All in all, my meditations were incoherent but very pleasurable.
XXV
He Advances in the Attack on Selwoode
I
“Well?” said Peter.
“Well?” said I.
“What’s the latest quotation on heiresses?” Mr. Blagden demanded. “Was she cruel, my boy, or was she kind? Did she set the dog on you or have you thrashed by her father? I fancy both, for your present hilarity is suggestive of a gentleman in the act of attendance on his own funeral.” And Peter laughed, unctuously, for his gout slumbered.
“His attempts at wit,” I reflectively confided to my wineglass, “while doubtless amiably intended, are, to his well-wishers, painful. I daresay, though, he doesn’t know it. We must, then, smile indulgently upon the elephantine gambols of what he is pleased to describe as his intellect.”
“Now, that,” Peter pointed out, “is not what I would term a courteous method of discussing a man at his own table. You are damn disagreeable this morning, Bob. So I know, of course, that you have come another cropper in your fortune-hunting.”
“Peter,” said I, in admiration, “your sagacity at times is almost human! I have spent a most enjoyable day, though,” I continued, idly. “I have been communing with Nature, Peter. She is about her spring-cleaning in the woods yonder, and everywhere I have seen traces of her getting things fixed for the summer. I have seen the sky, which was washed overnight, and the sun, which has evidently been freshly enamelled. I have seen the new leaves as they swayed and whispered over your extensive domains, with the fret of spring alert in every sap cell. I have seen the little birds as they hopped among said leaves and commented upon the scarcity of worms. I have seen the buxom flowers as they curtsied and danced above your flowerbeds like a miniature comic-opera chorus. And besides that—”
“Yes?” said Peter, with a grin, “and besides that?”
“And besides that,” said I, firmly, “I have seen nothing.”
And internally I appraised this bloated Peter Blagden, and reflected that this was the man whom Stella had loved; and I appraised myself, and remembered that this had been the boy who once loved Stella. For, as I have said, it was the twenty-eighth of April, the day that Stella had died, two years ago.
II
The next morning I discoursed with my soul, what time I sat upon the wall-top and smiled and kicked my heels to and fro among the ivy.
“For, in spite of appearances,” I debated with myself, “it is barely possible that the handkerchief was not hers. She may have borrowed it or have got it by mistake, somehow. In which case, it is only reasonable to suppose that she will miss it, and ask me if I saw it; on the contrary, if the handkerchief is hers, she will naturally understand, when I return the book without it, that I have feloniously detained this airy gewgaw as a souvenir, as, so to speak, a gage d’amour. And, in that event, she ought to be very much pleased and a bit embarrassed; and she will preserve upon the topic of handkerchiefs a maidenly silence. Do you know, Robert Etheridge Townsend, there is about you the making of a very fine logician?”
Then I consulted my watch, and subsequently grimaced. “It is also barely possible,” said I, “that Margaret may not come at all. In which case—Margaret! Now, isn’t that a sweet name? Isn’t it the very sweetest name in the world? Now, really, you know, it is queer her being named Margaret—extraordinarily queer—because Margaret has always been my favourite woman’s name. I daresay, unbeknownst to myself, I am a bit of a prophet.”
III
But she did come. She was very much surprised to see me.
“You!” she said, with a gesture which was practically tantamount to disbelief. “Why, how extraordinary!”
“You rogue!” I commented, internally: “you know it is the most natural thing in the world.” Aloud I stated: “Why, yes, I happened to notice you forgot your book yesterday, so I dropped in—or, to be more accurate, climbed up—to return it.”
She reached for it. Our hands touched, with the usual result to my pulses. Also, there were the customary manual tinglings.
“You are very kind,” was her observation, “for I am wondering which one of the two he will marry.”
“Forman tells me he has no notion, himself.”
“Oh, then you know Justus Miles Forman! How nice! I think his stories are just splendid, especially the way his heroes talk to photographs and handkerchiefs and dead flowers—”
Afterward she opened the book, and turned over its pages expectantly, and flushed a proper shade of pink, and said nothing.
And then, and not till then, my heart consented to resume its normal functions. And then, also, “These iron spikes—” said its owner.
“Yes?” she queried, innocently.
“—so humpy,” I complained.
“Are they?” said she. “Why, then, how silly of you to continue to sit on them!”
The result of this comment was that we were both late for luncheon.
IV
By a peculiar coincidence, at twelve o’clock the following day, I happened to be sitting on the same wall at the same spot. Peter said at luncheon it was a queer thing that some people never could manage to be on time for their meals.
I fancy we can all form a tolerably accurate idea of what took place during the next day or so.
It is scarcely necessary to retail our conversations. We gossiped of simple things.
