STELLA
On the whole, Rodney Elmore spent a pleasant afternoon with Stella
Austin. He took her to the Zoological Gardens, which was a place she
liked. Beyond doubt she enjoyed herself immensely. She was very fond
of animals, even of the most savage kind. In the wild-beast house,
confronting the lions and the tigers, with Rodney at her side, she
wondered, with a little shudder, what would happen if the creatures
all got out. Drawing her arm in his, he pressed it closely; she liked
that, too.
From his point of view, the pleasure with which she greeted him on his
arrival at the house in Kensington was almost pathetic. He reproached
her gently for not having told him she was coming to town. She replied
that it had only been decided at the last moment, and that she was
just going to write to him when Tom, appearing on the scene, offered
to take the news in person. The way in which she took it for granted
that he was as glad to see her as she was to see him appealed to his
sympathy so strongly that he was nearly moved to take her in his arms
and kiss her there and then. But he refrained. He never had kissed
Stella, even in the old days. He had always had a feeling that a kiss
would mean so much more to her than it did to him; indeed, that was
one of her faults in his eyes, that everything meant so much more to
her than it did to him. Often he would have liked to kiss her; having
brought matters to a point at which a kiss was the next thing which
might have been expected, he felt sure that she had expected it. But
he kept himself sufficiently in hand to stop on the very edge, having
it in his mind that it might be as well for him to be able, some day,
if need be, to assert with truth that he had never gone beyond it.
Ordinarily he would have had no scruples on such a point. Oddly
enough, in a sense, he was afraid of Stella, recognising in her an
essential purity with which he himself had nothing in common. Her
standard of life was so infinitely above his own that he was always
conscious of a sense of strain after being some time in her company;
it came from his attempting to sustain himself in the rarefied
atmosphere in which she moved with ease. He would have been willing to
hold her in his arms; he would have loved to; but he would not have
liked to know that she was his superior in all essentials; and he
would have to know. Sooner or later she might discover what kind of
creature he was; but, though he believed that in such a plight she
would keep her own counsel, none the less he would resent the
discovery she had made.
Then, again, his taste in women was fastidious; he was not sure that
she filled all his requirements. She was pleasant enough to look at;
had pretty eyes, a fresh complexion, a tender smile--sometimes when
she smiled he loved her so that it was all he could do to keep from
committing himself utterly. But she was short and broad for her
height; to his thinking her figure lacked dignity. He had the modern
young man's notion that if you look at the mother you will see what
the daughter is going to be. Mrs. Austin was plump and matronly; he
feared that before long Stella would be the same. He did not care for
matronly women; he liked them tall and slim. Then he was particular
about the way in which a woman dressed; he liked those whom he
favoured with his society, as he put it, to do him credit. He had
felt, only too often, that Stella was almost dowdy; she was never
really smart. Her clothes were good of their kind, but they suggested
the provinces; or she had not the knack of showing them off to
advantage. He liked a girl's foot to be cased in what he called a
pretty stocking, and a smart shoe with a Louis heel; Stella wore
serviceable shoes with low heels, and the plainest of stockings. With
these things in his mind he had ventured, once, to hint that he would
like to have the dressing of her. She had been silent for some
seconds, and had then replied, scarcely above a whisper, and with
downcast eyes:
"Perhaps one day you will."
He was perfectly conscious that that "one day" was the day of which
she was always dreaming. He was not sure that he was so willing it
should come as she was.
But that afternoon he was not disposed to be critical. He was really
glad to see her. It was some time since they had met; he was nearly
surprised to find what a jolly girl she was; her smile was unusually
tender. As they quitted the monkey-house she spoke of Tom and Mary.
"Did Tom tell you that he has nearly brought that hard-hearted Mary of
his to the promising point?"
"He did seem to be sanguine."
"Poor old Tom! I believe if she'd promise quite he'd pass straight
off; it's anxiety which causes him to be ploughed. I've written to
Mary telling her just what I think, and informing her that she's to
keep him no longer suspended between heaven and earth, but that she's
to marry him at once. Mamma wants it, papa wants it, I want it, Tom
wants it--everybody wants it. She's the dearest girl in the world; but
she's a goose."
"Because she hesitates?"
"Why should she? Tom will make her the best husband in the world--you
know he will."
"Perhaps every girl doesn't want 'the best husband in the world.'"
"Are you trying to say something clever? If she has a husband, of
course she does. Do look at those two in front; I've been watching
them. She keeps putting out her hand to feel for his, or he puts out
his to feel for hers. Do you think they're newly married?"
"Is that how you mean to behave when you're newly married?"
"It depends."
"On what?"
"Oh, it depends."
"You said that before. On what does it depend?"
Suddenly a glimpse he caught of the smile which lighted up her face
started him off at a tangent--without waiting for her answer.
"It seems ages since I saw you last; it's awfully nice to see you
again--especially as you're looking prettier than ever."
"Do you like this frock that I've got on? You ought to, I had it made
specially for you--you are so critical about my clothes."
"Oughtn't a man to be critical about the girl he--he cares for?"
"Do you care for me?"
"You know I do."
"How much?"
"More than I--dare tell you."
"Rodney."
"Stella."
"I hope one day, before very long, you'll find courage enough."
The challenge was a direct one. In such matters he was such a creature
of impulse that it set his pulses galloping. They had reached a spot
where they had for sole society some queer-looking birds who peered at
them through the wires which confined them to their runs.
"Stella, you mustn't tempt me. If you only knew what I'd give to be
able to take you in my arms."
"Rodney, it isn't fair of you to talk like that. You say that sort of
thing, and make me feel as if the world were whirling round and round,
and then you go no farther."
"You know why I go no farther."
"I don't! I don't!"
As she turned and looked at him he saw how her cheeks were flushed;
that tears were in her pretty eyes; how her lips were twisted as by
physical pain. He really was so fond of her that the sight of her
suffering moved him almost beyond endurance. Careless of spectators
who might come at any moment to look at the birds, he took both her
hands in his.
"Stella!"
He paused; he was conscious how pregnant with meaning the pause was to
her, how she waited for his words. He let them come.
"Stella, will you be my wife?"
"You know I will! How long have you known it, sir? How long have you
been aware that you had only to ask to have? I go all over shame when
I think of it. I don't--I really don't--think you've used me quite
fairly, sir. Because, you know, you oughtn't to keep on telling a girl
that you care for her, and--then say nothing more. I've even sometimes
wondered if you were playing with me--I have! Were you?"
"Never. How could you think it?"
"I had to think something, hadn't I? And--what could I think? Then you
do really and truly care for me?"
"With the whole force of my being."
She drew a long breath, as if it were a sigh of pleasure.
"And you really and truly want me to be your wife?"
"As Tom said of Mary--if I get you I get all that I want in the
world."
"Then, why didn't you try to get me before?"
"Stella, every man has his own standard. You have money; perhaps one
day you'll have more; I have no money; perhaps I never may have. Under
those circumstances, though I worshipped the ground you stood on, I
had, and have, no right to ask you to be my wife. I have held out
against the temptation to do so over and over again, but--I could hold
out no longer. You must forgive me."
"For what? For having what you call 'held out'? I am not sure that I
do. You can't have wanted me so very, very much, or you wouldn't have
held out so long. That's what I feel."
"Stella, if you only knew!"
"And if you only knew!"
"The days I've thought of you, and the nights I've dreamed!"
"And do you suppose that I can't think--and dream?"
"Sometimes, after I've left you with the words unuttered, and thought
of what I should feel if I had you in my arms, it was pretty hard to
bear."
"Rodney!--I wonder if anyone is coming? After all your holding out,
you have--chosen a funny place."
Heedless of anyone coming, he put his arm about her waist and drew her
quickly to the comparative shelter of a fairly grown tree.
When Rodney Elmore had started out with Stella Austin nothing had been
farther from his mind than any intention of asking her to be his wife.
He was amazed to find, now that the thing was done, how pleasant it
had been. The whole episode had been delightful--so delightful that he
was loth to bring it to a close. The rubicon being passed, another
Stella was revealed. The simple question he had put to her might have
been some magic formula, so great a change had it wrought in the
maiden. He had never credited her with the capacity to be so
delicious; for she was delicious in a dozen unsuspected ways. He had
been fond of her before he asked her to be his wife; in less than half
an hour! afterwards he was in love with her. The new Stella had
bewitched him; to such a degree that he would have been willing to
stay with her in the Zoological Gardens for an indefinite period of
time, had he not had a previous engagement. It was with a feeling of
distinct disgust that he realised that he would have to tear himself
away. Nor was the parting rendered easier by the lady's attitude. She
could not be brought to see that any engagement was of such importance
that, on that day of all days, he was forced to leave her so
summarily. Nor would he have left her, could he have helped it. He
assured her, with perfect truth, that he would have only been too
happy to spend the evening with her at the house of her friends in
Kensington, had he dared, but he did not dare. She asked him why,
being now entitled to ask such questions. He did not tell her that it
was because he was conscious that it might be almost more dangerous to
disappoint his cousin than to rob her father. He fabricated instead an
ingenious lie, which convinced her against her will.
Then there arose the question of the morrow. Being Sunday, of course
he would be able to spend the whole of it with her. There, again, a
previous engagement blocked the way. He explained that, never having
anticipated the delightful footing on which he stood with her, he had
made the engagement long ago. Would she have him break his word? It
depended, she said, to whom his word was pledged; she did think that
he might spend that first Sunday with her. Then he spun a yarn about
an old friend of his mother who had begged him again and again to
visit her, to whom he had promised to go at last. He knew that she had
made all sorts of preparations for his reception; now, if he were to
throw her over she would feel, with justice, that he had treated her
very badly. He could not bear that she should feel that. She was his
mother's dearest friend. Her name was Staples. She lived in a little
village the other side of Dorking. Stella supposed that, anyhow, he
would not have to stay there late. As to that, he could not say. The
Sunday trains to Dorking were very awkward. But this he promised, at
the earliest moment at which with decency he could get away, he would;
and if the hour of his return to town were not frightfully late he
would rush over to Kensington, if it were only for half a dozen words.
But of this she might be quite certain; he would spend the whole of
Monday evening with her if she would let him; he would come straight
to her from the office.
So, finally, on that understanding, they parted; that he would come to
her on Sunday, if only for a minute or two, and that, anyhow, he would
revel in her dear society for so much of Monday as was left after his
office work was done. But, for him, between that and Monday, the world
was to be turned upside down.