A TYPE-WRITTEN ROMANCE.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1523, 28 February 1901, Page 21

A TYPE-WRITTEN ROMANCE.

(By Harold Wild.)

Hers had been a lonely life, an existence wonder fully devoid of brightening influence. For her the “empty-handed years'"’ had come and gone in the same dull, monotonous round, and yet she knew that as people go, she must be envied, when, at twenty-rive, her good fortune arrived. . . , She stood leaning, on the window-sill, looking out over the expanse of grey slate roof’s stretching to the horizon of grey, smokv London 6ky, a scene so familiar to her, and then glanced down at the blue envelope in her hand with an exclamation that was half a sigh. Strange, that the aunt whom she hardly remembered should have still thought about her and left her that, which, not great in itself, still made the differenee between a bitter, heartbreaking and precarious existence, and a living, at least somewhat approaching ease, of however humble a character. The first- real ray of light in her life. Stay, was it the first? And from the tide of her hidden thoughts a red wave of consciousness swept over her face, and, turning from the window, she put the letter on the table, going over to her typewriter., alongside which lay a pile of freshly-typed sheets, which she began to arrange, at her wiatoh during the operation. ""He will be here in a quarter of an hour/* she murmured, "‘shall I tell him of my luck? I wonder whether lie will take an interest,” and a new light danced in her eyes. Meanwhile, through tne streets of the neighbourhood, Hubert Groves, journalist., trudged towards the same room to call for some work he had left two days previous. Presumably, his thoughts * should have been concerning that work, but they were fixed just then on a pale, sweet face above which waved a mass of goTden brown hair. He had known her for nearly six months, a directory having been his medium of discovery, and, during - that time, he had often taken her his MS to type. He had never efcnployed anyone else since, and know that he never could do so, for he was awake to the fact that now that face Was to him the dearest in the world, though no word of’ love had been spoken between them. And yet, how dare he—a poor, struggling journalist, think of love, it was a hard battle to keep himself, how could he possibly earn the wherewithal for two people? No, he had decided after a bitter struggle—for a fin de siecle young man he was very quixotic in his ideas of honour—he must set his face against it all, and it was with a firm resolve, hardening, though it wounded his heart, that he mounted the stairs to the two rooms which formed the abode of Evelyn Norman. She opened the door to him, and he glanced once at her and then round the room. How well he knew it, the plain, though , tastefully * furnished apartment, the home of a cultured woman who worked hard for the scanty necessities of life. ""Good evening, Mr Groves,” she said, ""your work is ready.” , "‘Thank you,” he replied coldly, his voice hard with his late resolve, ‘"I am glad of that, it is important, and 1 want to send it away to-night.” . , She winced involuntarily at his tone, and the blush that had crept to her cheeks at his arrival gave place to a. paleness more than usual. Quietly, though her nerves were at a tension with the tbought that ctebtain vague anticipations woula never have any realisation, she gathered the: sheets together, telling him the number of words, and then handed them over for examination. “Thanks.” he said, ""you oertainly have typed this stuff nicely. Your work always looks well, and though a typewriting mach ine is supposed to possess no individuality, you certainly manipulate yours in a style .quite 3'our own. And, do you know, the ornamental line at the end is decidedly unique. It must have taken you some time to disoover the combination of letters and ’ characters to compose that design/'

He talked hurriedly, with a forced flippancy, and smiled in a set manner, the coldness showing more and more in his tone as he felt the effort to keep it up becoming greater*. His companion answered quietly, though with a faint quiver in. her voice. rr Yes, I believe it is rather

novel. 1 have never seen the same -design on other copy. Then there was a silence in the room I whilst he placed the papers in a large envelope, and then counted the sum she had charged him on to the table. She receipted tne account and handed it to him still silent. He took up his hat and stick, and, holding out his hand, said hurriedly, ‘"Goodbye, Miss Norman, I hope to bring some more copy round in a day or two, and er —” he stopped in a confused manner, for liis voice was scarcely under control, but she brought him back to his senses quickly. “Thank you,” she said quietly but frigidlj\ and turned away without appearing to notice his still outstretched hand. Foi one instant he gazed at her averted face, and then strode quickly to the door and was gone. And she, when the last echo of his footsteps died away, flung herself into a chair and covered her face with her hands, whilst tlie hot tears trickled through hei fingers, and the blue envelope lay disregarded on the table. * * * -- * The sub-editor of the new magazine, ""The Regent,” sat back in his chair, gazing abstractedly into the wreaths of sinokr as they floated upwards from his pipe. A small pile of MSS, which he had brought home to look through, for they were busy at the office, lay unheeded on the table at his elbow.

He was thinking, and doing so, sighed, for his thoughts had flown back some eighteen months to a time when he was a struggling journalist, just before the offer had been made to him of the post he now occupied. He was thinking of a day when flushed with joy at his unexpected good fortune, he had rushed off to a certain street, and mounted the steps to a certair set of rooms, some copy in his hand, a very bald excuse, his heart heating as he knocked at the well-known door.

But nobody had answered that knock and with all his high spirits strangely depressed he had waited for a short time, and then made inquiries of the housekeeper below, only to be informed that tin owner of those rooms had departed the week before and left no address. He lef J the place, feeling that nearly all the plea sure he had experienced was taken awa> and from that day to this he had never sef eyes on the girl whom he had grown to love. But he had nevter forgotten her, and this night his thoughts were concern ing her. At last, after a deeper sigh thar heretofore, he knocked out the ashes of his pipe and turned to the perusal of the M.S. on the table.

He merely glanced at the opening pager of the first two effusions, and then, with a shake of his head, which would have caused su/Bcidal thoughts to have run through the minds of their respective auth ors, he pencilled a line or two on a paper accompanying each, and laid them aside. The third one he took up with an air which plainly showed he expected nothing better than before, commenced to peruse

it, and, as his eye travelled down the page, his expression changed, and a loot of interest appeared, which deepened ar he read. “By Jove!” he muttered, “that*is a fine description, and I am blessed, if it is no! somehow familiar. Where have I seen a room like that ?’’ He laid the MS down, and filled his pip-r afresh, then, as if an inspiration came tc him in the smoke, like the genii oa the Arabian shore, his face flushed, and, put ting down his pipe quickly, he again too’ up the MS. and hurriedly turning over There was a finish line, the de-siim of which caused his heart to beat fast for he recognised it. Then he turned bam to find the author’s. name and address, 'the first was evidently a nom de plume but, thank goodness, the address was ail right, a street in a respectable neighbour hood in Ohelsea. “It must be,” he muttered to himself, with his pulses beating like drum tans. He glanced at liis watch, nearly eight o clock It would not. take him long to reach tiu address given. \\ ould it be altogether the thing to call at this late hour? Anyhyow. he would risk it. With feverish haste he put on his great coat and hat, and. placing the MS. in his breast pocket, left the house and walked out into the clear April night. Goncrury to his usual luie he hailed the first hansom he saw, and in twenty minutes’ time was set down opposite his destination. And then a feeling of cowardice seemed to affect him, and he hesitated to ring. It is should be a wild goose chase after all. At last he mustered up courage and pulled the bell. A pleasant-faced, elderly woman answered the door, and looked at hint inquiringly. “Does Miss —— live here, please?” he asked, using the nom de plume. ‘"No, sir,” answered the woman, “there is nobody cf that name here.’’ He then stammered out. “Perhaps she goes under—er—that is—her real name—well, yon know, does Miss Norman live here?” he-asked, finished at last with an effort. “Yes,” replied the oilier, looking rather suspiciously at him. “Did you wish to see her?’’ “Ye-es, if you will please say that a friend wishes to speak with her. I have forgotten my card. Y op need not give my name, but I want to see her particularly/’ And perhaps it was something in Groves’s tone that caused the woman to admit him into the hail without further speech. He gazed quickly round, noticing the air of ease and comfort that, hung about the place, the thought flashing through his mind that if this was Miss Norman’s abode brighter days must have dawned for her. The landlady, meanwhile, tapped at a door on the right of the entrance, and, in response to a “Come in!” uttered in a voice that made Groves’s heart beat more quickly than ever, she turned the handle, and. looking in, said, “A gentleman to see you, Miss/’ “A gentleman! to see me?” said the voice from within, and, then, forgetting that he might be intruding forgetting, indeed everything except that he wished to see the speaker. Hubert moved past the landlady, and came face to face with a lady, who now stood in the doorway. Thank God, there was no mistake! “Mr Groves'” she said, her face flushing and then going pale. “Yes, Miss Norman.” replied that personage, “may I come in? I know this i 3 a rather late hour to call, but when you think that for nearly two years I have been endeavouring to discover your abode. 1 hope you will not forbid me a few minutes’ 'conversation.” The landlady had withdrawn, so that she had no alternative but to ask him to sit down. “How did you find me out?” she asked in a low tone, for her heart was beating almost audibly, she thought. Groves drew the MS. from his pocket, and handed it to her. “I have the honour, if one likes to give it that name, of being sub-editor of the magazine you sent this to.” She started and glanced hurriedly at it. “Do you remember me speaking to you about the individuality of 3'our typewriting? I recognised this at once, and also your description of the room, and, in spite of the nom-de-plume, and —er — having some business in Chelsea, I took the liberty of culling at this address to see whether I could fine something about you.” . , She blushed, hotl this time, and. noticing it, he gave her no time to reply, but continued in a lower and more earnest tone. ’ Another time, Miss Norman, I should like to explain something to you, something about the last time I saw 3’ou. Why did you disappear so sunddenly ?’’ Her face was averted as she answered. “I had had a stroke of good fortune, and determined to leave my abode. I—l did

not think you would have been, interested. in knowing where 1 had gone to.” There was a silence in the room, and then Groves, his voice trembling, said, as he rose and took up his hat and stick, “It is late now, and I can’t very well explain. I will take the MS back with me, and shall now only ask whether I may soon call again. May I?” She looked at him once, her face burning, for there was no mistaking the tenderness in his glance, and then dropped her eyes “Yes, if you care to,” she murmured. He held her. hand iu a tight clasp, but did not speak another word, and soon was gone. - And, as before on his departure, she laid her head on the table and wept, but a happjr smile glistened through her teal's. One evening, a week afterwards, two * people wiulked slowly across the park, which lay beautiful in the freshness of the budding spring, and the man whispered to the happy looking woman at his side, “i have taken everything very much for granted, Evelyn, for it is certain there have been plenty of others besides myself. You must think me terribly conceited.” She looked at him with a sweet side glance. “There may have been others, - perhaps, as far as you know,” she answered, half mischieviously. and then her voice taking a deeper, tenderer tone, she continued: “But I knew they could never have been anything to me.” And his answer to that satisfied both of them.