THE NAME UPON THE PETTICOAT
So imagine me seated in a grassy corner, with my knapsack open on the
ground and my petticoat and silk stockings spread out in front of
me,--an odd picture, to be sure, for any passer by to come upon. I
suppose I could have passed for a pedlar, but undoubtedly it would have
been very embarrassing. However, as it happened, I remained
undisturbed, and was able to examine my purchases at leisure. I had
never seen a petticoat so near before,--at all events I had never given
one such close attention. What delicious dainty things they are! How
essentially womanly--as I hope no one would call a pair of trousers
essentially manly.
How pretty it looked spread out on the grass in front of me! How soft!
how wondrously dainty the finish of every little seam! And the lace!
It almost tempts one to change one's sex to wear such things. There
was a time indeed, and not so long ago, when brave men wore garments no
less dainty.
Rupert's Cavaliers were every bit as particular about their lace
collars and frills as the lady whose pretty limbs once warmed this
cambric.
But where is the name? Ah! here it is! What sweet writing! "Sylvia
Joy, No. 6."
Sylvia Joy! What a perfectly enchanting name! and as I repeated it
enthusiastically, it seemed to have a certain familiarity for my
ear,--as though it were the name of some famous beauty or some popular
actress,--yet the exact association eluded me, and obviously it was
better it should remain a name of mystery. Sylvia Joy! Who could have
hoped for such a pretty name! Indeed, to tell the truth, I had dreaded
to find a "Mary Jones" or an "Ann Williams"--but Sylvia Joy! The name
was a romance in itself. I already felt myself falling in love with
its unseen owner. With such a petticoat and such a name, Sylvia
herself could not be otherwise than delightful too. Already, you see, I
was calling her by her Christian name! And the more I thought of her,
the stronger grew the conviction--which has no doubt already forced
itself upon the romantic reader--that we were born for each other.
But who is Sylvia, who is she? and likewise where is Sylvia, where is
she? Obviously they were questions not to be answered off-hand. Was
not my future--at all events my immediate future--to be spent in
answering them?
Indeed, curiously enough, my recent haste to have them answered had
suddenly died down. A sort of matrimonial security possessed me. I
felt as I imagine a husband may feel on a solitary holiday--if there
are husbands unnatural enough to go holidaying without their
wives--pleasantly conscious of a home tucked somewhere beneath the
distant sunset, yet in no precipitate hurry to return there before the
appointed day.
In fact, a chill tremor went through me as I realised that, to all
intent, I was at length respectably settled down, with quite a
considerable retrospect of happy married life. To come to a decision is
always to bring something to an end. And, with something of a pang,
resolutely stifled, I realised for a moment the true blessedness of the
single state I was so soon to leave behind. At all events, a little
golden fragment of bachelorhood remained. There was yet a fertile
strip of time wherein to sow my last handful of the wild oats of youth.
So festina lente, my destined Sylvia, festina lente!