V
That was the end of Miss Cigale’s struggle; at the critical moment she failed again, most shamefully. She fainted. That is what comes of preferring daisies to breakfast; of carrying romantic Victorian sentiments over into modern life. She fainted.
As long as she had failed, she thought she might as well do it thoroughly. She could have come to before she did; she could have opened her eyes before she did, only that there was nothing she cared to see. She could hear, too. She heard her nephew calling “Aunt Louisa!” but his low, furious tones did not make her in a hurry to answer. No; better to lie here, like this, for as long a time as she could.
“Aunt Louisa!” he said again, and this time his voice was quite desperate. She opened her eyes.
“If you’d only pretended,” she whispered chidingly.
“Can you walk?” demanded the young man. “As far as a taxi?”
“But—” she began, and, raising her head, looked about her. The man behind the counter was writing in a book, the shop was empty. “The—the detective?” she asked.
He didn’t even answer; but, helping her to rise, and holding her very firmly by the arm, led her out into the street. No one molested them.
“But—Geordie!” she said. “Is it—postponed?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, curtly. “I’ve arranged the thing, anyhow, so that there’ll be no trouble for you. But if you wanted that watch—why didn’t you tell me? I’d have done anything, rather than have this happen.”
“George!” cried Miss Cigale. “Is it possible? No; it can’t be! You can’t think that I—” She stopped short, looking into his stern face, and with an expression on her own that somehow troubled him.
Out here, in the bright sun, she seemed so different. It was hard to think of her as a muddle-headed, desperate creature, trying, very clumsily, to get possession of a watch that didn’t belong to her. No; there was something about her that was—rather impressive. She didn’t look ridiculous now, or pathetic.
“I see!” she said. “You thought I wanted the thing for myself. Well, that was quite a natural thing to think, George.” She spoke without the slightest trace of rancor, simply admitting that it was natural—to some human beings—to think as he did, and she could not blame him.
“Well!” said he, surprised. “You see, when I couldn’t find the ticket, I telephoned to the pawnbroker, and to the police. I thought it had been stolen, and I said that if any one brought it in, to let me know.”
“Yes,” said Miss Cigale. “It was a perfectly natural way for you to think, my dear boy. And I was frightfully stupid to try to do it that way. I meant to help you a little bit, but—” She smiled. “Anyhow, it’s all over and done with now, and I hope we’ll part good friends.”
“Part!” said he. “But aren’t you coming back?”
“I’d rather not.”
There they stood, on the street corner, all idea of a taxi forgotten.
“But, look here!” said Geordie. “You did that for me—and I behaved—I behaved—like a—” His voice broke. “I didn’t know,” he went on, unsteadily. “Because, you see—I didn’t think any one could—any one in the world.[Pg 438]”
“Oh, there are lots of people like me!” Miss Cigale assured him. “Lots of grasshoppers. They dance the summer away, and then, when the winter comes, they’re a horrible nuisance to the ants, but they’re inclined to be pretty sympathetic toward any one else who has grasshopperish troubles. Not that I think you’re the least bit of a grasshopper, my dear boy! I’m quite sure you’re far too intelligent and sensible for that!”
“No!” said Geordie, vehemently. “I am a grasshopper! Nobody knows what a grasshopper—and a fool—I am!”
“I’m sure it was just a temporary difficulty.”
“I’ve been doing my best, for nearly a year, to make it permanent,” he said, grimly. “You see, there’s a girl.”
“I’m so glad!” cried Miss Cigale.
“Glad? But I can’t afford to think about girls.”
“I don’t care! As soon as I saw you, I hoped there was a girl,” Miss Cigale went on. “Because you’re such a dear, obstinate, helpless, splendid boy, and I hoped there was some one to see all that. She does, doesn’t she?”
Geordie had grown very red.
“She sees the obstinacy, anyhow,” he answered. “You see, she’s a secretary, and—” His jaw set doggedly. “She won’t give up her job!” he said. “And I won’t get married unless she does.”
“Too many won’ts!” said Miss Cigale.
“Well, all of them together make a pretty big can’t,” said he. “We can’t get married, that’s all. I’ve tried to make her see that we could manage, but she says we can’t. Those—those tickets, you know. I bought her a ring, and a—” He had to stop for a moment. “A little inlaid writing desk for our home. Only—it’s nearly a year, and she won’t see that we can manage without her salary, and I won’t—”
“Oh, Geordie!” protested Miss Cigale.
“I won’t!” said he. “I won’t!” And a more mulish expression was never seen on a young man before.
“Do get a taxi!” Miss Cigale suggested.