MY DIALOGUE WITH DOLLY

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1717, 25 January 1905, Page 13

MY DIALOGUE WITH DOLLY

(By Walter Prichard Eaton..)

Miss Dolly sat nestling into the cushions of the canoe and let her hare arms hang over the sides, her fingers trailing noiselessly through the water. The canoe was gliding with its own peculiar motion (for it is the poetic loafer among water craft) under the maples far up stream, and I was furnishing the motive power. I also was looking at Miss Dolly. In fact, I was looking at Miss Dolly (I might as well he frank and own up) with a good deal more interest than even her attractiveness (and I assure yon that she is extremely attractive) might seem to warrant. When we left the club-house float away back somewhere in ancient time (as a matter of fact, it was early that afternoon, I suppose), we had left Bobby Wilbour glowering at us like a thunder-cloud, which amused me and gave me a distinct sense of triumph, even while it annoyed. It did not seem to -trouble Dolly much, one - way or the other. But then, I reflected, women seldom display their true feelings. And I fell to wondering if it could be true, as everyone declared, that she was going to marry Bobby. It hardly seemed possible that she would throw herself away on such a colourless chap. She could not even urge a desire to reform him as an excuse, for a man has to have eomo positive qualities even to be. ‘'fast/’ She fiad let him take her to dances an cl theatres, on walks and on drives-—sho certainly endured and apparently enjoyed his society. But could it be time that there was anything serious between such >a. girl and that trousered inanity ? It was a pretty problem, and I continued to look at Miss Dolly in silence, turning it over in my minu. “I wish my name wasn’t Dolly,’’ she said suddenly, I presumed by way of saying something. “Mercy!” I cried. “Heaven forbid! Why wish such a horrible thing P” '‘Because then I wouldn’t have to talk like a dialogue all the time,” she replied. 'Do you now ?” I asked. “I hadn observed that you were talking at all ?” “If one did talk at all with you,” she retorted, “it would have to be a monologue; but when I’m with people who enjoy conversing with me I am forced by fate to talk like a book.” “I’m rebuked,” said I humbly. “Now pray explain.” “It’s this way,” she said: “authors •take a terrible load of responsibility when they name their characters, for in reality they are shaping the characters of succeeding generations of real men and women with those names. Did you ever know a man named Uriah whom you possibly could like?”

“No,” said I reflectively, “I never did.” I never knew a man by the name of Uriah, to like or dislike; but I did not tell Dolly so, for I wanted to hasten the exposition of her theory. “Well,” she continued, “it’s eo with every famous name in fiction. The name gets a certain type of man or woman attached to it and the poor baby who is inflicted with the name has to live up to the type, willy-nilly. That’s why I wish I’d never been christened Dorothy.” “You mean,” said I, “that there’s an authorship which shape® our ends, rough hew them how we will ?” “Precisely,” said Dolly.

I rested my paddle in my lap and looted at the lamenting Dorothy. “On the whole,” said I, with judicial deliberation, “I incline t-o the opinion that there ore worse types than the Dolly type.” “Thank yon for your enthusiastic endorsement/"’ said Miss Dolly, her lip curling sarcastically. ‘'And on the whole/ 1 X continued, ignoring the sarcasm, “I incline rather strongly to the opinion that I, too, have a case against my parents/ 1 “Dear me, 11 said Dolly, “what is it? Your name never was used in fiction/ 1

“That 1 s just it/ 1 said I; “that's the f;rievance. It should have been Mr Oarer/ 1

Dolly made no immediate reply to this; but watched the ripples her fingers stirred in the brown water. I resumed my paddling. “Why, Mr Carter P ll she asked presently, without looking up.

“Why not Mr Carter P ll I retorted, with apparent innocence. Dolly twitched her shoulders in a way whieh said “Stupid 111l 11 plainer than any words. “Why not Archie P ll she queried ?

“Um/ 1 said I, “I had not thought of that. Why not. indeed. No, on the whole, I prefer to be Mr Carter. 11 “'Bxit why ?” asked Dolly, still watching lier fingers trail through the rippling water.

"Because Mr Carter had all the best of the bargain/ 1 I replied. “I thought Archie had Dolly/ 1 said my companion. 'As I remember the story, Mt Carter merely had a bald head/ 1 And Dolly glanced quietly at a point a few inches above ray e3 r es. “Ah, but did Archie have Dolly P ll I asked, ignoring the insinuation of her glance. “I'm afraid you don't remember your ends, as you affirm. Mr Carter was only a wedding guest when Archie took Dolly on his arm down the aisle, but I seemed to recall that he subsequently was a pretty frequent visitor at Mrs Archie's house/ 1

“What if he were? 11 said Dolly. “That doesn't signify. Besides, he was an old friend, and it was no more than polite for him to call often/ 1

“No more than polite P ll I queried, again resting the paddle on my knees. Dolly shot a quick glance at me. “Well not much more, 11 she said.

“The little bit, but, ah, how much it is 111I 11 I quoted.

“But/ 1 said Dolly, “I suppose she couldn't stop hie calling/' “Oh, couldn't sheF” I retorted. “I -don't suppose she could keep away from sun-dials, either/ 1

“Perhaps not/ 1 said Dolly, looking out over the river with a little smile. "’’‘She was a woman. 1 '

The paddle still rested on t" - ’nmes. Th e canoe floated gently ird*. - /\:ok of

sunlight sifted through the maples, which lit up Mis® Dolly’s hair. One distant cow in the meadow alone lent life to the landscape. “I wish there were sun-dials in our part of the world,” said I. Miss Dolly raised her fingers from the water and watched the drops trail off. “There are canoes,” she said. “Then I am to infer that there also is an Archie—>a prospective Archie, that is?” I inquired, made suddenly bold by the tantalising sweetness of her tone, and determined to find out, if possible, just how far matters had gone between her and Bobby Wilbour.

Dolly glanced up on the quick defensive. “lon are to draw your own inferences,” she said.

“A.h, ha!” said I darkly, dropping the paddlo into the water. “I have !” Th.s to have the desired effect. “Of course there is a prospective Archie,” said Dolly. “Every girl has her prospective Archie. Besides, if you think you’d like to be Mr Carter, there’s got to be an Archie to maintain the plot.”

“Tru-e,” said I, as far as ever from learning what I w shed, “there’s got to be an A/rchie, unless —”

“Unless what?” said Dolly, when I did not finish. “Unless Mr Carter should break away from this terrible tyranny of authorship and act for himself,” said I. Miss Dolly made no reply, again becoming intensely interested at the sight of her fingers in the water, I fancied, though, that I detected a heightened colour under the tan of her checks.

“Do you think it would do him any good to cut loose from Hope?” I queried eagerly. “There still abide Faith and Charity,” said Dolly, with a winsome smile. “But would Dolly have the charity?” I asked.

'■'That is for Mr Carter’s faith to determine,” she answered, the smile still lurking on her lips. “Of course,” I mused, “there is no character at present in sight really named Archie.”

“There is no character really named Mr Carter,” said Dolly.

“But couldn’t I really be he if I pretended ?” I asked.

“Perhaps, if you pretended real hard,” said Dolly. “Are vou good at pretending?” “In this case,” said I, “I don’t have to be.”

Miss Dolly peeped quickly up at me from under her lashes and smiled enigmatically. “Possibly, then, somebody can pretend that he really is Archie,” “I’m afraid so,” said I glumly, “and said she.

without being especially good at pretending, either.” “Don’t be cross,” said Dolly. “The rest Mr Carter never was cross, you know,” she continued. “I beg your pardon,” said I, it may have been rather sourly; “but the real Mr Carter was tolerably sure of some things.” “What?” said Dolly, “Well, that ire wa,s the little bit more than an old friend for one,” I replied. Dolly looked me frankly in the face. “Then please smile,” she said. I did. I took the paddle out of the water, laid it across my lap, and patted it. Tiie bow of the canoe swished into the reeds as the current swung it around, and avo came to a sudden stop. “What’s the matter?” exclaimed Dolly, sitting up. “I’m smiling,” said 1. “You ridiculous man!” said Dolly. But she smiled too.

“I’ve thought of' another thing,” I remarked presently. “What is it?” Dolly asked when I did not continue.

“The real Archie never was cross, either, when Mr Carter took Dolly to the sun-dial.' 1

“What do you mean by that ?” said she. “I seem to remember a thunder-cloud on the crab float when we pulled out this noon/ 1 I answered. “But the real Archie was tolerably sure of some things? 11 said Dolly, like an echo.

“What? 11 I asked, low and eagerly, leaning forward a little. My companion did not answer for a moment; she pulled at a reed in the water, rooking the canoe gently in her effort to break off the top. She opened her lips once to sneak, and then closed them. At length, she shot a quick glance at my face, which was intent upon hers. “Of Dolly/ 1 she said.

It was sometime later (I do not feel bound to commit myself further and tell how much later) when the reeds released the canoe, / reluctantly scraping away from her sides as she drew out to midstream. The sun laid the shadow of the western bank far across the brown water as we danced home with the current.

I confidently expect- to go canoeing with Dolly again, and before Bobby Wilbour does. Nor do I feel so badly as I might that the authorship which shapes our ends may sometimes be overruled, to the disappov&l of Dolly's theory. If Hope is lost, a® Dolly suggests, we still have Faith and Charity. I even have charity for Bobby—now.