A SHORT STORY.

Thames Star, Volume LVII, Issue 15116, 29 December 1921, Page 7

A SHORT STORY.

DOUBLE-BARRELLED AUTHOR. (By Gouverneur Morris.) In appearance .Leonard Grove once described himself as “cnthusiastiealy tall.” But in moments of dejection ho would aver that of all men born to misery he most resembled the Salix Babylonica, or 'jve&ping widow. Anu, indeed, during sorrow and discouragement he actually did seem to hang over upon' himself on all sides, whereas in times of joy he was the most alertly erect and swift moving o- 1 mischief makers He • had the Irish temperament by birth and by preference —a vivid rogue’s eye of grayr, now gay, now sad, always beguiling. He could talk you into the loan of your last dollar in less than a minute; he would compel you to borrow Irom him when you had neither the need nor the inclination .One day he despised the whole race of women, the next he had seen a face at the window of a passing car; and then it was as if the romance of a whole lifetime was at last beginning to play havoc with him. He had kissed the “Blarney stone;” He could coax, cajole, flatter and make irresistible bufls. And one day it would seem (to him that there was nothing usual in the world; while the next he would not have lifted his eyes to the most ravishing maiden or sunrise. ' In particular, the days on which he had to recite id mathematics plunged him deep in melancholy; and his theory that it was not what you said that mattered but the .beautiful way in which you said ib, was on such days thrown down with particular flatness. It was a wonder to the whole class that he succeeded . in taking a degree. I think ho owed it to the Blarney stone; or the authorities may have believed that he would one ,day be a reflection of honour upon the university. Or it is just 'barely possible that, by fair means or foul, he answered enough questions in mathematics to be passed. And of course the high standard he always maintained in languages and literature helped. The professors of English swore by Turn, the professors of mathematics swore at him; but the great Dean sat in his stiff-backed chair, and smiled, when nobody was looking, and admired the invariably varied composition-man; and stowed the name),, the Irish, face, the. “enthusiastic” height of Leonard Grove in his memory in a handy place, for easy reference,. “Have you heard about that Grove?” Professor G of the German department. once asked the Dean, in reference to some unusually -vigorous escapade. “N'a,” the Dean had answered, for he was always looking a head } “but I shall.' * Shortly a.fcer his graduation Leonard Grove began to publish stones and verses in the best magazines; but under the name of Robert Moore, which his intimates were sworn to Vkeep secret. And to the credit of the half-dozen thus trusted the secret was darkly and perfectly kept. But the stories of this his best period— i <, Kvadnjev/’ “The Goose,” “Plimpton Sands,” “Matter,” “The Porringer,” “Blue Roses,’ “Left Over,”, and, perhaps, “Scvenoaks,” are not yet popular. It is against them of course, that they are particular and not universal stories; that the English of them, beautiful as it is, makes no appeal to the uncultivated and is, indeed, so full of fanciful turns and de.it involutions, that it is probably Greek to the girl behind the counter. Personally, fond as I am of caviar, if is a cultivated taste with me, and when I am really hungry I prefer bread and butter. Furthermore the subject-matter of these tales is involved and fanciful. The psychology, the human nature of them, seems to me admirable ; hut you "are kept guessing—wrong. The average reader loves to guess, and likes to be surprised. But he does not like to be fooled. And these stories fool the reader that whatever ought to happen in them from start to finish, from the fact —whu.tfßrvjj actually would happen in real life—actually does happen. The effect of this on the lover of caviar, in (the right appetite, is delightful; but when he hungers for bread it is as a stone to him. The fact however, that the trick of his—you may eali it that—has now its dozens of imitators should eventually place these stories high in popular consideration. Should it not, they will at least continue to remain the first and probably the best of their kind—a constant and provoking theme for critics and men or letters. Onei day I had stepped into the Holland House to buy ,an evening paper, and came face to' face with Leonard in his most drooping Salix Babylonica mood There was upon him the suicidal gloom of a child who has been rightfully punished, and it was there for all the world to see* “Why don’t you talk to me?” he said after a silence. “Can’t you see that I’m down and out, and need cheering up?” “It. is some face,” I said, “that you’ve seen, and are panic 'STfucE* to think you may never see again 1” “A face!” he exclaimed, his own brightening, “what do you know about faces? The face I’ve seen I’ll always sea." He was no longer Salix Babylonica, but a proper willow with stick-outable branches, and with His next remark his whole face flashed with a smite, and he beanie suddenly his better “enthusiastically tall” eelfl, “It’s the first face X ever saw,” he Baid. “It’s the test face I shall ever see.” And he polled his head over to one

side, and drew from his pocket a leather case, which he handed to me open. “That is the face,” lie said. I will attempt no description.. Even photographically viewed, you smiled right back at those eyes, and were gad to be alive. “And she’s so young Onid so little,' ’ he said. “Don’t,” I said, “in another minute you will begin to moo like a cow.” I returned the photograph. •‘(Leonard,” 1 said, “have you tne right to carry that about with you?’ “Even if I hadn’t—” he began. I offered to shake hands. He wriggled blushed, and then accepted the offer with a nervous strength-and power that brought tears to my eyes, “Then why,” I said, “were you. so gloomy?” “Why,” he said, smiling very tenderly “she has a touch of tonsilitis, and I get thinking what would happen if anything happened to her. And I couldn t stand thinking about it. That’s all.” I smiled to myself. 'For almost the first time in my experience of him Leonard was talking rapidly, and using the first words that came into his head. (So the right face must affect even the most persistent amateur of language. “Who is she?” I asked. .. “Didn’t you see for yourself,” he said indignantly. “She’s a rose in the desert; she’s a fairy story come true; she s—” “She has parents, 1 suppose,” I said. “On the contrary,” said Leonard, “she has not. (She wag" a pansy in a border of pansies, and she turned into a girl. But- of course she TTas human sponsors Mr. and Mrs. Stuart Grey pass themselves off as her parents. 'Xfter she stopped being a pansy she went to tlu-Tr ho r-e to live.” (To Be Continued.)