Woman Proposes, Man—?

by Anne Warner

 

Woman Proposes,
Man—?

By

Anne Warner

HE walked into the room without knocking.

She sprang up from the desk where she was writing.

“Good heavens, I thought you said three!”

“I did; but then I thought I'd come at two.”

He was pitching his hat and stick upon a chair in the corner and seemed to look upon the explanation as ample; when he turned she was close to him, her face uplifted. He took her in his arms and kissed her then, not in a specially enthusiastic manner, but still in a way that did fairly well.

“Do sit down,” she said. He sat down. “And take me on your lap.” He took her on his lap.

He drew rather a deep breath as he saw the smile upon her face. She clasped her hands around his neck, contemplated him fondly, and made him wonder with a rather more active wonder than usual what she was going to say.

But he was altogether startled by what she did say.

“When are we going to be married?” she asked, and the question almost caused him, who never started, to start.

But he collected himself quickly.

“I don't know when you are going to be married,” he said, pleasantly enough.

She laughed.

“Oh, do please kiss me.”

He kissed her several times—still with the same lack of enthusiasm, but still in the way that did well enough. When he stopped she laughed again and picked up the former question where she had left it.

“But I want to know when I'm going to be married,” she said. “Do tell me.”

“You'll have to ask some one else, then. I don't know any more when you're going to be married than the man in the moon does.”

She opened her eyes at him widely, and he returned her look of mock amazement, but then she grew quite serious.

“Dear,” she said, pushing his hair back with her finger tip, “what makes you talk in that silly way when you know perfectly well that we are going to be married, and that very soon?”

“Oh, are we? Since when?”

“Since ever so long.”

“We can't possibly have been going to be married very soon since ever so long.”

“Don't be exasperating.”

“I'm naturally exasperating—have you never noticed that?”

“Have I? I should think that I had. I——”

He interrupted her. “If you are going to talk long I want to smoke.”

“Shall I get you a cigarette?”

“I can't get one myself unless you get up first.”

She sighed and rose. He rose, too, and went over by the chimneypiece, scratched a match, and began to light the cigarette.

“Is the clock right?” he queried.

“Just about. Why?”

“I've got to go at four.”

“So soon? I thought you'd stay for tea.”

“Oh, no.”

She came over beside him and stood there, resting her face against his sleeve.

“Don't you think that I'd make a good wife?” she asked, looking thoughtfully into her own thoughtful eyes reflected in the mirror.

“The dearest, sweetest little wife in all the world. Only, you see, I don't want a wife.” He took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it earnestly—quite as earnestly as she was now looking at him.

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want to be married. I like to sleep late.”

“Well, I don't want to get up early.”

“Oh, well, there are a lot of other reasons.”

He removed his shoulder from under her face and went back and sat down.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.” She was still more earnest now.

“You mustn't cry, you know,” he said, making very light of her smallness, actually tilting the chair into a rocker.

“I'm not going to cry. Why should I cry? I can marry lots of other men.”

She brushed her eyes with one hand.

“Then marry half a dozen or so. I'll give you a nice present every time.” His tone was fairly jovial.

She clasped her hands about his neck again. He took the cigarette from between his lips, kissed her twice—and put it back. After a while, she spoke.

“I'm not a bit discouraged,” she said—and sighed.

He continued to tilt the chair.

“When did you get here?” he asked presently.

“Monday.”

“Monday!”

“Yes.”

“Not last Monday?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you let me know?”

“I didn't know that you were in town.”

“Why didn't you ask some one?”

“Whom should I ask?”

“Or telephone the club?”

“I don't telephone clubs for men's addresses.”

“How long are you going to stay?”

“I'm leaving to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!”

“Yes.”

“Oh, put it off!”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I'm sailing.”

“Where?”

“Cherbourg.”

“Oh! Oh, well, of course you can't put it off, then. How long will you be over there?”

“Until you come for me.”

“You'll stay a long time, then. It'll pay you to marry and settle down while you're waiting. You're so keen on family life.”

She laughed. “You're a very funny man,” she said.

“Look out, you'll burn your hair on the cigarette.”

“No, I won't—I'm being careful.”

“All right, I'll let you burn yourself next time.”

She took it out of his mouth at that, shook the ash off, and put it back.

“Won't you say ‘Thank you'?” she said.

“But I didn't ask you to do it.”

“”No, but it's polite.”

“But I'm not polite. That's one good reason why you should give up this fool idea of marrying me. And anyway you've never said ‘Thank you' for this nice rocking you're getting.”

“I'm very grateful, anyhow. I'm perfectly happy. You can't think how happy you're making me.”

“Yes, I can. I know exactly how to make any woman happy.”

“But how?”

“Just don't marry her.”

“But you'll marry me some time; you know you will.”

“I know I won't.”

“Why? Don't you think I'm clever?”

“Very much too clever.”

“That's nonsense. Don't you think I'd be good to you?”

“You'd kill me with kindness.”

“Don't you know that you'd be a better man and lead a better life?”

“That's what I'm afraid of. That's exactly what I'm afraid of.”

“Afraid of!”

“I don't want to be any better; I might get to be like you.”

“Why do you joke over such serious things?”

“I'm not joking—I'm talking hard facts.”

She laid her face down upon his shoulder. “I'm tired waiting,” she said gently. “I want to be married. I want to be married very soon.”

He threw the end of the cigarette away.

“Lift up your head,” he said. “I want to get another.”

“Another what?”

“Another cigarette, of course.”

Again her sigh.

“Isn't it strange that I'm never discouraged about it all?” she said, watching his movements as he lit the second. “I think that I'm wonderfully hopeful.”

“You're a genius at hoping,” he asseverated.

“Will you kiss me again very soon?”

“As much as you like.”

“You like to kiss me, don't you?”

“I certainly wouldn't kiss you if I didn't.”

“Then why don't you want to marry me?”

“Simply because I don't want to be married,”

“But why don't you want to be married?”

“Because I'm incorrigibly selfish and don't want to be bothered with a wife. There!”

She reflected. “I'm not discouraged,” she said finally, “not a bit.”

“You're very foolish not to be, for I shall never marry you.”

She laughed in his face. “Every one knows that you never mean what you say.”

“Well, I mean what I say now.”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do.”

“What—with me here on your lap?”

“I didn't ask you to sit on my lap.”

“And with the way I love you?”

“I never asked you to love me.”

She put her Hands on either side of his face and looked deep into his calm, bright eyes.

“You are a very strange man,” she said. “Where will all this end, I wonder.”

“In a good friendship, I hope.”

“When?”

“When you've married some other fellow.”

“I shall never marry any one else.” She was turning a little pale.

“Yes, you will.”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Oh, yes, you will.”

She was still looking into his eyes, and the tears were gathering slowly in her own.

“Why can't you love me?” she wondered.

“I don't know. But I can't. I can't love any woman.”

She dropped her hands.

“And you—don't think—that you ever——” She stopped.

“I'm sure of it.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“I really do.”

They were very quiet for several seconds. Then she rose slowly and moved away. There was still silence in the room. It lasted and lasted.

“I'm not crying,” she said finally from where she was standing with her back to him. “I'm fighting to make myself believe you—if I can.”

“You must believe me.”

“I know. But it's so hard to—be refused, when you're a woman.”

“It's better for you a million times than if I married you.”

“Why do you think so hardly of yourself?”

“Because I know myself.”

Then he stood up and walked to the chair where his hat and stick lay. She turned quickly.

“Oh! You're going.”

“I must. I don't want this to go on longer. And it's time for me to go.”

“IT suppose that you are sorry for me?

“I'm sorry for your delusion.”

She came nearer. “Are you going to kiss me good-by?” she asked.

“If you really want me to I will. But what is the use? You lose your head so.”

The blood rose in her face; she drew back and held out her hand.

“Good-by,” she said softly.

He shook hands with her and went out at once. She stood still where he had left her, and continued to stand there for a long, long time. Then she went to the chair where he had sat, knelt by it, and began to weep quietly.

 

Some one tapped, and then, seeing that the door was ajar, spoke:

“May I come in? They told me downstairs you were at home.”

She did not rise. “Yes, come in.”

He came in. It was another “he” this time.

“Good heavens, what's the trouble?”

Her face was hidden in the chair arm. “I've been refused—that's all.”

“Refused—refused what?”

“Refused myself.”

“I don't understand. Do get up.”

“I don't want to. I'm weak with crying. I've cried ever since he left, and he's been gone ages.”

The new man was standing over her, looking much troubled.

“Who's been gone ages?”

“The man I love—that man I've always loved—you know.”

“Yes, I remember now. Was he here? Then what are you crying for?”

“What do I ever cry for but him? What do I care about but him?”

“Do get up. Let me help you.”

“Don't touch me. I'm too wretched. I don't want to move.”

“But what has he done to make you so unhappy?”

“I tell you, he refused me. I asked him to marry me and he wouldn't have me.”

“But I thought that he was going to marry you.”

“So did I.”

“You've always said so.”

“I've always meant it, too.”

“Do get up and have some tea. That'll make you feel better.”

“You'll have to order it. I couldn't face the waiter.”

“I can telephone the order.”

“But he'll have to come in with it.”

“Never mind, you can turn your back or be playing on the piano. What difference does it make anyhow?”

“It doesn't make any difference!” She got up from her knees.

“What a sight I must be—not that I care. I never shall care what I look like again in this world.”

“Don't say that. Go in and bathe your eyes while I telephone for tea. I'm so glad I happened to come in; you might have cried yourself ill.”

“I am ill; I feel as if I had been pounded. Oh, heavens, I never knew how men felt when women wouldn't have them before!”

“You know now how I felt.”

“Did you feel as bad as this?”

“I felt worse.”

“You couldn't have felt worse.”

“Go and put cold water on your eyes; then we'll compare our rejections.”

She moved toward the hall.

“You mustn't laugh,” she said faintly. “It's too serious—I feel too bad.”

“I won't laugh. It's far too serious to ever laugh at, and I've never ceased to feel badly.”

 

When she came back the tea tray was in place. She sat down before it with a heavy sigh.

“I'm glad I'm sailing to-morrow; this room reeks tragedy.”

“I'm glad you're sailing to-morrow, too; getting out on the water's a great thing. You remember I sailed right after the first and second times that you refused me.”

She put one lump of sugar in the cup and poured his tea. He took one lump of sugar and some—not “a little”—milk.

“Did it help you?” she asked, passing him the cup.

“Oh, it helped in a way. It keeps you alive,”

“I don't believe you suffered as I do. Why, I've always thought that I'd surely marry him.”

“Yes. Well, I had been thinking for some time that I'd surely marry you. It cut just as deep.”

“But you had no reason to suppose that I'd marry you.”

“Had you any reason for supposing that he'd marry you?”

“Yes, He'd always seemed so happy with me.”

“You've always seemed happy with me.”

“But it was as a friend.” She sighed again. “He says he'll be my friend,” she added. “Dear, dear, how easily the one who refuses the other does take the whole of it!”

The man sipped his tea. “It seemed right enough in one way for you to refuse me,” he said, “because it had always seemed rather too wonderful to think that you might have me. But I can't understand his refusing you. Think of being offered you! And of refusing!”

“I know. It was very stupid in him. I don't know whatever will happen to him now.”

“Whatever it is he'll deserve it. Unless perhaps he changes his mind. Do you think there's any chance of that?”

“No, no. You should have seen and heard him. He'll never change his mind. He doesn't love me, and that's all there is about it. And I must bear it.”

“Just as I am bearing it. Please for more tea.”

She poured more tea for him.

“I never really sympathized with you before,” she said, as she gave it to him. “My heart aches—it physically aches. Did yours?”

“Yes, and my head, too. But the ocean will help that, take my word for it.”

“You think so?”

“I know it.”

“It seems so strange to think it's all over.”

“But are you sure that it is all over?”

“Why, what do you mean? Of course it's all over.”

“I know you think that it's all over with him, but is it all over with you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Shan't you ask him again?”

“Ask him again! No! Why should I?”

“Some do. I did.”

“You're a man. That's different.”

“Yes, a man is different.”

“I don't want to ever be refused again.”

“It isn't nice,” said the man. “Even a man doesn't like it, I assure you.”

“Besides, it would be no use.”

“You think that he knows his mind?”

“Heavens—yes!”

She poured herself some more tea.

“You might give me a little more,” he suggested.

“Willingly.”

Then she rested her chin on her hand and stared at him.

“Do you think that he ought to have kissed me when he was quite decided not to marry me?” she said.

“That depends on how he kissed you. There are so many kinds of kisses, you know.”

“I don't know.”

“No,” hastily, “of course not. Still I think you must know that there would have been a difference had he meant to marry you.”

“But I only know his kind; I've no standard of comparison.”

He looked at her, bit his lip, and was silent.

“You must go presently,” she said, after a pause of fifteen seconds. “I've lots to do. I'm sailing to-morrow.”

“Yes,” he said, “that reminds me of the real reason of my call. I came to tell you that I'm sailing to-morrow.”

Her face flashed suddenly radiant. “On the same ship? On the same ship?”

“On the same ship.”

“Oh, how nice! How lovely! How splendid! What a good time we'll have!”

His face grew bright at her enthusiasm.

“Are you as glad as that?” he asked.

“I'm gladder. You're just the one person in the world who can sympathize with me completely. You know exactly how it feels. Oh, how happy we'll be!”

“Yes.” He was smiling openly.

“And I shan't have to worry over his hearing of our being together and maybe being jealous. You know how that has always worried me?”

“No, you won't have to worry over that now.”

“And we can walk up and down, and up and down, and comfort one another.”

“Exactly so.”

“And we'll each know just how sad the other is, and so we'll be considerate.”

“Always.”

He stood up—still biting his lips. She looked up into his face with a smile.

“When I was crying my heart out before you came in I wouldn't have believed that anything on earth could have helped me as you have.”

“I'm so glad,” murmured the man. “I wonder—might I kiss your hand for au revoir.”

“Yes.” She held it out toward his. “He never kissed it, so there are no sad memories there.”

He kissed her hand.

“Broken hearts are great things—aren't they?” he said, holding it in both his. “Don't you know, I'm glad that mine is broken, since yours is, too. It seems such a—such a sort of a bond, somehow.”

“Y—yes,” she said, blushing. “But—I think you'd better go now. I've to pack and—and we can talk about all that on the steamer.”