A marrying man

by G. B. Stern

"I don't believe I'm made of any stuff," Gareth confessed desperately.

Mr. Temple planted his hands deep in his pockets, and surveyed his offspring with disapproval.

"There's no room in the world for shirkers. The world wants men. You've had things made too easy. The world wants you to stand on your own legs, not on your father's shoulders. It's the law of the world that the weakest go to the wall and the strongest come out on top."

Gareth began to hate the world, as represented by his father's weighty platitudes. Not for one instant did he attempt to storm the barricade of years, and force his own point of view upon the old gentleman's reluctant sight. The remainder of the lecture rendered the fact patent that it henceforth devolved upon him to renounce his dreaming peace, his glamorous aspirations, and to do battle with the universe.... How he wished he had been a girl, and thus absolved from such duty.

And yet he had met girls by the score who had wanted to be men. Men!—the thickness of their understanding; the dense fibres they put out, without one sensitive tingle.... "You've got to shove your way, my lad!"—there it was again, his father's pet catch-phrase. It was hideous and hot—to shove. Oh, the hush and coolness and harmony of the woman's part; she might enjoy colours, and soft materials, and dreams, tears even, without a reproach. And when love came along, the wonder of being besieged and of yielding.... Someone afterwards and always, to clear her way, give her leisure and firelight. And suddenly came a vision of Kathleen with a blade in her hand that flashed this way and that, while she cut a path through the world, for him to tread in her wake....

The vision passed. But so intent had he been on it, that he missed his father's final hint of what was expected of him with regard to his recent conduct, on which, since his return from Switzerland, a discreet silence had been preserved. "We'll talk of that later on, when you've found your feet a bit!"

Gareth carried his aggrievements and his visions in a confused heap to the parlour, where he knew his mother would at this time be sitting, with her knitting in the lap of her smoke-grey silk dress, while she waited for Jane to draw the blinds and trim the wicks. He had an affection for the Confidence Hour, when the lamplighter was on his magical round, and Mr. Temple still busy in the dispensary below; an affection that dated from the days of his early childhood; when she would tell long sweet stirring tales from the "Idylls of the King" to a little round-eyed boy as yet unprotected by the dawn of reason. His very name he owed to a gentle fervour on her part for all matters appertaining to the Poet Laureate, and to chivalry, and to the Knights of Arthur's Round Table. It had been her wont to name him, half playfully, half wistfully, her "youngest knight."... Glancing across at his absorbed face, she wondered now how many of her teachings could be relied on at this crisis to bear fruit.

"Gareth, when are you going to bring my new daughter home to me?"

He smiled, amused at the suddenness of her onslaught upon his reverie. "Mother dear, what on earth do you mean?"

"Don't you think it time, my boy, that you told me all about it?" She held out a tentative hand; a very white and delicate hand, half covered by the falling lace ruffles of her sleeve; on her bright brown hair she wore a lace cap to match the ruffles; and at her throat a round cameo brooch secured the fleecy white shawl. Mrs. Temple was very pleasant to look upon; and her soft voice fell soothingly upon Gareth's hearing, jarred by his father's ponderous repetitions. He crossed the room, and seated himself upon the arm of her chair; while he played with her ball of knitting-silk.