intentional impertinence toward her, than he could have picked her
pocket; and Miss Charteris knew it. There was one thing of which those
who had dealings with Christobel Charteris could always be
sure--absolute justice. She had seen the Boy's face whiten suddenly,
to a terrible pallor, beneath his tan. She knew he was making a
desperate fight for self-control. How best could she help? Her own
part seemed almost more than she could manage.
"Come here, Boy dear," she said, holding out her hand.
He hesitated one instant; then rose unsteadily to his feet, and
came--not to his usual place at the side, bending over her; but in
front of her, on one knee, silently waiting.
She bent forward. "Take my hand, Boy."
He took it, in a firm unhesitating clasp. They held each other so, in
silence. The colour came back into the Boy's face. The dumb horror
died out of his eyes. They smiled into hers again.
"Now promise me, Boy dear, that you will let me tell you all; and that
you will try not to misunderstand."
"My dearest," said the Boy, "I promise. But I do not need to say I
will try not to misunderstand. I could not misunderstand you, if I
tried."
"Then go back to your chair, Boy."
He went. His eyes were bright again.
"Boy, please to understand that I am not engaged to the Professor. Of
course, had that been the case, I should have told you, long ago. He
has never said one word to me of love or marriage. But he has been a
great friend--an intimate friend, intellectually; and I have reason to
know that he wishes--has wished for years--a good deal more than he has
ever expressed to me. He has waited, Boy; and when anybody has waited
nearly twelve years, could one fail them?"
"Why, of course!" cried the Boy, eagerly. "If a man could wait twelve
years--good heavens, why shouldn't he wait twenty! A man has no
business to wait; or to be able to wait; or to keep a woman waiting.
Twelve years? Oh, I say! I didn't wait twelve days. Now, did I?"
She smiled. "You break all speed records, Boy, always. But cannot you
understand that all men have not fifty thousand a year, and the world
at their feet? Had you been penniless, Boy, you--even you--would have
had to wait."
"Not a bit!" said the Boy, stoutly. "I would drive a cab, I would
sweep a crossing, I would _do_ anything, or _be_ anything; but I
wouldn't wait for the woman I loved; nor would I"--his voice dropped
almost to a whisper--"keep the woman who loved me, waiting."
"But suppose she had a comfortable little income of her own; and you
had less--much less--to offer her? Surely, Boy, proper pride would
keep you from asking her to marry you, until your income at least
equalled hers?"
"Not a bit!" said the Boy. "That sort of rot isn't proper pride. It's
just selfish false pride. However much a woman had, when a man--a
_man_, mind you, not an old woman, or a _thing_ with no pluck or
vertebra--when a man gives a woman his whole love, his whole life, the
worship of his whole body, heart, and soul, he has given her that which
no money could buy; and were she a millionairess she would still be
poor if, from false pride, he robbed her of that gift which was his to
give her--and perhaps his alone."
"Boy dear," she said, gently; "it sounds very plausible. But it is so
easy to be plausible with fifty thousand a year in the background. Let
me tell you about the Professor. He has, of course, his fellowship,
and is quite comfortably off now, living as a bachelor, in rooms. But
he practically supports his unmarried sister, considerably older than
himself, who lives in a tiny little villa, and keeps one maid. The
Professor could not afford to marry, and set up a larger establishment,
on his present income; at least he apparently thinks he could not. And
your theory of robbing the woman who--the woman he loves, does not
appear to have occurred to him. But, during all these years he has
been compiling an Encyclopedia--I don't suppose you know what an
Encyclopedia is, Boy."
"Oh, don't I?" said the Boy. "It's a thing you pile up on the floor to
stand upon when you want to fix a new pipe-rack."
Miss Charteris ignored this trying definition of an Encyclopedia.
"The Professor is compiling a wonderful book," she said, with dignity;
"and, when it is completed and published, he will be in a position to
marry."
"Has he told you so?" inquired the Boy.
"No, Boy. He has never mentioned the subject of marriage to me. But
he has told his sister; and she has told me."
"Ha!" said the Boy. "Miss _H_ann, I suppose. I must say, I distrust
Miss _H_ann."
"What do _you_ know of Miss Ann?" inquired Christobel, astonished.
"Only that she's always a-_h_egging of 'em on," said the Boy, calmly.
The indignant blood rushed into the fair proud face.
"Boy! You've been gossiping with Martha."
"I have, dear; I admit it. You see, I arrived early, on the third day;
found the garden empty; went gaily into the house to look for you. Ran
up into the hall; when up got a pair of old goloshes--eh, what? Oh,
sorry--up got a pair of _new_ goloshes, and hit me in the eye! A
professor's cap and gown hung up, as if at home; and while I meditated
upon these things, the voice of my Beloved was uplifted in loud and
sonorous Greek, exclaiming: 'Avaunt, rash youth! Thou impudent
intruder!' Can you wonder that I avaunted--to Martha?"
"You will please tell me at once all Martha said to you."
"Of course I will, dear. Don't be vexed. I always meant to tell you,
some time or other. I asked her whose were the goloshes; the umbrella
with the--er--decided figure; the suspended cap and gown. Martha said
they were the Professor's. I inquired whether the Professor stayed to
tea. You really can't blame me for asking that; because I had gone to
the kitchen for the express purpose of carrying out the tea-tray, yours
and mine; but _not_ the Professor's. No possible pleasure could have
resulted, either to you, or to me, or to the Professor, from my
unexpected appearance with the tea-tray, if the Professor had been
there. Now could it? I think it would be nice of you, dear, and only
fair, if, remembering the peculiar circumstances of that afternoon, you
just said: 'No; it couldn't.'
"Well, I asked Martha whether the Professor stayed to tea, and heard
that 'Thank goodness, no!' we drew the line at that, except when Miss
_H_ann came too. With the awful possibility of Miss _H_ann 'coming
too,' on one of my priceless days, I naturally desired a little light
thrown on Miss _H_ann. I was considerably relieved to learn that Miss
_H_ann suffers from the peculiar complaint--mental, I gather--of
'fancying herself in a bath-chair.' This might be no hindrance to the
'_h_egging on' propensities, but it certainly diminished the chances of
the 'coming too.' That was all, dear."
"Boy, you ought to have been ashamed of yourself!"
"So I was, the moment I saw you walk down the lawn. But you really
needn't look so indignant. I was working for you, at the same time."
"Working for me?"
"Yes, dear. I told Martha her wisps would look nicer if she curled
them. I also suggested 'invisible pins.' If you like I will tell you
how I came to know about 'invisible pins'; but it is a very long story,
and not _specially_ interesting, for the lady in the case was my
great-aunt."
"Oh, Boy," said Miss Charteris, laughing in spite of herself; "I wish
you were the size of my Little Boy Blue on the sands at Dovercourt. I
would dearly like to shake you."
"Well," he said, "you did more than shake me, just now. You gave me
about the worst five minutes I ever had in my life. Christobel? You
don't really care about the Professor?"
"Boy, dear, I really do. I have cared about him very much, for years."
"Yes, as a woman loves a book; but not as a woman loves a man."
"Explain your meaning, please."
"Oh, hang it all!" exclaimed the Boy, violently. "Do you love his
mouth, his eyes, his hair----?" The Boy choked, and stopped short.
Miss Charteris considered, and replied with careful deliberation. "I
do not know that I have ever seen his mouth; he wears a beard. His
eyes are not strong, but they look very kind through his glasses. His
hair? Well, really, he has not much to speak of. But all these things
matter very little. His _mind_ is great and beautiful; his thoughts
appeal to me. I understand his way of viewing things: he understands
mine. It would be a wonderful privilege to be able to make life easy
and happy for one for whom I have so profound a respect and esteem. I
have looked upon it, during the last few years, as a privilege which
is, eventually, to be mine."
"Christobel," cried the Boy, "it is wrong, it is terrible! It is not
the highest. I can't stand it, and I won't. I will not let you give
yourself to a wizened old bookworm----"
"Be quiet, Boy," she said, sharply. "Do you wish to make me really
angry? The Professor is not old. He is only fourteen years my senior.
To your extreme youth, fifty may seem old. The Professor is in his
prime. I am afraid we have nothing to gain, Boy, by prolonging this
discussion."
"But we can't leave it at this," said the Boy, desperately. "Where do
I come in?"
"My Little Boy Blue, I am afraid you don't come in at all, excepting as
a very sweet idyll which, all through the years to come, I shall never
forget. You begged for your seven days, and I gave them. But I never
led you to assume I could say 'Yes.' Now listen, Boy, and I will tell
you the honest truth. I do not know that I am ever going to marry the
Professor. I only feel pledged to him from the vague belief that we
each consider the other is waiting. Don't break your heart over it,
Boy; because it is more than likely it will never come to pass.
But--even were there no Professor--oh, Boy dear, I could not marry you.
I love my Little Boy Blue more tenderly and deeply than I have ever
before loved anything or any one on this earth. But I could not marry
a boy, however dearly I loved him; however sweet was his love to me. I
am a woman grown, and I could surrender myself wholly, only to a man
who would wholly be my mate and master. I cannot pretend to call my
Little Boy Blue 'the _man_ I love,' because he is really dearest to me
when I think of him, with expectation in his baby-eyes, trotting down
the sands to find his cannon-ball.... Oh, Boy, I am hurting you! I
hate to hurt you, Boy. Your love is so beautiful. Nothing as perfect
will ever touch my life again. Yet I cannot, honestly, give what you
ask.... Boy dear, ought I to have told you, quite plainly, sooner? If
so, you must forgive me."
The Boy had risen, and stood before her. "You always do the right
thing," he said, "and never, under any circumstances, could there be
anything for me to forgive you. I have been an egregious young ass. I
have taken things for granted, all along the line. What must you think
of me! Why should you care? _You_, with your intellectual
attainments, your honours, your high standing in the world of books?
_Why_ should you care, Christobel? Why _should_ you care?"
He stood before her, straight and tall and desperately implacable. The
exuberant youth had died out of his face. For the first time, she
could not see in him her Little Boy Blue.
"Why should you care?" he said again.
She rose and faced him. "But I _do_ care, Boy," she said. "How dare
you pretend to think I don't? I care very tenderly and deeply."
"Pooh!" said the Boy. "Do you suppose I wished you to marry a
bare-toed baby, with sand on its nose?" He laughed wildly; paused and
looked at her, then laughed again. "A silly little ass that said it
didn't like girls? Oh, I say! I think it's about time I was off.
Will you walk down to the gate? ... Thanks. You are always most
awfully good to me. I say, Miss Charteris, may I ask the Professor's
name?"
"Harvey," she said, quietly. "Kenrick Harvey." The dull anguish at
her heart seemed almost more than she could bear. Yet what could she
say or do? He was merely accepting her own decision.
"Harvey?" he said. "Why of course I know him. He's not much to look
at, is he? But we always thought him an awfully good sort, and kind as
they make 'em. We considered him a confirmed bachelor; but--well, we
didn't know he was waiting."
They had reached the postern gate. Oh, would he see the growing pain
in her eyes? What was she losing? What had she lost? Why did her
whole life seem passing out through that green gate?
"Good-bye," he said, "and please forget all the rot I talked about
Jericho. It goes with the spade and bucket, and all the rest. You
have been most awfully kind to me, all along. But the very kindest
thing you can do now, is to forget all the impossible things I thought
and said... Allow me.... I'll shut the door."
He put up his hand, to lift his cap; but he was bareheaded. He laughed
again; turned, and passed out.
"Boy! Boy! Come back," said Christobel. But the door had closed on
the first word.
She stood alone.
This time she did not wait. Where was the good of waiting?
She turned and walked slowly up the lawn, pausing to look at the
flowers in the border. The yellow roses still looked golden. The
jolly little "what-d'-you-call-'ems" lifted pale purple faces to the
sky.
But the Boy was gone.
She reached her chair, where he had placed it, deep in the shade of the
mulberry-tree. She felt tired; worn-out; old.
The Boy was gone.
She leaned back with closed eyes. She had hurt him so. She remembered
all the glad, sweet confident things he had said each day. Now she had
hurt him so.... What radiant faith, in love and in life, had been his.
But she had spoiled that faith, and dimmed that brightness.
Suddenly she remembered his dead mother's prayer for him. "_I have
prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not_." And under those words she
had written "_Christobel_." Would he want to obliterate that name?
No, she knew he would not. Nothing approaching a hard or a bitter
thought could ever find a place in his heart. It would always be the
golden heart of her little Boy Blue.
Tears forced their way beneath her closed lashes, and rolled slowly
down her cheeks.
"Oh, Boy dear," she said aloud, "I love you so--I love you so!"
"I know you do, dear," he said. "It's almost unbelievable--yet I know
you do."
She opened her eyes. The Boy had come back. She had not heard his
light step, on the springy turf. He knelt in his favourite place, on
the left of her chair, and bent over her. Once more his face was
radiant. His faith had not failed.
She looked up into his shining eyes, and the joy in her own heart made
her dizzy.
"Boy dear," she whispered, "not my lips, because--I am not altogether
yours--I may have to--you know?--the Professor. But, oh Boy, I can't
help it! I'm afraid I care terribly."
He was quite silent; yet it seemed to her that he had shouted. A burst
of trumpet-triumph seemed to fill the air.
He bent lower. "Of course I wouldn't, Christobel," he said; "not
before the seventh day. But there's a lot beside lips, and it's all so
dear."
Then she felt the Boy's kisses on her hair, on her brow, on her eyes.
"Dear eyes," he said, "shedding tears for my pain. Ah, dear eyes!"
And he kissed them again.
She put up her hand, to push him gently away. He captured it, and held
it to his lips.
"Stop, Boy dear," she said. "Be good now, and sit down."
He slipped to the grass at her feet, and rested his head against her
knee.
She stroked his hair, with gentle, tender touch. Her Little Boy Blue
had come back to her. Oh, bliss unutterable! Why worry about the
future?
"How silly we were, dear!" he said. "How silly to suppose we could
part like that--you and I!" Then his sudden merry laugh rang out--oh,
such music! such sweet music! "I say, Christobel," he said, "it is all
very well _now_ to say 'Stop, and be good.' But on the seventh day,
when the walls fall down, and I march up into the citadel, I shall give
you millions of kisses--or will it be _billions_?"
"Judging from my knowledge of you, Boy dear," she said, "I rather
_think_ it would be billions."
Later, as they stood once more by the postern gate, he turned, framed
in the doorway, smiling a last gay good-bye.
It was their second parting that day, and how different from the first.
There was to be a third, unlike either, before the day was over; but
its approach was, as yet, unsuspected.
But as he stood in the doorway, full in a shaft of sunlight, the glad
certainty in his eyes smote her with sudden apprehension.
"Oh, Boy dear," she said, "take care! You are building castles again.
They will tumble about our ears. I haven't promised you anything,
Little Boy Blue of mine; and I am afraid I shall _have_ to marry the
Professor."
"If you do, dear," he said, "I shall have to give him a new umbrella as
a wedding present!" And the Boy went whistling down the lane.
But, out of sight of the postern gate and of the woman who, leaning
against it, watched him to the turning, he dropped his bounding step
and jaunty bearing. His face grew set and anxious; his walk, perplexed.
"Oh, God," said the Boy, as he walked, "don't let me lose her!"
A few minutes later, a telegram was put into his hand from the friend
left on the coast, in charge of his newest aeroplane.
"_Arrange Channel flight, if possible, day after to-morrow_."
"Not I," said the Boy, crumpling the message into his pocket. "The day
after to-morrow is the seventh day."
* * * * *
He was dining with friends, but an unaccountable restlessness seized
him during the evening. He made his excuses, and returned to the Bull
Hotel soon after nine o'clock. The hall-porter at once handed him a
note, left by special messenger, ten minutes earlier. It was marked
"urgent." The handwriting was Christobel's.
The Boy flung away his cigarette, tore the note open, and turned to a
light. It was very short and clear.
"_Boy dear,--I must see you at once. You will find me in the garden._
"_Christobel._"
* * * * *
When the Boy had turned the corner and disappeared, Miss Charteris
passed through the little postern gate, and moved slowly up the lawn.
Ah, how different to her sad return from that gate an hour before!
The William Allen Richardsons still opened their golden hearts to the
sunset. The jolly little "what-d'-you-call-'ems" still lifted their
purple faces to the sky. But instead of stabbing her with agony, they
sang a fragrant psalm of love.
Ah, why was the Boy so dear? Why was the Boy so near? She had watched
him go striding down the lane, yet he still walked beside her; his gay
young laugh of glad content was in her ears; his pure young kisses on
her brow and eyes; his head against her knee.
Just as she reached the mulberry, Jenkins hastened from the house. The
note he brought, in a familiar handwriting, thin and pointed, was
marked "urgent" in one corner, and "immediate" in the other; but Miss
Ann's notes usually were one or other. This happened to be both.
"You need not wait, Jenkins," she said.
She stood close to a spreading branch of the mulberry. Her tall head
was up among the moving leaves. Whispering, they caressed her.
Something withheld her from entering the soft shade, sacred to herself
and the Boy. She stood, to read Ann Harvey's letter.
As she read, every vestige of colour left her face. Bending over the
letter, she might have been a sorely troubled and perplexed replica of
the noble Venus of Milo.
Folding the letter, she went slowly up the lawn, still wearing that
white look of cold dismay. She spoke to Martha through the open
window, keeping her face out of sight.
"Martha," she said, "I am obliged to go immediately to Miss Ann. If I
am not back by eight o'clock, I shall be remaining with her for
dinner." She passed on, and Martha turned to Jenkins.
By the way, Jenkins was having an unusually festive time. During the
last twenty-four hours, Martha had been kinder to him than he had ever
known her to be. He was now comfortably ensconced in the Windsor
armchair in a corner of the kitchen, reading yesterday's daily paper,
and enjoying his pipe. Never before had his pipe been allowed in the
kitchen; but he had just been graciously told he might bring it in, if
he wouldn't be "messy with the _h_ashes"; Mrs. Jenkins volunteering the
additional remarkable information, that it was "good for the beetles."
Jenkins was doubtful as to whether this meant that his pipe gave
pleasure to the beetles, or the reverse; but experience had taught him
that a condition of peaceful uncertainty in his own mind was to be
preferred to a torrent of vituperative explanation from Martha. He
therefore also received in silence the apparently unnecessary
injunction not to go "crawlin' about all over the floor"; it took "a
figure to do that!"
Eight o'clock came, and Miss Charteris had not returned.
"Remaining with 'er for dinner," pronounced Martha, flinging open the
oven, and wrathfully relegating to the larder the chicken she had been
roasting with extreme care; "an' a precious poor dinner it'll be!
Jenkins, _you_ may 'ave this sparrow-grass. _I_ 'aven't the 'eart.
An' me 'oping she'd 'ave 'ad the sense to keep _'im_ to dinner; knowing
as there was a chicking an' 'grass for two. Now what's took Miss
_H_ann 'urgent and immediate,' I'd like to know!" continued Martha,
deriving considerable comfort from banging the plates and tumblers on
to the kitchen table, with just as much violence as was consistent with
their personal safety, as she walked round it, laying the table for
supper. "Ate a biscuit, I should think, an' flown to 'er cheat. I've
no patience; no, _that_ I 'aven't!" And Martha attacked the loaf, with
fury.
At a quarter before nine, Miss Charteris returned. In a few moments
the bell summoned Jenkins. The note he was to take was also marked
"Immediate." He left it on the kitchen table, and, while he changed
his coat, Martha fetched her glasses. Then she followed him to the
pantry.
"'Ere, run man!" she said, "run! Never mind your muffler. Who wants a
muffler in June? _'E_'s in it! It's something more than a biscuit.
Drat that woman!"
* * * * *
A quarter of an hour later, a tall white figure moved noiselessly down
the lawn, to the seats beneath the mulberry. The full moon was just
rising above the high red wall, gliding up among the trees, huge and
golden through their branches. Christobel Charteris waited in the
garden for the Boy.
He came.
By then, the lawn was bathed in moonlight. She saw him, tall and slim,
in the conventional black and white of a man's evening dress, pass
silently through the postern gate. She noted that he did not bang it.
He came up the lawn slowly--for him. He wore no hat, and every
clear-cut feature of the clean-shaven young face showed up in the
moonlight.
At the mulberry, he paused, uncertain; peering into the dark shadow.
"Christo_bel_?" he said, softly.
"Boy dear; I am here. Come."
He came; feeling his way among the chairs, and moving aside a table,
which stood between.
He found her, sitting where he had found her, on his return, three
hours before. A single ray of moonlight pierced the thick foliage of
the mulberry, and fell across her face. He marked its unusual pallor.
He stood before her, put one hand on each arm of her chair, and bent
over her.
"What is it?" he said, softly. "What is it, dear heart? It is so
wonderful to be wanted, and sent for. But let me know quickly that you
are not in any trouble."
She looked up at him dumbly, during five, ten, twenty seconds. Then
she said: "Boy, I have something to tell you. Will you help me to tell
it?"
"Of course I will," he said. "How can I help best?"
"I don't know," she answered. "Oh, I _don't_ know!"
He considered a moment. Then he sat down on the grass at her feet, and
leaned his head against her knees. She passed her fingers softly
through his hair.
"What happened after I had gone?" asked the Boy.
"Jenkins brought me a note from Miss Harvey, asking me to come to her
at once, to hear some very wonderful news, intimately affecting
herself, and the Professor, and--and me. She wrote very ecstatically
and excitedly, poor dear. She always does. Of course, I went."
"Well?" said the Boy, gently. The pause was so very long, that it
seemed to require supplementing. He felt for the other hand, which had
been holding the lace at her breast, and drew it to his lips. It was
wet with tears.
The Boy started. He sat up; turned, resting his arm upon her lap, and
tried to see her face.
"Go on, dear," he said. "Get it over."
"Boy," said Miss Charteris, "a rich old uncle of the Harveys has died,
leaving the Professor a very considerable legacy, sufficient to make
him quite independent of his fellowship, and of the production of the
Encyclopedia."
"Well?"
"They are very happy about it, naturally. Poor Ann is happier than I
have ever seen her. And the chief cause of their joy appears to be
that now the Professor is, at last, in a position to marry."
"Well?"
"I have not seen him yet, but Miss Ann is full of it. She told me a
good many very touching things. I had no idea it had meant so much--to
him--all these years.--Boy dear?"
"Yes."