II
All the way over on the ferry Murchison deliberated the matter, and his slow wrath mounted high. He was not angry at Gina, for he could not be; what enraged him was his own position. He firmly believed that he possessed a fine Scotch sense of humor, but he was utterly incapable of laughing at himself. The idea of being sweetly sung to as Old Dog Tray had for him no comic appeal. On the contrary, he was obliged to admit that to some extent he was Old Dog Tray, and it was intolerable. “Kind” he was pleased to be, but “gentle” he was not, and “faithful” was no word to apply to a man.
He looked back over this affair. He had met Gina when she was a young girl, a lively, witty young thing. He had fallen in love with her, and had set to work in a decorous way to court her. He had come over to Staten Island twice a week. This had seemed to him sufficient evidence of devotion, but when he observed that other young men brought her presents, he did likewise. Books and music were what he preferred, and he was willing to go as far as candy, but he would rather have died than be seen carrying flowers.
Privately he thought this American lavishness very foolish. His idea was to save up to get married; but he realized that if he wished to marry Gina, he must please her. So he tried, but while he was engaged in the process, she married Wigmore.
It was then necessary for Murchison to show that he didn’t mind that in the least, for he was horribly proud and sensitive. Obstinately he kept on coming twice a week with books and sweets, and Wigmore became attached to him. He was really more interested in Wigmore’s conversation, and in the children, than he was in Gina, although he didn’t know it.
Gina had changed astoundingly. She had ceased to be lively and witty, and had grown sweet and a little vague. Murchison was too obstinate to admit any change in her, however—or in himself, either. He refused to think at all.
When Wigmore died, and poor Gina had so much trouble about money, and was so ill and grief-stricken, she became real for Murchison again. He had felt a passionate tenderness for her. He had done everything in the world for her, though well knowing that such disinterested devotion might make him appear ridiculous.
After a seemly interval of three years he had suggested marriage. Gina asked for time to make up her mind. He thought that quite reasonable and proper, but it occurred to him this evening that five years was longer than necessary, even to the most cautious woman. It wasn’t as if he were a stranger. She had seen him twice a week for nearly twelve years.
He was suddenly convinced that he was a fool. Other men came to see Gina when he wasn’t there. He heard the children speak of Dr. Walters, for instance, as if he were a familiar friend. The same thing would happen again.
No, it wouldn’t. Perhaps grief could not drive him away, but other things could.