Roger’s convalescence went smoothly forward. One morning as he lay
coquetting deliciously with returning sense, he became aware that a
woman was sitting at his window in the sun. She seemed to be
reading. He fancied vaguely that she was Lucinda; but at last it
occurred to him that Lucinda was not addicted to literature, and that
Lucinda’s tresses, catching the light, were not of a kind to take on
the likeness of a queenly crown. She was no vision; his visions had
been dark and troubled; and this image was radiant and fixed. He
half closed his eyes and watched her lazily through the lids. There
came to him, out of his boyish past, a vague, delightful echo of the
“Arabian Nights.” The room was gilded by the autumn sunshine into
the semblance of an enamelled harem court; he himself seemed a
languid Persian, lounging on musky cushions; the fair woman at the
window a Scheherazade, a Badoura. He closed his eyes completely and
gave a little groan, to see if she would move. When he opened them,
she had moved; she stood near his bed, looking at him. For a moment
his puzzled gaze still told him nothing but that she was fictitiously
fair. She smiled and smiled, and, after a little, as he only stared
confusedly, she blushed, not like Badoura or Scheherazade, but like
Nora. Her frequent presence after this became the great fact in his
convalescence. The thought of her beauty filled the long empty hours
during which he was forbidden to do anything but grow strong.
Sometimes he wondered whether his impression of it was only part of
the universal optimism of a man with a raging appetite. Then he
would question Lucinda, who would shake her head and chuckle with
elderly archness. “Wait till you are on your feet, sir, and judge
for yourself,” she would say. “Go and call on her at Mrs. Keith’s,
and then tell me what you think.” He grew well with a beating heart;
he would have stayed his recovery for the very dread of facing his
happiness. But at last, one Sunday, he discarded his dressing-gown
and sat up, clothed and in his right mind. The effort, of course,
gave him a huge appetite, and he dealt vigorous justice upon his
luncheon. He had just finished, and his little table was still in
position near his arm-chair, when Nora made her appearance. She had
been to church, and on leaving church had taken a long walk. She
wore one of those dark rich toilets of early winter that are so
becoming to fair beauties; but her face lacked freshness; she was
pale and tired. On Roger’s remarking it, she said the service had
given her a headache; as a remedy, she had marched off briskly at
haphazard, missed her way, and wandered hither and thither. But here
she was, safe and sound and hungry. She asked for a share of Roger’s
luncheon, and, taking off her bonnet, was bountifully served at his
table. She ate largely and hungrily, jesting at her appetite and
getting back her color. Roger leaned back in his chair, watching
her, carving her partridge, offering her this and that; in a word,
falling in love. It happened as naturally as if he had never allowed
for it. The flower of her beauty had bloomed in a night, that of his
passion in a day. When at last she laid down her fork, and, sinking
back in her chair, folded her hands on her arms and sat facing him
with a friendly, pointless, satisfied smile, and then, raising her
goblet, threw back her head and showed her white throat and glanced
at him over the brim, while he noted her plump ringless hand, with
the little finger curled out, he felt that he was in health again.
She strolled about the room, idly touching the instruments on his
dressing-table and the odds and ends on his chimney-piece. Her
dress, which she had released from the loops and festoons then in
fashion, trailed rustling on the carpet, and lent her a sumptuous,
ladyish air which seemed to give a price to this domiciliary visit.
“Everywhere, everywhere, a little dust,” she said. “I see it is more
than time I should be back here. I have been waiting for you to
invite me; but as you don’t seem inclined, I invite myself.”
Roger said nothing for a moment. Then with a blush, “I don’t mean to
invite you; I don’t want you.”
Nora stared. “Don’t want me? _Par exemple!_”
“I want you as a visitor, but not as a—” And he fumbled for his
word.
“As a resident?” She took it gayly. “You turn me out of doors?”
“No; I don’t take you in—yet awhile. My dear child, I have a
reason.”
Nora wondered, still smiling. “I might consider this very unkind,”
she said, “if I had not the patience of an angel. Would you kindly
mention your reason?”
“Not now,” he answered. “But never fear, when it comes it will be
all-sufficient!” But he imparted it, a couple of days after, to Mrs.
Keith, who came late in the afternoon to present her compliments on
his recovery. She displayed an almost sisterly graciousness,
enhanced by a lingering spice of coquetry; but somehow, as she
talked, he felt as if she were an old woman and he still a young man.
It seemed a sort of hearsay that they should ever have been mistress
and lover. “Nora will have told you,” he said, “of my wishing you
kindly to keep her awhile longer. I can give you no better proof of
my regard, for the fact is, my dear friend, I am in love with her.”
“Come!” she cried. “This is interesting.”
“I wish her to accept me freely, as she would accept any other man.
For that purpose I must cease to be, in all personal matters, her
guardian.”
“She must herself forget her wardship, if there is to be any
sentimentalizing between you,—all but forget it, at least. Let me
speak frankly,” she went on. Whereupon Roger frowned a bit, for he
had known her frankness to be somewhat incisive. “It is all very
well that you should be in love with her. You are not the first.
Don’t be frightened; your chance is fair. The needful point is that
she should be just the least bit in love with you.”
He shook his head with melancholy modesty. “I don’t expect that.
She loves me a little, I hope; but I say nothing to her imagination.
Circumstances are fatally against it. If she falls in love, it will
be with a man as unlike me as possible. Nevertheless, I do hope she
may, without pain, learn to think of me as a husband. I hope,” he
cried, with appealing eyes, “that she may see a certain rough
propriety in it. After all, who can make her such a husband as I? I
am neither handsome, nor clever, nor accomplished, nor celebrated.
She might choose from a dozen men who are. Pretty lovers doubtless
they would make; but, my friend, it’s the _husband_, the husband,
that is the test!” And he beat his clenched hand on his knee. “Do
they know her, have they watched her, as I have done? What are their
months to my years, their vows to my acts? Mrs. Keith!”—and he
grasped her hand as if to call her to witness,—“I undertake to make
her happy. I know what you can say,—that a woman’s happiness is
worth nothing unless imagination lends a hand. Well, even as a
lover, perhaps I am not a hopeless case! And then, I confess, other
things being equal, I would rather Nora should not marry a poor man.”
Mrs. Keith spoke, on this hint. “You are a rich one, then?”
Roger folded up his pocket-handkerchief and patted it out on his
knee, with pregnant hesitation. “Yes, I am rich,—I may call it so.
I am rich!” he repeated with unction. “I can say it at last.” He
paused a moment, and then, with unstudied irony,—“I was not
altogether a pauper when you refused me. Since then, for the last
six years, I have been saving and sparing and counting. My purpose
has sharpened my wits, and fortune, too, has favored me. I have
speculated a little, I have handled stock and turned this and that
about, and now I can offer my wife a very pretty fortune. It has
been going on very quietly; people don’t know it; but Nora, if she
cares to, shall show them!” Mrs. Keith colored and mused; she was
lost in a tardy afterthought. “It seems odd to be talking to you
this way,” Roger went on, exhilarated by this summing-up of his
career. “Do you remember that letter of mine from P——?”
“I did not tear it up in a rage,” she answered. “I came across it
the other day.”
“It was rather odd, my writing it, you know,” Roger confessed. “But
in my sudden desire to register a vow, I needed a friend. I turned
to you as my best friend.” Mrs. Keith acknowledged the honor with a
toss of her head. Had she made a mistake of old? She very soon
decided that Nora should not repeat it. Her hand-shake, as she left
her friend, was generous; it seemed to assure him that he might count
upon her.
When, soon after, he made his appearance in her drawing-room, she
gave him many a hint as to how to play his cards. But he irritated
her by his slowness; he was too circumspect by half. It was only in
the evening that he took a hand in the game. During the day he left
Nora to her own affairs, and was in general neither more nor less
attentive than if he had been a merely susceptible stranger. To
spectators his present relation with the young girl was somewhat
puzzling; though Mrs. Keith, by no ambiguous giving out, as Hamlet
says, had diffused a sympathetic expectancy. Roger wondered again
and again whether Nora had guessed his meaning. He observed in her
at times, as he fancied, a sort of nervous levity which seemed born
of a need to conjure away the phantom of sentiment. And of this
hostile need, of course, he hereupon strove to trace the lineage. He
talked with her little, as yet, and never interfered in her talk with
others; but he watched her devotedly from corners, and caught her
words through the hum of voices. Sometimes she looked at him as if
she were on the point of telling him something. What had she to tell
him? In trying to guess, Roger made up his mind that she was in
love. Search as he could, however, he was unable to find her lover.
It was no one there present; they were all alike wasting their shot;
the enemy had stolen a march and was hidden in the very heart of the
citadel. He appealed distractedly to Mrs. Keith.
“Lovesick,—lovesick is the word,” he groaned. “I have read of it
all my days in the poets, but here it is in the flesh. The poor girl
plays her part well; she’s wound up tight; but the spring will snap
and the watch run down. D—n the man! I would rather he carried her
off than sit and see this.” He saw that his friend had bad news.
“Tell me everything,” he said: “don’t spare me.”
“You have noticed it at last,” she answered. “I was afraid you
would. Well! he’s not far to seek. Think it over; can’t you guess?
My dear Mr. Lawrence, you are celestially simple. Your cousin Hubert
is not.”
“Hubert!” Roger echoed, staring. A spasm passed over his face; his
eyes flashed. At last he hung his head. “Dear, dear,” he said:
“have I done it all for Hubert?”
“Not if I can help it!” cried Mrs. Keith, sharply. “She may not
marry you; but, at the worst, she shall not marry him!”
Roger laid his hand on her arm; first heavily, then gently. “Dear
friend, she must be happy, at any cost. If she loves Hubert, she
must marry him. I will settle an income!”
Mrs. Keith gave his knuckles a great rap with her fan. “You will
settle a fiddlestick! You will keep your money and you will marry
Miss Nora. Leave it to me! If you have no regard for your rights,
at least I have.”
“Rights? what rights have I? I might have let her alone. I needn’t
have settled down on her in this deadly fashion. But Hubert’s a
happy man! Does he know it? You must write to him. I can’t!”
Mrs. Keith burst into a ringing laugh. “Know it? You are amazing!
Hadn’t I better telegraph?”
Roger stared and frowned. “Does he suspect it, then?”
Mrs. Keith rolled up her eyes. “Come,” she said, “we must begin at
the beginning. When you speak of your cousin, you open up a gulf.
There is not much in it, it’s true; but it’s a gulf. Your cousin is
a humbug,—neither more nor less. Allow me; I know what I say. He
knew, of course, of your plans for Nora!” Roger nodded. “Of course
he did! He took his chance, therefore, while you were well out of
the way. He lost no time, and if Nora is in love with him, he can
tell you why. He knew that he could not marry her, that he should
not, that he would not. But he made love to her, to pass the time.
Happily, it passed soon. I had of course to be cautious; but as soon
as I saw how things were going, I spoke, and spoke to the point.
Though he’s a humbug, he is not a fool; that was all he needed. He
made his excuses, such as they were! I shall know in future what to
think of him.”
Roger shook his head mournfully. “I am afraid it’s not to be so
easily settled. As you say, Hubert’s a gulf. I never sounded it.
The fact remains that they love each other. It’s hard, but it’s
fatal.”
Mrs. Keith lost patience. “Don’t try the heroic; you will break
down,” she cried. “You are the best of men, but after all you are
human. To begin with, Hubert doesn’t love her. He loves no one but
himself. Nora must find her happiness where women as good have found
it before this, in a sound, sensible marriage. She cannot marry
Hubert; he is engaged to another person. Yes, I have the facts; a
young girl in New York with whom he has been off and on for a couple
of years, but who holds him to his bargain. I wish her joy of it!
He is not to be pitied; she is not Nora, but she is extremely fond of
him, and she is to have money. So good by to Hubert. As for you,
cut the knot! She’s a bit sentimental just now; but one sentiment,
at that age, is as good as another. And, my dear man, the girl has a
conscience, it’s to be hoped; give her a chance to show it. A word
to the wise!”
Thus exhorted, Roger determined to act. The next day was a Sunday.
While the ladies were at church he took up his position in their
drawing-room. Nora came in alone; Mrs. Keith had made a pretext for
ascending to her own room, where she waited with some solemnity. “I
am glad to find you,” Nora said. “I have been wanting particularly
to speak to you. Is my probation not over? May not I now come back?”
“It’s about that,” he answered, “that I came to talk to you. The
probation has been mine. Has it lasted long enough? Do you love me
yet? Come back to me,—come back to me as my wife.”
She looked at him, as he spoke, with a clear, unfrightened gaze, and,
with his last words, broke frankly into a laugh. But as his own face
was intensely grave, a gradual blush arrested her laugh. “Your wife,
Roger?” she asked gently.
“My wife. I offer you my hand. Dear Nora, is it so incredible?”
To his uttermost meaning, somehow, her ear was still closed; she
still took it as a jest. “Is that the only condition on which we can
live together?” she asked.
“The only one,—for me!”
She looked at him, still sounding his eyes with her own. But his
passion, merciful still, retreated before her frank doubt. “Ah,” she
said, smiling, “what a pity I have grown up!”
“Well,” he said, “since you are grown we must make the best of it.
Think of it, Nora, think of it. I am not so old, you know. I was
young when we began. You know me so well; you would be safe. It
would simplify matters vastly; it’s at least worth thinking of,” he
went on, pleading for very tenderness, in this pitiful minor key. “I
know it must seem odd; but I make you the offer!”
Nora was almost shocked. In this strange new character of a lover
she seemed to see him eclipsed as a friend, now when, in the trouble
of her love, she turned longingly to friendship. She was silent
awhile, with her embarrassment. “Dear Roger,” she answered, at last,
“let me love you in the old, old way. Why need we change? Nothing
is so good, so safe as that. I thank you from my heart for your
offer. You have given me too much already. Marry any woman you
please, and I will be her serving-maid.”
He had no heart to meet her eyes; he had wrought his own fate.
Mechanically, he took up his hat and turned away, without speaking.
She looked at him an instant, uncertain, and then, loath to part with
him so abruptly, she laid her arm round his neck. “You don’t think
me unkind?” she said. “I will do anything for you on earth”—_But
that_ was unspoken, yet Roger heard it. The dream of years was
shattered; he felt sick; he was dumb. “You forgive me?” she went on.
“O Roger, Roger!” and, with a strange inconsequence of lovingness,
she dropped her head on his shoulder. He held her for a moment as
close as he had held his hope, and then released her as suddenly as
he had parted with it. Before she knew it, he was gone.
Nora drew a long breath. It had all come and gone so fast that she
was bewildered. It had been what she had heard called a “chance.”
Suppose she had grasped at it? She felt a kind of relief in the
thought that she had been wise. That she had been cruel, she never
suspected. She watched Roger, from the window, cross the street and
take his way up the sunny slope. Two ladies passed him, friends, as
Nora saw; but he made no bow. Suddenly Nora’s reflections deepened
and the scene became portentous. If she had been wrong, she had been
horribly wrong. She hardly dared to think of it. She ascended to
her own room, to take counsel of familiar privacy. In the hall, as
she passed, she found Mrs. Keith at her open door. This lady put her
arm round her waist, led her into the chamber toward the light.
“Something has happened,” she said, looking at her curiously.
“Yes, I have had an offer of marriage. From Roger.”
“Well, well?” Mrs. Keith was puzzled by her face.
“Isn’t it kind of him? To think he should have thought it necessary!
It was soon settled.”
“Settled, dearest? How?”
“Why—why—” And Nora began to smile the more resolutely, as her
imagination had taken alarm. “I declined.”
Mrs. Keith released her with a gesture almost tragical. “Declined?
Unhappy girl!” The words were charged with a righteous indignation
so unusual to the speaker that Nora’s conscience took the hint.
She turned very pale. “What have I done?” she asked, appealingly.
“Done, my dear? You have done a blind, cruel act! Look here.” And
Mrs. Keith having hastily ransacked a drawer, turned about with an
open letter. “Read that and repent.”
Nora took the letter; it was old and crumpled, the ink faded. She
glanced at the date,—that of her first school year. In a moment she
had read to the closing sentence. “It will be my own fault if I have
not a perfect wife.” In a moment more its heavy meaning overwhelmed
her; its vital spark flashed back over the interval of years. She
seemed to see Roger’s bent, stunned head in the street. Mrs. Keith
was frightened at her work. Nora dropped the letter and stood
staring, open-mouthed, pale as death, with her poor young face blank
with horror.