Complete Story. A Same of Hearts.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIX, Issue IX, 30 August 1902, Page 562

Complete Story. A Same of Hearts.

For the first time In her life Daphne Darlington had to make up her mind. Never before had she been in a plight bo deplorable. Daphne had come to believe that questions always answered themselves if you had but the courage to let them alone long enough. Thus could this problem of hers best be solved, she was sure, if Only Leander and Guy were not so impatient. Alas, try as she would she was unable to persuade them. Guy declared with an insistance which at once charmed and provoked her that dijectly after her card party to-mor-row evening she must give him her final decision —as if any decision of hers was likely to be final. Nor was Leander, the poet, in mood less precipitate; by Sunday night, just two days away, she must either “heal, or wound to the death, his suffering spirit,” as he put it dramatically. “0, dear!” Daphne shook her fluffy head in perplexity, till it looked more than ever like an autumn thistle top. How much simpler the world would be, she reflected, if men’s minds had been cut after the same feminine pattern as her own. The situation made her feel as if she was playing candlestick on a seasaw; one instant she watched Guy’s virtues wave their arms high in the air, the next moment Leander’s.

Leander Gaylord’s beauty, like a summer’s mood, alternately blazed and languished. His long dark hair, curling slightly at the tips, was roughed up on the top of his head under the frequent sweep of his restless fingers. His eyes, because of their dilated pupils, seemed bottomless; but his moustache, not unlike his sonnets, had an apologetic way of dwindling at the end. He wrote the loveliest poetry, a kind of mixed heart-throb and thunder. All the poems addressed to her Daphne slipped into the frame of her mirror, where she could learn them by heart without effort the while she was curling her hair.

Guy Herford was by far a more everyday person. His features were quite unpretentious, his nose shapely, but not extraordinary, his mouth a meie mouth —inconspicuous features, both, yet, when you came to think of it, well adapted to their respective functions. His hair was light, short, and inclined to pompadour, which ail the world knows went out of fashion for men years ago. His eyes were unusually good, however, deep blue, and as piercing as corkscrews. His chin had plainly been made to order by a hand which knew its business. Y«S, Guy Herford as a manly type Daphne certainly admired. A chivalrous knight in her service and in his mother’s, to the rest of the world his Independence said: “You may go to the devil for all I care.”

Was ever poor maid in a position sa trying? On one hand the idea of being a poet’s life-long inspiration was more than attractive; the role Ought to become her style well, pretty. Daphne considered. At the same time she knew that it wouldn’t be half bad to overtop the angels in a man’s estimation, as she certainly could if she agreed to be Guy's special providence. Would that she had a pocket from which to extract a penny to flip, and thus be done with the matter.

Daphne clapped her hands after an impulsive habit she had. * Not a bad plan that to throw her fate upon the whim of a chance. Whoever of her ■uitors should come first to her party might have her; she would accept him ©n the spot in order to have no later Opportunity t<o change her mind. Every detail of preparation for the festal hour reminded Daphne in some ■ubtle way of the diverse attractions of her lovers. When ahe cut the sandwiches out heart-shaped and made

little cakes called matrimonlals for the evening’s supper she took pleasure in the assurance that Leander, with his artistic nature, would enjoy their symbolism. She arranged the card tables square with the room as Guy liked to see them, instead of zigzag as best pleased herself. In agitation she awaited her guests’ arrival. When the first man came she was lookisg at herself in the mirror over the mantel-piece to see if she was really all right. She didn’t see who it was. She heard heavy footsteps in the room above. Was it Guy? Was it Leander? Her heart beat so fast she could hardly get her breath. Supposing it was Guy! Supposing it was Leander! O, what should she do! This suspense was killing. Why did the horrid tiling stay upstairs so long? What did it matter to-night whether or not his tie was on comme il faut? There, he was coming. If only he would give her a half minute more to compose herself. She dared not peep out to see who it was. One of her two adoring swains would surely win to-night, she reflected, for no one else among her guests could match them in skill at the game of war, she was so frightened. She couldn’t even look up. A big voice, raising in greeting, announced not Guy, not Leander, but that enormous Tom Walling. “I might have known it was you by the way the boards creaked,” pouted Daphne ungraciously, to the young man’s bewilderment. Next Florinda Perkins and her odious curl arrived with Peter Underwood.

Here was Daisy Everett, all pink and white, and so young looking that it was absurd, for every one knew she was going on 30. She captured Tom Walling at once and basely left Daphne all alone at her post, trembling more violently every moment that passed without bringing her errant beaux.

All of the twenty-five others who had been invited had come, and were waiting, when Herford and Gaylord appeared—together, did you ever! Evidently they meant to keep neck and neck in the running. Caprice, once foiled, seized Daphne with hearts, which had been selected for the evening’s entertainment. The luck of the day should be arbiter of her destiny; she would doubly reward the winner. The score cards had been distributed and the company was seated. The bell at the head table rang. The game commenced. Daphne was gratified that neither Guy nor Leander was at her table. Her own playing could make no difference in their scores. She tossed her cards down wildly, feverishly, with an abandon unlike her usual nonchalance. Her colour challenged admiration. This being tossed about helpless upon a Sea of chance was heady as wine. Next to the last game Guy reached Daphne’s table. As he took his place he scanned her face as if in hope of reading there the answer he awaited. Daphne bent over her cards in scarlet confusion, oppressed by an unwonted sense of guilt. Then irritation possessed her. What right had Guy Herford to hold her to account for anything? What business had he to try and read her mind? Did he think himself so clever that he could succeed where she had signally failed? She certainly liked Leander better than this literal man of business, who would inevitably expect her to reduce all her moods to a plebeian yes or no. Leander understood better, his mind was more like a woman’s.

Daphne was in a decided tantrum now, and looked so pretty that Guy entirely lost his head, and led the ace of hearts the first round.

The move made Daphne gasp. She grabbed his card to see how his chances stood. Could it be that he really did not oare to win her? What

impudence! Her partner’s record reassured her, and as she cooled somewhat she remembered that after all he didn’t know how much he was risking by his rashness. She gave him an appealing glance, which said so plainly, “If you love me,” that Guy became of a sudden hilarious and started to play with both heart and head.

The bell rang once more. The game had ended in a tie. The ladies cut and Daphne lost. She hung her head in dejection, forgetting that politeness demanded that she appear indifferent. Next time she and Guy would be opponents. They sat awaiting the visiting couple. Each glanced at the other furtively at exactly the same moment. “Daphne,” the young man implored. “Hush, you haven’t any right. It isn’t time yet,” the girl protested in a panic. “You said you would wait until after my party.” A voice behind her interrupted— O, horror! Leander’s. Gaylord was bringing Daisy Everett with him. He pushed her chair closer to the table with a gentleness that was fairly caressing. Daphne’s blood began to boil with indignation. What a flirt that Daisy Everett was! She was never happy unless some man was dancing attendance. She was dying to fasten Leander to her apron strings; anyone could see that with half an eye. Well, she just shouldn't have him, so there! Daphne would show her. Daphne picked up Leander’s card and her heart beat at first triumphantly, and then with a sickening agitation. His score was just the same as Guy’s. Here was Fate’s caprice w'ith a vengeance. After all, Daphne’s future rested in her own hands; her playing would decide the vexed question. The predicament sharpened all Daphne’s senses. Now no carelessness, no wildness remained in her bearing. She sat on the alert, making note of the cards that were boarded.

Finally, when every player had only two cards left in his hand it ~ came Daphne’s turn to lead. She had observed that each side had six hearts to its score. Who had the five of hearts? she pondered. From their last leads neither Daisy nor

Leander possessed it. Guy must hold it then. Her own hand contained the only diamond still aut. Sim caught her breath over the realization that upon this lead of hers her whole future depended. If she led her spade Leander would win, and she must henceforth cultivate a taste for sonnets. If she threw down her diamond she made herself Guy’s. She reddened, sHe paled, she shook her head in distraction. Daisy began to chaff her, but she paid no attention. “I don’t know what to do,” she lamented, as plaintively as a lost child who doesn’t know its name. “O, what would you do?” She made a general appeal to the table, but naturally her eyes rested on those just across, the poet Leander's.

As she gazed into their eternal depths she seemed to lose her foothold. She felt herself slipping, slipping, without anything to catch to. It was a moment of insight. Impression became conviction, thus would it always be if she married Leander. She gave Guy one swift glance. He smiled at her with all his pure, strong love in his eyes. She threw down her diamond. The die cast, she felt masterful and reliant, mistress of herself, and of the eminence upon which a good man’s affection would place her. It’s a fine thing to know that you are just a little higher than the angels.