“More than twenty years ago,” she said with a soft huskiness in her
voice, and a tremor and a sweetness, as if she did not know that in
twenty years all love stories are grown mouldy.
On my honour as a soldier this explanation of my early solicitude for
Mary was one that had never struck me, but the more I pondered it now--.
I raised her hand and touched it with my lips, as we whimsical old
fellows do when some gracious girl makes us to hear the key in the lock
of long ago. “Why, ma'am,” I said, “it is a pretty notion, and there may
be something in it. Let us leave it at that.”
But there was still that accursed dedication, lying, you remember,
beneath the blotting-pad. I had no longer any desire to crush her with
it. I wished that she had succeeded in writing the book on which her
longings had been so set.
“If only you had been less ambitious,” I said, much troubled that she
should be disappointed in her heart's desire.
“I wanted all the dear delicious things,” she admitted contritely.
“It was unreasonable,” I said eagerly, appealing to her intellect.
“Especially this last thing.”
“Yes,” she agreed frankly, “I know.” And then to my amazement she added
triumphantly, “But I got it.”
I suppose my look admonished her, for she continued apologetically but
still as if she really thought hers had been a romantic career, “I know
I have not deserved it, but I got it.”
“Oh, ma'am,” I cried reproachfully, “reflect. You have not got the great
thing.” I saw her counting the great things in her mind, her wondrous
husband and his obscure success, David, Barbara, and the other trifling
contents of her jewel-box.
“I think I have,” said she.
“Come, madam,” I cried a little nettled, “you know that there is lacking
the one thing you craved for most of all.”
Will you believe me that I had to tell her what it was? And when I had
told her she exclaimed with extraordinary callousness, “The book? I
had forgotten all about the book!” And then after reflection she added,
“Pooh!” Had she not added Pooh I might have spared her, but as it was
I raised the blotting-pad rather haughtily and presented her with the
sheet beneath it.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Ma'am,” said I, swelling, “it is a Dedication,” and I walked
majestically to the window.
There is no doubt that presently I heard an unexpected sound. Yet if
indeed it had been a laugh she clipped it short, for in almost the
same moment she was looking large-eyed at me and tapping my sleeve
impulsively with her fingers, just as David does when he suddenly likes
you.
“How characteristic of you,” she said at the window.
“Characteristic,” I echoed uneasily. “Ha!”
“And how kind.”
“Did you say kind, ma'am?”
“But it is I who have the substance and you who have the shadow, as you
know very well,” said she.
Yes, I had always known that this was the one flaw in my dedication,
but how could I have expected her to have the wit to see it? I was very
depressed.
“And there is another mistake,” said she.
“Excuse me, ma'am, but that is the only one.”
“It was never of my little white bird I wanted to write,” she said.
I looked politely incredulous, and then indeed she overwhelmed me. “It
was of your little white bird,” she said, “it was of a little boy whose
name was Timothy.”
She had a very pretty way of saying Timothy, so David and I went into
another room to leave her alone with the manuscript of this poor little
book, and when we returned she had the greatest surprise of the day for
me. She was both laughing and crying, which was no surprise, for all of
us would laugh and cry over a book about such an interesting subject
as ourselves, but said she, “How wrong you are in thinking this book is
about me and mine, it is really all about Timothy.”
At first I deemed this to be uncommon nonsense, but as I considered I
saw that she was probably right again, and I gazed crestfallen at this
very clever woman.
“And so,” said she, clapping her hands after the manner of David when he
makes a great discovery, “it proves to be my book after all.”
“With all your pretty thoughts left out,” I answered, properly humbled.
She spoke in a lower voice as if David must not hear. “I had only
one pretty thought for the book,” she said, “I was to give it a happy
ending.” She said this so timidly that I was about to melt to her when
she added with extraordinary boldness, “The little white bird was to
bear an olive-leaf in its mouth.”
For a long time she talked to me earnestly of a grand scheme on which
she had set her heart, and ever and anon she tapped on me as if to get
admittance for her ideas. I listened respectfully, smiling at this young
thing for carrying it so motherly to me, and in the end I had to remind
her that I was forty-seven years of age.
“It is quite young for a man,” she said brazenly.
“My father,” said I, “was not forty-seven when he died, and I remember
thinking him an old man.”
“But you don't think so now, do you?” she persisted, “you feel young
occasionally, don't you? Sometimes when you are playing with David in
the Gardens your youth comes swinging back, does it not?”
“Mary A----,” I cried, grown afraid of the woman, “I forbid you to make
any more discoveries to-day.”
But still she hugged her scheme, which I doubt not was what had brought
her to my rooms. “They are very dear women,” said she coaxingly.
“I am sure,” I said, “they must be dear women if they are friends of
yours.”
“They are not exactly young,” she faltered, “and perhaps they are not
very pretty--”
But she had been reading so recently about the darling of my youth that
she halted abashed at last, feeling, I apprehend, a stop in her mind
against proposing this thing to me, who, in those presumptuous days, had
thought to be content with nothing less than the loveliest lady in all
the land.
My thoughts had reverted also, and for the last time my eyes saw the
little hut through the pine wood haze. I met Mary there, and we came
back to the present together.
I have already told you, reader, that this conversation took place no
longer ago than yesterday.
“Very well, ma'am,” I said, trying to put a brave face on it, “I will
come to your tea-parties, and we shall see what we shall see.”
It was really all she had asked for, but now that she had got what she
wanted of me the foolish soul's eyes became wet, she knew so well that
the youthful romances are the best.
It was now my turn to comfort her. “In twenty years,” I said, smiling
at her tears, “a man grows humble, Mary. I have stored within me a great
fund of affection, with nobody to give it to, and I swear to you, on the
word of a soldier, that if there is one of those ladies who can be got
to care for me I shall be very proud.” Despite her semblance of delight
I knew that she was wondering at me, and I wondered at myself, but it
was true.