A SHATTERED IDEAL

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXV, Issue 5008, 4 July 1903, Page 2 (Supplement)

A SHATTERED IDEAL

(By Ballard Underwood.) /'Hello, Will! I hear you aro married. Snail I congratulate you?-* 4 siwd 1 to an old friend, a brother newspaper man, whom I mot the other night on Charles street. “Ihdeed, you may, old man,” ho said, 1 deservo congratulation. I cerfamily never deserved so sweet a little ’Oh I don't know," I replied. "But won’t you let me see her that I may congratulate her, too?" Will was one of the best of fellows, who could never &ee a fault in another, but in whom the bump of self-couco t, usually so largely developed in newspaper men, was entirely missing. Ho had never been a success as a reporter, for ho was deliberately blind to all kinds of scandal and totally unable to exaggerate any but the good qualities of those about whom he was called upon to write. Ho even carried ike principle of giving the benefit of a doubt to the most hardened criminals to an absurd degree, ■while his own microscopic vices h© magnified to such an extent that he had literally learned to despise himself.

Many times he had told me that he was not fit for any good woman to love, whereas all who knew him were simply ready to adore l*:e honest, manly fellow. "Come along, old man," he said in a manuer much more cheerful than those of his morose bachelor days. "It is rather late to disturb the little woman," ho continued, "and you will find her rather shy w.ith strangers, but come in for a minute. It's dull for the poor girl, my being away so much, but when you know where to find us you might often drop in and cheer her uu until I get hom^." Ho led me to a quiot street not far away, al] the time rhapsodising on the treasure ho had won for a wife, until I absolutely grew glum with envy; I am not on© of those modest men who think themselves unworthy of any of the good things which fortune may fling in his way, and as we stalked tho re©t of the distance in silence I inwardly railed at the fates which had not favourod me with such a wife as Will had evidently found.

It was tantalising to reflect' that one’s only lovo affair should have been of such a lastly different nature, and.l reflected i pen the frolicsome time which a certain Flossie and myself had enjoyed three months before.

“She really loved me after her kind for the first month or so,” I mused. “If she had only been a good and honest girl I might now have been a happy married man like Will.

But then the frolics would have been missing and the whole affair lacking the spice of impropriety, which would have been dull, uninteresting and tame. If she had stuck to me,” I thought, “instead of going off with a handsomer man, I should surely have wearied of the lifelong diet of bread and cheese and kisses, cut from the same loaf and the same cheese. Loaves and cheese, oven the best of ’em. will.get stale.” If I had married Flossie neither would have been worthy of congratulation, bo when I examined the texture of my own recent attempt at amateur housekeeping, I felt that this happy pair was indeed entiled to the highest congratulations.”

When we arrived at the cosy little flat where Will and his turtle dove-like mate had built their nest,-Will gave an familiar “tr-rat. tr-rat. tr-rat, tat. tat!" with his knuoklees on the door. Then he waited awhile listening, and with a , little chuckle he whispered, “Poor girl, she’s asleep.’’ Again he knocked gently and smilingly said, "I guess she heard vour voice, and knows I am not alone. She’s putting on her wrapper or something of that sort, yon knoir.".

My -sense of etiquette revolted against intruding on my friends’ hem® when his eeoedeeeeeOeFeee’shrd Itao incvmfwyp T wife had evidently retired to rest, so in spite of his assurances that she would bo glad to see any friend of his at any time, .1 tore myself away, after promising to visit him the following evening. I left him still tapping gently at the door. While wandering disconsolately toward my lonely rooms, a stately, well-dressed woman laid a hand on my elbow and whispered: “Have you forgotten me?” It was Flossie.

At any other time I think I should have merely exchanged a word and parted from her. I should have remembered how foolish it is to rekindle dangerous fires, but the contemplation of Will and his sweet wife so happy in their cozy little nest, had awakened a romantic longing for love, or at least such a semblance of tho divine passion as tho fates had ever granted mo. ■’ “ - - '

Flossie seemed to .regret our previous parting. She loved mo more than ever Longed for me, she said. We had met again, and all was as before. When we parted and agreed to meet again that night, I had quite forgotten my appointment with Will and hi s wife. Still I had an hour to spare and I dotermined to jiist pop in and offer my excuses, WUI met me at the head of tho stairs with the words:

Sorry, old man. but my wife has to go out tomight to visit a sick friend. Lucky you didn’t stay last night,” he rattled e'prg, "for she was detained at her friend s bedside until early (his morning She's naturally tired out. poor girl but she insists on going . again to-night. She is just getting ready;- Nevermind old man, we can have one of our old' long chats together. But you shall have a chance though, to congratulate her on her idiot of a husband,” he laughed “Here. Flossie! Flossie)" S

She 1 Slip walked into the room with a winning, innocent little smile upon her pretty features and offered her hand with as much coolness as she might a total stranger.

I do congratulate you. madam, with all my heart ” I gasped. Then I added put I beg that you will not go out tol night, for I can assure you that your sick fnend no longer exists. In fact, I regret to say that I must hurry away to write your friend’s obituary." Flossie immediately removed her hat with a pretty expression of sorrow and r^crrp.t. Will looked a little puzzled, but as 1 bowed myself out he oried out cheerily: "All right, old fellow. I know. Business before pleasure! Sorry you can’t stay, but you’ll pop in again often won’ yon?” I said, “Yes, certainly/* I lied. I never did. '