by A. A. Milne
"I would not like to, but there are things I should dislike even more, and having you escape is one of them."
The other thought it over. "The trouble is," he explained, "that I am impulsive. You must have noticed it. I get carried away. You know how I am. I'm not at all sure that I shall remember."
"I advise you to try, for this is the only warning you will get."
"I cannot believe, Holland, that you would really shoot me in cold blood in the presence of my own sister."
"You had better behave as if you believed it."
"I don't like this arrangement," McVay broke out peevishly. "Suppose, for the sake of argument, that I did forget,—that I put my hand on your shoulder—a very natural gesture."
"I should shoot instantly."
"But fancy the shock to Cecilia."
"Not more of a shock, perhaps, than discovering that you are a thief. And another thing, it may be very gay and amusing to be forever fooling about the subject, but I advise you against it. It does not amuse me."
"Oh, be honest, Holland, it does, it must amuse you. It is essentially amusing."
"It won't amuse her, or you either when she finds out that you are not only a thief but that you have been able to find amusement in deceiving her."
Again McVay's gaiety seemed momentarily dashed. "Very true," he said, "I had not thought of that. But then," he added more brightly, "who can tell if it will actually fall to my lot to tell her. Things happen so strangely. It may turn out that that is your part."
"It may," said Geoffrey, "but only because I have had to shoot after all." With which he opened the door and they returned to the library.
Chapter 5
Cecilia was not in the library, and McVay, without comment on her absence, turned at once to his book.
"If you won't think me impolite, Holland, I'll go on with my Sterne. Conversation is always a great temptation to me, but I have so little opportunity to read that I feel I ought not to neglect it,—especially as your books are so unusual."
He settled himself to Tristram Shandy with appreciation, but Geoffrey could not read. He sat, indeed, with a book open on his knee, but his eyes were fixed on the carpet. The knowledge of the girl's presence in his house distracted him like a lantern swung before his eyes. He gave himself up to steeping himself in his emotion, which, in some situations, is the nearest thing possible to thinking.
Geoffrey's success with women had been conspicuous, as was natural for he was good looking, rich and apparently susceptible. As a matter of fact, however, his susceptibility was purely superficial, and for this very reason he was not afraid to give it full sway. The deeply susceptible man learns to be cautious, to distrust his feelings, but Geoffrey had always too truly recognised his fundamental indifference to have any reason to distrust himself. He had never been in love. Like Ferdinand he, "for different virtues had liked many women," although in his case it had not always been necessarily virtues that had attracted him. But there were certain women who had always appealed to him for some conspicuous quality, or characteristic, who for one reason or another pleased him, to which one side or another of his nature responded. He had often thought that if he could make up a composite woman of all of them he might be in great danger of falling in love. But now he was aware that his whole nature responded to the attraction of the girl upstairs, as a dog answers instinctively to the call of its master. He could say to himself that she was this or that,—brave and beautiful, but he knew that such qualities were but an insignificant part of the total effect. His reason could find causes enough to approve her, but something more important had gone ahead, and made straight the paths of his reason, something which transcended it, and which in case of a divergence between the two, his reason could never overcome.
For, of course, the realisation of McVay and all his presence implied fell coolly upon his exaltation. By no means had Geoffrey said to himself in so many words that he was in love,—far less had anything so definite as marriage crossed his mind. He was too much in love to be so practical. He only knew that McVay's mere existence was a contamination and a tragedy.
He had been sitting thus for some time, when he heard her step on the stairs. He rose and met her in the hall, whence he could still keep his eye on McVay's studious figure in the library.
She was dressed in her sables ready for departure.
They looked at each other a moment in silence, he appealingly, she, with a cold blankness that seemed to say that not even a look could make her take further notice of him as a living being.
"Have you really been thinking that I wanted to turn you out?" he said, with directness.
"I have not been thinking about the matter at all," she answered, turning her head a little aside from his direct gaze. "But I do think so of course. After all why should you not wish it?"
"You think me likely to want anything that would part us—that is the way my manner strikes you?" He was surprised to find his voice not absolutely steady.
She favoured him with a short stare from under her lids. "You seem to forget that I have your own word that you insisted on our going. Possibly you have changed your mind, but I have made mine up." She made a motion as if to pass in, and go on toward the library.
"I have changed so completely since I saw you," said Geoffrey, "that I scarcely recognise life in this—this ecstasy. That is the only change. Am I likely to turn you out when I have been waiting all my life for you to come?"
It had been with her own dream, her own credulity with which she had been fighting quite as much as with Holland, and the charm began to work once again. She said very coolly:
"You are very kind, but as you said, we ought to be starting,—or have you forgotten saying that?"
"Be just. You knew I was going too. You knew I urged our going because—"
"Well, why?" Her look was still from half-shut lids, but the lines of her mouth had softened by not a little.
"There is a danger of being snowed up here. Now I appreciate that there would be greater danger in starting out so late. And,—and equally desperate for me, whatever we do."
"Desperate?"
"If you only want an opportunity to think so meanly of me,—to hate me, as your look said."
"I do not hate you."
"You are very eager to be rid of my company."
"I did not understand."
"You are going to stay?"
"Until we can go safely."
"Not longer?"
As this was a question obviously impossible to answer directly she said, "We are under sufficiently large obligations to you already."
And Geoffrey, about to answer, looked up and saw McVay was observing them with satisfaction, so that words froze on his lips.
Here was the whole bitterness of the situation concentrated. To be observed at all in a moment of genuine emotion was bad enough, but to be observed by one who so plainly hoped to profit, was unbearable. Never, said Geoffrey to himself, at that glance of triumph from McVay's clear little eyes, never should any influence lead him to let a thief slip through his fingers.
He realised too, for the first time, that he could not hope for another word alone with Cecilia. McVay must always be present. It was a hideous sort of revenge that every waking minute must be spent in the man's company. Geoffrey had not appreciated the full meaning of his instructions to McVay to keep always in sight. Not a word or a look could be exchanged without McVay's seeing and rejoicing.
Yet, in spite of his irritation, he could not but admire the sort of affectionate swagger with which McVay rose to greet her, as if the brother of so tender a creature must remember his responsibility.
"Well, my dear," he said sitting down beside her on the sofa, "feel better? Really a terrible experience. Holland has just been telling me about it—saying how well you behaved," (Geoffrey favoured him with a scowl behind her back), "a perfect heroine,—so he says."
"Mr. Holland is very kind," said the girl.
"Kind!" cried McVay enth
usiastically. "Kind! I should rather think he was. Why, I could give you instances of his kindness—"
"You need not trouble," said Geoffrey.
McVay smiled at his sister as much as to say: What did I tell you?… so modest, so unassuming.
To Geoffrey this sort of thing was unspeakably painful. He was willing enough to meet McVay in a grim interchange over his strange combination of facility and crime, of doom and triviality. But when it became any question of playing upon Cecilia's unconsciousness of the situation, he writhed. Yet, a little discernment would have shown him how natural, how encouraging from his own point of view her unconsciousness was. To fall in love thoroughly is sufficiently disconcerting. Which of us needs to be told that it is an absorbing process, that life looks different, and that all past experiences must be reviewed in the light of this unexpected illumination. And if this is true of the more usual forms of the great passion, what is to be said of a girl who, in a single day, sees and loves a rescuer, a handsome powerful young creature, who comes to her with all the attributes of a soldier and a prince, who comes not only to save and protect, but as host and dispenser of all comfort and beauty.
It was not to be wondered at that she was dazzled and aware of one fact, one personality, that far from being able to draw shrewd conclusions from the little happenings going on before her, she was but dimly aware of the existence of her brother, of the world, of anything but Geoffrey.
Presently she said, as if trying to call up the picture:
"And this is where you sat all night?" And if the thought was interesting to her, it was not on account of her brother's share in it.
"Yes," returned McVay, springing lightly to his feet. "Here we sat discussing plans for your safety." He took a step toward the pair at the fire, and then remembering, stopped. "Please move a little back, Holland," he said, "I want to get nearer the fire. I'm cold."
"You can go to the fire," said Geoffrey, with a gesture of permission.
"Of course you can," said the girl, "Mr. Holland is not in your way, Billy."
But Billy continued to eye his host. "Oh, no, you don't," he said warily. "Not unless you move back. Do move, there's a good fellow." And Geoffrey laughed and moved, somewhat to the girl's mystification. She forgot to wonder, however, in pursuing the more wonderful train of thought which had already been occupying her. Suppose that their plans for her relief had been decided differently, suppose her brother had come for her instead of the magnificent stranger, with what different eyes she might now be looking on life—this ecstasy as Holland had defined it. Curious to know by what accident she had been so blessed, she asked:
"Why was it, Billy, that you did not come after me yourself?"
"Just what I said to him," replied McVay eagerly. "If I said once, I said a dozen times: 'Holland, it is my duty and pleasure, it is myright to go,' but … " McVay shrugged his shoulders, "when he once gets an idea into his head, it takes a gimlet to get it out."
"Upon my word, Billy," the girl said indignantly, "I don't think you ought to talk like that even in fun. You know perfectly well that Mr. Holland only insisted on going because he thought he was better able to bear the physical strain."
"Physical strain!" exclaimed McVay colouring to the roots of his sandy hair, from pure annoyance; "I don't know what you mean,… Holland is, of course, a larger man than I, but not stronger… . Oh, well, as far as mere brute force goes, perhaps, but in the matter of bearing physical strain, you betray the most absurd ignorance. It is well known scientifically that medium-sized men like myself, when their muscles are at all developed (and you know my muscles), are better fitted for endurance than any of these over-grown giants."
"Then," said she calmly, "if you knew you were better fitted I can't see why you did not go."
"You are not quite fair to your brother," said Geoffrey interrupting, for McVay looked as if he would explode in another moment under the sense of injustice. "He did propose going himself, but I would not let him; I—I made it a personal matter."
"Very personal," replied McVay with feeling. "I'll just explain how it was. Last night, as soon as I realised how bad the storm was, I made up my mind that I had better attempt to enter the house. I succeeded after some trouble, came to this room, turned on the light—a spooky thing; an empty house, picked up a book, had quite forgotten my position, the world, everything, when a voice at my elbow said: 'Fond of reading?' I was never more surprised in my life. I felt distinctly caught,—an interloper. And to make matters worse, I saw that Holland did not at once recognise me. I made every effort to leave, but he would not hear of such a thing. He made it perfectly plain in fact that it was his wish to keep me. I yielded. That, I think, Holland, is a pretty accurate account of the night's proceeding, isn't it?"
Geoffrey did not answer. His soul rebelled at the farce, and at McVay's irrepressible enjoyment of his own abilities. As Holland met the twinkling joy of those small blue eyes, he wondered if he would not be doing mankind a favour by putting a bullet into McVay before the dawn of another day. Unconscious of this possibility, McVay continued to his sister:
"Well, it has all been a painful experience for you, my dear… a long and dangerous adventure for a woman, but you were at least warmly clad. A handsome coat, is it not, Holland?"
"Very," said Geoffrey chillingly.
"Now that coat," McVay went on unchilled, "was a real bargain. I may say I paid nothing for it,—little more than the trouble of taking it home. Although from another point of view, its price was pretty high… ."
"Really, Billy, I don't think Mr. Holland is interested in our bargains."
"In some, he is."
"Yes, indeed," said Geoffrey, eyeing McVay with a warning glance, "I think I know of just about a dozen people who will want a circumstantial account of all of them."
"Now there, Holland, there is one of your philistine words,—circumstantial! It takes all poetry, all imagination out of a subject. Do you know, the only connotation—(are you familiar with that word?)—the only suggestion it has for me is a jury?"
He scored distinctly. Geoffrey had nothing to say in reply.
It was McVay himself, who, disliking a pause, observed that it was almost time to begin on the preparation of the Christmas dinner. They all rose as if glad of a break. As they passed out of the door, Geoffrey laid his hand on McVay's arm.
"Why do you deliberately try to exasperate me?" he said.
McVay smiled. "Why do little boys lay their tongues to lamp-posts in freezing weather? Don't I amuse you? Be candid."
"No."
McVay looked regretful. "As I remembered you, Holland, as a boy, you had more sense of humour," he said gently.
Chapter 6
In the kitchen McVay made it evident that his talents were for organisation rather than for hard labour. He drew a chair near the wall, and tilting back at his ease, watched Geoffrey and Cecilia at work. Geoffrey, engaged in lighting the range-fire, looked up at her as she moved about filling the kettle and washing out pots and pans, and thought that he and she presented the aspect of a young couple of the labouring class with no further ambition than to keep a roof over their heads. He almost had it in his heart to wish that they were.
She proved herself infinitely more capable than the two men had been, discovering tins of butter and soup and sardines, a package of hominy, apples and potatoes in the cellar, and an old box of wedding cake, which, with a burning brandy sauce, she declared would serve very well for plum-pudding.
Manual labour was such a novelty to Geoffrey that he soon forgot even his irritation against McVay and the triangular intercourse was more friendly than before, until marred by an unfortunate incident.
He was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a steaming pot in each hand, when McVay, without warning, advanced toward him, handkerchief in hand, exclaiming:
"My dear fellow, such a smut on your forehead, pray allow me—"
"Look out," roared Geoffrey, realising how easily in another second his r
evolver might be taken from him. The tone was alarming, and McVay sprang back ten feet. "I was afraid of burning you with the soup," Geoffrey explained politely.
"I own you made me jump," said McVay.
The girl said nothing, and Geoffrey feared the incident had made an unfortunate impression on her.
It appeared to be completely forgotten, however, when they presently sat down to their Christmas dinner, of which they all expressed themselves as inordinately proud. There was canned soup, and sardines and toasted biscuits, canned corned beef, potatoes and fried hominy, bacon and a potato salad, a bottle of champagne, and finally the wedding cake.
Now to say that by the time dessert was put on table McVay was drunk would be to do him a gross injustice. All the more genial side of this nature, however, was distinctly emphasised. The better part of a quart of champagne had not produced any signs of intoxication; his eye was clear, his speech perfect, and he was more than usually aware of his own powers, confident of appreciation.
As he finished his share of cake, he rose to his feet, and leaning the tips of his fingers on the table, addressed Geoffrey.
"My dear Holland," he said, "I will not wish you a Merry Christmas, for it has already been as merry as it has lain within my poor capacity to make it. Let me, however, express my own gratitude to you for this delightful occasion. You have referred to the fare as meagre, to our position as constrained, but believe me, I am not exaggerating when I say that I so little agree with you that I am confident that, during many of the remaining years of my life I shall look back to this Christmas as one of unusual luxury and freedom. It is, perhaps, the warm glow of friendship that gilds all small discomforts, for in situations like ours characters are tested, and yours, Holland," he paused impressively, "has stood the test."
Geoffrey bowed gratefully, and McVay continued:
"I have here a slight token in honour of the day. It is of little pecuniary value, but between us, Holland, pecuniary value is no longer mentioned. I feel that it will be recommended to you more than mere worth could recommend it by the fact that it is peculiarly my own,—my own as few human possessions can be said to be. I offer it," he said, drawing from his pocket a square flat little package, "with best wishes for a happy New Year."
