A marrying man

by G. B. Stern

The objects scattering his brain in disorderly confusion grew blurred and indistinguishable.... He was drifting down stream, nearer and nearer to the grey borders of sleep.

"You've got to shove your own way, my lad——!"

Fear jogged his elbow, and awoke him to the window-sill; to Paddington, moonlit and unsubstantial; to the "Happy Warrior" framed above his bed; to the knowledge of his own utter inefficiency ever to pull desire to its successful fulfilment. A liquidity of purpose, as though the moral gelatine had been omitted from his composition. Hence his terror of realities, of "shove," of anything that might chance to drag to light his hidden weakness. Hence his longing for the vanished enchantment of Alpenruh, whither he had been borne as in some strange dream, without his own volition or denial. Hence his illusion that the perpetual presence of Kathleen would again and for ever restore to him the lost lotus-spell. Kathleen should marry him. In a spurt of resolution, he vowed in this one matter, if never again, he would beat down the questionings and hesitations of his soul, beat down opposition, beat down difficulty—even as she herself had taught him. Yes, that was the goad: her possession of just that gift he lacked, the power to do. Did he lack it, or only think he did? This accomplishment should be the test. Kathleen should marry him! Gareth was exultant in his new strength, as a man who had drunk red wines. His determination survived sleep, survived the sobriety of morning, sent him with martial tread and squared jaw to the house in North Kensington.

Kathleen was out; would be out to lunch. A temporary check. "Tell Miss Morrison I shall call at six o'clock," in tones of such ringing valour that the maid regarded him in astonishment. How could she know he was out on the quest, his eyes on the hill-tops and his head among the stars, slaying monsters and enchanters as he went? How was she to recognize herself as a minor monster? Nevertheless, in unconscious spite of him, she forgot to deliver the message. Gareth, on his arrival at five minutes to six, impatience having outleapt exactitude, was shown into the dining-room, ruddily illuminated by its first fire of the season. Kathleen had improved the occasion by shampooing her hair, and was now squatting on her heels before the hearth, holding up the long wet strands to the blaze. Nelly sewing; and Muriel reading "Little Women"; the aged grandfather prone on the floor protesting feebly while Nicolas stamped on his chest: "Mustn't say nuffing, Granpa—you're dead!" "But I'm not dead!" "You are, you are, you are!" "I'm not dead," repeated Mr. Jeyne, who really might have been expected to know best—all this made a picture calculated to reduce the crusty bachelor of tradition to tears of loneliness and envy. Gareth's abrupt entrance caused some commotion, and there ensued a great deal of business with chairs and introductions. Nelly was not sure whether she ought to look as if she knew all about everything, or nothing about anything. She telegraphed for her cue to Kathleen, who scornfully withheld it. For her the situation throbbed with that sensitive and unnecessary agony peculiar only to a girl on witnessing the advent of her man into the family circle. She did not know of which to be most ashamed: Nelly in the eyes of Gareth, or Gareth in the eyes of Nelly. Kathleen hated that he should see her thus placed, and off her guard; hated the circulating undercurrents: "Who the dooce is it?" in Mr. Jeyne's astonished eyebrows, and: "Take off your pinafore, Nicky," signalled from Muriel; hated herself for minding that the room was untidy, and two of Nicolas's handkerchiefs upon the carpet; above all, hated Gareth, as the cause of her discomfort. Why had he come? And what had happened to him that he should persist in throwing her those glances of glad triumph? He was talking very fast and easily, and his general bearing exactly resembled the fascinating blackguard of Nelly's expectations. Unconsciously, he exuded a buoyant challenge to the world at large; the atmosphere about him quivered and vibrated with something that was not of North Kensington nor yet of any other neighbourhood farther from the clouds than Valhalla itself; for he knew even in his intoxication that if he once paused, the old paralysing distrust would creep on him again and render him powerless—if it were once given a chance in this breathless onrush of speech and movement.

For this was his day of days indeed; something had happened between his first and second visit here, to convince him that enchantment was on his side.... He would tell Kathleen presently—when these people should leave them alone!

Edward's latchkey was heard grating in the lock, and Nelly flew out to warn him of the visitor. "And Neddy, shall I ask him to supper?"

"Look here," Edward protested in loud and distinct whispers, "we can't sit down with a fellow who——"

"Oh, hush, Neddy!"

And Gareth's mouth twitched whimsically in the direction of Kathleen. More Indian than ever did she look, sullen, crouching, her face framed in the shining hanks of black hair lying straight over her shoulders and down to her waist. Very unlike his radiant comrade of Alpenruh. Perhaps she had been right when she spoke of the destroying effects of intimate surroundings.

"All right, I'll be reasonable," grumbled Edward, on the threshold.