STORY OF A TYPEWRITER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXIV, Issue 10901, 4 November 1898, Page 3

STORY OF A TYPEWRITER.

Tat, tap, tap ! went the typewriter, as under the nimblo fingers of the operator the typerods flashed up and down with lightning-like rapidity; whirr 1 went the carriage as the same nimble fingers returned it to its place; then click, click, click again, until the whole machine seemed to be alive. Every little lever was doing its little best; every spring and every wheel was overflowing with energy, every letter trying to get on top of its neighbour, and every rod trying to get mixed up with the rest.

It was a warm day, too—very warm, and no doubt that ill-fated instrument felt it; but yet each and all of those tall-collared, clean-shaved clerks, who kept throwing languishing eyes in the direction of the fair operator, would have willing changed places with that reeking, squeaking, perspiring machine. Not one of them but would have been glad to submit to a similar banging and boxing by those dainty fingers; and, oh ! to have thosetwo dark eyesfixed on one's face for even a minute as they were fixed all day on that rattling, senseless complexity of rods and levers 1 But Amy Northcote, the pretty little typewriter, did not seem in a very good form on this particular morning; for gradually the rattle of the machine got slower and slower, and at last stopped altogether. Jack Robertson, the smart young clerk, looked up in surprise, and saw tho little typewriter gazing down on her desk with a look of extreme vacancy and sorrowful reflection so he bent his head over his invoices, and hoped he was the fortunate object of her thoughts. If he only knew it, the whole staff, even the officeboy himself, were thinking tho very same thing. As a matter of fact, littlo Miss Northcote was in a very peculiar frame of mind. Like all young ladies of her eligible age, sho was extremely romantio, and spent one half of her time in reading novelettes, and other half in thinking about them. But it was not even novelettes that occupied this young maiden's mind; sho had flown to an earlier and more romantio period. The littlo head that bent over tho keyboard of the typewriter was ill a terrible whirl of imagination and fancy. Tales of love and devotion, of heroism and martyrdom; King Arthur and his Table Round; Lancelot and Guinevere; errant knights and ladies fair; every legend she had ever read, and dozens of others she had made for herself, crowded in upon each other in wonderful confusion. She was obliged to stop her typewriting, and for a few minutes allow her mind an uninterrupted course. And so the long train of courtly knights and serenading gallants floated leisurely before her; and more came, and still moro, and yet all of them, though so different in apparel, had tho same face. And what a handsome face it was 100 ! what a tall, commanding figure ! How graceful it looked in the robes of Romeo ! and how glorious in tho armour of Lancelot! So she rambled on, the same imago taking a multitude of shapes, and the same thoughts taking a mullitudo of forms.

Suddenly her reverie was interrupted by a quiet voice that descended from some distanco above her.

" Good morning. Miss Northcote." She looked up with a start, and there stood her Lancelot before her. Ho seemed to have discarded his armour and donned an ordinary black morning suit and a very whito collar, 'whereof," as the office-boy onco remarked, " the height and stiffness wore marvellous groat."

" Good morning, sir," she said, in a halffrightened voice; and then, as the junior partner disappeared into his room, sho bent over her work with a very red and vory hot face. Jack Robertson saw it, and groaned softly to his invoices; all the other clerks saw it, and becamo very busy or very cross, according to their natures; oven the office-boy saw it, and spilt a bottle of ink over his trousers. " Well, I suppose all's fair in love," ho said, philosophically, to himself, as he tried to wipe it off with a sponge and made it worse; for this was an office-boy of real chivalrous principles. Then tho typewriter clicked again, but not so merrily as before, and frequent errors occurred. Presently a boll in tho office rang twice. This was the signal for Miss Northcoto to go into Mr. Norman's room and tako tho morning loiters; for this young lady was also shorthand writer to tho firm. Up jumped tho chivalrous office-boy to open tho door for J her; but his zeal was too great; ho fell ovor I a stool and lay humbly before his idol, from which position ho had tho pleasure of seeing .lack Robertson gracefully open tho door for her.

" Robertson," said a voice from inside, ll 6eo thai I am not disturbed until Miss Northcoto comes out. I have a very important letter to dictate."

"Yes, sir." The door closed, and sho was alone with the handsome young partner. Jack Robertson returned to tho office, and, as he climbed sadly on his lofty stool, a universal groan went round the room. Eight stiff white collars cracked simultaneously as oight heads dropped sorrowfully over their respective invoices and bills of lading; while tho forlorn office-boy, with a rueful glanco at his ruined trousers, sat wearily down lwsido his letterpress and said poetry to himself. Meanwhile the little typewriter sat at Mr. Norman's table, and carefully avoided looking at those dark, handsome eyes that were gazing so earnestly at her. The morning letters were soon finished, an\l the young lady rose to go. One minute, Miss Northcole, please. I have a private letter I wish you to write. It is a rathor delicate matter, and I certainly ought to write tho letter myself but as tho business concerns tho fair sex, I thought you might possibly bo able to help me." Wondering what was coming, Miss Northcote sat down again, and took up her pencil, feeling rather confused, and, although sho did not know it, blushing excessively, much to the internal delight of Mr. Norman. "Dear Madame," lie began, "in such a matter as this, when the welfare of two people is at stake, perhaps a personal interview would have been preferable to a letter. But we City men, whose lives are spent almost entirely in business occupations, and whose thoughts ore seldom allowed to stray beyond the conventionalities of this life would, I am afraid, make but poor wooers. To this letter, therefore, I leave the task of revealing to you what I fear to tell you in person. Whether the length of my acquaintance with you, or tho circumstances under which wo have known each other, will permit of my making this proposal, I leave you to judge. In my own favour all I can say is that I— that I— Well, I suppose I had better say love. Do you think that is the most suitable word, Miss Northcote ?" "Yes, sir." "Yes, yes, I think so too. Now, then— that I love you most ardently. Perhaps the nature of our intercourse has kept me from disclosing my regard for you. but I sincerely trust you will not allow this to influence your decision. Our formal acquaintance prevents me from expressing my deeper thoughts and feelings. I can only assure you of my unchanging affection. Let your own gentle heart plead for me rather than this cold letter, which I am painfully conscious is mora like a business letter than what I intended it to be. At least, let me implore you to give it a fair consideration, and if you will consent to bo my wife my whole life shall testify my gratitude and constancy. I leave my futuro happiness in your hands. Until I know your decision I shall have none. "Meanwhile I remain, "Yours for over, ft H "There, I think that will do; what do you think, Miss Northcote ?" But he did not press her for an answer, for, as ho watched her, a big tear foil on the page of her book. She hastily closed it ; but another fell' on the cover, and Mr. Norman smiled as ho saw it.

That afternoon seemed a very long one to the little typewriter. She copied the letter perfectly, and delivered it to Mr. Norman, who posted it himself. She then went on with the ordinary letters. At last the long (lay came to an end, and Miss Northcote prepared to go home. The office-boy brought her hat and cloak, and Jack Robertson helped her on with them. He would have liked" to escort her home, but dared not ask, so he wandered slowly to the Lyric Theatre, and wept copiously through the whole performance of "The Sign of tho Cross," and then went home and dreamt that Miss Maud Jeffries had become a typewriter, and that he was rescuing Miss Northcote from the lions. Meanwhile the object of his thoughts walked pensively down the busy Strand, still dreaming of her noble Lancelot. But, somehow, this time it was not Lancelot and Guinevere, but Lancelot and Elaine. So she wandered on, hor head full of deserted maidens and broken hearts, sighing _ deeply over her own misfortune, yet knowing not what that misfortuno was. She stopped in front of Whitehall, and gazed in admiration and awe at the gigantic figures of the two Lifeguards on their passive horses. How grand they looked! how strong and handsome 1 just as Lancelot must have appeared to Elaine. Then one of thosq noble warriors winked at her in a very unromantic manner, and she hurried on, feeling ve,ry disappointed, and vaguely wondered whether Lancelot ever winked at his Guinevere like that. . . . - _ So one ■ thing and another, ; which in the ordinary course would have been unnoticed, ocourred to make her unhappy, and it was a'

very miserable little maid indeed that arrived home at six o'clock that sight. She let herself quietly in, and went upstairs to her own room, in order to have a good cry, which she had been promising herself all that day. On the stairs her little sister banded her a letter, which she took into her room with her.

She laid the letter on her table, with the intention of having her cry first; but catching sight of the address as she was putting it down, she snatched it up again. The envelope was in Mr. Norman's writing. In a tremendous hurry she proceeded to open it, and, of course, took about three times as long as usual. The first few words were enough. "Dear Madame,— such a matter as this—" She knew every word of itevery tap. It was the very letter she had written herself; and, with a little cry of half-frightened joy, she flung herself on her bed, and had even a longer and more passionate cry than she had promised herself. This was what she had wanted, and having obtained it she was indeed happy. So no more of the little typewriter.

In these degenerate times, tho imperious Lady Norman flaunts and flourishes in her baronial halls, loved by her tenants and adored by her husband. But it is whispered among the servants that lie; ladyship will often retire to a little private .oom, where she has sometimes been seen shedding tears of happiness over the bones of a poor rusty, rheumatio old typewriter,

ON MONDAY NEXT; "JACK FORSTER'S ENGAGEMENT."