"The Understudy."

Timaru Herald, Volume XIIC, Issue 14015, 25 September 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

"The Understudy."

BY OWEN OLIVER. I opened tho study door very quietly when 1 went to. say good-night. Dad was at. • work on his novel, and his pen was Hying over the paper. 1 stood very still and watched him, and thought what, a wonderful father he had-been to me; father and mother and big brother all in one. f was Ins only child, and 1 did' not. remember mv mother.

Tie did not, look up, so I went, behind him and rested my hands on his shoulders.

"Daddy," I said, '1 love Frank, and he loves me."

He put bis .hands back, and held both mine.

"God bless you, dear 'child !" An he turned his bead and kissed me.

"Frank, too," I bogged. "(<od bless dear old Frank." .ho said. "You like him, don't you?" I asked. Aiid ho smiled. "If I didn't," he told me, "f should have carried'you off abroad before you knew that you were falling in love with him."

"Oh. daddy,!" 1 cried. "You have watched-me like that ! - And now 1 am going to leave you." " T am very happy."

( 'T know. QJi, 1 know! But T want you to ho happy in yourself, not just in mo. You'll bo so lonely. It isn't only losing mo. You'll miss my friends running in and out. You always liked them better than grown-up, especially Marv."

Mary's father died when she was young," and dad had always been so kind to her. She came to us so often that she seemed like, one of the family. If 1 was away for a few days or unwell she always looked in twice a day, and did things for father. So ho called her mv understudy. "Marv " hj" said. "Oh, she won t desert mo! Who took me cycling list, week while you went boating with Frank? Who played my accompaniments this evening while you and he wore—talking philosophy ,eh ?" "Yes," I agreed; "but I'm afraid vou won't have her very long. She's 'so good looking. She's sure to get married. "Yes," father sighed.. "Well, J must try to be happy in her happiness, too, when she gets married, and lives happilv ever after. That's what nice girls are for, isn't it?" Ho pinched mv cheek.

"Yes, I told him; "and ™c n > too. Whv don't you, daddy?" I thought he would look astonished; but he only smiled.

"Sauce for the goose, eh?" he suggested. "My dear, a gander's a much tougher bird'. There's only one sauce for him —hunger! " "Yes, daddy," I said; "and didn t von ever feel—hungry " "I'm forty-three, Sunbeam," he said. That is his name for me. " You're not a bit old," I assured him; "and you're a fearfully attractive old daddy. It's no use shaking your head. You're not too old to like people, or for them, to like you, and you never will be." "Ah!" he said. "It's easy to like people; but it isn't so easy to live- with them. At forty-three you can't adjust your ways to lit in with other people's." ~ '' You're very adjustable, I persisted. " You always' enter into other people's feelings. That is why you are a greater writer. I am sure you wonlu try; and so would she.'if she was nice. '"But I might not think it fair to ask her to trv. Don't worry about me, Sunbeam, l" shall be better off in a way. I shall have Frank to play providence to as well as you, ami ,mv work and my g'.H' and my cycling, shall come to see you. and you will come to see me; and Mary will take me out sometimes, and let me talH about you. I shall have everything good—except a wife." • " I wish you had that, too, 1 persisted: he laughed. "Wishes aren't wives.' be said. "Well, about von and Frank?" I sat on the arm of bis chair and we talked for ever so long. He seined verv cheerful; hut I felt sure that he would want someone to look alter Inm when I was gone; and the next morninrr 1 went to Mary's to ask her advice about it. She is three years older than I am, and the cleverest girl I knem, and sometimes I think that she is the prettiest. She is so big and lionny and f.'.nk and smiling.. It seemed lunnv that I should be engaged J.rst hut she always preferred being with lather to talking to boys. . ; "You see, Marv," I explained, it isn't as if he were one ot those men who always want to be out. He likes home He's the sort ol man who ought to oiudit to have a nice wife; someone who "would understand bis ways so you and 1 do." .... , ' '-Yes," she said. "T think he ought. 'Ye-e-es." -I thought, if you and I put our heads together, we might lead him up to it. You see what I mean? ' "Yes," she said. "At least— what do you mean ? " "'if we were to nick up someone suitable, and bring them together? Someone like your aunt Anne, tor instance " • ~ i i • Mary jumped right out ol the chair. " Why don't you say my grandmother? " she cried. " She is rather old," I admitted. "Rather old! Why, she's only two years younger than he is, and twenty years older in her ways." • ' '• Yo-es " I agreed. " I don t think she wouid do. A woman ought to be half her husband js age, and seven years. Frank is twenty-four, and 1 am nineteen —nearly." "Thi! rule is obviously correct, she laughed. ■• Don't be nasty and sarcastic there's a dear. Half forty-three and seven? Twenty-eight and a half. Jf .seems rather young; but I expect bed like it. He prefers young peopl.i. Who's about twenty-eight?" "Miss Sale," she suggested. "You wretch!" I cried. 1 eouldn t help laughing at the idea. Miss »alp is such a funny, prim little thing. •'Maggie King, then?" she propos°l " As if we. would let him maivy that horrid woman! " Ql . "Mrs Hughes?" she asked. S..i *> ready to marry again." •• \larv," 1 saul, " voure maki.it, game ol me. Airs iiugl.es is ~».> Ll iree-and-twenty. *on mignt "» <••■" suggest his marrying you. ' ,„.,.,., "■" haven't suggested his man. V anybody," she s .... 'msi m-ss «" mine—or youis. ••Not mv business! i men. whose, is u, 1 sliould hue to Rnou. •• His own," she. said. . -Father's business is my bus.no*s I told Her haughuly. "1 »* it was vours, too. Mm used to thin so. When you were at school you alwavs pretended that he was youi father, ami 1 let you. 1 suppose you've grown old enough to < .. without him, and don't .are whether lies happv or not." . , Mary looked at me in a way that frightened inf. ■'• 1 shall never forgive you, she said. " You had better go." 1 went as far as the door. then

"Oh, Mary darling," I said, "It was so wicked of me. You have been as good a daughter to him as I've tried to he; and you've helped me to try, Mary <lear." Mary gave a little sob and laugh, and kissed me.

'' I would do very much for your

fathor, Sunbeam," she said. "1 mvo him intiri! than I can over repay, ami I won't return Ids kindness )iy trying to inveigle him into marrying someone whom lie does not love of his own aceord, and, if yon try, I shall do my best to prevent it. That is fair warning; ami yon .imi.st choose, whetlier we. shall be friends or foes." "I've no choice," I grumbled.. "If we quarrelled, he'd make us kiss and make it uj>; and, if lie didn't, we should do it of our own aceord, you nasty old Mary! But you are quite wrong, and I am finite right!" She did not argue any more, only asked me to think it over; and T promised that I would. I thought it over very carefully, and decided that I was right,'and I would put someone nice and suitable in his way, and I selected Miss Dea.ue. She was a, little over twenty-eight, but she was very sweet. Even Alary owned that; hut she would, not own that she would do for father. "She is too staid and serious," sho objected. "He. wants someone full of life, and bright and fond of games; and who will let him work enough, but not too much, and understand him, like you and I do." "Yes," I said, "he'd be all right if we we're, not going to get married, but we are. You're sure to. So we must iind an 'understudy.' Anyhow, there can't be any harm in throwing them together. I'm going to ask her to come cycling with us on Saturday." I suggested it to father that evening, when Mary was there; but he raised his eyebrows, and shrugged bis shoulders.

"She'll make an odd one," lie objected, " unless you I( can find a beau for Iter."

He took it for granted that Mary would go with him. "Well," I suggested, "there's

you." "Oil. no, there isn't!" said Mary coolly. "He. has his understudydaughter." She smiled at father, and lie p"t his hand on her shoulder. "Jf am not being selfish, dv.dr frirl," he said. And she smiled at him, and shook her head. So I did not ask Miss Deane. It was a splendid ride, and I could not help feeling grateful to Mary for keping father amused. She came to dinner after the ride, and played and sang with him all the evening. So Frank and I had a nice time to ourselves; and on Sunday father went to Mary's mother to tea and supper, and lie had another nice time. Frank said that Mary was a blessing, and I thought so too; hut I did not want to be selfish, and I made up my mind that we must sacrifice ourselves a little to get father settled. On Monday afternoon T persuaded him to go to the croquet meeting at the rectory. Me doesn't piny, and I thought I would get him talking to Miss Deane. But, just as I saw her, up came Marv. " W'hv, big girl," father cried, "you don't mean to say that you have eonio to piny the abomination-'" He despises croquet like Frank and all men who are yood at athletic games. ■ "No," she laughed. "I've eome to talk," ' . "So have I."he said. And they talked until .-titer tea. and then they went off to the tennis-club together. r told her. what I thought afterwards. / " You know you never go to the croquet meetings," 1 said, ♦'and you went on purpose to keep father from talking to Miss Deane." ', Yes," she said, "I did, and I succeeded. And do you know why? 1 ' "Because 'you're horribly , artful," I sa id..'...'

"-Because he prefers talking to me !"

She stuck lier head up in the air. "Of course he does," I said. "But it's mean and unkind of you. It's all very well now, but soon you'll-fall in love, and then he'll be. left a'one; and very ikey, when we're both <.<>ne, he'll marry someone who isn't I .v)i' so nice and suitable as Miss Deane. Hie may be quiet, but she'd be good _to him, and study him in every way.You know she would." " \"es," Mary admitted, " I tl.-> know; but, I don't care what he v: s, she'd never make up to him + 'or von--and me!"

••.No'" I agreed. " But since he'll have to loose us 01), Mary, i do so want to leave him comrort.ible when the time comes. Do .'-'t me trv!"

.Mary bit her lips and looked very thoughtful. '•'Very well/' she said at iast. She did not come to our house fir three, whole days. T had Miss L'.'ainto dinner the first evening. Father was very nice to her, and •■.he eu.ld not have seen that he. was bored Frank did not notice it even; but 1 did. 1 know dad's ways. So I knew that she would not do.

The next evening 1. asked Miss Mason to drop in for a little ronsic. She sings well, and father h.kps her voice; but he excused himself after a hit, because he had a story to 'insli against time. So Frank and 1 had to entertain her, and that was a bother.

The third evening father seewd dull, and played snatches on the piano, and fidgeted. Frank et'cied to play chess with him —he would on anything for father—but he laughed anil patted Frank on the shoulder "Play Sunbeam," he said. I'm off to work." And he went up to the study. When I looked in to say good-nigiit, he wasn't writing, but sitting in the armshair, starrTg at the wall. He was thinking over a story, he said, and it was rather a sad one. I went to Mary's the next morning, and asked her to come to lunch and tea and dinner.

"He's got the mopes," I owned, "and I only make him worsen You see, the nicer I am, the, more he thinks about losing me ,and he doesn't seem as if he can fall in love with anyone. So you had better come and cheer him up. So she came. They spent all the afternoon at tennis, and played chess and sang all the evening; and he let her read the first six chapters of the novel that he had begun, though he never will allow anyone to see things till they are finished. I always knew that she was clever, but 1 never knew how very clever she was till 1 heard her talking to him about it. J remember how the talk ended. '• You have given such good reasons why they fell in love that 1 don't believe they were really in love at all," she said.

" You can give reasons for loving surely," he answered.

".No," she said. "They aren't reasons, only excuses. There are no reasons for not falling in love cither. If you do, yon do; and you may as well own it."

" No," fatlior said, " T don't agree with you there, liiji, gill. flu-re may ho very good ri-asonx for keping if. to yourself." "They .are liable to be excuses too, she told him ,and they may not he good oxcusps; and perhaps not fair to—to tin l other one. Well, it's time I wont. Father didn't seem onito himself when we returned from seeing her homo. When 1 went up to his study as usual, he was sitting with his head howed. I ran to him and sat on his knee, and put my arms round his neck, Mild deelared that I never could leave him. "You're not like either fathers; get married unless lie came to live TTl'th US.

"It's nonsense to say' that young people should lim left, alone," I told jiim. "You're! 110 tliko otlii'r. fathers; not a bit. I want you, and Frank wants yon. Even Frank's mother says you ought to come; and so does Mary. Von think a groat deal of Mary's opinion, don't you ?" Father drew .1 deep breath. " I think I'd better tell you, dear," ho said. " 1 think too much of — Mary!" 1 stared at him in amazement. "Mary!" J cried. "You mean — you've fallen'in love with her!" Jle nodded, and stroked my hair.

"It's very foolish," .ho said. "No; not foolish —unfortunate. I quite, know all that you are going to say, Sunbeam. It is impossible, and I must put it aside. 1 am going to do so; and 1 hope I'll do it bravely. But just now she is very anxious to console mfi nhouL losing you, dear girl. So she is kinder and sweeter to me than ever, and gives me more of her company, ami— it's a. bit too hard for me, Sunbeam. I think I'll go away for a lit-* tie while. T have told you, so that you'll understand why I am going just at this time."

I hugged him for a long while. "Daddy," I said at last, "she's very fond of you. Don't you think, if you tried, von could get her to marry yon? 'She hates the idea of your being left alone, and—l don't real I v understand Mary. She's too deep for me. I don't think shed marry anyone, unless unless it were another sort of love. But she loves you very, very much in the way I do, and —.' Do you know I'm not sure that she wouldn't, if you asked "My dear," father remonstrated, "you wouldn't sacrifice Mary to me?" "I would!" T declared. "Id sacrifice anvbody." "But"I wouldn't." He stroked my hair. "No, no, dear. Let us face it. I'am too old for her, much too old. It would be a very wicked thing to use my years and my influence over her to make her fancy that she loved me as a lover. I shall go for a little trip abroad next week. You can have your Aunt Minnie here. 1 don't want to steal you away from Frank." • .

It was like him to think of mo in his trouble. " Frank must .spare me, I said determinedly. " I'm comi,ng with, you." '■ No, dear," father said. i couldn't take you from him just now. Hesides, dear,! think there are some things that one must face alone. This isn't just a passing fancy. It has been growing for many years, Sunbeam, though. I didn't quite understand." " When- tou eonm hack," I said, "Mary won't know; and she'll he so pleased to see you; and she'll be nicer than ever to von, and make it worse. Oil, daddy!" * : -, , " T think doSr" he said "you had better tell our bonny Mary. She is absolutely loyal—loyal and tender. She will never say a word about it, even to me; but she will find ways of helping me without hurting me. It will be better for both if she understands. You can tell her when I have gone." I told her before he went. I thought she might he able to spare him' some pain if she knew, and without letting him know that she knew. She is very, ■ ver.v clever. 1 had thought out a long .speech; but when. I saw her I said it in .just mv own. foolish way. '"Oh, Mary," T-cried, "yon have made a dreadful mess of. it. You wouldn't h>t father fall in love with anybody else; and now he's fallen- in love with— —- you!" •■•-". Mary didn't say anything lor nearly a minute; and her face went pale. Then she clasped her: hands. "How glad T am!" she said. "How glad I ami" . . ; And then she cried. She is not a 'girl who cried often, but she had been in love with him as long as she remembered, she said; aud she. was so «lad she sobbed, "so proud and glad." „ . "But he. won't propose to you, J warned her. "He thinks he is too old, and it wouldn't be good for you! Mary jumped up ami put on her hat; and then she turned and buighed at me. Oh, how lovely she looked! "lie; will propose to me this alternoou," she said. We walked to" my house together. Sometimes she made me walk slowly, and sometimes she almost ran. Father was in the garden, and she- , went straight np to him I went on to the house, but I could not help hearing what they said first. "Well, big girl," he greeted her, " von look pleased." '" Don't you like me to look pleased ■ sometimesP" she asked. ••. _ "I'd like von to look pleased ail your life, dear," he told her. The way lie said it brought tears into my '"lt depends on you!" she told him. 1 would not look round, hut 1 could picture her brave eyes looking into his: and I cried and laughed at once at 1 ran. For I knew that my understndv was going to play the prinoinal part m father's storv now; and 1 k«cw that she would never fail him.—"The Red Magazine." . -,_„..; -„