A marrying man

by G. B. Stern

"What you felt there, darling, was the je-ne-say-kwah of my mother's housemaid.... Personally, I don't care a fig for my inanimate surroundings. They're so subordinate, aren't they? Do they really affect you?"

"When they're wrong, yes. But I've never had them right, so it doesn't much matter."

He smiled at her rather sadly. And with a quick rush of repentance that was still non-comprehending, she vowed to put a daily vase of daffodils upon his writing-table, as is done by the very best type of Novelist's-Wife, if only he would promise to apply himself to the task of becoming illustrious.

Secretly she was not a little astonished at his reluctance to get on with the book. She had anticipated that she would have to restrain him from feverishly over-working. It had meant so much to him. She remembered his account of that awful moment when Pat O'Neill had cut across and cut him out; and the note of despair in his voice: "I was middle-aged, and a failure—and this one idea had come to me—and I could write only this one book...."

Well, and now that all obstacles were cleared away, why didn't he? Why? Why? Patricia, never a very patient person, was suddenly exasperated at the sight of the tall figure placid and inert every evening in an arm-chair before the dining-room fire. Walking up to him, she seized the journal he held, and flung it into a far corner.

"Damn you, Gareth!—go and write."

She was laughing ... and was not prepared for the deep intensity of his upward look—fear and pleading commingled. Without a word he rose and went into the library.

He could not write. He knew that beforehand. The atmosphere was too expectant. Patricia was too expectant. Before, when his book had been a secret thing ... but now he was paralysed by the sense that it had to be finished, because something had been sacrificed for it ... something big ... that other book, as good as his own, or—better? "The Round Adventure" was no longer a matter for his own delight, a spontaneous wonder that had been dropped into his brain to do with as he pleased.... Was there more implied than mere concern for his advancement, in Patricia's ceaseless urgings that he should idle no longer? Was there the unspoken reproach: "I gave up my book for you. Mine is wasted. Do you suppose I'll allow it to be wasted for nothing. You owe it to me to make good!"

Yes—of course he must make a start on those last half-dozen chapters. This dallying was absurd; he had so looked forward to the creation of just this latter portion of Kay Rollinson's round adventure. If he could write before, he could write now. Especially for Patricia's sake.

And again the panic seized him. He could not write—not a line. He dared not write—what phrases would be good enough? By sacrifice she had solidified his dream-bubble to such a great important heavy ball; ball of lead ... all the airy rainbow hues turned to a sulky grey. Such a heavy ball—he could not keep it aloft by his mere breath. Such a heavy responsibility.... It was not his book any longer; he had forfeited all right to abandon it if the humour took him thus; Patricia was waiting for him to finish it, and to finish it worthily. There were things she might say, otherwise....