New Britain Herald Newspaper, September 23, 1924, Page 15

oy WON'T marry you!” said Marjorie, [ Wasn't that like her? 1 don't know another woman in all the world who would say that. However, though I would al- low such a statement from no one else, a ehap must permit something to the girl . whom he intends to marry, so 1 merely answered : 4 “I had no idea you wete so self-sacri- ficing."” \d “Poof!” said Marjorie. ““If you were the last man in the world, Tom Randolph, I should turn up my nose at you." I looked at the nose. ‘“No doubt,”” I told her. ‘I've always been lucky. I'm used to having pleasant little things turn up for me." Marjorie turned her white-shod foot on the veranda floor and pretended to look at the river, . It was one of those gilt-edged evenings in the first flush of real spring, you know, when the, air is heavy with new honey- suckle and the vines have just begun to screen the porch. ‘When—oh, you know! ““What will you give for my thoughts?'’ nsked Marjorie presently. \ I had wanted to make her talk first. That's why I had waited. The surest way to make a woman talk is to give her a chance. “I will give you my heart,” I vowed, ‘‘Nonsense,” she said. want to marry me?"’ “Well,”” I protested, ““I've got to do something." “‘But there are so many—"" ‘‘Not at hand, Marjorie, not at hand; and whatever I do must be done before next spring. ‘Manhattan Power and Electric has ewallowed half of my small patrimony and, vow that the time for dividends has ar- rived, is calmly taking its siesta. The Unimpeachable Life and Casualty Company is still staggering from its last round with the Young Investigator, champion heavy- weight of the world. And as for the final quarter of my estate, you ought to know what has become of the Arizona and Mon- tana Land Investment and Bonanza Farm Corporation. I can survive a twelvemonth, but after that I haven't the slightest idea what poor robin. will do then—do then.' “And g0, said Marjorie, ‘‘you propose tme."” “I propose TO you."” ‘““Are you sure it wouldn't be throwing good money afgsr bad?’ “It's throwing an empty purse into the mint. It's only just. Your own father was the man who got me into that glitter- ing Arizona—-"" “‘But you said yourself that that took only a quarter of your money."" ‘‘Precisely, There are four of you chil- dren. I am an equitable man. Your father got a quarter of my money. I shall ask bim for only a quarter of his. “Why do you ARJORIE smiled. ‘“‘And there's not time to seek elsewhere?'’ *‘Neither time nor capital.” “‘How about inclination?" We looked at the moon. s for inclination! golden—"" “‘Really, Tommie—"" 4 “Don't call me Tommie! If you do that again I shall stop at once.' “Tommie!" “Marjorie’'s mouth is petulant and in- genuous, daring and afraid, tempting and fugitive." “Tommie, if you don't stop—'" “And if you call me Tommie again I shall kiss you." ““Tommie!"" cried Marjorie—and I did it. After all, T am in love with Marjorie. I cannot .remember a time when I was not. I arose thoroughly satisfied. I am s glad!" 1 said. “‘About what?'’ asked Marjorie. ‘“‘About your surrender.’ “But I haven't surrendered.' “Why, you let me kiss you!" “‘Oh, well, a girl can’t always avoid—"" ‘‘Has there even been another man who—"" Her head shot up, chin thrust forward. “‘Well,” she said, *‘I should hope!" “Girl, girl," said I, ‘‘this is a terrible blow, and yet—and yet——""I waved away all her past heroically——'‘what do these others matter now?" “They may matter a good deal. I simply haven't surrendered. You see, I let you kiss me, but I didn't kiss you." *“Then 1 must begin all over again?"’ “You mustn't begin at all." “Marjorie,”" I said, “I have never left off. Why, we were sweethearts in pina- fores! I recollect distinctly how, when our nurses were gossiping and the ‘baby- carriages—"" “Go-carts, if you please, Tommie. I came a little after the day of baby-car- riages." “That's a detail. T remember, I say, how the go-carts were close together and you dropped your bottle on the bricks and cried and I—I handed over mine.” “‘First the milk to me and then the money to my father., Generous boy!" “Yes. And I remember how in kinder- garten Al But shé gave a cry of dismay. “You've skipped five years,’’ she said. *‘Don’t you remember the mud pies?"” “Of course,” I ,answered. ‘‘And the dolls’ house in the attic!” “You said my best doll was ugly.” “I was comparing her with her mis- tress.” “‘And—and you always would throw spit- balls at father.’ “I don't recollect that,’” I said. But I did. 1 should just then have liked to throw a sixteen-pound shot at her father for sell- ing me that Arizona gold-brick “Oh, yes!" insisted Marjorie. “Don’t you recall how he caught you and spanked you before all the girls and boys and how we all laughed and how you cried?”’ “No,” said I shortly. ‘“‘But I remem- Ner how my mother used to have to wash “Ah," T eald, Majorie's hair is P=<e Merely Marjorie your face and hands the instant you came within her reach. And, at any rate, I am now by way of getting square with your father—I am going to marry you." ‘ARJORIE ‘shook her glowing head. “‘No,"" she whispered. “‘Oh,,hang it! Don't be so selfish. It's unwomanly."" But she only shook her head. ‘“‘Stop that!" said I. “It's annoying. J'm not used to it, and it argues a poor vocabulary., Marjorie, is there another man?"’ “‘All of them.” “‘Bosh! Nowhere so much as in love is there safety in numbers. And it can't be because 1'm poor, since your father is rich enough for seven.' “It's not that,”” said Marjorie, “Then—oh, but this is impossible! It— it can't be that you're not in love with me?"’ Marjorie's little hands gripped the porch rail. Bending toward her o that her hair brushed my cheek I caught her scented whisper : “Tom,” (she said ‘Tom’!) ‘‘are you never really truly serious?’ “Marjorie, when you use that tone I am, geally, truly anything you happen to want. I can’t help myself, and it's not fair, because you know I can never hold out when you talk that way!' She looked up at me. ‘It doesn't much matter, Tom, whether I'm*in love with you or not; the point is that I'm not certain of you.” “Prove me!" said I. She gave me swiftly her little hand, firm, throbbing, warm. *“I will prove you,' she said. 1 cast one pitiful glance over my shouider as if to bid farewell to my last bridge burn- ing in the rear and then valiantly mur- mured, “Try!" ) “Tom,"" she questioned, ‘‘is there any chivalry left in this cynical world of ours?" 'VEN in the moonlight I could see the storm signals. “Yes," I said, ‘‘there is plenty of chivalry left; of course there is." She smiled. “‘TI'm glad of that because at heart I've never yet got over my school- girl dreams. I've always wanted my ideal. I've always wanted the man I loved to be a knight. I've always wanted him to wear my colors next his heart and then at my bidding to ride away for me on a quest. N “I'm very fond of traveling, Marjorie." “On a quest to fhe world's end, braving everything, courting every danger for my sake." ‘‘Marjorie,” said I, ‘““where do you want me to go?' ° The wing of embarrassment just brushed her brows. T told you,'' she said, ‘‘that I had—that other men had kissed 2 “Oh, piffie!" said I. “Yes," ghe persisted; ‘‘but there was one whom I rather liked. I—I wrote him a letter or two (we were engaged) and I wouldn't feel that the slate was clean un- less 1 had those letter: ) *‘Nothing simpler.’ “Write and ask for them. The man’s a gentleman, of course?” 1 asserted “Of course." “‘Well, then, what in thunder would he want—-"" “But, Tom," ' —and she looked at me with one of those thrillers again—"'it's not what he would want. It's that I want you to prove yourself.' “You mean,” I gasped, “that you want me to go and take those letters from him?" “It won't be necessary to take them, Tom. You'll only have to ask.” i “‘Suffering cats, Marjogie! \That's rather a large order, isn't it?"’ “It's my order. You see, it's probably all because of my weak, perverted pride, but 1 can’t overcome that. I was just a school- gitl—nobody ever knew anything about and—and I didn't break the engagement,’ “What?"* = “‘No, He broke it."” And then all of a sudden she just swayed into my arms. Oht well, it was weak perverted pride, of vourse. In the sun light the idea of my going to a man and saying that I was now myself engaged to B a certain young lady and would thank him for the letters which that young lady had written him—in the sunlight, I say, that would seem absurd, especially if 1 were alone. But in the moonlight, and with Mar- jorie nestling against my breast—well, then, somehow things looked different. “I'm going dear,” I told her. can I get a train?"’ ‘“You don't need a train. You can get there and back in your auto in three- quarters of an hour.”” “Who is it?"" “It—it's Mr. Stannard." Honesly, it was almost a shame to look grave after that. Good old homely Stan- nard, who had married my cousin Cicily, temper and all! Why, he would be only too glad—he would be scared hilf to death if T only—but then she wanted me to be serious. “‘Three-quarters of an hour?' I repeated. I shall be back in {wemty “YWhen + minutes.' And I was. The only thing that had wor- ried me was the thought that he might not have saved those letters—and that wouid have been a wound to Marjorie’s vanity for which, I suspected, I would have to suffer. But, some way or other, Stannard had kept a small corner for romance in his heart, and after two words from me he got the missives—there were only three of them— and handed them out over one of his ex- cellent juleps. After that there was a bit of trouble with the carburetor and I had to mess around considerably; but I made the trip and returned to the porch at the appointed inktant. Marjorie was waiting in the full glow of the electric from the drawing-room window. “Well,” I said with pardonable self-con- gratulation in my voice, ‘“I've done it." And I handed her the packet. She took it, looked at it, then lpoked at me and burst into sudden laughter. ~Yes, sir; just laughed. She tilted back her chin and parted her red lips and— Well, I sup- pose that, psychologically speaking, a laugh is a laugh no matter who laughs it. But Marjorie had on tap an assorted list of laughs. “What are vou laughing at, anyway? I can’t see anything funny.” “‘Certainly not,’" she gasped no mirror handy." “Indeed? I thought vou had seen my face once or twice before, but I never heard you make apy specific objections to it."" “‘But it—it's dirty. You have the fum- niest smudge of grease all the way from your ear to your chin—no, the other side!— and then when vou try to be serious—oh, you're only making it worse!" “‘The grime was gained in yc I resentfully explained, and I rubbed away a square inch of skin “Then go and wash I obeyed, came back together in a darker corner of the veranda. ““There's ur service,' d Marjorie. 1 we sat close ““And, Tom," she faltered, “'you don't— you replly don't mind?" “Mind what?"' ““Why, that when I was very, very young there should have been somehody else- “Absurd!" 1 interrupted, possessing myself of her quivering hand. *‘Why, we all go through a lot of those things.” “Oh!" enid Marjory, withdrawing her fingers. ‘‘ ‘All’“and ‘a lot'? Pray, what sort of a list is yours? 1 squirmed I—-1—" 1 stammered “Well, I never was exactly engaged at all!" “But you have tried to be “*Once—just once, honestly “Yes; that. I supy was an affair about which I've heard rumors; the Van trens- “I don't know the Van Astrens!" 1 declared. And, after all, I don't — any more. “H'm!" said Marjorie Properly rehearsed that may be a very effective syllable, and Marjorie was letter- perfect I kept silence. Marjorie kept silence Copyright. 19234, by Pub -&ri»)egxge(fifl . But Marjorie looked up smiling. “I’'m not taking on at all, papa,” she answered. “It’'s Tom who has taken me on, haven’t you, Tommie?” 1 fidgeted. Then Marjorie said: “I'm afraid it wql rain tomorrow, and I hate to travel in the rain.” ““You're not going away!" “Oh! Hadn't I told you?" “Well, hang it, then, since you want to be so literal, I did know Miss Van Astren —once."’ “I thought T had mentioned my going."” “But I didn’t know her well,"”" said I. *‘Papa thinks I need a change of air."”” “Or at any rate," I corrected myself, “not long." . ‘““And so,"" she went on, ‘‘I've de- cided: £ “Stap!" “Don’t you want to knowy where I'm going?"’ “I don't want you to go,” eaid I. “‘Really she began. “Oh, cut it!" I begged. all wbout it if you must know.’ “‘About my plans? How can you—" “‘About that little affair." “I had forgotten. You wanted to tell me—""" k “I didn’t want to tell you anything, Marjorie. You wanted me to- g “T beg your pardon, Mr. Randolph “I said: ‘You wanted me to tell you'— and I also said ‘Marjorie.” "' ““‘About Miss Van What's Her Name? I don't want to hear anything about her.” ‘Il tell you Sm: had plased i neatly—the trick by which the woman, because she wants him to do it, makes the man want to do what he doesn't want to do at all. But I knew that when a woman heats you the only way to regain her favor is to pre- tend that you haven't the remotest idea how she managed it “Marjorie,” I begged, “‘please lot me tell you!" “Very well,” she magnanimously -con- sented, “if you really think vou eught to and if you insist upon my listening I sup- pose T must.”’ So I did it. T told her how T had. as a boy just out of college, been a guest at the rich Van Astrens’, how I had rather liked the daughter of that house. how T had come very mear o proposing to that daughter and bew a moment later the gray Lord Dul- puddle had actually proposed and been actu- ally accepted At last: “‘lIs that a asked Marjorie She was confoundedly disinterested I guardedly replied, “‘ends my I thought there might he more.” said Marjorie, yawning. *I believe there gen- erally is.” **Marjorie,""—1 cor ed her grandly— “how do you know there ‘generally’ is? “Well, w Marsden Payne made love to me the last time—— *The last time “I beg your pardon, Tom; quite so: ‘Last!" " “I don't believe he made love to you at all!” “You are flattering 1 elutched both her hands and drew her, resisting, to her feet What do I care,” 1 cried, “‘about P Ntannard or about anybody who went ? Marjorie, I love you!" Ledger Company “Don’t, Tom," she whispered. “But I ean't help it."" “You can help telling me. How—how do you expect me to believe in you—now?"" “‘Oh, thunder, Marjorie! Why, that was ages ago: Three years at the very least. I was a mere boy." ¢ “Do you think youth is an excuse?’ ‘“Well, then, how about you and—old Stannard?"’ *‘Oh, but that was different! I was a girl.” She was: there could be no doubt about that. I held my tongue. ‘“‘And,"" continued Marjorie, ‘‘you wanted this woman to nfarry you."” “I didn’t know what I wanted.” ‘‘And she?" ‘‘No more did she.. The proof that she didn’t know what she wanted is the faet that she rather thought she wanted Dul- pudile.” “‘But how can I ever be sure?"” “‘Because I tell you so. If any one ought to know, it should be I. Please be reason- able, Marjorie. I say I didn't love her, and T was an eye-witness and ought to know."" Now you would suppose that would con- vince anybody. But not Marjorie. Oh, no! She just turned away. Again I waited. Waiting is the whole art of wooing. Pres- ently she looked up, ber blue eyes full of reproach : “Oh, me this? You see, m, why did you insist on telling HAT do you think of it? Waen't it enough to jolt the halo off the patron saint of patience? Even 1 almost gave way, but I recollected the peculiarity of ber sex, which forever believes what it wants to believe and never wants to be- lieve itself wrong. And 0 T answered : “Why did T insist on telling you, Mar- jorie? Because I don’t want to have any secrets, however innocent, from you.'" “Then," she sufficiently asked, *‘why didn’t you tell me before? “Oh, eome!" said I, “you packed me off too quickly to Stannard’s, and before that we weren't really engaged, you kmow ““Are we engaged now?"’ “0h, ties, but as a matter of course, there are a few formali- ACt— As a matter of fact.”” said Marjorie, drawing herself up to the top of her dignity, “‘there has been another formality which you have forgotten to mention. I speak of my consent But, Marjorie—"" I began— then stopped. What in the world was there to do? When a woman is offended ‘with vour actions you will only make her more angry by attempting an exj tion, and if you don't explain she'll think a satisfactory ex- planation is impossible “If you have anything to say.” com- manded Marjorie, vou had better say it now, because it is late and I leave by the first train in the morr 2 “You're not going away!" . 1 am under the impression that “I am 1 had explicitly told you so before you began sour—your shamef Oh, she was tremendously 1 bad no idea she could seem 155 mastered all my resources great by Reginald Wright Kanffmwan A e HIMSICAL and wholly beguiling and charming is Marjorie in her verbal fencing with “Tommie.” Lovable and capricious, she leads him, drives him and finally— but that’s the end of the story and that should never be told by an out- sider; let “Tommie” give you the climax. effort. Marjorie, no doubt, seeing the bat- tle-gleam in my eye, retreated to the door- way; but I relentlessly followed. “Marjorie,”” said I, as calmly as I could, “‘you said you wanted me to be your knight—"" “I said I wanted somebody to be.” “You said you wanted me to wear your colors next my heart; you said you wanted me to go forth on a what's its name, and ride away, and—and—and all that sort of thing. And I did it. By Jove, I did it without a protest! I set forth, I went to Stannard's. I—"" “In order words,”” said Marjorle, ‘‘yow ran your auto for twenty minutes."” “I did all that you had asked me to do." Marjorie sniffed. She sniffs adorably. Few women can, “I did all this,"” I pursued, snapping my fingers at the sniff, ‘‘and when I come back I am not only not even thanked, but am hauled over the coals for a flirtation which, if it ever occurred at all, occurred five years ago."” *‘You said three at first,”” corrected Mar- jorie. “To all intents and’ purposes,”” I pre tested, ‘it mizht lave been ten.” “You suir, “All rix! the amendment. A% all events ‘v a man, and now you throw “That 1 | were once up, Tommie. I looked a1 ! I, Deep, deep down in the violer ¢\ cuught the faintest flicker of -a half-doubting smile, Then her mouth twitched. But at that I lost my temper completely, for if there is one hard- ship I am not used to it is being made game of by a woman. I gripped her straight shoulders and shook her. “Marjorie !"" I ‘cried, ‘‘you’ve driven me too far! You got me started going back —I didn't want to go, and it's nobody's fault but your own. You got me back as far as the knights and things, and there I found I couldn’t stop. Now I'm at the period when men took what they ‘wanted— and I want you!" I stopped for breath. To tell the truth, I was frightened by my own words. And then I looked at Marjorie. It was won- derful ; it was simply amazing, but there could be no doubt about it—no shadow of uncertainty ; she was tickled to deathy Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes shonme, and for the first time since I tort a cat's paw from her childish pinafore, I saw the light of real admiration for me in her face. She flung her arms about my neck. ‘‘You dear old boy!"' she cried. ‘Do you really mean it?"’ It must have been louder than it sounded to me, for just as my arms went about ber, it brought merry old Father Dividends puffing into the hallway. ‘‘Why, why, why!” he blustered, and then, as he saw us doing the Young Love in the living picture stunt on the step: “‘Good heavens,’ daughter, what are yow taking on about?"” Bul Marjorie looked up smiling. “I'm not taking on at all, Papa,”” she an- swered. ‘‘It's Tom who has taken me om, baven't you, Tommie?" It had all come rather quick at the end, but I managed to hold it, once it was in my mitt. “That's right,”” said I turning to the Check-Book, but keeping a strangle- hold on the girl “Mr. Randolph?" asked Father, squint- ing. ‘‘How in Heaven's name do you ex- pect to live?” “Well, we haven't thought it all out vet,” 1 answered cheerfully, “‘but I calculate to begin by _selling you a little block of my stock in the Arizona and Montana Land Investment and Bonanza Farm Corpora- tion."" Must Be Understood by All _\ CHINAMAN was worried by a vicious- £ Jooking dog that barked at him in an angry manner “Don’t be afraid of bim,"" said a friend. You know the proverb, ‘A barking dog never bites." "’ “Yes,”" said the Chinaman, ‘you know the proverb and I know the proverb—but does the dog know the proverh?" Words of Wisdom GRIVATE BLANK,' said the Colonel severels, reprimanding a doughboy for a minor breach of military regulations. what would you do if I should teli that you were to be shot at sunrise?’’ 1" replied the Yank, watching the shadow of a grin steal over the officer’s face, “I'd sure pray for a cloudy day.’” +Col Truth TRANGER (to the office boy)—I wanna see the editor Office Boy—What editor? We got all kinds of editors around this nothin® but editors: just like the Mexican Army—e all generals and no privates. - i