The Storyteller. THE OTHER MAN.

Taranaki Daily News, 19 February 1916, Page 9

The Storyteller.

THE OTHER MAN.

(By' Albert Payson Terhune) Dear old Rcnwiek: T)o you remember a silly promise we made each other once? Back in 'O9 it was. on -Tune 16. I never forgot the date because it was Commence Day, fhe day when College turned us loose on the world, with a sheepskin apiece and about as much real equipment for the .fight as a rolypoly collie pup that is planning to investigate its first cat. But we felt wiser an 4 more important and a million years olilet than we ever can, again. We had gone through the delights of class day, of the Prom, of the ivyplanting, of the sing-song and all the rest,; during that last week. Then, when we were already fed up on thrills,' came Commencement and the bonfire, and the gopd-by class supper at the Inn. It was aboilt 3 *M„ I think, when the supper crowd broke Up, after meteoric and tearful speeches, and songs that got too sounding, "solemn and choky. Yon and I had both eaten more than we -wanted and dtunk more than we needed. So \ro waxed sentimental over leaving the good old place. We were crossing the campus to our room, I remember, when it occurred to us, as a sublime wind'ttp, to sit on the chapel steps and wait to see the sun rise, for the last time, over Dormitory Hill. So we sat there, like two youthful owls, blinking into the pink east. We were smoking those blr:k class-pipes of ours and trying in our talk to make each other believe we were sophisticated men of the world and that the parting next noon was all in the day's work. But there was-S lump in my throat as I realised I was getting out of the only world I knew and into a world I didn't know, and that I Was aayingjjood-bye 'to the chap who had been my roommate and chiim for four years. l'eople form their real friendships before they're twenty-five—generally, before they arc twenty,—l think. Up to that time we're trustful and'hideously disinterested; and after that a.ge we get to liking people for the amount of amusement or profit or inspiration w* ran drag from them. But, up to then, it's friendship because—well, just because it's friendship. That's the way it was with us, anyhow. As we sat there, in the dawn, we spoke pretty confidently of licking the whole universe into shape and of carving, success for ourselves out of the rock wall. Then, as the jfcpper—or the drink —or the sunrise—of' the strong tobacco —got hold, of us, we fell to talking about what good" friends we'd been and how we wb/re going to keep in touch with each other always and always. 'And (J don't know which of us suggested it, but I do know we both promised very, very earnestly) we agreed that if life ever threw us far apart from each other for any great length of time, we'd write and tell just what we had been doing and all the really big things that had befallen us. In. that way we'd keep from growing out of each other's memory. And when we should meet again,, we'd be up-to-date in mutual 'history.-We were to keep in touch' With each other, always, by means of periodic letters telling the most important things that had happened, to us—the "big things," we said. I don't need to remind you that neither of us kept that pledge after the first three years or so—and with growing gaps between our letters, even up to that time. I don't know which of us stopped writing—which of us owes the other a letter accounting for himself and his history. But to-night I'm settling up a lot of old debts, with the dying of the year, so that I can start to-morrow with a clean slate.

And it flashed into my mind a little while ago, that I owed you the keeping of my long-lapsed promise. A promise seems to me the most pressing of all possible debts of honor. So I'm paying my debt to you to-night. The last debt it is, by the way, that I owe on earth. I was reminded of it by leading an item about you in one of the metropolitan papers. It gave your address, too.

..A me see—l told you about my work and all that sort of thing, didn't I, when I wrote the last time, a decade or more ago! Did I tell yon about my marriage? I think that came after my last.letter. As that i 3 the biggest thing the one big thing—in my career, I'd like to write you something about it. I married Mildred Kerr, a girl I had loved for" who hadn't loved me. That "was ten years ago, to-mor-row.

I Was'madly in love with her. I still am. And she was.net in love with me. She was in love with Clive Ruyfpr, a m RTI with twice my good looks and twelve times my money. In fact, she was engaged to him. Tliey had a isrrible quarrel over something or other. He went to Europe. And she married

me. I knew she did not care, not as I cared. And in morbid moments I told tnvself she had married me out of pique. Biit what did that matter? She did marry me. And I knew—l was sure —t could make her happy, that I could make her care, even as I cared. I had a whole lifetime to do it. And, from thp very first, I succeeded.

- Day by "lay, I could see she was more Hod more fond of me. When two people—or two draft muleß, for that matter "—arc thrown into each other's society, day and night, for months and years, they either grow tremendously attached or they grow to hate. It was my lifeaim to see tlrst Mildred should learn to tow me. Arid I accomplished it, little ny little. She began to he fonu of me, gs one grows to love a home.

It was not the mad, ardent love such as I've read about and that I used to long for. I see, now, there are better things than that. ,A prairie fire soon burns itself out, and it destroys a lot of innocent things in it* path. But the earth that is warmed gradually by the sun, stays warm, and in time It blossoms into loveliness. That was the kind of love I tried to bring -into existence, and I did it. . . . I was unbelievably happy. And Mildred was becoming happy, too, more and more. The goal was in sight. 1 coflld see, at last, when I came home from work, the light creep into her dear eyes'. And the kUs she met me with held affection, now,, instead of mere duty. The myriad little things she did for me, around the house, were coming to be labors of love, not matters of routine. t felt like a sculptor who is slowly and painfully fashioning the ice-cold block jof marble into an angel. Then Clive Kuyter came back. '. He had been gone for nearly two years. I lia'rl forgotten him. I tfeoudit Mildred iiid. loo; Jijit I wanted

to make sure. So when I met him on the street, I asked him to tome and see us. They'had to meet, some day, you know, he and she. And I wanted' to* put it to the test, without delay, and have it over with.

Not that I had any fear of fhe result. They had quarreled and they bad separated. Tf they had reallv' loved ■ each other, wouldn't that love have brought them together again, in a day, at most? What quarrel could have" stood out against such a love as mine, for instance?

And, because they had let a quarrel part them, I was certain they had not loved but had merely been blindly infatuated, for the time, one with the other.

I am petty, at heart, I'm afraid—because there was another reason'why'l asked Ruyter to call. I was small-sonled enough to want him. to see us together in our own home, Mildred and me; to "see how happy we were, together; to see that soft light in her eyes when she met me at the door; to'see how pretty and dainty she had made our home. I wanted him to know —not what he had lost, but what I had won. I wanted everybody to know. Well, he came to see us. It was not a brilliant success, that call. Mildred treated him as she would have treated any other friend of mine. But she was rather quiet; and he could not have seen that light in her dark eyes, because she never once looked at me while he was there.

I tried to cover up her lack of vivacity as best I could, by making Ruyter feel at .home and by telling him all about Mildred's success in our tiny social world and our jolly plans for the future.

Ruyter bore himself splendidly. There was not a hint of embarrassment and he didn't seem to notice Mildred's dearth of cordiality. He admired everything in our top-floor flat and he listened with the keenest interest to all I told him about us.

When he went away, I was so jubilant over my experiment that I couldn't keep my joy to myself. I came back from seeing him to the door and walked up to where Mildred still stood, in the, middle of the living-room. "Well, little girl,' T, said, drawing her to me, "did you like meeting him again ? I was proud as Punch to have him see you looking so beautiful, and to see what a marvellous home ;rou've made for me. I'll bet he's cursing his luck, all the way down the street, at losing such a treasure." Then I stopped short, for she was crying. I'd never seen her cry hefore, and I didn't know what to make of it. I tried to get her to tell me what was the matter; but she just clung close to me and sobbed all the harder and kept

saying: "I love you, Miles, dear. Oh, I do love you!" It was the first time she had ever told me that, of her own accord. And it swept through me like the breath of Ood. That was the very happiest night of all my life. From that time, she seemed to have lost the last shreds of her old-time indifference toward me. She took to planning little things for my comfort. She used to kiss me without being asked to. She would follow me with her eyes wherever I went, in a sort of appealing way that made me want to cry. I could see she was growing to care for me, at last, just the same way I eared for her; to want to be with me nil the time; to think more of making me comfortable; trying to study my wants and to fulfil them before they were really formed. There was something about her like a little child that yearns to be forgiven arM loved. I could see she was sorry for not having cared enough, before, and that she was seeking to make up to me for it. Euyter's visit seemed to have opened her eyes. I had been almost afraid that the sight of him would make her wish she hadn't thrown him over. You see, he was so much cleverer and better looking than I. And he had a manner—a way with him—that I never could learn to imitate. Yet, in spite of all that, it appeared she never knew how dearly she had come to love me till she saw us both together. I grew to grudging the nine hours a day I had to spend down town at work. The earliest minute I could leave the store I would rush home as if I were, a [ boy going to meet his first sweetheart. And Mildred was always at the door waiting for me. Tt made up for the honeymoon we'd never had. I used to tell her that I wished Enyter and I could change jobs, because he was never a 4 his office for more than three hours a day, and I could have spent those extra / six tours so blissfully at home. Then one. night I came back to the flat in a thundering bad temper. One of our travelling men, Dick Corson, had fallen sick and I had been told to take his place on the road for a week. I had just time to get dinner and pack my suit-cas<>, and then to holt for the eighttwenty train. How I grudged that week uway from Mildred! But if I was sore at having to leave her, she was a hundred times unhappier to have me go. The poor girl broke down and begged me to stay. I explained to her that if I made a hit on . the week's work, it probably meant a . rise. But she wouldn't be comforted. At last she pulled herself together and tried to smile, and she insisted on packing my suit-case for me. But I could see her hands shaking as though she had a chill. Well. I got away at last. And she waved at me, out of the window, as I went down the street. I got to the station, still seeing things rather mistily. And the first man I ran into, near the ticket window, was Dick Corson, the J fellow whose route I had teen tpld to take. He'd gotten to feeling better, and he had 'phoned the boss that he was able to go. 80 there he was, ticket bought, waiting to send me back home. I supj pose, he'd been afraid I'd make good on the road, and that his job might be rendered shaky by any success I might score. Job-fear is a wonderful curative for sick workers. I was as glad to see Dick as if he'd been Old Man Good-Luck himself. No, I didn't even stop to think, for a single second, of the chance for promotion I might be losing by giving up the trip. AH I cou'd think of was that I wouldn't have to be away from Mildred. I nearly shook poor old Dick's flalfcy hand off. Then I .started home. Halfway to the flat a bright idea came to me: I wwited to make this surprise « delightful for my wife as I could. If I showed up at Home less than half ah hour after i'd left, it wouldn't

mean aa touch as if I waited another hour.

By that time slic'd have b?gun to be really lonely, and m realise that I wan gone, and to miss me. The flat would seem empty and silent and desolate to her. And then, all of a sudden, I'd walk in. And that would make up for everything. She'd have had just enough taste of loneliness to make her all the more glad at seeing' me.

A fool idea? Maybe so. But mo3t love-ideas are fool ideas, if you try the acid test of logic on them. That doesn't make them any less wonderful, does it? Well, I loafed around for a solid hour. I spent part of the time buying her a biff bunch of carnations and a box of candy, a couple of pounds of it—the kind she liked best. That hour was the slowest ever. But it crawled by, somehow or other; and at the end of it I went home.

I let myself into the flat as quietly as a second-story man, and I set the suit-case down by the hat-rack and shut the flat door after me without making a sound.

There was' a light in the living-room at the end of the hallway. I took the carnations in one hand and the candy in the other, and I tiptoed down the hall. It was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud, to think of her face when she'd look up and see me standing in the doorway in front of her.

I was so taken up with walking on tiptoe and trying not to snicker, that I Hadn't ears for anything except the chance of a creaking board under my feet. It wasn't till I was within two steps of the threshold that I heard any voices. Then I just stood there. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to eavesdrop. T just did it because my body stopped, and my mind with it. Ruyter was saying:

"It isn't, tit's Fate. It's Hegger's own lookout. He brought us together again. He is away all day long, and how can be blame you if I tried to make the time pass less drearily for you? He goes away now for a week, and —it's Fate, I tell you. sweetheart. And Fate is too strong for two mortals to fight against." Then her voice broke in, and she was

sobbing. "It isn't Fate!" she declared. "There isn't such a thing as Fate. Let's be honest enough not to blame our own wickedness on Destiny. I've tried so hard—so hard! And I'm too weak—too bad—too worthless—to win such a battle. I knew I was last, as soon as yon came here that first evening. I knew all the prayers and the strivings of the past two years had gone for nothing and that I had never si-lopped loving you—that I never could stop loving you—" "Girl of my heart! I—" "And," she went on, in that same choked, - stifTled voice, "even while I knew there wasn't- any hope for me, I fought on. I tried to make up to him for what I knew he must lose. He is so good, so gentle, so patient, and he loves me so, Give. He loves me so! He is just the type of man that heaven generally curses with a wife like me. I tried to make it un to him, to make him content. I tried to make you stop coming here in the mornings. ' And all the time I knew I couldn't have the courage to keep you away or the honesty to confess to him that you were dropping in here all the time. He—why, he thinks the sight of our happiness —his and mine—and your memory of our home—are keeping you from coming to see us. He told me so!"

Ruyter's laugh was as genuine as if he bad heard a brand-new joke.

"The memory of this home?" he said. "Why, sweetheart, the thought of you, mured up in this stuffy hole of a tenement, turned me sick/' It was like,the Kohinnnr in a mud-puddle. And as for your happiness—a blind man could have seen bow heartsick you were. The poor, grinning idiot!"

"Stop!" she ordered. "You sha'n't speak so of him. And you sha'n't speak so of the home he thinks is so marvellous. Isn't it enough that you have stolen the one woman of all' his life, without making fun of him?" "I have not 'stolen' you," he made answer. "I have told you I love you. I have asked you to let mo atone for my crazy folly of two years ago by making you happy, by taking you away from all this and giving you the life you crave."

"I don't crave it!" she flashed. "Or —or I didn't, till you came back. Oh, I'm not myself when I'm with you, Clive. You are so strong, so invincible! You sweep mo oft' my feet. You make me think nnd speak as you dictate. I feel as if I were in a hypnotic trance when I'm with you. And—l was growing to love Miles—really to love him—and to be happy with him. Then—oh. you have changed all the world for me!" "I will change all the world for you, mv darling." he promised, his big voice vibrating like an orjan-chord, "if you will let me."

''[ can't!" she wailed. "Oh, I can't!" "You must," he said, and there was a queer note of power in his words. "Dear, we aren't children. We must look the truth square in the face. I have, honored you in everything. Perhaps you think it has been easy to keep from so much as kissing your lips! But the hour has come. Ecgger is away. We have a whole week before us. The world lies ahead, beckoning to us—the World of golden sunshine and happiness—and love!"

"Xo, no! I—" "Mildred, my own sweetheart, you are coming away from this hovel of a place —Jrom this sordid, wretched life that cramps your youth and your glorious loveliness. You are coming away—with me, out nto the future that is ours—the future that Love has given us." "No! Milca will—" "Miles will be as unhappy as his half-

fiint soul will permit—for a handful of

days. Then he will become justly enraged, in true bourgeois fashion. And

he will divorce you or let you di.voree him. Then—then we can make up for all we have lost; and I can claim yon only for my wife—even As I claim you now in the sight of heaven." "No, in the sight of hell!" she corrected him. "Can't we be honest in this sin you are urging me into? Must wc take heaven's name in vain? Miles will be heartbroken, crushed! lie—" "Is such paltry unhappiness as a clod like Hegger can feel, to wreck the lives of us hoth? Mildred!"

There was an appeal in his magnetic voice that would have drawn jhe heart from an ice-maiden. The thrill of itmust have reached into her innermost soul, and it dashed away the last fragments of resistance. He held out his arias. "Kiss me," he said, very quietly, but with that same organ-chord vibrating in his throat. Mildred took a faltering step toward him. Then she halted. "Kiss me!" he is&id ag(ain. And, like a woman in a dream, she moved forward. It was at that moment a board creaked dismally under my inert weight. Mildred whirled about, almost in the shelter of Euyter's arms, and saw me standing in the doorway—still with that foolish grin frozen on my sick face, still holding out those pitiful bowers and the bos of sweets,

I don't know, at all, how long we ali three stood there, just like that. It was Mildred who spoke first. .She must have understood (hat I had been there long enough to hear. "You can kill me, if you want to," she whispered, staring blankly at me with those big hopeless eyes of hers.

And then, at sight of her mortal terror,! found my own voice. And by a miracle, all the reason and the coolness I ever possessed rushed back into Iny dead brain.

"Why should I kill you?" I asked, speaking as if she were a child and as if I were a stranger. "Why should I kill you. dear? You have done me no harm. It is yourself, not me, yon are damning. .Inst because you choose to shatter all your ideals' by throwing away decency, is that any reason why I should throw away mine,'too, by forgetting I am a man and killing you as a beast might kill a mate that proved faithless? You haven't anything to fear from me. Please don't be frightened. I hate to see you look like that. There's nothing for you to be afraid of." She tried to speak, but she couldn't She turned, instinctively, toward Ruyter, who hadn't stirred and who kept glaring dully at me. Then came my inspiration—the inspiration 1 gleaned from the look in his eyes, the inspiration I verily believe ("Jnd sent me. I went up to Ruyter, slowly, my face a mask, my gaze fixed on his. And as I came close to him, I reached out and took Mildred's hand. It was as cold as ice. Without shifting my eyes from Ruyter's, I said to her:

"No, you need never bo afraid, wife of mine, so far as I am concerned. I could not harm you if \ would. T would not if I could. W'ith this man it is different."

Ruyter's month opened, but no word came. I noted that his lips were pallid.

"With this man." I went on, in the same slow, even voice "with this man it is different. Mildred, this hero of yours —this Paladin of story-hook seducers—is afraid. He is sick with fear. He would not dare meet my eyes, if he were not still more afraid to look away from me. He if; half a head taller than I and thirty pounds heavier, and he is an athlete, while, I am not. Yet he is more afraid of me at this moment than a clean itMii eonld be of anything on earth. The pitiful coward!"

"You—you lie!" croaked Ruyter, but there was no conviction behind his denial. "He is afraid of me." T went on. "because, to an animal nf his species. I am that most terrifying creature extant—a husband. In me he sees the law, the punishment of the law. the ostracism of Socictv. the smear on his name that will last all his days. He sees more: Tie sees the one man in the world who can shoot him dead, at will, and whom no jnrv will punish for the deed. He is n wild beast for whom the 'onon season' is anv season I may dictate. I and I alone hold his worthless life in the hollow of my hand. T can kill him as I would kill a cat that has fits—and with no greater legal penalty. He knows it. And his courage has turned to water within him."

"I—" babbled Ruyter; but I continued without stopping to heed him. "No burglar, no murderer, caught red handed," I said, "is one-tenth so horrorstricken as is the home-wrecker when the husband breaks in upon his work. This man fears not only the law T may evoke and the law I may take into my own hands, but be fears something still worse. He fears that, through me. Society may force him to regard as serious something he intended as a mere pastime. He is afraid he may lie. forced fo marry you. He also fears I may mulct him for ruinously heavy money-indem-nity. Why, if I chose to demand them at this very instant, he would cheerfully hand over to me his, watch and rings and money—as a price for escape. And he would send men four-figure check first thing in the morning. Wouldn't yon, Mr. Olive Ruyter? Anil did you think it was just by chance T happened to he at home this evening, when mv wife told von T bad left town?" "W—what's 'this?" blustered Ruyter, bis teeth a-chatter. "A frame-up between yon two? A badger game?"

I heard Mildred gasp, and she flinclicd from him as in mortal pain. "It is anything' you choose to mil it. my friend," I answered cheerily, "though it's hardly hind or courteous of you to make such a charge against a woman whom you were just offering (o lead forth into the 'golden sunshine'—'into the future that Love has given you.'" "Von knew he was here all the time?" Ruyter panted, accusingly, to Mildred. "You knew it and—"

"Your simple trust in Ihe woman you love is really touching. Mr. "Ruyter." 1 broke in. before she could answer. "But let her reply for herself. Mildred, tell hiin yon are innocent of plotting: against him—against any living man except your husband."

She did not speak. Tiuvtor darted his panic gaze toward Iter. Then drawn by the attraction of stark fear, his eyes returned to mine. "Mildred," I said. "I want to show yon* one more odd phrse of human nature. Look!"

I stepped forward and struck the man

lightly across the face with my open palm. .My hand came away sticky with the fright-sweat that smeared his forehead. He did not redden: he made no move to resent the blow. I doubt if he realised I had struck him.

"Yon see, dear,"l explained to Mildred, "there is your hero, your invincible, all-compelling King among men: the demigod whose magnetic power has won you away from your poor, timid, commonplace husband. And now for the final and most painful scene: Mr. Ruyter, I am minded to hasten your departure with the toe of my boot. Tn another ten seconds the impulse will bo much too strong for me to resist. Get out!"

Through the mist of fear, he evidently grasped the fact that lie was free to go, And palvanised into sudden life, he bolted.' No, the man was not a coward, at least not that I know of. But he was a Lover, and I was Husband. Some people might not see the point or understand liia helpless fright. But many others would —only too clearly. For your .own self-esteem's sake, old friend, I hope yon belong to the former class. When he was gone, I turned for the

first time to Mildred. Her face was ghastly. Vet it was the ghastliness of convalescence. And with a great throb at mv heart, T knew \ had conquered. It is a wondrous lliing to find jneself a hero to one's wife, if But for a moment. Somebody onec told me that most men are heroes to their wives for only two months—the month before marriage and the month after death. But here was I, acclaimed a victor and a superman in the very midtide of wedded life! Not that Mildred's ashen lips spoke words of adulation. But her wide eyes, upraised to mine, told me volumes. At last, she summoned courage to plead brokenly: . "Miles—oh, my dear, my dear—wont you take me back?" And in the ecstasy of my joy, I gathered her closely, tenderly t« me, *»4 3*.s? rsp'y*

'•Take you back, my wife? Why, I have never let you go from me!" Have I bored you, my former chum, with tin's long-winded letter? T have written it as I told yon, because I promised to let you know of the "big things" in my life. And this is the biggest thing Unit has ever come into it. Since that night, everything has smiled on me —Fortune, Love, Peace, Health—all ave become mine in incredibly ample measure. The flat that fiuyter called a "stuffy hole' has given plnce to a roomy house of my own building. And I no longer nave to restrict myself to cheap flowers and bonbons when' I wish to give Mildred a homecoming present. .She has crowned my life, she and the three blessed boys, who, as I write, are asleep in their cribs in the nursery upstairs. , . . I had written thus far when two dear cool hands were laid across my tired eyes, and Mildred leaned over to me to says: "Bedtime, busy boy!" And ns her will is law, I must end this letter, here and now. With all the good wishes of tho happiest, luckiest man on earth, MItES HUGGER.