THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIII, Issue 90, 25 July 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

! THE PLOT THAT FAILED. | Girls may be roughly divided into two classes: those who want to be (actresses and those who want to be nurses, Both manias are forms of the same acute, universal feminine fever—the craving for admiration. a

Nora .contracted the want-to-be-a-nurse fever at twenty-two. and contracted it.so badly that she succumbed to it, .It was quite useless to point out to her —as everyone did—that she had no need to become a nurse, that half-a-dozen men were eager to marry her if she would only give them the slightest encouragement, and that she was undoubtedly doing some other girl —who was really forced to work to live—out of a job. She was obstinate—rather adorably obstinate, it must be confessed—talked about missions in life, and got a probationership ih St. John's Hospital. "One positively has to do something,'' she explained to me over a three o'clock tea the first time I saw her after she had embarked upon her "mission"; "I absolutely couldn't stand the idea of a life made up of tea parties., dinners and pers." "Nor could I," I agreed. "I should hate to face the world breakfastless. That sinking ieeling is a most unpleasant one."

'Nora said she supposed I never could be serious about anything—would I have ■some more tea?

,: -l had some more tea, and assured her that J was being serious. "Breakfast is really a most solemn rite with me," 1 protested; "even an egg can make or mar my morning." She looked disdainfully at me. "You make a god of your—your food." "That statement," I said reproachfully, "is not entirely accurate. My appetite is, [ admit, good, but is not gross, ion. however, should be the last to complain of that." -

"Complain? I? Why should I? It doesn't matter to me how much or how little you or anyone else may eat." "If you will forgive me, I think it does. It is precisely in the under-fed and the gluttonous that your interest in life largely lies now. The starving, who faint and fall by the wayside, cry tor your utmost professional care; the gluttonous moan for you to be near wnile they undergo some beastly operation." Nora turned her head and drummed her fingers on the table. "I didn't know you could be quite so horrid," she said, looking out of the window at a motor 'bus.

"Horrid? Why, it's part of your job, I thought? I shouldn't object if vou spoke of ink or editors or returned manuscripts to me."

"You're being absurd; of course, they are different."

"Only in that they concern me as intimately as operations and —things concern you. But, of course, if you don't wish to discuss "

"I don't," said Nora, putting down her cup.

"All right, we won't; I am interested, that's all. Tell me, how d'you like scrubIbing floors, polishing brass, and sterilising- instruments ?"

She caught me surreptitiousy looking at her ungloved right hand, and put it out of sight. "Oh, it's not so very terrible—besides, someone has to do it," she said, blushing slightly. (I might mention that Nora blushes divinely). I lit a cigarette. "True, but you needn't. Why don't you chuck it? You can easily make any old excuse to fet out before your three months' probation is up. There's nothing to be ashamed of in admitting that you have made; a mistake, that things aren't what you thought they were." She looked defiantly at me. "\Vhat? And have everyone laughing at me tor a little idiot who doesn't know her own mind and -who gives best to a little hard work? Oh, I've got no patience with you—what's the .time?" "Twenty to four," I said; "it's extraordinary how time goes when one " Nora'jumped up' quickly. "Are you sure? Horrors! We must dash off' at once; I daren't be a minute later than four. ' ''Oceans of time for that." I assured her. "But what would happen if you were late?"

"It goes down against you in a book." she explained absently, struggling with a refractory, button, "«nd if you're late three times, well, there's a vacancy for a new probationer. Come, let's go." I imitated Br'er Rab.bit. I usually do I when I have an idea.

I purposely ran across Grahame and Hunter, two of the six men who were eager to Marry Nora, that evening, and' casually brought in that I had seen her. They looked rather annoyed and said. "Oh?" somewhat coldly.

"The poor little girl's looking rather worried and is obviously disillusioned." 1 went on; "in fact, I feel certain that she'd give the whole thing up to-morrow if she could only find a decent way out." Grahame, certainly most persistently attentive in his efforts to gain her beaux yeux, nodded. "Yes, it's only pride that's making dier stick to it—«. pride that's going to spoil her life, if she doesn't take care."

I "I hope," remarked Hunter, "you didn't ; give her any sympathy this afternoon? She'd love to think that she was thought Ibrave and all tha.i sort of thing. The 'you did all this of your own free will, and therefore you obviously like it—or you would give it up,' is the attitude to adopt." "Yes, that is all very well," I replied, "but you know—or perhaps you don't know—-what this particular young woman is. [Nothing will make her give in now; she'll go right through with the whole 'business. She won't save herself, therefore " "She ought to be saved," broke in iGrahame, putting down his .glass with an unusual clatter and vehemence. "Precisely. She ought to be saved—and we will save her." Grahame and Hunter stared at me. "We are convinced that you 'are bordering on insanity,' remarked the last-named, "nevertheless, we will listen to your babblings. Pray go on." Then I expounded my idea for saving

Nora—ami saving her face; T explained how we three, between us, could rescue her from her headstrong folly; how we could be cruel seemingly, to be kind in realitv.

Grahame and Hunter were full of ob jections at first.

But 1 talked them over. 1 pointed out how noble it would ho for us to do wkat pride stopped her from doing for herself, what a service we would be doing her people, and how—if she did ever find out—which she mustn't, of course—trulv grateful she would be to us in her heart. We drew lots for turns. Hunter came first, Grahame second, and I last. This was rather bad luck for me. for the last man was bound to have the hardest task.

"I'll have a shot at my job to-morrow night; she's dining with me then, you know," said Hunter, in what he evidently thought was an off-hand manner.

I didn't know—and I don't suppose Grahame did, and I own I felt a little bit annoyed, and 1 expect Grahame felt more, but we both nodded approvingly. "Good; blow in afterwards and tell us everything. It is a matter in which per feet frankness is essential," remarked Grahame. 'lt occurred to me then that perhaps after all I hadn't had such bad luck in coming out last. I could n-i my own discretion about the degree of frankness I exercised when it was all over. Besides, isn't there something about the last being first occasionally? ' Approximately twenty-four hours later Hunter burst in upon Grahame and me in my room. Somehi. ,v—l couldn't say exactly why—w: had spent a rather morose evening together, and we didn't herald his arrival with any intense enthusiasm. I

In fact, I told him not to bang tin l . door every time he came in, and Grahame demanded to know why the something or other he hadn't rung-up at six, as arranged.

But he was irrepressible. "I've put spoke number one in her wheel in great style," he beamed, "and, what's more, she thinks it was her own fault. She actually said I wasn't to blame a scrap before we parted. Here, give me a drink, someone."

I waved him towards the whisky-and-soda. "For heaven's sake, stop jawing about yourself, and tell us what happen ed," I said. His beastly self-complacency irritated me.

He told us. Certainly he seemed to have met with complete success, but it was rather low-down of him to have shifted the blame on to her shoulders.

"Hang it all, man, didn't you apologise or something?" demanded Grahame, eyeing his coldly. "Apologise? Ye gods, no!" said Hunter. "Why should I? I thought the whole idea was to make it appear genuine. Surely it was a great point that she didn't suspect me?" Grahame muttered something, got up, and said he felt like bed, and I yawned and said so did I. Hunter was enough to get on anyone's nerves just then.

A week later Grahame announced <hih intention of trying to work his hit. It seemed that (Nora was ; free from nine* till noon on the morrow, and that he had arranged to take Iter out in a car. Just because Grahame happens to make' a little more money than most of us doj —personally, I can't see anything in nis" stuff, but I suppose papers must fill up somehow—he is given to doing ostentatious things like that. Still, three hours isn't very long, especially when you've got to drive as' well, and Hunter and I both said wel wished him luck "in the cause."

He had it, too —as he insisted upon telling us at length afterwards—and thus it was left to me to consummate the great scheme. How to do so i haan i w idea. It would take something very unobvibns to succeed against a girl \vi:o had already been fooled—although she didn't realise that she had —twice. "It's a great problem," agreed Grahame, when I discussed things with him, "and the simpler your plan the better chance it will stand. I shouldn't rush it. if I were you; you've got a month before! you," ' " j It struck me that the latter part of Grahame's advice wasn't altogether disinterested. Anyhow, I ignored it, and fixed tip a tea with Nora for an early d*te r trusting to . inspiration to seize me in the meantime.

Bret no inspiration came, and when J j met her I had no sort of plan formed.] Well, I should just have to put off my try till another time, that was all. I don't think Hunter or Grahame approved of the idea a little bit, but neither vmis able to suggest a way of bringing oir the final coup that I was not able to scornfully dismiss. Nora was ten minutes la.te in turning up at our rendezvous, and this gave me a fine opening to pump her.

'T should have thought that you have had enough lessons in the awfulness of defying the clock," I observed slily.

She looked at mo '.-,ther resentfully. "Oh. so Mr. Hunter and Mr. Grahame have been telling you things, have they? Well, I don't see much to make a story of; it wasn't very amusing to me."

I nodded , sympathetically. "No, of course not, but they're both very penitent, and accidents will hap ——" "On, yes, I know! lam not blaming them in the least —it wasn't their fault. Still, it was rather annoying." That gave me a bit of a shock. Suppose I had been mistaken, suppose she was really keen on her work after all! I decided to probe further. "Let me see, you had a breakdown on Grahame's ear, didn't you? No, no sugar, thanks!"

"Something," said Nora, "the braise. 1 think. Anyhow, T know that Mr. Graliame spent two hours and ten minutes in pottering about with some wretched screws and things, and that I got frozen." I mentally decided that Grahame was a brute—and quite gave up any fell design that I might have that afternoon, at any rate. It was altogether too absurd to think and talk plots just then. 1 had something far pleasanter to occupy my attention. At a quarter .to four Xora said she positively must fly. Oh, yes, she would go to dinner with me on Wednesday if 1 would only hurry up and pay the bill. I paid the bill with alacrity, and wai following her quieky downstairs, when suddenly my foot slipped, and I reached! the short landing in one effort. I

Nora lurned round immediately. "Oh." she cried (and 1 remember thinking it was by far the nicest "Oh" I had ever heard)—"Oh, are vou hurt?"

I sat up. and tried to rise. "Not at—that is, only a jar, I think.' I caught the bannister and pulled myself to'my feet. "Hang it—l beg your pardon—out it's an old footer ankle gone. Never mind, 1. can easily hop down |o a taxi." "Vou will do nothing of the sort," said Nora firmly.' "till there's a taxi waiting. '.Vow, just sit there and don't wriggle about.''

I did sis I was told, and in another minute she returned.

"Now ho]) down." she commanded, "and I'll help you across the pavement."

The car turned its nose northwards when she had followed me inside and shut the door.

''Mere, T say, this chap is going the wrong way!" I exclaimed. ' "This isn't, the way to St. John's." "Well." she said, "you don't want to go there, do you?"

"Kr—no. not exactly—but whatabout you? I say, you'll bo fearfuly late—and it'll be the third time your name's in that book!"

"1 can't help it. You'd probably crawl home if I left you, and end by losing your leg." The ii 1 suddenly realised what was happenim:'. She was choosing between looking after me and keeping to her "mission"!

The plot was no longer necessary; it had failed, in fait. "Would you''—l said, rather huskily, I am afraid, "would you mind very much if—if something did happen to me—- ■ Nora ?"

She did not answer, but our eyes met —and she blushed. Her hand was lying by my side. I drew it gently towards me. "Hang these open cabs," I muttered.