“No — o, I think not. Are you ill?”
“Well, you see—” Arthur looked at her appealingly, “by Jove, I believe I am. The fact is, I — hang it all — I love you!”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, I do,” he said doggedly, as though she had contradicted him. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” this with a rising inflection.
“Well, perhaps not exactly odd.” He appeared to be considering the matter. “But very curious, you know — wonderful, and all that sort of thing. Er — moonlight rides, and all that sort of thing. I’ve thought of nothing else since I saw you. I’m a regular blooming idiot.”
“Are you trying to make run of me?”
The young man’s face reddened and he straightened himself stiffly. “I am not,” he declared, with dignity. “I am trying to ask you to marry me.”
“Oh!” said Miss Moulton weakly. Evidently it was more than she had expected. She advanced a step toward Arthur, then turned aside and sat down in the chair recently vacated by Miss Carlisle. For a few seconds there was silence. Then,
“Of course,” the girl sighed, “it’s impossible.”
“Oh, I say—”
“No,” she interrupted firmly, “it is quite impossible. Quite. You know why as well as I do. But I... I really appreciate the honor you do me.”
Arthur considered this for a minute in silence. Then he approached her chair and stood looking down at her uncertainly. “Of course, I didn’t think you loved me,” he said, his voice trembling. “But I thought there might be a chance — and today you are leaving. It was just possible that you cared for me a little — just enough to make it — I say, you couldn’t?”
Miss Moulton was silent.
“Because,” Arthur went on, “if you do, nothing else matters. Nothing about — you know what I mean. I know I’m not rich. I know I’m a silly ass. I guess I never did anything worthwhile in my life except fall in love with you. I suppose I was a jolly fool to think you ever could care for me.”
A pause; then,
“I — didn’t — say that.” The voice was very low.
“Didn’t say what?”
“That I couldn’t — don’t — care — for you.”
Then, as he tried to look into her eyes, and as she resolutely kept them on the floor, “I say!” he begged, his voice shrill and harsh with the ecstasy of hope, “look at me!”
“I can’t,” she breathed faintly. “I can’t — even — talk!”
Which was not very surprising, inasmuch as her face was being held tightly against his shoulder with all the strength of a lover’s arms.
As a usual thing, this is where a story ends. The first kiss is the last word. Both writer and reader seem to take it for granted that as soon as a young man holds a girl in his arms and tells her he loves her, that’s all there is to it. You, with your own experience to draw on for illustration, may decide for yourself if the conclusion necessarily follows from so weak a premise.
In the present instance, whether or not Arthur Churchill-Brown would really have married Miss Moulton, companion to the wealthy Miss Carlisle, may be doubted, I think, without any extraordinary amount of skepticism. The fact is, he didn’t.
For to tell the truth, Arthur was by no means a hero. He was simply a very ordinary young Englishman, and despite his indignant denial of Miss Carlisle’s keen accusation, he really was afraid of his mother.
On the evening following the ladies’ departure from Rome, Arthur sat in his rooms on the Pidi, eating iced pineapple and gazing gloomily out of a window at the dimly lighted street. He and Miss Moulton were engaged to be married; there was no doubt that he loved her; and he had arranged to see her the following week at Venice. Yet he was unhappy. For somehow the vision which filled his thoughts was not the laughing, joyous face of his sweetheart, but that of Lady Churchill-Brown, filled with a consuming wrath. He pictured himself announcing calmly, “Mother, I am going to marry Miss Moulton, a young American girl. She is a traveling companion, and she is very poor, but I love her,” and he shuddered, and admitted that such heroism was beyond him. He knew very well that the person whom he honored with the name of Churchill-Brown was expected to be such a one as could — and would — make a substantial addition to the woefully depleted Churchill-Brown coffers; the accomplishment of this purpose had become his mother’s prime object in life. He was, indeed, between the devil and the deep sea.
And at that moment, hearing the door of his room open and close, he turned around in his chair.
Arthur sprang to his feet and advanced with outstretched hands. “Mother!” he cried. “What are you doing here? By Jove! I’m glad to see you.” And he really was. For now, one way or another, the thing would soon be over.
“Humph!” grunted Lady Churchill-Brown, glancing around the room and finding a seat on a heavy divan, “I dare say you are. I came to see you. How does it happen you’re at home?” she demanded, glaring at him as though his presence in his own rooms needed a thorough explanation.
Arthur’s wits were sadly muddled. Energetic as Lady Churchill-Brown was, it was not her custom to make sudden and unexpected journeys from London to Rome. What had happened? Did she suspect something? Had Miss Carlisle written to her? Should he tell her, or not? And it must be admitted that somewhere in the back of his brain the young man had formed a grim resolution to stand by his guns and Miss Moulton to the very last. For whether he is a hero or not, it is always more or less dangerous to drive a man into a corner.
“Why, I... I had no place to go,” said he. “Lucky, isn’t it? Since you came.”
“I don’t know whether it’s lucky or not. Where’s Miss Carlisle?” his mother asked grimly.
“Gone to Venice. Didn’t I write you?”
“Yes, you wrote me. When did she leave?”
“Today. They went on the afternoon express.”
“Oh!” in a somewhat milder tone. Then, after a slight pause, and with a sigh of relief, “And how are you?”
“I’m all right,” declared Arthur, with an attempt at lightness. “But why did you come?”
Lady Churchill-Brown considered for a minute. “To tell the truth,” she said, “I had a shock. Now that the danger is past, it appears silly. In fact, I might have known better. I might have known you wouldn’t do anything so ridiculous.”
“Perhaps the danger isn’t past.” The words were out before Arthur realized what he was saying. He stood amazed at his own hardihood.
“What do you mean?” demanded his mother.
The young man took his courage between his teeth and held onto it firmly. Then he threw back his shoulders and directly faced the enemy. And then, at sight of the grim and aggressive face before him, his courage suddenly slipped down his throat and descended to the Lord knows where.
“I’m going to marry Miss Carlisle,” he said.
“You are going to marry who?” shrieked his mother.
“Miss Carlisle,” he repeated weakly. He had failed; at the crisis he had failed!
“Have you asked her?”
“Yes.”
The effect of this announcement on Lady Churchill-Brown was startling. She sank back limply on the divan, clutching wildly at the air, while Arthur stared at her in amazement.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted me to do?”
His mother, by a supreme effort of the will, lifted herself erect on the divan and sat regarding him in horrified silence. “Well, that ends it,” she said finally. “My boy, you don’t know what you’ve done. I suppose I deserved it. And I must admit it’s not your fault.”
Arthur was silent. Indeed, he hardly heard, being preoccupied with contemplating the hole into which he had just kicked himself.