“Lorne,” said Dora Milburn, in her most animated manner, “who do you
think is coming to Elgin? Your London friend, Mr Hesketh! He’s going to
stay with the Emmetts, and Mrs Emmett is perfectly distracted; she says
he’s accustomed to so much, she doesn’t know how he will put up with
their plain way of living. Though what she means by that, with late
dinner and afternoon tea every day of her life, is more than I know.”
“Why, that’s splendid!” replied Lorne. “Good old Hesketh! I knew he
thought of coming across this fall, but the brute hasn’t written to
me. We’ll have to get him over to our place. When he gets tired of
the Emmetts’ plain ways he can try ours--they’re plainer. You’ll like
Hesketh; he’s a good fellow, and more go-ahead than most of them.”
“I don’t think I should ask him to stay if I were you, Lorne. Your
mother will never consent to change her hours for meals. I wouldn’t
dream of asking an Englishman to stay if I couldn’t give him late
dinner; they think so much of it. It’s the trial of Mother’s life that
Father will not submit to it. As a girl she was used to nothing else.
Afternoon tea we do have, he can’t prevent that, but Father kicks at
anything but one o’clock dinner and meat tea at six, and I suppose he
always will.”
“Doesn’t one tea spoil the other?” Lorne inquired. “I find it does
when I go to your minister’s and peck at a cress sandwich at five. You
haven’t any appetite for a reasonable meal at six. But I guess it won’t
matter to Hesketh; he’s got a lot of sense about things of that sort.
Why he served out in South Africa--volunteered. Mrs Emmett needn’t
worry. And if we find him pining for afternoon tea we can send him over
here.”
“Well, if he’s nice. But I suppose he’s pretty sure to be nice. Any
friend of the Emmetts--What is he like, Lorne?”
“Oh, he’s just a young man with a moustache! You seem to see a good many
over there. They’re all alike while they’re at school in round coats,
and after they leave school they get moustaches, and then they’re all
alike again.”
“I wish you wouldn’t tease. How tall is he? Is he fair or dark? What
colour are his eyes?”
Lorne buried his head in his hands in a pretended agony of recollection.
“So far as I remember, not exactly tall, but you wouldn’t call him
short. Complexion--well, don’t you know?--that kind of middling
complexion. Colour of his eyes--does anybody ever notice a thing like
that? You needn’t take my word for it, but I should say they were a kind
of average coloured eyes.”
“Lorne! You ARE--I suppose I’ll just have to wait till I see him. But
the girls are wild to know, and I said I’d ask you. He’ll be here in
about two weeks anyhow, and I dare say we won’t find him so much to make
a fuss about. The best sort of Englishmen don’t come over such a very
great deal, as you say. I expect they have a better time at home.”
“Hesketh’s a very good sort of Englishman,” said Lorne.
“He’s awfully well off, isn’t he?”
“According to our ideas I suppose he is,” said Lorne. “Not according to
English ideas.”
“Still less according to New York ones, then,” asserted Dora. “They
wouldn’t think much of it there even if he passed for rich in England.”
It was a little as if she resented Lorne’s comparison of standards, and
claimed the American one as at least cis-Atlantic.
“He has a settled income,” said Lorne, “and he’s never had to work for
it, whatever luck there is in that. That’s all I know. Dora--”
“Now, Lorne, you’re not to be troublesome.”
“Your mother hasn’t come in at all this evening. Don’t you think it’s a
good sign?”
“She isn’t quite so silly as she was,” remarked Dora. “Why I should
not have the same freedom as other girls in entertaining my gentleman
friends I never could quite see.”
“I believe if we told her we had made up our minds it would be all
right,” he pleaded.
“I’m not so sure Lorne. Mother’s so deep. You can’t always tell just by
what she DOES. She thinks Stephen Stuart likes me--it’s too perfectly
idiotic; we are the merest friends--and when it’s any question of you
and Stephen--well, she doesn’t say anything, but she lets me see! She
thinks such a lot of the Stuarts because Stephen’s father was Ontario
Premier once, and got knighted.”
“I might try for that myself if you think it would please her,” said the
lover.
“Please her! And I should be Lady Murchison!” she let fall upon his
ravished ears. “Why, Lorne, she’d just worship us both! But you’ll never
do it.”
“Why not?”
Dora looked at him with pretty speculation. She had reasons for
supposing that she did admire the young man.
“You’re too nice,” she said.
“That isn’t good enough,” he responded, and drew her nearer.
“Then why did you ask me?--No, Lorne, you are not to. Suppose Father
came in?”
“I shouldn’t mind--Father’s on my side, I think.”
“Father isn’t on anybody’s side,” said his daughter, wisely.
“Dora, let me speak to him!”
Miss Milburn gave a clever imitation of a little scream of horror.
“INDEED I won’t! Lorne, you are never, NEVER to do that! As if we were
in a ridiculous English novel!”
“That’s the part of an English novel I always like,” said Lorne. “The
going and asking. It must about scare the hero out of a year’s growth;
but it’s a glorious thing to do--it would be next day, anyhow.”
“It’s just the sort of thing to please Mother,” Dora meditated, “but she
can’t be indulged all the time. No, Lorne, you’ll have to leave it to
me--when there’s anything to tell.”
“There’s everything to tell now,” said he, who had indeed nothing to
keep back.
“But you know what Mother is, Lorne. Suppose they hadn’t any objection,
she would never keep it to herself! She’d want to go announcing it all
over the place; she’d think it was the proper thing to do.”
“But, Dora, why not? If you knew how I want to announce it! I should
like to publish it in the sunrise--and the wind--so that I couldn’t go
out of doors without seeing it myself.”
“I shouldn’t mind having it in Toronto Society, when the time comes.
But not yet, Lorne--not for ages. I’m only twenty-two--nobody thinks of
settling down nowadays before she’s twenty-five at the very earliest.
I don’t know a single girl in this town that has--among my friends,
anyway. That’s three years off, and you CAN’T expect me to be engaged
for three years.”
“No.” said Lorne, “engaged six months, married the rest of the time. Or
the periods might run concurrently if you preferred--I shouldn’t mind.”
“An engaged girl has the very worst time. She gets hardly any attention,
and as to dances--well, it’s a good thing for her if the person she’s
engaged to CAN dance,” she added, teasingly.
Lorne coloured. “You said I was improving, Dora,” he said, and then
laughed at the childish claim. “But that isn’t really a thing that
counts, is it? If our lives only keep step it won’t matter much about
the ‘Washington Post.’ And so far as attention goes, you’ll get it as
long as you live, you little princess. Besides, isn’t it better to wear
the love of one man than the admiration of half a dozen?”
“And be teased and worried half out of your life by everybody you meet?
Now, Lorne, you’re getting serious and sentimental, and you know I hate
that. It isn’t any good either--Mother always used to say it made me
more stubborn to appeal to me. Horrid nature to have, isn’t it?”
Lorne’s hand went to his waistcoat pocket and came back with a tiny
packet. “It’s come, Dora--by this morning’s English mail.”
Her eyes sparkled, and then rested with guarded excitement upon the
little case. “Oh, Lorne!”
She said nothing more, but watched intently while he found the spring,
and disclosed the ring within. Then she drew a long breath. “Lorne
Murchison, what a lovely one!”
“Doesn’t it look,” said he, “just a little serious and sentimental?”
“But SUCH good style, too,” he declared, bending over it. “And quite
new--I haven’t seen anything a bit like it. I do love a design when it’s
graceful. Solitaires are so old-fashioned.”
He kept his eyes upon her face, feeding upon the delight in it.
Exultation rose up in him: he knew the primitive guile of man,
indifferent to such things, alluring with them the other creature. He
did not stop to condone her weakness; rather he seized it in ecstasy;
it was all part of the glad scheme to help the lover. He turned the
diamonds so that they flashed and flashed again before her. Then,
trusting his happy instinct, he sought for her hand. But she held that
back. “I want to SEE it,” she declared, and he was obliged to let her
take the ring in her own way and examine it, and place it in every
light, and compare it with others worn by her friends, and make little
tentative charges of extravagance in his purchase of it, while he sat
elated and adoring, the simple fellow.
Reluctantly at last she gave up her hand. “But it’s only trying on--not
putting on,” she told him. He said nothing till it flashed upon her
finger, and in her eyes he saw a spark from below of that instinctive
cupidity toward jewels that man can never recognize as it deserves in
woman, because of his desire to gratify it.
“You’ll wear it, Dora?” he pleaded.
“Lorne, you are the dearest fellow! But how could I? Everybody would
guess!”
Her gaze, nevertheless, rested fascinated on the ring, which she posed
as it pleased her.
“Let them guess! I’d rather they knew, but--it does look well on your
finger, dear.”
She held it up once more to the light, then slipped it decisively off
and gave it back to him. “I can’t, you know, Lorne. I didn’t really say
you might get it; and now you’ll have to keep it till--till the time
comes. But this much I will say--it’s the sweetest thing, and you’ve
shown the loveliest taste, and if it weren’t such a dreadful give-away
I’d like to wear it awfully.”
They discussed it with argument, with endearment, with humour, and
reproach, but her inflexible basis soon showed through their talk: she
would not wear the ring. So far he prevailed, that it was she, not
he, who kept it. Her insistence that he should take it back brought
something like anger out of him; and in the surprise of this she yielded
so much. She did it unwillingly at the time, but afterward, when she
tried on the thing again in the privacy of her own room; she was rather
satisfied to have it, safe under lock and key, a flashing, smiling
mystery to visit when she liked and reveal when she would.
“Lorne could never get me such a beauty again if he lost it,” she
advised herself, “and he’s awfully careless. And I’m not sure that I
won’t tell Eva Delarue, just to show it to her. She’s as close as wax.”
One feels a certain sorrow for the lover on his homeward way, squaring
his shoulders against the foolish perversity of the feminine mind,
resolutely guarding his heart from any hint of real reprobation. Through
the sweetness of her lips and the affection of her pretty eyes, through
all his half-possession of all her charms and graces, must have come
dully the sense of his great occasion manque, that dear day of love when
it leaves the mark of its claim. And in one’s regret there is perhaps
some alloy of pity, that less respectful thing. We know him elsewhere
capable of essaying heights, yet we seem to look down upon the drama of
his heart. It may be well to remember that the level is not everything
in love. He who carefully adjusts an intellectual machine may descry a
higher mark; he can construct nothing in a mistress; he is, therefore,
able to see the facts and to discriminate the desirable. But Lorne loved
with all his imagination. This way dares the imitation of the gods by
which it improves the quality of the passion, so that such a love stands
by itself to be considered, apart from the object, one may say. A strong
and beautiful wave lifted Lorne Murchison along to his destiny, since it
was the pulse of his own life, though Dora Milburn played moon to it.