Oberlin College - Hi-O-Hi Yearbook (Oberlin, OH)

Page 18 text:

And a deucedly beautiful girl, by love! Lucky dufferf' Lucky chap. Most of the aforesaid conversation was pitched in a note perfectly audible to its subject, and Townley's frown looked like murder until the deucedly sweet voice recalled him to the civilities of life. Mr. Townley, Mr. Arnold. I have so long wanted you two to know one another, and lo! it is accomplished, and she waved her hands with mack solem-nity as if in blessing over the two manly ones which clasped each ot er. VVhat a little monk it is, eh Arnold ? said Townley, never taking his eyes from her face. Aye, in a dove-gray cowl, said the poet. Oh, thank you, gentlemen, laughed the girl, witha low courtesy, her ungloved hand upon her heart, the other holding the folds of her cloak from copious contact with the grime. Shall you always wear dove-gray and violet, Majorie ? Yes, Ted, until I am too old. Too old ! in concert from the men. She nodded gravely. And then-- And then P anxiously. And then I shall wear white and violets, perhaps. But what nonsense we are talking. And I've only two minutes more. Where are the train let- ters? You didn't forget P I-Iere is mine, said the newspaper artist, producing a box of Lowney's. Not being a genius or anything of that sort, I couldn't express just what I thought of Majorie Evans on paper, so I brought you these to eat and M onsfieuv' .Beaucaire to read. Won't they do just as well as eulogies, which, however, I might soar, would but cheapen, in trying to describe the loveliest being -and he finished his tirade with a comprehensive sweep of the arm which might mean anything or nothing. ' O, Teddie, Teddie! cried the girl, laughing until the tears stood in her eyes. I-Iow like the speeches of our mud- pie days! VVl1at is the matter? as a scowl darkened his face, and he moved over and planted himself directly be- tween Majorie and the face of an elderly man in a coach window several paces beyond. Nothing, only that old duffer in the window seems to take us for a comedy, and that window for his private box. Marjorie stood on tiptoe but could not see the offender in question, so she, merely laughed again and turned to Arnold. But you wrote me a letter, Floyd ? For answer he handed her a little cube-shaped box. I ' cultivated them for you myself, and today they knew you ,, were coming and bloomed, he said. 1 Not violets! she exclaimed, fairly jumping up and ' down like a child in a transport of joy. In August, too- O, Floyd, you are an angel, and I shall wear them here, placing her hand over her heart in a gesture that seemed ' characteristic of her. O, it's going to start-Floyd, Teddie -goodbye! She gave them each a hand in farewell, Floyd lifted her . to the step, and the train groaned, rocked, and started. As it 18

Page 17 text:

at Taken for cz Comedy. ITH a final puff of eicasperation and a Jolt of retaliation for past grievances, the great engine came to a standstill in stall No. 4. Among the hurrying figures that thronged the platform before u the station Ted Townley, the rising newspaper artist, was threading his way to stall No. 4. His characteristic, swinging gait, a bit more brisk than usual, if that were possible, his fresh white stock, straw hat, and gen- eral summer-at-high-noon attire, no less than the expression about his dark eyes and set jaw, testified that he was fighting the good fight with the world and winning, also his manner testified that he was anticipating a great Pleasure, and that his conscience was perfectly clear on the subject. For the first time I now have a right to let myself care for her, and, what is more, to tell her that I do, and he braced his shoulders at the thought as men do who have left the city's dust and strife and reached the clearer atmospheres of the midslopes of the mountains. Farther up the platform, his blue eyes dreamy with some happy recol- lection, his much-worn and many-times-brushed suit and soft felt hat sug- gesting, by very force of contrast, the white sailors and smart iiannels usually displayed upon such head and shoulders as were his, stood Floyd Arnold, the young poet whose delicate and beautiful verses were beginning to be read and loved by the cultured few, but whose obscurity and unsuccess -as the world counts it-was assured for years if not for a lifetime. In his hand he held a small florist's box, and as the train pulled in he removed his hat as if performing a religious rite. Almost the first person to alight from the train was a woman, and in- stantly that slight figure in the long gray cloak and scooped gray hat with the violets stacked upon it, appeared, the steps of Townley, the newspaper artist, and those of Arnold, the unrecognized poetical genius, converged toward it as a center of gravity. The girl in gray swept a glance over the crowd, saw the two men almost simultaneously, and was proud of them. Launcelot and Galahad, she murmured, and then aloud, as Townley reached her first and lifted her from the last step of the car, Dear old Ted- die! Wrenching a gray glove from her right hand, she extended it to Arnold looked up at him, and said the one musical monosyllable Floyd! which made two men in passing turn their heads in her direction and deliver themselves of the following brilliant remarks: Deucedly sweet voice. 7 ' ' 1

Page 19 text:

wg, pulled out, she leaned out to wave, and a tiny square of lace-edged linen fell between them. When the last coach had become a speck in the distance, Floyd Arnold stooped, picked up the little handkerchief which somehow seemed to exhale the breath of violets, and handed it to Ted without a word. The latter took a knife from his pocket, silently cut it in halves, and handing one of the pieces to Arnold with a card, said casually: That's my club address, old chap, glad to see you any timeff ' And this, my den, is always open to yon, repliedArnold,as he scratched on a piece of paper which he gave to the newspaper artist. They shook hands, and parted, each with visions of a brown-eyed girl in a gray cloak and a gray hat with violets stacked upon it, a girl who called them Floyd and Teddie and whom-men are honest with 'themselves-both dreamed of in a home, with this difference: the newspaper man saw a flat, the poet a cottage in a valley with a brook beside it banked with violets. And the girl? She paused a moment to wipe her eyes, then taking her bundles in one arm,, and opening the door with her free hand, she walked to the end of the coach and entered an apartment. Its only occupant was the elderly man who had proved so objectionable to Ted Townley a few minutes since. He looked up at her entrance. Little girl, are you sure, quite sure, you don't regret, I am so old- With a merry laugh, she placed one hand over his mouth, Dear Father Time, of course I don't regret it. They are dear boys. You were very merry together, you three. Certainly, dear, but I couldn't have married anyone but you for all the world. They will receive our announcements tomorrow, the ill news will come fast enough-and then-have a chocolate. Thoughtful of Ted to- get your favorite, wasn't it ? with another little laugh. Now for Floyd's, and she untied it with fingers that trembled slightly. She buried her face in the violets, then having pinned a great bunch over her heart, she gathered those in the bottom of the box together and placed them in Father Time's buttonhole. He smiled up at her. Now go to sleep, she said, lowering the blind to shade his eyes from the afternoon sun. I-Ie thanked her and slept. Marjorie picked up the pieces of Floyd's box and noted for the first time the inscription- For the soul of summer clouds and spring violets. Her head dropped quickly so that the chin touched the violets on the breast of the gray cloak. Presently she looked up with a quaint half sigh, half tearful smile, drew Ted's candy within reach, opened Mon- siczzr Beaucairc, and settled comfortably back in her corner. On the margin of the first page she scribbled : Gallahad -Launcelot-Father Time, and just beneath it: Poetry- Love-Suffering-Noon of my Wedding Day. - DELLA Er.oUIs1s PURCELI.. 10