Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 113, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 May 1910 — A Woman's “No” [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Woman's “No”

Cyril Otterson proposed to me for the first time at Henley Regatta. We were In a Canadian canoe, and Cyril pleaded his cause passionately into my left ear in the intervals between pushing boats and punts out of our path. Why he 'chose such a ridiculous time I have never understood, and I found it 'exceedingly difficult to convey my answer to him with the decision and clearness I should have liked —that answer being a decided negative. A widow of 23, with a tidy income, never lacks admirers of a sort; add a certain amount of gdod looks, which I know, without concert, I possess, and men become a positive nuisance. “No, Cyril, dear,” I said, “I really couldn’t. You know I like you awfully, and, what’s more, you amuse me, and, of course, we shall always be pals. But marrftige, dear, never again; so let’s leave it at that" , “All fight,” said Cyril, in that peculiarly aggravating way he has; “all right, old girl, but I’m a long Why from beaten, and you wait and see; I* shall marry you somehow.” The second time he proposed to me was in a box at the theater. It happened to be a very pathetic play, and Cyril, who has no idea of the fitness of things, kept whispering words oi love and adoration, while the audience were in a state of dreadful suspense as to whether an erring wife would return to her husband or no. When, I had the opportunity, which was during the entr’act, I said to him: “Now, Cyril, don’t be silly; you know quite well that I have given you my final answer.” Cyril said nothing much beyond reiterating his former statement that was the only woman in the world for him, and other nonsense of that z sort, and that he was not beaten. The third time that he proposed to me was in my own drawing room. He had been in a more or less dormant state for awhile, and that being so, I thought there was no great harm in asking' him to tea. We first of all talked about the usual banal ties; but, somehow, though I tried desperately hard to keep off dangerous topics, we soon found ourselves in deep water. “1 say, Muriel,” he said, Muriel belnjg my name, “it’s going to be beastly not seeing yM all October and No- \ *

vember,' and I’ve been thinking things over, and I have an idea, rather a good one, I think.” “Oh,” I answered’ “what’s the idea? Something sensible, I hope. You know my mind quite well on certain points." “Yes, I know all that, but, as a matter of fact, you don’t know yourself as well as I do. What are the plain facts? Firstly, that I simply adore the ground you walk on, that I am head over ears in love with you, with the complete You, mental, physical and spiritual, or, if you like it better, body and soul. I want your companionship all my life, and with it can do things, without it I can’t. Secondly, you are all alone, and you admit I amuse you; well,, then, why shouldn’t I amuse you perpetually? Anyhow, you can’t really suppose that I’m going to accept a negative answer. Why, Muriel, dear, it’s impossible, and if you won’t up your mind the way I want, then I am going to do It for you. I propose we get married on February 7. I’ll go ahead and make all the arrangements, and It’ll just give you time to clear off your engagements.” I must admit his cheek simply paralyzen me, and I said: “Now, look here, Cyril, you know I am quite fond of yop, but there is a limit even to friendship. The idea of your daring to make a cold-blooded proposition like that to me is simply staggering.” He made no direct reply, merely murmuring some nonsense about Monte Carlo having points over Cairo in the month of February. Then he buttoned up his coat, and said he must be off; kissed my hand—he’s never

dared to go farther than that—and said: “All right, Muriel, don’t worry; you’ll hear fro© me, and remember the seventh.” The next I heard of Cyril was about a month later, that being towards the end of November. He wrote a long letter, narrating all his shoots and so on, and then, if you please, ended up with the following postscript: “Don’t forget the 7th of February. lam quite sure that Monte will be more amusing than Cairo, unless you particularly want to go to Egypt. We shall have a ripping time, and 1 can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to it.” ? Of course, I had to answer, and likewise gave him my views on the matter in a postscript. It ran: “Don’t be an idiot. I hate silly jokes, and I don’t even knpw where I shall be on the date goo mention.” December passed off quickly, Cyril only writing once, saying he was making all his arrangements, and sending me a perfectly lovely bracelet—a flex-

ible gold snake with an emerald head hnd tiny ruby eyes. It was simply too fascinating, and, as Cyril said it was for Christmas, I saw no harm in keeping it, besides which I was fond of him in a Way. In January I was once inore back in town at my own flat, and he came to see me. He looked awfully fit and nice after his country spell, and never even referred to what I call unpleasant subjects till just as he was going, when he said casually, “Don’t forge', the date, dear, will you?” “I thought that joke was quite exploded,” I answered uneasily, for somehow there was something very compelling about him, which I wished to hide from myself. “Exploded, dearest; what do you think I am about?” and he caught me by the hands and looked straight into my eyes. “Don’t you know the truth yet, that I love you with every fiber of my being, and don’t you also know that I’m going to make you love me every bit as much?” With his dparture, a feeling that I had been very near the brink of surrender overcame me, and I began to allow to myself that my life was at times more than a little lonely, and, that being looked after by Cyril had its points. Day by day I turned the question over in my thoughts, and day by day I found myself weakening. Moreover, I had seen np more of him, and he had not even written. Men don’t realize what a weapon is theirs—one which always conquers the weaker sex the feeling that perhaps they are not paying one as much attention as heretofore. In fact, I was becoming actually worried—it was not the end of January and I had made no plans. Somehow I felt disinclined to, and the most absurd part was that I found myself packing mechanically all my prettiest dresses, to the astonishment of my maid, who asked me where I was going. I said Monte Carlo, which I positively hoped now was true. February came and still no news, with the result that I began to work myself into a fever. It seems almost incredible, but the silence remained unbroken till the evening of the 6th, when I received a telegram containing three words, “Remember the 7th!” Remember, why I had done nothing but think of it all the time, and now, at the very last minute, came a message like that. The man must be mad; how could one be married at a minute’s notice? I spent a horrible night, and came down ip the morning feeling miserable, and, What was much worse, ugly. About 10 o’clock in walked Cyril, calm and collected as though It was a most ordinary proceeding. “Well, little girl,” he said, “are you coming? I’ve got a special license from doctors’ commons, and we’ve just time to get married, have a bite of lunch at The Berkley, and catch the afternoon Continental express.” I went.—Alan Sethbridge in M. A. P.

I WENT.