THE FINAL FREAK
Tilly finished writing her letter, signed and addressed it, and leaned
back in her chair.
She had just declined to marry Dicky Mainwaring.
"That's done, anyhow," she said to herself, with the instinctive
cheerfulness of those who are born plucky. "Now I'll go out and post it
before the Family come home, and then perhaps a little walk round
Bloomsbury will give me an appetite for tea." But as Tilly rose briskly
to her feet her eye fell upon the letter from Dicky, lying beside the
answer to it which she had just written. For the tenth time she picked
it up and re-read certain passages.
_I don't think I ever loved you as I did yesterday afternoon. As I
watched you fighting that brave, uphill battle of yours in the face of
the most awful odds--Mother and Sylvia are awfully odd, you know--I
suddenly realised how utterly and entirely I had become part of you--or
you of me, if you like. I was on your side in that plucky,
preposterous, transparent little conspiracy from start to finish, and
when the crash came I think I was harder hit than anybody. The only
complaint I have to make is that you did not take me into your
confidence. I could have put you up to one or two tips which might have
made all the difference--you see, I have known Mother and Sylvia longer
than you have--and we could have enjoyed the fruits of victory together.
Still, I forgive you for your obstinacy in trying to put the enterprise
through single-handed. It was very characteristic of you, and anything
that is characteristic of you is naturally extra precious to me. So
don't imagine that yesterday's little interparental unpleasantness is
going to make any difference to you and me--to You and Me!_
"To You--and Me!" echoed Tilly softly.
_... You will probably receive a call from my esteemed parents. They
mean well, but I mistrust their judgment. They will probably intimate
that we must never see one another again, or something of that kind. I
am afraid it is just possible that my dear old mother will offer you
compensation, of a sort. If she does, try to forgive her. She does not
understand. Not at present, that is. One day she will laugh at
herself--which will establish a record--and apologise to you for having
entertained the idea._
"No, she won't!" observed Tilly at this point.
_... It seems ridiculous, does n't it, that any one should seriously set
out to appeal to you to "abandon your demands" upon me? As if things
were not entirely the other way. It is I who am making demands upon
you, dearest. The idea! To lecture you as if you were some designing
little adventuress, instead of the most wonderful worker of miracles
that ever lived--the girl who made bricks without straw--the girl who
made a man of Dicky Mainwaring!_
_... So do not be afraid with any amazement--do you know where that
quotation comes from?--at anything my mother may say. She will probably
pile on the agony a bit about the various kinds of trouble that await a
couple who marry out of different social circles, and punk of that kind.
She is a dear thing, my old mother, but very feminine. When she wants
to argue about anything she always begins by begging the question.
Besides, our love is big enough to square any circle, social or
otherwise. So don't you worry, little girl. Leave things to me, and--_
Tilly read more slowly and yet more slowly, and then stopped reading
altogether. Then she rose slowly to her feet, crossed the room, and
stood gazing into the fire. She did not know what begging the question
meant, but she had other food for reflection. Connie Carmyle was right.
When it comes to a pinch, letters are useless things, and being useless
are, more often than not, dangerous.
On the mantelpiece stood two framed photographs--one of Tilly, the other
of Dicky. The original of the first addressed the second.
"I wish you had n't put in that last bit, Dicky dear ... '_Abandon my
demands_' ... '_A little adventuress_.' ... That's what I am, when all
is said and done. A little adventuress, trying to better herself! Lady
Adela is right and we were wrong. What else could you think of me,
Dicky, once you married me and found me out--a silly, hysterical, common
little chit? ... There's your letter, dear. I dare say I could have got
quite a lot for it in a court of law; but some adventuresses are n't up
to sample. They have no spirit."
Dicky's much-read epistle dropped into the flames, and Tilly turned with
sudden briskness from her lover's photograph to her own.
"As for you, Tilly Welwyn," she observed severely, "just remember that
you are only an ordinary, hard-working, matter-of-fact little London
work-girl. You can put all fancy notions about fairy princes and
happy-ever-after out of your head. You are getting a big girl now, you
know. You must live your life and go your own way; and sometimes--only
sometimes, mind!--when you are feeling downhearted and up against it,
I'll allow you to let your thoughts go back to the best man that ever
walked; and although you may cry a bit, you will thank God you did not
spoil his life by marrying him."
The doors leading onto the landing creaked, and Amelia peeped cautiously
in. Tilly started guiltily. None of us like to be caught talking to
ourselves. The habit savours of exclusiveness--and other things.
"Tilly dear," said little 'Melia listlessly, "the new lodger has come
with his luggage. Could you give him a hand with it? Everybody is out,
and it's rather heavy for me."
"All right," said Tilly readily. "I'll be down in half a minute."
Amelia disappeared, leaving the doors open; and Tilly hastily assumed a
business-like yet hospitable expression, suitable for the welcoming of a
second-floor.
"One thing more, though, my girl," she remarked sternly, releasing her
features for a moment in order to address her own reflection in the
overmantle mirror. "Just remember that this will require a real
_effort_. It's all very well to feel heroic just now, and talk about
giving him up, and living your own life, and so on; but it won't be
easy. You will have to put your back into it. Supposing you meet him in
the street one day? What then? Can you walk past him? You know you are
as weak as water where he is concerned. What are you going to do about
it?"
Tilly met her own eyes in the glass, and looked very determined. The
eyes in the glass responded by filling with tears. Tilly turned away
impatiently from this disloyal exhibition.
"Very well, then," she said. "If you are as weak as that about it, you
must just make up your mind to _avoid_ him--that's all. There's nothing
else for it. You must never see him again.... And I love him so!" she
added inconsequently.... "Poor Tilly!"
Little 'Melia appeared in the doorway again.
"He's bringing up his portmanteau," she announced breathlessly, and
vanished.
Tilly turned towards the door. Laborious steps were audible upon the
staircase, as of one ascending with a heavy load. Presently a man in a
great-coat passed the open doorway. On his left shoulder he carried a
large portmanteau, which hid his face. He passed up the second-floor
staircase and out of sight.
Tilly, hot and cold by turns, stood shaking in the middle of the floor.
There was a bump overhead. Then steps descending, slowly. He was
coming back.
Tilly shut her eyes tight for a full half-minute; then opened them and
tottered forward with a cry.
In the doorway--laughing, joyous, open-armed--stood The Freak.
"You foolish, foolish Tilly!" he said; and caught her as she fell.
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
By Ian Hay
THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND.
SCALLY: THE STORY OF A PERFECT GENTLEMAN. With Frontispiece.
A KNIGHT ON WHEELS.
HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. Illustrated by Charles E. Brock.
A SAFETY MATCH. With frontispiece.
A MAN'S MAN. With frontispiece.
THE RIGHT STUFF. With frontispiece.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK