The Lieutenant-Governor/Chapter XI
Chapter XI. Young Nisbet Finds His Tongue[edit]
“I have promised to marry Colonel Broadcastle,” announced Mrs. Wynyard when the silence had lasted twenty minutes.
Dorothy flung round from the window against which she had been mercilessly pressing her pretty nose.
“Why, Aunt Helen!” she exclaimed. “You really are the most startlingly abrupt person I ever knew. Are you in earnest? What under the sun possessed you to do that?”
“I think it must have been Colonel Broadcastle,” answered Mrs. Wynyard, with an air of reflection. “It was last night when he was showing us over the armory, after the review. He not only asked me, but appeared to have quite set his heart upon my giving him an affirmative answer. And he had been so extremely civil, Dorothy, about our seats and all that, that I thought it would seem rather ungracious to refuse the first favor he had ever asked of me. So I said yes.”
“Aunt Helen, Aunt Helen! One of these fine days you will be the death of me. Did any one ever hear of such a reason for accepting a man?”
“I couldn’t think of a better one for refusing him,” said Mrs. Wynyard serenely. “So there you are!”
“Talk about logic!” said Dorothy. She came across the room, and seated herself beside her aunt. “I never heard anything so exciting in my life!” she added. “Do you really mean it? Are you really going to marry him?”
“That is the arrangement, as I understand it,” replied Mrs. Wynyard. “Of course, I haven’t his promise in writing, but I think I can trust him. I once looked him up in your father’s business guide, and he had three A’s after his name. I’m sure I don’t know what they can stand for, if it’s not Acquaintance, Appeal, and Acceptance. I don’t really see what else I could have done. It seems to have all been arranged without consulting me at all. One can’t very well set one’s self up in opposition to a business guide, you know.”
“But he’s old enough to be your father, Aunt Helen!”
“That’s precisely the reason why there wouldn’t have been any sense in my promising to be a sister to him. You see, I was quite helpless in the matter from start to finish.”
“And it was only last night that you called me preposterous!” laughed Dorothy. “Really, Aunt Helen, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. I think you are the most absurd creature in the world. Do you love him?”
“I can even go so far as to say that I think I do,” said Mrs. Wynyard, without a break in her gravity. “I have all the symptoms, palpitation of the heart, a morbid craving for Shelley and chocolate caramels, a tendency to wake up singing, and a failing for flattening my nose against the window-pane for twenty minutes at a stretch without saying a word to my poor old aunt, on the mere chance that he may be coming down the avenue.”
The blush which Dorothy paid as tribute to this subtle innuendo came near to rivaling one of young Nisbet’s celebrated performances in the same line.
“You’re making fun of me,” she said reproachfully.
“I, my dear? — not the least in the world. It’s all as true as the gospel according to St. Valentine. I’ve told you first because we’re not only aunt and niece, but the very best friends possible besides, and I knew you would like to hear the news before any one else. Colonel Broadcastle is by all odds the finest man I know, — I won’t even except John Barclay, much as I admire him. He has paid me a very great honor. I respect him tremendously; I trust him absolutely. These alone are good reasons; but there’s a better one, — so much better that nothing else really has any bearing on the subject. Can you guess?”
“Yes,” said Dorothy softly, “you just love him. Isn’t that it?”
“Exactly. It’s a curious thing, this love. There may be every reason why one should marry a man, his own wish included, and yet one doesn’t. There may be no reason at all, so far as outsiders can see, and yet one does! I’ve known a woman to throw over one suitor who had everything in his favor — money, character, position — and accept another who had none of these advantages — because she liked the way he parted his hair! That’s the way it goes. It’s the most illogical thing in the world, if we except the stock market and other women’s gowns. And then, when it’s all arranged, his friends wonder what she could have seen in him, and her friends what he could have seen in her! But I’m wandering from the subject. Seriously, Dorothy dear, I love him very sincerely, and I have been more happy than I can say ever since I found out that it wasn’t going to be one of those one-sided love-affairs which assure the incomes of the poets and the lawyers. And now, — confidence for confidence, Dorothy!”
“Aunt Helen! I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, Dorothy! ‘I don’t know what you mean’ is one of those phrases like ‘Not at home’ and ‘Yours very sincerely,’ which are white lies on the face of them. I don’t want to force your confidence. We all have what our friends recognize as our private affairs, with the accent — worse luck! — on the pry! But this is very different. I’m very fond of you, as you know, and my interest is far from being vulgar curiosity. Of a woman’s five cardinal failings — inquisitiveness, extravagance, vanity, vacillation, and loquacity — I’m guiltless of all except the last and most innocent. But don’t we all need to talk at times? Don’t we all long for a trustworthy confidante? Aren’t our little secrets often like precious liquors? — if we don’t make use of them, share them with our friends, they either ferment and sour, or else lose all their sweetness and significance by slow evaporation.”
“You would draw confidence from a stone,” said Dorothy, with a little smile, “but what have I to tell you?”
“How should I know? Perhaps nothing — as yet; perhaps everything. Take your time about it, dear. I’m not trying to get you to commit yourself. I only want you to know that I’m ready to share your secret when it’s ready to be shared, and to help and counsel you in any way I can. I know the main great fact already. Because, you see, Dorothy, one may conceal an infinite amount, even from one’s nearest and dearest, when they don’t understand — and they are so apt not to understand, one’s nearest and dearest! And the financier may hide his schemes from his partners, or the general his plan of campaign from his fellow-officers, or the politician his ambitions from his most ardent supporters — but I doubt, my dear, if a woman in love was ever able to hide very much from another woman in the same lamentable condition!
“If it were not,” she added, taking Dorothy’s hand in hers, “for the great happiness which has come into my life, do you think that I should have been able to divine that other great happiness which seems to be hovering over yours? I am the physician afflicted with the disease which it becomes his duty to study and to cure. Only, it’s not a disease, Dorothy, but a great, a beautiful revelation. I should have compared myself, in stead, to the prophet who is enabled to interpret the dreams of others because they are identical with his own. There’s my little speech. And when you are prepared to answer it, you’ll find me ready.”
As she was speaking the last words, the butler flung back the curtains at the doorway of the drawing-room.
“Mr. Nisbet,” he announced imperturbably.
Dorothy looked at her aunt, and then, with her frank laugh: —
“If there is an answer,” she said, “that’s it!”
As young Nisbet entered, Mrs. Wynyard was the first to greet him.
“So,” she observed, looking him over approvingly, “you’ve beaten your swords into walking-sticks, and your spears into top-hats, as my friend Isaiah so aptly observes! That’s very commendable, but I almost think I like you better in your war-paint. Do you know, a Colonel’s orderly is the spickest-and-spanest object upon which I’ve ever laid, or hope to lay, my eyes?”
“He just naturally has to be,” said young Nisbet, with a grin. Somehow, he was always more at his ease with Mrs. Wynyard than with other women. “You see,” he added, “if it wasn’t that way, he wouldn’t be it.”
Which was as near as he had ever come to making an epigram.
“Well, I shall leave you to the tender mercies of Dorothy,” said Mrs. Wynyard. “I’ve promised to take a walk with your — what is it you call him — instead of commanding officer, you know?”
“K. O.,” said young Nisbet.
“Yes, that’s it. How deplorably you militiamen spell! Well, at all events, I’m going to walk with your K. O., and it’s time I was getting ready. Good-by.”
“Good-by, Mrs. Wynyard.”
“Day-day!” said Dorothy, from the divan.
“She’s a crack-a-jack!” exclaimed young Nisbet, after she had gone.
“Mercy!” said Dorothy. “I never knew you to be so enthusiastic over any one before. If you have any intention of falling in love with Aunt Helen, I feel it to be my duty, as a friend and well-wisher, to warn you in advance that there isn’t the most remote show in the world for you.”
“Oh, it’s not that!” protested young Nisbet with that stupendous earnestness which made people want to hug him. “Why, Mrs. Wynyard would have me talked to a standstill in two or seven minutes! Imagine me trying to make love to a dame like that! She’d lose me so quick you couldn’t see me for the dust. Besides” —
“Besides what?” asked Dorothy with an elaborate air of unconcern, as he hesitated.
Young Nisbet was quite crimson now, and twitched at the creases in his trousers where they passed over his knees, and turned in his toes excessively.
“There’s somebody else in the running!” he blurted out desperately.
There! It was out — a part of it, at least — not at all, to be sure, in anything even remotely resembling one of the thousand manners he had proposed to himself as effective, during long hours of wakefulness, when there was nothing in the world but his crowding thoughts and the ticking of his clock — but still, out! The ice was broken. It was impossible that she should not understand. The rest would be easier.
Alas for young Nisbet! He was, as he himself acknowledged, not “up on women!”
“Somebody else?” repeated Dorothy. “How ever did you find that out? She only told me about it twenty minutes ago.”
Alas, alas, for young Nisbet! He had thought his feet upon the beach at last, whereas they had but touched a sand-bar in passing over. The under-tow of embarrassment was worse than ever now, and threatened to drag him down.
“Oh, I don’t mean Mrs. Wynyard. I wasn’t talking of her — that is, I was, at first — but afterwards — anyhow, I’m not talking of her now! When I say there’s somebody else, I mean — I mean” —
“I am going out for a moment, Dorothy — just over to the doctor’s. How de do, Mr. Nisbet? Wretched weather, isn’t it? Natalie’s with your father, my dear, and I’ll be back almost immediately. Er — ahem!”
Mrs. Rathbawne went through a kind of rudimentary calisthenic exercise, which consisted of squaring her shoulders and drawing in her chin. It was accompanied by a meaning glance at her daughter, and was designed as an inconspicuous substitute for the frank injunction to “sit up straight, my dear,” upon which Dorothy had finally placed a ban.
“And won’t you feed the gold-fish, my dear?” she added. “I’ve been so occupied, and the poor things haven’t had a crumb for three days. I’ve just told Thomas to take a plate of bread in at once. I’m sure Mr. Nisbet won’t mind: get him to help you. Er — ahem! And I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes, or so.”
For a time there was silence in the big, warm conservatory. Young Nisbet had taken the dish from Dorothy’s hands, and, after seating himself on the low marble parapet surrounding the pool, devoted his energies to feeding the gold-fish. He was thinking that it was all to be done over again, and that it was harder than ever, if such a thing were possible, to do. What was there about those few words which seemed to choke him? For the moment, he took refuge in a commonplace question.
“Is it one of your duties to feed these persons?”
Dorothy laughed shortly, like a little chord of music.
“No — it’s the Mater’s peculiar privilege,” she answered. “She adores the stupid little beasts. Don’t give them such large pieces, Mr. Nisbet. She feeds them regularly herself, — or did, until Dad began to require so much of her time. But lately, the house has been so upset, and she has been doing such a lot of going out, and coming in” —
“Yes,” put in young Nisbet dryly, “I’ve noticed the coming in part.”
“So Natalie has been doing it for her,” went on Dorothy, more rapidly. “I suppose Natalie herself hasn’t had the time, these last three days. They are hungry, aren’t they? Don’t give them such large pieces, Mr. Nisbet! Don’t you see the poor things have only button-holes for mouths?”
There was another long pause, before either spoke again.
“What defeats me about your mother,” said young Nisbet slowly, “is the way she manages to come in just at the wrong moment. At interruption, she’s the most star performer I’ve ever run up against. You don’t mind my saying that, do you? I’m not throwing any asparagus. I wouldn’t be disrespectful about her for the world. But really, for chopping into a conversation, she’s a dazzler!”
“She is a little inopportune at times,” admitted Dorothy.
“Inopportune? Yes, — she’s all of that. When she marches in, I feel exactly as if the boat had gybed, and the boom come over and knocked me into thirty fathoms of water. Lord!”
“Why, how ridiculous!” said Dorothy. “There’s nothing about the Mater to be afraid of. She’s the dearest, most innocent old thing in the world! She just blunders along like that, and nobody is less aware of her mistakes than she is. And, after all, why shouldn’t she interrupt us, so long as we’re not saying anything in particular? And if we were saying — anything in particular, we could always pick up the conversation where we dropped it.”
That’s just what I find it so hard to do!” confessed young Nisbet. “I’m a stupid sort of lout, you know, Miss Rathbawne. I’ve never had half a chance to practice talking to dames, and where other lads fuss like experts, I just can’t make good. I foozle every stroke. I’m an ass — that’s all!”
“You’re nothing of the sort!” said Dorothy indignantly. “You’re an extremely attractive young man!”
“As good as the average in some ways, perhaps. But — how can I explain what I mean? — there always comes a day when a chap wants to be more, wants to be the best ever, in every way! That’s the proposition I’m up against now. I seem to be just a bundle of misfits, and — and — oh, shucks! my line of talk is all crooked, and I can’t tell you what the trouble is, but” —
“Your liver’s out of kilter,” interpolated Dorothy.
“No, sir!” protested young Nisbet. “Nothing is ever out of kilter inside me! If I’m nothing else, I’m blue-ribbon boy on the health question. No, it’s something I want, and that I’m pretty sure I can’t get.”
“I know perfectly well what it is,” said Dorothy, “and you haven’t even asked for it!”
Young Nisbet looked up suddenly.
“Do you mean?” — he stammered, “do you mean?” —
Outside, the front door slammed, and Mrs. Rathbawne’s voice became audible, inquiring Dorothy’s whereabouts of the butler. The girl laughed.
“There’s the Mater back again,” she said. “Oh, Mr. Nisbet!”
For young Nisbet had dropped dish and bread-crumbs into the pool with a great splash, electrifying the gold-fish into unheard-of activity, and had risen, at the same moment, to his feet. He stood before her, his honest face blazing, his hands outstretched.
“I love you!” he said. “Will you marry me?”
And whether or not he received an audible reply to this question he never knew, — only she was in his arms, and gold-fish might feast or starve, for all he cared about them. The wide doors of perfect bliss swung open before him, and young Nisbet passed within.
He was gazing ruefully into the water, as Mrs. Rathbawne entered. For the first time in his experience, her presence did not embarrass him.
“I’ve dropped a dish into your pool, Mrs. Rathbawne,” he said, “and scared the gold fish into blue conniption fits. Look how they are scurrying around. I hope I haven’t done them any harm.”
“Oh, no,” answered Mrs. Rathbawne placidly. “They are getting so fat that I should think a little exercise, now and again, would be good for them. We might drop a dish into the pool every week or so, Dorothy, just to stir them up.”
“It might go for a while,” said young Nisbet, “but any old football player like myself, Mrs. Rathbawne, will tell you that you can’t work the same trick more than just a certain number of times.”
“Interruption, for example!” added Dorothy, and laughed across at him, deliciously, with her eyes.