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Marion, the Story of an Artist's Model

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<h2>XI</h2> THE winter was passing into spring and Reggie had been a regular visitor at our house every night. The family had become used, or as Ada put it “resigned,” to him. Though she regarded him with suspicion and thought papa ought to ask his “intentions,” she knew that I was deeply in love with him. She had wrung this admission from me and she expressed herself as being sorry for me. Because of Reggie’s dislike for everything connected with the stage, I had stopped my elocution lessons and I was making some money at my painting. We had had a fine carnival that winter, and I did a lot of work for an art store, painting snow scenes and sports on diminutive toboggans, as souvenirs of Canada. These American visitors bought and I had, for a time, all the work I could do. This work and, of course, Reggie’s strenuous objections kept my mind from my former infatuation. Then, one night, he took me to see Julia Marlowe in “Romeo and Juliet.” All my old passion{63} and desire to act swept over me, and I nearly wept to think of having to give it up. When we were going home, I told Reggie how I felt, and this is what he said: “Marion, which would you prefer to be, an actress or my wife?” We had come to a standstill in the street. Everything was quiet and still, and the balmy sweetness of the Spring night seemed to enwrap even this ugly quarter of the city in a certain charm and beauty. I felt a sweet thrilling sense of deep tenderness and yearning toward Reggie, and also a feeling of gratitude and humility. It seemed to me that he was stooping down from a very great height to poor, insignificant me. More than ever he seemed a wonderful and beautiful hero in my young eyes. “Well, dear?” he prompted, and I answered with a soft question: “Reggie, do you really love me?” “My word, darling,” was his reply. “I fell in love with you that first night.” “But perhaps that was because I—I looked so nice as Marie Claire,” I suggested tremulously. I wanted to be, oh, so sure of Reggie. “You little goose,” he laughed. “It was because you were you. Give me that kiss now. It’s been a long time coming.” I had known him three months, but not till that{64} night had we had an opportunity for “that kiss,” and it was sweet, and I the very happiest girl in the world. “Now we must hurry home,” said Reggie, “as I want to speak to your father, as that’s the proper thing to do, you know.” “Let’s not tell papa yet,” I said. “I hate the proper thing, Reggie. Why do you always want to be ‘proper.’” Reggie looked at me, surprised. “Why, dear girl, it’s the proper thing to be—er—proper, don’t you know.” There was something so stolidly English about Reggie and his reply. It made me laugh, and I slipped my hand through his arm and we went happily down the street. Just for fun—I always liked to shock Reggie, he took everything so seriously—I said: “Don’t be too cocksure I’ll marry you. I still would love to be an actress.” “My word, Marion,” said he. “Whatever put such a notion in your head? I wish you’d forget all about the rotten stage. Actresses are an immoral lot.” “Can’t one be immoral without being an actress?” I asked meekly. “We won’t discuss that,” said Reggie, a bit testily. “Let’s drop the dirty subject.” When he was going that night, and after he{65} had kissed me good-bye several times in the dark hall, he said—but as if speaking to himself: “Gad! but the governor’s going to be purple over this.” The “governor” was his father.{66} <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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