Murchison ascended the hill to the house that Saturday afternoon as
usual, his pockets filled with presents for the children, and under his
arm a box of Scotch kisses for Gina. His obstinate, lantern-jawed face
showed all the satisfaction possible to it. This was always one of his
happy moments, when he could fancy that he was coming home.
He had nothing else but Gina and Gina’s children. It would not be true
to say that he could not have lived without them, for he was not that
sort. He would tenaciously have gone on living if he were translated
among savages.
But the welcome he got at Gina’s house was ineffably dear to him. From a
distance he saw them all on the lawn. His face would have brightened,
had that been possible to his dour visage, and he would have hastened
his step, if he had not been already striding as fast as he could. Then
one of the small boys saw him, and came rushing out of the gate.
“Here’s Old Dog Tray!” he shouted joyously.
Gina called him back sharply, and came herself to welcome Murchison; but
let her be ever so sweet and friendly, it was obvious by her overanxious
manner and her flushed cheeks that she knew he had heard, and that she
felt guilty.
Murchison was by no means delighted with the name. Quite the
contrary--he was deeply affronted. He distributed the presents, but
instead of handing the invariable box to one of the children, with the
invariable joke--“Here are some Scotch kisses for your mother. You’d
better give them to her”--he merely set down the box on the bench. He
would have been glad to destroy the offensively arch object. He made up
his mind never to bring another such box; and his mind, when made up,
was an imposing thing.
“Old Dog Tray!” he thought. “That’s how she sees it, eh?”
It rankled; it galled.
He conducted himself as usual. He played “red rover” with the children,
dodging miraculously, lean, solemn, dignified even in his agility. He
sat down to tea on the veranda, and when offered a slice of lemon he
asked little Rose, according to precedent:
“Now do you think it would do more good to my complexion than harm to my
disposition?”
There was his customary plate of buttered toast, and he ate three
slices, as usual. No one but Gina, who knew him so well, would have
suspected that he was hurt and angry.
She knew, though, that the only way to deal with Murchison was by rough
outspokenness. He both dreaded and adored plain speaking. He was never
happy until a thing was made clear and explicit, yet he shied away from
any attempt at intimacy. He had, so to speak, to be seized by the neck
and forced to listen.
She waited until the children were all in bed, and they had the sitting
room to themselves, before she tackled him.
“Robert,” she said, “I suppose you heard the silly thing Roddy said?”
“Aye!” said he, and at once began to sheer off. “Roddy’s getting to
be--”
“I’m sorry you heard it,” she said gently. “It was just my own little
name for you, and I wanted to keep it to myself.”
There was magic in the woman, sewing in the lamplight. Even the few gray
hairs in the shining flood of brown were dear to him, and so was the
uncertain quality of her voice.
“Never mind it,” he said.
“But I do mind it, Robert,” she protested. “I’m sure you don’t
understand.”
He looked nothing less than mulish, and she saw with despair that he
intended not to understand. This must not be. The unclouded admiration
of her faithful Robert was the breath of life to her. She looked long at
him, but he smoked his pipe, refusing to raise his eyes, and at last she
rose.
He glanced up quickly enough when he heard the piano. He liked nothing
better than a song. Never did Gina touch his heart more surely than by
her music. She was a slender, gracious little woman, still pretty. She
often fancied that it was Robert who kept her young, that his sturdy
refusal to admit any change in her arrested the course of time. She
smiled over her shoulder at him, and began:
“Old Dog Tray, he is faithful;
Grief cannot drive him away.
He is gentle, he is kind,
And you’ll never, never find
A better friend than Old Dog Tray.”
She sang it touchingly.
“Don’t you see, Robert,” she said, “that it’s really a beautiful thing
to think of you?”
“Yes, Gina, I’ve no doubt it’s as you say,” he answered, and she was
satisfied.
She didn’t know that she had made a terrible mistake, that she had done
irrevocable harm. All the time she sang, he had endured torments.
Suppose the children heard, or the servants? He was not Old Dog Tray! He
would not be!