Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 40, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 October 1895 — Tale of a Typewriter. [ARTICLE]

Tale of a Typewriter.

Raymond Rose sat in his comfortable after-breakfast chair reading his afterbreakfast newspaper. All his surroundings denoted comfort. He was a bachelor of thirty-live years. His dark and rattier large face beamed with the kindliness which comes of being thoroughly comfortable. He was neither thin nor stout—his frame bad just contrived to hit that happy medium which is styled “comfortable.” He felt himself a success—in literature. At thirty-live his position was assured, so he must, at any rate, have been a moderate success, lie wrote when and what he pleased. Just now he had completed a volume of short stories. In fact. Raymond was one of those felicitous men who have in tbeir life everv-

thing that they waDt— save one thing, and they don’t know what that is. So Raymond Rose read his morning paper glanced around his own comfortable apartment, sighed and frowned. Then, bethinking himself of his volume of short stories, turned again to the newspaper and studied the advertisement sheet. Typewriting done for authors and others at the rate of Bd. per I,OOJ words; paper fonnd. Apply MissG. Ramsay, 5 Nethercourt Terrace, N. W. “Cheap;” muttered Raymond, “distinctly cheap! Think I'll try it.” Then lie began to wonder, in his usual way, as to what Miss (1. Ramsay looked like, and whether Nethercourt Terrace was shabbily genteel or dirtily slum-like. “It’s almost like ‘sweating,’” he murmured. “I suppose she is hard up. Wants work badly, perhaps. The price does seem fearfully low all the same. Aid well, ’tis the same for me as for any one else,” - Prom which it may be deduced that if Raymond’s talents were a little above the average, his philanthropy was quite normal. Not that he was mean. No one ever thought of calling him that. Only his enemies dared to hint that he was “close.” He was merely the ordinary Engiish business man. He sat him down before a desk aud penned a note, which he adiiressed to Miss G. Ramsay, of Nethercourt Terrace. The missive contained a request to lie informed whether Miss Ramsay could undertake to type-write Mr. Rose’s “Volume of Short Stories” for immediate publication. Then witlx eased mind he proceeded to forget all about Miss Ramsay, Nethercourt Terrace, and the exigencies of the hard-pressed typist. Some letters had to be answered, proofs corrected and one newspaper article written.

Having accomplished these various tasks, he partook of a light luncheon, walked a little by way of exercise, smoked, and finally, as evening drew on, settled himself comfortably in his comfortable chair and looked over his manuscript stories. - One or two required more alteration and addition than he had given them. One, he thought would have to he re-written. The rest were good enough for his purpose, which, after all, was to make an income, so he told himself. They were not great works. Critics would style them “fair, wholesome mediocrity.” Friends would smile and prophecy their deservedly popular reception. Then Raymond Rose went to bed and slept the sleep of the highly respectable. As has been before observed he was a comfortable man, recking little of the future and not at all of the past. Unrealized hopes, ambitions, aspirations were nothing to him. “They are fulfilled,” he would have told himself, had he recalled them, which he didn’t, ‘‘and because they are not fulfilled in the precise way in which I then hoped that they would be I cannot sincerely grieve. Circumstances mould the man. He is a mere puppet,

swayed by their force. If lam less than I should be blame flattery and fortune, not me. lam but an instrument iu their hands.” Which is the way in which many sophistical persons avoid similar conscience-pricking difficulties. The next morning he got up, breakfasted and read the morning paper, as was his wont. Then he turned once more to his short stories. Did he feel seedy this morning? Had the weather depressed him? or what was the matter? Certainly his work seemed far less satisfactory than he had ever previously found it. To his senses, refreshed by a night’s rest, these stories appeared weak and dull.. Why had he never noticed these things before? Or, rather, why should he have noticed them now, at the eleventh hour? This sudden consciousness was most inconvenient. “Miss Ramsay, sir,” suddenly said his housekeeper from the doorway. Raymond Rose turned in his chair, none too pleased at the interruption. “Thank you,” he said, and stared—stared at his visitor, wondering for the moment what her business with him could be. Mechanically he placed a chair for her. “I have come about some typewriting,” said she, hesitatingly. Raymond started. He remembered now. This, however, was not the kiud of typewriter with whom he usually dealt. Two women who had done work for him were angular and hard-featured, abrupt in manner, and as careworn as they could be. Miss Ramsay was a mere girl, well dressed, slight of figure and prepossessing of face. Her complexion was good, her small mouth prettily formed, her eyes large and lustrous, her hair a pretty brown color. Raymond found himself noting all these points about his new typewriter. Suddenly he awoke to the fact that she was waiting for him to speak. ~ “Yes,” lie said, “1 require a volume of abort stories typewritten. Unfortunately,” he added, recalling his thoughts of a few minutes ago, “they are not quite ready. More than oue will want doctoring if not rewriting.”

“I might take them one by one," suggested Mias Ramsay. “That would save time. If you have one ready” “Yes, that will be our best plan," interrupted Raymond. “And shall I do the work here or at home?” she asked. “Which would be the most convenient for you?” inquired Raymond, trying to stifle his personal inclinations as regards the matter. “If you will show me your writing — j that is, your SIS.” said she, frankly, “I can tell you. If it is difficult 1 had best come here; if easy” “It is rather difficult,” returned the other. * ‘Perhaps you had best come aud I do the work here,” he added, witlx quite i unconscious eagerness. “The mornings ; would suit me best.” “Very well,” she said. “Good morning. I will be here to-morrow.” The door closed behind her. Raymond j Rose tried to settle down to work again. But be failed—miserably. Thoughts would not come. The pen scratched and spluttered like a thing in a bad temper. Each story as he tackled it grew worse under his alterations. However, he made a desperate effort, and completed one ready for the morrow’s typewriting. Then he got up and went for a walk, wondering what had come to him. The visit of the morning would recur to his mind. Nevertheless, as became a bachelor of thirty*, he refused to acknowledge that his comfortableness had been in any way disturbed by it.

“Absurd!” muttered he. “The fact is, j I want a little change- change of air, | change of scenery, change of people—- ! change of life.” The last was quite an afterthought. The next morning Miss G. Ramsay I arrived—typewriter and all. Raymond gave her the story. She read it through and prepared, to set to work. “What do you think of it?” asked Raymond. She laughed—very pleasantly. “At any rate, it is not ’sex-maniacal,’” she said. “No,” replied he. “I am glad it is j not” and began liis own work. Rethought that she did her typewriting I very well. When the story was finished he took the liberty of telling her that the work was more than satisfactory. She only replied that she was pleased to j hear him say so. After her departure lie ! found himself wondering whether the G i before her surname stood for Grace or Georgina. In the days which followed he learned a good deal of her history. She had come to London with her brother, who was a clerk in a broker’s office and received an annual stipend of eighty pounds. On this, and on what she could earn, they were dependent for their living, for the parents had died, leaving them penniless. It was a common enough talc, yet Raymond Hose considered it remarkably interesting. He always asked her what she thought about a story. ‘ ‘Miss Ramsay often gave him valuable suggestions,” so he told his friends. “I think that your stories improve,” observed Miss Ramsay one morning. “Yon seem to probe human nature more than you did, and your sentiment is not so artificial.” “That is due to your influence,” lie replied, gallantly and sincerely. The dark, lustrous eyes looked up at him, aDd her face assumed a half frightened expression. Perhaps she caught the true inwardness of liis words. At any rate, that glance threw Raymond Rose into ecstacy. No longer did he doubt his own feeling. The same evening lie pondered deeply. Here was a man, with everything to recommend him; a large income, an unimpeachable character; a kindly disposition, a heart tilled to the brim with love. And she! A typist in straitened circumstances,

of quite unknown origin, so far as the world was concerned. True, her brother presented rather an obstacle. Rut then The picture of the brother faded from his mind. He saw himself wedded to a pretty wife; his old rooms cheered and brightened by her presence; the stale order of things abolished; the opening of new pastures warmed by the dual warmth of kindred souls. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, he sat down and wrote a story. He wrote of a man, noble and good, to whom honor, fame, riches came like the sweet rain from heaven. The man lived, prospered and was comfortable. He felt, however, that a void existed in his life; I he knew not its nature, nor how to fill it. i Then came a woman, pure anil beautiful ! as the dawn, and lie knew that it was she | who was to fill that void. So lie married her and lived happily ever after.

Ry 2 in the morning he had finished the story. He went to rest, feeling that it was the best and the noblest work he had 1 ever done; although it was the unvarn- I islied tale of an ordinary man’s life. When Miss Ramsay next appeared her j pretty eyes were red and swollen with weeping. Raymond was horror-struck. Tenderly he bade her be seated aud inquired the cause of her grief. The tale was soon told, “brother” had suddenly and unexpectedly lost his employment, through no fault of his own. His “firm” had coalesced with another and his services would be no longer required. He was to be paid fifty pounds for his compensation and sent about his business. “Yon must let me help you,” exclaimed Raymond Rose, sympathetically. Then, on a sudden, an idea flashed into his i mind, flooding it with joy. For the first time in his life he blessed that brother, i Would not the catastrophe make that i task easier? The girl was at this moment ! threatened with destitution. He gave not ! a thought to the ungenerous side of the j question. “No,” said he, eagerly, as Miss Ramsay wearily began her typewriting. “I ' don’t wish you to do that to-day. You are iu trouble. Here is a new story. I ! wrote it last night. I want you to read it i aud give me your opinion as you always | do. I—l want to know whether you consider the ending is good.”, i Mechanically she took the manuscript from his hand- She read it at first without' understanding its particular import. Then she suddenly became aware that his eyes were fixed upon her face with a burning, passionate gaze. “You think it good?” he queried, as she finished. “It ends well, does it not? Miss Ramsay, you are, reading the story of my life, for I love you.” And he came towards her with eyes i aglow, never doubting that his own j passion would carry all before it. He j caught her slender wrist and kissed the | small hand again and again. But she shrank away from him, while | her face grew crimson. “Give me time to think, Mr. Rose,” cried she, piteously. “I did not know, indeed, 1 1 did not know. You are good and kind” Then Raymond lost his head. He stooped and kissed her lips. “You need no time,” he muttered, fiercely. “You are poor, destitute —and I love you.” “Let me go now, please.” Raymond started at her tone. Then, seeing that she was in earnest, he opened the door for her and stood meekly by while she passed out. Whereupon he sat

down on a chair with an Indistinct sens* of having done something very foolish. “I have made a mistake," he said, wearily to himself. “But she will come round. A sensible woman such as she is will not refuse an offer of that sort.” But although Raymond had written of women, and had made capital out of his writings, be had quite failed to grasp the fact that the sex is a strangely delicate organism, liable to be thrown out of gear by the faintest discordant movement. Three days later there came a letter — Dear Mr. Rose: I have come to the conclusion that the end of your story was. so far as lam concerned, incorrect. Owing | to the kindness of an old friend, my brother ! has obtained a little work, which will suffice to keep us from starvation. This and other considerations, which you will doubtless understand, induce me to decline your no doubt kindly-meant offer of three days since. Yours sincerely. Grace Ramsay. Raymond Rose cast the letter upon the floor and said bad words, cursing in turn the various classes of typists, brothers, and “old friends." Then lie packed a portmanteau and went to Switzerland for his long-contemplated change of air. He climbed the Matterhorn and sailed down the Lucerne, coming back after one month's traveling to bis old rooms and to his old comfortable ways.also to some old friends, who declared that hfi never looked so well in bis life.