THE MAN IN THE NOVEL.

Otago Witness, Issue 3831, 16 August 1927, Page 82

THE MAN IN THE NOVEL.

By

L. G. Redmond Howard.

(Copyright.—For. the Otago Witness.) HfHn er , e -ii VaS commotion in the tile village of Wokenhurst, more especially among the daughters, for a stranger had come down from London, - hnV° g ° SSip r *P° rted -'vas to spend the whole summer there. Such, at least, was the news which had been issued from the G.H.Q. of all rumours—the post office. w ho was he? Why had he come? What was he And what was he going to do down there. And a thousand other questions accompanied the purchase of every penny stamp.

Old Miss Willington, however, in reality very puzzled herself, hid her ignorance behind an appearance of mystery, and added a touch of romance to the mystery by adding: '

“ Mavbe. he’s come down to find a wife -and I don’t sav that there’s not some girls down in Wok«nhnrst that would compare with any of the fine ladies I’ve seen m London.”

At which, of course, the maids of the village blushed shyly, and said : “ Poohpooh !” and “ Absurd!” But it did not prevent some of them coming in the next dnv inst to buy a postcard—with their prettiest clothes on.

The. landlord of the knotted Bog. where the stranger had booked rooms, was in

reality responsible for. this. For not only had he let out that the stranger was a bachelor, but he said he must be well off, for he carried a cheque book—not like the trippers, with all their cash in their pocket books.

The least concerned of all was the Sterndale household, for they lived about a mile from the station, and, being reduced in circumstances, did not go out much. Mrs Sterndale was the widow of an officer who had died in the Boer War, leaving her only a slender pension, but wealth untold, as she always put it, in the only child of their union, a daughter—Margaret by name—and one of the sweetest and fairest girls one could wish to meet in a lifetime. Together they lived upon the small pension in the old English cottage which had been left to them in trust for Margaret, full of beautiful Chippendale and silver, but, alas ! without the means to do anything except just keep it up. And tins was the pride of their two solitary lives. Nice clean chintz and an odour of lavender kept it fresh and bright, and, though the board was humble, the whole place retained sufficient of the air of respectability to prevent them remembering that they were no longer rich. Then, of course, there was the library, as they called the two cases of books, mostly English classics. And as an uncle always gave Margaret a year’s subscription to Mudie’s library for a birthday present, their days were net without the spirit of romance.

Margaret, in fact, had just laid aside her book in order to make tea, with the phrase, “ I wonder whether the men one reads of in novels really exist in life, mother,” when who should come in but the vicar!

He often dropped in to tea on his way back from a tramp to one of his outlying parishioners, just to get a rest. But some” times he would make a special point of calling whenever he had any news. The time the oak trees in Farmer Jones’s field had been struck by lightning, for example, he had come all the way to bring Margaret to see it.

“ Good afternoon! You’re just in time for a cup of tea,” said Mrs Sterndale. “ But as it was only a couple of days ago since we saw you, I suppose you have some piece of news to tell us?”

“ Well I don’t say that I have not,” replied Mr Franklin, the vicar. “ But I’m afraid I’m intruding upon my little Margaret’s reading.” “Not at all!” replied the latter. “I had just put the book aside for tea, and wa s remarking whether men in real life were like they were in novels, when you came in.”

“ What do they make the man in the novel do?” inquired the kindly vicar, who wa s singularly broad-minded on the matter of reading.” “ Oh, in this a stranger stops a runaway horse on which a girl i s riding,” began Margaret. But the conversation was stopped by the re-entry of Mrs Sterndale with nice buttered toast. And afterwards the vicar told them of the stranger who, he had heard, had come to stay at Wokenhurst.

The vicar could see by the glint in the widow’s eyes that the' eternal mother’s hope to see her daughter happily married was awakened. And knowing their circustances, and that Margaret would probably never have the chance she deserved, the old vicar half hoped for a romance.

Nothing, however, could possibly have happened so circumstantially romantic as what actually took place the very next day, when Margaret, having made'a parcel of old clothes for one of the vicar’s poorest parishioners, was driving the little governess cart into the village. Just as she was passing under the railway bridge, near the canal, suddenly a little two-seater rushed past her, anil this, together with the whistle of the express, must have frightened the new horse belonging to the baker, for the latter began to rear on its hind legs, and paw the air.

It was too late to pull up Rosy, who was trotting merrily along, accustomed to Margaret’s hands on the reins. It was equally, too narrow to turn aside before the archway, and, 4 -> her horror, the girl saw an inevitable catastrophe. Before, she could tell what had happened, however, she saw the stalwart figure of a young man dressed in a Norfolk suit vault over the railings that separated the field from the roadway, and rush in between the two vehicles.

In an instant he had the restive horse by the bridle, just in time to prevent its legs crashing down on to Margaret in the little governess cart, but not in time to prevent the latter from dashing into him with the inside wheel. The thunder of the express, luckily, had . passed by this time, and within a minute the man had disentangled the two vehicles, and with a stern reprimand to the baker, who promptly made off, proceeded to introduce himself as plain William Smith, and inquired of Margaret whether she was hurt. Oh, not at all; and—ever so many thanks,” she replied, “ for your ourage and promptness in coming to my rescue. I really don’t know what would have happened.”

Well, I dread to think of it myself,” said the stranger, with what Margaret thought was a bit of a limp, for the wheel of the little vehicle had come right into him.

“Good heavens! you’re limping!” she cried. “ I’m sure I have hurt you. Do let me see what is the matter.” The next moment she was out of the trap, and there, sure enough, just where the iron of the wheel had struck his canvas shoe, the material, she saw, was cut.

“Oh, that is nothing! Pray don’t worry about me,” said the stranger. “I’ll be all right. I’ll just pack up my paints and hobble down to tne Spotted Dog. Please don't let me detain vou.”

Margaret, of course, would not hear of this. She had hurt the man who had really saved her from a nasty accident—possibly saved her life. Just then a thin red tinge began to ooze through the canvas, and she realised that he was bleeding. Immediately she assumed a tone of authority. Now, look here, I’ve been a nurse, so I know all about the danger o. bloodpoisoning. So you must do just as I say. You.’re a casualty. Step into the cart at once, sir!”—the latter little command in a matron-liT tone. And before he had time to recover from his surprise she had herself got over the fence, and was gathering his paint box, canvas, easel, and brushes.

Ten minutes later, to the astonishment of the village, and to the intense jealousy of the daughters, Margaret was to be seen driving up to the doctor’s with the stranger beside her in the little governess cart.

The romance of the accident spread through the little village like wildlire, and that evening, as Margaret was recounting the thrilling details to her mother, she could not but compare this singular incident with, strangely enough, another very similar incident which happened to the man in the novel, except that in the book it was a mad bull that the hero had saved the heroine from, though he had suffered considerable wounds in so doing. Stranger still, the description of the man in the novel—height, build, face, hair—all corresponded to the mysterious stranger. Did you ever hear of anything so strange ?—and the novel was 0n £,. 0 / l a test from Mudie’s library. This, Mrs Sterndale had an occasion to see for herself the next dav; for naturally, the first duty—or ‘rather’ pleasure, as the stranger put it—would be to call upon the Sterndales, though Margaret had told him please not ’to trouble, as it was only a poor little cottage.

Margaret was actually reading about “ the man in the novel ” when he entered, and the first thing that she noticed was that the limp was worse so bad, indeed, that, as he explained, he had had to drive out. And then she realised—it was the fatal blood-poison-ing she had feared!

“I’m really very glad I took your daughter’s advice, Mrs Sterndale,” he began, for the doctor tells me things might have been very serious if I had not gone straight to him. Some filth on the road, I think it must have been.” Margaret felt her heart give a great jump, for how often had she not seen that mysterious malady, with its tragic results, in hospital. ' let if it had not been for just that touch of septic poisoning the whole romance of the Sterndale household would never have blossomed into what it did. For, instead of being able to wander at will over the fields and hedgerows and pretty nooks, the stranger found that he had to confine himself to a loim invalid chair which was sent down specially from London. And one day a note arrived at the cottage. “Mould it be asking too great a favour to be allowed to come and sketch in their lovely old-world garden?” A favour? Why, it would be a privilege—if it was not a dutv, as Mrs Sterndale replied, and for a whole dav from morning to night, while Margaret went down to see the doctor and the vicar *B.nd make several calls which her mother had planned for her, the widow spent herself scrubbing and polishing and mending all over the cottage. The next day William Smith— oh how certain she was that this could not be his real name—appeared about 11 o’clock, with colours, brushes, and canvas and everything. There s a lovely view just beside the old rose bower,” he said, “ and I should so ■ love to paint it as a memento of my summer at Wokenhurst and ” he added—“perhaps Miss Sterndale would not mind sitting on the garden seat —say, reading.” ° There was not a mother in all Wokenhurst that would not have jumped at such a proposition; but Mrs Sterndale woukl only allow herself to see the duty 'she felt towards the man who had saved her daughter. “ I warn you, though,” added the stranger, “ that I am a very slow painter you see, I am only an amateur; I’m not an artist by profession.” And, of course, the mystery only deepened. Who could he be? What wa s he? ''hat was he after? In a word— romance! iQ. j 6 Sl , inimer > every Wednesday and Saturday, the stranger would be seen going of-the little village towards the Sterndale s cottage, and once there he would find Margaret ready to take up her position on the garden seat with the novel.

For they had agreed that they would read the novel together—a chapter or two every time he came—while he wa s painting. And as they read chapter by chap- ’° behold ! —the coincidences increased in number, and in strange similitude, between the man i n the novel and the man in real life, and the girl in the novel and the girl in real life. Except that there was this difference: that only the girl seemed to realise the

similarity in the case of the man, and only the man in the caoe of the girl. Then one day, just a s lie was finishing picture and the book, too, strangely enough—or was the stranger doing it° on purpose /—they came towards the last page upon ihe following passage: After all, isn’t all life one great novel? And the happy novels are those ''brne the right man gets the right girl, and tne unhappy where they don’t? But at any rate, novels prepare one for reality by showing the young people what to like and what to dislike and, best of all, how to love, and what a wonderful thino- it is"’ °

It was then that the stranger broke the silence, for Margaret had during the whole time been in raptures about the hero—a lonely man always seeking the ideal girl of his heart, while the stranger had just listened and gone on paintiim. t ‘ So you like the man in the novel?” Yes. Love him simply for being so courageous and refusing to have other rich ladies with plenty of money till he had found the girl he wanted, though she only turned out to be a poor girl after all. But do these things happen like that in real life?”

That,” replied the stranger, “ all depends upon yourself. You see, I wroto that novel—and—well, tried to make it what I would like to be.’ Ton the man in the novel?” exclaimed Margaret. “Then who is the girl?” 1 If Mrs Sterndale will give her conse.n.t’'’ replied the stranger, “ I hope you will be, Miss Sterndale. I never thought I should have the good fortune to meet her.” * * * A few minutes later Mns Sterndale was coming out with the tea things. ?J 1C n °Bced they were both idle. “ So you have finished the novel, Margaret?” said the old ladv. “What about the picture?” “ Oh, the picture is finished, too,” said the stranger, as he turned the radiant canvas towards her. Mrs Sterndale was lost in admiration. “ And what are you going to call it?” she asked. “ M’ell, I was thinking of calling it ‘The Alan in the Novel’ or ‘My Future Ilope that y° u v - i!1 decide that. We have already made up our minds which we should like.”