The Gay Rebellion

by Robert W. Chambers

  XIII

  HE came every day; and every day, at sundown, she sat sewing by thewindow behind her heliotrope and mignonette waiting.

  Sometimes he caught perch and dace and chub, and she accepted half, nevermore. Sometimes he caught nothing; and then her clear, humorous eyesbantered him, and sometimes she even rallied him. For it had come to passin these sunset moments that she was learning to permit herself afriendliness and a confidence for him which was very pleasant to herwhile it lasted, but, after he had gone, left her with soft lips droopingand gaze remote.

  Because matters with her, with them both, she feared, were not tendingin the right direction. It was not well for her to see him everyday--well enough for him, perhaps, but not for her.

  Some day--some sunset evening, with the West flecked gold and the zenithstained with pink, and the pink-throated bird singing of Paradise, andthe brook talking in golden tones to its pebbles--some such moment at theend of day she would end all of their days for them both--all of theirdays for all time.

  But not just yet; she had been silent so long, waiting, hoping, trusting,biding her time, that to her his voice and her own at eventide was ahappiness yet too new to destroy.

  That evening, as he stood at her window, the barrier of mignonettefragrant between them, he said rather abruptly:

  "Are you ill?"

  "No," she said startled.

  "Oh, I am relieved."

  "Why did you ask?"

  "Because every Tuesday I have seen the doctor from Moss Centre come inhere."

  In flushed silence she turned to her table and, folding her hands, gazedsteadily at nothing.

  Marque looked at her, then looked away. The big, handsome young physicianfrom Moss Centre had been worrying him for a long while now, but herepeated, half to himself: "I am very much relieved. I was becoming alittle anxious--he came so regularly."

  "He is a friend," she said, not looking at him.

  He forced a smile. "Well, then, there is no reason for me to worry aboutyou."

  "There never was any reason--was there?"

  "No, no reason."

  "You don't say it cheerfully, Mr. Marque. You speak as though it mighthave been a pleasure for you to worry over my general health andwelfare."

  "I think of little else," he said.

  There was a silence. Between them, along the barrier of heliotrope andmignonette, the little dusk moths came hovering on misty wings; the sunhad set, but the zenith was bright crimson. Perhaps it was the reflectionfrom that high radiance that seemed to tint her face with a softercarmine.

  She looked out into the West across the stream, thinking now that forthem both the end of things was drawing very near. And, to meet fate halfway with serenity--nay, to greet destiny while still far off, with asmile, she unconsciously straightened in her chair and lifted her proudlittle head.

  "Lord Marque," she said quietly, "why do you not go back to England?"

  For a moment what she had said held no meaning for him. Thencomprehension smote him like lightning; and, thunderstruck, he remainedas he was without moving a muscle, still resting against her window-sill,his lean, sun-browned face illuminated under the zenith's fiery glory.

  "Who are you?" he said, under his breath.

  "Only an English girl who happened to have seen you in London."

  "When?"

  She turned deliberately and, resting one arm across the back of herchair, looked him steadily in the eyes.

  "I am twenty-five. Since I was twenty your face has been familiar tome."

  They exchanged a long and intent gaze.

  "I never before saw you," he said.

  "Perhaps."

  "_Have_ I?"

  "Who can know what a fashionable young man really looks at--through amonocle."

  "I don't wear it any more. I lost it out West," he said, reddening.

  "You lost your top hat once, too," she said.

  He grew red as fire.

  "So you've heard of that, too?"

  "I saw it."

  "You! Saw me attacked?" he demanded angrily, while the shame burnt hotteron his cheeks.

  "Yes. You ran like the devil."

  For a moment he remained mute and furious; then shrugged: "What was I todo?"

  "Run," she admitted. "It was the only way."

  He managed to smile. "And you were a witness to that?"

  She nodded, eyes remote, her teeth nipping at the velvet of her underlip.He, too, remained lost in gloomy retrospection for a while, but finallylooked up with a more genuine smile.

  "I wonder whatever became of that fleet-footed girl who hung to my heelslong after the more solidly constructed aristocracy gave up?"

  "Lady Diana Guernsey?"

  "That's the one. What became of her?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Because she gave me the run of my life. She was a good sport, that girl.I couldn't shake her off; I took to a taxi and she after me in another;my taxi broke down in the suburbs and I started across country, she afterme. And the last I saw of her was just after I leaped a hedge and she wascoming over it after me--a wonderful athletic young figure in midairsilhouetted against the sky line. . . . That was the last I saw of her. Ifancy she must have pulled up dead beat--or perhaps she came a cropper."

  "She did," said the girl in a low voice.

  "Is that so?" he said, interested. "Hope it didn't damage her."

  "She broke her thigh."

  "Oh, that's too bad!" he exclaimed. "If I'd guessed any such thing I'dhave come back. . . . The poor little thing! I mean that, though she wasnearly six feet, I seem to think of her as little--and, of course, I'msix--two and a half. . . . Good little sport, that Diana girl! She gotover it all right, I hope."

  "It lamed her for life, Lord Marque."

  Shocked, for a moment he could find no words to characterise hisfeelings. Then:

  "Oh, dammitall! I say, it's a rotten shame, isn't it? And all on accountof me--that superb young thing taking hedges like a hunter! Oh, come now,you know I--it hurts me all the way through. I wish I'd let her catch me!What would she have done to me? I wouldn't mind being pulled about abit--or anything--if it would have prevented her injury. By gad, youknow, I'd even have eaten her plum cake, frosting and all, to have savedher such a fate."

  The girl's eyes searched his. "That was not the most tragic part of it,Lord Marque."

  "God bless us! Was there anything more?"

  "Yes. . . . She was in love with you."

  "With--with _me_?" he repeated, bewildered.

  "Yes. As a young, romantic girl she fell in love with you. She was acurious child--like all the Guernseys, a strange mixture of impulse andconstancy, of romance and determination. If she had fallen in love withSatan she would have remained constant. But she only fell in love withyoung Marque. . . . And she loves him to this day."

  "That--that's utterly impossible!" he stammered. "Didn't she become asuffragette and carry a banner and chase me and vow to make me eat my ownwords frosted on a terrible plum cake?"

  "Yes. And all the while she went on loving you."

  "How do you know?" he demanded, incredulously.

  "She confided in me."

  "In _you_!"

  "I knew her well, Lord Marque. . . . Not as well as I thought I did,perhaps; yet, perhaps better than--many--perhaps better than anybody. . .. We were brought up together."

  "You were her governess?"

  "I--attempted to act in a similar capacity. . . . She was difficult toteach--very, very difficult to govern. . . . I am afraid I did not do mybest with her."

  "Why did you leave her to come here?" he asked.

  She made no reply.

  "Where is she now?"

  She looked out into the cinders of the West, making no answer.

  He gazed at her in silence for a long time; then:

  "Is she really lame?"

  "Yes."

  "Very?"

  "It is hip disease."

  "But--but that can be cured!" he exclaim
ed. "It is now perfectly curable.Why doesn't she go to Vienna or to New York----"

  "She is going."

  "She ought to lose no time!"

  "She is going. She only learned the nature of her trouble very recently."

  "You mean she has been lame all this time and didn't know what threatenedher?"

  "She was--too busy to ask. Finally, because she did not get well, shecalled in a physician. But she is a very determined girl; she refused tobelieve what the physician told her--until--very recently----"

  "See here," he said, "are you in constant communication with her?"

  "Constant."

  "Then tell her you know me. Tell her how terribly sorry I am. Tell--tellher that I'll do anything to--to--tell her," he burst out excitedly,"that I'll eat her plum cake if that will do her any good--or amuseher--or anything! Tell her to bake it and frost it and fill it full ofglue, for all I care--and express it to you; and I'll eat every crumb ofthat silly speech I made----"

  "Wait!" she exclaimed. "Do you realise what you're saying? Do you realisewhat you're offering to do for a girl--a lame girl--who is already inlove with you?"

  His youthful face fell.

  "By gad," he said, "do you think I ought to marry her? How on earth can Iwhen I'm--I'm dead in love with--somebody myself?"

  "You--in love?" she said faintly.

  He gazed across the brook at the darkening foliage.

  "Oh, yes," he said with a pleasant sort of hopelessness, "but I fancy shecares for another man."

  "W-why do you think so?"

  "He comes to see her."

  "Is that a reason?"

  "She won't talk about him."

  "When a woman won't talk about a man is it always because she cares forhim in _that_ way?"

  "Isn't it?"

  "No."

  They had lifted their heads now, facing each other in the violet dusk.Between them the scent of heliotrope grew sweeter. He said:

  "I've been all kinds of a fool. For all I know women have as many rightson earth as men have. All I wish is that the plucky girl who took thathedge, banner in hand, were well and happy and married to a really decentfellow."

  "But--she loves you."

  "And I"--he looked up, encountering her blue eyes--"am already hopelesslyin love. What shall I do?"

  She said under her breath: "God knows. . . . I can not blame you for notwishing to marry a lame girl----"

  "It isn't that!"

  "But you wouldn't anyhow----"

  "I would if I loved her!"

  "You _couldn't_--love a--a cripple! It would not be love; it would bepity----"

  He said slowly: "I wish that _you_ were that lame girl. Then you'dunderstand me."

  For a while she sat bolt upright, clasped hands tightening in her lap.Then, turning slowly toward him, she said:

  "I am going to say good-night. . . . And thank you--for Diana's sake. . .. And I am going to say more--I am going to say good-bye."

  "Good-bye! Where are you going?"

  "To New York."

  "When?"

  "Before I see you again."

  "There is no train until----"

  "I shall drive to Moss Centre."

  "Where that--that doctor lives----"

  "Yes. I am going to New York with him, Lord Marque."

  He stood as though stunned for a moment; then set his teeth, clenched hishands, and pulled himself together.

  "I think I understand," he said quietly. "And--I wish you--happiness."

  She stretched out her hand to him above the heliotrope.

  "I--wish it--to you----" suddenly her voice broke; again her teeth caughtat her underlip like a child who struggles with emotion. "You--_don't_understand," she said. "Wait a little while before you--come toany--unhappy--conclusions."

  After a moment she made a slight effort to disengage herhand--another--then turned in her chair and dropped her head on thetable, her right hand still remaining in his. Presently he released it;and she placed both hands on the edge of the table and her forehead uponthem.

  "I am coming in," he said.

  She straightened up swiftly at his words.

  "Please don't!" she said in a startled voice, still tremulous.

  But he was gone from the dark window, and, frightened, she bent over,caught up her walking stick, and took one impulsive step toward the door.And stood stock still in the middle of the floor as he entered.

  His eyes met hers, fell on the supporting cane; and she covered her facewith her left arm, standing there motionless.

  "Good God!" he breathed. "_You!_"

  She began to cry like a child.

  "I didn't want you to know," she wailed. "Oh, I didn't want you to know.I thought there was no use--no hope--until yesterday. . . . I--wanted togo to New York with the doctor and be made all sound and well againb-before--before I let you love me----"

  "Oh, Diana--Diana!" he whispered, with his arms around her. "Oh,Diana--Diana--my little girl Diana!"

  Which was silly enough, she being six feet--almost as tall as he.

  "Turn your back," she whispered. "I want to go to my desk--and I can'tbear to have you see me walk."

  "You darling----"

  "No, no, no! Please let them cure me first. . . . Turn your back."

  He kissed her hands, held her at arm's length a second, then turned onhis heel and stood motionless.

  He heard her move almost noiselessly away; heard a desk open and close;heard the chair by the window move as she seated herself.

  "Come here," she said in a curious, choked voice.

  He turned, went swiftly to her side.

  "Great heavens!" he said. "When did you bake that cake?"

  "Y-yesterday."

  "Why?"

  "B-because I was going away to New York and would never perhaps see youagain unless I was entirely cured. And I meant to leave this for you--soyou would know that I had followed you even here--so you would know I hadmade a plucky try at you--through all these months--"

  "You--you corker!"

  "D-do you really mean it?"

  "Mean it! I tell you, Diana, you women put it all over the lords ofcreation--or any lord ever created! Mean it! You bet I do, sweetness!I'll take back everything I ever said about women. They're _the_ realthing in the world! And the best thing for the world is to let them runit!"

  "But--dear----" she faltered, lifting her beautiful eyes to him, "if menare going to feel _that_ way about it, we won't want to run anything atall. . . . It was only because you wouldn't let us that we wanted to."

  He said in impassioned tones:

  "Let the bally world run itself, Diana. What do we care--you and I?"

  "No," she said, "we don't care now."

  Then that rash and infatuated young man, losing his head entirely, drewfrom his jeans a large jack-knife, and, before she could prevent him, hehad sliced off an enormous hunk of plum cake heavily frosted with his ownwords.

  "Don't, dear!" she begged him. "I couldn't ask _that_ of you----"

  "I will!" he said, and bit into it.

  "Don't!" she begged him; "please don't! I haven't had much experiencewith pastry. It may give you dreadful dreams!"

  "Let it!" he said. "What do I care for dreams while you remain real!Diana--Diana--huntress of bigger game than ever fled through the age offable!"

  And he bolted a section of frosting and began to chew vigorously uponanother, while she slipped both hands into his, regarding him with tendersolicitude.

  "Have no fears for me, dearest," he said indistinctly; "fortified bymonths of pie I dread no food ever prepared by youth and beauty. Even thesecret dishes of the Medici----"

  "John!"

  "W-what, darling?"

  "After all--I don't cook so badly."

  So, in the gloaming, he swallowed the last crumb and gathered her intohis strong young arms, and drew her golden head down close to his.

  "Take it from me," he whispered, relapsing into the noble idioms of hisadopted country, "you're all to the mus
tard, Diana; your eats were bullyand I liked 'em fine!"