Excited, and happier than I had
been for weeks. But when I had settled myself in the Library, with
the paper in front of me, I could not think of anything to say in
a letter. So I wrote a poem instead.
"To H----
"Dear love: you seem so far away,
I would that you were near.
I do so long to hear you say
Again, `I love you, dear.'
"Here all is cold and drear and strange
With none who with me tarry,
I hope that soon we can arrange
To run away and marry."
The last verse did not scan, exactly, but I wished to use the word
"marry" if possible. It would show, I felt, that things were really
serious and impending. A love affair is only a love affair, but
Marriage is Marriage, and the end of everything.
It was at that moment, 10 o'clock, that the Strange Thing occurred
which did not seem strange at all at the time, but which developed
into so great a mystery later on. Which was to actualy threaten my
reason and which, flying on winged feet, was to send me back here
to school the day after Christmas and put my seed pearl necklace in
the safe deposit vault. Which was very unfair, for what had my
necklace to do with it? And just now, when I need comfort, it--the
necklace--would help to releive my exile.
Hannah brought me in a cup of hot milk, with a Valentine's malted
milk tablet dissolved in it.
As I stirred it around, it occurred to me that Valentine would be
a good name for Harold. On the spot I named him Harold Valentine,
and I wrote the name on the envelope that had the poem inside, and
addressed it to the town where this school gets its mail.
It looked well written out. "Valentine," also, is a word that
naturaly connects itself with AFFAIRS DE COUR. And I felt that I
was safe, for as there was no Harold Valentine, he could not call
for the letter at the post office, and would therefore not be able
to cause me any trouble, under any circumstances. And, furthermore.
I knew that Hannah would not mail the letter anyhow, but would give
it to mother. So, even if there was a Harold Valentine, he would
never get it.
Comforted by these reflections, I drank my malted milk, ignorant of
the fact that Destiny, "which never swerves, nor yields to men the
helm"--Emerson, was stocking at my heels.
Between sips, as the expression goes, I addressed the envelope to
Harold Valentine, and gave it to Hannah. She went out the front
door with it, as I had expected, but I watched from a window, and
she turned right around and went in the area way. So THAT was all right.
It had worked like a Charm. I could tear my hair now when I think
how well it worked. I ought to have been suspicious for that very
reason. When things go very well with me at the start, it is a sure
sign that they are going to blow up eventualy.
Mother and Sis slept late the next morning, and I went out
stealthily and did some shopping. First I bought myself a bunch of
violets, with a white rose in the center, and I printed on the card:
"My love is like a white, white rose. H." And sent it to myself.
It was deception, I acknowledge, but having put my hand to the
Plow, I did not intend to steer a crooked course. I would go
straight to the end. I am like that in everything I do. But, on
delibarating things over, I felt that Violets, alone and
unsuported, were not enough. I felt that If I had a photograph, it
would make everything more real. After all, what is a love affair
without a picture of the Beloved Object?
So I bought a photograph. It was hard to find what I wanted, but I
got it at last in a stationer's shop, a young man in a checked suit
with a small mustache--the young man, of course, not the suit.
Unluckaly, he was rather blonde, and had a dimple in his chin. But
he looked exactly as though his name ought to be Harold.
I may say here that I chose "Harold," not because it is a favorite
name of mine, but because it is romantic in sound. Also because I
had never known any one named Harold and it seemed only discrete.
I took it home in my muff and put it under.