Western High School - Westward Ho Yearbook (Baltimore, MD)

Page 16 text:

I4 WESTWARD l-IO -a most interesting young woman posed- Russian nobility, and all that, but they are pen- niless, and such hordes of them. I had a won- derful time. jiust heaps of clothes from Paris. I'd never done it before, and I thought I ought to try it. The clothes were expensive, for I am far too extravagant. Then I came here, a dear little South-of- France town on the sea, with the quaint inn and all specifications. I paint always, and I am so happy. You would love it. Do you remem- ber, all those Qincredibly many, isn't it?j years ago, how we planned to go abroad, and it seemed such an improbable sort of thing? Well, here I've been, these fifteen years, off and on, and you aren't over yet. I came across one of your little poems the other day. Do you still write them? 1'm sending this one back, it might interest you. I think it's fine g you would surely have done something here. lt's conventional to ask after the admirable Clement, I suppose. Dear man, he never liked me. Suspected I would try to persuade you not to marry him, I think. As if anyone could have. You are disgustingly happy, too, aren't you? With that wonderful daughter, no won- der, she is an unusual girl, I'm convinced. I saw her-let's see, it's four years ago, and she was striking then, tho horribly young. I mean the goldy-haired one, of course, Lotis. Marion glowed. The letter was a glimpse of Nan herself, the superb egotist by profession, painter by trade, as she liked to style herself, the same Nan with whom she had eaten choco- lates in her high school days. She gathered the unread sheets closer in her lap and cupped her chin in her hand. It was so easy to remember the front porch of her father's house, where she had sat every pleasant afternoon, with a novel, a writing tab- let, a box-or more often a bag-of candy all within convenien't reach, a view commanding all local activity, and, within discreet calling distance Nancy Brake. And Nancy would come 'gliding 'across the grassy at least, she liked to fancy that it was gliding, and, to be sure, it was a very unique method of locomotion, and perhaps they would kiss languidly. Nancy had a migh'ty sketch book under an arm, of course, the contents of which were to be ex- hibited and criticized and commended, and presently there were Marian's verses to read, veryicarefully. Then, with a very charming air of reflection, Nan would sink gracefully on the step, and building conditions in Spain looked up. I'll have to study in Paris, too. of course. It's necessary to an 'artistic career. And you ought to come, too. Marian 3 it would help your poetry wonderfully. Atmosphere, you know. Perhaps we could go together, 'Marian would say. If Papa would send me,'when I've finished school. Aunt Hattie could chaperon us- Poor, broken castles! The Marian of fifty smiled at her comrade of fifteen. They had grown up rather rapidly, she and Nan, but the plans had endured-hers, only to fade-Ah, well! She had much in exchange. She had been nineteen when she had met Clement Vane, and presently she married him. She remem- bered! There had been a great veil of point lace, and her father's house filled with orange blossoms. She had written a sonnet on her wedding, and had shown it to Clement, and he had kissed her, scarcely reading it. You like my verses P she had asked, insisting. Don't you think they're good? Don't you think I should go on writing them P I think you should do just anything that gives you pleasure, he had said, and had kissed her again. There had been a honeymoon, of course, and then they returned to the little brick house that Clement's father had given them. There were little stands in the parlor for china orna- ments, and two crayon portraits staring for- biddingly, and a glass chandelierg there were also a series of diminutive colored girls by-the- day, and a hope, yet a little wistful, of a car- riage when we get on our feet, in a few years. They were not rich. Clement had explained that beforehand, but there was something so cheerful and comfortable about him, as if the world could not conceivably be hard to him, that she had waved the consideration grandly aside. She went eagerly to making beds and sweeping floors and cooking for Clement, and sometimes, in the evening, wrote a rhyme or two, and read them to him. Like them, Clement ? Um, fine. By the by, Marian, I heard today there's to be an opening in Sawyer's depart- ment, and I stand a chance. It's an increase, too. We could get the hall clock and a new evening d-ress for you. How would you like that? Oh, Clementll' The verses dropped. Oh, I do hope-I'll have blue velvet, just as I've always wanted! And the hall- After a bit she did not write any more, nor even think of it, except when she saw Nan, now and again. Nan had had her romance, too, a rather bitter one, that should, by the standards of the time, have broken her heart and set her languishing for life. It did not, however, for after a period of white-lipped

Page 15 text:

WESTWARD HO I3 Nonsense! Nonsense! I do think Clements awfully nice, but, goodness, I'ni not in love with anybody! VVe're only the best of friends, that's all. . . . . Thank you, Lotis said, and squeezed her hand, recalling her. She dropped a lump of sugar briskly into the tea and looked up. Don't mind, dear. Do you have to dress? It's a bit late, I fancy, and it takes you such ages. I'm so proud of you, Lotis! And the little book- another grandchild! She felt the tears coming again. There-kiss me-run along. Dinner at seven. I'll see you before you go, shan't I? Of course, said Lotis, going. She stood in the doorway a moment, slender and tall, smiling a little, her dark eyes dreaming. She was the dark-eyed one of them all, and the only blonde. Her hair was rather green-gold than yellow, straight and satiny, looped tight across her ears. No wonder Fred Emmond was losing his level young head about her. A nice boy, Emmond. Everyone said the same. Marian rose with a jerk. She was hearing rath- er too much of that nice boy of late. Then she smiled at herself: she supposed it was the way of mothers, when their daughters began to drift. Alicia now-but capable, common-sense Alicia had been so different, turning always more to Clement than to her mother. She returned to her own chamber, and to her little heap of gifts. The Tavern of Dreams was not laid with the common lot. Marian sat down at the window and opened the quaint little vol- ume almost reverently. The frail bits of rhyme sang up at her. Her breath caught. Oh, they're wonderful! Not only because of Lotis. I'm sure they're really art-yes-as if I didn't know! The little spark's ther-e: the publishers saw it: the re- viewers'll see it-future! Why, my baby has all the world in her two pretty hands ! She was past the maudlin sentimentality of tears now: as much critic as mother, she read quickly and intel- ligently, weighing values. The poems were snatches written during the later college days, merry little lyrics or sadder ones, all touched un- deniably with the little spark of true poetry. And I once thought I wrote verses. Marian thought. jingles! She looked out at the pleas- ant, fresh. First-day-of-spring world, Haunting her triumph at it. She's mv child, you know. She laughed. Going to make me share, aren't vou? All right: take her: but she was mine first! The world looked back, bland and amiable. Downstairs the bell rang. Marian heard Emmond asking for her daughter. His voice was pleasing, deen and easv and-well fed, somehow: as if'its owner were bound to get on well with Creation. Lotis, in the next room, called, just a minute, F red. We're going to be scandalously late, Emmond replied. Cou1dn t step on it a little, could you P All ready now, said Lotis, and flicked a kiss in at Marian's door as she whisked by. She was no more than a Hash of appl-e-green satin and vast hat. I-ler mother watched them drive away, ban- tering each other and laughing youthfully. I hope he appreciates that he's racing off with a favorite of the gods, Marian reflected, -the Mus-es, anyhow. I-Ier hand struck her pocket. Why, Nan's let- ter! I'd almost forgotten. It was dingy, and bore a French stamp 5 she tested its weight approv- ingly. Nice one, this time. A careless hand sprawled across many sheets. Marian settled herself expectantly. Chaligny-sur-Mer, March 10, 1925. Marion, dear old friend, I am the happiest woman alive. It came to me suddenly today as I was sketching in the held, and I said to myself, 'It is wonderful. I must tell somebody. I shall tell Marionf For I knew you would be interested, recalling those remark- able conversations we were wont to have before you committed yourself to the pleasant plump creature, your husband, and broke all the excel- lent plans you had made, and condemned me to a solitary globe trotting. My dear, do not believe that balderdash they are so fond of spreading in my country, about women who don't marry feeling 'an emptiness about the heart-a yearning to hold other people's babies.' It is quite false. There is a baby here at my inn. It belongs to an English couple, and I would not hold it for worlds. A more offensive little thing I never saw. Nor do I gaze with envy on the callow domestic bliss of its parents. 'He' is consumptive, I do believe, and in the Midi for his health, and 'she' is everlastingly busy with one sloppy concoction or another, for him or that child, and has most awful troubles with her nurse- maid. I have just Finished a divine picture, Marion -it is gone to Paris now, and all the critics say so, and it hangs in a spot of honor. But it is nothing, my dear, nothing, to the one I am doing now. I am mad about it myselfg I live it: it is all I ever hoped my painting could be. Oh, my dear, do you remember those hopes? It is so good to see them realized. Save me, I wax sentimental! I indulged in a real bout of feminine capers not so long ago. My picture was done at Monte Carlo-a moonlight thing, terrace and garden and figure in gauzy stuff on the porch

Page 17 text:

WESTWARD HO I5 silence, she shrugged away the thoughts of the offending man, and apparently never thought of him again. He had done no more than prefer a prettier girl, after all, and they had not even been engaged. She was studying art with a vengeance, and, when she came oc- casionally to visit Marian, talked art almost exclusively. She spoke, sometimes, at first, of her friendfs poems, but presently dropped the idea, as Marian definitely had. After all, what time had sihe for poet's fan- cies? There was Alicia, and then Paul, there was the financial crisis of taking another and larger house, there were so many things-oh, things, things, things! Her days were full of them, dear things, little surprises Clement was constantly arranging for her, unexpected gifts for the house, clever little devices for her own benefit. There was the garden to be laid out and tended, Clement did so love a garden. And he liked his children to look as if they had just stepped from under the hair brush. She would have liked simpler, more picturesque slips for the small pair, but Clement frowned a little un- til she dressed them in the rather ugly but con- ventional ruffles and lace of their day. Mil- lionaire's children they looked, he would say, proudly bearing them off for a Sunday walk. They clung close, adoring him, and she who had labored so long over them was glad of the pride they gave him. For he was so good to her! It became rath- er proverbial, his goodness, until she was aware, when she went abroad on his arm, of inevitable comment. That's the young Vane couple. Charming, aren't they? He's won- derful ito her, they say. just worships her. Marian knew he did. His first thought had been-well, perhaps not herself, but at least of their home. There were gifts for her, too, un- failing-birthday and anniversary and Christ- UIZIS. Lotis was three when they moved again. Clement said much about a man's position de- manding certain things, but she had shed se- cret sentimental tears over some of the things left behind. They had belonged to that first dear bridal house, and they were very near to her heart. In their stead were liner furnishings as befitted the new station, and Clement was very proud of it all. Then all at once the children had begun growing up: Alicia was putting up her hair. and Paul leaning towards long trousers: Lotis was writing rhymes on the margins of her text- books, and being reprimanded, and Clement had to speak to her severely about defacing public property. Don't be so harsh. Marian had pleaded. She hasn't done anything so very terrible, you know. His head was aching, for he had had a bad day. 'She must have it brought home to her, he said a little sharply. She'd better be pay- ing attention than scribbling that nonsense. He never quite understood Lotis. Marian did not herself. There was a depth of feeling in her golden-haired daughter at which she could only guess, and the eyes that dreamed at the spring sunshine could blaze with unmeasured pride or anger. She was the spirit of Marian's lost verses come alive, a reminder of the Muses where the Lares were supreme. Marian 'searched in her letter for the loose sheet on which Nan had copied her long-for- gotten poem. She was smiling a little con- temptuously at herself. I wonder I have the courage to read it, she thought, her gaze again on her daughter's book. She read it, and read it again. So long ago- so long ago! There was a knot in her throat, and the words blurred as she opened the little volume and laid her work with her child's. Her verses were as good as Lotis's, and she knew it. The knowledge made her a little mad, and a little frightened too. Lotis had written sure- ly and with beauty, but indeed, so had she. She put her fingers at her lips, sealing them, uncer- tain of her emotions. Her eyes fell on the heap of birthday pres- ents, she shuddered a trifle. It's-it's they. Things. For the first time she was looking down vistas, wide and wonderful, Might-Have- Beens. Nan's life cried out, I am the happi- est woman alive, and hers-hers was choked with things! She thought, I was so proud of them, rather pitifully, clutching desperately at her ravishing content, and her shining cars, her big white house, comfort, position, luxuries. Clement's gifts! Was she-was she breaking faith with Clement? But she knew that that was beside the question, for she was looking at her ideals shattered, and it was he she must accuse. He made gods of a charwoman's cares, she thought, and gave them to me to worship. Oh. dear heaven! And what have I now ? The book in her lap whispered, Haven't you nie? Lotis All she had, all she had, Lotis and a little book of poems. She thought again of her last-born, the dear and unfathomable, and then her breath caught again, for, like an imp of evil a little stray wisp of conversation rose up to taunt her. We're only the best of friends, that's all. Not that, cried Marian, putting up a hand