The Potter's Thumb Part 42

And so it was; very nice. One might give it another epithet and say it was almost heroic. But of this Gwen Boynton had no conception, and never would have one. That side of human nature, its pa.s.sion, its tears, its temptations, its triumphs, had been left out of her composition. She roused it in others, she played with it prettily, she even spoke warily and discreetly about it; yet Rose Tweedie, despite her girlish disdain, had more real sympathy with it than she had.

Dan, meanwhile, in Lewis Gordon's office, disregardful of the lack of chairs, was kicking his heels as he sat on the table, declaring loudly that he would of a certainty break down in replying to the toast which was to be given at the Club dinner in his honour that night. What the d.i.c.kens did the fellows mean by giving him a dinner? What had he ever done for any of them? What had he ever been but a reckless, insubordinate, unsteady, loafing brute, who ought to have been kicked out of the service years ago?

'I expect they know their own minds,' replied Lewis rather wearily. He had a headache; and he was telling himself it was liver when he knew quite well it was not; a most unsatisfactory denial since there is no phase of depression so unendurable as that when even a blue pill fails to hold out cheering hopes. Yet he spoke kindly and patiently also; for he must have been of base clay, indeed, who would not have recognised that Dan, transfigured as it were on the summit of his hopes, was a worthy sight in this work-a-day world, and that, in a measure, it was well to be there on the hill-top with him. 'Besides,' he added, 'I think I overheard Simpson saying something about a sick baby----'

'Oh! bad cess to the baby,' interrupted Dan, seeking refuge in an excess of Celtic recklessness. 'Sure it's a boy now, and one can't see a child die for the want of ice when your pony has four legs. More by token, it had but three for a month after, poor beast. But what's that to do with it? It isn't so much that I'm too bad. It's the world that's too good for me, and that's a fact. When I think of all you fellows who have been so good and so patient with me, my heart's broke about it entirely--and when I think of George! sure, it's only Gwen's kind face that comforts me. Oh, Gordon! what have I done that she should be going to marry me to-morrow?'

So he ran on, as many another man has run on; as most men, good and true, do run on when they are just about to marry the woman they love.

And Lewis Gordon sat listening to him with a headache and a pain in his heart; for the most part thinking that if Rose could only see this man, only hear him, she might not be quite so disdainful of it all; might acknowledge that, be it bad or good in its essence, this feeling did step into a man's life for the time and claim him body and soul, to the detriment of neither.

And by the by,' said Dan suddenly, 'I've been meaning to ask you for a long time, but I wasn't sure if you'd like it. And now that I'm going away for good and all, and you can't get out of being my best man, I'll risk it. When are you going to marry Miss Tweedie?'

'Never,' replied Lewis firmly, roused into instant resistance. 'What put such a fancy into your head now?'

'Now?' Dan's face was a study in tender humour 'It's been in my head for the last year, and in yours too. I told Gwen so, I remember, before we went to Hodinuggur that time, and I could see by her manner she thought so also.'

Lewis looked at him with an odd expression. 'Then you were both mistaken, that's all.' And Fitzgerald, if you're quite done talking about yourself--I've a lot of work to finish, old chap----'

Dan laughed. 'Well! I'll go; but it is true, Gordon, and what is more, she likes you; any one can see that.'

True! absolutely true. Lewis knew it right well, none better, and the remembrance of the affection she had given him unasked filled him as ever with a glow of intense satisfaction. And yet he had to confess that he was not happy. That idyllic month spent in each other's company had been charming, but that fortnight of absence had been the reverse.

And what he felt now was something very different from that calm, contented confidence in their mutual friendship which remained, thank Heaven, untouched by this new pa.s.sion. For it was that, and nothing else. He had felt it before, for other women, this moody, restless, selfish desire of appropriation, and if Rose would not marry him he would probably feel it again for some one else. In a half-hearted way he almost regretted that it should have obtruded itself in this, the most perfect idyl of his life, and yet, call it what hard names he would, there it was, a palpable factor in the future. Rose was the best of friends; but she was also a very charming girl into whose company he had been thrown, and he had fallen in love with her; naturally enough--only it complicated matters.

He gave a queer little grimace and began to add up a column of figures, telling himself that no doubt he would get over it as he had got over similar attacks before; and that at any rate he would wait and see.

Anything seemed better than the risk of paining Rose by letting her think that after all he had failed to understand the absolute unconsciousness of her regard for him. And that she might think so, seemed more than likely, since with all his experience, all his knowledge, he was only just beginning to realise that this pa.s.sionate love was indeed a thing absolutely apart from his affection for her. So much so, that it almost seemed to him that it would have been easier to tell her of the former, if the latter had not hedged her in with reverence and tenderness. It came to him, with a smile, that indeed and in truth it would have been easier had he been able to send the barber round with proposals to her father in native fashion; after all, there was an immense deal to be said for that side of the question.

And then, in his careful methodical fashion, he began to add up the column of figures again. This time the total was different; a trifle to be easily set right, yet he was not used to such aberrations of intellect, and it annoyed him. He did it again, this time allowing no thoughts of Rose or anything else to obtrude themselves, and a new set of figures rewarded his perseverance. He laid the pen aside and faced himself resolutely. Yes! he had been doing atrocious work of late, he had been thinking of Rose all day long, he had not been able to settle steadily to anything, and, unless this could be stopped, the sooner he took advantage of the many changes in the Department--consequent on Dan's going and the usual cold-weather returns from furlough--in order to give up his present position, the better. There was nothing like breaking loose from one's surroundings at once, and he was due some promotion. But if he had to do this, Rose ought to know the reason. Why should she live in a fool's paradise? Why should she not face the facts of life as well as he? If she had been like other women he had known, he would have made love to her and proposed as a matter of course; but she was not like others; or rather what did he know of the matter, save that never by word, or look, or sign had she shown her knowledge even of the most elementary facts in life. How could you go to a girl like that and ask her to marry you straight off? What could you do save gloze over the question by phrases, by mixing it up with other things, even with that perfect, angelic, absolutely unselfish affection and regard which she had given him, and which he, apart from all this, felt for her. Still, it had to be done; in common fairness to her and to himself, he must tell her that he was a fool, and that life was quite unendurable without her; he must tell her, if only because there was no other earthly reason why he should give up the Secretaryship. And if this had to be, if he had to tell her, then there was no time like the present, when the necessity for action seemed clear to him.

So ten minutes after, he walked into the room where Rose sat making wedding favours as for dear life, surrounded by a perfect _chevaux de fries_ of white satin ribbons, bows, and blossoms. The windows were set wide open on to the verandah where great baskets of white flowers lay awaiting her final visit to the church. On the table stood the lotus lily offering with a note from Gwen to say it was too good to be trodden on, and would Rose see the pretty things were put on the altar, where they would look quite sweet. The girl in her white dress with her brisk hands flying about scissors, needle, and thimble, and her mind busy with the coming marriage, seemed, like her surroundings, in unsympathising connection with his purpose; and the perception made him say discontentedly as he paused beside her to lean against the table--

'I thought you didn't approve of wedding favours?' It was an opening of the siege at the very furthermost outworks of the position which she frustrated by a laugh.

'Oh, it doesn't matter! other people seem to like them, and I've made you such a beauty. There it is, beside you on the table--take care!

you're almost sitting on it. Smell it, it's real orange-blossom.'

There was apparently not a vacant chair in the room. They were all occupied with white wreaths and true lovers' knots--but with a cross here and there he was glad to see--so he continued to lean against the table, smelling perfunctorily at his own favour, and thinking of the utter inconsequence of the feminine mind, until a certain irritation came to his aid.

'I wish you would put that work down for a minute, Rose,' he said quietly. 'I have something I want to say to you.'

Her hands paused, arrested among the white ribbons, her mind on one word; for he had never before called her by her Christian name. So she sat looking at him doubtfully, with the light from the windows behind her edging the great coils of her hair with bronze.

'I have come to tell you that I'm a fool,' he began almost argumentatively. 'At least, I suppose it's foolish. I am quite ready to admit, if you like, that it is so; but the fact remains. I can't go on as we are--as we have been, I should say--any longer. Don't think it is because I cannot understand. I do--at least I think I do. You are my friend, Rose, and will be that always, I hope. I don't say the best friend I ever had, or ever shall have, because that has nothing to do with the question, and, besides, there aren't any degrees in friendship--you have taught me that. So I think you may admit that I understand you. The question is, if you will understand me.'

He paused, and Rose's kind shadowless eyes noted with a sudden shrinking back from the sight, that his usual calm was broken by a palpable effort to steady his voice. He felt, indeed, that he had not the least clew to the girl's mind; that he was absolutely taking a leap in the dark. And that what he had to say now was, in reality, so foreign to every single word they had ever said to each other before, that even if she consented to marry him he could not be sure if she meant it--if she really understood the difference which he saw so clearly.

'Rose,' he went on, 'the fact is, that I've fallen in love with--with you; and if you don't really want to marry me, I had better go away. I would take an out-district for a time. I've had enough--perhaps too much--secretary work.' He seemed to take refuge in details from the main point.

'Why--why should you go away?' asked Rose in a low voice. 'We were very happy, weren't we?'

Her eyes, which had sought her hands among the white satin bows, came back to his face anxiously, almost fearfully.

'Why?' he echoed pa.s.sionately, and as he went on his words, his voice, his manner trembled in the fine balance between the humour of the thing and its gravity. 'Ah, Rose, that is the question! Because I'm a fool, say you; because I'm a man, say I. Because I love you, Rose; because I think of you when I ought to be thinking of other things. Because I'm an idiot, and have gone all to pieces. Because it's torture to think you may go away and marry some one else. Because I can't even add up a column of figures without wondering what you will say now--now when I ask you to marry me? Because--yes! have it so--because I am a fool!----'

He had held out his hands towards her, and hers were in them in an instant.

'Oh, Lewis, what a wretch I've been!' she cried; 'but why didn't you ask me before?'

'Why--didn't--you--ask me--before,' he repeated slowly. The favours which had fallen from her lap lay round about their feet, and those on the table were squashed remorselessly as he seated himself upon its edge with the air of a man who requires some physical support, and still holding her by the hands, drew her down beside him silently. 'I shall never understand you, dear--thank G.o.d!' he said at last in an undertone: then went on in a different voice--'It is a little confusing, Rose, you must admit. All this time, ever since you told me that you----'

She interrupted him quickly, eagerly--'Ah, but that was a totally different thing altogether!'

'Totally different,' he echoed meekly. 'Yes, of course!' And then he paused again with his eyes on hers. 'I suppose you would rather I didn't kiss you?' he began irrelatively, with a half smile of infinite tenderness.

'Oh, I don't mind,' she put in hastily; 'it doesn't really matter--if you wish--only don't talk nonsense, Lewis; please don't. I do hate it so; it makes me feel inclined to put my head in a bag.'

'Then I won't; I can't afford to lose sight of your dear face just now.'

'Lewis!'

'But if I don't say that sort of thing, what _are_ we to talk about?'

he asked, only half in jest. 'The weather--the news? Not very interesting subjects either of them to a man when the girl he loves has just promised to marry him--for you have promised, haven't you, Rose?'

She took no notice of his question.

'Talk about,' she echoed, her kind eyes growing a little absent--'surely there are heaps of things to talk about besides you and me. There is the house we are going to have, Lewis; such a nice house!

The prettiest drawing-room you ever saw; I will have it so. And a study for you, all to yourself, sir, where you can go when you're tired of me. And then the dinners, Lewis! That's one blessing of my having kept house for father. I know all about it. There won't be any cold mutton, Lewis; but the nicest little dinners.' She paused to nod her head wisely.

'Well,' said Lewis, 'please go on; this is really most interesting.'

'And the garden. 'I'll make you gardener, Lewis. I don't believe you know the difference between a carnation and a chrysanthemum now; but I'll teach you, and you shall tie them up for me--I hate tying up flowers. And I'll copy your reports for you, and keep the house quiet.

And then, and then, everybody will be so hungry, Lewis, and there will be so many bills to pay; but it won't matter, for every one will be happy, and the children will brag about their home to all the other girls and boys----'

'Go on, dear, go on!' There was a little tremble in his voice now, and as they sat ruining the wedding favours, his right arm drew her closer to him; but she seemed not to notice it. A half smile was on her lips, a certain sadness in her eyes.

'And then, dear? Who knows--who can tell? There are so many things, and death comes--even to the little ones.' She paused, then went on more lightly--'And I'll grow stout; yes, I'm afraid so, Lewis. I'm the sort of girl, you know, who is apt to get stout. And you are sure to grow bald. Then I'll be cross, and you'll be cross; only it won't so much matter, for we will both be cross together--and no wonder, with the boys wanting cricket-bats, and the girls clamouring for music-lessons!

So there will be more bills than ever. Then you and I will begin to get old, Lewis; and the girls will want me to sit up till three in the morning at b.a.l.l.s, and I shall be so sleepy; but you shall stay at home and smoke, dear. And then the boys will get into sc.r.a.pes--boys always do, don't they, Lewis--for they're not like girls, you know. And when they come to me to get them out of their trouble, I shall say: "No, dears, go to your father, he will understand; for he--for he is the best man I ever knew."'

Her voice ended in a little sob; he could feel it, hear it, as if it were his own, for her face was hidden on his breast.

'Rose! Rose! my dear, my dear!'

It was almost a cry. He would have liked to kneel before his love, as he had done before the other, but with her there so close to his heart, he could only hold her fast and tell himself pa.s.sionately that, in those long years to come, it should be even as she had said, and that never, in word, thought, or deed, would he sully her pure ideal.

So they sat silent--for, to tell truth, other words seemed to him sacrilege, and she had said her say--until with a half apologetic smile she drew herself away.

'I'm sure you are sitting on your favour, Lewis, and I've such a lot more to make; besides, I promised to go down to the church at half-past five. It must be that now, and I've wasted all this time.'