A Poor devil will ask a woman to marry him. She will refuse him.
The day after she will meet him as serenely as if he had asked her
for a pin.
It is now May 15th, and I have not spoken to Georgians when I've
had a chance. She has been entirely too happy, to judge from her
singing, for me to get along with under the circumstances. But
this morning, as I was planting a hedge inside my fence under her
window, she leaned over and said, as though nothing were wrong
between us, "What are you planting?"
I have sometimes thought that Georgiana can ask more questions than
Socrates.
"A hedge."
"What for?"
"To grow."
"What do you want it to grow for?"
"My garden is too public. I wish to be protected from outsiders."
"Would it be the same thing if I were to nail up this window? That
would be so much quicker. It will be ten years before your hedge
is high enough to keep me from seeing you. And even then, you
know, I could move up-stairs. But I am so sorry to be an outsider."
"I merely remarked that I was planting a hedge."
When Georgiana spoke again her voice was lowered: "Would you open
a gateway for me into your garden, to be always mine, so that I
might go out and come in, and never another human soul enter it?"
Now Jacob had often begged me to cut _him_ a private gateway on
that side of the garden, so that only _he_ might come in and go
out; and I had refused, since I did not wish him to get to me so
easily with his complaints. Besides, a gate once opened, who may
not use it? and I was indignant that Georgiana should lightly ask
anything at my hands; therefore I looked quickly and sternly up at
her and said, "I will not."
Afterwards the thought rushed over me that she had not spoken of
any gateway through my garden fence, but of another one, mystical,
hidden, infinitely more sacred. For her voice descended almost in
a whisper, and her face, as she bent down towards me, had on it I
know not what angelic expression. She seemed floating to me from
heaven.
May 17th. To-day I put a little private gate through my fence
under Georgiana's window, as a sign to her. Balaam's beast that
I am! Yes, seven times more than the inspired ass.
As I passed to-day, I noticed Georgiana looking down at the gate
that I made yesterday. She held a flower to her nose and eyes,
but behind the leaves I detected that she was laughing.
"Good-morning!" she called to me. "What did you cut that ugly hole
in your fence for?"
"That's not an ugly hole. That's a little private gateway."
"But what's the little private gateway _for_?"
"Oh, well! You don't understand these matters. I'll tell your
mother."
"My mother is too old. She no longer stoops to such things. Tell
_me_!
"Impossible!"
"I'm dying to know!"
"What will you give me?"
"Anything--this flower!"
"But what would the flower stand for in that case? A little pri--"
"Nothing. Take it!" and she dropped it lightly on my face and
disappeared. As I stood twirling it ecstatically under my nose,
and wondering how I could get her to come back to the window, the
edge of a curtain was lifted, and a white hand stole out and softly
closed the shutters.
In the evening Sylvia went in to a concert of the school, which was
to be held at the Court-house, a chorus of girls being impaneled
in the jury-box, and the principal, who wears a little wig, taking
her seat on the woolsack. I promised to have the very pick of the
garden ready, and told Sylvia to come to the arbor the last thing
before starting. She wore big blue rosettes in her hair, and at
that twilight hour looked as lovely, soft, and pure as moonshine;
so that I lost control of myself and kissed her twice--once for
Georgiana and once for myself. Surely it must have been Sylvia's
first experience. I hope so. Yet she passed through it with the
composure of a graduate of several year's standing. But, then,
women inherit a great stock of fortitude from their mothers in
this regard, and perpetually add to it by their own dispositions.
Ought I to warn Georgiana--good heavens! in a general way, of
course--that Sylvia should be kept away from sugar, and well under
the influence of vulgar fractions?
It made me feel uncomfortable to see her go tripping out of her
front gate on the arm of a youth. Can it be possible the _he_ would
try to do what _I_ did? Men differ so in their virtues, and are
so alike in their transgressions. This forward gosling displayed
white duck pantaloons, brandished pumps on his feet, which looked
flat enough to have been webbed, and was scented as to his marital
locks with a far-reaching pestilence of bergamot and cinnamon.
After they were gone I strolled back to my arbor and sat down amid
the ruins of Sylvia's flowers. The nigh was mystically beautiful.
The moon seemed to me to be softly stealing down the sky to kiss
Endymion. I looked across towards Georgiana's window. She was
there, and I slipped over and stood under it.
"Georgiana," I whispered, "were you, too, looking at the moon?"
"Part of the time," she said, sourly. "Isn't it permitted?"
"Sylvia left her scissors in the arbor, and _I_ can't find them."
"_She'll_ find them to-morrow."
"If they get wet, you know, they'll rust."
"I keep something to take rust off."
"Georgiana, I've got something to tell you about Sylvia."
"What? That you kissed her?"
"N--o! Not _that_, exactly!"
"Good-night!"
May 21st. Again I asked Georgiana to be mine. I am a perfect fool
about her. But she's coming my way at last--God bless her!
May 24th. I renewed my suit to Georgiana.
May 27th. I besought Georgiana to hear me.
May 28th. For the last time I offered my hand in marriage to the
elder Miss Cobb. Now I am done with her forever. I am no fool.
May 29th. Oh, _damn_ Mrs. Walters!