THE CHOICE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3743, 8 December 1925, Page 86

THE CHOICE.

By

G. P. M'Kenna.

(Coptbicht.—For the Witness.) I. “You don’t know father! If you did, you wouldn’t speak so casually about it.” “I know his daughter—that’s enough, Molly. I don’t care if he is another Doubting Thomas—l wilt*convince him.” “My dear Jack, Thomas Anderson, of Anderson’s Ready Mades, could give points and a beating to any Thomas, ancient or modern. If I told you of the super-man father expects me to find for a husband, you would wilt—positively wilt.” “Do tell me.” ‘‘Very well. You imagine father—who is really an old dear—standing by the fire, thumbs in armholes, wearing his best board of directors’ air. ‘Men,’ he says, ‘are of three kinds—the physically strong, the mentally strong, and the heart strong. The physically strong may be a dock labourer or a navvy, but he is a man. The mentally strong is he who gets things done—the boss in big business, the architect, the scientist’—you understand—father, for instance, ‘the heart strong; the soldier, the explorer, and their like. All men’—in capitals.” ‘‘But I agree with all that.” ‘‘l know; but it is only one side. On the other, he has those who are something less than men.” “I come in that lot, I suppose?” “Unfortunately, Jack, you do. For the artist, the poet, and the writer of books he has scorn unutterable. They are ailing branches on the tree of life.” “Blossoms, rather, and fine fruits. Does it not strike you that the thing he admires may exist with the thing he detests? For instance, I am going to make good. I will ask him to recognise our engagement for a year. If I don’t win out in that time—but I will win out.” Molly Anderson’s face grew very serious. “A year?” “It is long enough. Don’t doubt me, Molly; I will not fail. I have it all in my mind—one of the finest stories in the world. Day by day its outlines grow clearer; it takes form without my will. Believe me, dear, I know when I do well or ill, and I do very well. The prize is worth while. She brightened at his confidence. “You would add that, of course,” she told him, smiling, “you feel like asking him now?” “The sooner the better.” “Very well. Come along. He is upstairs, but I will tell him.” She pushed open a door. “Good luck!” she said. “My luck is more thn I deserve.” Jack Morris closed the door softlv, and turned to the room, seeking to glean a little aboutt its formidable owner. He knew Thomas Anderson as all the world knew him—the man who had risen from a draper’s apprentice in a small town to the starry height of the multinle shop; the man whose chance of appearing in an honours list when his partv returned to power, was, as he himself expressed it. “a dead cert.” With all his glories, Anderson’s estimation of the arts was a by-word. It was common talk that he bought pictures to match his wallpaper and books that their binding might fit a colour scheme of his own. He was, obviously, a man around whom legends- grew. Morris, standing by the cheerful fire, saw a little room furnished with a plainness almost spartan, and wondered how much of these tales was true and how much was false. As was natural, he looked first to the few intimate books, near the rather shabby writing-desk. They gave him little ground for hope. Directories of various kinds: the impeccable “Self Help.” “Who’s Who,” and apparently for light reading, “Furthest South,” and Doughty’s “Arabia Deserta.” Nothing frivolous; great deeds, greatly told. Morris turned quickly; the door was opening. The great man entered. He was not very impressive to look at. Rather short; even the lines of his faultlessly-cut suit could not hide a certain protuberance of figure. The head, too large for the body, was, nevertheless, a fine head. Mr Anderson put out his hand. “You wanted to see me, Morris?” he said. “No, no —don’t explain; I know all about it.” He sat down, indicating another chair. “Well?” “It is about Molly.” “I know, I know.” Morris felt himself colour. “I wish to marry her, sir. We love each other.” “Yes, yes, I daresay. But who are you? WTiat have you done, anyhow?” This was getting to the point with a vengeance. “I write, sir; I am not unknown in literary circles.” “Rubbish ! There are hundreds not unknown in literary circles. Are you known in the great world?” “Not yet, perhaps; but I am young enough still, and I will be known.” There was no interruption, and he gathered confidence. “All I ask—and I aplr with Molly’s approval—is that y>n recognise the understanding between IvTolly and myself—for a year. The vear I will devote absolutely to work. If I don’t make good, you will hear no more of me.” Mr Anderson cleared his throat. “Pretty cool!” he said. “To put it bluntly, you want me to act as a sort of guardian to Molly’s affections. Your future, it seems, is ip the air. Now Molly, you must admit, is 3 girl in a thousand. “I do admit it,” wforris told him, with enthusiasm. “And,” added the older man, “you must admit also, that there are many young men high in the social scale, with assured positions, who would be glad to call me—even me, old Ready ? fades—-father-in-law.” “But there is Molly’s inclination.”

“Pooh! A child! She will grow out of it. She imagines poverty and romance §o together. I know they don’t. Why o you waste your wits in bookishness? You’re a good looking boy; any man

might be proud to call you son. Get a job worthy of you. I could put you on one.” “Thanks, I know my job. Y'ou agree to the proposal?” “I do. Wait a minute; don’t thank me, I don’t suppose for a moment that you will fulfil vour part of the contract, but I am in no hurry to get rid of Molly. It will be very nice to have her absolutely for twelve months—and more. I can’t imagine anything else to make me agree to your hair-brained scheme.” “Since you do agree, your reason doesn’t matter. He began to twinkle, “lou shall have an advance copy of the masterpiece.” he said. .“Thanks” —drily—“I don’t read that kind of thing.” n. Jack Morris was dead to the world, ft was mentioned among his friends that* he had gone away, seeking experience. His friends, being just the usual run of friends, shrugged, and i>assed on to other things. About this time it was noted casually in the offices of two or three publications that no MSS was being received from J. R. Morris. The fountain seemed to have gone dry. He had been a promising contributor. It was a pity. * But there were others. Molly Anderson knew where Jack was. Once weekly she received a letter from him, a letter interesting to two persons chiefly; but containing, with much other matter, details of a satisfactory progress. Once monthly Jack and Molly met. What passed at these times need not be detailed. About seven months after the notable interview with the great Thomas Ander son, Mr Max Raynor comes into the story. Mr Raynor, a man in the middle years, was a literary critic of more than national repute, and reader to a famous publishing house. What he said, went His blessing was a thing to strive for; the book that incurred his displeasure fell, as it were, stillborn from the press. A bachelor, he had, he averred, three loves; good friends, good books, good food. In subservience to this third love, he left the bulk of his correspondence until after breakfast, picking out for early perusal only the personal, and probably pleasant letters. r P ar * icular morning, the letter from Jack Morris was one of the first he picked up. The writing, though strange, had personality. “Dear Mr Raynor,” he read, “you have probably forgotten all about it, but some time ago you were good enough to speak well of some of my work in the New Argosy. To be exact, you said I had the ingredients of greatness, and that you looked for something worth while in the near future. This something has, I think, taken form, and though I know it is auite irregular, I want you to see it. Can we fix up a meeting ?—either here, or anvwhere else you may suggest.” “Quite irregular,” said Mr Raynor, with emphasis, “quite.” He remembered Morris very well. “A young man of quite exceptional promise,” he had once called him. He wavered. The thing had a spice of adventure in it, and adventures were few and far between to Mr Raynor. He lifted his head as one who scents the battle far off. There was something behind all this; some mystery, not yet clear. At the imminent risk of letting his toast go cold, he walked twice up and down the room. If there was anything in it—and, from what lie remembered of Morris, there was reason to hope —it would work up into a good story later on. It would go round the press that he, Max Raynor, had visited the down and outer—well, perhaps that wa« rather strong! —had visited the struggling writer, had advised him, had, as it were, taken him by the hand. All advertisement ! Yes, he would go. He made a care ini note of the address. It was by the river, near the West India docks. “Better and better,” said Mr Raynor, “it is, indeed, an adventure!” Mr Raynor, the following afternoon, was more than ever convinced that it was an adventure. He had left his taxi at the top of the long street; he meant to exploit to the full this experience. Children looked curiously at the rather pompous and quite immaculate figure. The type, if not new, was rare. He scrutinised the dingy houses as he passed. Ah! that wa« the one. A tall, gaunt building, grey with the grime of years; not, one would imagine, the habitation of genius. But you never could tell. Mr Raynor went up the worn steps, and pulled the ancient bell. The woman who opened the door was in curious contrast to her surroundings. She was clean and tidy, with a smiling face, and an air of cheerful efficiency. “Mr Morris?” said the critic, “my name is Raynor.” “He expects you; I will take you up.” He followed her obediently. “How long has Mr Morris been with yon?” he asked. “More than six months. One never hears him, poor young man; writing, writing, always writing. If all my lodgers was as little trouble I would be a happy woman.” “You have others?” “Two families. One in the basement with myself, and a man and hi* little bov in the room above Mr Morris.” She stopped on the landing. “Mr Morris's Toom,” she said, knocking. “Come in.” Jack Morris came towards the door. “ This is too kind of you, Mr Raynor,” he said. “ Not at all! Not at all! Part of the day’s work.” He glanced about the room as he spoke, noting its poverty. ** But why this? ” he asked ; “ why jhis —er— hermit existence? ” “ There are various reaeons,” Morris told him gravely, “ local colour Is one of them; the desire not to be disturbed another, but the greatest Is economy.” Raynor betrayed no surprise. “Tell me about your work ? ” he said.

“ There is not much to tell. I had the idea, and little else. 1 cut adrift from the old things absolutely—for a time. My money is almost gone; my idea is (here ”*—indicating a pile of type“l think I understand. It is good?” “ You will tell me that; but I think it is. Raynor sat down, loading his pipe carefully. He looked at his watch. “ One hour,” he said briefly. ‘lt is enough.” Ihe critic read swiftly. For some time there was no sound in the room but the rustle of turning leaves and an occasional “ Ah! " A few pages were skipped and the pipe laid down. Morris was not slow to note the sign. But this is splendid,” said Mr Raynor at last, “splendid.” .^j e on - Morris, unable to keep still, walked from end to end of the little room. Ihe pipe burnt itself out. The pages turned cuicklv. The critic rice at last. He put out his hand. “Congratulations!” he said. “It is more than good; it may be a masterpiece. Morris did not speak at once. The elder man eaw his emotion. It means a good deal to vou? ” lie asked. “It means everything. If VO u only knew! ” J J There! there! I do kaow. I was a boy myself once, with great dreams—but my dreams bore no fruit. My time is upj I will take this with me.” No, you shall have it to-morrow. Ihere is just a little to put in at the end. 1 was hesitating about it, but now I am sure.” t( case ” —turning to the door—yoju have no use for my company. Dont deny it; I know you are itching to be at it again.” He stopped, holding the door knob in hia hand. “ You won’t pass my firm by ? ” he asked. “ After this how could I? You don’t think me ungrateful? ” You have nothing to thank me for. You may think you have, but in six months’ time—you’ll see! ” And he was gone. m. Jack Morris did not sit up late. When Raynor, leaving behind him an atmosphere of benediction, was well away, he applied himself to the finishing of nis task. In two hours the work was done—well done. The last sheet finished and added to the pile on the table, he sat for some time allowing himself to dream. He was through the wood; the triumph of attainment surged up in his heart. He felt very kindly disposed towards all the world. Field, the man from the room above, found him sitting in semi-darkness. “You are so quiet, Mr Morris,” he said, “I began to think you were out.” “No, I am not going out to-night. What is it?” “Would you give an eye to little Chris again?” “Why, of course!” Morris told him, smiling, “when will you be going?” “In about an hour.” Field was nightwatchman in a big warehouse. The little boy was tucked into bed before he went out, and, on occasion, Morris had attended to one or another of the child’s wants. “Don’t worry about the kiddie,” he said, “if he makes a sound I will hear him.” “Thanks.” Later, writing to Molly, Morris wondered how it was he had taken so little notice of the music of children’s feet. Tvo or three times he stopped, listening. He heard their voices, the man’s and the child’s, a very pleasant accompaniment to his thoughts. He would always remember this house, he told himself; always think of it as a watchtower on the road of Heart’s Desire. The sounds above grew fainter, and finally ceased. Field, on his way to work, called in for a last word and a “good night.” Morris finished his letter, put it carefully away, and went to bed. It was a long time before he slept. Again and again the events of the day passed in procession before him. The image of Max Raynor, grunting approval, as he turned page after page, strove for place with the image of Molly Anderson. His ears were straining to catch every distant sound; his eyes fixed on the faint oblong of the window. And so, not knowing how, he slipped into dreams. He awoke with a sensation of choking. It was as though someone was pressing the breath out of him. He cried out, and rising with an effort, flung himself out of bed. He staggered and almost fell. Coughing and spluttering, he was suddenly aware of a great danger. Where the window had shone faintly white there was a red glow. Eddies of thick smoke drifted across it; smoke filled the room. Fire! Morris pulled himself together with an effort. Wrapping a muffler about his mouth and nose, he opened the door. A volume of smoke met him. The well of the staircase eddied foul fumes; he heard the crackle of burning. He hesitated, reeling; one thought blotted out all others. His book ! But there was time still. He knew exactly where it was, neatly parcelled, and ready for Raynor. His hand was on the door, when he stopped a« one transfixed. Fiela’s child! It was only a matter of seconds, but to Morris it was like an eternity. Not fully conscious, he stood, fighting this thing out. All his weaker nature, his selfishness, told him to save himself, and to save the MSS that meant everything to him. But some nobler sense spoke loud and clear, and he did not hesitate. Turning from the door, he staggered blindly up the dark stairs. No sound came from Field’s room. “Chrisl” he cried, “Chris!” and flung open the door. The room was comparatively free from smoke. A night light burned dimly on the dressing table, and Morris saw the child

lying in bed, sleeping easily, lie shut the door behind him. Chris!” he cried again, and shook the C tt!’ U P •" he said. The boy looked at him wide eyed, but without fear. ... ,e h° US€ is on fire,” Morris told him. rid T” 8 * U ° Ut ’ U .There was no time for more. • He snatched a blanket from the bed, and rolled it about Chris, swathing him from head to foot. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, lifting him. Ihe smoke met Morris at the door again, thicker, more ominous, but he reached the first landing without harm. He dare not stop. Ihe book of his dreams was a curiously little thing now. Down—down, he went. He heard the roar of the fire now: the ground floor was well ablaze, and the bottom flight of stairs. Red spears of flame reached out at him ; heat burned his senses up. But he went on. “God! God!” he prayed, and held his burden tighter. He felt the lick of the flames; lights danced before his eyes, and faded into dense blackness. * * * They picked him up at the bottom of the steps Mr Raynor had climbed twelve hours previously. Lying on his face, ho still clasped his burden. The blanket was burned in a dozen places, but the child was unhurt. Morris himself was unconscious. He was lifted gently, and carried to the big car standing behind the crowd at the end of the street. Mrs Baron, the landlady, who had been roused in time, and had got out by a back way, followed up. tShe was considerably dishevelled, but still voluble. “Poor Mr Morris!” she said, with emotion, “so that’s the end of all his writing !” “What’s that?” said the stout gentleman standing by the car, “who did vou say?” “Mr Morris, sir.” “Good Lord! Let me see him,” he cried. “Morris! Morris!” Jack moved slightly, slow understanding coming back. “It’s no good,” he said, “it was the book or the kiddie. I could do nothing else.” “Good man! You couldn’t. I saw it all.” “You! —you !” Old Ready-Mades. I got it out of Molly a few days ago. Where you were at, 1 mean. Just been seeing an old friend. Made a night of it. Going home, I thought I’d have a look at your diggings. Good job I did!” “But my work—all gone!” “Don’t upset yourself, boy. Get better quickly. I will be wanting a secretary. There won’t be much to do. You’ll have tons of time to write that masterpiece all over again. And I don’t mind if —er — if my secretary is married! ”