THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 388, 13 May 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

A CHANGE OF HEARTS. Everybody knows that dreams go by contraries. If you wake up breau.iess from ibeing chased down a long passage without being able to run, you can comfort yourself by expecting something pleasant to happen. If you dream that you are walking down the church aisle to the music of the wedding-march, with tan 'boobs below your satin gown and a muslin curtain where your veil ought to be, you do not expect to be married when you wake; you will have a bad egg for breakfast, or be blocked in the subway, or something worse, if there is anything worse. Naturally, therefore, Martin was surprised when his most frequent dream came true. He received the surprise through his wife's desk-telephone, which —knowing that she was out, and secure in the confidence that she had no secrets from him—he had .picked up to answer » call.

"Dorothy., you dear girl," his sister's voice began, hurrying on too quickly for him to check this usual form of address, "I didn't get time to half thank you! Two people .had dropped out at the last minute, and that crowd are so grazy about bridge, that my life wouldn't have been safe if I'd asked any of them to cut in, or to give up their game. I'm sorry ■they played so high, but I'd never have known you for a beginner. Your partner said " What that unknown lady had said Martin did not hear,, because lie had dropped the receiver as if stung by a hornet.. Bridge—the curse of the age, whose evil effects were 'his favorite afterdinner subject, and had forced a quarrel with his best friend! Bridge entering his life, as he had always dreamed it would—and through his wife, who, in spite of his warnings and her promises, had succumbed at Jast, and had pitted her inexperience against the skill of professionals, for high stakes! His wife who had run noiselessly up the stairs, and was standing in the doorway, flushed and young-, in the grey gown which he had hooked for her only three hours 'ago! "I've .had the time of my life," she said, "and torn my skirt in two places. I must go and change before dinner.* She threw her withered violets at him, and vanished. Guessing the emptiness of the silver purse she had been trying to hide from him, Martin wondered "how much she had lost, and how soon she would confess. After .dinner he lound her at her desk, inking her hands over a column of figures which, when he looked over her shoulder, she hid with her handkerchief. "Dick, will you answer me one question?" she said. Martin took her hands gently in his. "I'll answer any question you want to ask, dear," he said, "or hear anything you've got to tell me. Don't be afraid."

"It's not as bad as that," she said. "I just want to know if you object to imitation jewellery." Martin dropped her hands and stared. Besides her engagement ring his wife was wearing a brown diamond' and the emerald he had given her .or her last birthday. The rings were chosen at random from the box; upstairs. Suddenly he saw what she meant. "Dorothy," he said, "don't be afraid. I only want to know the truth. How much money do you need?" Dorothy dropped her head on the desk. Martin put a hand on the slender, shaking "shoulders. "Don't be -afraid, child," he said. "Frankness is best. I'll raise it for you somehow, no matter'how much it is. You do 'want money, don't you?" "Xol" gasped Dorothy. "No, no!" Martin turned away. It was not her debts that- hurt him—though, it they exceeded her allowance, or any sum sue dared to ask him for, they must be large; it was her readiness to sell 'her jewels and .substitute imitations rather than tell him the exact sum she owed and ask him help. He could not bear to hear more. He turned on the threshold for a last look at his wife. She raised her head arid met his eyesi She ; was laughing. ,

Martin did not see his wife in the morning. She did not come down to breakfast. It was a day of painful foreboding. In the Late afternoon he tried to steady his nerves by a walk. He swung down the avenue, -ypausing to glance at the shop-windows. Before one he stopped longest of all. It was a jeweller's window, and inside, - bending over a tray of ring's, was the figure of a slender girl. She looked up, and he saw that the girl was Dorothy, Martin did not know where he walked next. She had not 'waited for his permission. She was selling the jewels already. He wondered which she had chosen—one of his gifts to her, or his mother's pearls. Whatever they were, he would buy them back, pay her debts, and forgive her. Marriage was marriage. It must go on, even after trust and love were dead.

He dined at his club 'with a man he particularly disliked, and, later, drifted into a theatre. When he came home, the house was dark. No one answered his ring, and he had no key. He rattled the -door-Knob fiercely, attracting the attention of a passing policeman. The house had a French basement, so that the hall windows gave directly on the street. Martin tried the fastenings, and found one defective. Blessing Dorothy for her carelessness he pried a tit with his pocket-knife, pushed it hack, and slipper over the sill into his hall. The house was very still. Dorothy had cried herself to sleep upstairs. He would not wake her until morning. But

the dining-room door. |stood open in front of him. Martin could see that her hands were clasped on her breast. He could hear her breath come in panting, gasps. He took a step toward her and stopped, started and hurt by the anger of her voice. "Put those things down!" she ordered. Martin stood still in the dark.

"Burglar!" said Dorothy. "You're a burglar, and I have a gun!" Martin saw the glimmer o' his little pistol in her hand. "Stand still," she went on, "stand perfectly still, and don't speak to me. I have a gun, but I'm not going to shoot you. I'm going to gwe yon something. Put those things down, and I'll give you this." Martin clung uncomproheiulingly to the cheese and the ham.

"Keep them, said Dorothy. Her voice was trembling, and she had begun to cry. "Keep them; only please, please take this, too!' - She held out her hand, and Martin saw that it was full of bank-notes. "Don't you .want it?" she said. "Perhaps you don't believe it's worth anything because I'm giving it to you. But it's money, real money, '•every horrid cent of it! At first I thought I wanted it. but I can't spend it, and it's parting me from my husband, and I hate it. 1 tried to leave it in a sho,p, but a sneakthief got it, and they caught him and gave it back to me. I'd bum it up, if I didn't think the maids would catciT me. I know you think I'm mad, but you're only a burglar, .and I don't care what you think. Won't you please, please, take it away?" Dorothy east the money on the floor and sobbed. Presently she was too frightened to sob, for the burglar had dropped his plunder and caught her in his arms, pistol and all. She struggled, but he held her close. "Dorothy!" said the burglar. "Dick!" gasped Dorothy. "You poor darling," he began, but he did not go on,. because Dorothy had fainted. 11. "But where did you get the money?" Martin asked, later, ".and why didn't you pay your debts with it?" "Debts?" said Dorothy. "Yes, the money you lost at bridge." "I didn't lose," said Dorothy. "I won." ~' Martin stared.

"I don't see how I did it," said Dorothy. "I only .know two rules, and I didn't use those. I didn't know what the trump was, most of the time. Agnes said she'd pay my losses, and playing was just a favor to her, like spending money for her in the shops, ijufc 1 didn't lose; I won three hundred dollars, and when I tried to give it back to her, she said it was an insult. "Oh, Dick, at first I thought it would be fun to spend that money; but I didn't dare to tell you I'd played .bridge, .and I couldn't find one thing to buy that you wouldn't ask questions about. There was a sweet ring at Tiffany's I 'wanted to buy, and pretend it was a fake stone. That's why I asked if you liked imitation jewellery. But you didn't seem to like me much, either!" She slipped down at his feet. "I've been .so miserable all da)'," she said. "I don't know 'what I've done, Dick, but .please forgive me!" "What sort of a ring?" said Martin. "I'll get it for you ,in the morning." "Then what'shall I do with this?" said Dorothy, pleating the bills into a* fan and flirting it in his face. "Do with it?" said Martin. "Do with it? AVhy—pay for some lessons in bridge!"