THE WRONG AGE

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXII, Issue 4646, 26 April 1902, Page 4 (Supplement)

THE WRONG AGE

(E. C. Kenyon.) CHAPTER I. "Oh! "What a mistake! It is too bad! It is really too bad!” "What is the matter, Mopsy ?” "X don’t know how they can have made such a mistake!” cried Mopsy, turning her pretty, if pouting face towards her brother. “Look, Tom, they have put down my age in the new Authors* Directory as gixty-one. "Sixty-one! Sixty-one do yon say?’’ he exclaimed. “Yes, sixty-one.” Tom said something rather strong. "If anyone should believe it,” he cried, "you are undone! Ruined for life.” "Nonsense! They would know that it is a mistake.” "Not so sure!” said Tom, looking at her critically. "You see they would think that so famous an author must be getting on in years. They would say that tho compressed wisdom in that b6ok, ‘.The Romance of Beckley Hollow,’ most havo been stored up during a lifetime of careful observation!” "How absurd you are, Tom!” "I believe you are a great deal older than you look,” said Tom. still regarding her critically. "You confess to thirtyone. don’t you? Add ten years, and that makes forty-one. Not so far out, after all!” "You ridiculous boy! You know very well that I was twenty-one a fortnight ago, when my coming-of-age party was hold.”

Tom looked thoughtful. Ho was thinking of that party, and how the fellows had crowded round him in the smoking room, congratulating him on having such a beautiful and distinguished sister. He had been a little too much elated perhaps, or perhaps tho unaccustomed champagne lent roseate hues to his outlook, for he remembered confusedly afterwards that he had made rather a large bet with one of the men, that he would keep his sister with him unmarried for over twelve months. The other man had been confident that within twelve months Tom would lose her, and he hated the idea of that, as he was just beginning practice os a doctor, and, being a bachelor, his sister’s residing with him lent stability to his position. Poor Tom Fortescne! In those days he was impetuous and a bit foolhardy, fond of his jokes, and rather too much given to playing tricks. But that was before the steadying hand of Time was laid upon him. “I am sure, when I filled in tho form for the directory, I wrote twenty-one in the space for my age," continued Mopsy. "I must write about it, and see if something can be done to rectify the blunder.” "Better leave it alone, Mopsy,” declared Tom. "Yon will get a lot more prestige amongst the publishers if you pose as an old lady! They will give you more money, too. than they wquld to a mere girl.”

“Do you think so Mopsy bit the pen she had token up thoughtfully. “But then there is my life/’ she said. "I am so young. And X don’t want to bo thought old before my time.” “I don’t think that anyone who knows you would—er—exactly believe it,” drawled Tom, teasingly. "But of course if you like to ask the publisher, of the Authors’ Directory to call in the whole edition, and stop its publication you can do so.” “Ob! bo wouldn’t do that 1” “Wbat would he do?” “Apologise for the mistake.” “And that would not be of any use to you.” “No. It isn’t worth while to write. I shall to have to suffer in silence.” There didn’t seem to be.any suffering about it, however, for Mopsy found editors and publishers writing to her from all sides, for stories short and long. The fact was, her successful novel bad thrown open to her the gates of fame, and if she had not bad a fairly well-balanced bead she might have wrecked her splendid little craft in the impossible endeavour to please everyone. As it was, she worked steadily for two hours a day, and only tried to satisfy the reasonable desires of her first publisher. CHAPTEB 11. “Well, Mopsy, why are you looking so serious? Come and play at ping-pong with us, in the other room!” Tom had left his guests to seek his sister, who, all declared, must he working too bard. She was certainly sitting at her desk, but no pile of neatly-written manuscript lay before her, only a heap of letters and the photograph of a handsome, boyish face. “I’m in a little difficulty, Tom,” she said, “and it is all owing to that absurd mistake in the Authors’ Directory.” “You mean about your age?” inquired Tom. "How has that brought you into a difficulty?” ’ Mopsy hesitated a moment, and then, seeing that her brother was in one of his more serious moods, she resolved to confide in him.

"You know, my writing has caused mo to get heaps of letters,” she said, “from all sorts of people, and, amongst others, I have been receiving some very charming ones from a young amateur writer, who wrote to me at first about my novel, and then to ask for advice about Ms own writing." “I see. Praised you first, and then wanted to climb np by means of you. There are lots of such parasites! I should soon have sent him to the right about!” cried Tom, hotly. For he was jealous of his sister’s time and i,,trouble being thrown away. “He wrote so nicely, with such great deference and so many expressions of esteem,” said Mopsy, looking down on the letters, which boro the marks of having been much read, “and he has such a nice face!” She continued, looking very wistfully at the handsome boyish countenance.

“What is your difficulty?’’ fumed Tom, impatient ,to be off to the ping-pong players. “Well, dear, it is just this. He suggests, oh, so delicately, that if I could let him look at my photograph, he would return it quickly, and he——" “Nonsense!" interrupted Tom, in alarm, “I can’t have you sending your photo to anyone who chooses to ask—” "It isn’t that," said his sister, with a little sigh. “I mean that is not my difficulty. Ho is so nice, and such a perfect gentleman, that I would lend Mm my photograph, or even give him one, with gi'eat pleasure, but —” sho broke off, and then began again. “The fact is,” she faltered, blushingly, "if he—when he sees my photo, it will destroy his illusion !’’ Her brother stared. ' “ What do you mean?” he asked. "This. When he sees my photo he will be disillusioned. He will never send me tho same beautiful and clever letters again!” her tone was full of regret. “What in the world do yon mean? Are you fishing for compliments?” "No. no.” “You must be!. For you know, you know what you look like.” He took up one of her photographs, wMch lay suggestively near her correspondent’s, and looked at it appraisingly. The man who did not admire her would be blind indeed.

"Oh, yes, I know. You mistake my meaning. Earnest Baker.” she said the name almost caressingly, and her eyes were resting on the bright young face in his photograph. "Ernest Baker/’ she repeated, "has poured out his whole heart to mo in these letters,” she touched the heap of closely-written sheets, “as to a mother,” he says. And I have answered him as if I were his mother—and what will he think if—if he sees ?” she. looked, with • apprehension, at her own photograph. Tom breathed more freely. Tie will be awfully ashamed,” he said, "of having written like that to a girl.” “Tes. dear, yes. X felt that. He would never forgive me.” . _ "Hate you like poison!” said Tom, grinning behind her photograph, which he appeared to bo scrutinising. "Well, not hate! Yon always exaggerate so, Tom/’ this rather irritably, for she was much tried, "but he wouldn’t

like it, or mo, and X should never have his beautiful letters again." “No. That you mould not!" "What shall X do?" "Send him this photo of grannie’s,” said Tom, going to the mantelpiece, and taking up a photograph of a sweet-faced old lady. “Oh, if I could! But I don’t like to decieve him, and I cannot say it is mine.” "Don’t say anything. Put it in an envelope, without a line, and direct it to him.’’ After some demur, Mopsy did so, and. after sending it to the post. Tom carried her off in triumph to the ping-pong players. CHAPTER ELL "Tom! Tom! What shall I do? It's worse than ever now!” "What is worse than ever, Mopsy?” They were sitting at the breakfasttable, and Tom looked up from the newspaper he was reading furtively, as he drank his coffee and ate his cutlets. Mopsy who was dipping into her correspondence and presiding at the coffeepot while she breakfasted, held up the closely-written letter before her, saying, “Ernest Daker is so charmed with my photograph that he writes to me more affectionately than ever. It seems that the short stories which he had written under my direction are proving very successful, and the poor boy is fill of gratitude and devotion. He calls me his ‘more than mother/ " Tom burst out laughing. "Absurd!" ho cried, looking at the dimpled face behind the coffee-pot. , "I don’t like our having deoieved him," said Mopsy. continuing reading the letter. "Oh, and what is this. Oh, dear! Dear!" her tones were full of consternation.

"What’s the matter now?” "See.” Mopsy pushed the letter towards him, and then, changing her mind, drew it back again, saying. “No. I will tell you what the postscript says. He is coming up to London for a day or two, and hopes' to have the—the honour of calling upon me!” Tom said something strong, very strong indeed. "You must refuse him an interview,” he said.

"I cannot, dear. He asks for it so touchingly. Tor the sake of his dead mother/ he says, adding, oh, so beautiful and tender words about the way in which I have filled her place.” e*• • . e

Ernest Daker was waiting in Mopsy’s drawing-room, and she was trembling in her bedroom, not knowing how she could go to him, nor what she could say in her justification. That state of things, however, could not continue for ever, and so. with a last desperate hope that she might be able to keep up the illusion under which she had sheltered herself so long, she at length went downstairs to her visitor. He was standing by .the mantelpiece—a tall man, looking ten years older than his photograph—with the likeness of her grandmother ip his hand. He bowed and she bowed; and then, impulsively, she held out her hand, saying “You axe Mr Daker?”

“Yes. And yon axe—” he hesitated. "Miss Mary Eortescu©/’ she said quickly, “Ah! The same name—” “Yes. The same/’ she interrupted. "A grand-daughter perhaps of the novelist?”

She bent her head, in a little shamed confusion, and he thought she bowed assent.

Then, with wonderful charm of voice and manner, he began to praise the novelist in such Very eulogistic terms that she dared not reveal her identity.

Every word that he said made it more difficult for her to tell the truth; and. at length, he ended, with the remark, “But I shall weary you, whose sympathy has won from me these frank and outspoken remarks.”

“I will go and see—why—why—” she ran out of the room, ostensibly to fetch hex grandmother, in reality to take refuge with Tom in his surgery. “Tom,” she spid, when she had told him all, “you have helped to get me into this dilemma, and you must help me out of it.”'

“What makes you think that I altered the age set down on your paper?” asked he. "Did you alter my figures 21 into 61 in the first instance?” she demanded, wrathfully. It really was a relief to be able to scold someone. "Yes. I only did it for a joke, and—” “Wretch! she cried, miserably. "Well," he said. “1 will go and explain to the fellow. Shall I say that you are not responsible for your actions sometimes ?” “No. No. Oh. Tom, you shall not go. You will spoil everything.” Mopsy’s wits wero returning to her now. Sho was not going to allow her mad-cap brother to spoil what might bo the friendship—or more than friendship—of a lifetime. • * * # - # When she had told Ernest Daker everything and he had recovered from his first shock and awoke to the consciousness that she. having broken down, was crying bitterly, he made haste to reassure her.

And because she was woeping so much that she could not listen to his words, ho took up her small hand kissed it reverently. “Such a clever hand,” ho murmured, "to write such beautiful tales, and such a friendly one, to be stretched out to help an unknown straggler!” "I deceived you,” sobbed Mopsy. "Not intentionally,” ho said, “in the first place; and, perhaps. I have deceived you a littlo. too, that I might gain the sweet continuance of your kindness. 1 am not poor, as you seemed to tMnk. nor am I so young either, nor—nor—quite so unknown. I am the Duke of Hoselandshire, and have more land and money than I can cope with alone’,” he sised the last word. But Mopsy shrank from him. "Oh,” she said, “I did not know! I was not aware. I—” "If the hand that has helped me so much,’’ he said, gaining possession of it once more, “would help me still more! Mary—Mary, my darling,” he cried, drawing her to him. “will you not give me tMs little hand?” When Tom looked in the drawingroom, an hour later, to see what had become’ of his sister, he perceived two photographs upon the table side by side, whilst on the conch, to his amazement, sat Mopsy and her visitor, hand in hand, and looking very happy. "He, I suppose, is the culprit? said the Duke, rising. “I am the most unhappy culprit,” exclaimed Tom, thinking of his lost bet, and regarding his sister as now, also, hopelessly lost to Mm.