It was Althea who, during the next few days, while Gerald with the
greatest tact and composure made his approaches, was most unconscious of
what was approaching her. Everybody else now saw quite clearly what
Gerald's intentions were. Althea was dazed; she did not know what the
bright object that had come so overpoweringly into her life wanted of
her. She had feared--sickeningly--with a stiffening of her whole nature
to resistance, that he wanted to flirt with her as well as with Lady
Pickering. Then she had seen that he wasn't going to flirt, that he was
going to be her friend, and then--this in the two or three days that
followed Gerald's talk with Helen--that he was going to be a dear one.
She had only adjusted her mind to this grave joy and wondered, with all
the perplexity of her own now recognised love, whether it could prove
more than a very tremulous joy, when the final revelation came upon her.
It came, and it was still unexpected, one afternoon when she and Gerald
sat in the drawing-room together. It was very warm, and they had come
into the cooler house after tea to look at a book that Gerald wanted to
show her. It had proved to be not much of a book after all, and even
while standing with him in the library, while he turned the musty
leaves for her and pointed out the funny old illustrations he had been
telling her of, Althea had felt that the book was only a pretext for
getting her away to himself. He had led her back to the drawing-room and
he had said, 'Don't let's go out again, it's much nicer here. Please sit
here and talk to me.'
It was just the hour, just such an afternoon as that on which poor
Franklin had arrived; Althea thought of that as she and Gerald sat down
on the same little sofa where she and Franklin had sat. And, in a swift
flash of association, she remembered that Franklin had wanted to kiss
her, and had kissed her. They had left Franklin under the limes with
Helen; he had been reading something to Helen out of a pamphlet, and
Helen had looked, though rather sleepy, kindly acquiescent; but the
memory of the past could do no more than stir a faint pity for the
present Franklin; she was wishing--and it seemed the most irresistible
longing of all her life--that Gerald Digby wanted to kiss her too. The
memory and the wish threw her thoughts into confusion, but she was still
able to maintain her calm, to smile at him and say, 'Certainly, let us
talk.'
'But not about politics and philanthropy to-day,' said Gerald, who
leaned his elbow on his knee and looked quietly yet intently at her; 'I
want to talk about ourselves, if I may.'
'Do let us talk about ourselves,' said Althea.
'Well, I don't believe that what I'm going to say will surprise you. I'm
sure you've seen how much I've come to care about you,' said Gerald.
Althea kept her eyes fixed calmly upon him; her self-command was great,
even in the midst of an overpowering hope.
'I know that we are real friends,' she returned, smiling.
Her calm, her cool, sweet smile, like the light in the shaded room, were
very pleasing to Gerald. 'Ah, yes, but that was only a step, you see,'
he smiled back. He did not let her guess his full confidence, he took
all the steps one after the other in their proper order. He couldn't
give her romance, but he could give her every grace, and her calm made
him feel, happily and securely, that grace would quite content her.
'You must see,' he went on, still with his eyes on hers, 'that it's more
than that. You must see that you are dearer than that.' And then he
brought out his simple question, 'Will you be my wife?'
Althea sat still and her mind whirled. Until then she had been
unprepared. Her own feeling, the feeling that she had refused for days
to look at, had been so strong that she had only known its strength and
its danger to her pride; she had had no time to wonder about Gerald's
feeling. And now, in its freedom, her feeling was so joyous that she
could know only its joy. She was dear to him. He asked her to marry him.
It seemed enough, more than enough, to make joy a permanent thing in her
life. She had not imagined it possible to marry a man who did not woo
and urge, who did not make her feel the ardour of his love. But, now,
breathlessly, she found that reality was quite different from her
imagination and yet so blissful that she could feel nothing wanting in
it. And she could say nothing. She looked at him with her large eyes,
gravely, and touched, a little abashed by their gaze, he took her hand,
kissed it, and murmured, 'Please say you'll have me.'
'Do you love me?' Althea breathed out; it was not that she questioned or
hesitated; the words came to her lips in answer to the situation rather
than in questioning of him. And it was hardly a shock; it was, in a
subtle way, a further realisation of exquisiteness, when the situation,
in his reply, defined itself as a reality still further removed from her
imagination of what such a situation should be.
Holding her hand, his gay brown eyes upon her, he said, after only the
very slightest pause, 'Miss Jakes, I'm not a romantic person, you see
that; you see the sort of person I am. I can't make pretty speeches, not
when I'm serious, as I am now. When I make pretty speeches, I'm only
flirting. I like you. I respect you. I've watched you here in my old
home and I've thought, "If only she would make it home again." I've
thought that you'd help me to make a new life. I want to come and live
here, with you, and do the things I told you about--the things that
needed money.'
His eyes were on hers, so quietly and so gravely, now, that they seemed
to hold from her all ugly little interpretations; he trusted her with
the true one, he trusted her not to see it as ugly. 'You see, I'm not
romantic,' he went on, 'and I can only tell you the truth. I couldn't
have thought of marrying you if you hadn't had money, but I needn't tell
you that, if you'd had millions, I wouldn't have thought of marrying
you unless I cared for you. So there it is, quite clear and simple. I
think I can make you happy; will you make me happy?'
It was exquisite, the trust, the truth, the quiet gravity, and yet there
was pain in the exquisiteness. She could not look at it yet distinctly
for it seemed part of the beauty. It was rarer, more dignified, this
wooing, than commonplace protestations of devotion. It was a large and
beautiful life he opened to her and he needed her to make it real. They
needed each other. Yet--here the pain hovered--they needed each other so
differently. To her, he was the large and beautiful life; to him, she
was only a part of it, and a means to it. But she could not look at
pain. Pride was mounting in her, pride in him, her beloved and her
possession. Before all the world, henceforth, he would be hers. And the
greatness of that pride cast out lesser ones. He had discriminated, been
carefully sincere; her sincerity did not need to be careful, it was an
unqualified gift she had to make him. 'I love you,' she said. 'I will
make it your home.'
And again Gerald was touched and a little confused. He kissed her hand
and then, her eyes of mute avowal drawing him, he leaned to her and
kissed her cheek. He felt it difficult to answer such a speech, and all
that he found to say at last was, 'You will make me romantic, dear
Althea.'
That evening he sought Helen out again; but he need not have come with
his news, for it was none. Althea's blissful preoccupation and his
gaiety had all the evening proclaimed the happy event. But he had to
talk to Helen, and finding her on the terrace, he drew her hand through
his arm and paced to and fro with her. She was silent, and, suddenly and
oddly, he found it difficult to say anything. 'Well,' he ventured at
last.
'Well,' Helen echoed in the darkness.
'It's all settled,' said Gerald.
'Yes,' said Helen.
'And I'm very happy.'
'I am so glad.'
'And she is really a great dear. Anything more generously sweet I've
never encountered.'
'I'm so glad,' Helen repeated.
There seemed little more to say, but, before they went in, he squeezed
her hand and added: 'If it hadn't been for you, I'd never have met her.
Dear Helen, I have to thank you for my good fortune. I've always had to
thank you for the nice things that have happened to me.'
But to this Helen demurred, though smiling apparently, as she answered,
going in, 'Oh no, I don't think you have this to thank me for.'
After they had gone upstairs, Althea came to Helen's room, and putting
her arms around her she hid her face on her shoulder. She was too happy
to feel any sense of shyness. It was Helen who was shy. So shy that the
tears rose to her eyes as she stood there, embraced. And, strangely, she
felt, with all her disquiet at being so held by Althea, that the tears
were not only for shyness, but for her friend. Althea's happiness
touched her. It seemed greater than her situation warranted. Helen could
not see the situation as rapturous. It was not such a tempered, such a
reasonable joy that she could have accepted, had it been her part to
accept or to decline. And, held by Althea, hot, shrinking, sorry, she
was aware of another anger against Gerald.
'My dear Althea, I know. I do so heartily congratulate you and Gerald,'
she said.
'He told you, dear Helen?'
'Yes, he told me, but of course I saw.'
'I feel now as if you were my sister,' said Althea, tightening her arms.
'We will always be very near each other, Helen. It is so beautiful to
think that you brought us together, isn't it?'
Helen was forced to put the distasteful cup to her lips. 'Yes indeed,'
she said.
'He is so dear, so wonderful,' said Althea. 'There is so much more in
him than he knows himself. I want him to be a great man, Helen. I
believe he can be, don't you?'
'I've never thought of Gerald as great,' Helen replied, trying to smile.
'Ah, well, wait; you will see! I suppose it is only a woman in love with
a man who sees all his capacities. We will live here, and in London.'
Althea, while she spoke her guileless assurance, raised her head and
threw back her unbound hair, looking her full trust into Helen's eyes.
'I wouldn't care to live for more than half the year in the country, and
it wouldn't be good for Gerald. I want to do so much, Helen, to make so
many people happy, if I can. And, Helen dear,' she smiled now through
her tears, 'if only you could be one of them; if only this could mean in
some way a new opening in your life, too. One can never tell; happiness
is such an infectious thing; if you are a great deal with two very happy
people, you may catch the habit. I can't bear to think that you aren't
happy, rare and lovely person that you are. I told Gerald so to-day. I
said to him that I felt life hadn't given you any of the joy we all so
need. Helen, dear, you must find your fairy-prince. You must, you shall
fall in love, too.'
Helen controlled her face and gulped on. 'That's not so easily managed,'
she remarked. 'I've seen a good many fairy-princes in my life, and
either I haven't melted their hearts, or they haven't melted mine. We
can't all draw lucky numbers, you know; there are not enough to go
round.'
'As if anybody wouldn't fall in love with you, if you gave them the
chance,' said Althea. 'You _are_ the lucky number.'
Althea felt next day a certain tameness in the public reception of her
news. She had not intended the news to be public yet for some time.
Franklin's presence seemed to make an announcement something of an
indelicacy, but, whether through her responsibility or whether through
Gerald's, or whether through the obviousness of the situation, she found
that everybody knew. It could not make commonplace to her her own inner
joy, but she saw that to Aunt Julia, to the girls, to Lady Pickering,
and Sir Charles, her position was commonplace. She was, to them, a nice
American who was being married as much because she had money as because
she was nice.
Aunt Julia voiced this aspect to her on the first opportunity, drawing
her away after breakfast to walk with her along the terrace while she
said, very gravely, 'Althea, dear, do you really think you'll be happy
living in England?'
'Happier than anywhere else in the world,' said Althea.
'I didn't realise that you felt so completely expatriated.'
'England has always seemed very homelike to me, and this already is more
of a home to me than any I have known for years,' said Althea, looking
up at Merriston House.
'Poor child!' said Aunt Julia, 'what a comment on your rootless life.
You must forgive me, Althea,' she went on in a lower voice, 'but I feel
myself in a mother's place to you, and I do very much want to ask you to
consider more carefully before you make things final. Mr. Digby is a
charming man; but how little you have seen of him. I beg you to wait for
a year before you marry.'
'I'm afraid I can't gratify you, Aunt Julia. I certainly can't ask
Gerald to wait for a year.'
'My dear, why not!' Aunt Julia did not repress.
Althea went on calmly. 'It is true, of course, that we are not in love
like two children, with no thought of responsibility or larger claims.
You see, one outgrows that rather naive American idea about marriage.
Mine is, if you like, a _mariage de convenance_, in the sense that
Gerald is a poor man and cannot marry unless he marries money. And I am
proud to have the power to help him to build up a large and dignified
life, and we don't intend to postpone our marriage when we know, trust,
and love each other as we do.'
'A large life, my dear,' said Aunt Julia. 'Don't deceive yourself into
thinking that. One needs a far larger fortune than your tiny one,
nowadays, if one is to build up a large life. What I fear more than
anything is that you don't in the least realise what English country
life is all the year round. Imagine, if you can, your winters here.'
'I shan't spend many winters here,' said Althea smiling. She did not
divulge her vague, bright plans to Aunt Julia, but they filled the
future for her; she saw the London drawing-room where, when Gerald was
in Parliament, she would gather delightful people together. Among such
people, Lady Blair, Miss Buckston, her friends in Devonshire, and of
Grimshaw Rectory, seemed hardly more than onlookers; they did not fit
into the pictures of her new life.
And if they did not fit, what of Franklin? Even in old unsophisticated
pictures of a _salon_ he had been a figure adjusted with some
difficulty. It had, in days that seemed immeasurably remote--days when
she had wondered whether she could marry Franklin--it had been difficult
to see herself introducing him with any sense of achievement to Lady
Blair or to the Collings, and she knew now, clearly, why: in Lady
Blair's drawing-room, as in Devonshire and at Grimshaw Rectory, Franklin
would have looked a funny little man. How much more funny in the new
setting. What would he do in it? What was it to mean to him? What would
any setting mean to Franklin in which he was to see her as no longer
needing him? For, and this was the worst of it, and in spite of
happiness Althea felt it as a pang indeed, she no longer needed
Franklin; and knowing this she longed at once to avoid and to atone to
him.
She found him after her walk with Aunt Julia sitting behind a newspaper
in the library. Franklin always read the newspapers every morning, and
it struck Althea as particularly touching that this good habit should be
persevered in under his present circumstances. She was so much touched
by Franklin, the habit of old intimacy was so strong, that her own
essential change of heart seemed effaced by the uprising of feeling for
him. 'O Franklin!' she said. He had risen as she entered, and he stood
looking at her with a smile. It seemed to receive her, to forgive, to
understand. Almost weeping, she went to him with outstretched hands,
faltering, 'I am so happy, and I am so sorry, dear Franklin. Oh, forgive
me if I have hurt your life.'
He looked at her, no longer smiling, very gravely, holding her hands,
and she knew that he was not thinking of his life, but of hers. And,
with a further pang, she remembered that the last time they had stood
so--she and Franklin--she had given him more hope for his life than ever
before in all their histories. He must remember, too, and he must feel
her unworthy in remembering, and even though she did not need Franklin,
she could not bear him to think her unworthy. 'Forgive me,' she
repeated. And the tears rose to her eyes. 'I've been so tossed, so
unstable. I haven't known. I only know now, you see, dear Franklin. I've
really fallen in love at last. Can you ever forgive me?'
'For not having fallen in love with me?' he asked gently.
'No, dear,' she answered, forced into complete sincerity. What was it in
Franklin that compelled sincerity, and made it so easy to be sincere?
There, at least, was a quality for which one would always need him.
'No, not for that, but for having thought that I might, perhaps, fall in
love with you. It is the hope I gave you that must make this seem so
sudden and so cruel.'
He had not felt her cruel, but he had felt something that was now giving
his eyes their melancholy directness of gaze. He was looking at his
Althea; he was not judging her; but he was wishing that she had been
able to think of him a little more as mere friend, a little more as the
man who, after all, had loved her all these years; wishing that she had
not so completely forgotten him, so completely relegated and put him
away when her new life was coming to her. But he understood, he did not
judge, and he answered, 'I don't think you've been cruel, Althea dear,
though it's been rather cruel of fortune, if you like, to arrange it in
just this way. As for hurting my life, you've been the most beautiful
thing in it.'
Something in his voice, final acceptance, final resignation, as though,
seeing her go for ever, he bowed his head in silence, filled her with
intolerable sadness. Was it that she wanted still to need him, or was it
that she could not bear the thought that he might, some day, no longer
need her?
The sense of an end of things, chill and penetrating like an autumnal
wind, made all life seem bleak and grey for the moment. 'But, Franklin,
you will always be my friend. That is not changed,' she said. 'Please
tell me that nothing of that side of things is changed, dear Franklin.'
And now that sincerity in him, that truth-seeing and truth-speaking
quality that was his power, became suddenly direful. For though he
looked at her ever so gently and ever so tenderly, his eyes pierced her.
And, helplessly, he placed the truth before them both, saying: 'I'll
always be your friend, of course, dear Althea. You'll always be the most
beautiful thing I've had in my life; but what can I be in yours? I don't
belong over here, you know. I'll not be in your life any longer. How can
it not be changed? How will you stay my friend, dear Althea?'
The tears rolled down her cheeks. That he should see, and accept, and
still love her, made him seem dearer than ever before, while, in her
heart, she knew that he spoke the truth. 'Don't--don't, dear Franklin,'
she pleaded. 'You will be often with us. Don't talk as if it were at an
end. How could our friendship have an end? Don't let me think that you
are leaving me.'
He smiled a little, but it was a valorous smile. 'I'll never leave you
in that way.'
'Don't speak, then, as if I were leaving you.'
But Franklin, though he smiled the valorous smile, couldn't give her a
consolation not his to give. Did he see clearly, and for the first time,
that he had always counted for her as a solace, a substitute for the
things he couldn't be, and that now, when these things had come to her,
he counted really for nothing at all? If he did see it, he didn't resent
it; he would understand that, too, even though it left him with no
foothold in her life. But he couldn't pretend--to give her comfort--that
she needed him any longer. 'I want to count for anything you'll let me
count for,' he said; 'but--it isn't your fault, dear--I don't think I
will ever count for much, now; I don't see how I can. If that's being
left, I guess I am left.'
She gazed at him, and all that she had to offer was her longing that the
truth were not the truth, and for the moment of silent confrontation her
pain was so great that its pressure brought an involuntary cry--protest
or presage--it felt like both. 'You will--you will count--for much more,
dear Franklin.'
She didn't know that it was the truth; his seemed to be the final truth;
but it came, and it had to be said, and he could accept it as her
confession and her atonement.