The smile of his mouth,
The power of his eyes,
And of his speech the witching flow;
The pressure of his hand,
And, Ah, his kiss!
But there was no one in my little world that answered to all these things—somewhere, some day, I might meet such a being. I was in no hurry. Enough to know that such things had been and would be again. Poor little Dreamer! silly little Dreamer! and all the time she was pretending, even to herself, that she did not care for love or lovers; that they were never to be a part of her life; that she never wanted to marry, never would; and that she meant to live a much more serious and useful life than one of mere married happiness.
It was a perverse, contradictory inner and outer life I lived at the ages of sixteen and seventeen, yes, and on into the twenties; no girl ever thought more about love and possible lovers than I, yet I felt they were never to be really for me. Even my day-dreams had barriers interposed. I wonder if this is not unusual—do not other dreamers dream things as they want them—when everything can be rose-colour for the mere wishing? Is it customary, I wonder, to let dark clouds overcast the dream-sky? As I think of it, I wonder if it was not a kind of prescience of what the reality would be. Anyhow, as far back as I can remember thinking of these things, mingled with the whims, sentimentalities, and insincerities of the adolescent period, was a conviction of these two things: that love was the greatest, the most wonderful thing in the world, and that there would be some barrier always to my knowing all that it might mean.
Besides the books I read, I can trace other influences that had their part in bending the twig in the way it was to grow. In the early ’teens Brother and I helped Father in the Post Office, out of school hours, an occupation profitable in many ways. I had much leisure there for reading, was trained to accuracy and alertness in the office-work, and learned a good deal about human nature. The requirements furnished a needed corrective to my tendency to dream—I could still dream, but had to do, also. It was a matter of pride between Brother and me to see how rapidly we could distribute the mail; how quickly deliver it when the box-numbers were called out; and how well we could remember just what letters were in the General Delivery.
I was vain, too. I can remember how gratified I was at occasional words of approbation I heard concerning my efficiency; and when crowds of men and boys would be standing outside waiting for the distribution of the mail while Father, Brother, and I would be darting here and there to put the letters and papers in the boxes, trying at the same time to keep out of one another’s way, I would think with pride that I was helping just as much as the others were; and what a “smart girl” I was to be doing it, too. My cheeks would flush, and I felt a diminutive sense of power: all these persons waiting for something we were doing; we held in our hands letters fraught with happiness, with disappointment, with sorrow. I liked to have them crowd around and peer at us through the windows and from the door in the rear that led to the “store”; and when the work was done, and the public was at liberty to inquire for mail, I just doted on reaching through the tiny window and taking in the little green sign bearing the legend, “Distributing the Mail.” And the self-centred Miss was aware just how her hand and wrist must look as they reached through and lifted the sign from the hook outside the window. (I forgot in cataloguing my unattractive “points” to mention in extenuation that I did have a pretty arm and hand, and actually discovering the fact myself, took a keen satisfaction in the discovery. Perhaps this was not all vanity, as I am especially susceptible to beauty of form and line, wherever seen.)