"What Say You to Falling in Love?"
Meg was looking ill, there was no doubt about it. Her pretty
pink-and-white complexion was losing its fresh look, a slightly
irritable expression had settled round a mouth that a few months
back had seemed made for smiles only. And terribly unromantic
fact, her nose was quite florid-looking at times. Now a heroine
may have the largest, deepest, and most heavily lashed eyes
imaginable; she may have hair in very truth like the gold "mown
from a harvest's middle floor"; she may have lips like cherries
and teeth like pearls, and a red nose will be so utterly fatal
that all these other charms will pass unnoticed. It cost Meg real
anguish of spirit. She carefully read all the Answers to Correspondents
in the various papers Aldith lent her in search of a remedy, but
nearly everyone seemed to be asking for recipes to promote the
growth of the eyelashes or to prevent _embonpoint_. Not one she
chanced on said, "A red nose in a girl is generally caused by
indigestion or tight-lacing." She asked Aldith to suggest something,
and that young person thought that vaseline and sulphur mixed
together, and spread over the afflicted member, would have the
desired effect. So every night Meg fastened her bedroom door
with a wedge of wood, keys being unknown luxuries at Misrule,
and anointed her, poor little nose most carefully with the
greasy mixture, lying all night on her back to prevent it
rubbing off on the pillow.
Once Pip had forced his way into demand a few stitches for his
braces which had split, and she had been compelled to wrap her
whole face hastily up in a towel and declare she had violent
neuralgia, and he must go to Esther or one of the servants. Had
he seen and known the cause there would have been no end to the
teasing.
Nowadays Meg spent a great deal of time in her bedroom, that she
had all to herself while Judy was away. In its privacy she
trimmed and retrimmed her hats, altered her dresses, read her
novels, and sat in front of the looking-glass with her hair down,
dreaming of being quite grown up and in love. For just now both
to Aldith, and herself that state of life seemed the only one
altogether lovely and desirable. Meg used to curl herself up in a
big easy-chair that had drifted to her room because its springs
were broken, and dream long, beautiful, hopeless dreams of a lover
with "long black lashes and a soldierly carriage." Of course it
was highly reprehensible to have such thoughts at the tender age
of sixteen, but then the child had no mother to check that erring
imagination, and she was a daughter of the South.
Australian girls nearly always begin to think of "lovers and
nonsense," as middlefolks call it, long before their English aged
sisters do. While still in the short-frock period of existence,
and while their hair is still free-flowing, they take the keenest
interest in boys--boys of neighbouring schools, other girls' brothers,
young bank clerks, and the like. Not because they would be good
playmates, but because they look at them in the light of possible
"sweethearts." I do not say English girl children are free from this.
By no means; in every school there may be found one or two this way
inclined, giggling, forward young things who want whipping and
sending to play cricket or dolls again. But in this land of
youthfulness it is the rule more frequently than the exception, and
herein lies the chief defect of the very young Australian girl.
She is like a peach, a beautiful, smooth, rich peach, that has come
to ripeness almost in a day, and that hastens to rub off the soft,
delicate bloom that is its chief charm, just to show its bright,
warm colouring more clearly. Aldith had, to her own infinite
satisfaction, brushed away her own "bloom," and was at present
busily engaged in trying to remove Meg's, which was very soft
and lovely before she touched it. The novels had taken away a
little, and the "Block" a little more, but, Meg was naturally
freshminded, and it took time to make much difference. Just now,
under her friend's tutelage, she was being inducted into the
delightful mysteries of sweethearting, and for the time, it quite
filled her some what purposeless young life. But it all ended
with an adventure that years afterwards used to make her cheeks
tingle painfully at the thought.
After the bi-weekly French lesson, as I have said, the two friends
used to come back together in the river-boat at five o'clock.
And by this boat there always came two boys by the name of Courtney,
and a third boy, Aldith's particular property, James Graham. Now
the young people had become known to each other at picnics and the
like in the neighbourhood, but the acquaintance, instead of
ripening on frequent meeting into a frank, pleasant friendship,
had taken the turn of secrecy and silly playing at love. James
Graham was in a lawyer's office, a young articled cleric of
seventeen in undue haste to be that delightful thing, a man.
He carried a cane, and was very particular about his hat and
necktie and his boots, which generally were tan. And he had
the faintest possible moustache, that he caressed with great
frequency; and that privately Aldith thought adorable. Aldith's
pert, sprightly manner pleased him, and in a very short time
they had got to the period of passing notes into each other's
hands and sighing sentimentally. Not that the notes contained
much harm, they were generally of rather a formal character.
"My dear' Miss MacCarthy," one would run--
"Why were you not on the boat yesterday? I looked for you till
it was no use looking longer, and then the journey was blank.
How charmingly that big hat suits you, and those jonquils at
your neck. Might I beg one of the flowers? just one, please,
Aldith.
Your devoted friend,
James Graham."
And Aldith's, written on a sheet of her note-book with a pink
programme pencil that she always kept in her purse, might be
no worse than:
"Dear Mr. Graham,
"What EVER can you want these flowers at my neck for? They have
been there all day, and are dead and spoiled. I can't IMAGINE what
good they'll be to you. Still, of course, if you REALLY care for
them you shall have them. I am so glad you like this hat. I shall
always like it NOW. Did you REALLY miss me yesterday? I had gone
to have my photo taken. Marguerite thinks it very good indeed,
but I am SURE it flatters me TOO much.
Yours truly,
L. Aldith Evelyn MacCarthy."
Now Mr. James Graham had a great friend in one of the before-mentioned
Courtney boys, Andrew by name. He was a handsome lad of eighteen,
still a schoolboy, but possessed of fascinating manners and a pair
of really beautiful eyes.
And, since his friend and companion Jim had taken to "having fun"
with "the girl MacCarthy," he objected to being left out in the
cold. So he began to pay marked attentions to Meg, who blushed
right up to her soft, pretty fringe every time he spoke to her,
and looked painfully conscious and guilty if he said anything at
all complimentary to her.
The other boy, Alan Courtney, was very tall and broad-shouldered,
and not at all good-looking. He had a strong, plain face, grey
eyes deeply set, and brown hair that looked as if he was in a
constant state of rumpling it up the wrong way. He was a University
student, and a great footballer, and he never diverted himself on
the long homeward journey in the way Andrew and his friend did.
He used generally to give a half-contemptuous nod as he passed
the little group, uncovering his head for the shortest possible
period consistent with civility, and making his way to the far
end of the boat. One time as he passed them Aldith was drooping
her lashes and using her eyes with great effect, and Meg was almost
positive she heard him mutter under his breath, "Silly young fools!"
He used to smoke at his end of the boat--cigars at the beginning
of term and a short, black, villainous-looking pipe at the end--and
Meg used secretly to think how manly he looked, and to sigh profoundly.
For I may as well tell you now as later what this foolish little
thing had done after a few months' course of Aldith and novels.
She had fallen in love as nearly as it is possible for sweet sixteen
to do; and it was with Alan, who had no good looks nor pleasant
manners--not Andrew, who had speaking eyes, and curls that "made
his forehead like the rising sun"; not Andrew, who gave her tender
glances and conversation peppermints that said "My heart is thine,"
but Alan, who took no notice whatever of her beyond an occasional
half-scornful bow.
Poor little Meg! She was very miserable in these days, and yet it
was a kind of exquisite misery that she hugged to her to keep it
warm. No one guessed her secret. She would have died rather than
allow even Aldith to get a suspicion of it, and accepted Andrew's
notes and smiles as if there was nothing more she wanted. But she
grew a trifle thin and large-eyed, and used to make copious notes
in her diary every night, and to write a truly appalling quantity
of verses, in which "heart" and "part," "grieve" and "leave,"
"weep" and "keep," and "sigh" and "die," were most often the
concluding words of the lines. She endured Andrew for several
reasons. He was Alan's brother for one thing, and was always
saying things about "old Al," and recording his prowess on the
football field; and Aldith might discover her secret if she gave
him the cold shoulder altogether. Besides this Andrew had the
longest eyelashes she had ever seen and she must have somebody
to say pretty things to her, even if it was not the person she
would have wished it to be.
One day things came to a crisis.
"No more trips on the dear old boat for a month," Aldith remarked,
from her corner of the cabin.
"This is appalling! Whatever do you mean, Miss MacCarthy?" James
Graham said, with exaggerated despair in his voice.
"Monsieur H---- has given the class a month's holiday. He is going
to Melbourne," Aldith returned, with a sigh.
Meg echoed it as in duty bound, and Andrew said fiercely that
hanging was too good for Monsieur H----. What did he mean by
such inhuman conduct, he should like to know; and however were Jim
and himself to maintain life in the meantime?
"It was James who speedily thought of a way out."
"Couldn't we go for a walk somewhere one evening--just we four?"
he said insinuatingly.
Aldith and Andrew thought the proposal a brilliant one; and though
Meg had at first shaken her head decidedly, in the end she was
prevailed upon, and promised faithfully to go.
They were to meet in a bush paddock adjoining the far one belonging
to Misrule, to walk for about an hour, returning by half-past seven,
before it grew dusk.
"I am going to ask you for something that day, Meg," Andrew whispered
just as they were parting. "I wonder if I shall get it."
Meg flushed in her nervous, conscious way, and wondered to herself
for a moment whether he intended to ask for a lock of her hair, a
thing Graham had already obtained from Aldith.
"What?" she said unwillingly.
"A kiss," he whispered.
The next minute the others had joined them, and there was no chance
for the indignant answer that trembled on her lips. She had even
to shake hands, to appear as if nothing had happened, and to part
apparently good friends.
"Half-past six sharp, Marguerite. I will never forgive you if you
don't come," Aldith said, as they parted at her gate.
"I--you--Oh, Aldith, I don't see how I can come," Meg faltered,
the crimson in her cheeks again. "I've never done anything like it
before. I'm sure it's not right."
But the curl, in Aldith's lip made her ashamed of herself.
"You're just twelve, Marguerite;" the young lady said calmly:
"you're not a bit more than twelve. You'd better get a roll again,
and a picture-book with morals. I'll ask Andrew to buy you one
and a bit of cord, too, to tie you in your high chair in the
nursery."
Such sarcasm was too much for Meg. She promised hastily and
unconditionally to be on the spot at the time mentioned, and fled
away up the path to obey the summons of the wildly clanging
tea-bell.
But for the two intervening days her secret hung upon her like a
burden of guilt, and she longed inexpressibly for a confidante
who would advise her what to do at this distressing issue. Not
Judy: that young person was too downright, too sensible, too much
of a child and a boy--she would never dare to tell her anything of
the sort. She could fancy the scorn in her sister's large clear
eyes, the ringing laughter such a tale would evoke, the scathing,
clever ridicule that would fall on her shrinking shoulders. Not
Esther: her very position as stepmother precluded such an idea,
and, besides that, the General's gums were gradually disclosing
wee white double pearls, and his health thereby was affected,
and causing her too much anxiety to allow her, to notice Meg's
oppression of mind.
By the night decided upon, the child had worked herself up into a
strong state of excitement. Half-past six was the time settled
upon, and, as she knew, it was broad daylight even then. She
felt she really dare not, could not go. Suppose her father or
Esther, some of her scornful young sisters or brothers, should
be about and see the meeting, or any of the neighbours--why, she
could never survive the shame of it! Yet go she must, or Aldith
would despise her. Besides, she had made up her mind fully to tell
Andrew plainly she could not allow him to talk to her as he had
been doing. After that last terrible whisper, she felt it
necessary that she should let him understand clearly that she did
not approve of his conduct, and would be "his friend," but
nothing more.
But why had they not thought of deciding on an hour when it would
be darker? she kept saying to herself: there would be no danger
of being seen then; she could slip out of the house without any
difficulty, and run through the paddocks under cover of the
kindly dusk; whereas if it was light, and she tried to creep away,
at least two or three of the children would fly after her and
offer generously to "come too."
At last, too afraid to go in the light, and unwilling for Aldith
to reproach her for not going at all, she did in her excitement
and desperation a thing so questionable that for long after she
could not think of it without horror.
"Dear Mr. Courtney," she wrote, sitting down at her dressing-table,
and scribbling away hurriedly in pencil:
"It would be horrid going for the walk so early. Let us go later,
when it is quite dark. It will be EVER so much nicer, for no one
will be able to see us. And let us meet at the end of the paddocks
where the bush grows thickly, it will be more private. I am writing
to Aldith to tell her to go at that time, she will tell Mr. Graham.
Yours sincerely,
M. Woolcot.
"P.S.--I must ask you, please, not to kiss me. I should be very
angry indeed if you did. I don't like kissing at all."
She wrote the last paragraph in a nervous hurry for she had a dread
that he might fulfil his promise, if she did not forbid him as soon
as they met. Then she slipped it into an envelope and addressed it
to A. Courtney, Esq., it never having even occurred to her for a
moment that there was anything at all strange or unconventional in
a young girl making such a point that the meeting should be in the
dark.
Next she wrote a few lines of explanation to Aldith, and told her
to be sure to be in the paddock by half-past eight, and she (Meg)
would slip out when the children were going to bed and unlikely
to notice.
And then she went out into the garden to find messengers for
her two notes. Little Flossie Courtney had been spending the
afternoon with Nellie, and Meg called her back from the gate
just as she was going home, and, unseen by the children, entrusted
the note to her.
"'Give it to your brother Andrew the minute he comes from school,"
she whispered, popping a big chocolate at the same time into
the little girl's mouth. Bunty was next bribed, with a promise of
the same melting delicacies, to run up to Aldith's with the other
letter, and Meg breathed freely ago feeling she had skilfully
averted the threatening danger attendant on the evening
meeting.
But surely the notes were fated! Bunty delivered his safely
enough to the housemaid at the MacCarthys', and in answer to
the girl's question "s'posed there was an answer, girls always
'spected one to nothing."
Aldith was confined to her room with a sudden severe cold, and
wrote a note to her friend, telling her how she was too ill to be
allowed out, and had written to Mr. Graham, and Mr. Courtney,
too, postponing the walk for a week.
Now this note, in its pale pink triangular envelope, was
transferred to Bunty's pocket among his marbles and peanuts and
string. And, as might be expected, he fell in with some other
choice spirits on the return journey, and was soon on his knees
by the roadside playing marbles.
He lost ten, exclusive of his best agate, fought a boy who had
unlawfully possessed himself of his most cherished "conny," and
returned home with saddened spirits an hour later, only to find
as he went through the gate that he had lost Aldith's dainty
little note.
Now Meg had promised him eight chocolate walnuts on his return,
and if this same boy had one weakness more pronounced than others,
it was his extreme partiality for this kind of confectionery, and
he had not tasted one for weeks, so no wonder it almost broke his
heart to think they would be forfeited.
"I know she'll be stingy enough to say I haven't earned them, just
'cause I dropped that girl's stupid letter," he said to himself,
miserably, "and I don't suppose there was anything in it but
'Dearest Marguerite, let us always tell each other our secrets';
I heard her say that twice, and of course she writes it, too."
Then temptation came upon him swiftly, suddenly.
By nature Bunty was the most arrant little storyteller ever born,
and it was only Judy's fearless honesty and strongly expressed
scorn for equivocation that had kept him moderately truthful.
But Judy was miles away, and could not possibly wither him up
with her look of utter contempt. He was at the nursery door now,
turning the handle with hesitating hands.
"What a time you've been," said Meg from the table, where she was
mending a boxful of her gloves. "Well, what did she say?"
Just at her elbow was the gay _bonbonniere_ containing the brown,
cream-encrusted walnuts.
"She said, 'All right,'" said Bunty gruffly.
Meg counted the eight chocolates out into his little grimy hand,
and resumed her mending with a relieved sigh. And Bunty, with a
defiant, shamed look in his eyes, stuffed the whole of the
sweets into his mouth at once, as if to preclude the possibility
of a sudden repentance.
The other note was equally unfortunate. Little Flossie went
home, her thoughts intent upon a certain Grannie bonnet Nell
had promised to make for her new doll.
"Gween with pink stwings," she was saying softly to herself as
she climbed the steps to her own door.
Alan was lying on the veranda lounge, smoking his black pipe.
"Gween what?" he laughed--"guinea-pigs or kangaroos?"
"Clawice Maud's bonnet," the little girl said, and entered forthwith
into a grave discussion with him as to the colour he thought more
suitable for that waxen lady's winter cloak.
Then she turned to go in.
"What's that sticking out of your wee pocket, Flossie girl?" he
said, as she brushed past him. She stopped a second and felt.
"Oh, nearly I didn't wemember, an' I pwomised I would--it's a
letter for you, Alan," she said, and gave Meg's poor little epistle
up into the very hands of the Philistine.