During the week-end Barbara and Allen were much together, to the
amusement of the other guests, who said: "_It's_ on again." But it was
not really.
If Wilmot was going away, Barbara wished him to have good memories of
last times together to carry with him. And Wilmot, like a foolish fellow
who is going to swear off Monday, and in the meanwhile drinks to excess,
saw no reason why he should dress his wounds in the present, since, in
time to save his life, he was going to give them every attention
possible. That he was going to "get over" Barbara in a year he did not
believe. But observation and common-sense told him that life without her
must become easier and saner as time passed, and that to be forever
caught up or thrown down by her varying moods toward him had ceased to
be a self-respecting way of life. This is what common-sense and
experience told him; but his heart told him that he would love her
always, and that if he could not have her he must simply die.
Sunday night, after she had gone to bed, Barbara lay in the darkness and
asked herself questions. Wilmot's life had not been fine, but his love
had been very fine, and for longer than she could remember. Would it not
be well to trust herself to such a love as that? Had she the right to
send it away begging? Would it not be better, since marriage is a
lottery, to grasp some things that in this case would be sure, instead
of leaving everything to chance? If he kept away from her long enough,
his love would probably die, or at least reduce itself to a state of
occasional melancholy agitation. But if she belonged to him it would
never die. Of this their whole past seemed a sure proof. If she married
him he would always love her and be faithful to her; for her part she
was wonderfully fond of him, and she believed that if she once actually
committed herself to his care, she would be a good wife to him, and a
loving. Then why not? She tried the effect of pretending that she had
promised to marry him and meant to keep her word, and she found that the
position, if only mentally, was strategically strong and secure. She
would make him happy; she herself would cease from troubling him and
other men. For her sake he would turn over new leaves and be everything
that was fine. She would be obedient and have no more difficult knots to
untangle for herself. Wilmot would simply cut them for her with a sure
word, one way or the other.
She had not for a long time enjoyed so peaceful a night. Hours passed,
and she found that, without sleeping, she was becoming wonderfully
rested. For it is true that nothing so rests the thinker as
unselfish thinking.
She had breakfast in her room, but was down in time to catch the
business men's train for town, or to be driven in Wilmot's borrowed
runabout, if he should ask her. He did, and amid shouts of farewell and
invitations to come again soon, they drove away together into the cool
bright morning.
"Wilmot," Barbara said, when they had passed the last outpost of the
Bruces' shrubbery and whirled into the turnpike, "I spent most of last
night thinking."
"You look fresh as a rosebud."
She shook her head as if to shake off the dew, and said: "I feel more
rested than if I had slept soundly. If you will marry me, Wilmot, I will
make you a good wife."
Wilmot's heart leaped into his throat with joy, and then dropped as if
into a deep abyss of doubt. For all her confessions to him, and for all
her promises of amendment, here was his darling Barbs unable to resist
the temptation of hurting him again. "One of her impulses," he thought,
and at once he was angry with her, and his heart yearned over her.
"Are you going to be able to say that, Barbs," he said gently, "a year
from now, after we've been out of sight and hearing of each other all
that time?"
"Wilmot," she said, "I'm not up to my old bad tricks. I am ready to give
you my word this time, and to keep faith. Only I'd like everything to be
done as soon as possible. I've been a very foolish girl, and perplexed
and tired, and I want to lean on you, if you'll let me. We'll have a
good life together, and I will keep my eyes in the boat."
"A few days ago, Barbs," he said, "you thought that you were seriously
in love with another man."
"I know," she said, "but I wasn't."
"Are you in love with me now?" he asked wistfully.
"I know that you will always be good to me, and love me. And that is
what I _know_ that I want."
"Poor little Barbs," he said.
"It seems to me rather," she said, "that I am now rich with chances of
happiness for us both. I want to make my oldest and most deserving
friend happy, and I trust him to make me happy."
"It isn't love, dear?"
"It's so much affection and friendship that perhaps it's better." She
turned her face away a little. "The best that marriage can end in is
affectionate companionship; why not begin with that, and so be sure of
it for always?"
"If I had ever dreamed," said Wilmot unsteadily, "that you were going to
say things like this to me, I'd have dreamed that I went wild with
happiness, and drove you to the nearest clergyman. But now that you have
actually said what you have said, in real life, I find that I love you
more than ever, and that it is not compatible with so much love to take
you on a basis of friendship. You feel that you have hurt me more than
is possible for your conscience to bear, and you wish to make up for it.
Is that right?"
"That's not all there is to it, Wilmot, by any means. But for heaven's
sake believe that I'm being altogether unselfish: but you know me too
well to believe anything so ridiculous."
"I know you well enough," said Wilmot, "to worship the ground you walk
on. Not because my heart urges me, but my understanding. And I know you
would play the game, once you had given your word, and make me a
splendid wife. But what I have for you cannot be given to mere
friendship and submission, I should feel that I had sinned against my
love for you too greatly to be forgiven. You are closer to me than you
have ever been, my dear--and yet so far away that I can only look upward
as to a star, and despair of the distance. If there has been anything
fine in my life, it has been my love for you. And behold, you, with
every opposite intention, are tempting me to let that go rotten, too.
But, O my Barbs, if you could only love me!"