THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIII, Issue 118, 26 August 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

THE NO-MARRIAGE CLAUSE.

Mr. Winston Walker gazed from his white spats to his blue-eyed daughter, and frowned. This was unusual in Mr. i er, for he had' an affection for both, and, so far as an outsider could tell, at the moment there was nothing wrong with either—the spats were spotlessly white, the girl singularly beautiful. "That•follow," exclaimed Mr. Walker, is a slackster and a phianderer." '•1 don't think you ougiht to blame •him for that," protested the girl. "He can't get work, and has really nothing better to do than flirt."

"Can't get work? Can't get work? Why, when I was his age " "But father, dear—he's not like you. He isn't clever; he never pretends to be clever."

Mr. Walker swallowed the compliment whole, and acknowledged it 'by discarding one-half of the original denunciation. 3 el -l' he ' ,s a anyhow," he said. Be isn't that, either. Why, he simply takes no notice of other girls when I'm about."

"Which simply shows he was iborn to the game. Any fool can flirt; any fool can t get himself taken seriously." Dulcie Walker smiled /kindly on her father. "You may Ibe right," she said. Perhaps, after all, he is cleverer than the average sort of man." Once more Mr. Walker frowned. He realised when it was too late that he bad been "given his head" and allowed to contrive his own destruction. In self-defence he adopted a 'bullying attitude. "That isn't the point at all. Is he in love with you?—that is what I want to know." "I don't know." '"You don't know ?My dear child " "Well, I expect lie is." "Has he told you iso?" 'Wo, father,"

Well, then, you can take it from me that he isn't. Those good-for-nothings always tell at once; in fact, it's the first thing they do when they're out of a job and can't support themselves," For the first time during the interview Dulcie showed some signs of irritation. ( iou dont understand," she said; you re a business man, father. Bobbie +w % , , that > rea %- I'm sure that if only he had a decent income, he me he loves me." My dear, I'm older than you are, and l know that he is—'like that, really.'" m, well if you are going to argue that way, its no use my talking. Only you are quite wrong and could easily prove it if you wished. Test 'him, give him a chance, give him a post in one of your rubber companies, and see—if vou dare." J

"Yes, give him a snug berth, and let him go off and marry someone else's daughter— not that I want him—a nice old fool I should look then."

Dulcie smiled dispassionately into space. "I knew you didn't really believe he was philandering with me," she said IMr. Winston Walker put his hands behind his back and took a couple of turns up and down the room before coming to a decision. When he spoke his tone resembled that <>f one who is compelled to act in opposition to his own judgment. "Very well, Dulcie, since you wish it. I will test him. You may tell this youth to apply for the secretaryship of the London and Colonial Rubber Estates Company. But, my dear, not a word a/bout my connection with it. Simply say that you have heard of the vacancv through me, and send him to apply— I'll manage the test. You will soon'see whether all this talk of his about wanting to work is sincere or, as I suspect, the merest bunkum."

For some seconds afterwards the speaker was rewarded by an embrace which, if it did not actually make him recall his promise, rendered him less kind-ly-disposed towards the absent Bobbie.

A week later, Bobbie Seaton opened the gate of Mr. Winston Walker's suburban garden, and made slowly in the direction of the large weeping elm, under the grateful shade of which Dulcie was making a pretence of reading the latest novel. As he approached, she put down the book and looked at him expectantly. "Well?" she asked. "What luck?"

"I got the post," said Bobbie, settling languidly into a chair 'beside her. 'Dulcie's eyes shone with satisfaction. "I knew you would, and now you apologise—only, on second thoughts, I refused to take it." "Refused: to take it?" "Yes—it wasn't quite the sort of thing I wanted.'' For an instant the girl's eyes rested on liim in iblank amazement, then something in Ms expression moved her to sympathy. "Couldn't you do the work, Bobbie?" "Oh, yes, it waa as easy as licking stamps, but—well, there were conditions." They didn't want you to wear a uniform, did they?" "No. I should not ihave minded even that." There is a limit to human patience, and Dulcie was pre-eminently Jiuman. "Do tell me all at once, there's a dear," she. said. "There's no reason for secrecy. The post is worth six hundred a year to begin with, but the man wthogiets it has to sign on for fifteen years, and to promise not to marry." ~ - Dulcie's eyes were large with surprise. "Are you serious?' 'she asked. 'Wever more so." "Who told you this? What was he? The man who interviewed you?" "Don't know his 1 name; he's the manager of'rtjhe company-r-rather a nice old boy, I thought" "Was he round and fat, tapering to a point!" In spite of the cloud that hung over him, Bobbie smiled. "Yes," he said; describes him exactly." The girl's face celared, andi a sigh of relief escaped her. "I thought so. That was Mr. Oostica. Poor man, he has a wife that drink®; he always makes a muddle of things. I can't think what father was doing to entrust this affair to him."

Bobbie looked puzzled. "I don't quite understand," he said.

"Neither do I; but it's quite clear there's ibeen a mistake—about this silly no-marriage business, I mean—l'm quite sure my father never meant anything of that soit."

"But what has Mr. Walker to do with the London and Colonial Rubber Estates Company ?" '"lt's his company, that's all?" "Do you mean that my getting this post was a cooked-up thing?" "Yes; I suppose so. At least, I told father to give you the post." "I see."

) "You needn't loo'k like that about it. ! SReally,l might have done you an injury. After all, you wanted work, and I did my (best to get it for you." Babbie looked at her searchingly before speaking. "Then—then this wasn't part jof your scheme—you didn't really want me to promise not to marry?" "My -dear boy, why should I wish that for you, of all men 1" Bobbie lapsed into idiotic laughter. ".Dulcie," he gasped, "I thought at first you ha*} been scheming to put me at arm's length, gently but firmly, sort of I've-broken-your-heart-lbut-ril-see-you-de-cently-provided-for kind of business, you know. I never dreamt you were doing it because—because " "Because what?" "Well, because you really wanted to—to marry me!" Babbie Seaton was young; he was also feeling the effects of considerable excitement and strain, and these things must be remembered in mitigation of his unpardonable mistake —the mistake of telling a woman even younger than himself that he had seen through her. No soon had the words left his mouth than he fully realised his own error, and therefore he was quite prepared for Dulcie's indignation. The girl drew herself up in her chair, and threw him a look of concentrated ice.

"But i don't want to marry you," she said. "It is the very last thing I should think of doing." Bobbie sighed audibly. "I'm sorry I've ibored you with all work and my affairs, I mean. Of course, I only wanted to work for you—l don't like work for its own sake at all . I'm horribly disappointed, but I suppose it's no use hoping-"

"Mo." "Then 111 say good-byie, Dulcie." Are you—going far away?" If Dulcie had visions of Canada, or those other deserted spots OB the surface of the globe, where broken-ht&fted lovers are said to bow their heads and Wit expectantly for the end, she was qtiiekly undeceived. Bobbie had already gtfhe some way across the grass, ibut he paused and turned to answer her question. "No," he said. "I'm going down to the offices of the London and Colonial! Rubber Estates Company. You see J there's no reason why I shouldn't take the post now, and it has just struck me that if I have some work, the days will seem shorter. You know, Carlyle or one of those chaps said that nothing kills sorrow li'ke work."

Mr; Winston Walker, coming home for lunch as was his wont, found his daughter awaiting him in the library. He was obviously in good spirits, which may account for the fact that he did not observe that Dulcie was not. At any rate, he spoke at once on the subject wihich was uppermost in his mind. "I like that youth; he's the right sort. I'd got a wrong impression of him altogether, I admit that. But there's no fool like an old fool, is there, Dulcie?"

To Dulcie this admission came as a shock. It 'Was not at all what she liad expected to hear. Had Mr. Walker re-, turned to gloat over tile fulfilment of his prophecy, she would have listened sorrowfully hut in silence, not because her faith in Bobbie's motives was changed, but rather that ,he recognised the impossibility of persuading-.a man of Mr.-Walk-er's stamp to overlook; what he described as obvious facts. Without disclosing the true istate of affairs, she ventured.to ask what had caused this sudden change in Mr. Walker's outlook. . Her father proved at once voluble and enthusiastic. "'I said I'd test him, and have done. I put old Costica on to him. He offered the boy the position on the condition that he remained unmarried for fifteen years. Instead of jumping at £6OO a year like 99 per cent, of boys would do in these days, he told Costica to go to—er—Halifax, and take his conditions with him. When Bobbie came out of the office I was waiting for him—pretended that I was just making a ibusiness call, you know. He told me all about it, and I took to him at ohce. There are not many men that would lose a job like that just on the off-chance of winning you, little one; I'm a business man, and 1 know." i

Dulcie was feeling more comfortable; evidently iher father was ignorant of what had passed between Bobbie and herself. "And wihat did you say?" «he enquired. "Oh, I asked him what more he wanted, and he looked me straight in the face and said, 'I want your daughter, Mr Walker.'" And Mr. Walker relapsed into homeric laughter at the mere recollection of this lover's blatant audacity. "Do go on, father."

"Well, I laughed l —couldn't help myself. Then .1 said: 'Why the dicken't don't you go and tell her so, you young fool?' He'looked for a minute as if he were going to kiss me. Fortunately, he got over that and asked me if I thought he'd have any chance with you." "Oh, father, how awkward for you. What did you say?" "Say—why, I said that you were in love with-him a week ago toy your own confession, but that, feeing a woman and my daughter, I really couldn't answer for you at the moment." "Father!" "What's wrong now?" "You bold him that ?" "Certainly." "But I told him thia morning that I didn't love him." "Oh, did you?" "Yes; you see, I'd no idea you'd told him I loved him, and I was furious that he should assume euch a big thirig as that—there was "eal'ly nothing else for me to do/'

- Tmis explanation seemed strangely satisfying to Mr. Walker, who positively beamed upon his daughter.

I "Just what I thought," he said. "Just what I thought. When Bobbie came back and told me that you had changed your mind, I said, 'Don't you give up hope for a long time yet—she's a woman, and there's something at the back of all this. Come 'home to lunch with me, and if the thing isn't straightened out in an hour, my name's not Winston Walker." Dulcie turned a flushed face towards her father. I

"Do you mean he's here now?" y 'Y«s, he's waliting downstairs; I'll send him up, (but, mind, we're going to have lunch in ten minutes." The girl rewarded him with a glorious smile. "Father, dear, you have been nice about it, all, but that no-marriage clause was an awful mistake—it nearly made a muddle of the whole thing, didn't it f" "That clause," said Mr. Walker as he left ,the room, "has been erased from the agreement."—M.A.P.