A ROMANCE OF CROSS PURPOSES.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume L, Issue 60, 21 September 1907, Page 4

A ROMANCE OF CROSS PURPOSES.

11l a more robust ago, when the world was younger and loss polite, Barbara would have broken I lie hearts of Kmpcrors, provoked wars lietween groat nations, anil altered the maji of Euni|ie. In the otic ce twentieth century she merely arrogates to herself the admiration that should, prop-rlv, be shared among half a county full of girls; is adored—more or less openly—by all the men she knows, anil hated more or less frankly—by most of the women. I have Ik'oii an onlooker in many of her affairs of the heart, or rather her affairs of other people's hearts. As an onlooker perhaps [ have seen most of the game; at any rate, I count it an excuse lor my existence that she calls me her friend and asks my advice—not of course meaning to follow it. I wan sitting in my garden smoking, and not reading the paper, one morning when Barbara came in and sat down on the grass by the side of my chair. She sighed twice without speaking. Barbara always prefers other people to start the conversation. Afterwards, as a rule, she attends to it thoroughly. "Hadn't you better tell me all about it?" I remarked. "1 am so unhappy," she began. "I have never' been so unhappy before." "Surely,'' I exclaimed in some concern, "you are not in love, Barbara';" "Xo," indignantly. ''l am unhappy fur somebody else." ''Tell me," T commanded, and Barbara settled down to a full outpouring of her sorrows. "It's H«l>l>ie," she began. Mow if there is one among my friends less unworthv than the rest to love and be loved by Barbara, Bobbie is the man. Ivpially with her, he makes me (he confidant of his troubles—so f listened eagerly for further revelations. "I can tell you because you are a | friend of his," said Barbara. ''The silly j boy has fallen in love with me." She paused dramatically. '•Quite right and proper," I observed judiciously. "That leaves only the policeman and the butcher boy in the village who haven't." ] "It's nothing to be funny about," and I could see she was really serious. "You know 1 like him. He's the dearest boy ' and perfectable adorable. But 1 dm like him—in that way. And it's so | ridiculous of him and inconsiderate." 1 nodded sympathetically. '■Rut what 'can I do? If I go to -,\ dance, he's there. He turns up at every tennis party within twenty miles that 1 go to. If 1 go anywhere for a weekend, lie travels by the same train." "Perhaps he'll get over it," I suggested hopofullv. "Other men have, you know."

ilarbara shook her head. 'die's going to propose." she said despoiidentlv. "And then when I've refused him. of course, things will never be the same again, lie won't be able to forget and neither shall I. And we've had the very jollicst times together." •Are von sure he'll propose?" "lie's "certain to. He tried I lie mUr , night. It was at the Warren*'! I was', very tired, and in a weak moment I sat out a dance with him in the e, n,-,ei'va-lorv. It was a, lovelv place—l'd found' it three dances before with Captain j .laekson—and so long as llohhie was j content to sit and flirt quietly like an j ordinary man, it was jolly. Hut he got M-iioiis.'and said T.arbnra' two or three I limes as if he was speaking out of his boots. Then he got hold of my hand,! and as 1 saw a proposal written all over his face (liarbara is thoroughly conversant with the symptom*) 'l got up! quirklv and said rather nervously: Tl think you had better take me back lo niv ehaperoiic.' " ' 'l liarbara rolled this out with indo-cvi- j lialile reli-h. She mi -ehlom uses one 1 ) ! I -I'ml. unless von can li.-l). r.ie. it's only I I postponed.'' she went on dismally. "Il'i | he doesn't do it this afternoon ul'ier tea | I he'll do it tomorrow niter the tennis j tournament." I I "How can I help von'.'" I exclaimed in disniav. "I can't'tell him ! "\ot tell him." pursued liarbara in- : slnuatingly. "(11l no, just give him a hint. I'm sure cau do it, Arthur,

vim sire so diplomatic and so—so discreet." "I. won't," 1 declared ilatly. And yet when half-an-hour later Barbara left me to my pleasantly disturbed smoke, sueli is the weakness of my nature, or the strength of hers, that I was pledged to administer in the shape of a gilded pill the information ' that my pour friend Bobbie's passion was a hopeless one. it was that same day, I remember, that Bobbie dropped in unexpectedly to see me. It was after lunch, and I was in the garden again. "Now for it," 1 groaned as I saw him coming down the path, and I groaned again as lie settled himself not two inches from the -pot Barbara had occupied in the morning. "I'ou're looking rather cheap, Bobert,' I ventured. "Feel it, old chap," he responded shortly. "Fact is, I'm worried." "Perhaps I can help you," 1 remarked, feeling that things were being made easy for me. "1 believe yon could if you would," he said slowly. "Have you noticed somethiiie,—er —rather strange about Barbara 'latelyV" ".\o-o," t said doubtfully. "1 believe you have. Look here, old man, I'll tell you what I mean without any lijalhig about the bush. You know I'i.i ii'd a conceited sort of chap, or anything like that, but it's just this. I'm afraid the poor little girl is falling in love with me." J whistled. Rather vulgar perhaps and not verv appropriate, hut words failed me. "I'm afraid so," Bobbie repeated. "Of course, she's the jollies! little girl in tin: world, and 1 like her awfully, but the fact is she's not my style, and I can't—can't--" he hesitated. "Reciprocate," I suggested.

"That's it," he said. "And it's so horribly awkward. Wherever 1 go, she goes. 1 meet her at teas, tennis-parties and week-ends. Then at the Warrens' the other night, we wen: sitting out in the conservatory. She knew the place evidently, and —well, old man, I suddenly found her hand in mine—mind, I don't say she actually put it there, I don't say that—but well, i think she expected me to propose to her—and—l didn't. I felt an awful ead when she stood up and said in a quaky little voice: 'I think you had better take me back to niv ehaperone.'" "ll'm," i said.

"Xow you know her so well," he pursued, "she talks to you so freely—l know she does for she told me—that you might " "(Jive her a hint, eh?" I said rather snappishly.

"Well, why not? Think of all the pi'in it would save us both. 1 should hate to make the poor little girl miserable." •

"Bobbie, my boy," I said, "you ask no light thing. Yet such is my friendship for yuu—for you both in r'-v:it —that 1 will see what can be done." "You're a brick, old man," he muttered huskily as he wrung my hand. I think I noticed a tear in his eye as lie turned away and hurried down the path. I saw Barbara again a clay or two later, and 1 told her I liad spoken the word of wisdom to Bobbie, and that he had said she was not to worry; that lie hoped time would heal even a heart lacerated as his.

"How splendid of him!" she said softly softly, and a tear fell into the middle of a pink geranium she was wearing. "1 wish," —she began. '■What do you wish?" X asked, and I couldn't help smiling a little. "1 wish," she repeated. "Oh never mind—and it's perfectly horrid of you to be amused."

"By the way, Bobbie," I said next time I found him alone. "I had a chat with Barbara the other day. She wants me to tell you not to worry—that she quite understands and that it needn't make any difference. She wants you still to be friends with her."

"Poor little girl," he murmured sentimentally. "Poor little—" he broke off savagely. "Oh yes it's very funny, I know," and threw himself violently out of the room. I suppose I must have smiled.

I didn't see quite so much as usual of Barbara or Bobbie during the weeks that followed. they, so far as 1 could make out, see quite so much of each other. But at last she came to see me looking quite unlike her usual radiant self: and she actually began the conversation. "Bobbie seems to lie looking very ill lately, don't you think?" "He does," I said shortly. "Is it—" she began and paused. "I'm afraid so," 1 replied. "He always seems so depressed and wretched nowadays." "I wish I could do something," said Barbara earnestly. "Do you think if I saw him and talked to him, it would cheer him up?" "Wouldn't that be rather dangerous? Besides, the wound ought to he nearly healed by now. It would be cruel to open it again." "I am not so sure," said Barbara with an entire lack of logic. "And do you know I don't tlunk you can have given him that hint very diplomatically —and I parliuilarly asked you to be very kind and careful . . . Did I hear you say anything?" "Kv —nothing particular," I said hastily.

"Well, T believe you were horrid to liini. mill I'm «M\« to sit out two—no, three dames with liim at the Warrens' to-night and lie awfully like to him just l<> make u]>. And 1 don't care if it opens the wound again or not. So there."

1 made a point of seeing Bobbie quite casually that afternoon. After saying the usual things about the weather, f broached my subject.

"Barbara isn't looking half the. girl she was. Seen her lately V Bobbie scowled. "Yes. And I must say, old chap, it seems to me that you must have be-jn beastly clumsy over what I asked you to tell her. . . Well, you needn't swear. Of course, 1 don't doubt you diil your best." ''lt was a ticklish job." "Thai's no excuse for being brutal, and 1 can't bear to think of her feeling wretched about it. I'm going to the Warrens' to-night, and if she's there I'm going to dance as many dances with her as she'll give me."

"An excellent idea," I observed. "And don't forget the conservatory.' I went to the Warrens', and [ danced one dance with Barbara early in the evening, which was only half my usual allowance. I hardly saw her again, or Bobbie either for tile matter of that, till people were going home. Then he was arranging her in her carriage. Quite unaccountably he shook hands with me as if 1 were a long lost millionaire uncle. Barbara blushed, looked the other way, and quite refused to speak to me; but this 1 understood when Bobbie came round next morning to tell me that I was to lie (by her special request) stage manager of a certain important function looming in the neat future.