As she ate her solitary dinner, Jacqueline reflected upon this episode.
Not a trace of wholesome contrition for her treatment of poor Mr.
Terrill remained. On the contrary, the whole thing filled her with
reprehensible contentment. Evidently Terrill admired her very much. She
felt that she ought to tell Barty about him.
“And I’m afraid Barty won’t like it,” she thought.
Rank hypocrisy! Afraid? She hoped with all her heart that he wouldn’t
like it. What if he should be really jealous and angry, and should
insist upon a public announcement of their marriage? What if she had to
give up her job and just be Barty’s wife?
A sudden rush of tears filled her eyes. Not for anything on earth would
she hinder or worry Barty; but if he really insisted upon it--
He did not, however. Nothing, apparently, was farther from his thoughts.
Before she had finished her meal, a bell boy came in to tell her that
Mr. Leadenhall was waiting in the lounge, and she hurried in to him. She
had entirely forgiven him for breaking that tea engagement. In fact, she
was rather glad he had done so.
There he stood, waiting for her, and the sight of him aroused in her a
tenderness that was half pain. Something she had once read in a book
came to her now. “A young falcon”--that was what Barty was like. He was
a strong, splendid, free creature whose heart would break if he were
fettered.
“I’m not silly about him,” she thought. “I know he’s not so awfully
handsome.”
But she thought there was something about Barty that marked him out
among all other men. His tie was crooked, his sandy hair was a little
ruffled, he might seem to others simply a passably good-looking young
fellow with a somewhat impatient and careless manner. His conversation
was practical enough for the most part. Indeed, his feet were solidly
planted on the earth; but Jacqueline had had a glimpse now and then of
his jealously guarded spirit, of his passion for beauty, of his love for
the mute harmonies of his great art. She loved all that was Barty--even
his faults; but his spirit she very nearly worshiped.
When she had first met Barty, she herself had been ambitious. She had
wanted to write, to make a name for herself. She could laugh--or
weep--at that thought now. Ambition? She hadn’t known the meaning of the
word. For no imaginable reward could she have worked as Barty did. He
would work for days and days on a sketch or a plan, careless of rest or
food, in a fire of enthusiasm. Then, putting his enthusiasm aside, and
looking at it with his cool, impersonal brain, he would accept his work,
or he would reject and destroy it and begin all over again.
Her own little ambition had flickered and died. It seemed to her a
sublime destiny to help Barty, to serve this rare talent which her
honest heart acknowledged as beyond measure superior to her own.
Their hands met in a formal clasp, and they smiled at each other, with
their own secret smile of understanding. It was a wonderful thing to
meet thus in public, and to let nobody know that they belonged to each
other.
“Old Jacko!” said he.
“Old Barty!” said she.
Looking into his steady gray eyes, all desire to tease him about Mr.
Terrill left her. All she wanted in the world was to help her man, at
any cost.
“I’ve only got a few minutes,” he said. “I’ve got to go back and finish
that thing.”
“The museum?” she asked, with a sinking heart, but with a bright
expression of interest.
“No,” he answered, with a trace of impatience. “That can’t be hurried.
This is a bit of hack work--a plan for remodeling a house that ought to
be blotted out of existence.”
“I hate you to do work like that, Barty!”
“Oh, do you?” said he, smiling. “Well, I’ll tell you what it means,
Jacko. The fellow’s coming to look at the plans to-morrow, and if he
likes ’em--which he will--it means a week off for you and me.”
“Oh, Barty! You don’t mean that we could go away together for a whole
week?” she cried. “Oh, Barty!”
“Don’t, Jacko!” said he, turning away his head. “It--it makes me feel
like a brute. You know, I had meant you to have a honeymoon in Europe.”
“As if I cared!”
“Well, I care,” said he, with a sort of fierceness. “You deserve it. You
deserve--Jacko, you deserve more than I can ever give you in all my
life!” He met her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears. “No one
like you, Jacko!” he ended huskily.