[COPYRIGHT STORY.] A MAN OF LETTERS

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLI, Issue 6, 5 August 1908, Page 53

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] A MAN OF LETTERS

By

EDITH AYRTON ZANGWILL

(Author of “The First Mrs. Mollivar,” etc.)

OH, mother and father will be sorry to be out,’” Elsie Verrall said apologetically, “but we didn’t know what time you would arrive. Your letter must have gone astray.” She was a pretty, dark-eyed girl, and the panelling of the country drawingroom emphasised her bright young colouring. The lad standing in front of her. was, however, too embarrassed to notice these details. Jack Fleming had came on a visit to the Verrails, old family friends, whom he himself had never met. He had not expected this tete-a-tete commencement, and the girl’s self-possession abashed him. To think that the pater said she was only seventeen,” he reflected with stupified astonishment. “There’d be some chance if she hadn’t her hair up; that always turns them silly.” Aloud he murmured: “I ought to have wired. I’m awfully sorry.” “It doesn’t matter at all,” the girl replied, and then wickedly waited for him to speak.- • Poor Fleming sat in a state of perspiring silence, hoping lie didn’t look such a fool as he felt. He was not wanting in brains but, apart from being shy, the effort of setting them in motion was always painful. He belonged to the type of man who turns instinctively to a physical solution of every problem, and one felt sure that, had he to capture an enemy’s fort, he would have charged up any number of hills sooner than plan out a flank attack. Owing to his mental sluggishness it would be following the lines of least resistance, in spite of the maxims of modern warfare. Such as he have been England’s strength in the past, and may be her weakness in the future". “You are at Cooper’s Hill, aren’t you?” asked Elsie at last, breaking ths silence. “Yes, oh yes.” Again there was a pause. “Do you have to. work very hard?” his companion enquired with an amusing air of matronly solicitude. “No—that is there isn’t time.” Jack Fleming did not explain that a reputation for athletics had preceded him to Cooper's Hill, and he felt bound to live up to it. At school he had been the best half-baek, and in the Henley boat, and so had had his work cut out for him in the playing fields. It was only the swift realization, during the last year, that the alternative of Cooper’s Hill and India was an office in the city, that had forced him to study. “Oh, how careless of me! I’ve never' rung for tea, and I’m sure you haven’t had any,” cried Elsie. Fleming hailed the interruption with joy, although he privately considered tea to be a silly sort of beverage only fit for girls. He drank four cups, however, by way of passing "the time. “Do you play football?” he asked with a sudden conversational inspiration, and then cursed himself for the idiocy. "Of course not.” Elsie’s tone was scathing; presently she relented. “I used to play once when I was a child, a very long time ago. In the spring I saw one of the Southern League matches; it was exciting;” she commenced describing it. Fleming began to forget the limpness of his collar; also he took his eyes off his boots, which were distressingly dusty. Ha looked at Elsie instead, and suddenly discovered that she was pretty. He was so astonished that he sat star-

ing at her for a minute and a half with his teacup in his hand. After all there might be something in the rot that some fellows talked about girls, he reflected. “Oh, that was nothing to the scrum we had in the final match,” he said unguardedly at one point in Elsie’s account. The girl stopped short. “Were you playing in it?” she asked. He nodded, blushing furiously. He felt that he had been guilty of “beastly bad form.” “Did you win?” Elsie’s tone was admiring. “Oh, yes, three goals. It was a walk over.” “And here I’ve been telling you about the game,” Elsie laughed. “Do you do other things, too —tennis ?” “Rather.” “Then we must practise lots and lots. I do want to get on, but they are all old fogies staying here, not one under thirty I should think. But I expect you are much too good for me,” she added despondently. "Rather not; come and have a knock up new,” he cried. They made their way to the tennis court. Certainly itl the days that followed Elsie ought to have improved, for they did play “lots,” much to Mrs. Verrall’s annoyance. The games were chiefly remarkable for the ingenuity and perseverance that Fleming showed in plausibly giving his opponent points; for the first time in his life winning became a secondary consideration. Indeed he had always before refused to play with girls. “They were for ever tumbling over their silly skirts and squealing,” he had said. Now he listened with adoring smiles to Elsie’s shrills little cries of delight or dismay as she hit or missed the balls, and her hampering dress gave him a sort of protective pleasure. He sank so low that he began to think the fielding was the best part of the game, for occasionally in handing the balls to the girl, he would touch her little soft hand, and then turn hot all over with a sudden thumping at his heart. What Elsie thought of it was not so clear. Although she was very young, she was not too childish to feel the difference in her life; no girl ever is, although she may not quite understand. She used to lie awake at night with a curious still excitement, not knowing whether she were ashamed or gratified. There was a sort of glamour over it all, the fair summer weather, the lovely garden, the handsome admiring boy, that made her drift along unresistingly and almost unconsciously. I,n addition, she really did want to improve her tennis, and Jack Fleming seemed to be a necessary factor. Even when the others joined them and they had doubles, he always seemed to be her partner. They generally won too, for Jack’s play improved wonderfully under these conditions. Everyone was surprised, however, when at the club tournament he and Elsie came off victorious. She had all a girl’s ambition, and was wildly .delighted at the triumph. Jack was probably equally pleased; it seemed such a goods omen for the future. Afterwards the recollection was clouded by an absurd anguish, as to whether Elsie had considered Ills jumping the net as “showing off.” The same night there was a supper and dance at the club house. Fleming arrived very late, although from the wispy condition of his tie, no one would have guessed that it represented half an-hour’s hard labour. In spite of his unpunetuality he secured three dances running with Elsie. At the end of them they were permaaiently engaged, al-

though Elsie’s parents would not accept the situation. “It's ridiculous; he hasn’t got a penny. I thought they were both too. young for it to be dangenerous,” Mrs. Varrall moaned. “Well, it’s no good making a fuss and letting them think they are martyrs,” Mr. Varrall urged sagely. “The young fellow sails for India in a month, and long before five years are up they’ll have forgotten each other’s existence.” Jack and Elsie naturally did not take this view of the case. Life is very serious when one is young enough to be one’s own star performer. When it came to saying good-bye, the boy wondered whether the city office would not have been preferable. “Only I'd have never got enough screw to marry on, and anyway it’s no good talking about it,” he said. Elsie did not answer. They were standing in the drawing room and her face was hidden against her lover’s coat; he could feel her sobbing. “It isn’t for so very long,” he whispered, with an attempt at consolation. “Don’t cry so; it’s only for five years. Then I’ll be able to marry you. Oh, it’s beastly leaving you, Elsie.” “We’ll write by every mail, lots and lots,” she murmured, trying in her turn to comfort him. Each being sure of the other’s sorrow lessened the pain. The bitterest parting is when one can display -one’s grief in all its nakedness, knowing that the other can well bear it. They were silent for a moment,- then there came a tap at the door.' “The cab’s here, Sir,” said the discreet domestic. Jack kissed Elsie again, but he did not speak. Indeed, he could not; after all he was only a boy. He left the room softly. Elsie suddenly realised that she was alone, and rushing upstairs she flung herself upon her bed, a poor little heap of desolation. IT. Contrary to Mrs. Verrall’s expectation, the young people did not forget each other. Certainly Jack did not have much chance, for he went from one jungle village to another and his sweetheart’s photograph was the only white woman’s face that he saw. As for Elsie, "the ridiculous child won’t so much as look at another man. She really seems to get more and more in love with that young Fleming every day.” Mrs. Verrall said despairingly. The engagement was not recognised, but Elsie entirely refused to lay aside her ring or to talk less openly about her fiancee. The crowd of eligible young men with whom her mother surrounded her, would in any ease have been discouraged by the evidently disparaging comparison to ■which she subjected them. There was one exception, whom she treated with more kindness, a Mr. Morris, a literary man and an orientalist, but although unmarried, he was old enough to be her father. He had been touched by the

girl’s loneliness and her open adoration of the absent lover, and when he came to know her better, he was surprised by her intelligence and even sometimes by gleams of originality. Elsie made a very good listener he found, although he was rather less complimented, when one day she exclaimed, “You see I’m trying to cultivate my mind so as to be more of a companion for Jack, and you’re very improving.” After a moment of annoyance, Morris smiled. “Shall I teach you a little Hindustani, that will be useful?” he said. Secretly he did not think a high mental development was very necessary for Fleming’s wife.” “Oh, yes, please,” Elsie replied enthusiastically; Then she blushed. “Shall I read you some of Jack’s last letter? It’s about a tiger hunt and is very interesting. I'll just read bits.” The emphasis on the last was very amusing. Morris acquiesced, although he was prepared to be rather bored by his young Nimrod’s eloquence. “I suppose it will be all in the ‘pigsticking and niggers’ style,” he thought. As Elsie read he began to show more attention. It was about hunting as she had said, a subject that did not appeal to him, but it was strangely living. As he sat there in that peaceful English drawing room, he began to feel the hot blush of jungle with its continuous undersounds and the soft trampling of the elephants. He seemed to be by the side of young Fleming straining his eyes to catch sight of the yellow black-barred patch among the trees and creepers. The search appeared to be fruitless and, as evening came, they reached the fields of young barley ringing a native village. There was a man working in them, clearcut against the pale sunset, and Unconscious of any other presence. Suddenly the stinging crack of Fleming’s martini ripped the air. The native started running, foolishly, wildly. He did not know that, a great shadowy Fear had silently, so silently, been creeping up behind him and had now rolled over, a heavy mass of death. “So I’ll send you the skin, darling,” Jack concluded; but Elsie had stopped reading and was looking at Mr. Morris with a tender pride in ner eyes. The Orientalist was genuinely surprised. He had written a good deal about India himself, chiefly on the subject of mythology and language. Now, suddenly his most luminous theories seemed unimportant compared with the lad’s realities. “How well he writes,” he murmured with a certain envy. “Yes, doesn’t he? You can understand now why I want to set to work and learn things. The funny part is that everyone said he was a poor correspondent and never would write at all. I suppose it’s partly because it's all so new and interesting; and then he says —it's me.” Elsie’s voice quivered. After that Mr. Morris used often to hear expurgated editions of Jack Fleming’s letters. They were not very profound, he felt, but they all had the same

curious vividness. To these word pictures, Morris fell in the way of interpolating a sort of letterpress. He had never been to India himself and he enjoyed talking over his work with reference to these bits of fresh local colour. “You ought to tell Mr. Fleming to take up literature,” he once remarked. Elsie laughed. “Oh, 1 did tell him, hut he says writing is such a grind that when he once has me, he doesn’t ever want to see ink or paper again. You see he is so tremendously good at riding and shooting and all those things,” she explained with pardonable pride. Then she looked uncomfortable. Mr. Morris was riot good at those things; indeed, his figure was so ungainly that it almost suggested a deformity. “I think we had better go on with the Hindustani,” he said. HI. The five years passed at last although in looking forward they had loomed an eternity and even in looking backward they seemed half a lifetime. The time however, had not made much change in either of the young people; indeed, iwhen Jack came again into the old panelled drawing-room, Klsie thought that ■he looked younger than she remembered him. “Had he always seemed so absurdly boyish?” Hashed through her mind She supposed that, the old feeling would come baek when he kissed her, which he did after a moment’s shy hesitation; to her surprise she remained cold. “It’s only because it’s strange,’’ she told herself angrily; “I’m so very, very happy, that I can’t realise it.” She sat down beside him on a sofa and consciously gave herself up to deliberate love-mak-ing. There was no doubt at all as to Jack’s feelings, he was evidently completely happy. In the days that followed he could hardly bear Elsie out of his sight, and when he could combine her and pingpong, he seemed to have reached the summit of earthly felicity. He had come home to find the game at its height and he promptly set to work to become a crack player. Besides -it afforded him a pretext for being alone with Elsie, and he could claim a reward or a consolation after each set. They always took the same form.

“I wish you’d balk more about serious things,” Elsie said one day during one of these interludes. “What am I to talk about? Isn’t this serious enough?” he laughed, putting his arm around her. The girl disengaged- herself quickly. These endearments had not yet become an unconscious habit and she suddenly felt that she could not bear it. Oh, do talk about other things. Tell me about India and the natives,’’ she urged rather pettishly. “A lot of lazy beggars, I’m jolly well glad to be quit of them,” Jack said lightly, intent on new: serve. It almost seemed to Elsie during these days that she was missing somebody, but she told herself the idea was absurd. Was not everyone round her whom she cared for? Of course Mr. Morris discreetly kept away, but that was nothing. On other occasions she had not seen him for months and she had never minded very much. What could it be? At last the first week came to an end and Saturday came round. “Indian mail day,” Elsie cried jubilantly as she came down. They all laughed at her, Jack most of all; indeed she laughed at herself. “I do really quite miss not having your letters though,” she said after breakfast. Jack laughed again. “Come and have a go at ping-pong,’ he said. Elsie stamped her foot. “I hate pingpong,” she said. Fleming looked astonished but he did not take umbrage. “Well, it does seem a shame to be indoors on a day like this; let’s have some tennis instead.” Elsie followed him unwillingly. She did not want to play. She had got tired of these long days of games and idleness, kisses and chaff. She eraved for some more serious conversation that she might bite her intellectual teeth upon. It was exhausting to be in her own company always, but Jack hated to see her read. The vision of months and years of this sort of life came before her suddenly. “Oh, 1 can’t, I can’t,” she cried. Fleming turned. He was not very quick in such matters, but when he saw her face, he looked troubled. “What can’t you?” he asked. Elsie had begun to sob. “It’s you, it’s

your fault, you aren't the same,” she moaned. “The same as w-hat?” Jack’s tone was indignant. “Look here, I wish you’d talk sense.” But Elsie would only sob. Suddenly she realised that she was doing him an injustice. He was the same, terribly the same. It was her own development .and Mr. Morris’s thoughts that she had read into Jack’s letters as well as his own real but extraneous gift of’description. “When you wro e you were different,” she faltered at last. — - ■ Jack* smiled in a relieved fashion. “Oh, come, I say that’s rather funny. You wouldn't like me to be for ever on the spout, would you?” He went up to her. But Elsie pushed him away. “It’s true, it’s true it isn’t funny. You can’t understand anything,” she cried incoherently. “It’s that other chap, that chap whom you were always talking about in your letters, he and his rot about native mythology, curse him,” Fleming said slowly. Elise looked up in genuine astonishment. “What chap?” Then she coloured hotly. “Mr. Morris—why, I never even thought of him in that way. He’s ever so old and—and ugly.” Fleming’s face cleared. “Didn’t you, dear?” he said, but Elsie did not hear him, she had begun to cry again. “Oh, I want you, you,” she whispered. “But that’s all right, isn’t it, darling?” Fleming aeain went nearer. “No, no, no; my you, the one in India. And I shall never find him, never, never,” and sobbing she turned and fled into the house. A fortnight later Jack Fleming went back to India, puzzled and hurt at Elsie’s desertion; fortunately he met another pretty girl on board and before they reached Bombay, she had successfully consoled him. As to Mr. Morris, he stopped the lessons in Hindustani, but he instructed Elsie in many other difficult subjects although love was not one of them; this he did not attempt, for he knew that she had already learnt the lesson perfectly and with another master.

And Elsie did not marry and lived • fairly happily ever after; she found many small happinesses and no large sorrows. But. she never found her lover again, never, never, never, for he - t had been only a man of letters.