THE AGONY COLUMN
by Earl Derr Biggers
CHAPTER I
London that historic summer was almost unbearably hot. It seems, lookingback, as though the big baking city in those days was meant to serve asan anteroom of torture--an inadequate bit of preparation for thehell that was soon to break in the guise of the Great War. About thesoda-water bar in the drug store near the Hotel Cecil many Americantourists found solace in the sirups and creams of home. Through theopen windows of the Piccadilly tea shops you might catch glimpses ofthe English consuming quarts of hot tea in order to become cool. It is aparadox they swear by.
About nine o'clock on the morning of Friday, July twenty-fourth, in thatmemorable year nineteen hundred and fourteen, Geoffrey West left hisapartments in Adelphi Terrace and set out for breakfast at the Carlton.He had found the breakfast room of that dignified hotel the coolestin London, and through some miracle, for the season had passed,strawberries might still be had there. As he took his way through thecrowded Strand, surrounded on all sides by honest British faces wetwith honest British perspiration he thought longingly of his rooms inWashington Square, New York. For West, despite the English sound of thatGeoffrey, was as American as Kansas, his native state, and only pressingbusiness was at that moment holding him in England, far from the countrythat glowed unusually rosy because of its remoteness.
At the Carlton news stand West bought two morning papers--the Timesfor study and the Mail for entertainment and then passed on into therestaurant. His waiter--a tall soldierly Prussian, more blond than Westhimself--saw him coming and, with a nod and a mechanical German smile,set out for the plate of strawberries which he knew would be the firstthing desired by the American. West seated himself at his usual tableand, spreading out the Daily Mail, sought his favorite column. The firstitem in that column brought a delighted smile to his face:
"The one who calls me Dearest is not genuine or they would write to me."
Any one at all familiar with English journalism will recognize at oncewhat department it was that appealed most to West. During his threeweeks in London he had been following, with the keenest joy, the dailygrist of Personal Notices in the Mail. This string of intimatemessages, popularly known as the Agony Column, has long been an honoredinstitution in the English press. In the days of Sherlock Holmes itwas in the Times that it flourished, and many a criminal was trackedto earth after he had inserted some alluring mysterious message in it.Later the Telegraph gave it room; but, with the advent of halfpennyjournalism, the simple souls moved en masse to the Mail.
Tragedy and comedy mingle in the Agony Column. Erring ones are urged toreturn for forgiveness; unwelcome suitors are warned that "Father haswarrant prepared; fly, Dearest One!" Loves that would shame by theirardor Abelard and Heloise are frankly published--at ten cents aword--for all the town to smile at. The gentleman in the brown derbystates with fervor that the blonde governess who got off the tram atShepherd's Bush has quite won his heart. Will she permit his addresses?Answer; this department. For three weeks West had found this sort ofthing delicious reading. Best of all, he could detect in these messagesnothing that was not open and innocent. At their worst they were merelyan effort to side-step old Lady Convention; this inclination was sorare in the British, he felt it should be encouraged. Besides, he wasinordinately fond of mystery and romance, and these engaging twinshovered always about that column.
So, while waiting for his strawberries, he smiled over the ungrammaticaloutburst of the young lady who had come to doubt the genuineness of himwho called her Dearest. He passed on to the second item of the morning.Spoke one whose heart had been completely conquered:
MY LADY sleeps. She of raven tresses. Corner seat from Victoria,Wednesday night. Carried program. Gentleman answering inquiry desiresacquaintance. Reply here. --LE ROI.
West made a mental note to watch for the reply of raven tresses. Thenext message proved to be one of Aye's lyrics--now almost a dailyfeature of the column:
DEAREST: Tender loving wishes to my dear one. Only to be with you nowand always. None "fairer in my eyes." Your name is music to me. Ilove you more than life itself, my own beautiful darling, my proudsweetheart, my joy, my all! Jealous of everybody. Kiss your dear handsfor me. Love you only. Thine ever. --AYE.
Which, reflected West, was generous of Aye--at ten cents a word--and instriking contrast to the penurious lover who wrote, farther along in thecolumn:
--loveu dearly; wantocu; longing; missu--
But those extremely personal notices ran not alone to love. Mystery,too, was present, especially in the aquatic utterance:
DEFIANT MERMAID: Not mine. Alligators bitingu now. 'Tis well; delighted.--FIRST FISH.
And the rather sanguinary suggestion:
DE Box: First round; tooth gone. Finale. You will FORGET ME NOT.
At this point West's strawberries arrived and even the Agony Columncould not hold his interest. When the last red berry was eaten he turnedback to read:
WATERLOO: Wed. 11:53 train. Lady who left in taxi and waved, care toknow gent, gray coat? --SINCERE.
Also the more dignified request put forward in:
GREAT CENTRAL: Gentleman who saw lady in bonnet 9 Monday morning inGreat Central Hotel lift would greatly value opportunity of obtainingintroduction.
This exhausted the joys of the Agony Column for the day, and West, likethe solid citizen he really was, took up the Times to discover whatmight be the morning's news. A great deal of space was given to theappointment of a new principal for Dulwich College. The affairs of theheart, in which that charming creature, Gabrielle Ray, was at the momentinvolved, likewise claimed attention. And in a quite unimportant corner,in a most unimportant manner, it was related that Austria had sent anultimatum to Serbia. West had read part way through this stupid littlepiece of news, when suddenly the Thunderer and all its works became anuninteresting blur.
A girl stood just inside the door of the Carlton breakfast room.
Yes; he should have pondered that despatch from Vienna. But such a girl!It adds nothing at all to say that her hair was a dull sort of gold; hereyes violet. Many girls have been similarly blessed. It was her manner;the sweet way she looked with those violet eyes through a battalion ofhead waiters and resplendent managers; her air of being at home herein the Carlton or anywhere else that fate might drop her down.Unquestionably she came from oversea--from the States.
She stepped forward into the restaurant. And now slipped also intoview, as part of the background for her, a middle-aged man, who wore theconventional black of the statesman. He, too, bore the American labelunmistakably. Nearer and nearer to West she drew, and he saw that in herhand she carried a copy of the Daily Mail.
West's waiter was a master of the art of suggesting that no table in theroom was worth sitting at save that at which he held ready a chair. Thushe lured the girl and her companion to repose not five feet from whereWest sat. This accomplished, he whipped out his order book, and stoodwith pencil poised, like a reporter in an American play.
"The strawberries are delicious," he said in honeyed tones.
The man looked at the girl, a question in his eyes.
"Not for me, dad," she said. "I hate them! Grapefruit, please."
As the waiter hurried past, West hailed him. He spoke in loud defianttones.
"Another plate of the strawberries!" he commanded. "They are better thanever to-day."
For a second, as though he were part of the scenery, those violet eyesmet his with a casual impersonal glance. Then their owner slowly spreadout her own copy of the Mail.
"What's the news?" asked the statesman, drinking deep from his glass ofwater.
"Don't ask me," the girl answered, without looking up. "I've foundsomething more entertaining than news. Do
you know--the English papersrun humorous columns! Only they aren't called that. They're calledPersonal Notices. And such notices!" She leaned across the table."Listen to this: 'Dearest: Tender loving wishes to my dear one. Only tobe with you now and always. None "fairer in my eyes."--
The man looked uncomfortably about him. "Hush!" he pleaded. "It doesn'tsound very nice to me."
"Nice!" cried the girl. "Oh, but it is--quite nice. And so deliciouslyopen and aboveboard. 'Your name is music to me. I love you more--'"
"What do we see to-day?" put in her father hastily.
"We're going down to the City and have a look at the Temple. Thackeraylived there once--and Oliver Goldsmith--"
"All right--the Temple it is."
"Then the Tower of London. It's full of the most romantic associations.Especially the Bloody Tower, where those poor little princes weremurdered. Aren't you thrilled?"
"I am if you say so."
"You're a dear! I promise not to tell the people back in Texas that youshowed any interest in kings and such--if you will show just a little.Otherwise I'll spread the awful news that you took off your hat whenKing George went by."
The statesman smiled. West felt that he, who had no business to, wassmiling with him.
The waiter returned, bringing grapefruit, and the strawberries West hadordered. Without another look toward West, the girl put down her paperand began her breakfasting. As often as he dared, however, West lookedat her. With patriotic pride he told himself: "Six months in Europe, andthe most beautiful thing I've seen comes from back home!"
When he rose reluctantly twenty minutes later his two compatriots werestill at table, discussing their plans for the day. As is usual in suchcases, the girl arranged, the man agreed.
With one last glance in her direction, West went out on the parchedpavement of Haymarket.
Slowly he walked back to his rooms. Work was waiting there for him;but instead of getting down to it, he sat on the balcony of his study,gazing out on the courtyard that had been his chief reason for selectingthose apartments. Here, in the heart of the city, was a bit of thecountryside transported--the green, trim, neatly tailored countrysidethat is the most satisfying thing in England. There were walls on whichthe ivy climbed high, narrow paths that ran between blooming beds offlowers, and opposite his windows a seldom-opened, most romantic gate.As he sat looking down he seemed to see there below him the girl of theCarlton. Now she sat on the rustic bench; now she bent above the enviousflowers; now she stood at the gate that opened out to a hot sudden bitof the city.
And as he watched her there in the garden she would never enter, as hereflected unhappily that probably he would see her no more--the ideacame to him.
At first he put it from him as absurd, impossible. She was, to apply afine word much abused, a lady; he supposedly a gentleman. Their sortdid not do such things. If he yielded to this temptation she would beshocked, angry, and from him would slip that one chance in a thousand hehad--the chance of meeting her somewhere, some day.
And yet--and yet--She, too, had found the Agony Column entertainingand--quite nice. There was a twinkle in her eyes that bespoke a fondnessfor romance. She was human, fun-loving--and, above all, the joy of youthwas in her heart.
Nonsense! West went inside and walked the floor. The idea waspreposterous. Still--he smiled--it was filled with amusingpossibilities. Too bad he must put it forever away and settle down tothis stupid work!
Forever away? Well--
On the next morning, which was Saturday, West did not breakfast at theCarlton. The girl, however, did. As she and her father sat down the oldman said: "I see you've got your Daily Mail."
"Of course!" she answered. "I couldn't do without it. Grapefruit--yes."
She began to read. Presently her cheeks flushed and she put the paperdown.
"What is it?" asked the Texas statesman.
"To-day," she answered sternly, "you do the British Museum. You've putit off long enough."
The old man sighed. Fortunately he did not ask to see the Mail. If hehad, a quarter way down the column of personal notices he would havebeen enraged--or perhaps only puzzled--to read:
CARLTON RESTAURANT: Nine A.M. Friday morning. Will the young woman whopreferred grapefruit to strawberries permit the young man who had twoplates of the latter to say he will not rest until he discovers somemutual friend, that they may meet and laugh over this column together?
Lucky for the young man who liked strawberries that his nerve had failedhim and he was not present at the Carlton that morning! He wouldhave been quite overcome to see the stern uncompromising look on thebeautiful face of a lady at her grapefruit. So overcome, in fact, thathe would probably have left the room at once, and thus not seen themischievous smile that came in time to the lady's face--not seen thatshe soon picked up the paper again and read, with that smile, to the endof the column.