Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 January 1911 — Love and Literature [ARTICLE]

Love and Literature

By MARTHA McCULLOCH-WILLIAMS

(Copyright, 1910, by Associated Literary Press.)

If Clarisse had been an ordinary young woman she would . have screamed at what the opening door revealed. Two men, one short and gruff of countenance, the other tall, dark and sinister, stood at her desk, wrenching at the top of it. For a wonder, she had locked it before going out —even though the thought of burglars had hot entered her mind. She knew other bungalow folk had suffered from them —but being by nature unapprehensive, moreover just then supremely occupied with her own concerns, she had not taken time to be afraid. Instead of screaming, she stepped briskly forward. saying in her quietest voice: “Don’t spoil my lock.” “Then hunt us up the key. And be quick,*’ the tall man answered, not turning his head. The other rumbled out: "Young woman, unless your boss wants to lose tenants —’’ “Who are you? I have no boss. And this place is mine—l won’t have tenants —not even if they let themselves in with Jimmies,” Clarisse flung at him, too angry to think of risk. At her words the tall man wheeled. “Isn’t this Sandslope?” he demanded. Clarisse shook her head. “Do you keep a rogues’ directory?” she asked with withering emphasis. “If you do, get a map as\ well. Sandslope is no doubt worth your attention. I hear the man who furnished and ran away from it had the most beautiful things.” “So! We’re in the wrong box—the wrong bungalow, madame. We beg pardon—at least a thousand times,” the tall man said. The gruff fellow gasped: “Lady—could you, would you—show us—that beast of a place?” Clarisse shook her head. “Against the rule of good neighborhood,” she said. “But the policeman may be more obliging—possibly he’ll take you by it, on the way to prison.” “Prison!” the short man exploded. The tall one touched his arm. “Remember, appearances are all against .us,” he said, “Still. I hope these” (pulling cards and letters from his pocket) “will convince our involuntary hostess we are not the burglars we seem.” Clarisse looked up from the cards, her eyes dancing. “To think an editor, a real live one, was trying to break into my desk! Oh dear, Mr. Dare, you’ve had trials and tribulations with things that are inside it. You don’t know my penname—l shan’t tell you. But if you are really going to live at Sandslope, you may as well know just now that I’m Clarisse May.” “Miss May—we won’t forget you—not while life lasts. This,” nodding to the short man, “is John Dreyer—” “Not the artist! I never, never will believe it!” Clarisse murmured, flinging up her hands. Dreyer grinned. “I know I’m a lot better looking than my pictures—still they ought to have saved me from suspicion.” “But you see, I got Just a glimpse of your profiles—and then the thing you were doing,” Clarisse expostulated. Dreyer nodded. “I know,” he said. “But we were hunting for keys—everything was locked up—and that idiot who let us Sandslope told us we’d find all sorts of keys—in the desk.” “I’ll show you Sandslope now—in fact. I’ll take you to it," Clarisse cried, exultantly. “It’s right across from here, but on me avenue, not the street. They have the same name— Linden. No wonder you mistook the house. Until you learn the distinction, I make you free of my habitation." “You don’t live here all alone?” Dare said, judicially. Clarisse shook her head. '"Except sometimes,” she said. “This is one of the times —Lee Ventress, my housemate, is subject to social aberrations. Went for a house party last Friday week, and hasn’t got back—” “Meantime you?” Dreyer asked, suppressing an Inclination to whistle. “Why, I just stay at home with my murgly inK-and-pen folk—and have good ti 68,” Clarisse expounded. “No, I’m sever lonesome. If I were there is the policeman. You’ll laugh to see him —he’s most eighty and looks like Father Time himself.” “You left your door on the latch! Isn’t that rather hazardous —in spite of Father Time?" Dare asketf. Clarisse looked at him with twinkling eyeb. “Everybody down here knows I write for a living.” she said. “That is why sight of you amazed me so. I’m like the*man who said when the burglar came: ’Wait! If he finds anything IH get up and take It away from him.’ ” “H-m! This must be seen to—at once,” Dare said severely. Dreyer half whispered to Clarisse: “How many stories can you write in six weeks? We are here for that long. Make hay while the sun shines.” “I shan’t!" Clarisse said, with a pout that became her wonderfully. “What’s the use of writing stories, new stories, when you have in hand several varieties—none of them mar ketable?" '

“Say, what do you livo on? Crabs and moonshine?” Dreyer demanded. Clarisse answered promptly:’ “Oh, bread and cheese and kisses mostly—my banty rooster supplies the kisses, besides being a general guardian.*’ Then with a subtle change of manner she added: “You see, I have just enough to starve on if I do nothing at all. So please don’t pnt me in the mendicant class, which says: ‘Buy my wares else I starve.’ ” “Contrariwise—you belong among bloated capitalists,” Dreyer said teasingly. Clarisse waved her hand. “There Is Sandslope—and a frantic agent in the door, looking for you,” she said. “Now —I can leave you with a quiet mind.” Thus was it all begun. After such a ''beginning formality was impossible—even before the aberrant Lee came home, Dare and Dreyer were as much at ease in Sun Flower as at Sandslope. Lee’s appearance did not make them less so. The four,- indeed, coalesced spiritually from the first —there were rides, walks, sails, crabbing parties, expeditions after for actual fresh vegetables. An auto which had seen many much better days wheezed about with them or halted at its convenience. Clarisse wrote hardly anything. She had kept her word —Dare knew no more of her penname than in the beginning. Drever had tried clumsily to find out from other bundaloafers — but without success —Miss May wrote things they knew —but where they were printed, or how, or when, they really couldn’t say. Once Dare set a trap for her — asked her to copy on her machine some fragments of verse. He knew that there was indiv .duality In such work —but Clarisse returned him sheets so fairly written', so letter-per-fect, they betrayed nothing. Moreover, they were in unusual type—small, yet most distinct, with each word double-spaced. Looking narrowly about Sun Flower at his next call, he discovered that there were two machines —a battered veteran, and a span-new creature of the lightest make. It was the new maqhine which had done his work—Clarisse admitted so much readily. Beyond that she would not go—neither would she let Dare use the older instrument. . -4 —■ - —— “You are here to play, not work,” she said. “Besides, you can afford to hire typing—in the interest of unorganized labor, I forbid your doing it yourself." Ther> had been no touch of sentiment, nor indeed of anything hut good companionship in the summer. Notwithstanding, Dare found himself fathoms deep in love. Clarisse had fascinated him from the first scornful 100k —yet. It seemed he must lose her. Try as he would, he could“not pierce her armor. Up to a certain point she was frank as the sunlight—and quite as companionable. Beyond that he could not pass—yet somehow he was sure that she cared. In the assurance he took a desperate chance. Lee and the happy Dreyer, openly her slave, had gene for a sail. Dare, stretched on the sand, chin in hands, half raised himself, saying slowly, and covertly watching Clarisse: “This is the last day of summer. I’m going back tomorrow—so as to have things in shape for my wife." “There! I’ve felt all along you were an angel. Now my premonitions are justified,” Clarisse said, but the eyes watching her had seen her start; seen the quick white that settled about her lips, only to vanish as they smiled. Dare got up not quite steadily. “I’m glad you approve my plan,” he said. “Of course, you’re the one possible wife for me. Please don't think you have to reject me, by way of getting even about the stories.” “Waitr Maybe you’ll reject me—when you know,” Clarisse cried. “I do try to write real stuff —I have sent you heaps of it. But my bread and cheese comes out of—almanacs. I make jokes for them —the worst ever. Now that you know, what have you to say?” "Only this—l love you.” Dare answered.