“A male man,” said Willoughby, “can shift for himself. If he likes to
buy trouble, he can. He can always get through.”
“And what,” said Spring, ignoring his careful evasion, “what about my
suggestion that you should marry a wife? You wiped the floor with it.
But the instant the position is reversed, I must swallow my feelings and
follow my head. What if you are a man? Men aren’t immune from sickness.
Don’t say that you’ve got William, or I shall scream. If William’s as
good a nurse as he is a seamstress, you wouldn’t live twenty-four hours.
And look at the women there are who are up against it. They don’t go
under because they’re not on concrete.”
“I don’t suggest that you would. But some of the roads of Life are
pretty bad. If one can avoid the roughest, it’s—it’s just as well.
Spares the frame, you know.”
“Don’t I look strong?”
“You do. I’m sure you’re as hard as nails, but nobody’s any the better
for being hammered.”
“And so, although the sun’s shining, I’m to dive into the subway of
marriage, in case one day it may rain.”
“At least there’s a station here,” said Bagot doggedly.
“In other words, I mayn’t get another chance. Go on. Say it right out.
You’ve been hanging around, trying to hand me the statement for a
quarter of an hour.”
Willoughby gasped.
“You wicked, ungrateful child.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “For
sheer, bare-faced perversion, that breaks the tape. Never mind. I’m
through, I am. I’ve done my best and I’m through. As some poetaster has
said, ‘You can lead a girl to the altar, but you can’t make her think.’
Or is that out of _Paradise Lost_?”
With that, he seated himself upon the table and felt for a match. He was
really ridiculously relieved.
Spring gave a little laugh.
“My dear,” she said, with her eyes upon his face, “I was only playing
you up. I think your advice is sound and provident, and you’ve perfectly
satisfied me that if I don’t take it, I shall be a brass-bound fool.”
The punch was unexpected, but, to Bagot’s eternal credit, the hand that
was holding a flaming match to his pipe never wavered. The man knew how
to lose.
As for Spring, she was so proud of him that she had much ado not to
burst into tears.
Before she had time, Willoughby had laid down his pipe and picked up her
hand.
“That’s right,” he said, smiling. “For your sake I’m awfully glad and I
believe you’ll be very happy.” He kissed the cool fingers, and turned
away. “And, now that’s settled, let’s go into the Servants’ Hall.”
He had, to my mind, done well, had this Groom of the Chambers. He was,
of course, desperately in love with Spring. More. By taking the office
he held, he had made himself outcaste. He never could marry, because he
could never allow any woman to forfeit her own degree by becoming his
wife. The possibility of finding a woman whom he could love, who also
was outcaste, had been too ridiculously remote to be considered. And
now, this very thing had come about. Exquisite, dazzling Spring was
within his reach. Whether she would have married him is beside the
point, which is that he could have wooed her with a clear conscience.
Yet, because of her chance of marrying one who was not outcaste, his
wonderful, shining occasion must be renounced. . . . Willoughby
renounced as he loved—with all his might. The man was resolute. No
passing flash of pity must be permitted to affect the case, no tear of
sympathy for him fall into the trembling scale. For Spring to suspect
that he loved her would have been unearthly sweet. That it would
actually embarrass her was most unlikely. What was a broken-down Bagot,
haunting the home of his fathers like a seedy ghost—what was such a man
to her? Still, the slight risk must not be taken. If she could possibly
do it, she must marry her wealthy swain. To Bagot, Spring’s happiness
was everything. His own did not count.
To my mind, such love was worth having.
And Spring thought likewise.
“I must be going,” she said.
Willoughby bowed.
In silence they passed through the garden and out into the drive.