THE SILLY AGE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3862, 20 March 1928, Page 85

THE SILLY AGE.

By

Emily Baizeen.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.) “ You’ll be back to supper, Tessa ? ” “ No, I shan’t. I’m doing a theatre with Mr Clayton. Don’t wait up; I shan’t be in till all hours.” The soft brown eyes of Tessa’s mother shone wistfully. “ You aren’t going with him alone 1 ” she asked. “Good Lord, no! It’s a foursome, with Dora Miller and Danny Lawson. Don’t fuss, mother! This is our silly age, you know—but we know how to take care of ourselves nevertheless.” Helen Verney sighed resignedly and made herself remember once more that it was the year 1928, not 1898. She also tried not to mind the untidy state of her daughter’s bedroom. The “ silly age ” —well! “ It’s Mrs Brown’s day to turn out your room, Tessa,” she said, glancing uncomfortably around at the disorder. Her own “ silly age,” she supposed, would be the same as her daughter’s, if she remembered rightly, only—she was never ►'> untidy, she never used slang expressions, she never smoked cigarettes, she never used face powder. “ Silly ages ” were different then. Tessa, before the glass, dressing, heard her mother’s sigh. “ My room’s an awful piggery, I know,” she responded, “ but I can’t wait to tidy it up now; I shall be. late for office. You can rummage in my drawers and cupboard, if you like 'to tidy them before Mrs Brown comes. Good-bye, mother.” Tessa caught up her bag and soft new “ mushroom ” wrap, presented a hurried cheek for her mother’s kiss, and ran off to the nearest tram stop. Tessa was secretary in a city office. Most of her friends lived in rooms of their own, and she had often been invited to set up house with one or another; but so far she had refused. Mrs Verney, a widow, was ready to make any sacrifice to keep her only child at home. She looked round the untidy room with a smile and a sigh. Bed tumbled, towels flung on the floor, diawers ajar, with garments trailing out of them, soapdish full of cigarette ash, burnt matches in a breakfast cup. “ A place for everything and everything in its place,” was the rule for a lady’s room, taught to Mrs Verney by her mother in the ’nineties of the nineteenth . century! But modern girls are different, she told herself once more, and she began to wed parted pairs of her daughter’s shoes in a neat row. Half of Tessa’s expensive poudre de Ninon was spilt on the dressing-table; her mother, with a little grimace (she always used lavender water or eau-de-Cologne) brushed it up and put the pots straight. AV hat worthless, absurd treasures were stuffed into Tessa’s untidy boxes! Endless programmes of dances, theatres, concerts; withered flowers, cigarettes, old gloves, and photographs by the score, mostly signed. Mrs Verney found herself able to construct to-night’s party, for all the guests figured in Tessa’s gallery. Danny Lawson, a pleasant-faced boy; no harm in him. Dora Miller, a slight little creature, with dancing eyes, hunched up in her pyjamas under a boyish haircut, a cigarette between her lips; not much harm in her, either, though Mrs Verney wished she wouldn’t smoke so much. Lastly, shuffled under the paper lining of the drawer,-a photograph, not a snapshot, of an elderly man, handsome, and even modernly rakish he looked, in spite of his years. Tessa had scrawled across it in her sprawling hand, the name of her host of this evening, John Clayton. Mrs Verney looked at it with a faint frown before putting it awaj T . The next bundle was of a half-made lilac silk evening coat; Tessa was evidently making it for her mother. She woyld never have it ', finished in time for a Christmas gift, of course, but Mrs Verney flushed with pleasure to know that she was not quite banished from her daughter’s thoughts. Yes, she did love her mother, though she might be too modern or too ashamed to own it. Mrs , Verney rolled up the tissue-paper with . tears in her eyes. Then she drew out a white velvet jewellers’ box and opened it. She gasped in utter astonishment. “ I didn’t know Tessa had a pearl necklace! Why—but these are real, and new! ” Mrs Verney had not always been poor; she knew these round gleaming pearls which she had found in her daughter’s drawer. “ They are real,” she said again to herself. “They did not cost less than one hundred guineas, prebably more!” She turned them over, curiously. On a tiny pink card was written: " A . Christmas compliment; from J. C.” There was also a crumpled note pushed into? i the same box with the pearls. “A ' reassuring sign, this carelessness,” her

mother thought hopefully, “but I must open this.” She unfolded the letter. “ Pretty child, here is something pretty to wear at my party. Put those imitation things of yours behind the fire. I don’t like them. These will suit you better. About Christmas Eve. We meet your friends as usual for the play and for supper, I suppose, and then we all go on to my place for the party. I would like you to go with me alone sometime. You failed me last week, my dear, but I hope you will not do so again. I shall be in on Friday between 12 and 2; ring me up, and let me know your decision. I shall not ask you again. Also your decision about Friday evening. Yours, J. C.”

Mrs Verney sat down, trembling, hiding her face in her hands. Tessa, youthful, beautiful. He was old! Oh, she ought to have been a better mother! She had-been too neglectful. She must never be so again. She stopped. Was she starting too late? After a long time of troubled thought, she stirred and looked at her watch. It was 12 o’clock, and this was Friday. She rose and went quietly to her room. She dressed in excellent taste, modish and becoming—a black silk street coat, a black hat, good shoes, and a long French grey scarf. She placed the box of pearls in a mauve suede handbag, and went out. In the tram she asked the conductor to put her down at the Fendalton bridge. John Clayton’s house was not far from that stop, and straight to John Clayton’s house she was going. She was a pretty woman still, tall and slight, with a fair skin and sweet brown eyes; and a trick of bending towards people when she spoke, half gracious and half timid. “ Elegant ” was the word one needed to describe her, and that elegance was as far out of date in her daughter’s set as the church catechism.

Twice she raised her hand to Mr Clayton’s door bell and dropped it again before she dared ring. The door was opened by a man-servant. “ Is your master at home? ” “He is, madam. What name shall I sav ? ”

“ Say, the lady he was expecting to call him on the telephone.” She was shown into a luxurious room, full of pictures, books, and Howers. •

She heard the servant speaking outside, and another voice answering; a curious low voice with a wide range of tones. The speaker entered quickly and paused. “ I beg your pardon; I was told a friend wished to see me.”

“ I’ve come from her.” “ From—? ” “ From the lady you were expecting to call you on the telephone.” “Oh!” His manner was remotely courteous. “Won’t you sit? You have a message ? ” Helen Verney offered the white velvet box. “ I came to return this.” “She sends it?” “ No, .1 bring it. I am her mother.” Helen raised her eyes as she spoke. The owner of that curious voice had a curious face, individual, refined, fastidious, of a type as unlike the Danny Lawsons of Tessa’s acquaintance as a violin is to a banjo. It was difficult to tell his age, but he was certainly nearer to Helen than to her daughter. And yet he wanted Tessa with her beautiful untidy head. These thoughts flashed through the mind of Tessa’s mother, who was not blind to her daughter’s imperfections, nor when the stress came was she timid. John Clayton had daunted her until she saw him, but she was not afraid now. “ I did not know she had a mother,” he said. “ Most young girls have mothers, Mr Clayton.” “ That is indisputably true, though in dealing with these modern young ladies one is apt to forget it—as they do thems.clves.” “Is that meant for an excuse?” asked Helen fixing her brown eyes on his face. “No. I’m not in the.habit of making excuses. May I know what you have come to say ? ” “ You have an engagement for this evening ? ” He assented. “ I want you, please, to break it.” He did not reply. He was lounging against the mantelpiece, one arm thrown out, an indolent figure, yet full of vitality. Helen was aware that he was watching her. “Is that what you came primed to say?” “ No, not exactly.” “ What then ? ” “I—l came ” she faltered. “I was going to warn you that we weren’t quite friendless; that my daughter has. kinsmen—protectors who would call you to account ”

“ OJb you meant to put the fear of God into me by threatening me with a threshing ? But when you saw me you thought better of it. I am flattered.” “ I didn’t think better of it. I thought better of you.” “Of me?” “Yes. You have kind eyes. “Kind? I?” '

“ Trustworthy.” “A rake with a heart of gold?” he suggested. “ I don’t care. You can laugh at me if you like, but I know I’m right. You may have done cruel things—wicked things perhaps—but you won’t do this.” “ You are a widow’ ? ” he said irrelevantly. “Why—yes, of course; my husband would have ” “There, there! So he would have been here instead of yourself, I know. What, then, is your pleasure ? ” “ I want you to break your engagement for to-night. To break it rudely so that it can’t be renewed.” He looked at her with an odd expression. That will hurt like_ the devil, you know—l beg your pardon, I should not have said that.” . “ I’m not afraid of giving pain W’here it is necessary,” she answ’ered. “You’re not afraid of much, are you? And there, pat to the moment, is the telephone bell.” He walked across to the instrument. “Halloa! Yes, John Clayton speaking. You’ll come to-night?" So sorry, but I’m afraid it’s off. I met a lady this morning I hadn’t seen for years, and not having heard from you I settled to dine v.ith her. What? No, I’ m afraid I can t break the engagement. You’re disappointed? Let me send round the tickets to Lawson or Bancroft. Yes, Bancroft, of course. He’ll be quite delighted to take my place. That doesn’t please you either? Oh, my dear child, you take things too seriously. Bancroft admires you immensely; he has been longing for the chance. What ? Oh, certainly, if you wish it. I never force myself on a woman. It’s good-bye, then? You’re sure you won’t think better of it about Bancroft? Oh, very well verv well!” y He hung up the receiver and turned round smiling. “ Oh, that was cruel! ” said Helen under her breath. “ That was cruel.” “ You asked me to be decisive,” he reminded her. Tes, but to offer her to another man. Oh, don’t you understand anything at all about women? My poor little girl! ” “Never mind. Tart medicine, but it will do her good. Sit for a moment; vou are shaken.”

Helen sat because her knees gave way. “ When one tugs at a and it opens suddenly one is apt to collapse,” was his dry comment. She felt his arm round her, strong and supporting; a steady hand held a glass of water to her lips. . . It was pleasant, but after a moment Helen drew herself away. “Thank you, lam better now, I must get home. I ought to be before my poor little girl gets back.” He gazed at her wistfully— oddly. “ You feel yourself indebted to me perhaps ? ” He spoke low and gently. “ You owe me gratitude for what I have done.”

“ I don’t owe you gratitude for what jou have done,” said Helen, gently also. “ I owe you much for the wav vou have done it.” '

“Oh is that the form? Well, for whatever cause, I am not anathema to you. You might be willing to do me a small favour—a small service? The truth is lam in a difficulty. You heard me say I was engaged to' dine with a lady. It is a whim of mine to speak the truth. Know this then, dear madam, I wouldn’t have broken off an engagement with yourself had I been so fortunate as to have had one, not for all the gold or mothers on earth. Within the last half-hour I have met my ideal in woman—yourself! You believe me’ Anyhow, I wish to speak the truth. Will you enable me to do so? ” .. ‘ 1 what ? ” Helen gazed at him blankly; then for a delicious moment she allowed herself the pleasure of reading the genuine admiration and grave reverence in his eyes. She was lonely in some way it suddenly seemed to her, and this man’s tenderness was soothing to her sore heart.

“Will you dine with me to-night’ It would be a very great pleasure to dine with a lady; it is a long time since I met one.

Helen’s brow cleared; she smiled at him.

“ Tessa’s mother ? ” she said. “ Whv now could I possibly? Don’t chaff me’ Mr Clayton. I am not a sport—for a moment I really thought you meant it.” He said no more, only gave her her gloves and bag, and held open the door Helen with her sweet, shy smile, offered her hand. He took it, and, to her inexpressible confusion, bent and touched it with his lips.

“ You are pleased to turn me down, dear lady, but you do know that I meant what Ive said. I was never less inclined to chaff anyone in mv life; and you know that too. Goo'd-bye ” he said. j » j.* * * “Mother! Where are you? Is there any tea going? I haven’t had a drop, and I’ve got a beast of a head.” 111 make you some in a moment, darling; but aren’t you back early? You said you were going to the theatre? ” “ It’s off,” Tessa said glumly. “ That’s why I didn’t get any tea. I had to go round and tell Dora. lam disappointed. Clayton does things so toppingly—— taxis everywhere. Oh, bother him! I’d like some , tea,” she said again as she flung off into her room to remove her gloves and coat.

Mrs Verney looked after her in despair. How to cope with this generation ? Tea! Was that consolation for the message' Of that afternoon? Teal When Tessa

missed the pearls the explanation would be so easily vanquished. Helen suddenly laughed. Tea,” she said, “ and cigarettes! ” A faint whiff of smoke issued from her daughter’s room. Mrs Verney sobered again as abruptly as she had laughed. ‘ He said I was his ideal woman,” she mused. “How strange! I do hope he didn’t guess how pleasant his remarks were to myself. I think it must be our 'silly age,’ too. Tea’s ready, Tessa dear! ”