Back Aa

Marion, the Story of an Artist's Model

<h2>V</h2> “ELLEN, don’t you wish something would happen?” Ellen and I were walking up and down the street near the English church. “Life is so very dull and monotonous,” I went on. “My! I would be glad if something real bad happened—some sort of tragedy. Even that is better than this deadness.” Ellen looked at me, and seemed to hesitate. “Yes, it’s awful to be so poor as we are,” she answered, “but what I would like is not so much money as fame, and, of course, love. That usually goes with fame.” Ellen’s fiancé was going to be famous some day. He was in New York, and had written a wonderful play. As soon as it was accepted, he and Ellen were to be married. “Well, I tell you what I’d like above everything else on earth,” said I sweepingly. “I would love to be a great actress, and break everybod{23}y’s heart. It must be perfectly thrilling to be notorious, and we certainly are miserable girls!” We were chewing away with great relish the contents of a bag of candy. “Anyhow,” said Ellen, “you seem to be enjoying that candy,” and we both giggled. Two men were coming out of the side door of the church. Attracted by our laughter, they came over directly to us. One of them we knew well. He was Jimmy McAlpin, the son of a fine old Scotch, very rich, lady, who had always taken an especial interest in our family. Jimmy, though he took up the collection in church, had been, so I heard the neighbors whisper to mama, once very dissipated. He had known us since we were little girls, and always teased us a lot. He would come up behind me on the street and pull my long plait of hair, saying: “Oh, pull the string, gentlemen and ladies, and the figure moves!” Now he came smilingly up to us, followed by his friend, a big, stout man, with a military carriage and gray mustache. I recognized him, too, though we did not know him. He was a very rich and important citizen of our Montreal. Of him also I had heard bad things. People said he was “fast.” That was a word they always whispered in Montreal, and shook their heads over, but whenever I heard it, its very mystery and bad{24}ness somehow thrilled me. Ada said there was a depraved and low streak in me, and I guiltily admitted to myself that she was right. “What are you girls laughing about?” asked Jimmy, a question that merely brought forth a fresh accession of giggles. Colonel Stevens was staring at me, and he had thrust into his right eye a shining monocle. I thought him very grand and distinguished-looking, much superior to St. Vidal. Anyway we were tired of the French, having them on all sides of us, and, as I have said, I admired the blond type of men. Colonel Stevens was not exactly blond, for his hair was gray (he was bald on top, though his hat covered that), but he was typically British, and somehow the Englishmen always appeared to me much superior to our little French Canucks, as we called them. Said the Colonel, pulling at his mustache: “A laughing young girl in a pink cotton frock is the sweetest thing on earth.” I had on a pink cotton frock, and I was laughing. I thought of what I had heard Madame Prefontaine say to mama—in a whisper: “He is one dangerous man—dat Colonel Steven, and any woman seen wiz him will lose her reputation.” “Will I lose mine?” I asked myself. I must say my heart beat, fascinated with the idea. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i_033_sml.jpg" width-obs="236" height-obs="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /> <div class="caption">Looking at me he added: “May I send you some roses just the color of your cheeks?{25}” </div> </div> Something now was really happening, and I was excited and delighted. “Can’t we take the ladies—” I nudged Ellen—“some place for a little refreshment,” said the Colonel. “No,” said Ellen, “mama expects us home.” “Too bad,” murmured the Colonel, very much disappointed, “but how about some other night? To-morrow, shall we say?” Looking at me, he added: “May I send you some roses, just the color of your cheeks?” I nodded from behind Ellen’s back. “Come on,” said Ellen brusquely, “we’d better be getting home. You know you’ve got the dishes to do, Marion.” She drew me along. I couldn’t resist looking back, and there was that fascinating Colonel, standing stock-still in the street, still pulling at his mustache, and staring after me. He smiled all over, when I turned, and blew me an odd little kiss, like a kind of salute, only from his lips. That night, when Ellen and I were getting ready for bed, I said: “Isn’t the Colonel thrillingly handsome though?” “Ugh! I should say not,” said Ellen. “Besides he’s a married man, and a flirt.” “Well, I guess he doesn’t love his old wife,” said I.{26} “If she is old,” said Ellen, “so is he—maybe older. Disgusting.” All next day I waited for that box of roses, and late in the afternoon, sure enough, it came, and with it a note: <div class="blockquot"> “Dear Miss Marion: Will you and your charming sister take a little drive with me and a friend this evening? If so, meet us at eight o’clock, corner of St. James and St. Denis streets. My friend has seen your sister in Judge Laflamme’s office” (Ellen worked there) “and he is very anxious to know her. As for me, I am thinking only of when I shall see my lovely rose again. I am counting the hours! Devotedly, Fred Stevens.” </div> The letter was written on the stationery of the fashionable St. James Club. Now I was positive that Colonel Stevens had fallen in love with me. I thought of his suffering because he could not marry me. In many of the French novels I had read men ran away from their wives, and, I thought: “Maybe the Colonel will want me to elope with him, and if I won’t, perhaps, he will kill himself,” and I began to feel very sorry to think of such a fine-looking soldierly man as Colonel Stevens killing himself just because of me.{27} When I showed Ellen the letter, after she got home from work, to my surprise and delight, she said: “All right, let’s go. A little ride will refresh us, and I’ve had a hard week of it, but better not let mama know where we’re going. We’ll slip out after supper, when she’s getting the babies to sleep.” Reaching the corner of St. James and St. Denis Streets that evening, we saw a beautiful closed carriage, with a coat of arms on the door, and a coachman in livery jumped down and opened the door for us. We stepped in. With the Colonel was a middle-aged man, with a dry, yellowish face and a very black—it looked dyed—mustache. “Mr. Mercier,” said the Colonel, introducing us. “Oh,” exclaimed Ellen, “are you the Premier?” “Non, non, non,” laughed Mr. Mercier, and turning about in the seat, he began to look at Ellen and to smile at her, until the ends of his waxed mustache seemed to jump up and scratch his nose. Colonel Stevens had put his arm just at the back of me, and as it slipped down from the carriage seat to my waist, I sat forward on the edge of the seat. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by telling him to take his arm down, and still I didn’t want him to put it around me. Suddenly Ellen said:{28} “Marion, let’s get out of this carriage. That beast there put his arm around me, and he pinched me, too.” She indicated Mercier. She was standing up in the carriage, clutching at the strap, and she began to tap upon the window, to attract the attention of the coachman. Mr. Mercier was cursing softly in French. “Petite folle!” he said, “I am not meaning to hurt you—joost a little loving. Dat is all.” “You ugly old man,” said Ellen, “do you think I want you to love me? Let me get out!” “Oh, now, Miss Ellen,” said the Colonel, “that is too rude. Mr. Mercier is a gentleman. See how sweet and loving your little sister is.” “No, no,” I cried, “I am not sweet and loving. He had no business to touch my sister.” Mr. Mercier turned to the Colonel. “For these children did you ask me to waste my time?” and putting his head out of the carriage, he simply roared: “Rue Saint Denis! Sacré!” They set us down at the corner of our street. When we got in a friend of papa’s was singing to mama and Ada in the parlor: <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “In the gloaming, oh, my darling, When the lights are dim and low.” </div> </div></div> He was one of many Englishmen, younger sons{29} of aristocrats, who, not much good in England, were often sent to Canada. They liked to hang around papa, whose family most of them knew. This young man was a thin, harmless sort of fellow, soft-spoken and rather silly, Ellen and I thought; but he could play and sing in a pretty, sentimental way and mama and Ada would listen by the hour to him. He liked Ada, but Ada pretended she had only an indifferent interest in him. His father was the Earl of Albemarle, and Ellen and I used to make Ada furious by calling her “Countess,” and bowing mockingly before her. Walking on tiptoe, Ellen and I slipped by the parlor door, and up to our own room. That night, after we were in bed, I said to Ellen: “You know, I think Colonel Stevens is in love with me. Maybe he will want me to elope with him. Would you if you were me?” “Don’t be silly. Go to sleep,” was Ellen’s cross response. She regretted very much taking that ride, and she said she only did it because she got so tired at the office all day, and thought a little ride would be nice. She had no idea, she said, that those “two old fools” would act like that. I was not going to let Ellen go to sleep so easily, however. “Listen to this,” I said, poking her to keep her awake. “This is Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Ellen, and{30} they call her the Poet of Passion.” Ellen groaned, but she had to listen: <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “Just for one kiss that thy lips had given Just for one hour of bliss with thee, I would gladly barter my hopes of heaven, And forfeit the joys of eternity; For I know in the way that sins are reckoned That this is a sin of the deepest dye, But I also know if an angel beckoned, Looking down from his home on high, And you adown by the gates Infernal Should lift to me your loving smile, I would turn my back on the things Eternal, Just to lie on your breast awhile.” </div> </div></div> “Ugh!” said Ellen, “I would scorn to lie on Colonel Stevens’ old fat breast.{31}” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.