know. She was one of those inscrutable girls.
And so things went on. If it had not been that I knew Wilton’s story, I should have classed the thing as one of those summer love-affairs to which the Marois Bay air is so peculiarly conducive. The only reason why anyone comes away from a summer at Marois Bay unbetrothed is because there are so many girls that he falls in love with that his holiday is up before he can, so to speak, concentrate.
But in Wilton’s case this was out of the question. A man does not get over the sort of blow he had had, not, at any rate, for many years: and we had gathered that his tragedy was comparatively recent.
I doubt if I was ever more astonished in my life than the night when he confided in me. Why he should have chosen me as a confidant I cannot say. I am inclined to think that I happened to be alone with him at the psychological moment when a man must confide in somebody or burst; and Wilton chose the lesser evil.
I was strolling along the shore after dinner, smoking a cigar and thinking of Grace Bates, Heloise Miller, and Clarice Wembley, when I happened upon him. It was a beautiful night, and we sat down and drank it in for a while. The first intimation I had that all was not well with him was when he suddenly emitted a hollow groan.
The next moment he had begun to confide.
‘I’m in the deuce of a hole,’ he said. ‘What would you do in my position?’
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘I proposed to Mary Campbell this evening.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. She refused me.’
‘Refused you!’
‘Yes—because of Amy.’
It seemed to me that the narrative required footnotes.
‘Who is Amy?’ I said.
‘Amy is the girl—’
‘Which girl?’
‘The girl who died, you know. Mary had got hold of the whole story. In fact, it was the tremendous sympathy she showed that encouraged me to propose. If it hadn’t been for that, I shouldn’t have had the nerve. I’m not fit to black her shoes.’
Odd, the poor opinion a man always has—when he is in love—of his personal attractions. There were times when I thought of Grace Bates, Heloise Miller, and Clarice Wembley, when I felt like one of the beasts that perish. But then, I’m nothing to write home about, whereas the smallest gleam of intelligence should have told Wilton that he was a kind of Ouida guardsman.
‘This evening I managed somehow to do it. She was tremendously nice about it—said she was very fond of me and all that—but it was quite out of the question because of Amy.’
‘I don’t follow this. What did she mean?’
‘It’s perfectly clear, if you bear in mind that Mary is the most sensitive, spiritual, highly strung girl that ever drew breath,’ said Wilton, a little coldly. ‘Her position is this: she feels that, because of Amy, she can never have my love completely; between us there would always be Amy’s memory. It would be the same as if she married a widower.’
‘Well, widowers marry.’
‘They don’t marry girls like Mary.’
I couldn’t help feeling that this was a bit of luck for the widowers; but I didn’t say so. One has always got to remember that opinions differ about girls. One man’s peach, so to speak, is another man’s poison. I have met men who didn’t like Grace Bates, men who, if Heloise Miller or Clarice Wembley had given them their photographs, would have used them to cut the pages of a novel.
‘Amy stands between us,’ said Wilton.
I breathed a sympathetic snort. I couldn’t think of anything noticeably suitable to say.
‘Stands between us,’ repeated Wilton. ‘And the damn silly part of the whole thing is that there isn’t any Amy. I invented her.’
‘You—what!’
‘Invented her. Made her up. No, I’m not mad. I had a reason. Let me see, you come from London, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you haven’t any friends. It’s different with me. I live in a small country town, and everyone’s my friend. I don’t know what it is about me, but for some reason, ever since I can remember, I’ve been looked on as the strong man of my town, the man who’s
‘Not quite.’
‘Well, what I am trying to get at is this. Either because I’m a strong sort of fellow to look at, and have obviously never been sick in my life, or because I can’t help looking pretty cheerful, the whole of Bridley-in-the-Wold seems to take it for granted that I can’t possibly have any troubles of my own, and that I am consequently fair game for anyone who has any sort of worry. I have the sympathetic manner, and they come to me to be cheered up. If a fellow’s in love, he makes a bee-line for me, and tells me all about it. If anyone has had a bereavement, I am the rock on which he leans for support. Well, I’m a patient sort of man, and, as far as Bridley-in-the-Wold is concerned, I am willing to play the part. But a strong man does need an occasional holiday, and I made up my mind that I would get it. Directly I got here I saw that the same old game was going to start. Spencer Clay swooped down on me at once. I’m as big a draw with the Spencer Clay type of maudlin idiot as catnip is with a cat. Well, I could stand
