Clem bit his lip, then took out his watch, saying,
“I believe I have an engagement down town this evening. I shall have to leave you now, I fear, ladies.”
Nattie celebrated his departure by bursting into tears that she vainly tried to hide, and was detected in this situation on the sofa by Cyn.
Cyn’s arms were about her in a moment, and Cyn’s voice said lovingly,
“What is it, dear? Tell me what is the matter lately? Trust me with it. Is it about Clem?”
With a determination, very brave and unselfish, but unfortunately entirely uncalled for, not to mar Cyn’s happy love by her sorrow, Nattie checked the tears, of which she was ashamed, and answered,
“No! I am very weak and foolish. The idea of my crying like a schoolgirl! I am only unhappy because—because—I am nobody!”
And this was all the information the sympathetic and perplexed Cyn could obtain.
Sitting that night on a low cricket before the fire with her dark hair unbound—and it was fortunate for Jo’s peace of mind that he could not see her just then, because she was such an interesting “study!”—Cyn thought it all over, and could not, as she told herself, make out what it was all about.
“I thought everything was going on so smoothly,” she mused, “and now here is what Clem himself would term a cross on the wire! and no one can find out where it is! Doesn’t she love him, I wonder? I should, if I was she! Does he love her? if he does not, he is no kind of a hero! Ah! I know what would test the matter! a crisis! Now, for instance, if the house would only get on fire, and Nat burn up—that is, almost—and Clem save her just in time—that is the sort of thing that brings these heroes to terms in the dramas! but I suppose—everything is so different in real life—Clem would not wake up in time, and she would burn to a crisp—or someone else would save her first—Quimby, for instance, he is always doing something he ought not! no, I don’t think it would do to risk it! nevertheless, I am convinced that a crisis is what is essential to complete the circuit, telegraphically speaking, or in other words, to bring down the curtain on everybody, embracing everybody, with great éclat!”
XIII
The Wrong Woman
Somewhat exultant over the new aspect of affairs, and unable longer to endure the strain of the load of love he was carrying about with him, Quimby came to a desperate determination.
This was no other, than to confide in his roommate, and once dreaded rival, and then, provided he was not thrown out of the window, or kicked down stairs, ask his advice about how to render himself clearly understood by her, at the same time relating his former unfortunate attempt.
This programme he carried into effect one morning, as Clem was blacking his boots. Perhaps he had made private calculations on a blacking-brush hitting a man with less damage than some larger article.
“I say, Clem!” Quimby began, “I—I want to ask your advice, you know!”
“I am at your service, my dear boy,” replied the unsuspecting Clem, rubbing away at his boot.
“Well—I—I want to know—the fact is, I—I am boiling over with love!”
“What!” exclaimed Clem, looking up with an amused smile, “you are not in love with Cyn too, are you?”
“With Cyn, too?” These words were balm to the soul of Quimby, and gave him courage to answer eagerly,
“Ah! no use in that for me, you know! It—it is she—Miss Rogers—Nattie—you know!”
The blacking-brush left Clem’s hand, but not to fly at the expectant Quimby. It simply dropped onto the floor, while Clem gave vent to his feelings in a prolonged whistle.
“Is it possible!” he said, having thus relieved himself of his first astonishment. “I might have suspected as much if I had stopped to think, though!”
“Yes, I—I think I showed it plain enough, you know!” said Quimby candidly. “You see, I—I tried to tell her of it once, before you came here, when you were invisible, you know, but some way she—she didn’t just understand, and—and bolted, you know! So just tell me how to do it, that is a good fellow, for do it I must!”
Clem picked up his blacking-brush, and very deliberately smeared the boot he had just polished, with another coat of blacking, before answering.
“How can I tell you?” he said at last. “You don’t suppose proposing is an everyday habit of mine, do you? My dear boy, I never proposed in my life!”
“But you—you ought to—I mean you will sometime, you know! Just give me a—a start, you know!” pleaded Quimby, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Shall I call her and propose for you?” inquired Clem, somewhat ironically, and glancing at the sounder.
“No—no—I—No!” cried Quimby in great alarm at this proposition. “She might think you meant yourself, you know!”
“In which case the rejection would be sure!” said Clem. Then flinging his brush savagely into a corner, he added as he went out,
“You must settle it yourself, old fellow! No one can help us in those matters. There is no duplex!”
Quimby was therefore left to his own devices; and his own devices brought about a most extraordinary result.
That same evening, Nattie coming over to Cyn’s room, and finding her absent, sat down to await her return, which Mrs. Simonson assured her would be very soon. There was no gas lighted, and in the dusk Nattie remained, feeling, perhaps, an affinity with the somber shadows of the twilight. As she sat musing, now wishing C had left her life forever when he left it with the odors of musk and bear’s-grease about him, and now despising herself for the weakness she found it so hard to overcome, she became conscious of a denser shadow in the shadows of the open door.
“I—I beg
