“_Do I love you? Mon Dieu! I am too engrossed in this bonnet to say._”
--Hercule d'Enville.
[Illustration: 9245]
N hour has passed since the departure of Fisher; the crowd outside,
after cheering each of the combatants down the street, has at last
dispersed; the notice at the door informing all females of our patronage
and assistance has been removed; the mission has become only a matter
for the local historian, yet we two still linger over the office fire.
Kate says little, but in her mind, it seems to me, there must be many
thoughts. She has recovered her composure and reflections have had time
to come. I, with surprising acumen and confidence, speculate on the
nature of these. Disillusionment, the collapse of hopes, and the chilly
thaw that leaves only the dripping and fast-vanishing remnants of
ideals; these are surely what she feels. As I watch her, also saying
little, her singular beauty grows upon me, and my heart goes out in
sympathy for her troubles, till it is beating ominously fast. “Yes,”
I say to myself, “this is more than Plato. I worship at the shrine of
woman. No longer am I a sceptic!”
My sympathy can find no words; yet it must somehow take shape and reach
this sorrowing divinity. I lay my hand upon hers and she--she lets me
press her fingers silently, while a little smile begins to awake about
the corners of her wilful mouth.
“Poor friend!” I exclaim, yet with gentle exclamation. “Yes,
disillusionment is bitter!”
She gives her shoulders a shrug and her eye flashes into the fire.
“It is not that,” she replies. “It's being made a beastly fool of.”
For an instant I get a shock; but the spell of the moment and her
beauty is too strong to be broken. It seems to me that I do but hear an
evidence of her unconquerable spirit.
“You have a friend,” I whisper, “who can never think you a fool. To me
you are the ideal, the queen of women. You may have lost your own ardent
faith in woman through this luckless experiment, but you have converted
me!”
At this she gives me such a smile that all timidity vanishes. “Kate!” I
exclaim, and the next moment she is in my arms.
For a silent five minutes I enjoyed all the raptures that a beautiful
woman and a rioting imagination can bestow. Picture Don Quixote
embracing a Dulcinea who should really be as fair of face as his fancy
painted her. Would not the poor man conceive himself in heaven even
though she never understood a word of all his passion? For the moment I
shared some of the virtues of that paladin with a fairer reason for my
blindness. Her soft face lay against mine, the dark lashes hid her
eyes, her form yielded to every pressure. What I said to her I cannot
remember, even if I were inclined to confess it now; I only know that
my sentiments were flying very high indeed, when suddenly she laughed. I
stopped abruptly.
“Why do you laugh?” I asked.
She raised her head and opened her eyes and I saw that there was
certainly no trace of sentiment in them.
“You are getting ridiculous,” she said. “Don't look so beastly serious!”
“Serious!” I gasped. “But--but what are you?”
She smiled at me again as kindly and provokingly as ever. But the
veil of illusion was rent and it needed but another tear to pull it
altogether from my eyes.
“You do not love me, then?” I asked, as calmly as I could.
“Love?” she smiled. “Don't be absurd!”
“Pardon!” I cried. “I see I have neglected my duties hitherto. I ought
to have been kissing you all this time. That would have amused you
better!”
Ah, I had roused her now, but to anger, not to love. She sprang back
from me, her eyes flashing.
“You insult me!” she cried.
“Is it possible?” I asked, with a smile.
Her answer was brief, it was stormy, and it was not very flattering to
myself; evidently she was genuinely indignant.
And I--yes, I was beginning to see the ordinary little bits of glass
that had made so dazzling a kaleidoscope. I had been upbraiding Dulcinea
with not being indeed the lady of Toboso; and that honest maiden was
naturally incensed at my language.
I fear that in the polite apology I made her, I allowed this discovery
to be too apparent. Again she was in arms, and this time with
considerable dramatic effect.
“Oh, I know what you think!” she cried. “You think that because I don't
make a fuss about _you_, I have no sentiments. If you were worth it you
would see that I could be--”
She paused.
“What?” I asked.
With the privilege of woman, she slightly changed the line of argument.
“All men are alike,” she said, contemptuously.
“Then you have had similar experiences before?”
“Yes,” she replied, with a candor I could not help thinking was somewhat
belated.
“In the Temple?” I asked.
“He made a fool of himself, just like you,” she retorted.
“Yet you assured me there was no one--”
“What business had you with my confidence?” she interrupted.
“I see,” I replied. “So you told what was not quite the truth? You were
quite right; people are so apt to misunderstand these situations. In
future I shall know better than to ask questions--because I shall be
able to guess the answers. Good-bye.”
She replied with a distant farewell, and that was the end of a pretty
charade.
I went away vowing that I should never think of her again; I lunched
at the gayest restaurant to assist me in this resolution; I planned a
series of consolations that should make oblivion amusing, even if not
very edifying; yet early in the afternoon I found myself in her uncle's
apartments, watching the old gentleman put the finishing touches to “A
portrait from memory of Miss Kate Kerry.” That picture at least did
not flatter! I had told him before of our ripening acquaintance and
my engagement as secretary, and I think the General had enough martial
spirit still left to divine the reason for my philanthropic ardor.
To-day he quickly guessed that something unfortunate had happened.
“Had a row with Kate, eh?” he inquired.
“A row?” I said, endeavoring to put as humorous a face on it as
possible. “General, I pulled a string, expecting warm water to flow, and
instead I received a cold shower-bath.”
I fear I must have smiled somewhat sadly, for it was in a very kindly
voice that the old gentleman replied:
“I know, mossoo; I know what it feels like. I remember my feelings when
a certain lady gave me the congé, as you'd say, in '62--was it?--or '63.
Long time ago now, anyhow, but I haven't forgotten it yet. Only time
I ever screwed my courage up to the proposing point; found afterwards
she'd been engaged to another man for two years. She might have told me,
hang it!--but I haven't died of broken heart, mossoo. You'll get over
it, never fear.”
“But it is not that she is engaged; it is not that she has repulsed me.
She is your niece, General, but I fear her heart is of stone. She is a
flirt, a--” In my heat I was getting carried away; I recalled myself in
time, and added:
“Pardon; I forget myself, General.”
“I know, I know,” he replied. “I've felt the same about her myself,
mossoo. She's a fine girl; good feelings and all the rest of it, but a
little--er--unsatisfactory sometimes, I think. I've hoped for a little
more myself now and then--a little--er--womanliness, and so on.”
“I cannot understand her,” I said. “I pictured her full of soul--and
now!”
“I used to picture 'em full of soul, too,” said the General, “till I
learned that a bright eye only meant it wasn't shut and that you could
get as heavenly a smile by tickling 'em as any other way.”
“General!” I exclaimed. “Are you a cynic, then?”
“God forbid!” said the old boy, hastily. “I've seen too many good women
for that. I only mean that you don't quite get the style of virtue you
expect when you are--twenty-five, for instance. What you get in the best
of 'em is a good wearing article, but not--er--the fancy piece of goods
you imagine.”
“In a word,” I said, as I rose to leave him, “you ask for a pearl and
you get a cheap but serviceable pebble.”
“Well, well,” he replied, good-humouredly, “we'll see what you say six
weeks later.”
“I have learned my lesson,” I answered. “You will see that I shall
remember it!”
The reader will also see, if his patience with the experimental
philosopher and confident prophet is not yet quite exhausted.
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