THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume XLVII, Issue 81863, 12 October 1906, Page 4

THE STORYTELLER.

THE LOVE LETTER OF HIS LIFE. Bobby Dale sat en the verandah of the I'rincew Anne, writing letters. Bobbi Dale was youand blonde and good a> look upon. His etraw hat rested on a lot of yellow hair, and bis blue serge coat outlined a pair ol fine shou.tiers.

Bobby's mouth was set in film, hard lines, and his eyes looked hollow and tired, as though he had not slept much the night before. lie was writing on a sheet of hotel paper with a gold-tipped fountain pen. You would never have imagined lie was writing a love-letter; but he was-, 'he love-letter of his life. With hurried scrawls and spasmodic scratches he was pouring out his soul—in ink. It was needless to say Bobby had been refused—twice—by the girl to whom he was writing. No man nowadays ever reaches, such a frenzy 0; devotion and passion as he was in. or thought he was in, at that moment ; do man in this era of common sense ever commits himself so unreservedly and fervently to paper, ■seept in pursuit of the unattainable. Mr Dale finished his letter and -igned it. cogitated for a moment ivith the hande of his pen stuck in .lis mouth, and finally, with desperate determination,added these words: Will you marry me? lam going

:o give you just three weeks to answer this question—for the last time, if. at the end of three weeks, I do not near from you definitely—and affirmatively, I am going to marry a little ,'irl up in York Slate. Bobby read this postscript through carefully, and with a feeling of satisfaction and a sigh of relief placed .he letter in one of his own business

•nvelopes, addressed it, and dropped

I into the mail box at the corner f ihe veiandaji. Then, (ike a man .vho has got something weighty ofl

lis soul, he strolled off the piazza, .there a dozen girls i; fluffy flocks ■vere chatiering maddingiy, made his ay to the beach,where a lot of saff.y Jrrsscd hotel children were toddling ;nd dancing in the morning sun, and .vas soon cheerfudy smoking a cigar. A month later he walked up the aisle of a visage church wilh the little -'irl from York State, and six weeks -hereafter—such is the inconsistency jf man—he sat contentedly on the .mall vtiandah of his own suburban

-Cttage, reading the morning paper and puffing idly at a comfortable pipe.

But in spite of his apparent content, there was a cloud on Bobby s lite. You might have noiiced it in nis restless eye and in the furtive way in which he glanced eagerly up and down the tree-lined village street, ivhere nothing more alarming than .he dancing leaf shadows, the gold and red of blowing autumn leaves, and the shuffling figure of an occasional boy truant met his vision. The Jay after his marriage he had lieaid inadvertantly that the "other girl' aad sailed for Europe a month before. Might she not have missed his noie, and might not her answer at any moment—• He had always shuddered and shut his eyes when he reached this point. Bobby had been at first incredulous, th«h astounded, then charmed it the happiness he managed to derive .rem his marriage, in spite of !is ! blighted passion. And the way in .vhich that passion had faded made | him blink with wonder. But there •till remained the unanswered letter —the love letter of his life—with its tc-i-tale postscript, following a girl lrc-und Europe. Bobby could merely •it and torture himself with pictures of the consequences if some morning his wife should find a little blue scented note in his mail. It isn't, exastlv conducive to matrimonial fe licitv for a woman to discover that she has been married "for spite." That was the cloud over Bobby's life. "Bobby," called little Mrs Dale from inside the tiny French window, "how do you spell indigestion? I'm •dling Aunt Agatha all about that -errible attack vou—"

"Indigestion," spelled Bobby carefully He always had to spell for his wife. "Why do you suppose, Edith,' he went on bitterly, "thai we ever decided to live in a place where the postman takes his morning nap between houses f" The scratch of little Mrs Dale's pearl and gold pen stopped suddenly. A blue dress fluttered through the French window, and a dainty vision of village girlhood stepped out upon ihe verandah.

"Why, if it's only the postman you are waiting: for, Bobby," she said sweetly, "do go now and let me bring ihe mail down to you the moment it com**. You should have been at your office half an hour ago."

"N'onsense!" remarked Bobbv ungratefully. "Wouldn't think of troubling you. What's half an hour, anyway ?''

Between the fine brow? of Mrs Dale there appeared a little pucker. She began to suspect that Bobby did not tius; her. For two weeks now. ever since they had returned from their honeymoon trip, there had been every morning this soul-wearing drama. Of course, Bobby always allowed her to s«e the mail—to open it, if she liked—but

Just then the postman appeared tound the bend, handed Bobby a package of business letters, turned over to Mrs Dale a few white envelopes (the "other girl" always used blue notepaper), and went whistling »n his way—just as if there were no >uch thing as human hope and fear. Bobby, gazing after him with suppressed contempt for his callousness, breathed freely once more, kissed his wife, jam bed his hat down over his e>es, and rushed for a car.

But as day after day passed and the dreaded letter failed each morning to arrive, Bobby got worse. The great trouble was that he was falling in love with his wife, and the horror of what that letter might do to Mas', his happiness was wearing on him. Hj would lie awake at nights conjuring up the words with which thai other girl should, would or could answer his unfortunate missive. Then he would think out explanations for them and argue the case mentallv with fanciful pictures of wronged wives with accusing eyes. Every charm that Edith possessed was magnified at the thought of losing her.

His wife's cousin used blue no epaper, too; and whenever the postman handed over a tinted note, hewould set hi- teeth and the blood would rush to his head in a flood. The moment she began to read 't, and he discovered that he was stil undiscovered, a real physical pain ■jf reaction would tug at his heart. It was not conscience, but consepuence that was troubling Bobby.

One day,little .Mrs Dale came rushing down to his office with a blue envelope in her hand. and he, seeing her enter, grew as while a- a sheet. But it proved to be a false alarm. The cou-in was ill and MrK Dale wanted to go 10 her at once. Bobby gave his consent so heartily that his wife was almost hurt at his apparent willingness to part with her for two whole days. Another time Bobby, on his return from hi* office, found Edith sobbing over a 'heet of btui note-paper. He shuddered and grit tej his teeth a* lie went up to kiss her.

"Oh. Bobby. Bobby!" she cried, and his heart stood still. "What is it. dear?" lie asked in a hoarse whisper. "Father's old mare that I've driven ever since I was a tiny girl! They h-h-had to shoot her!"

And ih f, n 'he thought Bobby heart-b"<aii-e he laughed in such a fooli-h fashion. It was early on a warm October morning that ilie climax came at la?t: and like all things long expect<•l it came just as Bobby bad rea«ed to look fo r it—a'rnost. The Dales weie returning from a shoit -.1 r«>11. Ao they turned back into tlwir str'el, they could >ee the prey-coated potman Standing "n their «mall piazza and jerking the door-bell with angtv and insistent vehemence. It i< a characteristic of people wh make you wait that they can never bear to be kept waiting. B"bhy caught his wife's arm nervously and hurried her along until they reached the garden gae, where they met the irate (iovcrnment olli<<a' coming out. In his band that indignant petsontge held two letters. Ono «a> a bu'in"s envelope, the other a tiny square of blue. Th« mots»gt Bbfy laid eyes oo the address

lie recognised the handwriting. His I heart leapt to his throat. | It had comeAt that moment of I all moments! I "Oh.'' cii'-d Mrs Dale, "it is a note from Dorothy. I've been wailing so long for that letter, too.'' "Edith," said Bobby, and Ins voice sounded like the voioc of an avenging angel, "dun t touch that leiti-i : Kditli looked up at him in blank astonishment. "I—l think, ' went 011 Hobby weakly, startled by his own tragic tones. "tI:.H that letter is fur me. Let—me —'. —see.'' But Mrs Dale was by no means to be treated like an outsidei. "Nonsense, Bobby!'' she said, taking the blue envelope out of the postman's hand before her husband could snatch it. "I'll open it for jvu. ; And forthwith, while Bobby went while to the lips, she calmly drew a wire hairpin from tlie coil at her neck and slit the paper. Then she turned the ldtcr over, looked wonderingiv at the feminine writing, and gently handed it to 1 * r husband. Bobby took it mechanically and began to read. He had to go over the wolds twice before thev had any miean'ng for him. Then a great 1 light broke over him, and without a word he handed it back to his wife. She took it from him curiously, and this is what she read: Dear Mr Dale: What an excellent actor you were! Le*. me congratulate you on your marriage and wish you ail sorts of happiness. The lady, 1 know, will never be bored, if she likes amateur theatricals. Cordially yours. Marion W'estlake. As he turned toward <ho house, he happened to glance casually down at the business letter, which he had taken without cor emony from the pit'.'man. It had hip own addt'-ss printed in the corner, to be sure, but the address on the envelope be'ow was, "Miss Marion W'estlake, Kansas Ci.y, Atk.,' ; and across it thiro was stamped in clear red letters, " Returned for better direction.'' lie stuffed the missive into his pocket, gulped hard, and went over Where his wife sat reading the blue note, and kissed her. "But who is this Miss Wesilake?'' asked Edith. "And why does she talk about amateur theatricals.'" Bobby laughed. "Oh, she's a girl I used to know—let me see—where did I meet her ? Oh. yes, at Virginia Beach. I suppose I must have flirted with her—and she fancied I was in earnest. Foolish girl to take a seaside flirtation seri ously. Why, I knew you at the time, darling.'' And that, of course, settled it.

"That postman,'' remarked Edith irrc'evantly, "is a cross old idiot." "Sometimes," said Bobby, "God loves an idiot." Then he went inside. crossed over to the library grato, where a fire burned brig'itly, and took out of his pocket his own returned letter. As he tore it viciously to bits and saw it wither away in the flames, he had the satisfaction < f knowing that only one person on ?aith, and t'ut petson himself, had ever read the love-let teifhis o

rver read the love-letter of his life. — Heln Rowland, in "Mumey's."