A LONG CHAPTER. BUT THEN, LOVE IS LONG
Aunt Selina was almost the only person with whom Harry spoke during the
interval between his last interview with Madge and his departure for
foreign parts. He was living in the old house now, so he could not very
well avoid seeing her. At the last moment, with his overcoat on and his
hat in his hand, he sought out his aunt, and found her in a small room
on the ground floor known as the morning-room, going over her accounts.
"Good-by, Aunt Selina," he said. "I'm going to sail for Europe on the
first steamer I can get, so I shan't see you for some time."
Aunt Selina calmly took off her glasses, laid them beside her pen on the
desk and paused before replying.
"Good-by, my dear," she said at length; "I'm sure I hope you'll enjoy
yourself. Brown Shipley, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Harry. He was a little disconcerted; Aunt Selina played the
game almost too well. Then as he stood unconsequently before her, he was
seized by a sudden desire to confide in her. "Do you know why I'm going,
Aunt Selina?" he asked.
"No, my dear."
"Well, why do you _think_?"
"I prefer not to guess, if that is what you mean. You may tell me, if
you wish."
"Madge Elliston," mumbled Harry.
Aunt Selina stared immovably at her bank book for a moment; then she got
up and faced her nephew.
"There is a streak of horse sense in the Wimbourne blood that has been
the saving of all of us," she said. "I'm glad to see it come out in you.
Good-by, my dear." She kissed him on the cheek.
"How do--how would you like it?" he asked, still hesitating, uncertain
as to her meaning.
"Nothing better. I wish you the best of luck. And I think you're doing
the wisest possible thing."
"I'm glad you do." He looked at her gratefully. "Did you suspect
anything?"
"Not a thing."
"Then I don't believe any one does.... Good-by, Aunt Selina."
"You've done me a great honor. Good-by, dear."
They kissed again and he went out, feeling greatly strengthened and
encouraged. As he drove down to the station he determined to go to a
hotel in New York and keep out of the way of the James Wimbournes and
all other possible confidants. The interview with Aunt Selina had been
so perfect that he could not bear the thought of risking anti-climaxes
to it. Suddenly he remembered that certain Cunard and White Star boats
sailed to the Mediterranean from Boston. He could go directly there and
wait for a steamer in perfect security.
So he took the next train to Boston and that very afternoon engaged
passage to Gibraltar on a steamer sailing two days later. The interval
he spent chiefly in laying up a great store of books on Spain and
Portugal, which countries he planned to visit _in extenso_.
The dull, wet voyage he found enchanting when brightened up by the
glowing pages of Lope de Vega, Calderon, "Don Quixote," "The Lusiads,"
"The Bible in Spain," and Lea's "History of the Inquisition," a galaxy
further enhanced by the businesslike promises of guide books and
numerous works on Hispanic architecture and painting. He landed at
Gibraltar with something almost approaching regret at the thought that
land traveling would allow him less time for reading.
In leisurely fashion he strolled through southern Spain and Portugal,
presently reaching Santiago de Compostela. It had been his intention,
when this part of the trip was finished, to go to Biarritz and from
there work on through the towns of southern France, but a traveling
Englishman told him that he ought on no account to miss seeing the
cathedral of Gerona. So he changed his plans and proceeded eastward.
When he reached Gerona he called himself a fool for having so nearly
missed it, but after a week or ten days among the huge dark churches of
Catalonia he suddenly sickened of sight-seeing and that very night
caught a through express from Barcelona to Paris.
Harry had never known Paris well enough to care for it particularly,
but just now there was something rather attractive to him in its late
June gaiety. He arrived there just at the time of the Grand Prix, and as
he strolled, lonely and unnoticed, through the brilliant Longchamps
crowd he felt his heart unaccountably warming to these well-groomed
children of the world. He had been outside the realm of social
intercourse so long that he felt a sudden desire for converse with
smart, cheerful, people of their type.
His desire was not difficult of fulfilment, as nothing but seven hours'
traveling lay between him and a welcoming Belgrave Square. The next day
he crossed the Channel and took his uncle and aunt completely by
surprise. They were delighted to see him and were unaffectedly
disappointed at having to leave him almost immediately for a dinner in
Downing Street.
"But we're going to see a lot of you while you're here, dear boy," said
Aunt Miriam, "if we have to break every engagement on our list. It isn't
every day that I have a nephew turn into a successful playwright! What
about a dinner, now? Giles, have you anything on for a week from
Monday?"
"The truth is," observed Sir Giles to his nephew, "you've become a lion,
and a lion is a lion even if he is in the family. Poor Harry, I feel for
you!"
"That'll do, G. It's good for the boy."
"There's small danger of my being a lion in London, anyway," said Harry.
"Oh, I don't know," ruminated Uncle Giles: "adoration of success is the
great British vice, you know."
"Monday the fourth, then, Giles," said his wife.
"Hooray, the national holiday!" retorted the irrepressible baronet. "I
say, we'll have the room decorated with American flags and set off
fireworks in the square afterward. We might make a real day of it, if
you like, and go to tea at the American Embassy!"
"No, I don't think we'll do that," answered Aunt Miriam, closing her
lips rather firmly.
Harry had a short talk alone with his aunt that night after she came
back from the evening's business.
"Come in and help me take off my tiara," she said, leading the way into
her bedroom. "I rather want to talk to you. Do you know, dear boy, I
fancy something's come over you lately, you're changed, somehow. Is it
only your success? What brought you over here, in the first place?"
"Spanish churches," answered Harry promptly. He had at one time half
decided to confide in Aunt Miriam, but he definitely gave up the idea
now. She was too sympathetic, by half. "Do you know Barcelona and
Batalha? There's nothing like them."
"No, I've never been to Spain. They say there are fleas, and the beds
are not reliable. I also understand that other arrangements are somewhat
primitive."
"Oh, not always," replied Harry, smiling. "Still, I don't think I do
quite see you in Spain, Aunt Miriam." Then he kissed her good night
quite affectionately. He could be very fond of her, from a short
distance.
As he strolled down Bond Street next morning Harry sighted an old school
acquaintance; a man whom he had known as plain Tommy Erskine, but whom a
succession of timely deaths, as he now vaguely remembered, had brought
into the direct line of an earldom. Harry wondered if he would remember
him; they had not met since their Harrow days. The other's somewhat
glassy stare relaxed quickly enough, however, when he saw who it was.
"Well, Harry! Jolly old Harry!" he said in a tone of easy cordiality, as
though he had not seen Harry perhaps for a week. "I say, turn around and
toddle down to Truefitt's again with me, will you? Fellah puts stinking
stuff on my hair three times a week; never do to miss a time, wot? Well,
jolly old Harry; wherever have you been all these yahs? Didn't go up to
Oxford, did you?"
"No," said Harry, "I went home, to America, and I've stayed there ever
since. I'm a thorough Yankee again now; you won't know me. But Tommy,
what's all this rot about you being a viscount or something?"
"Oh, bilge! Such a bilgy name, too--Clairloch--like a fellah with phlegm
in his throat, wot? Never call me that, though; call me Tommy, and I'll
call you Wiggers, just like jolly old times, wot?"
Harry felt himself warming to this over-mannered, over-dressed,
over-exercised dandy who was such a simple and affectionate creature
beneath his immaculate cutaway, and rather hoped he might see something
of him during his stay in London.
"Do you ever ride these days, Tommy?" he asked presently. "That is,
would you ride with me some day, if I can scratch up an animal?"
"Oh, rather. Every morning, before brekker. Only I'll mount you. Lots of
bosses, all eating their silly heads off. Oh, rot!" he went on, as Harry
demurred; "rot, Wiggers, of course I shall mount you. No trouble 't all.
Pleasure. You come to England, I mount you. I go to America, you mount
me. Turn about, you know."
"I'm afraid not, as we haven't got any saddle horses at present,"
answered Harry. "You can drive with Aunt Selina in the victoria, though,
if you like," he added, smiling at the thought.
"Wot? Wot's that? Delighted, I'm shaw," said Tommy, vaguely scenting an
invitation. "Oh, I say, Wiggers, speaking of aunts, wotever became of
that jolly cousin of yaws? Carson gell--oldest--sister married Ned
Twombly--you know." (For Jane had fulfilled her mission in life by
marrying the heir to a thoroughly satisfactory peerage.)
"She's not my cousin," said Harry, "but she's still living in America,
keeping house for my aunt--the one I mentioned just now--and doing lots
of other things. Settlement work, and such. She and my aunt are thick as
thieves."
"I say, how rum. Fancy, gell like that--good looks, and all
that--trotting off to do slum work in a foreign country. Wot's the
matter with London? Lots of slums here. Can't und'stand it, 't all.
Never could und'stand it. Rum."
"Oh, no one ever understands Beatrice," said Harry. "Her friends have
given up trying. Well, Tommy, I think I won't go into Truefitt's with
you. See you to-morrow morning?"
"Righto--Achilles statue--seven-thirty sharp."
"Righto," answered Harry, and laughed to think how well he said it.
That was the beginning of a long month of gaiety for Harry, a month of
theaters and operas, of morning rides in the Row, of endless chains of
introductions, of showering invitations, of balls, dinners, parties of
all kinds, of lazy week-ends in the Surrey hills or beside the Thames,
of sitting, on one occasion at least, enthroned at Aunt Miriam's right
hand and gazing down a long table of people who were not only all asked
there to meet him but had actually jumped at the invitation; of tasting,
in short, the first fruits of success among the most congenial possible
surroundings.
And as his relish outlasted the season he saw no reason for not
accepting an invitation to a yachting party over Cowes week and another
to one of Tommy's ancestral seats in Rosshire over the twelfth; the more
so as Uncle Giles and Aunt Miriam decamped for Marienbad early in
August. So he became in turn one of the white-flanneled army of
pleasure-seekers of the south and one of the brown-tweeded cohorts of
the north. His month in Tommydom ran into five, into six, into seven
weeks almost before he knew it; it threatened shortly to become two
months. And then, instantaneously, the revulsion seized him, even as it
had seized him in June at Manresa.
It happened one morning when the whole party were in the butts. Harry
was ordinarily a tolerable shot, but to-day he shot execrably. After he
had missed every bird in the first drive he cursed softly and broke his
shooting-stick; after he had missed every bird in the second he silently
handed his gun to his loader and walked down to his host, who had the
next butt to his.
"Good-by, Tommy," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm going."
"Oh, don't do that," said Tommy. "Birds flying rotten high to-day."
"It's not that. I'm going home."
"Righto. See you at tea time, then."
"No, you won't see me again. I'm going to catch the three-eighteen for
Glasgow, if I can make it. Sail from Liverpool Saturday."
Tommy's face, like his mind, became a blank, but he lived up to the
traditions of his race and class. "Well, so long, old thing," he said,
shaking Harry's hand. "Call on me if I can ever be any use. You'll find
the motor down at the crossroads, and do look alive and get off before
the next drive, there's a dear, or birds won't fly within a mile of the
first butt."
Harry reached Liverpool next day and succeeded in getting a berth on a
steamer sailing the day after. He landed in New York late one afternoon
and took a night train for Bar Harbor, arriving there next morning. He
telegraphed ahead the hour of his arrival, and James and Beatrice met
him at the dock. They both seemed glad to see him, and he supposed he
was glad to see them, but he found it strangely difficult to carry on
conversation with them as they all drove up to the house together.
Aunt Selina kissed Harry affectionately and wholly refrained, he could
not help noticing, from anything like knowing smiles or sly little
asides. Aunt Selina could always be depended on.
The Gilsons were New Haven people whom Harry had always known, though
never very well. He rather liked Mrs. Gilson, who was a plump, chirpy,
festive little person, but as he drove over the two miles that lay
between her house and Aunt Selina's he prayed with all his might that
both she and her husband might be from home that afternoon. Half his
prayer was granted, but not the most important half. Mr. Gilson was
away, but Mrs. Gilson, not content with being merely in, came bounding
to the door to meet him and was whirling him down a broad green lawn to
the tennis court before he knew which end he was standing on.
"I do so want you to meet my cousin Dorothy Fitzgerald," she said. "Such
a sweet girl, and it's so hard to get hold of men in Bar Harbor--you've
no idea! She plays such a good game of tennis. I'm so glad to see you've
got tennis shoes on--we were just trying to get up a four when you came.
And how was your trip--do tell me all about it! Spain? Oh, I've always
longed so to go to Spain! Young Mrs. Dimmock is here too--you know her?
And a Mr. McLean--I'll introduce you. Portugal, too? Oh, how delightful;
I do so want to hear all about Portugal. We've just got a new tennis
net--I do hope it will work properly...."
She buzzed pleasantly along by his side, neither asking nor requiring
attention. Harry's glance wandered back to the house; he caught a
glimpse of two little figures bent over a table on a verandah; Madge and
that confounded child, of course.
"Where is your little girl?" he asked.
"Oh, Lily--she's having her French lesson, I suppose. We find it works
better that way, to leave the morning free for golf and bathing and use
this first stupid part of the afternoon for lessons. She's doing so
well, too, with dear Madge Elliston...."
"I want to see Lily before I go," said Harry firmly; "I don't think I
have ever made her acquaintance. Madge Elliston, too," he added, trying
to make this seem like a polite afterthought.
"Oh, yes, indeed; I'll tell them both to come down to the court after
the lesson," replied his hostess.
By this time they were at the tennis court and introductions flew fast.
Tennis ensued immediately and continued, quietly but absorbingly,
through set after set till the afternoon was well-nigh gone. Presently
they stopped playing and sat about sipping soft drinks, it seemed, for
hours, and still Madge did not show up. At length he found himself being
dragged into a single with Miss Fitzgerald. He played violently and
nobly for a time, but when at last Madge with her small charge joined
the group at the side of the court it was more than flesh or blood could
stand. He left Miss Fitzgerald to serve into the backstop and walked
across the court to where Madge stood.
"How do you do?" he said, holding out his perspiring hand.
"How do you do?" she answered, politely shaking it. It was the flattest
meeting imaginable; nothing could have been more unlike the vision he
had formed of it.
Lily was introduced and he stood making commonplace remarks to both of
them until he became aware that he had been rude to Miss Fitzgerald. He
went off to make his apologies to her, and found her willing to receive
them and also to discontinue their game. But if he hoped that general
conversation would give him a chance for a private word with Madge he
was bound to be disappointed. Mrs. Gilson had other plans.
"Oh, Mr. Wimbourne, we're all going off on a picnic and we do so want
you to join us! You will, won't you? Mrs. Dimmock knows such a sweet
place on the Somesville road, and we're going to start right away. I'm
not at all sure there's enough to eat, but that doesn't matter on a
picnic, does it? Especially an evening picnic, when no one can see just
how little there is! I do think it's so nice to get up things just on
the spur of the moment like this, don't you? So much nicer than planning
it all out ahead and then having it rain. Let's see, two, four, six--we
shall all be able to pile in somehow...."
"But I'm afraid I shall have to change," objected Harry. "I don't quite
see how I can manage."
"We shall see the moon rise over McFarland," observed young Mrs. Dimmock
in a rapt manner, as though that immediately solved the problem.
Harry was at first determined not to go on any account; then he gathered
that Madge was to be included in the expedition, and straightway became
amenable. A picnic, an evening picnic, would surely give him the best
possible opportunity....
The plan as at last perfected was that Harry should be driven home where
he would change and pick up James and Beatrice, if possible, and with
them drive out in the Wimbournes' buckboard to the hallowed spot on the
Somesville road in plenty of time to see the moon rise over McFarland.
This was substantially what occurred, except that Beatrice elected to
remain at home with Aunt Selina. James and Harry took the buckboard and
drove alone to the meeting place. They found the others already there
and busy preparing supper. A fire crackled pleasantly; the smell of
frying bacon was in the air. Harry, refreshed by a bath and the prospect
of presently taking Madge off into some shadowy thicket, was in higher
spirits than he had been all day. He bustled and chattered about with
Mrs. Gilson and Mrs. Dimmock and joined heartily with them in lamenting
that the clouds were going to cheat them of the much-advertised
moonrise. He engaged in spirited toasting races with Miss Fitzgerald and
sardine-opening contests with members of the strong-wristed sex. He vied
with Mrs. Gilson herself in imparting a festive air to the occasion.
Then suddenly he realized that Madge was not there. He had been vaguely
aware of something lacking even before he overheard something about
"headache" and "poor little Lily," from which it became clear to him
that Madge's professional duties had again dealt him a felling blow. He
made some excuse about gathering firewood and darted off in a bee-line
to the place where the horses were tethered.
He caught sight of James on the way and dragged him out of the others'
hearing.
"James!" he whispered hoarsely, "you'll have to get home as you can. I'm
going to take the buckboard--now--right off! Something very
pressing--tell you about it later. Say I've got a stomach ache or
something."
He jumped into the buckboard and started off at a fast clip. The night
air rushing by him fanned his fevered senses and before the village was
reached he was calm and deliberate. He drove straight to the Gilsons'
house, tied his horse at the hitching-post, rang the front doorbell and
asked for Miss Elliston.
He allowed her to come all the way down the stairs before he said
anything. Half curious, half amused she watched him as he stood waiting
for her.
"Nothing the matter with that kid?" he inquired at last.
She shook her head.
"Come with me then."
Without a word he turned and walked off through a French window which he
held open for her. As she passed him she glanced at his set face and
gave a slight choking sound. He supposed he was rather amusing. No
matter, though; let her laugh if she wanted. He led her across the lawn
to the tennis court where they had met this afternoon and beyond it,
until at last they reached a small boathouse with a dock beside it. To
this was moored a canoe. He had seen that canoe this afternoon and it
had recurred to him on his drive. He stooped and unfastened the painter
and then held out his hand.
"Get in there," he commanded.
She hesitated. "It's not safe, really--"
"Get in," he repeated almost roughly.
She settled herself in the bow and he took his place at the other end.
With a few vigorous strokes of the paddle he sent the canoe skimming out
over the dark, mysterious water. The night was close and heavy and gave
the impression of being warm; it was in fact as warm as a Bar Harbor
night at the end of August can respectably be. The sky was thickly
overcast, but the moon which had so shamelessly failed to keep the
evening's engagements shed a dim radiance through the clouds, as though
generously lending them credit for having shut in a little daylight
after the normal time for its departure. Not a breeze stirred; the
surface of the water was still, though not with the glassy stillness of
an inland lake. Low, oily swells moved shudderingly about; when they
reached the shore they broke, not with the splashy cheerfulness of fair
weather ripples, but gurgling and sighing among the rocks, obviously
yearning for the days when they would have a chance to show what they
really could do in the breaking business. The whole effect was at once
infinitely calm and infinitely suggestive.
Neither of the occupants of the canoe spoke. Harry paddled firmly along
and Madge watched him with a sort of fascination. At length her eyes
became accustomed to the light and she was able to distinguish the grim,
unchanging expression of his features and his eyes gazing neither at her
nor away from her but simply through her. His face, together with the
deathly calm of the night, worked a strange influence over her; it
became more and more acute; she felt she must either scream or die of
laughing....
"Well, Harry?"
"Well, Madge?"
His answer seemed less barren as she thought it over; there had been
just enough emphasis on the last word to put the next step up to her.
The moment had come. She drew a deep breath.
"The answer," she said, "is in the affirmative."
The next thing Madge was aware of was Harry paddling with all his might
for the shore.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Going to get out of this confounded thing," he replied.
When they reached the dock he got out, helped her out and tied the canoe
with great care. Then he gathered her to him and kissed her several
times with great firmness and precision.
"You really are quite a nice young woman," he remarked; "even if you did
propose to me."
"Harold Wimbourne! I never!"
"You said, 'Well, Harry.' I should like to know what that is if it isn't
a proposal."
They turned and started up the steps toward the house. Madge seemed to
require a good deal of helping up those steps. When they reached the top
she swung toward him with a laugh.
"What is it now?" he asked.
"Nothing ... only that it should have happened in a canoe. You, of all
people!"
They walked slowly across the tennis court and sat down in one of the
chairs scattered along its western side. Here they remained for a long
time in conversation typical of people in their position, punctuated by
long and interesting silences.
"Suppose you tell me all about it," suggested Harry.
"Well, now that it's all done with, I suppose I was merely trying to be
on the safe side, all along. I know, at least, that I had rather a
miserable time after you left. All the spring. Then I came up here and
it seemed to get worse, somehow. It was early in June, and everything
was very strange and desolate and cold, and I cried through the entire
first night, without stopping a moment!"
"Yes," said Harry thoughtfully, "I should think you might have gathered
from that that all was not quite as it should be."
"Yes. Well, next morning I decided I couldn't let that sort of thing go
on. So I took hold of myself and determined never to discuss the subject
with myself, at all. And I really succeeded pretty well, considering.
Whenever the idea of you occurred to me in spite of myself, I
immediately went and did something else very hard. I've been a perfect
angel in the house ever since then, and I don't mind saying it was
rather brave of me!"
"You really knew then, months ago? Beyond all doubt or question?"
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Then why in the world didn't you telegraph me?"
"As if I would!" exclaimed Miss Elliston with an indignant sniff.
"That was the arrangement, you know."
"Oh, good gracious, hear the man! What a coarse, masculine mind you
have, my ownest! You call yourself an interpreter of human character,
but what do you really know of the maiden of bashful twenty-six?
Nothing!"
"Well, well, my dear," said Harry easily, "have it your own way. I
daresay it all turned out much better so. I was able to do up the
Spanish churches thoroughly, and I had a lovely time in England. Just
fancy, of all the hundreds of people I met there I can't think of a
single one, from beginning to end, who said I had a coarse masculine
mind."
"Brute," murmured Miss Elliston, apparently to Harry's back collar
button.
* * * * *
"I suppose," she observed, jumping up a little later, "that you were
really right in the beginning. That first evening, you know."
"Oh, I'm quite sure of it. How?"
"When you said I couldn't talk that way to you without being in love
with you. I expect I really was, though the time hadn't come for
admitting it, even to myself. In fact, I was so passionately in love
with you that I couldn't bear to talk about it or even think about it,
for fear of some mistake. If I kept it all to myself, you see, no harm
could ever have been done."
"How sane," murmured Harry. "How incontrovertibly logical."
"Yes. You see," explained Miss Elliston primly, "no girl--no really nice
girl, that is, can ever bring herself to face the question of whether
she is in love with a man until he has declared himself."
"Consequently, it's every girl's--every nice girl's--business to bring
him to the point as soon as possible. Any one could see that."
"And for that very reason she must keep him off the business just as
long as she can. When you realize that, you see exactly why I acted as I
did that night and why I worked like a Trojan to keep you from
proposing. I failed, of course, at last--I hadn't had much experience.
I've improved since...." She wriggled uncomfortably. "You acted rather
beautifully that night, I will say for you. You made it almost easy."
"Hm. You seemed perfectly sure that night, though, that you were very
far from being in love with me. You even offered to marry me, as I
remember it, as an act of pure friendship. I don't see quite why you
couldn't respectably admit that you were in love with me then, since in
spite of your best efforts I had broken through to the point. How about
that?"
"It was all too sudden, silly. I couldn't bring myself round to that
point of view in a minute. I had to have time. Oh, my dear young man,"
she continued, resuming her primmest manner, "how little, how
singularly little do you know of that beautiful mystery, a woman's
heart."
"A woman's what?"
"Heart."
"Oh, yes, to be sure. As I understand it, the only mystery is whether it
exists or not."
"How can you say that?" cried Madge with sudden passion, grasping at him
almost roughly.
"I didn't," replied Harry.
"No, dear, excuse me, of course you didn't. Only I have to make a fool
of myself every now and then...."
* * * * *
"But, oh, my dearest," she whispered presently with another change of
mood, "if you knew what a time I've been through, really, since you've
been gone! If you knew how I've lain awake at night fearing that it
wouldn't turn out all right, that something would happen, that I'd lose
you after all! I've scanned the lists of arrivals and departures in the
papers; I've listened till I thought my ears would crack when other
people talked about you. The very sound of your name was enough to make
me weep with delight, like that frump of a girl in the poem, when you
gave her a smile.... You see, I haven't been brave _all_ the time. There
were moments.... Do you know that backbone feeling?"
"I think so," said Harry. "You mean the one that starts very suddenly at
the back of your neck and shoots all the way down?"
"Yes, and at the same time you feel as if your stomach and lungs had
changed places, though that's not so important. I don't see why people
talk about loving with their hearts; the real feeling is always in the
spine. Well, no amount of bravery could keep that from taking me by
surprise sometimes, and even when I was brave it would often leave me
with a suspicion that I had been very silly and weak to trust to luck to
bring everything to a happy ending. But I never could bring myself to
send word to you. I was determined to give you every chance of changing
your mind; I knew you would come back at last, if you cared enough....
And if anything had happened, or if you had decided not to come
back--well, I always had something to fall back on. The memory of that
one evening, and the thought that I had been given the chance of loving
you and had lived up to my love to the best of my ability...."
"That doesn't seem very much now, does it?" suggested Harry.
"No. Oh, to think how it's come out--beyond all my wildest dreams!... I
never thought it would be quite as nice as this, did you?"
"Never. The truth has really done itself proud, for once."
"The truth--fancy, this is the truth! This!... Oh, nonsense, it can't
be! We aren't _really_ here, you know. This is simply an unusually vivid
subconscious affair--you know--the kind that generally follows one of
the backbone attacks. It will pass off presently. It will, you know,
even if it is what we call reality.... For the life of me, I don't
really know whether it is or not!--Harry, did it ever occur to you that
people are always marveling that dreams are so like life without ever
considering the converse--that life is really very much like a dream?"
"A few have--a very few. A great play has been written round that very
thing--_La Vida Es Sueno_--life is a dream. We'll read it together
sometime.--Heavens, I never realized what it really meant till now! Do
you know what this seems like to me? It seems like the kind of scene I
have always wanted to write but never quite dared--simply letting myself
go, without bothering about action or probability or motivation but just
laying it on with a trowel, as thick as I could. All that, transmuted
into terms of reality--or what we call reality! Heavens, it makes me
dizzy!"
* * * * *
"See here, Harold Wimbourne," said Madge, suddenly jumping up again; "it
seems to me you've been talking a great deal about love and very little
about marriage. What I want to know is, when are you going to marry me?"
"Oh, the tiresome woman! Well, when should you say?"
"To-morrow morning, preferably. If that won't do, about next Tuesday.
No, of course I've got heaps of things to do first. How about the middle
of October?"
"I was just thinking," said Harry seriously. "You see, my dear, I'm at
present working on a play. Technically speaking. Only, owing to the
vaporous scruples of a certain young person I haven't been able to put
in any work on it for several months. Bachmann has been very decent. He
has practically promised to put it on in January, if it's any good at
all. That means having it ready before Christmas, and I shall have to
work like the very devil to do that. I work so confoundedly slowly, you
see. Then there'll be all the bother of rehearsals, lasting up to the
first night, which I suppose would be about the end of January. I should
like to have up till then clear, but I should think by about the middle
of February--say the fifteenth...."
"Oh, indeed," replied Miss Elliston, "you should say about the
fifteenth, should you? I'm sorry, very sorry indeed, but as it happens I
have another engagement for the fifteenth--several of them. Possibly I
could arrange something for next June, though, or a year from next
January; possibly not. Better let the matter drop, perhaps; sorry to
have disturbed--"
"When will you marry me?" interrupted Harry, doing something that
entirely destroyed the dignity of Miss Elliston's pose. "Next
week--to-morrow--to-night? I daresay we could wake up a parson...."
"Sorry, dear, but I've arranged to be married on the fifteenth of
February, and no other date will do. You're hurting my left
shoulder-blade cruelly, but I suppose it's all right. That's better....
Oh, Harry, I do want you to work like the very devil on this play! Don't
think about marriage, or me, or anything that will hinder you. Because,
dearest, I have a feeling that it's going to be rather a good one. A
perfect rip-snorter, to descend to the vulgar parlance."
"Yes," said Harry, "I have a feeling that it is, too."
* * * * *
The sound of carriage wheels crunching along the gravel drive floated
down and brought them back with a start to the consideration of
actualities. They both sat silently wondering for a moment.
"What about Mrs. Gilson?" suggested Madge.
"Might as well," replied Harry.
"All right. You'll have to do it, though."
"Very well, then. Come along."
They rose and stood for a moment among the scattered chairs, both
thinking of their absurd meeting on that spot this very afternoon, and
then turned and started slowly up toward the house. When they had nearly
reached the verandah steps Harry stopped and turned toward Madge.
"Well, the whole world is changed for us two, isn't it?"
"It is."
"Nothing will ever be quite the same again, but always better, somehow.
Even indifferent things. And nothing can ever spoil this one evening?"
"Nothing?"
"Not all the powers of heaven or earth or hell? We have a sort of
blanket insurance against the whole universe?"
"Exactly," said Madge. "We're future-proof."
"That's it, future-proof. I'll wait here on the porch. No Fitzgerald,
mind."
He did not have to wait long. Madge found Mrs. Gilson in the hall, as it
happened, with Miss Fitzgerald receding bedward up the stairs and far
too tired to pay any attention to Madge's gentle "Mr. Wimbourne is here
and would like to see you, Mrs. Gilson." So the good lady was led out
into the dark porch and as she stood blinking in the shaft of light
falling out through the doorway Harry appeared in the blackness and
began speaking.
"I do hope you'll excuse my being so rude and leaving your party, Mrs.
Gilson. There was a real reason for it. You see Madge and I"--taking her
hand--"have come to an understanding. We're engaged."
Mrs. Gilson stood blinking harder than ever for one bewildered moment,
and then the floodgates of speech were opened.
"Oh, my _dear_, how _wonderful_! Madge, my dearest Madge, let me kiss
you! Whoever could have _dreamed_--Harry--you don't mind my calling you
Harry, do you?--you must let me kiss you too! It's all so wonderful, and
so unexpected, and I can't help thinking that if your dear mother--oh,
Madge, you double-dyed creature, how long has this been going on and I
never knew a thing? We all thought--your brother was so tactful and gave
us to understand that you had acute indigestion or something, left over
from the voyage, and we all quite understood, though I did think there
might be something afoot when I saw your buckboard at the door. And I
haven't heard a thing about Spain and Portugal, not a _thing_, though
goodness knows there's no time to think of that now and you must let me
give a dinner for you both at the earliest possible moment. When is it
to be announced? I do hope before Labor Day because there's never a man
to be had on the island after that...."
And so on. At last Harry made the lateness of the hour an excuse for
breaking away and went round to the front door to get his buckboard.
Madge had to go with him, though she had no particular interest in the
buckboard.
"She's a good woman," said Harry as he fumbled with the halter.
"Though--whoa there, you silly beast; you're liable to choke to death if
you do that."
"The rein's caught over the shaft," explained Madge. "It makes her
uncomfortable. Though what, dear?"
"That's the trace, and it's him, anyway. Oh, nothing. Only I never was
so awfully keen on slobbering."
"She's a dear, really. If you knew what an angel she's been to me all
summer! What makes her look round in that wild-eyed way?"
From Harry's answer, "He's tired, that's all," we may assume that this
question referred to the horse, though her next remark went on without
intermission: "I don't want you to go away to-night thinking--"
"I like slobbering," asserted Harry. "Always did.... Now if that's all,
dear, perhaps I'd better make tracks." The last ceremonies of parting
had been performed and he was in the buckboard.
"Just a moment, while I kiss your horse's nose. It doesn't do to neglect
these little formalities.... I'm glad you like slobbering, dear, because
your horse has done it all over my shoulder ... no, don't get out. It
had to go in the wash anyway. He's a sweet horse; what is his name?"
"Dick, I think. Oh, no--Kruger. Yes, he's that old."
"Because, dear," went on Madge, with her hand on the front wheel;
"there's one thing one mustn't forget. There was--Mr. Gilson, you know."
"Good Lord," said Harry, struck by the thought.
"Yes, and what's more, there still is!"
"A true model for us?"
"Yes. After all, we have no monopoly, you know."
"Good Lord, think of it! Millions of others!"
"It gives one a certain faith in the human race, doesn't it?"
"For Heaven's sake, Madge, don't be ultimate any more to-night! You make
me dizzy--how do you suppose I'm going to drive between those white
stones? Do you want me to be in love with the whole world?" And Madge's
reply "Yes, dear, just that," was drowned in the clatter of his wheels.