MARIGOLD

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXI, Issue 3161, 4 May 1931, Page 7

MARIGOLD

THE TROUBLE OF PRETENDING TO BE SWEETHEARTS.

"Pore!" shouted the little old man in plus fours. "Damn!" snarled the big young man in Harris tweeds. Harris Tweeds had been in the act of swinging back his golf club, but now he grudgingly backed away and let Plus Fours keep him waiting. Not because there is any law of precedence between Harris tweeds and plus fours; but because Harris Tweeds in this case was playing by himself, whilst the other man had a partner. Such is the law of golf—in case there remains any wight on earth who is unfamiliar with it: the law that if a lonely man or woman set out for a game at golf, he or she must be prepared to stand aside and wait for partnered players to go by. The little old man and his partner passed on. Barney Waterson, of the the Harris tweeds, stepped hopefully to his ball once more. He swung back bis club ....

"Fore!" shrilled a flapper, appearing over the rise with her sweetheart. "Damn!" snarled Barney again. And once more he backed away into the rough, wondering whether it was worth his while to attempt to play on, now that the course was crowded. But he stepped back so abruptly, and with his mind so numbed by its bitterness, that he collided with the girl in brown and almost fell over her, without having given a glance or a thought to anything that might be behind him. "Pardon!" gasped Barney. "Hope I didn't hurt you. Never saw you coming. .. never looked, in fact... sorry!" The girl in brown, alone and also carrying clubs, seemed to hesitate before she answered. Then, meeting his eyes and liking them, she forgave him so exquisitely that Barney apologised also for the yellow clay which he had transferred from his brogues to hers, and he bent down gallantly to wipe it away. The brown girl laughed protestingly and was blushing when he towered over her again. He explained why he was stranded there. She nodded sympathetically.

"Same here," said the brown girl. "But I've given up trying to play. Everybody was going through me, and I'm fed up . . ." She was walking on. But Barney, hardly knowing whether it was the golf or the girl he was thinking of, dared to suggest that if they played on together they could finish their round.

She agreed, but very hesitantly. And if Barney had imagined that the course of the game would make friends of them, he suffered an embittering disappointment. The brown girl must have regretted her easiness. She was embarrassed, being not at all the sort of young person who allows herself to be "picked up" on a golf links- by a strange man. He talked plenty, but her answers were cold and devoted entirely to the game itself. Her impulsive acceptance of his daring suggestion had made her feel cheap; hence the demure dignity of silence with which she recovered her lost pride. Even when they parted, and she had thanked him with a smile that set his pulses racing, she made only a very vague reply to his gallant hope that they might enjoy another game together some day. Thus did eld Barney find and lose the one girl who mattered, in the same short couple of hours! He went home moodily, slowly, thoughtfully. He had been a bachelor all his life, but had never felt like one until now . . . .

He had arrived at the Hydro Hotol the day before, in quest of a lazy week of what might be the last good weather of the year. That evening, in the dining-room, he discovered the brown girl again. She was sitting almost the length of the room away from him, with a young couple. Barney, unaware that he was watching them, guessed easily that the young couple were newly-weds or engaged; their preoccupation with each other to the exclusion of the brown girl was evidence enough of that. This other girl was a dazzling blonde, with a beauty sufficient to make even the brown girl look plain beside her, except to Barney's fascinated eyes.

Just two days afterwards, Barney was strolling alone through the wooded grounds, maybe hoping that every twist of the path might bring him face to face with a brown girl—the mere possibility of that thrilled him—when he heard quick and light steps hurrying behind him. He turned. . . . No, it was not the brown girl. But if was her friend, the blonde. To his amazement, she accosted him.

"Are you Mr. Barnard Waterson?" she asked. "Yes."

"Your initials are B. W.? But, of course. How silly of me. Please, Mr. Waterson, will you think me the most awful creature in the world if I ask you, a perfect stranger, to do me a favor which will save all my life's happiness?"

Barney, gaspingly offering his services, was reminded of those affairs in Christmas pantomimes, wherein the principal girl and the principal boy, meeting for the first time at one side of the stage, are in love with each other, pledged, and nearly married by the time they have crossed over to the other aide.

"You see," she said, talking rapidly and with a sort of distraction which somehow failed to convince him, "I'm in a most dreadful predicament. And only you can save me, just here and now, because your initials happen to be B. W. I looked in the hotel register and there's only you with those initials. . . . Oh, don't be alarmed. I'm

not mad! But look at this ring, please. . . ."

She slipped an unusual-looking engagement ring from her right hand and asked him to look inside it at some initials and a heart. The initials were B. W. and M. Y.

"You see," she pattered on, touching his arm in her feverish excitement, "I spent last winter in the south of France, and I had rather a big flirtation with a man named Bruce Wingate. Well, it was only flirtation on my side, you understand, but I suppose we must have thought ourselves engaged when we parted, for he gave me this ring to wear. Mizpah: betrothal! Well, we quarrelled in our first letters and soon forgot, but I'd got used to wearing the ring. And, like a fool, I forgot about the initials inside. At least, I always forget them when I was near a jeweller's who would have scraped them out. Well, you see . . . you see . . . where was I?"

Barney gave her breathing space, whilst trying to convey dumb sympathy. "Now," she went on, "something dreadful has happened. I'm engaged to Mr. Martindale. We're to be married. He thinks he's the only man I ever loved; I've told him so. But this morning, I left my rings in the bathroom. It was just before lunch time; I was late this morning. I didn't remember where id left the rings and Mr. Martindale, my fiance, was sitting at table waiting for us whilst my cousin and I were searching for them. Well, the chambermaid had found the rings in the bathroom and knew I'd been the last in that bathroom and told the head waiter and he took them to our table and Len —that's Mr. Martindale recognised them and took them for me. And whilst he was identifying this ring I've just shown you, he saw the initials inside, and he's asked me what they mean and whom the man is . . ." "And what did you say?"

"I said it wasn't my ring, but another girl's! What else could I possibly say? He would never trust me again if he knew I'd been engaged elsewhere only last winter, and never said a word about it—said the opposite, in fact! I told him I was in honor bound not to reveal the name of the girl, but he's very suspicious. He's got it into his mind that I'm lying! He wants to know the name of the girl. Well, I gave him that, at last ..../' "Oh!" "Yes. I said the girl was my cousin Mary, because her initials are the same as mine, you see. But Len is suspicious; he thinks Mary is just aiding and abetting me to hoodwink him. Anyhow, he wants to know the name of the man Mary was engaged to when she wore this ring. And unless we can give him a name of some kind, he'll know I've deceived him."

Barney had had time to sort the amazing affair out a little, but he called a halt to be sure he was right. "Let me go over all that a minute, Miss—er Marigold, I thing you said. You've been foolish enough to go on wearing an initialled engagement ring after the engagement was broken off. And he's seen the ring and the initials. So you're trying to tell the poor chap that it isn't you, but you cousin Mary who was engaged to B. W. Mary is backing you up in that. . . . Then the idea is that Mary took a dislike to the ring after being jilted, and didn't like to throw it away or send it back, so she gave it you . . . ." "Yes, yes, that's it; except that she lent to me because I liked it and she wouldn't wear it herself . . . ."

"A much superior version," Barney approved. "And as Mr. Martindale isn't such a fool as all that, he has cornered you by demanding the name of the man. That's where I come in, obviously. But why on earth should you want to give him the name of a man like myself, whom you don't know, and who is on the spot?" "How could I give him any other man's name, when there was no other man with the B. W. initials to whom I could explain it all?" cried Marigold, piteously. "I simply daren't take a risk like that. The other man, even if I knew of one named B. W.. wouldn't know what to make, of it if he got a letter to-morrow from Len asking if the story is true! And Len is determined to probe it; he's Buspicious of me . . .»*

"Oh, but how could he be! And you so frank, so clear, so transparent . . ." "Yes, it's awful, isn't it? . . . But you will?" "But I'm on the spot," objected Barney. "Why should Mary and myself be in the same hotel at the same time, if we're supposed to hate each other?" "Well," panted Marigold, "you're supposed to be here to try to make friends with her again. To carry out the thing, you'd naturally have to pretend to be an old sweetheart of hers, anxious to get back to the old footing. But she's such a nice girl . . ." "She agrees to that!" "Well, she's got to! It's her only way to help me out. She hates th* idea, but only this can save me. She's fearfully upset; but I'm afraid I never gave her any chance to back out. For I mentioned her name as the owner of the ring, and she had admitted it, before we realised that Len was going to insist on knowing who the man was. . . .

Barney understood the brown girl well enough. He knew by her chilliness during the golf match that she was a proud, sensitive type to whom this sort of thing would be sheer horror. Well, he had his chance with her. Nor could he help taking it. "Right, I'll see you through, Miss . . . what?"

"Yorke. And Mary is Mary Yorke. But as I'm supposed to know you well enough to be helping you to win her back, you'd better call me Marigold Now let's go and see Len, I said I'd have to ask the man's permission before I mentioned his name. Well, I've got It . . ."

Mr. Len Martindale was evidently greatly relieved and appeased by the production of B. W. in the flesh. For instead of the suspicious and exacting detective which Barney had been anticipating, he seemed to Barney to be more of the jovial, silly ass type which takes life with a gurgle. Moreover, he revealed at once that his own one big idea, now, was to help Barney. "Marigold's cousin is a topper," he said, after the introduction. "But, of course, you know that! I don't wonder you're keen about her. But she's proud an' reserved an' all that, you know. Still, we'll help; we'll help the pair of you. You leave it to us." Thanks awfully. , Any chance for me, d'you think?" murmured Barney, dutifully playing up to his part. "Can't say. She's never mentioned your name to me. I'd never heard of you until to-day! Ah, here she is. Let's go and speak." The brown girl stood stock still when she saw whom Martindale's companion was. She flushed. He imagined, by the tight look of her mouth, that she was biting her lips. Yet she seemed electrified by the encounter. "Good afternoon, Mary," said Barney.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Waterson." "Mr. Waterson," said Len cordially, "is coming with us on that picnic tomorrow. You will come, won't you?" Barney agreed. Martindale hurried after Marigold, who had seen somebody she knew. The moment they were alone, the brown girl flamed into passion. "Really," she said, "Marigold goes too far in throwing us together in this way. And Len. There isn't the smallest need for us to submit to it, Mr. Waterson. All we need to do, surely, is to seem to accept the Gilbertian situation as Marigold has made it for us; and to pretend that I utterly refuse to forgive you or renew our . . .

our engagement Thus, we can instantly resume our terms of indifference to each other. So long as Len thinks we were once engaged, we are not called upon to be made bigger fools of ..." "You want that?" said Barney, catching his breath. "Wouldn't it be . . . be just as easy for us to go on with it, just a little? After all, we have played golf together, you know! And ever since then I've been longing to — to arrange another. Why not chum up hero, and then let the man think another quarrel finally estranged us after leaving this place?" She puzzled him by her glance. Her show of cold strength was but the cloak of an intense, likeable, delicious nature. It seemed to him, watching her and waiting, that she was battling with some temptation—and losing. For her voice was smaller and her eyes were wistfully bright, as she said: "If you really and truly mean that, Mr. Waterson, well, of course, why shouldn't we? Being here as chaperone to Marigold and her fiance isn't too gay for me, you know! But look here —the moment you get tired, we must quarrel 'again' and end it. I won't be forced upon you in this fashion . . ." "Isn't it just as much that I'm being forced upon you? And that hurts you worse than it does me. . . . Oh, come along. Don't let us be so dashed serious about it! Smile!"

She smiled. And that smile, to Barney, was as if he had landed suddenly upon an isle of enchantment which only awaited exploration. He had been crazy about her, when she was reserved and embarrassed. He was happily and completely mad, now. They moved toward the group where Len and Marigold were chatting. But Barney clutched her arm, startlingly. "Good lor', we're hashing it already!" he gasped. "Here we are, a severed pair of sweethearts who were once engaged and have just made friends again after a year of bitter separation. And the first thing we do, after two minutes, is to join the others! ... Is it likely? . . . This is our way." He led the way magnificently to that winding and leafy path of romance which Marigold and himself had just left. The brown girl followed meekly.

Len ordered champagne that evening to celebrate the touching reunion. Barney, of course, must needs attend their table. The simple result of that was, of course, that Barney's tablenapkin was moved permanently, and he became one of a party of four. Two engaged couples. It was Barney's first opportunity of judging pretty Marigold at close quarters when she was her normal self. And he needed to admit that she had got over her panic of the early afternoon remarkably well. There was no trace of it in her gay banter, her searchingly swift glances from his own face to Mary's, her lightning wit and mischievous femininity. He had accounted her a brainless little fool, whom it was a man's job to help. Now, she puzzled him —baffled him.

But he had little attention to give her, save in interludes. The fascinating game of playing the part of forgiven sweetheart to Mary, whilst all the time his infatuated heart was cramming with new love of her, was sufficiently thrilling to keep his mind with her. He wondered, a hundred times, how she was reacting to the situation which she necessarily shared with him, and which Len's silly-ass freedom did nothing to simplify. Len, in fact, revealed the suspiciousness of his jovial nature by a wary unwillingness to believe that their reconciliation was as complete as they pretended it to be. He watched them. He flung them together. When they were out in the car, he had Marigold beside him with Mary and Barry always together behind. On picnics, he and Marigold invariably lost themselves. ... And on the first occasion when it chanced that they were all four alone

and parting for the night, Len kissed Marigold and Barry offered his hand to the brown girl. "There's something queer about this!" rasped Len, with a suspicious glance at his own sweetheart. "If these two were once engaged, and are reconciled, what does that mean?"

He laughed lightly, but meaningly. "What does what mean?" quivered Marigold. "Do sweethearts say 'Good-night' by shaking hands" scoffed Len. "Seems to me that Mary has a queer way of forgiving the poor chap! Good lor .." Mary's face was crimson. Barry was glaring. But next evening, when the same occasion recurred, Barry asked a silent question with his eyes. Mary's color rose but there was no denial in her manner. He bent and, like a man tasting nectar for the first time in his life, he kissed her gently upon the lips.

And next day he apologised—or pretended to. "I don't see how we could have helped ourselves, Barry!" said Mary. "It's the queerest situtaion. Yet we've got to see Marigold through . . ." "You're hating it" "Oh!"

"But are you? Answer! I want to know that more than I want to know anything in the world. Did you hate that kiss?" "Well . . r

"If I gave you another, now that they're not with us, would you hate that one, too?" Her lips said nothing. But her starry eyes were bright with a sort of thrilled timidity which might have meant: "Try and see!" So he kissed her, again very gently. And again, not so gently. Around them, the green world quivered in the stir of leaves in the wind. Only the same leaves heard when he went on talking. "I never did like Monday mornings," hoarsed Barry. "Hash, and stew, and resurrection pie, sort of thing. What I mean to say: I'm weary of pretending to share in a sort of —of love rechauffe, sort of thing. What, I mean to say, there's new love waiting which could take its place. ... I love you, Mary. I loved you from the moment I trod on you on the golf links, and even when you kept me at such a distance all the round. This intrigue of Marigold's Is fate bringing us together again, giving me my chance. Why were you so cold that day?" "I hated the thought of making myself cheap. ... Oh, Barry, I'm so happy. Utterly, wonderfully . . ."

And, two days after —two wonderful days after—Barry came downstairs to find that she had gone. All that remained of her was a queer little letter saying they had had a good time, and a pleasant flirtation, and that she wished him good-bye now that business had called her suddenly back to town. Also, she enclosed the ring. He waylaid Marigold and demanded an explanation. Also, he wanted Mary's address, which Marigold tearfully refused to give him because Mary had made her promise. "But what have I done?" demanded the frantic man. "Did she think I was only playing with her, as she evidently was with me? Why, I love her . . .!" "I'm heartbroken with disappointment about it myself," quivered Marigold, piteously. "If you knew all the truth, you'd believe that, Barry. But she's vowed me not to tell you a word. You'll never see her again. She's set upon that . . ." Barry, pride helping him, bit his lips and steeled his heart—or pretended to. He tried to give back the ring to Marigold, but she dashed it away impetuously, saying she wouldn't touch the hateful, wretched, horrible thing again. So Barry, determined to give the ring away to the first servant girl who would value it, called at the local jeweller's that day and asked him to file out the initials and heart. The jeweller, who appeared startled by the ring and very Interested in Barry, asked him whether he would very kindly take a seat.

He sat down. And, less than five minutes afterwards, the jeweller came back —with a constable!

"Sorry, sir," said the jeweller. "But I'm afraid I must ask you to account for your possession of this ring. The circumstances are sufficiently suspicious to make me wonder whether—er—whether it belongs to you." Barry stared, open-mouthed. "What's the matter?" he said. "I only killed two men while I was thieving it. Isn't that allowed? They were only little men . . ." "You can spare us your humor," rapped the jeweller. "The fact is that I sold this ring only a week or less ago, to a lady from the Hydro Hotel who bad those initials engraved upon it. And now you present it, requiring the identification marks removed! I can hardly be expected to believe that the young lady has quarrelled with her sweetheart and given the ring to you, all in a few days. But if you have an explanation to offer, of course, the matter ends, and I'll beg your pardon. It rests with you. Being a Mizpah type of ring, inside, the lady's sweetheart is obviously absent from her, so you can't be him. . . . Well?"

Barry asked a question, and then rang up Marigold at the hotel. Marigold came, admitted that she had bought the ring, had had it engraved, and had given it to "this man." This man returned to liberty at Marigold's side, leaving a pacified and upright jeweller, and a young and highly disappointed police constable, behind them.

"Oh, it's all so simple, if you'd only let me do the talking a minute," said Marigold feverishly. "And it's the last time in my life I'll ever try to do a bit of match-making. . . ."

"Match-making!" gasped Barry. "Yes, yes. yes! Listen, I keep on begging you! Mary is the dearest girl in the world, but fearfully sensitive and proud and reserved. She came back from the golf match with you and raved about the delightful man she had met. But I couldn't see how you could possibly get to know each other in the short time, with her so fearfully shy and reserved. So I thought it all out. It was all a joke, a plot, a hoax. And Len has been with me in it, the whole time. We hatched out this scheme of forcing you and Mary to pretend you were old lovers, so as to fling you into each other's arms right away. You both thought you were doing it just to prevent Len from finding out I'd been engaged before "Then you never were engaged before?"

"Of course not. Don't I keep telling you. I found out what your name was, and then I got the ring and had it engraved with your initials and hers. Then I told Mary the same story that I afterwards told you. She promised to admit the ring was hers, never supposing that Len was going to insist on her producing the man himself to prove it! That gave me the chance of bringing you to our table, and making you and Mary act like reunited lovers. . . . And it was all going so well, so splendidly—until last night, after you'd left us. Then I let slip a remark which set Mary wondering, and she got the truth out of us. And this morning, she's gone . . .!"

Barry found her, however. He traced her, with no very great difficulty, to her home in London. And he asked her why on earth she had run away from him.

"Oh, I couldn't face you again, after finding out the fools they'd made of us both," she said. "I hate anything underhand, and it seemed to me as if I'd let you 'pick me up' on the golf links, and then stolen your love by this stupendous strategem of my cousin's. I felt I'd been flung at you . . . ." "And hadn't I been flung at you? Hadn't I picked you up on the golf links, too? You can't blame yourself without blaming me. . . . Why did you run away with hardly a word?" The brown eyes glowed. "I knew it wouldn't be impossible for you to find me, if you were so fearfully keen as I was myself. But I wanted to leave you free of me, unless —unless—well, you see— —" After the kiss which silenced her, Barry remarked: "A jolly nice couple, Len and Mari gold. But what fools!" "Yes. Top-holers, both of them — but such awful fools!" Then Barry sat with his arm about her shoulders and her face thrillingly near to his own. He sighed with a bliss which still bewildered him. And he squinted down at that rapturous face. "I wonder!" "You wonder —what" "Whether they were such fools, after all!"