SHORT STORY

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 365, 28 May 1928, Page 3

SHORT STORY

STRANGER THAN FICTION

By SYLVIA WHITE. When Denis Allardyce left his country home in the north, with a very few pounds in his pocket and a great many MSS in his suitcase, his heart beat high with hope. He had been exceptionally lucky! While working on the staff of a local newspaper he had sent several articles to a London periodical which had been accepted. Then the editor, interested in this promising writer, both because his stuff was good and also because a mutual friend “put in a word,” offered him a small post, which carried only a very modest salary, but which promised ample opportunities of advancement for an enterprising and energetic young man. So Denis had taken up his abode in a small boardinghouse Denmark Hill way, within easy reach of Fleet Street, and considered himself a “made man.” A first-class footballer, and fond of every form of sport, Allardyce soon began to find the closely confined life extremely trying, and the work of a great London newspaper very different from the somewhat easy-going routine of the “Morning Chronicle” of Barmister, Yorks. But he “stuck it” manfully, dropped into the daily routine of half-past seven breakfast, followed by a halfhour's journey from Denmark Hill to the city on the quarter past eight train, and so to his corner in the dingy, noisy office after a tedious climb up those long flights of stairs, which were so unlike the ladder of fame of which he had dreamed. Then misfortune arrived, “not In single spies, but in battalions.” He received word of the severe illness of his mother, whom he adored, and he strained every resource to send some help. The investment in which he had placed all his money went completely to the bad, though he had been told that the company was “as safe as the Bank of England.” He began to feel that perhaps he had not enough “punch” in him to tackle the job he had undertaken, and an old. old longing to write a book got hold of him, giving him no rest nor peace of mind, as it bit at bis brain. He began to do it in nis spare time, sitting up at nights, getting up in the small hours, letting the work he loved obsess him to the exclusion of nearly all else. and neglecting both his health and appearance for its sake, though he managed his daily job of work as well! He left the boarding house and took a cheap bed-sitting room in the same district, halving his allowance of tobacco, cutting out lunch, and observing every possible economy as he doggedly pegged away at his self-imposed task.

But even his strength and youth were not proof against the strain he put upon them, and the men in the carriage with whom he travelled each morning murmured pitying comments to each other as they noted the hoi-

low eyes in the lean, clever face, and saw how the boy v/ho had seemed the personification of energy and cheerful spirits grew daily thinner, shabbier and more gaunt looking. And there was another person who watched the heavy eyes and the everdeepening lines round the fine firm mouth of Denis Allardyce with silent sympathy, and she seemed to him to be tile very perfection of dainty girlhood. She was always so neatly dressed and well groomed, with her shining brown hair, and big brown eyes set wide apart in her little grave, earnest-looking face.

Too grave, too earnest-looking for her years, for Moya Holland was only just 20. Somehow Denis always managed to get into the same carrige! It was the only pleasure he ever allowed himself; to sit opposite to her and study the lines of her regular features, the gentle gravity and seriousness of the sweet face, and dream and dream until he was brought to earth by the cry, “All tickets ready, please!” And truth to tell, Moya always looked first for Denis when she walked into the station to catch the 8.15 train which took her to her city office every morning. An office in which she worked eight hours a day, at dry-as-dust letters, bills of lading, and other devastating documents, until she wondered whether there was anything in the world of real interest which would ever “come across her path.” Moya loved poetry and romance, flowers and colour. Her soul and mind were starving for them. If she could only get hold of something beautiful to type she felt her work would not be so bad. But she was lucky to get a decently paid job in these days, she tokl herself, and it was no use quarrelling with one’s bread and butter anyhow! She fell to wondering who the haggard-looking, but handsome young man who usually sat opposite to her, could be; then she decided, she liked him, and that she was so sorry, so very sorry, about the evident struggle he was having, which showed so plainly in those tell-tale lines round mouth and eyes. She wished she knew someone who would introduce him to her. She felt she might be able to help in some way, though she dare not dream in what.

It would be a wonderful thing to be able to soothe those lines away, to make those earnest-looking, deep-set eys gleam with laughter—and love! Then she told herself that she was a romantic fool, and a dreamer of silly dreams, but she was only a real little woman—after all!

Weeks passed, and still Denis wrote and wrote at the novel which was to bring him both lustre and lucre. After he had written till he could work no more, he would allow himself one pipe before turning in, and in the clouds of smoke he would see visions of the little oval face, and bright brown eyes of the girl oh the 8.15. For she was his inspiration now, and on the sheets of foolscap he covered he made her his heroine, weaving his

great romance around the girl he knew he was quickly learning to love with all the passion and devotion of his deep nature. Scenes, incidents, atmosphere, all came easily now. He felt his work was good, and began to live only for the day when the success he felt certain of achieving would crown his labour. Then—somehow or other —he would get to know her, his dream girl, and tell her how she had unconsciously been his helpmate in his first real work. All his success would be due to her, and to the hope he nursed in his heart —-that some day she would be his helpmate in everything. Sometimes he tortured himself that there might be another fellow, hut he knew her slender finger was ringless, for. now the mornings were warm and bright she often cai-ried her gloves instead of wearing them. At last the book was finished, and full of hope Denis himself took it to a publisher who gave “special attention” to new writers. The great man granted him an interview, and Denis trembled as he untied the bulky manuscript of “Even the Weariest River.” The publisher glanced at the neatly written first pages with some interest. “You must get this typed, my dear chap,” he .said. “We can’t possibly accept manuscripts for reading, untyped.”

Denis felt his heart stop still, then pound on with sickening beats. “It’s—it’s —the money, sir,” he stammered. “Oh, earn or borrow it,” answered the publisher good-humouredly, smiling into the young man’s strained face. “A rule’s a rule, you know, and this is one we never break. Bring it back typed and I’ll give it my personal attention. Good-bye.” And in another moment Denis found himself outside the door, his precious parcel tucked under his arm and his spirits registering zero. • » »

For weeks Denis went about in a welter of misery. He called at. many typewriting offices, only to discover that the fees charged were absolutely beyond his limited means, even if he denied himself the bare necessities of life. His white face and wild eyes made Moya's heart ache, and at last she felt she could bear it no longer. As he opened the door for her to pass out one morning she met his eyes bravely —and smiled! Moya was really lovely when she smiled.

The ice round Denis’s heart seemed to melt, and life once more was worth while. He walked through the barrier, with his head held high. Surely, surely there must be a way of raising a few pounds. He had been a weak fool to give in like this. He was overworked and overstrained. Now he would pull himself together, and by dint of hard thinking, plan some scheme for raising enough cash to pay for the typing of his novel. Then . . . then . . . well, convention and all the rest of the rubbish could go to the wall together, for he would speak to this dainty brown-eyed girl, tell her the story of his struggle, beg her to share with him the sweets of success.

All this time Moya was aching and longing for something to happen which would give her the chance to speak

to the man who looked so unhappy—so down and out!

That evening Denis went back to his lodging in a more cheerful frame of mind than he had known since the day he had walked drearily away from the publisher’s office. He sat down to the simple meal provided by his landlady and opened the evening paper he had bought, with a vague idea of borrowing from “one of those moneylending chaps.” He scanned the advertisement columns while he ate. Suddenly he paused. A modest advertisement had supplied the notion he had so long groped for. It was unusual, of course, mad perhaps, but he would woo Fate resolutely, and perhaps the fickle goddess might smile on so bold a suppliant. He reread the advertisement carefully. It only occupied one line and ran thus: “Expert typist wants stories, novels, or poems. Neat work. Mod. terms, X 579.” Hastily finishing his meal, he took paper and envelope, and after several abortive attempts, he wrote the following remarkable note: “Advertiser, Dear Sir or Madame, Whoever you are, I want to make you a sporting offer. I have just finished a novel, which I feel convinced will make a more than ordinary sojt of success, and as I am quite experienced in literary business, I am not taking a conceited view. I am “right on my uppers” and cannot afford the usual fees charged for typing, so I cannot get a publisher to read my work. I am, therefore, writing to suggest that you undertake to type my novel, and should it meet with success I pay you a third of the proceeds. In the event of its not being published within a year, I guarantee to pay your charge per thousand words. Yours truly, DENIS ALLARDYCE. * * * To say Moya Holland was surprised when this letter was delivered to her scarcely expressed her feelings. At first inclined to put aside the extraordinary request as a preposterous piece of impertinence, the ring of truth running through the written words was so unmistakable, she began to feel a sympathy with this struggling writer, and with sympathy came the desire to help. As she possessed a small portable typewriter she had conceived the idea of advertising for the kind of work she would best like to do in order to earn a little more money in her spare time.

She had received several answers to her advertisement, but not one which attracted her as did this strange, frank, very pathetic note from Denis Allardyce. “What a nice name,” she mused, as she reread the letter and pondered over It in her lonely diggings, for Moya was an orphan and lived alone. She wondered what her unknown correspondent was like. Poor fellow! There were so many boys struggling like this nowadays. Still she hesitated, a little pucker on her pretty forehead. Then, with a sudden impulse, she dashed to her typewriter and wrote quickly, not giving herself lime to change her mind.

“Dear Sir, —Yours to hand. Your proposition is so unusual that before even considering it I should like to have a personal interview with you. Please call at above address on Saturday afternoon, if convenient to you, bringing your MS. with you.—Yours truly, Moya Holland.”

Denis gave a sigh of relief as he read the letter the next morning. He noted the address again as 19 Camberley Grove, and was both pleased and surprised to find this unknown typist lived not far from his own quar“What a piece of luck!” he chuckled, “nothing like a bold stroke to pull the thing off!” That was on Tuesday morning, and the thought of the coming Saturday kept Denis almost cheerful for the next two days, although there was no sweet, brown-haired girl opposite to him in the train, and he wondered rather anxiously what had become of her.

Moya had contracted a heavy cold, and was quite unfit for work. So while she “nursed herself up”—surely the dullest thing in the world to do—she found herself becoming quite excited at the thought of the interview on Saturday. Nothing was further from her thoughts than the possibility of the nice, worried-looking boy on the 8.15 having any connection with the writer of the novel which, according to its author, had sluch a fine chance of success.

She mentally pictured a rather bald, eccentric little man with big tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles, or else a wild-looking fellow of the long-haired persuasion, whose belief in his own work was equalled pnly by his excellent conceit of himself. On Thursday morning Moya was well enough to catch the 8.15 as usual, and Denis longed unutterably to tell her of the new and wonderful hope which had come into his life, as soon as he saw her.

Looking at him cautiously, she was surprised at the light in his eyes, the suppressed exultation seemed to emanate from him! Something had evidently happened to put new life and heart into him, she thought, while Denis almost devoured her with eager, hungry glances, making her own eyelids droop and bringing a wild rose flush to her cheek. “I must tell her —I must talk to her —I don’t care what she thinks of me,” he decided, with desperate daring, and clearing his throat, leaned slightly forward. The next instant there was a su&den jar, a shudder which seemed to shake the whole train, which shivered and groaned. It stopped with a grinding, crunching shock and, while Denis was thrown violently backwards, Moya was propelled straight into his arms. In spite of the fright and general confusion a thrill of joy surged over Denis as he held the girl for one precious moment against his heart. “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “I expect it will be all right now! The train has stopped.” Moya scrambled to her feet, her l face scarlet, and began hurriedly and [ nervously to collect a few notebooks

she had dropped, while Denis hastened | to help her with shaking hands. Prom the flyleaf of the one he held : two words seemed to burn themselves i into his brain: “Moya Holland.” Then there was another crash—a shattering of glass—he was conscious i of a queer feeling in his head, something warm and red trickled down his face, and the next moment he lost consciousness. When he awoke he was lying in a neat bed set in a long ward, with a white-capped nurse watching him. She smiled as his eyes interrogated her and he put up a weak hand to his bandaged head. “It’s quite all right,” she said, cheerfully; “don’t try to talk yet. You were in a slight train accident, you’ll remember, and somehow you got a nasty cut on the head and a spot of concussion, but it won’t be a long job. It would be a very short one, but you’ve let yourself go to pieces, you know. You’re as weak as a baby!” Denis shut his eyes again. Then he managed to whisper. “There was a girl, too. Was she hurt, Moya. . . . Moya Holland!” "Not a bit!” was the prompt reply. “She came to the hospital with you, and said she’d call again soon. Now drink this and go to sleep.” Denis drank obediently and stretched his weary frame thankfully between the sheets. How tired he was—how tired. He slept for hours, too utterly exhausted to do anything else, and it was late evening when he opened his eyes to find Moya, herself, a little white but otherwise calm and normal, sitting beside his bed. Moya herself, the heroine and inspiration of his novel, the girl who was going to type it for him —the girl he loved! For all his fantastic dreams, it seem\i almost impossible, almost too good to be true! “You . . . you are really Moya Holland? I’m not imagining you are there. It’s really and truly you?” he asked, wonder, bewilderment, and joy showing in turn in his expressive eyes. “Yes! I am Moya Holland, and you . . you are Denis Allardyce! Isn’t it strange?” she answered softly, in a voice which reminded him of a gently rippling brook. “Strange and wonderful, and . . . and perfectly topping,” he replied slowly. “I . . . I’ve been longing to know you, hoping that one day I might . . . you have been my ideal, you know ... I ... I put you in my book . . . you don’t mind, do y-ou? You see I had to!” The warm blood suffused Moya’s face, and she averted it hastily, veiling her eyes with the thick curling lashes that swept downwards to her cheek.

Denis stretched out a lean hand and she laid one of hers in it. “I’m so glad to know you,” she murmured, “but I mustn’t stay now. Nurse only gave me a very few- minutes. But before I go I want to tell you I should like to type—your—novel.” “You darling!” said. Denis.

So soon as Denis was allowed to scribble a line to his landlady, telling her to allow his typist to work on his manuscript, Moya set to work every evening going as often as she could to the hospital to report progress.

And every time she went the love between them, as yet unspoken, but how well understood, deepened, and strengthened as Denis made rapid strides to recovery, aided by rest and good food.

Then came the great day when he was allowed to go back to his diggings. It was Saturday, so Moya fetched him. Never was such a fine spring day, never was a girl so fair to look upon as Moya, dressed in a new gold-col-oured jersey frock. Flowers decorated the shabby sitting room, tea for two was laid out temptingly, and on the writing table lay the completed typescript of the novel.

Denis had meant to delay the moment on which his fate hung until his book was accepted; but love, the strongest, the most irresistible, the most powerful of all human emotions, was too strong for mere resolution, and, turning from the neatly typed pages, he came forward slowiv, holding out two beseeching hands. “Moya, sweetheart, dearest girl,” he murmured, “how wonderful you ate'. And you have done all this for me!” He pointed to the pile of pages as his eyes feasted themselves on the brown-haired girl who stood smiling there.

His dream story, his dream girl Both realities now!

“Moya,” he just breathed, “Moya, I have no words to tell you how I love you. Oh, my dear! My very, verydear! ”

Then she was tightly clasped in his arms, her shining head pillowed on his shoulder, while he rained kisses on her down-dropped lids, her white throat and cheeks, her curved crimson lips.

“Denis,” she whispered, “you scarcely know me. Are you sure, quite sure you know me. Are you sure, quite sure, you want me? I’m only just a typist, you know!” “Just a typist!” he repeated, almost reverently. “Just the angel who has saved me from despair. Moya, will you continue to be ‘just a typist’ for only a very little while longer? Can you care enough to marry me, dear?” He held his breath for her answer. After all, she knew nothing of him either, and he was asking so much, so very much. Ought he to have rushed her into a promise so soon? She raised her brown eyes bravely.

“Denis,” she whispered, “I think I have loved you for a long time, and I will marry you as soon as ever it is possible. Surely, even then, I can be just a typist for you and type yonr w ork ?”

He gathered her closer. “Yes, you dearest of all, you shall be my typist still if you wish it. I can’t dream of anything better or more delightful in this world.” “But this dream will come true,” she answered with a smile, “truth is stranger than fiction, you know.” And so it happened, for Denis’s novel “Even the Weariest River,” brought them both recognition and quite enough money to enable him to marrv the girl on the 8.15. So this story ends as happily as all love stories should end, because love ought to bring happiness to those who deserve it—«nrt usually it does!