Send it —" I suspended my operation. "Look here, Lillington," said I; "you did me three good turns when I first entered London. Don't make me swear at you. Go ! there's a good fellow. Good night!" "Oh, if you feel like that "he began. I opened the door. "Good night, Lillington," I repeated. "Good night," he said. "Good night, and—don't destroy the valentine!" He went; and I—followed his suggestion.

I awoke the next morning in the throes of suffocation. Somebody was choking me with a hideous, multi-co-lored valentine. Or was it a nightmare?

I sprang up in bed and. rememl>ering what hed bred the dream, turned hot with shtme. I had followed Linington's advice, had wrapped a sheet of note-paper around the valentine anil, opening a Court directory at hazard, had directed it to the only maidt-n lady householder in Remington Gardens, affixed a halfpenny stamp, and dropped it into a pillar-box as a clock struck the hour of midnight. But after all, where was the harm ? 'An elderly maiden lady—a householder and unmarried, ske would probably be elderly—would receive a silly drawing, which she would attribute to some eccentric acquaintance or mad adorer. There was nothing by which to trace the artist. It bore a signature unknown in XdOndon, except to myself and Lillingfon. I was sale from identification.

So I consoled myself. But another matter disturbed me greatly. I had slept till nearly mid-day; wasted a valuable morning; had not worried a single art-editor.

I dressed hurriedly and, refusing breakfast, snatched up a portfolio of sketches and hastened downstairs. At the door a telegraph-boy peered into my face. "Mr George Upton, Merton Chambers—what fioor, sir?" he inquired, with business-like brevity.

I started. My own name had already grown unfamiliar.

"That is my name," I replied. "A telegram for me?"

Fmn whom? I hadn't a friend' in London, unless Lillington could still be placed in that category, or, still more improbable, some art-editor. I banished the foolish thought and read the telegram:— "Come, with greatest despatch, to 17 Remington Gardens. Every minute is valuable."

No. 17 Remington Gardens! The house to which I had addressed the valentine! My presence was urgently required! In the name of the incredible, what had happened? What haa I done?

I beckoned a cab. The cost was a consideration, but if I had been guilty of some unprecedented folly I must pay for it.

Tax my brains as I did during the journey, no likely solution of the telegram occurred to me, and I alighted at No 17 in a fever of perplexity not altogether agreeable. The door opened before I could knock, and a footman.learning my name,darted softly away, leaving me unceremoniously to stand in the hall.

My whirling brain, however, was quickly spared further conjecture. The rustle of skirts caught my ear. Raising my head, I saw a woman's figure hastening down the broad stairs. She stopped at the curve, and spoke. "Come." she said in a hushed voice. "You are not a moment too soon." My heart gave a leap. Surely I recognised chat voice! I darted up the first short flight of stairs to where the sunlight streamed vertically through an elongated window. "Miss Blake," I said, "I had no idea that "

"Mr—Mr Blanchard! I thought—that is. we are under a misapprehension. A thousand apologies. Will you—please walk into the drawing-room?" "You thought to see George Upton," I said hastily. "So you do. Blanchard is my assumed name; my real one is Upton. I sent the valentine to Miss Sherman, and am here to answer for my sins in response to the telegram." She stared at me, her eyes dilated, for the space of a minute. Then she touched my arm and I felt that she was trembling. "This is unforseen," she whispered. "Please wait in the drawing-room while —while I go and see what is to be done." She vanished, and I, more perplexed than ever, walked into the drawingroom. Soon the door opened and a doctor—a slance told his professionwalked in. "You are Mr Upton?" he said, without preface. "I am." "And you sent a drawing—a valentine " "A Cupid clinging to a cloud. I sent it last night to Miss Sherman, at this address Tt was a piece of folly, I freely admit, and if there is reparation in apology. I freely apologise. Miss Sherman is a total stranger to me " "Miss Sherman is dead," he interrupted, solemnly. "Dead!" "Passed away three minutes ago. Had you been the person we suspected you to be, you would have been too late. Still, it Is best. Your so-called piece of folly, Mr Upton, has sent a soul into another world with a smile in place of a sigh. But sit down. We owe you some explanation for the inconvenience of coming here. "Miss Sherman, some fifty years ago, being then engaged to a young gentleman, had the misfortune to mix up her valentines. The one intended for her lover was despatched to a man for whom she bore the greatest aversion, while that she had prepared for him—it was not flattering, I am told—reached the lover, a headstrong young fellow, who Immediately broke off the engagement. and. while the fever of anger was still rampant, plighted his troth to another and married her; and—so I have reason to believe —has regretted it to this day.

Be that as it may. Miss Sherman took the entire blame for the catastrophe upon herself, and, despite scores of offers of marriage, remained faithful to the memory of the love she had lost, with but one unfulfilled desire in this world—to hear the soft word of forgiveness from the man whose life she vowed she had ruined by her mistake. "This morning she lay on her death-bed. Your valentine arrived, She asked for it, and Miss Dora—her niece, w r ho lives here—described your picture and read your signature. Miss Sherman became greatly agitated. The remaining wish of her life was granted. She read the valentine by the light of her own hopeless, forgiving love. 'He forgives me! I am content to die,' were her last words. My dear sir, your valentine had a mission. Your little picture is now clasped lovingly in her frail fingers " "Thereletit remain," I said reverently. That night I broke my vow, and wrote to my father, George Upton. After the funeral, in my little room, he revealed his own humiliating story. Dora Blake is not living at Remington Gardens now, though No. 17 was included in the legacy her aunt bequeathed to her ; but she and I are busy with the design for a new home, which, we hope, will be ready for occupation after the honeymoon.

In a locket attached to my watchchain I carry what I call my "mascot." It is only the corner of a sheet of notepaper—the very sheet I had wrapped around the valentine—bearing, in white embossed letters, the words " Merton Chambers." And I thought I had used all the "headed noteT"