  Marjorie waited, with a quietness which was only outward, for Francis. She did not even know whether he would come; she had only seen him once; he had said he was sorry for the way he had acted, and asked her to forgive him, but then it wasn't the first time he had done that. "It's getting to be just a little morning custom of his," said Marjorie to herself, trying to laugh. But she was in earnest about seeing him. Away down deep in her she was not quite sure why she wanted to. She was not angry with him—she seemed to herself past that. Of course, there were things to arrange. It seemed like a sorry ending to it all. She had meant to ride triumphantly through the work, and walk off leaving a crushed Francis behind her; and make such a success of something back in New York that he would spend years being very, very sorry. . . . Well, he did seem sorry. But it was only because he felt guilty about her being ill, not, so far as she could tell, because he cared a bit about her any more. And it really was not his fault, her illness. She had been well and happy, and even liked the work. The doctor had said that the miasma in the swamp, and her sitting by it for hours, making a wreath of flowers like a small girl, were alone responsible. And even if he was softening the blow, she had been tired and worried before she came up; the housework at the cabin wouldn't have been enough. She must tell Francis so. He did take things so hard. When he came, led by Peggy, neither of them seemed to know what to say for a little while. Francis sat down by her and spoke constrainedly, and then merely stared and stared. "Well, what is it then?" demanded Peggy, who was hovering about, and, unlike the Ellisons, seemed to have no emotions to disturb her. "Has she two heads, or had you forgotten her looks entirely?" "I think I must have forgotten her looks entirely," he answered slowly, never taking his eyes off Marjorie. "You know—well, I hadn't seen you, Marjorie, for some time. But you always were beautiful." Marjorie turned pink up to the ribbon bow that sat out like a little girl's at one temple. "Was I?" was all she found to say. "Yes," he said, and said no more. At this juncture Peggy rose. "Well, I'm sorry not to stay here and help you carry on this fluent conversation," she said, tossing her head. "But I have an engagement elsewhere. If you want me ring the bell." This was more or less metaphorical—probably a quotation from Thackeray—because there was no bell in sight. But at any rate Peggy left with one of her goddess-like sweeps, and was to be heard thereafter calling Mr. Logan with a good-will. Presently the others, sitting silently, heard his voice answer gaily, and then no more. They had met and were off together as usual. "You see," said Marjorie, "he really didn't care for me. I think he and Peggy will marry each other one of these days, even if she is only sixteen." "She will get over being sixteen, of course," said Francis, still in the preoccupied voice. "I suppose it's her superb vitality that attracts him. She is actually making him almost human." Marjorie smiled faintly at that. "You don't like him much, do you?" she said. "Do you remember, in your letters, how you always called him 'your friend with the fits?'" "Well, wasn't he?" said Francis defensively. "Well, I don't think it was fits," she answered, balancing her ideas as if they had met only to discuss Logan; "it was some sort of a nervous seizure. At any rate, Peggy nursed him through one of the attacks, so if she does marry him she knows the worst. But maybe they won't be married. I remember, now, he told me once that an emotion to be really convincing must be only touched lightly and foregone." "That man certainly talks a lot of rot," said Francis. It was curious how, whenever they were together, they fell into intimate conversation—even if everything in the world had been happening the minute before. The thought came to Marjorie. "Now, my emotions," Francis went on, "have certainly been too darn convincing for comfort for the last year. If I could have touched any of them lightly and foregone them I'd have been so proud you couldn't see me for dust. But they weren't that kind. . . . Marjorie, I've been through hell this last while that you've been sick." "I'm sorry," she said. It gave her the opening she had been looking for. "But that partly was what I sent for you to talk about. Not hell—I mean—well, our affairs. I'm well enough now to be quite quiet and calm about them, and I think you are, too. That is," she added, half laughing, "if you could ever be quiet and calm about anything. What I've seen of you has either been when you've been repressing yourself so hard that I could see the emotions bubble underneath, or when you'd stopped repressing, and were telling me what you really thought of me." "Oh, don't!" he said, wincing. "Well, why not, Francis? You see, it's sort of as if we were both dead now, and talking things over calmly on the golden shore. . . . Isn't it lovely here! Oh, you don't know how nice it is to be getting well!" "And I made you go through all that," he said chokingly, reaching out instinctively for one of the thin little hands that lay contentedly outside the silk shawl, and then pulling back again. Marjorie looked at him consideringly. She couldn't help thinking, for a moment, how lovely this would be if it wasn't a case of the golden shore; if Francis and she hadn't messed things up so; if they had come up here because they loved each other, and trusted each other to make happiness; and if Francis, instead of taking his hand back that way, had held hers as if he had the right to. And she remembered suddenly their marriage night. He had flung himself down beside her and wrapped her in his arms, and she had not quite liked it; she had shrunk away from him. She was so weak now, and it felt a little lonely—if he put his arms around her now she thought she would like it. But then she was ill yet, and emotional; probably it was the same feeling that made men propose to their nurses when they were convalescing. A nurse had told her about it once, and added that it was considered very unethical to take a man up on that sort of a proposal. That was it—you just wanted somebody to be kind to you. "Perhaps if I had a cat," said Marjorie inadvertently, aloud. "Would you like one?" demanded Francis. "I'll get it this afternoon." "Yes, I guess so," she answered, coloring again. "But what made you think of a cat?" "Oh, I just did," she answered untruthfully. "You see—you see, I'm not strong yet, and my mind rambled around in an inconsequent sort of way. It just happened on cats. But, Francis, you mustn't reproach yourself. I know you are feeling altogether too badly about what you did. But you mustn't. That's just the way you're made. You haven't nice tame emotions, and in a way you're better so. Why, people like you, all energy and force and attraction, get so much farther in life. You're going to be a wonderful success, I know, just because you are so intense. You meant all right. I know lots of girls who would have been awfully flattered at your being so jealous. They'd have thought it meant you were in love with them terribly." "They'd have thought right," he said. She looked at him—she had been talking with her eyes on a green tree over in the distance. His head was bowed, and his hands clenched on his knees, and he had spoken again in the muttering voice he had begun with. "I suppose you were," she said with a little wistful note in her voice that neither of them knew was there. "But never mind; I want to talk now about what we are both to do next. If you are really feeling as badly as you say about my being sick, I don't suppose you mind how long I take to get well. I'm afraid it will be quite a little while longer." He started to speak, but she held up one hand and stopped him. "And after that I'll go back to Lucille, if Billy isn't home." "He is," said Francis. "He came over in one of the transports in July, while you were ill. That was the only reason I didn't drag Lucille up here." "Where are they?" demanded Marjorie a little blankly. But after all she should have expected this. "In the flat you and Lucille had. Lucille likes it." "How can she?" sighed Marjorie. "Well, she's never tried this. . . . I wonder what I'd better do? I think I heard something about a place where they have flats just for business women. Perhaps Billy could arrange for me to get one before they're all gone. He always loved attending to things like that for people. I can't go back to Cousin Anna. I've been through too much. Why, you mayn't think it, but I'm grown up, Francis! I'm about twenty years older than that foolish little girl you married. I—I wonder I haven't wrinkles and a little wisp of fuzzy gray hair!" she added, trying to smile. "Don't!" said Francis again, looking at her childish face, with its showers of loose curls, that was trying to be so brave. He dropped his eyes again to the clenched hands that were tensed, one on either knee. "I was foolish and young, too, then," he added. "I think I'm older, too." "Yes . . . it was a mistake," she said in a far-off voice. "I wish it hadn't been," he said. "Why, I was thinking that, too!" she said. "Isn't it a pity that we weren't as old then as we are now! Responsible, I mean, and wanting as much to do right things. That was one thing about it all. I want to do right more than anything else these days; and I think you do, too. And it wasn't in style then—do you remember our talking it over up here once, when we were having a little friendly spat? But I suppose——" "I suppose you would never have married me if you'd been so old and wise," he said. She considered. "But neither would you have," she objected. Francis looked up at her suddenly, flashingly. "You know better," he burst out. "You know I'd marry you over again if I were forty years old, and as wise as Solomon. The kind of love I had for you isn't the kind that gets changed." Marjorie lay for a minute silently. Then she looked at him incredulously. "But you said——" she began very softly. "I said things that I ought to be horsewhipped for. I loved you so much that I was jealous. I do think I've learned a little better. Why, if you wanted to talk to some other man now, even if I knew you loved him madly, if it would make you happier I think I'd get him for you. . . . No. No, I don't believe I could. I want you too much myself. But—I've learned a better kind of love, at least, than the kind that only wants to make you miserable. I did get Pennington for you when you were so ill, and wanted him instead of me. Count that to me for righteousness, Marge, when you think about me back there in the city." "Then—you mean—that you love me just as much as ever?" She lay there, wide-eyed, flushed and unbelieving. "As much? A thousand times more—you know it. Good heavens, how could any one live in the house with you and not care more and more for you all the time?" "But, then, why did you——" "Because I was a brute. I've told you that. And because it made me unhappier and unhappier to see you drifting away from me, and then, every time I could have done anything to draw you a little closer I'd lash out and send you farther away with my selfishness and jealousy. I didn't know it was any surprise to you. It's been the one thing you've known from the beginning——" She shook her head. "Every time you lost your temper you said you'd stopped loving me. And that nobody could love the bad girl I was, to flirt and deceive you——" "I've no excuse. I haven't even the nerve to ask you to try it a little longer. But believe this, Marjorie; the very hardest thing you could ask me to do——" She laughed a little, starry-eyed, "If I asked you to go and do the cooking and cleaning for your beloved men, that you made me do?" she asked whimsically. He nodded matter-of-coursely. "It would mean Pennington doing my directing, and I don't think he's up to it; he's a fine second in command, but he can't plan. Yes, I'd do it in a minute, though it would probably mean the job I'm making my reputation on going smash. Do you want me to? If the whole thing went to the devil it would be a small price to pay for getting even another half-chance to make good with you. May I, Marjorie? Say I may!" He was bending forward, alert and passionate, as if it were a chance to own the world that he was begging for. She told him so. "It is—my world. I mean it, Marjorie. I don't deserve it, and I don't see how you can trust me, but let me do that. Or anything. I don't care how hard or how ridiculous, if it would mean that some day I could come back to you and you'd consider—just consider—being my wife." "But, Francis! But, Francis, I don't want you to be ridiculous! I don't want you to fall down on your work. I don't want you to do anything——" "I know you don't. That's the worst of it. And it's coming to me." She was silent for a little while. "It hadn't occurred to you, then, that perhaps—perhaps living in the house with you might have made me—well, a little fonder of you?" She did not know what she had expected him to do when she said that. Anything but what he did do—sit perfectly still and unbelieving, and look as if she had stabbed him. "No," he said finally. "That couldn't happen. Don't talk to me that way, Marjorie. It's cruel. Not that you haven't the right to be cruel." It was Marjorie's time of triumph, that she had planned for so long, in those days when the work was hard and things were lonely sometimes. But she did not take it. She only put out one shy hand, for it was a little hard for her to go on talking, she was getting so tired, and said timidly: |
|
