SPLASHES OF INK

Southland Times, Issue 19690, 24 October 1925, Page 13

SPLASHES OF INK

LOVE. (By “Pansy.”’) Only two more days and I will be suffused with ecstasy. He said it would be Thursday, and to-day is Tuesday, or at least it was Tuesday; because now it is just morning—l heard the clock in the hall strike one—l simply can’t sleep, it would seem such awful sacrilege, somehow, to pass these preliminary hours in gross slumber when I want every minute to rejoice in and hoard and flaunt in the face of the gods, les, I do want every minute, and every teeny second, and hundredth part of a second to weave into my darling joy. Two more days—only two more days—just think of it! Never, never, as long as I live, will I forget the feeling that came over me when I first looked into his eyes. Betty just murmured our names, and oh! she really did!—she asked something most unutterably stupid about “had we met before!” And he just looked at me in a bewildered, breathless sort of way, and I just looked at him and wondered if he heard the simply awful beating of my heart. That moment was an eternity; our souls must have kissed and clung together; I remember I swallowed with an explosion, which sort of broke the spell, and we both looked away. The funny part about it was that Betty apparently hadn’t noticed a thing. I could have shrieked with laughter when she muttered something to me about never speaking to me again if I didn’t amuse him and take him off her hands for Heaven’s sake! Take him off her hands ? If she only knew! That night was just a soft sigh of ecstasy, exquisitely sweet. The band was quite uncannily sympathetic, too, because I remember it played soft, dreamy music, though I don’t know what. Our steps fitted divinely; at least, they didn’t “fit” at all—they just blended and were one heavenly whole, just as our hearts must have done that first time our eyes met. I don’t think our eyes ever lost the other’s for an instant the whole time. I know’ I was always conscious of his, even for the few awful minutes when the old Major came and insisted on him meeting his daughter—and she with such a hatefully common look, and wee piggy eyes w’hich I have even known some boys think attractive. But the glorious man! What do you think he did? I was watching and I saw—and I remember wondering if I betrayed the relief I felt, on my face. No, not relief, because that sounds just as if I doubted him; but when a girl gets her own father to find a man for her, heaven only knows what she would stop at! Some girls are simply terrible in the matter of boys. Well, he just bowed to her in the most fascinating way in the world, said something which I couldn't hear (and I didn’t like to ask him afterwards, in case he should think I was catty, when goodness knows I have nothing against the girl—she’s really a jolly good fellow, and has quite ripping parties at her home). Then he just bowed slightly again, and came back to me, with his eyes all soft and shiny! I can tell you I did feel sorry for her—l know I shouldn’t have liked to have that done to me.

When we were dancing it is funny how little we talked. Somehow we didn’t need to talk; —I was afraid that if we did, the spell might be broken —I wonder if all people in love are the same ? It was through our eyes we understood each other, his like golden brown velvet with the pile rubbed the other way. And they were sort of transparent and filmy, as if just very little below the surface there were tiny moons of radiance. That’s just what he was all over—radiant; and his eyes made me all hot and shaky with what they told me. The next day was perfectly gorgeous, and a dreamy purplish haze seemed to hover about everything when he arrived. The first thing I noticed was his legs. He had on plus fours, and the most beautiful sweater, all open unconsciously at the neck and showing the most adorable tan. But his legs! —Golly, it doesn't seem fair that a man should have such ankles when he keeps them covered all day—except in plus fours and riding breeches, of course—but then one simply doesn’t expect a man to have lovely fine supple ankles and the most gloriously curved legs. And here am I with ankles which make me weep every time I look at them. I wonder if he noticed? He said he didn’t. And his socks were the most ridiculously thick homeknitted ones, with an enormous cuff turned down. They matched his sweater divinely, in marled wools; could you imagine my legs in them!

And the sun seemed to take a delight in caressing his hair, all dark and shiny and soft. He wore it just a teeny bit longer than most boys, and it looked so sort of artistic and “different.” I wonder why other boys don’t think of things like that?—Or perhaps they haven’t the personality to set it off; —of course, I can realise everybody wouldn’t suit it. Love doesn’t make me blind, anyway.

I thought I’d never be able to live on when he went away. Everything seemed blank and big and empty, I remember I ate practically no lunch that first day. Just a lettuce and thin bread and butter, and a pear, I think it was. I just dreaded nighttime coming, and bed; I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink; it’s hateful lying in bed through the interminable hours of the night, longing and hoping—and crying—l always cry a lot when I’m miserable. My pillow was quite wet one morning. Anyway, there are only tw’o more days now—one more day and I should like to sleep all day to-day, for it to come to me the sooner. My room is all cleaned in readiness, and I have cleared the table at my bedside. At present it has only a fine lawn cover on it, pale pink to match everything else! I should like to sleep afr day; only I’m afraid it’s impossible. I promised Dicky Dodds I’d go to Selby’s this afternoon, to dance, and I suppose it_ would be most awfully mean to disappoint him. Poor boy, he’s such a dear, though he’s quite hopelessly keen, I feel so jolly mean about it, though of course I couldn’t help it, 'could I ? One more day, and then bliss. I’ll lock myself here in my little room alone afterwards, and won’t see another soul. • * » • His photograph arrived through the post this morning. He has a flat wart on the side of his nose. It’s a loathsome pig of a world—damnable! Oh, how’ I hate it!