The Sketcher

Otago Witness, Issue 3673, 5 August 1924, Page 65

T he Sketcher

THE CHRONICLES OF MARY’N HURRELL. IX—THIS LOVE.

By

Emily Baizeen.

(For the Witness.) I paused in my last chronicle to tell you about Jean Allen’s love-story; but my own love affairs were becoming so insistent at that time that if Jean’s had not been such a rarity of the order I am sure it must have been crowded out, in the confusion of events, from my memory. ... One day, about a week after the cutters’ dance, the little apprentice girl, Myra Perkins, came stumbling along our row with a letter in her hand for “Miss M. Hurrell, care of the Braemar Clothing Factory, Richmond,” and the cause of Myra’s slow stumbling as she proceeded up the room towards me was this: At the back of the envelope was a tiny black cat, neatly sketched in ink, and Myra’s interest and humour were both highly incensed on that account. I took the letter from her and examined it m much surprise. I was familiar with neither the handwriting nor the crest on the envelope, so I slowly slit it open and examined its contents. My astonishment was complete when I read: Dear Mary’n,—l suppose you will be surprised to get a note from me; but I warned you that you wouldn’t be able to lose me again even if you tried (which I hope you won’t). I’m going to wait for you one ot these evenings outside Braemar, so be sure to expect me; and meet me with a smile, like a good, sensible girl, and don’t try to go against my plans. I’m very dangerous when I’m put out, you know. 1 don’t mind if there are a dozen other suitors at the door Oesides myself when I arrive—l can easily vanquish them. I don’t care for anything, in fact, except to see you again. I have been thinking of you ever since the dance, and, honestly, Mary’n, you are a worse plague for thinking about than Tootsie’s puzzle or the de Drew one either—perhaps they were easier solved —but I don’t give in without'——. Anyhow, I’m determined to see you again soon. (I have put a black cat on the envelope for luck.) —Yours for ever, Dalesford Martin. Well, well, well! My first love-letter) I suppose you would call it a love-letter? So liis name was Dalesford ; I often wondered wherever his mother had got that name from—he must have been born at Dalesford. But I couldn’t have him waiting lor me outside Braemar —I wanted Alf Trent to have that privilege. Really, I was in a quandary, and 1 could think of only one way out of it at first—l’d get Dora and Tootsie to help me. They might be relied upion, I thought; so in the lunch hour I called them aside and produced the letter, which I read to them. But it seems we never can be sure of our friends’ ideas—that they will always coincide with our own on every subject, I mean. At any rate neither Dora nor Tootsie was in favour of my proposed treatment of Dale Martin. Tootsie was delighted because we had been given an early opportunity of seeing him again—and she said his letter was “nice and funny.” “I would rather he met you after work than that conceited Alf Trent,” she declared. And Dora meanly tried to brand me as a flirt —taking a keen delight at being able to turn the tables on me for my frequent jibes at herself on that score. ‘ ‘But you know, Dora, that I never encouraged Dale Martin. He is just trying to seek my company—unasked. ” “Well,” she returned. “I like that remark. I suppose I asked those boys of mine to come after me?” “Oh nc—of course you didn’t. I never thought about your 1 cases ’ in the right way before, Dora. I am sorry. But I wasn’t even extra nice to Dale—or even flirted with him at all.” “He’s satisfied, anyhow,” said Dora. “Look here, Mary’n, you just meet him—since he wishes it so much, —and if he gets bitten it will be his own fault. But, like me —don’t worry.” “I wish you and Tootsie would help me,” I said. “Whatever do you want us to do?” she demanded, smilingly. “See if he’s outside to-night before I go out of the factory.*’ “And if he is?” “Tell him I’ve gone home another way.” “I’m not going to tell him any lies,” said Tootsie. “You can't dodge them so easy as that when they've made up their minds to see yon,” said the mncli-expericnced Dora. “But it will be so awkward for me—-if Alf Trent is there, too,” I objected. Dora laughed. “Never mind about that,” she said, “just w T alk home between the two and talk any sort of rot that comes into your head, and the one. who isn’t wanted will understand in time —Oh, Mary’n,” she ended quickly, “you’re a big booby.” And I think I must have been, for I let Tootsie manage my own affairs entirely to her own and Dale’s satisfaction that evening outside Braemar. It certainly wasn’t to my satisfaction nor Alf Trent's either, but she was very “bossy,” and Dale was masterful in his turn. After she had greeted Dale in a very friendly

fashion, she turned to Alf Trent and said: “Mary’n and Dale want to talk —so we well let them. They can go on if they like, and I’ll walk behind with you —Alf.” The little cat, she always was with my swell boy! She entertained him with a lot of lively chatter that evening, though, for I heard Alf laughing pretty frequently as Dale and I sauntered on rather sombrely ahead of them. At least I was sombre, but Dale was in a happy, gladsome mood, which he kept up all the way to my home. Then, after Alf and Tootsie had left us he changed into a serious person at once, and he asked me with the gravest concern if I was angry at his writing to me, and of liis meeting me as he had done. I was silent for a moment, and he repeated his question, adding: “I really would like nothing better than your friendship just for the present, Mary’n; but I won’t force mine upon you, never fear, for all I said in the letter.” He was so manly and sincere that I could not help being anything less than absolutely frank with him. “I like your friendship, Dale; but I did not want you to meet me outside Braemar. I thought your letter was —er —rather too ” “So it was!” he interrupted eagerly. “That’s all right. I won’t wait for you at Braemar again. You can go ahead with ‘tan boots and bow tie,’ but I am coming to see you at your own home next time in spite of him or anybody else.” • * * » • The following evening “tan boots and bow tie,” otherwise Alf Trent, was walking home by my side, and we were alone, Tootsie having gone on with Maggie Russell. “I say, Mary’n,” he said, “I’m not going to step aside for ‘long red-top,’ you know. He wants you—but not so much as I do; and I want you to let me call for you at home some time—will you ?” My goodnesss! Wasn’t I “getting on” fine with the love business in life? Two splendid young men wanting me so badly and calling each other nasty names on that account. But it was “tan boots and bow tie” who liad the “inside running” just then, and I answered him with as much pretended unconcern as I could muster to my aid: “Oh, yes, I suppose you may call for time—if you like.” . . . There was nothing definite about either his time of calling or of Dale's; and I was, therefore, rather puzzled vvhich of my young men was at our door one evening when Coleman said to me in front of my assembled family: “Mary’n, there’s a guy at the front door says he wants to see you.” It was an awful moment! My mother and father iooked at me inquiringly, and all I could manage by way of a reply was to stammer and blush and feel about the size of a dough-nut- As usual my father was tactful, and he nuickly reassured me. “It’s all right, my girl. We must expect these callers now that you are grown up. Go to the door yourself—and bring the young man in,” lie said kindly. My mother nodded her head as if to back up his words, and she asked: “Who is he?” I began to blush and stammer again because I could not be sure which one it was—and Tootsie came to my rescue this time with this explanation: “She doesn’t know, mother. It might be Alf Trent or Dale Martin—they are both trying to get her.” “Dear me!” said my mother quite seriously, “dear me!” “I’ll go to the door if you like, Mary’n,” Tootsie offered rather eagerly, and the idea of her turning Alf Trent away, if it was he, made mo quicklv assert, rav own claims. “I’ll go myself, I added, “and please, keep away, all of you, for a minute.” My father saw to it that my wish was respected ; and I went up the passage and opened the door. It was Alf. Yes, there he was, lifting his hat and smiling at me—a caller whom any young girl might be proud of. He caught me by the hand and gently drew me on to the verandah. “Dear,” he greeted softly. My heart began to beat, more quickly, but I managed to say: “Won’t you come in?” “Presently,” he answered, “I’d like to stay out here and talk for a little while by ourselves,” he added, getting hold of my both hands this time. “Your little brother told you I was here?” I laughed. “No, he said a guy wanted to see me.” I explained. “Did vou know it was I, then?” “I wasn’t sure.” “Did you think it was ‘long, red-top?” “Don’t call names—Dale Martin is a very nice young man, and you shouldn’t— ” “I don’t suppose he’d call me names if he got a chance, would he?” I thought about “tan boots and bow tie,” and I said nothin',!. “Come inside and meet my mother, Alf. We’ll only quarrel if we stay out here.” “Oh, no, we wouldn’t. We wouldn’t talk about red-top all the time, you know.” “I won’t ask you in at all, if you say things I don’t like,” 1 threatened; and he immediately said he was sorry, and by way of emphasis he put his arm around my shoulder and pressed me gently. Being made love to was wonderful, but I was shy and nervous—because I cared so much —and I pulled array from him, going down the passage into the kitchen, where he followed at once. ... I am not sure how much Alf liked being ushered into the full glare of keen

critics such as my family were —but fie seemed quite at liis ease alter a lew seconds. lie sat next to Tootsie on toe, inumen sola, and I heard her whisper sommning about Ins new tie. He tamed more witn any other member of tnq lamay that evening than iie did with myself, ox course, but I was frightliuly conscious of Ills being my special visitor for ail that. He seemed to make a better impression on my mothers opinion of himse.f than any of the others present, although my father liked his way of asking permission to keep my company, and n ne might call to take me out the next Saturday afternoon, that being the weekly halthoiiday at Braemar. When he went away I escorted him to the door, and lie lingered, of course. “ Come to the gate with me,” he said. “ I—l couldn’t—l mean I will —some other evening, Alf ” “ All right. I am coming to take year out next Saturday, you know? ” “Yes.” “ Mary’n, do you —aren't we happy, dear? ’’ he said softly. Happy ! I should say so —but I didn t. I said: “Oh, yes—l’m happy enough, and I hope you are.” “Come here,” he said, trying to get my hands, which. I placed out of his reach by half closing the door between us. It wasn’t possible for him to want me out on the verandah with him more than I wanted to go myself—but I kept closing the door slowly, because—oh, i can t explain why; but, any girl who's just freshly in love will understand the perversity it causes in one’s actions — and those who are well used to the tyrant can understand, too. “ Come here, Mary’n, I want to say good night, ' he pleaded. I simply could not make myself, so I said: “All right,, Alf.; it is getting late, so good night! ” Then ± closed the door. I wanted to open it again immediately, but, of course, that kind of foolery would never do—so i stood in the passage listening to his footsteps going slowly away down the garden path. . . What a fool I was! . . . Anyhow, I would see him tomorrow. and he was coming to take me out on Saturday! . . . But what a charm there is about this Love—deep down in every heart it is admitted—and we have nothing more alluring to contemplate at any time of our existence, no matter whatever may be our position in life—for Love is life. (To be continued.) A NOVEL PROPOSAL. We are the debtors to mythology for the many intriguing accounts of the ancients’ wooings, proposals, and acceptances, and who among us, be lie ever so courageous, would dare attempt to shatter any one of those numerous delicious illusions? Take Zeus’s wooing of Europa, for instance. In the guise of a white bull, he successfully sought the hand and heart of his then-time lady love, ending a delightful passage by carrying her off in state to that abode of love, Crete. Or, again, who could read, without some visible show of emotion, of liow this same personage, becoming enamoured of Leda, the Spartan King’s wife, assumed the shape of a swan, and, after much manoeuvring, added yet another conquest to his already long list? Few, indeed, might I offer? So, too, right down the ages, are we treated to accounts—unorthodox some, delightful many, human all —of the different manners of various lovers in attaining the same end, until to-day no method, however original, could possibly appear absolutely novel. Yet, in all my varied existence, have I encountered a more striking proposal, and an equally striking acceptance, than those adopted by two poetic and, for obvious reasons, anonymous friends of mine. His mode of procedure was to send as a birthday present to liis intended a pocket edition of Shelley’s works, with the following delicious passage underlined : Nothing in this world is single, All things by a law divine In one another’s being mingle; Why not I with thine? Literally by return of post came the answer, a Burns volume, with the pagetop turned at — Jimmy, come try me, Jimmy, come try me; If you wad be my love, Jimmy, come try me. THE SIXTH SENSE. I have always maintained that the subtlest interpretation of the sixth sense is the sense of direction (writes Constance Eaton in the Evening Standard.) It may be because I am entirely devoid of the latter, and prize it accordingly. The human being with a sense of direction, like his brother for whom the famous phrase was coined, is born, not made. I have tried all my life to cultivate a sense of direction, but to this day if I emerge from an unfamiliar exit in theatre or underground, I set my face due north in the unalterable conviction that I am travelling due south. That’s the worst of it, the famous stubbornness of my persistency in error. Each time I feel sure that for once I am going in the right direction. It lands me in a thousand varieties of confusion. It makes me feel superior to taking the advice of better orientated people, or to questioning policemen. It costs me annually the equivalent of some hundred miles’ travel in taxi fares and shoe leather. And as for the less obvious cost in nervous energy and tempers the less said about it the better for my reputation. I blame it all on my Aunt Ada, to whom I owe various characteristics only less desirable than the one under discussion. Once when she was an hour late for an appointment and getting desperate, she solicited the services of a

draper. He came out of liis si op, and pointed out a nearby square to the ag\tated lady. “Do you see that square, madam? First you get on that square.” “Oh,” cried Aunt Ada, “it isn't getting on that square that bothers me. It's getting off it. I’ve already been around it five times!” It is a lamentable weakness, and I am none the more reconciled to it by the reflection that it is considered a peculiarly feminine one. There is so much condescension implied from the other sex in labelling an infirmity either masculine or feminine. And condescension is a thing odious and hard to bear. If I were of an inventive turn of mind I would contrive a little directometer, so to speak, and wear it on my wrist like a watch. I don’t mean a compass. Nothing so innocent as a compass would be of service to such a benighted wanderer as It would have all the necessary names of streets and theatres and restaurants and shops rolled up like the ribbon of a tape measure. I would set it at the name of the place where I wished to go. Then on the dial a hand would waver between the words Hot and Cold. Hot when I neared my destination, Cold when I began moving away from it. That contrivance would have the double advantage of getting me where I wanted to go and reviving the pleasure I used to have in a favourite game of my childhood. LIFE AND I: SEEING THE LIGHT. By C. Lewis Hind. Something he said made me want to write about Julius Caesar—now' aged five. Let me whisper it—he is growing independent, or shall I say un-dependent. We went to Island Farm by the Garden Way, that is through Dunwich Village, and skirting Sevenoaks: we had luncheon by an old wall, under a cherry tree white with blossom, and all the lush, soft spring landscape, moving into beauty, was before us—- . the ground’s most gentle dimplement. As if God’s finger touched, but did not press In making England.” When I stopped Elizabeth II in the Green Avenue skirting the old garden wall, in which was a wicket gate, Julius Caesar said, “May I run down that lovely abenue?” “No,” I answered, "we’ve a long journey ahead—you'll be tired.” He danced on our toes, shouting, “I was born ’cited, not tired.” So I opened the door and he was off, like a bird from a cage—off down the Green Avenue, spring mingling with spring, his golden-brown hair, which we trim, but do not cut, flying after him. While we were watching (our love for this young thing is chronic) the wicket gate opened, and a fierce old gentleman, with a hooked nose, looking just like a picture of the great Duke of Wellington, came out. I thought he was going to say, “What are you rascals doing under my cherry-tree?” He didn’t. His tierce eyes followed Julius Caesar, who had now turned, and was dancing back to us. As he aproached (I can’t help it if odd delightful things happen to me) the Duke of Wellington muttered, more to the cherry blossom than to us—- “ ... when you do dance I wish you A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that; move still, still so, And own no other function.” Even as he spoke these wonder-words of Florizel’s, Julius Caesar threw himself down between a clump of ladymoeks and primroses and rolled over like a colt, kicking his legs in the air, burying his face in the flowers, uttering cries corresponding to a colts neighs; then he sat still, surrounded by ladymoeks and primroses, flushed, like a red rose —laughing. And the Duke of Wellington said, “Egad, he lightens my darkness! It’s obvious that school hasn’t spoilt him yet.” “No,” I replied, “we teach hint poetry, the Greek legends, and just the rudiments of education very carefully. What does CAT spell, dear?” “Dog,” answered Julius Ctesar, promptly. The Duke of Wellington gave a great hoarse laugh, as lie turned away, that must ave been heard at the Horse Guards. There was a gleam in Julius Caesar’s eyes. . I saw it as he climbed into the car. As I have no sense of humour, he must get it from Belinda. * * * * His un-dependence! When we had gone a mile lie began to fidget on Belinda’s knee; then he said, “Would you like me to be on my Tone?” We, surprised, chagrined, consented. He climbed over to the back seat, and perched himself upon my dressing-case. I drove gently while Belinda tucked him in. There he sat, on his Tone, balanced between the chicken for Sunday’s dinner and a box of tall tomato plants. There he sat, on liis Tone, till we came to a meadow of buttercups, in sunlight. He cried out, imitating Belinda, “Mr Kwistofer, go slowly,” for he knows what essential beauty is. When I moved on reluctantly he began singing—- “ Buttercups and daisies, oh, the pretty flowers, Coming in the spring-time, like that Queen of ours.” All the way lie sang—that and other songs—by himself, on his Tone. So I shall always hear him, see him, beginning to be un-dependent, singing liis way through the- Garden of England in springtime. When we reached Island Farm lie was like a wild thing; then, tiring, lie took my hand, and we looked at the rows of tulips and anemones, at the old pear trees in blossom, and the long lino of pink, flowering plums. When I climbed the stairs to bid him good-night (his cot faces the window) 1 began to smooth his doubled-up pillow.

“Please prop it up again,” lie said, “I like to go to sleep seeing the light.” » * » • “I like to go to sleeji seeing the light.” How we interact on one another. I had brought with me Frank Harris’s “Contemporary Portraits : Fourth Series,” and I had marked in it passages from his conversation with John Tyndall years ago. One was, “Pure light is not for human eyes. Light itself only gets its special quality from the resistance of innumerable atoms of matter.” Pure light is not for human eyes. Maybe the child is cognizant of this pure light; maybe he begins to see the atoms of matter when he begins to become un-dependent. V liile lie slept I took my Bible, and sought for the passage where a Hebrew prophet says that God is too pure to behold iniquity.