DAISY CHANCE.

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 429, 4 August 1904, Page 7

DAISY CHANCE.

H SHOUT STORY.

(Continued from last week) The story was named 'A House of Cards,' and it had not been long in the publisher's hands before it was returned to the author with a hurried note from Millman. t» * Sorry to return this MS., but think if you'JJ compare it with your other stuff » you'll seeife hardly up to the mark; that is, it may be a gocd story, but doesn't fulfil the requirements of the series. Let's have something of the old kind; and, by the way, I am enclosing some cuts, which you might work in somewhere. . fes.3.! ' Ever yours, •J. Mtlhtaw.' The bsdiy executed wood-cuts had done duty befcre; one, the representation of a lady in tears flourishing a handkerchief, had appeared in one of Bobbins' former stories, and had underneath it a quotation bom the letterpress : • 4 0n reaching her own chamber Lady Smeeton burst into a passionate fit of weeping.* -But Bibbias didn't care. It was all in ™ e daj'e work, and he was getting over his fit of sentiment He began a story at once entitled «The Cost of Her Coronet," in which the three wives of a wicked old Earl, converging on him through several chapters, met in the last but one, the result being a terrific explosion, which, though i; demolished the old nobleman, saved the Lady Helen Moantmilton frem becoming his fourth bride, and restored her to the arms of Sir Stephen Harpington, her former lover. William brought in all the • outs.' The one which belonged to his former story gave him some little difficulty, but, as the handkerchief was badly drawn, he took the liberty of regarding it this time as a letter, and crossing out the old wording, wrote in its place : ' False-hearted wretch I' almost shrieked the Countess, as she crushed the note in her jewelled fingers. See page 58 Though he tossed it aside, Bobbins was loth to destroy his' House of Cards.' He had given up expecting any 'luck' outside his own line, but at length he determined to cut the story down and try it with the magazines. He ehortened it considerably, and found it did not suffer in the process; then, rather begrudging the stamped envelope for return of the MS., .he sent it to the office of the' Kensington.' It reminded him of the days when he had systematically bombarded these publications, and pictured the agreeable butprise that editors, always on the look-out for fresh talent, would experience when they opened his particular packet and found in it exactly che thing they wanted, I> the present instance he never expected to have his contribution accepted, but sending it out was like throwing a fishing line into the water—there was just a chance the float might bob, and watching and waiting for this gave him a fresh interest in life.

' The Cost of Her Coronet' appeared in due course, but provoked no comment from Mug Daisy Chance. Bobbins fell back into the old rut; the incident of the letter was fading from his mind, and, but for a curious occurrence, all recollection of it might Boon have vanished entirely. Oae night he had a strangely vivid dream, in which he and his • constant reader' came face to face.

How or where they met he could not tell } they might have known each other from childhood. It seemed quite natural for them to be sitting together on that particular garden teat, with warm evening sunshine falling on them in red flashes as a gentle breeie stirred the overhanging branches of the trees.

k» She talked about the 'House of Cards,' whioh she appeared to have just been reading. ' Such work will be certain to win you recognition,' Bhe said. 'I am sore there u a future before you, with fresh fields for enterprise and achievement. All that ia necessary is for yon to keep up heart and make the effort*

'I know my own limitations,' he answered. 'My stock of energy has long been exhausted, and I frankly confess I am without hope or ambition.' ' No, you sire different now,' she replied, referring to the MS. which she held in her hand. 'This shows the change. There is new life here, and born with it is fresh energy and a brighter hope.' What reply Bobbins intended to have made cannot be recorded, for at that moment he opened his eyes and awoke to consciousness of the war whocp of the milkman, and the subdued rattle of the London streets.

Bat though encountered only in a drea>», the* girl remained astonishingly real. The soft, pleasant tones of her voice were still in his ears, and her fair hair, rounded cheeks, and sympathetic eyea formed a picture whioh stood out clearly before him, and remained ever present in his mind. Where could he have met her P How did he know her to be Daisy Chance P What did it all mean P The restless fit returned; he found it impcsalble.tfl sit at his deek and collect his thoughts. Then, slowly but surely, the wish seised and mastered him to go down to Wendingford, and find out if tho companion of his dream was in reality the writer of the letter which had put all this into his mind. He had not the alight est intention of speaking to her, or of making himself known; but get a sight of her, if she was at the Orange, he would and must. It was a cold, damp, uninviting afternoon when he alighted at the quiet country station, and, giving up his ticket, passed out <nto the muddy road. He felt strangely nervous and self-conscious. It seemed f o him that every one must know his errand; and he could not summon up sufficient resolution to ask the whereabouts of the Orange. The house, however, was not difficult to find, and his heart beat faster as he read the name on the gatepost, For a quarter of an hour he walked slowly up and down, peering through the shrubs, hoping to see the girl emerge frcm the front door on some errand. At length, seeing that he was attracting the attention of the gardener, he walked off, realising that this plan of action was not llke]y to succeed. Two hundred yards further on was a small shop with some ginger beer bottles displayed in the window, and a card asnouncing that refreshments were provided for cyclists. Into this Bobbins turned, ordered a cup of tea, and sat down to consider what he should do next. His -hostess seemed inclined to be talkative, and led off with some general observations regarding the weather. Here was an opportunity to obtain some information. * By the way,' began William, with wellasiumsd carelessness,' who is it lives down there a? the Orange f' ' Mrdßeaham, sir, and bis daughter,' wsfjflp answer, ' You see, him being a wUPaar, for h : a wife— that was his second, and not the mother of the young lady—died two years come February, and—' •Benham?' interrupted the visitor. 'I didn't think that was the name.' 'Ob, yes, air! You see, as I was a-saying, when the second Mis Benham died ** 'Bat wasn't there a ladj living there called Chancer"

' A lady!' cackled the woman, in a high falsetto, and quite ready to bring her tongue round on this fresh tack. ' Well, I suppose she reckoned herself one, saucy young madam I Mwy Anny Chance, h6r name was, though I've heard Bhe called herself Ousy. I'd have Djisyed her if I had been her mother.'

Bobbins sat speechless with his tea cup poised in mid air,

' Tee,' continued his informant, ' she was Miss Benham'a mud, but she got a good bit too free, used to wear her mistress'a things, and write letters on her notepaper, and I don't know what else; bo last we*k ehe was sent going, and high time, too, from all accounts. But as I was saying, when Mr Bsnham lost hia second wife. . . I'm afraid your tea isn't to your liking, eir.' 'Yes, it is,' answered Bobbins, faintly, ' only—only if s rather too warm. By the way,' he continued, 'could you tell me the time of the next train back to London V

It was dark when 'Athelstan Wytchurch' climbed the last flight of stairs and entered his room. He groped his way across to the window, and stood gazing down into the gas-lit street below. ' Four and three—four and seven—four and nine,' he murmured, making a mental calculation of the day's expenses. ' Four and ninepence chucked away on that bleased wild goose chase. Serves me right for being such a fool. I shouldn't have thought it from the writing—that's the result of the modern Board school education, I suppose 1' He remained dramming with his fingers on the grimy window pane, thinking with vexation of that attempt at better things which the letter had inspired him to make., • A week's work, too,' he went on. "A House of Cards'; yes, that's the way. We build one up, and then bump the table, and down it comes. I—— * he paused. ' I wish I'd never gone!' He turned, struck a match, and lit his lamp.

• Hullo! What's thief» There was a letter on the mantelpiece. He opened it, glanced at the heading, then ran his eyes eagerly down the page. ' The Editor of the ' Kensington Magazine ' intends to use' A Housa of Cards,' and would be pleased to consider any other stories of a bimilar length which Mr Wytchurch might care to submit in the usual way.' The poor room had vanished, and once more, for just a moment, he was sitting in the warm, evening Bunahine listening to the dream-girl's pleasant voice. i' There, is new life here,' Bhe was sayiag, ' and bora with it is fresh energy and a brighter hope.'