"STAR" TALES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7432, 19 June 1902, Page 4

"STAR" TALES.

. ♦ I THE MONTRESSOR MONEY. i (By G. B. BURGIN.) Author of Claw/ "The Way Out," " The Person in the House," . " The Hermits of Gray's Inn," " The Cattle Man," ' - I ' Etc., Etc. i

CHAPTER I. ; The orphaned Miss Montressor was quite pretty enough to be woed for herself, but, -unfortunately, she had recently come into. a large sum of money,' and, full of all the romantic ideals of youth, did not know what to do with it. She had been a prolific novel reader, and desired to be lo*. Ed for herself, although she felt sure that people wanted onlyi her money. This, how'•*Ter, was a mistake; for Miss Montressor was so beautiful that when she entered a room, all mercenary considerations fled, (tod poor young men, as they gazed .at her rweet blue eyes, fair, fluffy hair, and graceful, erect figure, sighed to think that she "■fas not poor also. . StiU, Miss Montressor was not happy, particularly after reading a speech in which a celebrated statesman* practically said that there were too many women in England. Her father had been a matter-of-fact city merchant, who was inclined to reduce everything in life to' the common level of jnoney. People with money would go to heaven ; people without money— well, he did not much care where they went, provided they never came near him. It was nofc wonderful, thereforei that Miss Montressor, on getting her father's money, should feel that her' 'one' 'idea in life was to flee away from it- She did not admit that she wanted to be loved for herself; but this was really the" reason which in-, duced her to tell her friends that she was going abroad for a long trip. The friends, suspecting nothing, regretfully acquiesced in Miss Montressor's decision, and volunteered to see her off from London for Livcrpoool, Miss Montressor having discreetly dunted that the United States would be the object of her tour. Thus unfortunately "cornered," Miss Montressor was obliged to depart from London for Liyernool, having previously aent off her maid, and then return to town again. When she got back, she warehoused lier superfluous luggage, kept a couple of boxes of pretty dresses and books, and hired a room in one of those London caravanserai where young ladies rent a> bedroom and meet in a common room for their jneals. Miss Montressor thought that life had been too easy for her j consequently, ■he wanted to see what the world was leally like. Of course, she had the customary illutions of the outsider about "the literary life." It seemed to her that it would be a great and noble thing to be connected with * tiie literary life," even though- she had to begin as a typewriter girl, instead of writing rubbish and paying a publisher to let it loose on a long-suffering world. She knew gnrefectly well, too, that she might meet frith all sorts of experiences as a typeJniter girl. Undismayed by this knowledge, however, she took up a " literary organ." and hunted through its advertisement columns. One advertisement was dated ' from Arundel Street, Strand, and a young lady she met in the dining-room told her that Arundel Street was a literary locality. "You look altogether too swell for a type-writing place," said the young lady, as she surveyed Miss Montressor's rather expensive dress. "Still, thafc is better than .poking too poor. You really can typemite?" "Oh, yes," said Miss Montressor, "1 Used to type my father's letters for him, and gained a good deal of experience about commercial forms. I suppose. the literary ones do nofc vary very much." "No,' l supple not," said the giri " You take my advice, and get a letter of introduction to the editor of 'The Phosnix.'", \ Miss Montressor's new existence did nofc admit of letters of introduction. Still,.she knew enough to be aware that she had no chanc&of obtaining a situation unless she could furnish herself with a statement-, concerning her antecedents, so she sat down and promptly gave herself _ very good character as " Mary- Smith." Such an act oould not harm anyone, although morally unjustifiable. Mary 'Smith was a quiet and unostentatious name, and likely to escape notice when ■ she confronted the editor of "The Phoenix." At three o'clock the next day, her credentials in her pocket, she knocked at the door of " The Phoenix " office, and was somewhat wearily bidden to oome in. ■ The weary voice proceeded from a haggard, good-looking young man with a, wdsp of fair hair hanging down over his thin face. "Come in!" he said, fretfully. Then he glanced up and looked at her with ■urprise. "Excuse my rudeness, but I -have" such a lot of letters to answer, and /forty-seven girls have been here already. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?" • ■ " Mary Smith," said our Heroine, blushing at the first Ke 6he had ever told in her life. "I — I ann number forty-eight." The young editor thought "the blush exceedingly becoming. " Take a seat," he -said. With a circular movement of his arm and a reckless disregard of consequences, he sent a dozen manuscripts flying •'■to ''the floor. ~ Mary Smith sat down. The young

editor threw himself back in his chair as if glad of a phance to rest and regarded her critically. " You' don't look as if you had genius,." he remarked, happily. "It is such a trial when people come in and tell ihe they x have genius, but aire content to be type-writers." "No,* I—l don't think I have any genius," said Mary; "but I know I can type-write." V " You don't really mean to say .that you're applying for the post f "Oh, yes, I do," said: Mary, brightly. "There are what Henry James calls 'infinite possibilities ' in a type- writing post." "Are there?" said the young editor/drily. "Henry James doesn't know everything.": "I never said he did," retorted Mary, feeling that her reception was not encouraging. The young editor looked at her searchingly. " You seem — pardon my .saying it so abruptly— .a rather sensible kind of girl. Spell, put in stops, and all that sort of thing, cain't you?" " Oh, yes. My father was — " Then she stopped. " Oh, if your father dictated letters to you," said the young editor, with an air of' relief, "you've probably had some practice. Most of the people who came here to-day, were perfectly willing to learn but expected me to teach them. If I dictate a letter, can you do it without amy mistakes?" < ■ " Certainly. Where is the typewriter?" The editor pointed to* a battered machine. " There are the remains. It has seen some service," he said ruefully. " The other day, the lift-boy had. a fight with the oflice boy, and knocked' him into the middle of it. They all fell off the table together, and I'm afraid it has been a little jammed up in consequence. Still, I've done my best to straighten it out." ) Mary went up to the battered-looking instrument, gave it a deft twist here and a pat there, and soon reduced it to order. "It is all right now," she sadd, sitting down and methodically fitting, a t|heet of paper into it. "If you wOl_ have' the kindness to begin your letter^ will do my best to satisfy you. I won't stop until you get to the end." .The editor nodded approvingly. " That's the way for a £irl to talk. Most of them stop in the middle, and ask how to spell things.. If you don't know how to spell . things^ leave a blank, and we'll hunt them np in the dictionary afterwards." 'Mary nodded gaily, and the young edito. dictated a letter returning a manuscript to an opulent member of the aristocracy, at the same time telling the opulent member of the aristocracy what he thought of him. Directly -the editor paused indignantly for breath, Mary caught him up and was ready for the next paragraph. When the lettes came, to an end the editor hastily ran !his eye over it. "Couldn't be better!" he said, enthusiastically. His voice sank to an awe-struck whisper. "You can actually spell, and know the difference between a comma and a semi-colon. Who taught you that?" "•My father," said Mary. Im her early days she had mixed up commas, semi-colons and colons with a fine impartiality. Now she was thankful that she knew better, and looked at the young man with a sigh of relief. ' t • . ' The editor signed the letter. " That will do splendidly. I can't offer you more than

a pound a week, as we're rather hard up jusfc now, and you look too much of a -swell to take it." "Oh, bufc I'm not a swell, I can assure you." "Don't tell me that you're 'a humble neophyte in the field of literature,'" said the young editor, hastily. "They all say that; and then I 'know they're no good. You look as if you might 'train on.,' Can you?" Mary assured him with 'great earnestness thafc she would do her best to "train on," whatever that .might be ; and she and the young editor appeared to be mutually satisfied. "I -forgot about references," -said the young; editor, as. Mary rose to depart, "li they are satisfactory, you can come tomorrow and begin at once." . "I have only a letter from Miss Montressor, of— of Liverpool," said Mary, guiltily, feeling for it in her pocket. "I suppose that is enough ." ') , . ■ ■ "Oh, yes. I ask only as a- matter of form. 1 thought at first you meant the Sheffield girl, whose father died about a ■ yeara ago and left her a pot of money," said the editor, disrespectfully. "A 'pot of money!' Does that mean a good deal?" "Rather! I'm sorry for that girl. J. daresay she might be awfully mice if one knew her and forgot that she had any money." " Perhaps she is rather nice," said Mary, her eyes dancing, V" even with money." The young editor shook his head. "That's where the .mistake comes in- No poor devil of an editor dare fall in love with a pretty girl who has a lot of money. . All her friends keep on dinning it into her ears that he is after the money, and so the .pretty girls with money never get married atall, poor things." "You think it's very sad for them not to get maimed?" queried. Mary, a ripple i of amusement in her voice, as he ran his eyes over Miss Montressor's letter. " Sad.' I should jusfc, think it is," said the young editor, almost • boyishly ; "and it's awfully sad, too, for the man who falls in love with a girl like that, and then finds ont -Dhat she has money." (Mary looked at him in astonishment. "Do you mean to say that a man who loved a girl for herself would let money stand in the way ?" . "Of course hdd have to. In his heart he -might not think that the girl didn't believe in him ; but all her confounded friends would worry the poor child, and then if they had any dispute afterwards, she would throw her' loathsome -money in his face and break his heart. A man has so much to put up with from bloated proprietors nowadays that he can't stand having his heart broken as well." : This edifcorial view of matrimony caused Mary a shock of astonishment. "_Vmust remodelmy ideas of mankind," she said, brightly, as she pulled on her glove, 'quite forgetting that it was new and expensive. "Yes," said the young man, paternally."Take my tip, and if ever you oome into a lot of money, give it away to the nearest Dogs' Home." "If I ever do," saSd Mary, "I'll think of it." '* It's pretty sure to go to the dogs anyway, if you don't," said the young editor. Then he flushed painfully. " You'll excuse my -remarking that you're a little too well dressed for the ordinary typewriter-girl. I don't mean to imply that you are ordinary ; but if you were to . put on a plain, serge or check or whatever ifc is, it woiildn't look so striking as that dress of yours." "Why, it was only eight gum—" Mary began. • Then she remembered that for a typewriter-girl to give eight guineas for a dress was an absurdity, so meekly nodded her head, aYld said she would dress more plainly in future. She had put on her best ! dress because she thought that editors always appreciated well-dressed girls. "S6 they do," said the editor, "as visitors—not as typewriters. If you were to i come down to the office dressed like that, all the young masculine authors in the place would want to live here. Now, if you find yourself in any difficulty abou'fc the work or anything- just forget I'm an editor, and I'll do my Ifcs fc to. help you. I fiate to think tha%giii^aye'--to work at all y but, if they do haveJfco work, they should do their work; properly. Don't you agree with me?" A : } ■ y. " ' Mary thought ,that this was exceedingly kind, and agreed in the most cordial manner. The young man (he looked ill and tired and out of spirits) picked up some proofs and began to pin pictures on top of them. "I'm 'making up' the magazine for

I next month," he said wearily; "and I finished last month's only yesterday. An intelligent girl can soon learn to correct proofs ahd 'make them up' into pages. Do you mink you could tackle that sort of thing?" "I think so." Mary looked longingly at the "proofs" and pictures before him. " You find out what the picture relates to in the story and pin. it underneath, don't you." "That's the first part of it," said the editor still more wearily; "but I won't bother you with it now. Come down, at ; nine to-morrow, and I'll leave out 6ome ' proofs ' for you to run through." Mary got up and gave a distant bow to the young editor as if suddenly remembering the relationship of employer and employee. "Oh, that's rubbish," he said, frankly extending his hand. " Anyone can see that you're a lady without any nonsense about you. If I get irritable occasionally, tell me what you think of me, and then I'll pull up." "Bufc you haven't told me your name yet," said Mary, as she turned to go. s'VNoi; I put it off as long as possible," said the young editor bitterly. " Walter Binns — my friends got it as near the hangman's as they possibly could ; but even they hesitated af making it ' Bartholomew.'" As Mary went home, it occurred to her that the young editors name was. a greattrial to him. Still, the "Walter" -before it was a modifying factor, and, as she pupnounced it softly to herself, she could not understand his unreasoning prejudice against it. ■

CHAPTER 11. So Mary beoame a typewriter-girl although she sometimes forgot to ask for her . salary on Saturday afternoons, as a poor typewriter girl ought to do. Her office frock cost two guineas, and she wore one of her oldest hats. She could not' bring herself to wear old boots, and her gloves always displayed a suspicion of extravagance. The confinement of the office made her a little pale; but she was deeply interested in "the literary life" and was soon promoted to a sort of unofficial subeditorship. It was evident that Mr Walter Binns, although full of ability, had an Old Man of the Sea upon his shoulders whom, in moments of anger, he disrespectfully called "That Beast.'' "That Beast," the proprietor of "The Phoenix," had a knack of going out to dinner, and, in moments of bibulous confidence, of promisingi to insert amateur manuscripts in the next month's magazine. The amateurs never forgot • these promises, although "That Beast" j did. Consequently, just as Mr Binns had arranged his " contents " for the next . month, the amateurs came down upon him I like wolves on the fold. When he remonstrated witih "That Beast," and said that he could not possibly do justice to the magazine in such circumstances, "That Beast " always wanted to know who paid for the magazine. In face of so unanswerable an, argument, Mr Binns was forced to i retire, breathing silent anathemas on the 1 head of his proprietor, who regarded the magazine solely as a means of social advancement/. As time went on, Mr Binns became extremely confidential with Mary Smitih. She was, always ready with- a word of sympathy or a practical suggestion to help him out of j a difficulty ; and he grew into the habit of relying on her judgment, besides teaching her a great deal of which she had been previously ignorant. "Ah!" he said, one day, "if we could only rake a little money together, we could *■ start an opposition magazine and smash 'That Beast.'" .Mary looked up with a laugh. They I had finished tlheir work for the day, and she was just buttoning her gloves. It 1 seemed to her the most desirable thing in tho world to combine against "That j Beast," though she had her doubts as to tihe morality of such a proceeding. When, I however, she saw the half-dozen manu- | scripts which Binns handed to her, the doubts ceased. "That Beast" had returned from an aristocratic dinner-party the night before with (his pocket 6111 of amateur . manuscripts. "I • don't kqow what's in 'em," he had said to Binns; "but that don't matter. You just put in the grammar and the -stops, touch up the 'ero and 'eroine "—" Tliat Beast" sometimes left out his ___'—" and make 'em as presentable , as possible. Send the authors a hundred | copies each and that'll \help to work off j tihe edition," • | Binns had gazed at " That Beast " in j impotent fury. As he told Mary afterwardsj it was a degrading and humiliating thing to find literature reduced to this level. If the proprietor went on 'accumulating manuscripts at that rate, they would have to issue a special number • of " The Phcanix" every fortnight.. .' . ., t .!■ " Why don't you start a paper?" asked * Mary, full of sympathy for Mr Binns. " You are so clever £.nd have such beauti- | fui and original ideas that I'm sure you ' could -make a success." ' .. ; "That's awfully kind of you." Binns looked at her gratefully. " Still, I have | no right to inflict my worries on you. I only do it because I know you're as poor as I am. But I can't stand it any longer, j I'll give ' That Beast ' a. month's notice to- j morrow, and try to find you a place somewhere else. You can't stop here with him. He'll try editing tihe magaaine himself, and \ then he'll fall in " He checked himself hastily. "What were you going to say?" " Oh, nothing, nothing." . Mr , Binns looked the other, way. "Oh second thoughts, I won't give ' Tliat Beast ' notice. It might be difficult to get you another place; and it would be so unpleasant for you to find yourself hard' up." " You don't know how much I am indebted to you for your constant kindness to me," said Mary gratefully. "I don't want to drag you into my quarrels," said' Binns. "You see"; — he suddenly stopped. " It's no good," he declared desperately. "If I were to giv.e up this thing, you'd go somewhere else, and I shouldn't lilte to think that you were — anywhere else." j "Why not?" A joyful tremor ran from Mary's heart to the tips of her pretty fingers. 1 "Why not!" Binns confronted' her, his mild blue eyes and fair boyish fawe aglow with excitement. "Why not? Bectfus* I've had all I can do the last month to choke back telling you that I ' "What?" asked Mary, softly. " That I fell in love with you directly I saw you. I'm so hopelessly poor that it's an injustice to tell you so." "Do you think so?" Mary was conscious that she also had fallen in love with Binns. "Do you think so. Mr Binns endeavoured to restrain himself; then, it all came out with a rush. "I don't care whether I'm poor or not — I don't care for anything in the world,/except you. If you'll wait for me, I'll work wpnders, get on somehow. Now, I understand why I haven't got on much before. It's because I had nobody to work for —

nobody to -care for — nobody to love. If you'll give me the right to care and love you, nothing else matters. I'll move mountains in order to make a decent home for you." " Would you really be happy with me ?" " I'd be happy with you on a desert island," «aid Mr Binns, with fervour. "The only thing needed to complete my happiness, even on a desert island; with you, would-be for 'That Beast' to come along, and we'd turn cannibals and share his wish-bone." There was not the slightest doubt about Mr Binn's genuineness. He was evidently head over heels in love with her — Mary Smitfc ;• not Mary Montressor, but Mary — Smith ! Tliere was no getting away from this plain fact, and Mary felt that she could go down on her knees to thank God for the success of her experiment. "If I," she faltered— "if I consent to ' marry you some day, you must first give me a promise that you are going to believe iv me to the end of the chapter. My name is Montressor, and not Smith; but Montressor seemed out of place for a type-writing-girl, and so I — l wrote a letter about myself and called myself Smith. Of course,* you thought the letter came from the ri<fi Miss Montressor. I'm co sorry." Binns looked grave for a moment ; then he laughed. i "Never mind the other Montressor, ! Mary. I've room in my heart for only ! on« of them." i She looked so sweetly pretty and so full of distress at her duplicity, for even now she could not bear to tell Binns the whole truth, that he flew to her side and put his arms round her. "Doubt you?" he said. "You!" He began to tell her in lovers language how impossible it was that she should ever be anything to fiim except his guiding star and the light of his life. . Then it all dawned upon Mary. This was wfoy she had made her experime-nt ; this was why she had left the luxury of her home ; this was why she had become a typewriter-girl, and had undertaken to live "the literary life." She knew now that it was because sHe wanted someone to believe in her, to love and cherish her until the end of her days. But she had not calculated! on finding the object of her search so quickly, and it seemed a little unmaidenly that she should admit the truth -even to herself. Contact with every-day facts in "The Phoenix" office, however, had re-, moved all squeamishness from Mary's mind, and she had become a great-hearted, great- : souled, sweet English girl, with a hatred of I shams of any kind. In h_r previous social -existence it had always filled her with shudI aering horror to think that the men who j came around her wanted money and did not love her as Mr Binns loved her. There w&s no doubt that he worshipped her and that nothing but editorial reserve had prevented him from long ago mentioning the fact. j In her turn, Mary made a stipulation with Binns. " You are to believe in me always f 1 aud I will believe- in you always," she said, ! lingering on the threshold. "As long a§ we believe in one another, nothing else matters." . "Of course it, doesn't," said Mr Binns promptly. " But Ido w^sh I could buy out ' That Beast ' and run the magazine on my own account. In' another three months it 1 will be too late ; even a crossing sweeper won't buy a thing so full of-slush." Mary did not know what " slush " was,. " but understood it to be a technical, term for rubbish.. She went away to muse on her new happiness, and, taking a hausom at the j corner of Arundel Street, drove off to see I her family solicitor. . ' ' j The family solicitor was intensely pleased to see her, for Mary was a great favourite '; of his, and he had dandled her on his knee as a baby. But when, after dinner, j Mary put her arms round his neck and told him her story,- he chided her for her folly. I At- length, however, he succumbed" to the j inevitable and promised that if he approved of Mr Binns he would further her plans in every way. ■ The old. lawyer went to see Binns on some pretext, and cordially approved of him; for Mr. Binns had ideas, and only needed .money to put. those ideas properly before the world. After along dhat' about a mythical purchaser of the paper, the : practical lawyer told Mary that Binns had , the makings of a great man in liim, and j only needed a little money in order to get j his chance. j A few days later, when -Mary went down ■ to the office, Binns met her with a gloomy face. "We were a bit premature in talk- ! : ing of giving 'That Beast' notice," he said. "He has lost a lot of money in mining speculations and has sold the paper. The ; new people will kick us out and bring their ' own staff with them.' They migit perhaps • leave. Jinks "—Jinks was the office-boy— "but I don't think he'd stay on if we left." " No, I don't think he would," said Mary werriiy, and not at all dismayed at Binns's 1 .a . 1 ,, iDts ould folll > w me to the . world s end." , In the course of the afternoon "That. Beast came down, accompanied by Mary's solicitor, who pretended to be a stranger to h_r. The old lawyer produced a deed of agreement. " I see there is 'no provision for the continuance of the present staff," he said drily. " Would you recommend my client to continue to employ this gentleman "— ne looked at Binns—" and this | young lady?" He looked at Mary. j .No," said "That Bast," whose temper ' had been greatly ruffled by his losses in the ' City, " I wouldn't do nothing of the sort. ! They're that 'aughty, the pair of 'em, they ! presume to give me advice about the management of the paper. He," pointing to Binns, " actually told .me last week it wouldn't be where it is now if I'd listened to them. Listened to them ! Me !" f Mary bristled like an indignant hen. "Yes, Mr Primrose," she said, severely, , " if you had listened to Mr Binns and myself, the paper would have been in flourishing circumstances, and you need not have sold it. If " "Don't you talk to me, young woman," i said "That Beast" severely. "It ain't your place. . Always remember your place." Then he turned to Binns, and told him to get out of the office the. next day, and never let him (Mr. Primrose) see his (Mr Binns's) ugly countenance again.' "It may be ugly,"- said Binns, with dignity, " but it hasn't a red nose like a semaphore signal." "You leave my nose alone. Do you know you're dependent on me for a char- I acter?" said Mr Primrose, with hauteur. ! " I don't think co," said Binns, quietly, i "No self-respecting man could depend on j you for anything without being degraded by it." . . I "That's what comes of being kind to him," said Mr Primrose to the lawyer. "I'll never try to be kind to anyone again." And he went out. Some two years later Binns sat by his wife's bedside, and regarded her and the newly-arrived Master Binns with ineffable pride. "lam almost afraid to touch liim," he said as ho picked up the baby and nursed it in the awkward manner peculiar to ; young fathers. " This is about the only thing the new proprietor of ' The Phoenix * hasn't given us. I suppose he didn't think of it. Of course, I could have found out who he is if had not been for my promise to you. Hasn't the time come to tell me : who he is, Mary?" Mary drew him and the baby towards her. '"' Yes." she said, in a happy whisper : "I don't mind telling you now, because you daren't be unkind or haughty and' proud about it. The new .proprietor of ' The Phoenix' is— baby's father." Then it all came out, and Binns, like . a sensible man, made the best of it. It seemed to. him that he could buy such a lot of things for Mary and the baby, and ho quite forgot his advice to her about foundj in-g a Dogs' Home. -