A PROPOSAL
IT was the day following the great race. Huey, who was seeking an
interview with Bertha, had come to the Botanic Gardens. He knew it was
her afternoon of liberty, and that was her favourite walk. So he
strolled about waiting and hoping a good hour before the expected time.
Perhaps there are no such gardens in the world. A horseshoe bay, perhaps
half-a-mile across; its shore terraced and shut in by slight rising
hills, whose slopes are turfed with verdure, and dotted here and there
with tropical foliage, flower-beds of many patterns, sweet-smelling
shrubs, and bowers of rattans and giant grasses. Paths wind about in
surprising curves, and lead to sequestered summer-houses and lovers’
seats that invite to wooing, even though the voice of the cooing doves
were hushed that call aloud from every grove. And when the mind wearies
of the green foliage, the bright-hued flowers, and landscape of
ever-varied plants, there is the sea. Farm Cove the bay is called. Trim
yachts are anchored there, the warships of the nations lie at friendly
anchorage, and from time to time over the blue water the music of their
bands is wafted, or the shrill pipe of the boatswain’s whistle. Clean,
dainty ships that bask there in the bright sunshine on the lazy tide, as
though peace on earth and sea was decreed for evermore. And beyond the
men-of-war, and across the wide stretch of harbour, there are the
blue-grey shores of Neutral and Mosman Bays, the rugged heights of
Cremorne and Bradley, all dotted with embowered villas, half-hidden
cottages, and covered with a haze like a bloom.
And over all a cloudless sky, pale-blue and distant, with an unveiled sun
that shines down its vivid light on land and sea. It is such a view as
fairyland might offer, and the artist with his crude pigments and paints
abandon in despair as hopeless of depiction.
No wonder that Bertha came there from week to week, arrayed in her best,
all smiling and sweet. She did only as the wild birds do, who find no
safer haven than this oasis of Paradise in the city’s midst.
Huey Gosper looked again and again at the watch he carried, and at last
his waiting was rewarded. He could see her plainly, all unconscious of
his presence, coming towards him. With a look of unconcern he went to
meet her, and so it came about that presently they were pacing side by
side.
“I am very sorry,” said Huey, “that it was not I who brought you the Cup
last night. My horse lost it by a head, and I counted on it as a
certainty.”
“Oh, don’t speak any more of it. I am utterly tired with the Cup and the
talk about it. I am sorry for you that you have lost, and all the others
whose money has gone. Perhaps they will be wiser next time.”
“I know you value these things very lightly, Miss Summerhayes. You are
not like other girls, taking all that glitters and glares for the real
metal, and, poor as I am, I make bold to speak to you as I have never
spoken to woman before. From my first seeing you at Windsor—do you
remember the time?—I have been mad for love of you. If I came to Sydney
it was to follow you; if I have striven to make money at a detestable
calling it was for you. And if I strove and planned for months and
months to win yesterday’s race, you were the prize always in my thoughts
that the horse was to win. I know I am not worthy of you; no man is. I
am full of faults, yet it maddens me to see you slaving in that golden
hell, with two trollops unworthy to lace your shoes. I would like you to
lead a different life, for I am sure your present place must be hateful
to you. I would do anything, everything if you would only say the word,
and be my wife. Bertha, will you marry me?”
Bertha had listened silently. His words could not have been quite
unexpected; her woman’s eyes must have learned his secret many a long day
since. Yet she hesitated, perhaps to frame her words, perhaps to frame
her mind. Huey, of all her suitors, had much to commend him to her. He
had great intelligence, and to her judgment he was a clever man. If he
had not wealth, neither was he poor, and he had youth and good looks on
his side.
But then, on the other hand, she had seen a look glower from his eyes at
times like the glance of a fiend, a hard, merciless gleam that froze all
tenderness or thoughts of tenderness. So she might have reasoned, if
women so placed were apt to take a mental inventory and figure out a
character balance-sheet. But doubtless she did nothing of the kind as
she fidgeted with her sunshade, and stepped tranquilly along. It was not
her reason but her heart that must answer, and instinctively she paused
for its response. At last she spoke; Huey Gosper all silent in hopeful
expectation.
“What a pretty boat!” pointing to an 18-footer with coloured sails that
skimmed across the bay.
“Yes, it is pretty,” said Huey absently; “but you have not answered me.”
“Oh, about getting married!” replied Bertha, as though the question had
slipped her memory. “I don’t want to get married—at least, not yet,”
correcting herself. “It seems to make one so old all at once, this
getting married; don’t you think so?”
“I do not say now, at once, or next week; but promise me, give me your
word, and let there be a bond between us, and we will marry when you
like; so only that you are mine, all else may be as you wish.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Gosper; it is very kind of you to think so
highly of me. I am not worth it, I am sure; but, really and truly, I do
not wish to be engaged. It is so easy to lose your freedom that never
comes again. Don’t think me hard-hearted. I feel more, much more than I
can say; but my freedom is yet dear to me.”
Had Huey been a patient man, or one versed in feminine ways, he might
have taken this neutral reply as one of good augury, and left the further
pressing of his suit till time and patience had overcome her maiden
wilfulness. But Huey was combustible, suspicious, jealous. The fierce,
bad light shone from his eyes as he answered—
“You are mocking me. It is because I am poor, because I have no grand
home to offer you; and you are thinking of Alec Booth and his thousands.”
“That is not fair of you, Mr. Gosper,” retorted Bertha sharply. “You
have no right to say such things. I am my own mistress, to do as I like;
and a jealous, spiteful man shall never be my friend!”
With that she turned about with the sweep and step of a tragedy queen,
and so left him. Huey was half sorry he had so spoken, and even yet had
he followed her and pleaded pardon, his crime of jealousy might have been
forgiven; for Bertha was one of those who, even while they resent, feel
the covert flattery of jealous accusation. But he did not stir, but
stood there angry and raging, cursing his fate, cursing his fortune; and,
above all, cursing Alec Booth. Without doubt Alec was his happy rival,
that brainless trickster, that vain, boasting bully had scored again; and
he, Huey, was to lose all—money, race, wife, all were taken from him.
“No! It shall not be!” he declared to himself. “While I live I will
struggle—I will fight! She is rightfully mine. I saw her first, loved
her first, and she is foolish and dazzled by his winnings. But out of
defeat I will learn success, fairly if possible; then, if not, in such a
way as may be necessary,” he added darkly.
And he turned on his heel and walked moodily away.