My Brilliant Career Part 27

"Yes, I'm in earnest. Can you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive, as I'm sure you didn't mean and don't remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired."

"But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn't in another. Let us start afresh."

"How do you mean to start afresh?"

"I mean for us to be chums again."

"Oh, chums!" he said impatiently; "I want to be something more."

"Well, I will be something more if you will try to make me," I replied.

"How? What do you mean?"

"I mean you never try to make me fond of you. You have never uttered one word of love to me."

"Why, bless me!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed in surprise.

"It's a fact. I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn't care a pin."

"Why, bless me, didn't you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile? And talk about not caring--why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now. Will you wear my ring again?"

"Oh no; and you must not say I am flirting if I cannot manage to love you enough to marry you, but I will try my best."

"Don't you love me, Syb? I have thought of nothing else but you night and day since I saw you first. Can it be possible that you don't care a straw for me?" and a pained expression came upon his face.

"Oh, Harold, I'm afraid I very nearly love you, but don't hurry me too much! You can think me sort of secretly engaged to you if you like, but I won't take your ring. Keep it till we see how we get on." I looked for it, and finding it a few steps away, gave it to him.

"Can you really trust me again after seeing me get in such a vile beast of a rage? I often do that, you know," he said.

"Believe me, Hal, I liked it so much I wish you would get in a rage again. I can't bear people who never let themselves go, or rather, who have nothing in them to carry them away--they cramp and bore me."

"But I have a frightful temper. Satan only knows what I will do in it yet. Would you not be frightened of me?"

"No fear," I laughed; "I would defy you."

"A tomt.i.t might as well defy me," he said with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Well, big as you are, a tomt.i.t having such superior facilities for getting about could easily defy you," I replied.

"Yes, unless it was caged," he said.

"But supposing you never got it caged," I returned.

"Syb, what do you mean?"

"What could I mean?"

"I don't know. There are always about four or five meanings in what you say."

"Oh, thanks, Mr Beecham! You must be very astute. I am always thankful when I am able to dish one meaning out of my idle gabble."

The glorious summer day had fallen asleep on the bosom of the horizon, and twilight had merged into dusk, as, picking up the basket, Harold and I returned cherry- and strawberry-less to the tennis court. The players had just ceased action, and the gentlemen were putting on their coats.

Harold procured his, and thrust his arms into it, while we were attacked on all sides by a flood of banter.

My birthday tea was a great success, and after it was done we enjoyed ourselves in the drawing-room. Uncle Jay-Jay handed me a large box, saying it contained a present. Everyone looked on with interest while I hurriedly opened it, when they were much amused to see--nothing but a doll and materials to make it clothes! I was much disappointed, but uncle said it would be more in my line to play with that than to worry about tramps and politics.

I took care to behave properly during the evening, and when the good-byes were in full swing had an opportunity of a last word with Harold, he stooping to hear me whisper:

"Now that I know you care, I will not annoy you any more by flirting."

"Don't talk like that. I was only mad for the moment. Enjoy yourself as much as you like. I don't want you to be like a nun. I'm not quite so selfish as that. When I look at you and see how tiny you are, and how young, I feel it is brutal to worry you at all, and you don't detest me altogether for getting in such an infernal rage?"

"No. That is the very thing I liked. Good night!"

"Good night," he replied, taking both my hands in his. "You are the best little woman in the world, and I hope we will spend all your other birthdays together."

"It's to be hoped you've said something to make Harry a trifle sweeter than he was this afternoon," said Goodchum. Then it was:

"Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good night, Harry! Good night, Archie! Good night, Mr Goodchum! Good-bye, Miss Craddock! Ta-ta, Miss Melvyn! So long, Jay-Jay! Good-bye, Mrs Bell! Goodbye, Miss Goodjay! Good night, Miss Melvyn! Good night, Mr Goodjay! Good night, Mrs Bossier! Good-bye, Miss Melvyn! Good night all!"

I sat long by my writing-table that night--thinking long, long thoughts, foolish thoughts, sad ones, merry ones, old-headed thoughts, and the sweet, sweet thoughts of youth and love. It seemed to me that men were not so invincible and invulnerable as I had imagined them--it appeared they had feeling and affections after all.

I laughed a joyous little laugh, saying, "Hal, we are quits," when, on disrobing for the night, I discovered on my soft white shoulders and arms--so susceptible to bruises--many marks, and black.

It had been a very happy day for me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth

The next time I saw Harold Beecham was on Sunday the 13th of December.

There was a hammock swinging under a couple of trees in an enclosure, half shrubbery, partly orchard and vegetable garden, skirting the road.

In this I was gently swinging to and fro, and very much enjoying an interesting book and some delicious gooseberries, and seeing Harold approaching pretended to be asleep, to see if he would kiss me. But no, he was not that style of man. After tethering his horse to the fence and vaulting himself over it, he shook me and informed me I was as sound asleep as a log, and had required no end of waking.

My hair tumbled down. I accused him of disarranging it, and ordered him to repair the damage. He couldn't make out what was the matter with it, only that "It looks a bit dotty."

"Men are queer creatures," I returned. "They have the most wonderful brains in some ways, but in little things they are as stupid as owls. It is no trouble to them to master geology, mineralogy, anatomy, and other things, the very name of which gives me a headache. They can see through politics, mature mighty water reservoir schemes, and manage five stations at once, but they couldn't sew on a b.u.t.ton or fix one's hair to save their life."

I cannot imagine how the news had escaped me, for the story with which Harold Beecham surprised and startled me on that long hot afternoon had been common talk for some time.

He had come to Caddagat purposely to explain his affairs to me, and stated as his reason for not having done so earlier that he had waited until the last moment thinking he might pull himself up.