I woke this morning neither rested nor refreshed. I was determined not
to stay in bed, for I wanted to show Sir Archibald by my calm and
natural demeanour that I was unconscious of anything embarrassing in
our relations. For that matter I am not sure that there is. I wore my
pink linen, and looked paler instead of gayer, as I intended.
Breakfast was quiet, though mamma had borne the picnic wonderfully and
Miss Evesham was brighter than usual. Sir Archibald was baffling. He
met my eye as seldom as possible, but I am glad to say, though he was
absent-minded, he was not grumpy. Why do I care whether he is grumpy
or not? Why do I like to see him come out sunny and warm and genial,
and relax his severe face into an unexpected laugh? And why do I feel
pleased when he melts under my particular coaxing? I have deliberately
tried to disparage him to myself and compare him with other men,
especially with Breck Calhoun, always to his disadvantage. He is not a
bit handsomer than Breck, though mere beauty after all counts for
almost nothing in a man. He hasn't, on the whole, as good manners as
Breck, and doesn't begin to understand me as well. He is an ordinary,
straight, simple, intelligent but not intellectual Anglo-Saxon. I have
assured myself of this dozens of times, and having treated him as a
kind of snow image, merely for the satisfaction of throwing
disparaging epithets at him, and demolishing his outline, I look at
him next morning only to find that he has put himself together again
and made himself, somehow, into the semblance of the man I love.
There are plenty of men who can manage their own moods, without a
woman's kind offices, so why should I bother about his? If it were
Breck Calhoun, now, he would be bothering about mine! It is just the
time of year when dear old Breck makes the annual offer of his heart
and hand--more, as he says, as a matter of habit than anything else,
and simply to remind me that there is an excellent husband waiting for
me at home when I cease running after strange hearts. That is his
expression.
I think some of the marriages between persons of different nationality
must come off because of the fascination and mystery that each has for
the other,--the same sort of fascination, but a still stronger one,
that is exerted by an opposite temperament. In the friendship of a man
of Sir Archibald's type I feel a sense of being steadied and
strengthened, simplified and balanced. And there ought to be something
in the vivacity of the American girl--the result of climate and
circumstances and condition, I suppose--which should enliven and
stimulate these grave 'children of the mist.' The feeling I have
lately had for Archibald Mackenzie (he would frown if he could hear me
leave out the Maxwell and the Kindarroch) is just the basis I need for
love, but my liking would never go so far as that, unless it were
compelled by a still stronger feeling on the man's part. I am not
going to do any of the wooing, that is certain. If a man chose to give
me his very best I would try to deserve it and keep it and cherish it,
but I have no desire to fan his inward fires beforehand. After he is
once kindled, if he hasn't heat enough to burn of his own free will,
then let him go out! Sir Archibald is afraid of himself and afraid of
love. Well, he need not worry about me! I might like to see the
delightfully incongruous spectacle of a man of his type honestly and
heartily in love, and (in passing) it would be of inestimable benefit
to his character; but I want no panic-stricken lovers in my company.
Haven't I enough fears of my own, about wet climates and cold houses
and monarchical governments and tin bath-tubs and porridge and my
mother's preference for American husbands? But I should despise myself
if I didn't feel capable of throwing all these, and more, overboard if
the right time ever comes.
* * * * *
I haven't been downstairs either to luncheon or tea, but I looked from
mamma's window and chanced to see Johnson putting Sir Archibald's
portmanteau into the motor. I thought this morning that he intended to
run away. And that is the stuff they make soldiers of in Scotland!
Afraid of love! Fie! Sir Archibald!
I cannot succeed in feeling like the 'maiden all forlorn.' It
impresses me somehow that he has gone away to think it over. Well,
that is reasonable; I don't suppose to a man of Sir Archibald's
temperament two weeks seems an extreme length of time in which to
choose a wife; and as I need considerable reflection on my part I'll
go away too, presently, and take mamma to Torquay, as was our original
intention. Torquay is relaxing, and I think I have been a trifle too
much stimulated by this bracing moorland air. I hope for his own
comfort that Sir Archibald will do his thinking in a warmer clime; and
when (or if) he returns to acquaint Virginia with the result of his
meditations, he will learn that she also is thinking--but in a place
unknown!