by Unknown
He was not unhappy; in the near hereafter he might be as miserable as the damned — the little gods were waiting to catch him alone and terrify him; but for the time, having sacrificed himself, Tommy was aglow with the passion he had inspired. He so loved the thing he had created that in his exultation he mistook it for her. He believed all he was saying. He looked at her long and adoringly, not, as he thought, because he adored her, but because it was thus that look should answer look; he pressed her wet eyes reverently because thus it was written in his delicious part; his heart throbbed with hers that they might beat in time. He did not love, but he was the perfect lover; he was the artist trying in a mad moment to be as well as to do. Love was their theme; but how to know what was said when between lovers it is only the loose change of conversation that gets into words? The important matters cannot wait so slow a messenger; while the tongue is being charged with them, a look, a twitch of the mouth, a movement of a finger, transmits the story, and the words arrive, like Blücher, when the engagement is over.
With a sudden pretty gesture — ah, so like her mother’s! — she held the glove to his lips. “It is sad because you have forgotten it.”
“I have kissed it so often, Grizel, long before I thought I should ever kiss you!”
She pressed it to her innocent breast at that. And had he really done so? and which was the first time, and the second, and the third? Oh, dear glove, you know so much, and your partner lies at home in a drawer knowing nothing. Grizel felt sorry for the other glove. She whispered to Tommy as a terrible thing, “I think I love this glove even more than I love you — just a tiny bit more.” She could not part with it. “It told me before you did,” she explained, begging him to give it back to her.
“If you knew what it was to me in those unhappy days, Grizel!”
“I want it to tell me,” she whispered.
And did he really love her? Yes, she knew he did, but how could he?
“Oh, Grizel, how could I help it!”
He had to say it, for it is the best answer; but he said it with a sigh, for it sounded like a quotation.
But how could she love him? I think her reply disappointed him.
“Because you wanted me to,” she said, with shining eyes. It is probably the commonest reason why women love, and perhaps it is the best; but his vanity was wounded — he had expected to hear that he was possessed of an irresistible power.
“Not until I wanted you to?”
“I think I always wanted you to want me to,” she replied, naïvely; “but I would never have let myself love you,” she continued very seriously, “until I was sure you loved me.”
“You could have helped it, Grizel!” He drew a blank face.
“I did help it,” she answered. “I was always fighting the desire to love you, — I can see that plainly, — and I always won. I thought God had made a sort of compact with me that I should always be the kind of woman I wanted to be if I resisted the desire to love you until you loved me.”
“But you always had the desire!” he said eagerly.
“Always, but it never won. You see, even you did not know of it. You thought I did not even like you! That was why you wanted to prevent Corp’s telling me about the glove, was it not? You thought it would pain me only! Do you remember what you said: ‘It is to save you acute pain that I want to see Corp first’?”
All that seemed so long ago to Tommy now!
“How could you think it would be a pain to me!” she cried.
“You concealed your feelings so well, Grizel.”
“Did I not?” she said joyously. “Oh, I wanted to be so careful, and I was careful. That is why I am so happy now.” Her face was glowing. She was full of odd, delightful fancies tonight. She kissed her hand to the gloaming; no, not to the gloaming — to the little hunted, anxious girl she had been.
“She is standing behind that tree looking at us.”
“She is looking at us,” she said. “She is standing behind that tree looking at us. She wanted so much to grow into a dear, good woman that she often comes and looks at me eagerly. Sometimes her face is so fearful! I think she was a little alarmed when she heard you were coming back.”
“She never liked me, Grizel.”
“Hush!” said Grizel, in a low voice. “She always liked you; she always thought you a wonder. But she would be distressed if she heard me telling you. She thought it would not be safe for you to know. I must tell him now, dearest, darlingest,” she suddenly called out boldly to the little self she had been so quaintly fond of because there was no other to love her. “I must tell him everything now, for you are no longer your own. You are his.”
“She has gone away rocking her arms,” she said to Tommy.
“No,” he replied. “I can hear her. She is singing because you are so happy.”
“She never knew how to sing.”
“She has learned suddenly. Everybody can sing who has anything to sing about. And do you know what she said about your dear wet eyes, Grizel? She said they were just sweet. And do you know why she left us so suddenly? She ran home gleefully to stitch and dust and beat carpets, and get baths ready, and look after the affairs of everybody, which she is sure must be going to rack and ruin because she has been away for half an hour!”
At his words there sparkled in her face the fond delight with which a woman assures herself that the beloved one knows her little weaknesses, for she does not truly love unless she thirsts to have him understand the whole of her, and to love her in spite of the foibles and for them. If he does not love you a little for the foibles, madam, God help you from the day of the wedding.
But though Grizel was pleased, she was not to be cajoled. She wandered with him through the Den, stopping at the Lair, and the Queen’s Bower, and many other places where the little girl used to watch Tommy suspiciously; and she called, half merrily, half plaintively: “Are you there, you foolish girl, and are you wringing your hands over me? I believe you are jealous because I love him best.”
“We have loved each other so long, she and I,” she said apologetically to Tommy. “Ah,” she said impulsively, when he seemed to be hurt, “don’t you see it is because she doubts you that I am so sorry for the poor thing!”
“Dearest, darlingest,” she called to the child she had been, “don’t think that you can come to me when he is away, and whisper things against him to me. Do you think I will listen to your croakings, you poor, wet-faced thing!”
“You child!” said Tommy.
“Do you think me a child because I blow kisses to her?”
“Do you like me to think you one?” he replied.
“I like you to call me child,” she said, “but not to think me one.”
“Then I shall think you one,” said he, triumphantly. He was so perfect an instrument for love to play upon that he let it play on and on, and listened in a fever of delight. How could Grizel have doubted Tommy? The god of love himself would have sworn that there were a score of arrows in him. He wanted to tell Elspeth and the others at once that he and Grizel were engaged. I am glad to remember that it was he who urged this, and Grizel who insisted on its being deferred. He even pretended to believe that Elspeth would exult in the news; but Grizel smiled at him for saying this to please her. She had never been a great friend of Elspeth’s, they were so dissimilar; and she blamed herself for it now, and said she wanted to try to make Elspeth love her before they told her. Tommy begged her to let him tell his sister at once; but she remained obdurate, so anxious was she that her happiness, when revealed, should bring only happiness to others. There had not come to Grizel yet the longing to be recognized as his by the world. This love was so beautiful and precious to her that there was an added joy in sharing the dear secret with him alone; it was a live thing that might escape if she let anyone but him look between the fingers that held it.
The crowning glory of loving and being loved is that the pair make no real progress; however far they have advanced into the enchanted land dur
ing the day, they must start again from the frontier next morning. Last night they had dredged the lovers’ lexicon for superlatives and not even blushed; to-day is that the heavens cracking or merely someone whispering “dear”? All this was very strange and wonderful to Grizel. She had never been so young in the days when she was a little girl.
“I can never be quite so happy again!” she had said, with a wistful smile, on the night of nights; but early morn, the time of the day that loves maidens best, retold her the delicious secret as it kissed her on the eyes, and her first impulse was to hurry to Tommy. When joy or sorrow came to her now, her first impulse was to hurry with it to him.
Was he still the same, quite the same? She, whom love had made a child of, asked it fearfully, as if to gaze upon him openly just at first might be blinding; and he pretended not to understand. “The same as what, Grizel?”
“Are you still — what I think you?”
“Ah, Grizel, not at all what you think me.”
“But you do?”
“Coward! You are afraid to say the word. But I do!”
“You don’t ask whether I do!”
“No.”
“Why? Is it because you are so sure of me?”
He nodded, and she said it was cruel of him.
“You don’t mean that, Grizel.”
“Don’t I?” She was delighted that he knew it.
“No; you mean that you like me to be sure of it.”
“But I want to be sure of it myself.” “You are. That was why you asked me if I loved you. Had you not been sure of it you would not have asked.”
“How clever you are!” she said gleefully, and caressed a button of his velvet coat. “But you don’t know what that means! It does not mean that I love you — not merely that.”
“No; it means that you are glad I know you so well. It is an ecstasy to you, is it not, to feel that I know you so well?”
“It is sweet,” she said. She asked curiously: “What did you do last night, after you left me? I can’t guess, though I daresay you can guess what I did.”
“You put the glove under your pillow, Grizel.” (She had got the precious glove.)
“However could you guess!”
“It has often lain under my own.”
“Oh!” said Grizel, breathless.
“Could you not guess even that?”
“I wanted to be sure. Did it do anything strange when you had it there?”
“I used to hear its heart beating.”
“Yes, exactly! But this is still more remarkable. I put it away at last in my sweetest drawer, and when I woke in the morning it was under my pillow again. You could never have guessed that.”
“Easily. It often did the same thing with me.” “Story-teller! But what did you do when you went home?”
He could not have answered that exhaustively, even if he would, for his actions had been as contradictory as his emotions. He had feared even while he exulted, and exulted when plunged deep in fears. There had been quite a procession of Tommies all through the night; one of them had been a very miserable man, and the only thing he had been sure of was that he must be true to Grizel. But in so far as he did answer he told the truth.
“I went for a stroll among the stars,” he said. “I don’t know when I got to bed. I have found a way of reaching the stars. I have to say only, ‘Grizel loves me,’ and I am there.”
“Without me!”
“I took you with me.”
“What did we see? What did we do?”
“You spoiled everything by thinking the stars were badly managed. You wanted to take the supreme control. They turned you out.”
“And when we got back to earth?”
“Then I happened to catch sight of myself in a lookingglass, and I was scared. I did not see how you could possibly love me. A terror came over me that in the Den you must have mistaken me for someone else. It was a darkish night, you know.” “You are wanting me to say you are handsome.”
“No, no; I am wanting you to say I am very, very handsome. Tell me you love me, Grizel, because I am beautiful.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, “I love you because your book is beautiful.”
“Then goodbye for ever,” he said sternly.
“Would not that please you?”
“It would break my heart.”
“But I thought all authors—”
“It is the commonest mistake in the world. We are simple creatures, Grizel, and yearn to be loved for our face alone.”
“But I do love the book,” she said, when they became more serious, “because it is part of you.”
“Rather that,” he told her, “than that you should love me because I am part of it. But it is only a little part of me, Grizel; only the best part. It is Tommy on tiptoes. The other part, the part that does not deserve your love, is what needs it most.”
“I am so glad!” she said eagerly. “I want to think you need me.”
“How I need you!”
“Yes, I think you do — I am sure you do; and it makes me so happy.”
“Ah,” he said, “now I know why Grizel loves me.” And perhaps he did know now. She loved to think that she was more to him than the new book, but was not always sure of it; and sometimes this saddened her, and again she decided that it was right and fitting. She would hasten to him to say that this saddened her. She would go just as impulsively to say that she thought it right.
Her discoveries about herself were many.
“What is it to-day?” he would say, smiling fondly at her. “I see it is something dreadful by your face.”
“It is something that struck me suddenly when I was thinking of you, and I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry.”
“Then be glad, you child.”
“It is this: I used to think a good deal of myself; the people here thought me haughty; they said I had a proud walk.”
“You have it still,” he assured her; the vitality in her as she moved was ever a delicious thing to him to look upon.
“Yes, I feel I have,” she admitted, “but that is only because I am yours; and it used to be because I was nobody’s!”
“Do you expect my face to fall at that?”
“No, but I thought so much of myself once, and now I am nobody at all. At first it distressed me, and then I was glad, for it makes you everything and me nothing. Yes, I am glad, but I am just a little bit sorry that I should be so glad!” “Poor Grizel!” said he.
“Poor Grizel!” she echoed. “You are not angry with me, are you, for being almost sorry for her? She used to be so different. ‘Where is your independence, Grizel?’ I say to her, and she shakes her sorrowful head. The little girl I used to be need not look for me any more; if we were to meet in the Den she would not know me now.”
Ah, if only Tommy could have loved in this way! He would have done it if he could. If we could love by trying, no one would ever have been more loved than Grizel. “Am I to be condemned because I cannot?” he sometimes said to himself in terrible anguish; for though pretty thoughts came to him to say to her when she was with him, he suffered anguish for her when he was alone. He knew it was tragic that such love as hers should be given to him, but what more could he do than he was doing?
* * *
CHAPTER XIV
ELSPETH
Ever since the beginning of the book we have been neglecting Elspeth so pointedly that were she not the most forgiving creature we should be afraid to face her now. You are not angry with us, are you, Elspeth? We have been sitting with you, talking with you, thinking of you between the chapters, and the only reason why you have so seldom got into them is that our pen insisted on running after your fascinating brother.
(That is the way to get round her.)
Tommy, it need not be said, never neglected her. The mere fact of his having an affair of his own at present is a sure sign that she is comfortable, for, unless all were well with Elspeth, no venture could have lured him from her side. “Now I am rea
dy for you,” he said to the world when Elspeth had been, figuratively speaking, put to sleep; but until she was nicely tucked up the world had to wait. He was still as in his boyhood, when he had to see her with a good book in her hand before he could set off on deeds of darkness. If this was but the story of a brother and sister, there were matter for it that would make the ladies want to kiss Tommy on the brow.
That Dr. Gemmell disliked or at least distrusted him, Tommy knew before their acquaintance was an hour old; yet that same evening he had said cordially to Elspeth:
“This young doctor has a strong face.”
She was evidently glad that Tommy had noticed it. “Do you think him handsome?” she inquired.
“Decidedly so,” he replied, very handsomely, for it is an indiscreet question to ask of a plain man.
There was nothing small about Tommy, was there? He spoke thus magnanimously because he had seen that the doctor liked Elspeth, and that she liked him for liking her. Elspeth never spoke to him of such things, but he was aware that an extra pleasure in life came to her when she was admired; it gave her a little of the self-confidence she so wofully lacked; the woman in her was stirred. Take such presents as these to Elspeth, and Tommy would let you cast stones at himself for the rest of the day, and shake your hand warmly on parting. In London Elspeth had always known quickly, almost at the first clash of eyes, whether Tommy’s friends were attracted by her, but she had not known sooner than he. Those acquaintanceships had seldom ripened; but perhaps this was because, though he and she avoided talking of them, he was all the time taking such terrifying care of her. She was always little Elspeth to him, for whom he had done everything since the beginning of her, a frail little female counterpart of himself that would never have dared to grow up had he not always been there to show her the way, like a stronger plant in the same pot. It was even pathetic to him that Elspeth should have to become a woman while he was a man, and he set to, undaunted, to help her in this matter also. To be admired of men is a woman’s right, and he knew it gratified Elspeth; therefore he brought them in to admire her. But beyond profound respect they could not presume to go, he was watching them so vigilantly. He had done everything for her so far, and it was evident that he was now ready to do the love-making also, or at least to sift it before it reached her. Elspeth saw this, and perhaps it annoyed her once or twice, though on the whole she was deeply touched; and the young gentlemen saw it also: they saw that he would not leave them alone with her for a moment, and that behind his cordial manner sat a Tommy who had his eye on them. Subjects suitable for conversation before Elspeth seemed in presence of this strict brother to be limited. You had just begun to tell her the plot of the new novel when T. Sandys fixed you with his gleaming orb. You were in the middle of the rumour about Mrs. Golightly when he let the poker fall. If the newsboys were yelling the latest horror he quickly closed the window. He made all visitors selfconscious. If she was not in the room few of them dared to ask if she was quite well. They paled before expressing the hope that she would feel stronger tomorrow. Yet when Tommy went up to sit beside her, which was the moment the front door closed, he took care to mention, incidentally, that they had been inquiring after her. One of them ventured on her birthday to bring her flowers, but could not present them, Tommy looked so alarming. A still more daring spirit once went the length of addressing her by her Christian name. She did not start up haughtily (the most timid of women are a surprise at times), but the poker fell with a crash.