The Window-Gazer

CHAPTER XVII

"And do you mean to tell me that she really believes that lie?"

Benis Spence had taken his medical adviser up the slope to the Indian burying-ground. It was the one place within reasonable radius where they were not likely to be interrupted by periodic appearances of Aunt Caroline. Aunt Caroline never took liberties with burying-grounds. "A graveyard is a graveyard," said Aunt Caroline, "and not a place for casual conversation." There-fore, amid the graves and the crosses, the friends felt fairly safe.

"Why shouldn't she believe it?" countered Spence. "Don't you suppose I can tell a lie properly?"

"To be honest—I don't."

"Well," somewhat gloomily, "this one seemed to go over all right. It went much farther than I ever expected. It's far too up-and-coming. The way it grows frightens me. At first there was nothing—just an 'experience.' A mild abstraction, buried in the past, a sentimental 'has-been' without form or substance. Then, without warning, the experience acquired a name, and then a history and then, just when I had begun to forget about it, hair suddenly popped up, yellow hair, and, the day after, eyes—blue eyes, misty. The nose remains indeterminate, but noses often do. Only yesterday I felt compelled to add a mouth. Small and red, I made it—ugh! How I hate a small red mouth. Oh, if it amuses you—all right!"

"Laugh at it yourself, old man! It's all you can do. But what a frightful list of blunders. If you had to tell a lie why didn't you take Mark Twain's advice and tell a good one? The name, for instance—why on earth did you choose 'Mary?' Even 'Marion' would have been safer. Don't you know you can't turn a corner in Bainbridge or anywhere else without stumbling over a Mary? There's a Mary in my office at the present minute and—yes, by Jove, she has golden hair!"

The professor looked stubborn.

"My Mary's hair was not golden. It was yellow, plain yellow. I remember I made a point of that."

"Well then, there's Mary Davis. You remember her?"

"The one who visited Aunt Caroline?"

"Yes. Pretty girl. About your own age! 'Twas thought in Bainbridge that her thoughts turned youward. Her hair was yellow then, and may be again by now. And she had blue eyes, bright blue."

"My Mary's were not bright blue. Hers were misty, like the hills."

"Forget it, old man! You'll find you won't be able to insist on shades. Any Mary with golden, yellow, tawny or tow-colored hair, and old blue, grey blue, Alice blue or plain blue eyes will come under Mrs. Spence's reflective observation. Your progress will be a regular charge of the light brigade with Marys on all sides."

"Now you're making yourself unpleasant," said the professor. "And, to change the subject, why do you insist upon calling Desire 'Mrs. Spence?' She calls you John."

To his questioner's infinite amazement the doctor blushed.

"She has told me I might," he admitted. "But it seemed so dashed cheeky."

"Why? You are at least ten years older than she. And a friend of the family."

"Ten years is nothing," said the doctor. "And I want to be her friend, not a friend of the family. Besides, she, herself, is not at all like the girls of twenty whom one usually meets."

"She is simpler, perhaps."

"In manner, but not in character. There is a distance, a poise, a—surely you feel what I mean."

"Imagination, John. It is you who create the distance by clinging to formality."

"All right. You're sure you don't object?"

"My dear Bones, why should I possibly?"

The doctor looked sulky. Benis smiled.

"Look here, John," he said after a reflective pause. "Desire is as direct as a child. If she calls you by your first name you can depend that she feels no embarrassment about it. So why should you? And there's another thing. She may not find everything quite easy in Bainbridge. She will need your frank and unembarrassed friendship—as well as mine."

"Yours?"

"Yes. You understand the situation, don't you? At least as far as understanding is necessary. And you are the only one who will understand. So you will be of more use to her than anyone else, except me. I am going to do my best to make her happy. It's my job. I am not turning it over to you. But there may be times when I shall fail. There may be times when I shan't know that she isn't happy—a lack of perspective or something. If ever there comes a time like that and you know of it, don't spare me. I have taken the responsibility of her youth upon my shoulders and I am not going to shirk. It will be her happiness first—at all costs."

"People aren't usually made happy at all costs," said the doctor wisely.

"They may be, if they do not know the price."

"I see."

"You'll know where I stand a bit better when you've read a letter you'll find waiting for you at home. But here is the whole point of the matter—I had to get Desire away from that devilish old parent of hers. And marriage was the only effective way. But Desire did not want marriage. She has never told me just why but I have seen and heard enough to know that her horror of the idea is deep seated, a spiritual nausea, an abnormal twist which may never straighten. I say 'may,' because there is a good chance the other way. All one can do is to wait. And in the meantime I want her to find life pleasant. She once told me that she was a window-gazer. I want to open all the doors."

"Except the one door that; matters," said Rogers gloomily.

"Nonsense! You don't believe that. Life has many things to give besides the love of man and woman."

"Has it? You'll know better some day—even a cold-blooded fish like you."

"Fish?" said Spence sorrowfully. "And from mine own familiar friend? Fish!"

"What will you do," exploded the doctor, "when she wakes up and finds how you have cheated her? When she realizes, too late, that she has sold her birthright?"

The professor rose slowly and dusted the dry grass from the knees of his knickers. "Tut, tut!" he said, "the subject excites you. Let us talk about me for a change. Observe me carefully, John, and tell me what you think of me. Only not in marine language. Am I an Apollo? Or a Greek god? Or even a movie star of the third magnitude? Or am I, not to put too fine a point on it, as homely as a hedge fence?"

"Oh, hang it, Benis, stop your fooling."

"I'm not fooling. I want you to understand that I have consulted my mirror. And I know just how likely I am to appeal to the imagination of a young girl. I take my chance, nevertheless. Your question, divested of oratory, means what shall I do if Desire finds her mate and that mate is not myself? My answer, also divested of oratory, is that I do not keep what does not belong to me. Is that plain?"

The doctor nodded. "Plain enough," he said. "But how will you know?"

"Well, I might guess. You see," resuming his seat and his ordinary manner at the same time, "Desire is my secretary. I make a point of studying the psychology of those who work with me. And, aside from the slight abnormality which I have mentioned, Desire is very true to type, her own type—a very womanly one. And a woman in love is hard to mistake. But," cheerfully, "she is only a child yet in matters of loving. And she may never grow up."

"You seem quite happy about it."

"'Call no man happy till he is dead.' And yet—I am happy. If tears must come, why anticipate them?"

"There speaks the hopeless optimist," said Rogers, laughing. "But because I called you a fish, I'll give you a bit of valuable advice. I can't see you scrap quite all your chances. Kill Mary."

"I can't. Besides, why should I? Desire likes to hear about her. Or says she does. It provides her with an interest. And a little perfectly human jealousy is very stimulating."

"You think she is jealous?"

"Oh, not in the way you mean. But every woman likes to be first, even with her friends. And if she can't be first, she is healthily curious about the woman who is. Desire would miss Mary very much."

"You've been a fool, Benis."

"I shall try not to be a bigger one."

The friends looked polite daggers at each other. And suddenly smiled.

"To be continued in our next," said Rogers. "Is it finally settled that we turn homeward tomorrow?"

"Yes. We did our last extracting from the hawk-eyed one yesterday. He has been a real find, John. Do you know what he calls Aunt Caroline? 'The-old-woman-who-sniffs-the-air.' Desire did not translate. Isn't she rather a wonder, John? Did you ever see anything like the way she manages Aunt?"

But the doctor's eyes were on the distant tents.

"Someone in blue is waving to us," he said. "It must be your Aunt."

Spence lazily raised his eyes.

"No. That's Desire. She is wearing blue."

"She was wearing pink this morning."

"Yes. But she won't be wearing it this afternoon."

"How do you know?" curiously.

The professor yawned. "By psychology! I happened to mention that pink was Mary's favorite color."

Rogers opened his lips. He was plainly struggling with himself.

"Don't trouble," said Spence serenely. "I know what you feel it your duty to say. But it isn't really your duty. And there would be no use in saying it, anyway. I take my chances!"