LOVERS' TIFFS
Nora had not long been gone to church before Miss Harding became
sufficiently cured of her headache to permit of her quitting her own
apartment. Perhaps she was of opinion that fresh air would do it good;
and, notoriously, fresh air is good for headaches; certainly she
looked very far from well. She donned her smartest hat, and one of her
prettiest frocks, relinquishing, for the nonce, the black dress she
had been wearing for her lately departed host. She attired herself
with the greatest care, giving minute attention to those small details
which mean so much; possibly she was under the impression that costume
might have something to do with a cure--yet all her care could not
conceal the fact that she was looking ill. When she saw how white she
was, and the black marks under the eyes--and actually wrinkles in the
corners, and how thin and worn and pinched her face seemed to have
suddenly become, she could have cried, only she was painfully
conscious that tears had already had too large a share in bringing her
to the state in which she was. If she could she would have "assisted
nature," only she had nothing with which to do it. Nora's opinions on
the subject of "aids to beauty" were strong; Elaine had frequently
declared that hers were even stronger. That was the worst of being in
the position of "humble friend"; one had sometimes to pretend that one
thought what one really did not think, or so it seemed to her. If she
had only had a little "something," in a jar, or in a tube, or a stick,
or anything--but she would not have dared to run the risk of allowing
Nora to find such a thing in her possession. Moreover, until then she
had never wanted it. Still, if she had been left alone--that was how
she put it--she might have had it by her. Now that she really wanted
something, she had absolutely not a thing--obviously the fault of that
was Nora's.
The consequence was that when at last she sallied out into the grounds
she was conscious that she was not looking her best, in spite of her
hat and frock--she knew that there was nothing amiss with them; and
that morning it was so very desirable that she should look even better
than her best, because she was going to meet Mr. Herbert Nash, and was
particularly anxious to twist him round her finger. Every one knows
that, where a man's concerned, the better one looks the easier that
operation is apt to be found. Miss Harding made one slight error; she
ought to have remembered that when one is not looking one's best
matters are not improved by being in a bad temper. Good temper may
almost act as an "aid to beauty," bad temper certainly won't; and,
unfortunately, Miss Harding was so conscious of her defects that her
temper suffered.
Nor was it mended by the fact that the gentleman kept her waiting.
Perhaps that headache of hers had had something to do with the
accident that she had an appointment to keep. She had asked Mr. Nash
to let her see him somewhere on Sunday morning, where they could be
alone, and he had told her he would be by the fish-pond at such and
such an hour. She herself was a little late at the trysting-place; her
toilette had taken longer than she had intended; still she was first.
She waited--she had no watch, but it seemed that she waited hours,
yet he did not come. By the time he did appear her mood was hardly
lover-like; nor, it seemed, was his. He came strolling leisurely
through the trees, his hands in his jacket pockets, a cane under his
arm, a big cigar in his mouth, his hat at a rakish angle--quite at his
ease; there was something in his appearance which would hardly have
induced the average client to select him as his legal adviser. Elaine
always had a more or less vague feeling that this was so; the feeling
was stronger than usual as she watched him coming; yet the man had for
her such an intense physical fascination that she deliberately refused
to let her eyes see what they would have perceived plainly enough if
she had only let them. More or less, it was possibly because she
realized that that Sunday morning he did not look quite so desirable
an example of his sex as he might have done that her greeting was
hardly saccharine.
"You've taken your time in coming."
He planted himself in front of her, without removing his hands from
his pockets, his cane from under his arm, his cigar from his mouth, or
his hat from his head.
"Well, what's the hurry? I had to see a man."
"You knew I was waiting; you might have let him wait."
"I might; but I didn't. Hello! what's wrong?"
He was looking her up and down in a way which made her tingle.
"What do you mean--what's wrong?"
"You look--no offence intended--but you look as if you'd been up all
night--a hot night too."
"I have a headache, and waiting for you hasn't made it any better."
"A headache? My mother used to have headaches, and, my word! when she
had them didn't she use to make it warm for us. I used to say----"
He stopped, and laughed.
"What did you use to say?"
"I used to say--again no offence intended--that I'd never marry a
woman who had headaches."
"I'm not subject to headaches--don't suppose it; I scarcely ever have
them; in fact, I don't ever remember having had one before; only--I've
been worried."
"Have you? that's bad. Don't do it; be like me--don't let yourself be
worried by anything." He took out his cigar and surveyed the ash. "I
read somewhere the other day that it's worry makes people grow old
before their time; I don't believe much I read, but I do believe that.
No matter what goes wrong, don't worry, it will come right; that's my
theory of life."
"It's very easy to talk, it's harder to do. You don't seem very
pleased to see me now that you have come."
"Don't I? I am; I'm as pleased as Punch."
"You don't show it."
"How do you expect me to show it? By taking you in my arms and kissing
you out here in broad daylight, with you don't know what eyes enjoying
the fun? If you'll come over the stile into the wood you shall have
all the kissing you want--before lunch."
"I shall do nothing of the kind, and I expect you to do nothing of the
kind, as you very well know; only----" She suddenly changed the
subject. "Did you see Mr. Dawson yesterday, and arrange about the
partnership?"
"I saw him, but I can't say I did much more than see him. He didn't
seem to be so enthusiastic about the idea of having me for a partner
as I expected, and--I can't say I'm very enthusiastic."
"What do you mean? The other day you said it was just the thing you
would like to be."
"Yes, in a sense--in default of something better; but I don't want to
be premature; since the other day something has occurred to me which
may turn out to be better than a partnership with the venerable Mr.
Dawson--who, between ourselves, is as supercilious an old beast as I
ever want to meet--a good deal better."
"What is it, Herbert?"
She was observing him with--in her eyes, and on her face--an
eagerness, a something strained, of which he seemed unconscious, and
of which, no doubt, she was unconscious also.
"Excuse me, but that's exactly what I can't tell you--not at the
present moment. It's still, as you may say, in the embryo--in the
making; but it's there."
He touched his forehead with his finger, as if to denote that the
something in question had a safe location in his brain.
"Can't--can't you give me some idea of what it is?"
"It depends on what you call an idea. I'll tell you this much; I'm
meditating a coup--a great coup; if I bring it off it'll mean a really
big thing; how big I can't tell you, not just now--I don't know
myself; but something altogether beyond anything a partnership with
old Dawson would mean.
"Herbert, I hope it's nothing risky."
She had run such a risk herself she wanted him to run none; she had
had enough of risks, for ever.
"That depends again on what you mean by risky. I'm not sure that I
shall go in for it; I haven't quite finished turning it over in my
mind; I don't altogether see my way; but if, by the time I have
finished turning it over in my mind, I do see my way, why, there you
are; I'm a starter. Of course there's always the risk of my not
bringing it off, though you may bet I'll do my best"--he said this
with a very curious smile; a smile which, for some reason, seemed to
bring a sense of chill to her heart. "But I shall be no worse off if I
don't--there's no risk in that sense. Then will be the time to join
myself in partnership with dear old Dawson."
She drew a long breath. The position was becoming complicated. She had
not dreamed that he would have formed a scheme of his own, which she
was to be kept out of, or she would not have gone, the second time,
through the study window.
"Will--will any money be wanted for what you're thinking of?"
"No; not, at least, from you; of course, money will be wanted, but--it
will come from some one else, if it comes at all; that's the idea;
plenty of it too."
Again that curious smile came on his face; that, this time, it
positively frightened her, showed what a state her nerves were in.
"Herbert, of what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking--of a real big thing."
As she watched him some instinct warned her not to push her curiosity
too far; yet there were certain things she must know.
"How long--will it take you to make up your mind?"
"That's something else I can't tell you; I never may make it up. You
see, I'm only mentioning this so that you can understand why I'm not
anxious to press old Dawson, just yet awhile. There's nothing to be
lost by waiting; I'm in no hurry."
"How about our marriage?"
"What do you mean--how about our marriage?"
She would have liked to have told him just what she did mean--that she
had invented her aunt's legacy simply because she wanted to be married
at once. But she could not do that; she had to get to the point some
other way.
"You said if you had enough money to buy a partnership in Mr. Dawson's
business we might be married at once; that's why I told you about my
aunt's legacy."
"That's all right; the legacy'll keep; what's the harm?"
"The harm is--it's not nice of you to make me say so, though--you
ought to be--you ought to be flattered."
"I am flattered."
"You're not! I don't believe you care for me one bit, or--or you'd
know I want to be married."
"So you shall be."
"When?"
"Oh, when I've had time enough to find out where I'm standing; say in
a month or two."
"Herbert, you should never have had that two hundred pounds if you
hadn't promised me that we should be married at once."
"What do you call at once?"
"Next week."
"Next week! why, that's Easter!"
"Well, why shouldn't we be married at Easter?"
"Good gracious! Where do you propose to set up housekeeping? in my
rooms?"
"Not necessarily in your rooms; but in some rooms--nice rooms, for the
present; they needn't be just about here. I've money enough to go on
with--plenty of money; and you might think over what you've been
talking about, and come to a decision, while--while we're on our
honeymoon."
Again he took the cigar out of his mouth, and again he regarded the
ash; it was white, and long, and firm; it seemed it was a good cigar;
and while he was still regarding the ash, he observed--
"Young woman, there's more in you than meets the eye. There's
something in what you say; I admit there's a good deal in what you
say. I'll give it my serious attention."
"Your serious attention! Won't you understand? Any day I may have to
leave this place."
"That's true enough, unless you propose to remain on the premises
while the catalogue s being drawn up, and the lots are being
ticketed."
"Herbert! What do you mean?"
"Nothing to speak of; only I happen to know that the principal
creditors don't mean to wait for their money a moment longer than they
can help. Either the estate will have to be administered in
bankruptcy, or Miss Nora Lindsay will have to agree to the whole thing
being sold--lock, stock and barrel, for what it will fetch."
"When?"
"As a matter of fact, they want to come into the place and start the
catalogue to-morrow."
"But what will become of Nora?"
"Quite so."
"Where will she go?"
"Where will she?"
"Couldn't she--couldn't she come and live with us?"
"What's that?"
"Couldn't she--live with us?"
"Who's us?"
"With you and me--just for a time--when we're married?"
Mr. Nash looked the lady straight in the face, significantly; his tone
was as significant as his look.
"My dear, I don't think you care for Miss Nora Lindsay one snap of
your fingers, and I'm sure I don't."
"You've no right to say that."
"I fancy that you've a sort of notion that you ought to behave
prettily to her because she's let you come and liven her up when she
hadn't a soul in the place to speak to. So far as I can see, she's at
least as much under an obligation as you are. She'd have been deadly
dull without you; she'd have had to pay a companion, and pay her well,
if it hadn't been for your society. You got nothing for your services;
seems to me she owes you. Don't talk about her living with us! I
wouldn't live under the same roof as Miss Nora Lindsay, not for a
million a year. I don't like her--never did--never could; she's not
the kind of girl I care about. What does it matter to me what becomes
of her? Do you think she'd trouble if I came to eternal grief? Very
much so! I fancy I see her at it! No, if you're going to take up with
Miss Nora Lindsay you've done with me. There never has been any love
lost between us, and now if I had my way I'd never see her or speak to
her again. So if your sentiments are different I'll hand you back the
two hundred pounds you so kindly threw into my face just now, and
we'll cry quits. I'm not going to start by letting the girl who's
going to be my wife mix herself up with people who are objectionable
to me."
The expression which was on the girl's face, as she looked at him, was
pitiful; had he been aware of the emotions which seemed to be tearing
at her in a dozen different places at once, even he might have been
moved to pity. Had his words been lashes they could hardly have hurt
her more. She stood trembling, hardly able to speak.
"I--I'd no idea you--you felt like this--about--Nora."
"Hadn't you? Well, you know now; and as perhaps you'd like to have a
little time to get the idea well into your head, I'll say good-day."
"Herbert, you--you mustn't go."
"Mustn't go? Why mustn't I go?"
"How about our marriage?"
"How about our marriage?--when just now you were talking about her
coming to live with us."
"I--I--was only--suggesting."
"Then let me tell you that the suggestion's made me feel sick. I don't
want any words--I hate them; and as I'm not going to be bustled, when
I know that I ought not to allow myself to be bustled, as I remarked,
I'll return you the money which you threw into my face just now."
"I--I didn't mean to throw it in your face."
"Then what did you mean? You as good as said that I'd been up for
sale, and that you'd bought me; but as I didn't understand that I was
being bought, I'll hand you back the purchase price, then perhaps I
shall be able to call my soul my own."
"I--I--Herbert, don't--don't let's quarrel. I--I--you don't know how I
love you."
"Very well, then, and I love you; so that's all right."
"Are you sure you love me? If I were only sure!"
"You may be dead sure; at the same time you must allow me to speak a
few plain words. There's something the matter with you, and there has
been for some little time; I don't know what it is--it may be a
headache, as you say, but if it is it's the kind of headache which, if
I were you, I should take something for. You've changed altogether
during the last few days; the little girl I used to know wouldn't have
tried to bully me into marrying her at a moment's notice, when I told
her that I thought it would be better, for both our sakes, that we
should wait a little. I promise you that as soon as I see my way I'll
come and ask you to name the day, and I hope you'll name an early one.
But, in the meantime, where's the hurry? So far as I know you'll get
no harm by waiting; it isn't as though I was asking you to wait
long--a month or two at most; and it isn't as though you were hard up;
you've got the cash, not I. As for leaving the place, I should say the
sooner you leave it the better; you've got a home to go to--what's
wrong with your home? You can write to me, I can come and see you; or,
if I can't manage to come, after a bit you might step over to see me;
you might find quarters with a mutual friend--why not? My present
advice to you is to take a dose of medicine, that is medicine, and lie
down, and sleep it off; then when you're feeling more like yourself
you'll see that I'm quite right; and then you might let me know, and
we can have another little talk together. In the meantime, as I
observed before, I'll say good-day. By the bye, if you do want that
money back again, you've only got to let me have a line, and you shall
have it."