All the way over on the ferry Murchison deliberated the matter, and his
slow wrath mounted high. He was not angry at Gina, for he could not be;
what enraged him was his own position. He firmly believed that he
possessed a fine Scotch sense of humor, but he was utterly incapable of
laughing at himself. The idea of being sweetly sung to as Old Dog Tray
had for him no comic appeal. On the contrary, he was obliged to admit
that to some extent he was Old Dog Tray, and it was intolerable. “Kind”
he was pleased to be, but “gentle” he was not, and “faithful” was no
word to apply to a man.
He looked back over this affair. He had met Gina when she was a young
girl, a lively, witty young thing. He had fallen in love with her, and
had set to work in a decorous way to court her. He had come over to
Staten Island twice a week. This had seemed to him sufficient evidence
of devotion, but when he observed that other young men brought her
presents, he did likewise. Books and music were what he preferred, and
he was willing to go as far as candy, but he would rather have died than
be seen carrying flowers.
Privately he thought this American lavishness very foolish. His idea was
to save up to get married; but he realized that if he wished to marry
Gina, he must please her. So he tried, but while he was engaged in the
process, she married Wigmore.
It was then necessary for Murchison to show that he didn’t mind that in
the least, for he was horribly proud and sensitive. Obstinately he kept
on coming twice a week with books and sweets, and Wigmore became
attached to him. He was really more interested in Wigmore’s
conversation, and in the children, than he was in Gina, although he
didn’t know it.
Gina had changed astoundingly. She had ceased to be lively and witty,
and had grown sweet and a little vague. Murchison was too obstinate to
admit any change in her, however--or in himself, either. He refused to
think at all.
When Wigmore died, and poor Gina had so much trouble about money, and
was so ill and grief-stricken, she became real for Murchison again. He
had felt a passionate tenderness for her. He had done everything in the
world for her, though well knowing that such disinterested devotion
might make him appear ridiculous.
After a seemly interval of three years he had suggested marriage. Gina
asked for time to make up her mind. He thought that quite reasonable and
proper, but it occurred to him this evening that five years was longer
than necessary, even to the most cautious woman. It wasn’t as if he were
a stranger. She had seen him twice a week for nearly twelve years.
He was suddenly convinced that he was a fool. Other men came to see Gina
when he wasn’t there. He heard the children speak of Dr. Walters, for
instance, as if he were a familiar friend. The same thing would happen
again.
No, it wouldn’t. Perhaps grief could not drive him away, but other
things could.
When he returned to his boarding house, he wrote a grim letter to Gina,
in which he said that she must make up her mind at once either to take
him or leave him. At once, mind you; he refused to wait for an answer
longer than six months.
He appeared again on his usual evening, and didn’t mention the letter.
Gina knew that he never would mention it until exactly six months had
passed. He was quite as usual, and only one small incident perturbed
her. After dinner, when they were alone, he said:
“Will you not sing ‘Old Dog Tray’ for me, Gina?”
“But--” she said.
“I’m thinking it does me good,” said he.
While she sang, he sat there in wooden silence, smoking his pipe.
“Well!” he thought. “It’s a queer world, to be sure! Who’d think that at
my age I’d come courting, and the object of my affections a woman
thirty-eight years of age? I’m forty-one, and here I come courting like
a lad!”
This made him grin. It seemed to him a very humorous idea, and when,
later in the evening, it recurred to him, he was obliged to grin again.
“Why do you smile, Robert?” asked Gina softly.
“Well--well, it’s nothing, as you might say.” But he could not banish
the grin.
“Do tell me!” she implored. “It’s so seldom you find anything funny.
Please share it with me, Robert!”
“I’m thinking you might not like it,” he said, with a chuckle.
“Oh, but I shall, Robert! Tell me!”
He burst into a shout of laughter, so that his lean face was creased
with long lines.
“What will you say, Gina,” he said, with difficulty, “to Old Dog Tray
going courting, and you a woman of thirty-eight?”
She sprang to her feet.
“Robert!” she cried, quite pale with anger.
“It’s the funniest thing--that’s come to my mind--this long time,” he
said, almost helpless with laughter. “Think of it!”
“How dare you?” she said. “How dare you insult me like this?”
His jaw dropped.
“Insult you!” he repeated. “What’s this, Gina? Insult you! Why, my
dear--”
“You think--” she began, but sobs choked her. “You’re laughing at me
because I’m thirty-eight!”
“But I was not, Gina, my dear! Only it struck me comical for two old
bodies like us to be courting.”
“I’m not courting!” she cried. “Don’t dare to say it! And I’m not old!”
“Of course, properly speaking, we’re not old,” said he. “But--”
“Every one else thinks I’m a young woman!” she sobbed.
“Don’t you believe it, my dear,” he said earnestly. “They may say so to
your face, but behind your back no one would call a woman of
thirty-eight--”
“Stop!” she cried hysterically. “Don’t call me a woman of thirty-eight
again!”
He was very much distressed.
“Don’t be thinking I mean anything against your--your personal
attractions,” he said. “You’re one of the neatest, best-looking women of
your age--”
“I hate you!” said Gina.
“That’s an ill-considered remark,” replied Murchison, growing red, “to a
man who’s been your true friend for twelve years and ten months. I was
only trying to tell you that I think as much of you to-day as I did when
you were young and pretty.”
“You needn’t go on, Robert,” she said, frigidly. “I appreciate your
friendship, but I have never known a man so lacking in tact.”
“I don’t doubt you’re right, Gina,” he observed, also frigidly. “It
didn’t occur to me that a mature and sensible woman couldn’t endure to
hear her age mentioned.”
“It’s the way you did it--laughing like that.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you--only at myself, for courting you.”
“Please say nothing more,” she interrupted sharply. “There are
other--other people who don’t think it’s so absurd to--to like me.”
Now, well as Gina knew him, there were certain traits in her Robert
which had eluded her. She never knew that by this simple remark she had
mortally insulted him. She was comparing his twelve years and ten months
of devotion to the false flattery of that Dr. Walters.
“Aye!” said he. “I’ve no doubt it’s as you say.”
And with that he took his leave.