The Swindler and Other Stories Part 80

Tots wheeled round as he sat, and brought his long legs into the room.

"Please don't," she begged hastily. "I--I want you inside."

He did not retire again, nor did he advance.

"You want to know--" he said.

With a stupendous effort she faced and answered him.

"I want to know what made you ask me to marry you."

Tots did not at once reply. He sat on his perch with his back to the light, and contemplated her.

"I should have thought a clever little girl like you might have guessed that," he said at length.

This was intolerable. She felt her courage ebbing fast.

"I'm not clever," she said, a desperate quiver in her voice, "and I--I'm not good at guessing riddles."

In the silence that followed, she wondered wildly if she had made him angry at last. Then he spoke in his usual good-natured drawl, and her heart gave a great throb of relief.

"I think you're chaffin'," he said.

"I'm not," she a.s.sured him feverishly. "I'm not indeed. I always mean what I say. That is----"

"Of course," said Tots, with kindly rea.s.surance. "I knew that. Why, my dear child, that's just what made me do it. I took a likin' to you for that very reason."

She stared at him speechlessly. There was absolutely nothing left to say. He really cared for her, it seemed. He really cared! And she? With a gasp of despair she abandoned the unequal strife, and hid her face from him in an agony of tears. Why, why, why, had this knowledge come to her so late?

He was by her side in an instant, stroking, soothing, comforting her, as though she had been a child. When she partially recovered herself her head was against his shoulder, and he was drying her eyes clumsily but tenderly with his own handkerchief.

"There! there!" he said. "Don't cry any more. Some one's been troublin'

you. Just let me know who it is, and I'll wring his neck."

She raised herself weakly. The desire to laugh quite left her. She leaned her head in her hands, and forced down her tears.

"You--don't understand," she said at last.

"Don't I?" said Tots. "Why, I thought we were gettin' on so well."

"I know. I know." She was making a supreme effort. It must be now or never. "You have been very good to me. But--but--we never have got on really. It was all a mistake."

"What do you mean?" said Tots.

She fancied his tone had changed a little. It sounded somehow brisker than usual. He was angry, whispered her panting heart, and if she angered him--ah, how should she bear it? But the next instant a big, consoling hand pressed her shoulder, and the misgiving pa.s.sed.

"Don't tremble like this, little one," he said. "You can't be afraid of me. No one ever was before. There has been a mistake, you say. What was it? Can't you bring yourself to tell me?"

There was something in his voice that moved her strangely, kindling that in her which turned her pa.s.sionate regret to tragedy. Her head sank a little lower in her hands. How could she tell him? How could she? Yet he must know, even if--even if it transformed his love to hatred. The bare thought hurt her intolerably. He was the only friend she had. And yet--and yet--he must know. She swallowed a desperate sob, and spoke.

"I've been deceiving you. I've trifled with you. When you proposed to me--I didn't know--didn't realise--you were in earnest. No one had ever proposed to me before. I didn't understand. And when I accepted you--I wasn't in earnest either. I--I was just spiteful. Afterwards--when I found out--it was too late. I couldn't tell you then."

The confession went haltingly out into silence. She dared not raise her head. Moreover, she was weeping, and she did not want him to know it.

There was a motionless pause. Then at length the hand on her shoulder began to rub up and down, comfortingly, caressingly.

"Don't cry!" said Tots. "Hadn't you better have some breakfast? That bacon must be gettin' pretty beastly."

He was not angry, then. That was her first thought. And then again came that insane desire to laugh. After all, why was she crying? Tots apparently saw no cause for discomfiture.

With an effort she controlled herself.

"No; I'm not hungry," she said. "Won't you--please--settle this matter now?"

"Only stop cryin'," said Tots. "You have? I say, what a fib! Well, I suppose I must take your word for it. Now, little one, what is it you want me to do?"

She raised her head in sheer astonishment.

No, there was no trace of anger in his face, neither did it betray any disappointment. Complacent, kindly, quizzical, his eyes met hers, and her heart gave a sudden, inexplicable bound.

"I--thought you would understand," she faltered. "We--we can't go on being engaged, can we?"

"No," said Tots with instant decision. "Shouldn't dream of borin' you to that extent. I've had enough of it myself as well." He uttered his pleasant, careless laugh. "I really don't wonder that my courtin' made you feel spiteful," he said. "I'm glad you're in favour of cuttin' it too."

Ruth stared at him blankly. Was he laughing at her? Was this to be her punishment?

He had straightened himself and was smiling down at her, his head within a foot of the bulging ceiling.

"Tell you what!" he suddenly said. "You eat some breakfast like a good girl, and then--I'll show you somethin'. Perhaps you'll let me join you?"

He did not wait for her consent, but sat down at the table. Ruth rose.

He was putting her off, she felt, and she could not bear it. It had cost her more than he would ever realise to tell him the truth.

"I'm very sorry," she said unsteadily, "but--I don't think we quite understand each other yet. You know"--her voice failed suddenly, but she struggled to recover it, and succeeded--"I am not clever--like other women. I want plain speaking, not hints, I want to be told--in so many words--that you have set me free."

"Why should I tell you what isn't true?" said Tots. He stretched out his hand to her without rising. "I haven't set you free," he said, "and I'm not goin' to. Is that plain enough?"

He caught her hand with the words and drew her gently towards him. "I'll tell you what I am goin' to do," he said. "Come quite close. I want to whisper. You needn't be anxious. This chair is strong enough for two."

Gentle as he was in speech and action, there was something irresistible about him at that moment--something to which Ruth yielded because there was no alternative. She went to him trembling, and he drew her down beside him, holding her every instant closer to him.

"Still frightened?" he asked her very tenderly. "Still wantin' to run away?"

She hid her face against him dumbly. She could not answer him in words.

He went on speaking, softly, soothingly, as if she had been a child.

"People make a ridiculous fuss about gettin' married," he said. "It's the fashion nowadays to make a sort of Punch and Judy show of it for all the people one ever met, and a few hundreds besides, to come and gape at. But you and I are not goin' to do that. We're goin' to show some sense, and get married on the quiet, in a little village church I know of; and then we're goin' into retirement for a time, and when we come out we shall be old married people, and no one will want to pelt us with shoes and things. Now I've got a weddin'-ring in my pocket, and I hope it'll fit better than the other. And I've got a special license too.