A MONOLOGUE AND A DIALOGUE.
It was at the end of this day’s yachting that Peter was having his
“unsocial walk.” Early on the morrow he would be taking the train for
his native town, and the thought of this, in connection with other
thoughts, drew stern lines on his face. His conclusions were something
to this effect:
“I suspected before coming that Watts and Miss Pierce loved each other.
I was evidently wrong, for if they did they could not endure seeing so
little of each other. How could he know her and not love her? But it’s
very fortunate for me, for I should stand no chance against him, even
supposing I should try to win the girl he loved. She can’t care for me!
As Watts says, ‘I’m an old stupid naturally, and doubly so with girls.’
Still, I can’t go to-morrow without telling her. I shan’t see her again
till next winter. I can’t wait till then. Some one else—I can’t wait.”
Then he strode up and down half a dozen times repeating the last three
words over and over again. His thoughts took a new turn.
“It’s simply folly, and you have no right to give in to it. You have
your own way to make. You have no right to ask mother for more than the
fifteen hundred she says you are to have as an allowance, for you know
that if she gave you more, it would be only by scrimping herself. What
is fifteen hundred a year to such a girl? Why, her father would think I
was joking!”
Then Peter looked out on the leaden waters and wished it was not
cowardly to end the conflict by letting them close over him. The dark
color made him think, however, of a pair of slate-colored eyes, so
instead of jumping in, he repeated “I can’t wait” a few times, and
walked with redoubled energy. Having stimulated himself thereby, he
went on thinking.
“She has been so kind to me that—no—she can’t care for me. But if
she—if by chance—if—supposing she does! Why, the money is nothing. We
can wait.”
Peter repeated this last remark several times, clearly showing that he
made a great distinction between “I can wait” and “We can wait.”
Probably the same nice distinction has been made before, and lovers
have good authority for the distinction, for many an editor’s public
“We think” is the exact opposite of his private “I think.” Then Peter
continued:
“Of course I shall have difficulty with Mr. Pierce. He’s a worldly man.
That’s nothing, though, if she cares for me. If she cares for me?”
Peter repeated this last sentence a number of times and seemed to enjoy
the prospect it conjured up. He saw Peter Stirling taking a fond
farewell of a certain lady. He saw him entering the arena and
struggling with the wild beasts, and of course conquering them. He saw
the day when his successes would enable him to set up his own fireside.
He saw that fireside made perfect by a pair of slate-colored eyes,
which breakfast opposite him, follow him as he starts for his work, and
greet him on his return. A pair of eyes to love when present, and think
of when absent. Heigho! How many firesides and homes have been built
out of just such materials!
From all this the fact can be gathered that Peter was really, despite
his calm, sober nature, no more sensible in love matters than are other
boys verging on twenty-one. He could not see that success in this love
would be his greatest misfortune. That he could not but be distracted
from his work. That he would almost certainly marry before he could
well afford it, and thus overweight himself in his battle for success.
He forgot prudence and common-sense, and that being what a lover
usually does, he can hardly be blamed for it.
Bump!
Down came the air-castle. Home, fireside, and the slate-colored eyes
dissolved into a wooden wharf. The dream was over.
“Bear a hand here with these lunch-baskets, chum,” called Watts. “Make
yourself useful as well as ornamental.”
And so Peter’s solitary tramp ceased, and he was helping lunch-baskets
and ladies to the wharf.
But the tramp had brought results which were quickly to manifest
themselves. As the party paired off for the walk to the Shrubberies,
both Watts and Peter joined Miss Pierce, which was not at all to
Peter’s liking.
“Go on with the rest, Watts,” said Peter quietly.
Miss Pierce and Watts both stopped short in surprise.
“Eh?” said the latter.
“You join the rest of the party on ahead,” said Peter.
“I don’t understand,” said Watts, who could hardly have been more
surprised if Peter had told him to drown himself.
“I want to say something to Miss Pierce,” explained Peter.
Watts caught his breath. If Peter had not requested his absence and
given his reason for wishing it, in Miss Pierce’s hearing, Watts would
have formed an instant conclusion as to what it meant, not far from the
truth. But that a man should deliberately order another away, in the
girl’s hearing, so that he might propose to her, was too great an
absurdity for Watts to entertain for more than a second. He laughed,
and said, “Go on yourself, if you don’t like the company.”
“No,” said Peter. “I want you to go on.” Peter spoke quietly, but there
was an inflexion in his singularly clear voice, which had more command
in it than a much louder tone in others. Watts had learned to recognize
it, and from past experience knew that Peter was not to be moved when
he used it. But here the case was different. Hitherto he had been
trying to make Peter do something. Now the boot was on the other leg,
and Watts saw therein a chance for some fun. He therefore continued to
stand still, as they had all done since Peter had exploded his first
speech, and began to whistle. Both men, with that selfishness common to
the sex, failed entirely to consider whether Miss Pierce was enjoying
the incident.
“I think,” remarked Miss Pierce, “that I will leave you two to settle
it, and run on with the rest.”
“Don’t,” spoke Peter quickly. “I have something to say to you.”
Watts stopped his whistling. “What the deuce is the old boy up to?” he
thought to himself. Miss Pierce hesitated. She wanted to go, but
something in Peter’s voice made it very difficult. “I had no idea he
could speak so decidedly. He’s not so tractable as I thought. I think
Watts ought to do what he asks. Though I don’t see why Mr. Stirling
wants to send him away,” she said to herself.
“Watts,” said Peter, “this is the last chance I shall really have to
thank Miss Pierce, for I leave before breakfast to-morrow.”
There was nothing appealing in the way it was said. It seemed a mere
statement of a fact. Yet something in the voice gave it the character
of a command.
“’Nough said, chum,” said Watts, feeling a little cheap at his
smallness in having tried to rob Peter of his farewell. The next moment
he was rapidly overtaking the advance-party.
By all conventions there should have been an embarrassing pause after
this extraordinary colloquy, but there was not. When Peter decided to
do a thing, he never faltered in the doing. If making love or declaring
it had been a matter of directness and plain-speaking, Peter would have
been a successful lover. But few girls are won by lovers who carry
business methods and habits of speech into their courtship.
“Miss Pierce,” said Peter, “I could not go without thanking you for
your kindness to me. I shall never forget this week.”
“I am so glad you have enjoyed it,” almost sang Miss Pierce, in her
pleasure at this reward for her week of self-sacrifice.
“And I couldn’t go,” said Peter, his clear voice suddenly husking,
“without telling you how I love you.”
“Love me!” exclaimed Miss Pierce, and she brought the walk again to a
halt, in her surprise.
“Yes,” replied Peter simply, but the monosyllable meant more than the
strongest protestations, as he said it.
“Oh,” almost cried his companion, “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t say that,” said Peter; “I don’t want it to be a sorrow to you.”
“But it’s so sudden,” gasped Miss Pierce.
“I suppose it is,” said Peter, “but I love you and can’t help telling
it. Why shouldn’t one tell one’s love as soon as one feels it? It’s the
finest thing a man can tell a woman.”
“Oh, please don’t,” begged Miss Pierce, her eyes full of tears in
sympathy for him. “You make it so hard for me to say that—that you
mustn’t”
“I really didn’t think you could care for me—as I cared for you,”
replied Peter, rather more to the voice than to the words of the last
speech. “Girls have never liked me.”
Miss Pierce began to sob. “It’s all a mistake. A dreadful mistake,” she
cried, “and it is my fault.”
“Don’t say that,” said Peter, “It’s nothing but my blundering.”
They walked on in silence to the Shrubberies, but as they came near to
the glare of the lighted doorway, Peter halted a moment.
“Do you think,” he asked, “that it could ever be different?”
“No,” replied Miss Pierce.
“Because, unless there is—is some one else,” continued Peter, “I shall
not——”
“There is,” interrupted Miss Pierce, the determination in Peter’s voice
frightening her info disclosing her secret.
Peter said to himself, “It is Watts after all.” He was tempted to say
it aloud, and most men in the sting of the moment would have done so.
But he thought it would not be the speech of a gentleman. Instead he
said, “Thank you.” Then he braced himself, and added: “Please don’t let
my love cause you any sorrow. It has been nothing but a joy to me.
Good-night and good-bye.”
He did not even offer to shake hands in parting. They went into the
hallway together, and leaving the rest of the party, who were already
raiding the larder for an impromptu supper, to their own devices, they
passed upstairs, Miss Pierce to bathe her eyes and Peter to pack his
belongings.
“Where are Helen and Stirling?” inquired Mr. Pierce when the time came
to serve out the Welsh rarebit he was tending.
“They’ll be along presently,” said Watts. “Helen forgot something, and
they went back after it.”
“They will be properly punished by the leathery condition of the
rarebit, if they don’t hurry. And as we are all agreed that Stirling is
somewhat lacking in romance, he will not get a corresponding pleasure
from the longer stroll to reward him for that. There, ladies and
gentlemen, that is a rarebit that will melt in your mouth, and make the
absent ones regret their foolishness. As the gourmand says in
‘Richelieu,’ ‘What’s diplomacy compared to a delicious pâté?’”