WHICH IS IN SOME RESPECTS UNSATISFACTORY
Jim Wayne had been going so frequently to Chebasset that people were
beginning to talk of it. All foresaw the consummation of his courtship,
and some gloomy shakes of the head were given to the subject.
Beth, the older people said, was just such another as Jim's mother: a
soft woman, without the power either to restrain a man or to improve
him. Such unhappiness as the widow Wayne's was, therefore, reserved to
Beth--while Jim should be alive. As Jim was weaker in character than his
father, and therefore less dissipated, he promised to live longer. Poor
Beth!
Not for these reasons, however, was it that Colonel Blanchard took
serious counsel concerning the possibility of interference. For when the
inclination of the two young people was unmistakable Blanchard began to
consider the side on which it affected him, regretting the hope which
seemed about to vanish, that Beth should marry Pease. If only something
might be done! The Colonel sought Judith as the person who alone could
advise him, though until he opened the subject he had forgotten how
seldom they agreed in their views. The Colonel was often conscious that
his calibre was different from that of his daughter.
"Judith," he said, "you've been noticing what is going on between Beth
and young Wayne? You think there's something in it?"
"If there isn't," she replied, "there will be very soon."
The Colonel took a few fretful paces up and down the room. Then he
stopped before her. "What do you think of it?" he demanded.
For a moment Judith considered her answer; it is unpleasant to say
things which may be remembered later when one has a brother-in-law.
Nevertheless, as usual she spoke the truth. "I wish Beth wouldn't."
"When Pease is ready, too!" complained the Colonel. "Do you suppose he
seems too old to her?"
"Beth likes older people," returned Judith. "And she'd be so safe with
him."
"Yes," returned the Colonel, accepting all suggestions eagerly. "Yes, of
course. Now, isn't there something we can do?"
"For instance?" challenged Judith; seeing that the Colonel had nothing
to offer, she went on, "I never knew how to interfere in anything of
that sort. Of course, you, as her father----"
"Do you think I could?" asked the Colonel hopefully.
"It's not often done," Judith replied.
The Colonel considered the possibility and shrank from it. Never had he
denied anything either to himself or to his daughters; the most he had
ever ventured toward his offspring was a petulant remonstrance. This
tone, as he saw himself helpless, he took now toward Judith in default
of Beth. "It seems hard," he complained. "I've brought her up--you don't
know how much thought I've given you two girls. And now she turns back
on me!"
"Why father," asked Judith in surprise, "how can it affect you so?"
The Colonel's thoughts rapidly skirted the pit which he had opened for
himself. It is a long way from the hope of a rich son-in-law to the
consideration of a daughter's happiness, but the Colonel presently
covered it. "Her comfort," he demanded. "Have I nothing at stake
there?"
But this was obviously so artificial that he felt Judith could not fail
to perceive it. She sat silent, and the Colonel, after changing the
subject, presently got himself out of the house. Perhaps he was to be
pitied, if to be good-natured, weak, indulgent, deserves a better reward
than a vigorous daughter's too-keen comprehension. Besides, the gentle
one was turning against him. He nursed his grievance against Beth for a
while, then at last found comfort in Judith after all. She at any rate
would marry money. If she would only be quick about it!
And the Colonel, free from observation, sat down in the shrubbery to
study the newspaper which he had brought with him, in the hope of
drawing from its columns of figures information which should tell him
where to lay his bet. He was gambling from week to week, quite as if he
were laying on the red or black, although the means of his ventures were
Consolidated, and (following the hint Jim Wayne had given) Poulton
Mining and Milling, besides (a little discovery he had made for himself)
Tilly Valley Oil. They were all up a point or two, but the Colonel was
not entirely relieved as he studied the figures, because more than a few
points were needed in order to make up for the slump of last week.
A man puzzles long at these things, sometimes; the Colonel's time was on
him now, making him very peevish. It was hard, hard indeed, that both
the market and Beth should go against him.
As regards Beth, the signs of her feeling were unmistakable. The eye of
blissful brooding which she now always showed, the loving consideration
with which she fulfilled all duties, bespoke the thoughts which
mastered her. She and Jim had been drawing nearer through the weeks, a
graded progress of lingering, slow-mounting ecstasy. And on one night,
one starlight night, Beth and her lover came to a complete
understanding.
Jim begged her to go with him to the beach. He was trembling a little
himself, being genuinely inspired with a feeling above his own capacity
to retain long; she felt the tremor in his voice as he asked the favour.
"Let's get away from here," he said. "I want to speak with you."
So they went down to the beach, silent, so absorbed by what was coming
that the touch of each other as they jostled in the darkness was enough
to make them start. Jim had chosen where the proposal should be made, a
nook beneath a bank where they had often sat by moonlight; but this was
starlight, and no one was to see.
They sat beneath the bank; the dry sand made a soft seat, the breath of
the salt-water quickened their spirits, the lapping of little waves
spoke to them with a murmur of far away things. Their two hearts beat
like four; Beth felt that she was breathless, Jim knew that he was
wordless, and a long pause followed their arrival. At last Jim found
that he could speak.
"How quiet it is!"
"And how lovely!"
He felt that this was mere temporising. "We've sat here a good many
times," he began again. "Haven't we, Beth?"
"Yes," she murmured, feeling that it was coming.
"I--it's been great fun to see so much of you," he went on, "but it's
got to come to an end before long."
"Really?" asked Beth weakly, all natural power of response completely
lost.
"It's too much to stand, you know," asserted Jim. "I've--you've made me
greedy, Beth. Either I want it all, or none at all."
She answered nothing, though he listened. Ah, it was a mistake to
propose in the dark, for he lost the sight of her sweet face.
"Either to come, I mean," he went on again, "whenever I want, or never
again, Beth."
"Jim!" she murmured.
"Shall I go away?" he asked. "Or shall we just go on meeting--every
day--forever--till death do us part?" he concluded, satisfied that he
had expressed the immutability of his sentiments. Getting no answer, he
reached for Beth's hands in the darkness, and found the little
fluttering things just coming toward him. Then he enfolded her and drew
her to him, and what was said after that was too broken to be set down
in type.
Thus was accomplished, and very creditably to Jim, the understanding
which had been long in coming, and Beth whispered to him the wonderful
words, "I love you!" Her little cup was more than full; her happiness
overflowed her heart and found a somewhat larger receptacle waiting for
it, namely her mind, in which it seemed somewhat thin. Even as she
yielded herself to Wayne's embrace Beth's two natures declared
themselves not in accord, now when the test was applied. Kisses were
strangely fleshly things; Beth shrank beneath Jim's eagerness; poetry
vanished before the fierceness of his embrace. This was not a communion
of spirit with spirit; Jim did not speak with fervour of his relief from
his trials and his fears. The tremolo of praise which her heart was
prepared to utter found no response in his; the deeper thoughts were
hers alone. She had thought admission to the treasures of Jim's mind
would mean so much, and now his exultation oppressed her, while she
winced beneath his physical delight.
Thus Beth, who had thought to sit hand in hand in deep communion,
discovered that there was in Jim as man what was lacking in her as
woman, and before long she led him home. Jim went with reluctance; it
was too sweet to hold and kiss her; she was a morsel far finer than had
yet come to him, and he failed to understand her purity, as the farmer's
boy cannot comprehend the rebellion of a peach at being eaten.
Nor did Jim quite fall in with Beth's ideas, which she detailed to him
as she neared the house. Tell her father and sister, of course, and
after that, why not tell everybody else? Beth wished for a month or two
of Jim to herself, and to rush into the world flaunting her happiness as
if it were an achievement was not in her nature, so she begged of Jim
this respite.
"It won't be news to any one by that time," he grumbled.
"But to oblige me, Jim? And really, never again can we have ourselves
quite to ourselves." In their walk up the hill Beth had found time to
tell herself that she was wrong to be so timid in Jim's embrace; that
perhaps it was natural, but that every other girl felt so at first, and
the feeling would pass. Thus she meant what she said about having him to
herself; and Jim, turning and catching her, declared that there never
was a sweeter little thing, that he must have a kiss, and that he would
agree.
The Colonel and Judith had been sitting quite stolidly, back to back
beside the lamp. But while the Colonel was oblivious to what was going
on, Judith had been keenly alive to it. She had recognised the tremor in
Jim's voice as he begged for the interview; how many such requests had
been made of her! Yet having always gone to a proposal as a surgeon to
an operation, to remove painfully yet kindly the cause of a disease,
Judith knew how different her sensations had been from those of Beth, as
she went, shrinking, to meet her happiness. During the half-hour that
they were away, Judith imagined the bliss of those other two, and knew
that however simple it was, it was enviable. Then when Beth returned,
Judith started for very joy at the sight of her radiant face.
Very prettily Beth went and kissed her father, and stammered that there
was something to tell him, for she and Jim now understood each other. It
seemed to Beth natural that Judith should speak slowly, apparently
choosing her words--but that the Colonel should wait until Judith had
finished speaking, and then should burst out with more than Beth had
expected him to say, as if to cover up less than she had expected him to
feel, struck cold to Beth's warm little heart, and oppressed much of the
remainder of the evening. She had scarcely recovered from it when
train-time came, and with it Jim's good-by, almost violent--and the
evening was over.
Poor little Beth, kneeling at your bedside, praying for one who, instead
of hastening home to tell his mother, stays at the club till after
midnight--poor little Beth, a white figure in the pale light of the
late-rising moon, go to bed and dream the dreams of yesterday. It would
be happier so.
But sleep avoided her. So many thoughts passed through her mind, of the
reality which had come to her--a reality like others, hard in
places--that Beth lay wakeful. She heard the clock strike eleven, heard
her father and Judith come upstairs and say good-night, heard the two go
to their rooms. They had said so little to her, so little, and she was
so lonesome! But in a few minutes a door opened, footsteps approached,
and Judith stood by her sister's side. Beth stretched up her arms and
drew her down.
"Talk to me," Judith murmured. "Tell me about it, about him."
Ah, this was sisterly and sweet! Beth had sometimes thought her sister
cold; never would she do so again. She told her happy thoughts, not
those vague suggestions of a difficult future or imperfect
understanding. Her Jim was such a man! Her own words gave her
confidence; clasped in Judith's arms, Beth poured out her hopes; more
yet, she spoke of her fears in order to smile them away. She would face
hardships, would bear what griefs the world might send, secure in her
great love. And Judith, listening, murmured her agreement, her sympathy,
her joy.
Then when Judith said good-night, she was held still closer for a
moment. "I wish you the same good fortune, dear!" Beth kissed her, and
released her.
Beth slept at last; it was Judith who was wakeful. The same good
fortune?
Judith mused upon love. It was love which so blinded Beth's eyes and
brought this ineffable happiness. Poor Beth! Yet Judith did not even
smile with pity, for her nature told her that this love of Beth's,
should it but last, would be more of a help, a guide and strength, than
all of Judith's own knowledge. And repeating Beth's words, "the same
good fortune," Judith wished for that happiness to come to her. To love
a man, to believe in him, give herself to him: that would solve the
problem of a future which often seemed too cold.
She recognised perfectly the drift of her feelings toward Ellis. Yet her
enthusiasm for him was an impulse of the head rather than the heart; it
was not a passion, but a state of mind. How much finer was Beth's
perfect self-forgetfulness! And fearing that Ellis could never rouse her
to a greater height than this intellectual approval, Judith's thoughts
turned regretfully toward Mather. In all the years of their
acquaintance, why had he never _made_ her love him? Well, that was past!
But Judith, softened by this contact with Beth's happiness, and
perceiving that the fascination of Ellis's personality was slowly
growing on her, looked with regret upon the prospect of a merely
rational union.