The satisfaction in Tom’s voice was complete.
“Yes, Tom, but—” Cis hesitated.
“You’d rather be by yourself?” cried poor Tom. “Oh, Cis, you’ve played fair with me! You’re nice to me, but you’re nothing more. I won’t be able to blame you, but if you won’t love me, what under the heavens shall I do? Say, Cis, love me, can’t you? I’m not such a much, but I ain’t so bad, honest! I don’t care how far you hunt, you won’t find anything I’ve done to be ashamed of. I ain’t fit for you lots of ways; you’ve got kind of fine ladified, though I don’t mean you put on. You’re it, that’s all! But I’m not a bad chap, that’s straight, and if I was I’d tell you; I wouldn’t fool you for a kingdom. I’m getting on; I make thirty now, and two people could live on fifteen hundred, easy—and the sixty dollars would buy us each some clothes, and theatre tickets, or something! And I’ll have more soon. My boss makes a point of boosting married men—oh, gosh! A married man! Married to you, Cis! Say, Cis, don’t you think you could see it, if you looked hard enough? Love me, I mean?”
“Tom, dear,” said Cis a little wistfully, for the honest boy’s voice shook, and his eyes were as imploring as a dog’s eyes. “I like you heaps, better than before I went away. I didn’t know you so well then, and besides you’ve come out a great deal. But I couldn’t love you, Tommy; not that way. I’m sorry, dear. You are a fine boy, and the girl who does marry you will be lucky. It never will be me, and it wouldn’t be right to let you think it ever might be. Sorry, Tom! I wish you didn’t think you wanted me. You’d be better off with someone else, and you’ll find her—”
“Cut it out!” cried Tom hoarsely. “Cut out that line of talk, Cicely Adair! You’re the greatest girl in the world. There’s no one can hold a candle to you, so cut it out! If you won’t, you won’t, but cut out all that talk. I want you, and I’ll keep on wanting you. If you don’t want me, and don’t want me so much that you know you’ll never want me, that settles it, but I want you. Oh, Cis, why can’t you want me? What is wrong with me? How can you be so infernally sure you’ll never think of it? Am I such a mess? Would you tell me why, Cis?”
Cis looked pityingly at Tom’s flushed, stormy face, listened with tender, pitying amusement to his incoherent implorations. She tried to explain.
“It’s not that there’s one thing wrong with you, Tom,” she said. “It’s I. I’m not thinking of marrying. I’ve grown years older than you are, Tom, and I’ve grown ever so far off from the old Cis whom you first knew and liked. I suppose you knew I was going to be married? I’m glad, thankfully glad that all that is over; I wouldn’t be happy now in the way I thought I’d be happy then, not with the same people, interests. But I shall never again feel as I felt then, so glad to see someone coming, so—I’m afraid it is much the way you feel to me now, Tom dear! Truly you will get over it. It leaves you changed, older, not so light-hearted, but it leaves you; it has left me. I shall never so much as think of marrying you, my nice Nan’s nice brother; yet I am fond of you, and think you’re fine.”
“I don’t want to get over it,” groaned Tom. “If I can’t marry you I can keep on loving you and that way you do sort of get a person.”
“I think we ought to try to get over it, Tom, because we’ve got to play up, not go moping along,” said Cis. “Let’s forget you love me; in that way, at least, and let’s be glad you love me, or will love me, more as you do Nan, just as I love you. It makes the world a fine place to live in when we know splendid people who are fond of us. Beaconhite, living in Miss Braithwaite’s house, rather spoiled me for other places, Tom. You’ve no idea what a library that is, and what wonderful things I heard talked of before the fire!”
“Yes, so I’ve heard you say,” growled Tom. “The old lady herself was a wonder, but how about that man, that Lancaster who was such a highbrow?”