Molly Make-Believe

ℐ
Make-Believe, by Eleanor Hallowell Abbott

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Title: Molly Make-Believe
Author: Eleanor Hallowell Abbott
Illustrator: Walter Tittle
Release Date: June 23, 2006 [EBook #18665]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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[Illustration: The so-called delicious, intangible joke]
Molly
Make-Believe

By
Eleanor Hallowell Abbott
With Illustrations by
Walter Tittle

New York
The Century Co.
1911

Copyright, 1910, by
THE CENTURY CO.

* * * * *
TO
MY SILENT PARTNER
* * * * *

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The so-called delicious, intangible joke Frontispiece
"Good enough!" he chuckled
Every girl like Cornelia had to go South sometime between November and March
An elderly dame
A much-freckled messenger-boy appeared dragging an exceedingly obstreperous fox-terrier
"Well I'll be hanged," growled Stanton, "if I'm going to be strung by any boy!"
Some poor old worn-out story-writer
"Maybe she is--'colored,'" he volunteered at last
"Oh! Don't I look--gorgeous!" she stammered
"What?" cried Stanton, plunging forward in his chair
Cornelia's mother answered this time
He unbuckled the straps of his suitcase and turned the cover backward on the floor
"Are you a good boy?" she asked
"It's only Carl," he said
* * * * *

MOLLY MAKE-BELIEVE
I
The morning was as dark and cold as city snow could make it--a dingy whirl at the window; a smoky gust through the fireplace; a shadow black as a bear's cave under the table. Nothing in all the cavernous room, loomed really warm or familiar except a glass of stale water, and a vapid, half-eaten grape-fruit.
Packed into his pudgy pillows like a fragile piece of china instead of a human being Carl Stanton lay and cursed the brutal Northern winter.
Between his sturdy, restive shoulders the rheumatism snarled and clawed like some utterly frenzied animal trying to gnaw-gnaw-gnaw its way out. Along the tortured hollow of his back a red-hot plaster fumed and mulled and sucked at the pain like a hideously poisoned fang trying to gnaw-gnaw-gnaw its way in. Worse than this; every four or five minutes an agony as miserably comic as a crashing blow on one's crazy bone went jarring and shuddering through his whole abnormally vibrant system.
In Stanton's swollen fingers Cornelia's large, crisp letter rustled not softly like a lady's skirts but bleakly as an ice-storm in December woods.
Cornelia's whole angular handwriting, in fact, was not at all unlike a thicket of twigs stripped from root to branch of every possible softening leaf.
"DEAR CARL" crackled the letter, "In spite of your unpleasant tantrum yesterday, because I would not kiss you good-by in the presence of my mother, I am good-natured enough you see to write you a good-by letter after all. But I certainly will not promise to write you daily, so kindly do not tease me any more about it. In the first place, you understand that I greatly dislike letter-writing. In the second place you know Jacksonville quite as well as I do, so there is no use whatsoever in wasting either my time or yours in purely geographical descriptions. And in the third place, you ought to be bright enough to comprehend by this time just what I think about 'love-letters' anyway. I have told you once that I love you, and that ought to be enough. People like myself do not change. I may not talk quite as much as other people, but when I once say a thing I mean it! You will never have cause, I assure you, to worry about my fidelity.
"I will honestly try to write you every Sunday these next six weeks, but I am not willing to literally promise even that. Mother indeed thinks that we ought not to write very much at all until our engagement is formally announced.
"Trusting that your rheumatism is very much better this morning, I am
"Hastily yours,
"CORNELIA.
"P. S. Apropos of your sentimental passion for letters, I enclose a ridiculous circular which was handed to me yesterday at the Woman's Exchange. You had better investigate it. It seems to be rather your kind."
As the letter fluttered out of his hand Stanton closed his eyes with a twitch of physical suffering. Then he picked up the letter again and scrutinized it very carefully from the severe silver monogram to the huge gothic signature, but he could not find one single thing that he was looking for;--not a nourishing paragraph; not a stimulating sentence; not even so much as one small sweet-flavored word that was worth filching out of the prosy text to tuck away in the pockets of his mind for his memory to munch on in its hungry hours. Now everybody who knows anything at all knows perfectly well that even