Ladies first is a safe rule, so we will start with Mary.
My earliest recollection of this young woman dates back
twenty-and-I-won't-say-how-many-more years, at which time she
entertained our neighbourhood by reciting nursery rimes--"Twinka,
twinka, yitty tar," and all the rest of that stuff.
I knew then that she was an extremely bright child for her age. Her
mother told me so. I used to hold her on my lap and let her listen to my
watch, and the cordial relations which existed then have lasted ever
since. She doesn't sit on my lap any more, of course, but you understand
what I mean.
I watched Mary lose her baby prettiness and her front teeth. I watched
her pass through that distressing period when she seemed all legs and
freckles, to emerge from it a different being--only a little girl still,
but with a trace of shyness which was new to me, and a look in her eyes
which made me feel that I must be growing a bit old.
About this time I was astounded to learn that Mary had a beau. It was
the Hawley kid, who lived on the next block. His parents had named him
William, after an uncle with money, but from the time he had been able
to walk he had been called Bill. He will always be called Bill, because
that's the sort of fellow he is.
As I remember him at the beginning of his love affair Bill was somewhat
of a mess, with oversized hands and feet, a shock of hair that never
would stay put, and an unfortunate habit of falling all over himself at
critical moments. He attached himself to Mary Brooke with all the
unselfish devotion of a half-grown Newfoundland pup, minus the pup's
rough demonstrations of affection.
He carried Mary's books home from school, he took her to the little
neighbourhood parties, he sent her frilly pink valentines, and
once--only once--he stripped his mother's rose garden because it was
Mary's birthday. It also happened to be Mrs. Hawley's afternoon to
entertain the whist club, and she had been counting on those roses for
decorations. If my memory serves me, she allowed Mary to keep the
flowers, but she stopped the amount of a florist's bill out of her son's
allowance of fifty cents a Week. The Hawley's are all practical people.
Mary's father used to fuss and fume and say that he hoped Bill would get
over it and park his big clumsy feet on somebody else's front porch, but
I don't think he really minded it as much as he pretended he did. Mrs.
Brooke often remarked that since it had to be somebody she would rather
it would be Bill than any other boy in the neighbourhood. Even in those
days there was something solid and dependable about Bill Hawley; he was
the sort of kid that could be trusted, and more of a man at sixteen than
some fellows will ever be.
During Mary's high-school days several boys carried her books, but not
for long, and Bill was always there or thereabouts, waiting patiently in
the background. When another youngster had the front porch privilege
Bill did not sulk or rock the boat, and if the green-eyed monster was
gnawing at his vitals there were no outward signs of anguish. We always
knew when one of Mary's little affairs was over because Bill would be
back on the job, nursing his shin on Brooke's front steps and filling
the whole block with an air of silent devotion. I suppose he grew to be
a habit with Mary; such things do happen once in a while.
Then Bill went away to college, and while he was struggling for a
sheepskin Mary entered the debutante period. Some of the women said that
she wasn't pretty, but they would have had a hard time proving it to a
jury of men. Her features may not have been quite regular, but the
general effect was wonderfully pleasing; so the tabbies compromised by
calling her attractive. They didn't have a chance to say anything else,
because Mary was always the centre of a group of masculine admirers, and
if that doesn't prove attraction, what does?
In addition to her good looks she was bright as a new dollar--so bright
that she didn't depend entirely on her own cleverness but gave you a
chance to be clever yourself once in a while. Mary Brooke knew when to
listen. She listened to Waddles once, from one end of a country-club
dinner to the other, and he gave her the dead low down on the reformer
in politics--a subject on which the old boy is fairly well informed. I
think his fatherly interest in her dated from that evening--and
incidentally let me say it was the best night's listening that Mary ever
did, because if Waddles hadn't been interested--but that's getting ahead
of the story.
"There's something to that little Brooke girl!" he told me afterward. "A
society bud with brains! Who'd have thought it?"
Bill came ambling home from time to time and picked up the thread of
friendship again. It grieves me to state that an Eastern college did not
improve his outward appearance to any marked extent. He looked nothing
at all like the young men we see in the take-'em-off-the-shelf clothing
ads. He was just the same old Bill, with big hands and big feet and more
hair than he could manage. He danced the one-step, of course--the only
dance ever invented for men with two left feet--but his conception of
the fox trot would have made angels weep, and I never realised how much
hesitation could be crowded into a hesitation waltz until I saw Bill
gyrate slowly and painfully down the floor. Mary always seemed glad to
see him, though, and we heard whispers of an engagement, to be announced
after Bill had made his escape from the halls of learning. Like most of
the whispering done, this particular whisper lacked the vital element of
truth, but the women had a lovely time passing it along.
"Isn't it just too perfectly ideal--sweethearts since childhood! Think
of it!"
"Yes, we so seldom see anything of the sort nowadays."
"There's one advantage in that kind of match--they won't have to get
acquainted with each other after marriage."
"Well, now, I don't know about that. Doesn't one always find that one
has married a total stranger? Poor, dear Augustus! I thought I knew him
so well, but----"
And so forth, and so on, by the hour. Give a woman a suspicion, and
she'll manage to juggle it into a certainty. Shortly before Bill's
graduation, the dear ladies at the country club had the whole affair
settled, even to the probable date of the wedding, and of course Mary
heard the glad news. Naturally, she was annoyed. It annoys any young
woman to find the most important event of her life arranged in advance
by people who have never taken the trouble to consult her about any of
the details.
At this point I am forced to dip into theory, because I can't say what
took place inside Mary's pretty little head. I don't know. Perhaps she
wanted to teach the gossips a lesson. Perhaps she resented having a
husband pitchforked at her by public vote; but however she figured it
she needn't have made poor old Bill the goat, and she needn't have
fallen in love with Russell Davidson. Waddles says it wasn't love at
all--merely an infatuation; but what I'd like to know is this: How are
you going to tell one from the other when the symptoms are identical?