Bobbie, General Manager: A Novel

by Olive Higgins Prouty

Without a word of advice or comfort, Dr. Maynard shut off the power and brought the car to a standstill by the side of the bleak country road. He took hold of my hands and gently drew them away from my face down into my lap. Then in a low voice with the play and banter all gone out of it he said, "Could you live with me, Lucy?"

"Oh, yes," I replied quickly enough, "fifty times easier!"

Perhaps he smiled, for he added half laughing and yet gravely, too, "I would like to have you, if you want to."

"I only wish I could," I said desperately.

And then very seriously and very solemnly he told me his story. I can't say that I was exactly surprised. I had half guessed it for the last two years; but then I had half guessed a lot of preposterous things that never came true. "I talked with Alec last night," I heard Dr. Maynard telling me gently, "and if you would like—that is if you want to come with me, Lucy, your brother would be glad to have you, I am certain. This isn't the only talk Alec and I have had about you. I wanted to speak to you about this last fall, but Al thought it better to wait. And I wanted to speak again after—the sofa-pillow, and again Al couldn't quite make up his mind that you had grown up, and wanted me to wait again. So I did. You see," he smiled, "it isn't a new idea with me."

I listened calmly as Dr. Maynard went on talking in his quiet, unexcited manner. I didn't interrupt his long, well-planned speech. I simply sat dumb with my hands clasped tightly in my lap. I don't remember that I felt a single sensation during the entire explanation except at the end a kind of shock as I thought to myself: "So after all it's going to be just Dr. Maynard!" For when he had finally finished, I said evenly, with the moon standing there like a clergyman before us, and all the watching stars like witnesses behind, "I will come, Dr. Maynard," and I added, "and I think you are the very kindest man I know." For you see he had offered me his home, his protection, and his love, he said, for all my life.

There was something awfully silent and ominous about the gentle still way he turned the machine around and started for home. It was entirely different from what I had guessed might take place. In the dreams that I had woven I had never accepted Dr. Maynard. I had been grateful for his devotion, honoured by his proposal, deeply sorry for his disappointment, but like the girl in an old play called "Rosemary," my heart belonged to one who possessed youth and passion. In those absurd imaginings of mine I used to frame letters which I should write to Juliet Adams about poor Will Maynard. I used to plan just how I should break the news to my brother Alec. But now—Oh, now, I couldn't write Juliet at all; I couldn't tell Alec; I couldn't tell any one about my first proposal. I had accepted it in the first half-hour. There was nothing thrilling about it. I sat like a stone image beside Dr. Maynard. I couldn't speak.

"It took you an awfully long while to grow up," he said at last, half laughing. "I've actually grown grey waiting for you. Alec said to me the first time, 'Wait till she's nineteen,' and then, 'Good heavens, Will, she's nothing but a child yet. Wait till she's twenty,' and so on, and so on. Awful hindrance, because for the last two years I've been wanting to do some important research work in Germany. But I couldn't leave you to the wolves. How did I know but that some good-looking young chap would come along and snatch you up? But now, we'll go to Germany together, and, Lucy," he said, "Lucy—" but I didn't want Dr. Maynard to grow serious. I think he must have seen me kind of cringe away for he broke off lightly enough, "and perhaps some fine day the refugee and I will be seeing Paris together."

I stole into the house that night very quietly, crept up to my room and closed the door without a sound. I wanted to be alone. I was suddenly filled with a kind of panic-stricken wonder, for there had been actual tears in Dr. Maynard's eyes when he took my hand at the door (I hadn't known how to say good-night to him), a tremble in his voice that awed and frightened me. He acted very much as he had about my Christmas present. It had made me happy then, but, you see then I hadn't just promised to marry him. Oh, I hated having him look so serious and solemn about it, and now as I stood a moment with my back against my closed door, my hat and coat still on, I pressed my two cool hands against my burning cheeks and tried to comprehend a little of what it all meant. Suddenly I crossed the room, pulled on the gas by my bureau, leaned forward and gazed grimly at my familiar old face in the glass before me. So this was what was to become of Lucy Chenery Vars, I thought calmly; this was her story; this was her end; and oh, to think that all the beautiful unknown future of the person in the glass before me was wiped out and decided in one fell swoop, made me want to throw my arms about her image and kiss her for pity. I turned away.

Of course I liked Dr. Maynard—I had always liked him. And his big, empty, white-pillared house was in the very town, on the very street of my dear beloved home. There was a place for me there. Alec had given Dr. Maynard to understand that there would be no objection from him. Probably it seemed to Alec a good way to dispose of me. Oh, there was everything in favour of the arrangement. I had always longed to go to Europe. Germany and Paris were sparkling ahead, and here—here nothing but the nightmare of Edith Campbell everywhere I turned. I drew a long breath—there was no other course for me to follow—looked once more sadly into the glass, pulled down my curtain and began to get ready for bed.