It was only yesterday afternoon, dear reader, exactly three weeks after
the birth of Barbara, that I finished the book, and even then it was
not quite finished, for there remained the dedication, at which I set
to elatedly. I think I have never enjoyed myself more; indeed, it is my
opinion that I wrote the book as an excuse for writing the dedication.
“Madam” (I wrote wittily), “I have no desire to exult over you, yet I
should show a lamentable obtuseness to the irony of things were I not
to dedicate this little work to you. For its inception was yours, and
in your more ambitious days you thought to write the tale of the little
white bird yourself. Why you so early deserted the nest is not for me
to inquire. It now appears that you were otherwise occupied. In fine,
madam, you chose the lower road, and contented yourself with obtaining
the Bird. May I point out, by presenting you with this dedication, that
in the meantime I am become the parent of the Book? To you the shadow,
to me the substance. Trusting that you will accept my little offering in
a Christian spirit, I am, dear madam,” etc.
It was heady work, for the saucy words showed their design plainly
through the varnish, and I was re-reading in an ecstasy, when, without
warning, the door burst open and a little boy entered, dragging in a
faltering lady.
“Father,” said David, “this is mother.”
Having thus briefly introduced us, he turned his attention to the
electric light, and switched it on and off so rapidly that, as was very
fitting, Mary and I may be said to have met for the first time to the
accompaniment of flashes of lightning. I think she was arrayed in little
blue feathers, but if such a costume is not seemly, I swear there were,
at least, little blue feathers in her too coquettish cap, and that she
was carrying a muff to match. No part of a woman is more dangerous than
her muff, and as muffs are not worn in early autumn, even by invalids, I
saw in a twink, that she had put on all her pretty things to wheedle me.
I am also of opinion that she remembered she had worn blue in the days
when I watched her from the club-window. Undoubtedly Mary is an engaging
little creature, though not my style. She was paler than is her wont,
and had the touching look of one whom it would be easy to break. I
daresay this was a trick. Her skirts made music in my room, but perhaps
this was only because no lady had ever rustled in it before. It was
disquieting to me to reflect that despite her obvious uneasiness, she
was a very artful woman.
With the quickness of David at the switch, I slipped a blotting-pad
over the dedication, and then, “Pray be seated,” I said coldly, but she
remained standing, all in a twitter and very much afraid of me, and I
know that her hands were pressed together within the muff. Had there
been any dignified means of escape, I think we would both have taken it.
“I should not have come,” she said nervously, and then seemed to wait
for some response, so I bowed.
“I was terrified to come, indeed I was,” she assured me with obvious
sincerity.
“But I have come,” she finished rather baldly.
“It is an epitome, ma'am,” said I, seeing my chance, “of your whole
life,” and with that I put her into my elbow-chair.
She began to talk of my adventures with David in the Gardens, and of
some little things I have not mentioned here, that I may have done for
her when I was in a wayward mood, and her voice was as soft as her muff.
She had also an affecting way of pronouncing all her r's as w's, just as
the fairies do. “And so,” she said, “as you would not come to me to be
thanked, I have come to you to thank you.” Whereupon she thanked me most
abominably. She also slid one of her hands out of the muff, and though
she was smiling her eyes were wet.
“Pooh, ma'am,” said I in desperation, but I did not take her hand.
“I am not very strong yet,” she said with low cunning. She said this to
make me take her hand, so I took it, and perhaps I patted it a little.
Then I walked brusquely to the window. The truth is, I begun to think
uncomfortably of the dedication.
I went to the window because, undoubtedly, it would be easier to address
her severely from behind, and I wanted to say something that would sting
her.
“When you have quite done, ma'am,” I said, after a long pause, “perhaps
you will allow me to say a word.”
I could see the back of her head only, but I knew, from David's face,
that she had given him a quick look which did not imply that she was
stung. Indeed I felt now, as I had felt before, that though she
was agitated and in some fear of me, she was also enjoying herself
considerably.
In such circumstances I might as well have tried to sting a sand-bank,
so I said, rather off my watch, “If I have done all this for you, why
did I do it?”
She made no answer in words, but seemed to grow taller in the chair, so
that I could see her shoulders, and I knew from this that she was now
holding herself conceitedly and trying to look modest. “Not a bit of it,
ma'am,” said I sharply, “that was not the reason at all.”