The Strange Proposal (12 page)

Maybe he wouldn’t write at all. Maybe this had been only an incident with him, and now it was a closed incident, although her heart bounded up once more and told her firmly that that couldn’t be so! After all she had been hearing from Sam about him, he just couldn’t be that way. It was impossible!

With her heart on the rebound again, she sat down and gathered up the rest of her discarded mail and went through it. Nine invitations. She threw them down on the desk. They didn’t interest her, no matter what they were. Several bills, but those didn’t bother her. Bills never had. Yet it did come to her with a strange pang that there were people in the world who had hard work to meet bills when they arrived. John Saxon was a man who had always had to be careful. To think of his pawning his watch and precious books to send that little child to be cured. How wonderful of him!

There were racy letters from several of her girlfriends telling of their social engagements, of their triumphs and disappointments. They all seemed flat to her just now. Perhaps by and by she would be interested in them again, but now her heart was on the alert. Was it possible that a few hours in the company of one stranger had entirely soured the flavor of other life for her? Ridiculous!

She reached for the last letter in the pile, Boothby Farwell’s. She recognized the handwriting at once, of course. He had pride in doing everything he did precisely and perfectly. His handwriting was no exception. It was almost like copperplate. The address on his letters was always intriguing because of the perfect writing. Yet she found herself drawing a weary sigh that she must read that letter and face the problems that it would inevitably bring to light.

She still had that gorgeous ring in her possession. She had promised, half reluctantly, to wear it while she was away, and test herself out. He had hoped, she knew, that it would help her to a decision. He had thought that she was merely playing with him and that she certainly meant to marry him in the end, and she felt he was growing weary of the delay.

She had gone away to Europe twice to get away from his insistence, and his persistence had almost brought her to think that perhaps she might yield in the end. If she had not felt so, she would never have consented to take the diamond away with her. She had taken it more to please him than with any real idea of keeping it. He had counted greatly on the beauty of that stone, she knew. He was proud of it. And indeed, no man could show his devotion more flatteringly than by presenting the woman of his heart with a remarkable stone like that. Perhaps she had even been a little pleased herself at the thought of wearing it, of trying out the idea that it belonged to her.

And she had worn it but one short hour! What would he say if he knew?

Then she opened the letter and read.

There was a smug assurance about his sentences that had never struck her before. Perhaps she had never really taken him seriously until now. Perhaps the wearing of his ring for that one brief hour had given her a new vision of what he was and what it might be to live out the rest of her days by his side.

He seemed to take it for granted that all was settled between them, now that she had consented to wear his ring—at least to receive it for consideration—for that was all he had at last persuaded her to say. And now he wrote as if she had actually become engaged to him! She was astonished by how it annoyed her.

The letter was about their plans for the future. That is, he was announcing to her when they would be married and what they would do, where they would go, and how they would live. It would seem that he had thought out every detail and had no idea of asking her to suggest what she would like. His was the last word in everything—his taste, his wishes, his likes and dislikes.

And then she suddenly saw something that had not been plain to her before, because she had not been thinking much about such things, and that was that she did not, could not, had not loved him at all. She hadn’t even been considering him from that standpoint. In fact, love had not figured in her thoughts with regard to him. It had all been a question of whether he would be pleasant to get along with and one whom she could rely on to act according to the code of her upbringing. She hadn’t been very sure a few days ago that there was such a thing as love, and if there was, whether it was something to be seriously considered when one was thinking of marrying. Very young uncontrolled natures might indeed fall into what they called love, a sort of wild idealism that took hold of unanchored souls, but never of well-trained sane people who could look ahead and plan for the future.

Now she saw that she had reckoned without knowledge and that new knowledge had come to her hitherto untried soul and given it a vision that changed everything.

That one brief walk down a church aisle, those few sweet, deep sentences, red hot from a strong, true heart, had changed her whole outlook on life. She suddenly saw that it made all the difference in the world whether you loved a man or not if you were going to marry him. There might be other weighty matters to consider, but that was the first, and must be paramount to all others. And she saw that if she loved Boothby Farwell this letter would thrill her— or would it? She read some of the smug dictatorial sentences over and considered them in the light of possible love between them, and they still sounded selfish and utterly conceited. Oh, he told her in very fine English that he loved her, that she had been his ideal woman for a long time, that it was a great satisfaction to have the matter settled at last, and that now he might begin to put his mark upon her, and enjoy her.

It seemed as if she were a new car, or an exceptional kind of yacht that he had been purchasing, and that he were setting forth the price that he was to pay. She was to be taken to the ends of the earth to see all the things he enjoyed seeing, and then they were to settle down where he had always wanted to live, and do the things he liked to do, and she was to like them.

Then her mind ran away from the words her eyes were reading, back to last night, to precious words that had been spoken in her ear in desperate haste, the dear feel of arms about her that hungered for her, the look that she had felt meant lovely deference to her in all ways possible!

Then there was another thing she began to understand, and that was that when a man loved her that way and she loved him, her utmost desire would be to please him and not herself and that any true marriage would be that way, each desiring most the will of the other. Strange that one brief evening with a stranger had taught her all that!

At last she cast Boothby Farwell’s letter aside carelessly, gathering it up with her other letters and stuffing them in a drawer. In the morning she would send back his ring. That was a foregone conclusion.

Wait! What had his letter said? That he was calling at eleven in the morning to go with her to look at an estate he had thought of purchasing, and they would lunch in town together afterward.

Well, then, the ring must go back to him earlier. She did not want to look at estates, and she did not want to argue questions of matrimony with him anymore.

So she seized her pen and a sheet of paper and wrote large:

Then Mary Elizabeth sealed her letter, put the ring in a lovely white kid box, enclosed both letter and ring in another worthy box, addressed her package in that same firm large writing, set her alarm clock for an early hour, and went to bed to dream she was walking down that church aisle with John Saxon.

S
am Wainwright woke early the next morning and began to consider his prospects for the summer. He felt very sure that something more must be done, and done quickly, or his mother would manage it somehow that he would go to the sissy camp after all. He had had one-night victories before that had turned out the wrong way the next day. But what to do was the question.

Of course he might write to Jeff, but Jeff was a long way off by this time. In fact, no one knew yet where Jeff had gone. Silly thing, that, going off from everybody just because you had got married. He wouldn’t do that when he got married. If he ever did, he’d stick around and have a good time.

And like as not Jeff would be too busy getting acquainted with Camilla to answer him right away, even if he knew where to write, though Jeff was always pretty good about knowing when things were important. Well, he’d write. He’d get up pretty soon and write just a line or two anyway, and likely Dad would know where was a good place to send it. Jeff would tell Dad. Dad knew how to keep his mouth shut.

His next best bet, he decided, was Dad. He would get Dad off by himself and tell him some more about that camp. Tell him plenty. Tell about the gambling that went on there; that would get Dad’s goat. Tell him about some of the songs they sang and the stories they told. Tell him how that poor fish that thought he was the camp manager was off with a lot of fool girls all the time and didn’t pay any attention to what the fellas were doing. Tell him you could get by with anything. Those things would open Dad’s eyes.

And then he’d tell Dad about Mr. Saxon’s camp, how different it was. He’d tell him to ask Jeff about it.

He lay still a long time thinking what he would say to Dad, thinking how the Florida camp had cemented the boys together in a bond of friendship that never could be broken, thinking about the campfires and the singing, and the prayers, and suddenly his eyes grew large and thoughtful, and he arose from his bed and went down on his knees. God knew about the camps, both of them, and if God wanted him to go to the sissy camp, of course he had to go, but personally he felt sure God wouldn’t approve of that camp at all. So he put the matter before God in his most earnest way, and then, with a cheerful face, he rose and began to dress rapidly. He was no longer worried about his summer. He felt sure that his prayer would be answered. He meant, of course, to do all he could to help answer it himself, but he had confidence that God would look after the rest for him, and he went down the stairs whistling softly, knowing that his father was usually at breakfast early and went to town before the rest of the household was even awake.

His father looked surprised when Sam walked into the dining room. He lowered his paper and greeted him with a smile.

“Thought mebbe I’d go down ta the office with ya, Dad,” Sam said genially. “Thought mebbe ya might miss Jeff a little, and I could take his place, run errands ur something for ya.”

“Why, yes, Son, that’s a fine idea!” said Mr. Wainwright pleasantly. “But aren’t you afraid you’ll be bored to death by business?” He regarded his son with a puzzled grin of surprise.

“Well, I guess it bores you sometimes, too, doesn’t it?” said Sam, accepting hot biscuits from the maid. “I suppose ya can’t stop doing things just because they bore ya! I think it’s time I began ta learn some things about the business, don’t you?”

“Well, Son, I hadn’t thought of it in just that way yet. I thought at your age you might take a little more time at doing what you pleased before you got into the grind of business.”

“Aw, ‘you can’t begin too young,’” quoted Sam. “I’d like it if you’d give me a job down there for a while; that is, till Mary Beth needs me. I could go with her for a little vacation p’raps and then come back and work again till school. I can’t see just hanging round.”

“Well, Son, suppose you come along down with me this morning anyway, and we’ll talk it over. I like your spirit, at least.”

“All right, Dad. Thank you. I’ll like that a lot.” Sam ate his breakfast in grave silence, letting his father finish the paper, and then together they went out to the car and drove to the city.

It was a pleasant ride for both of them, and Sam managed adroitly to put a picture of both camps before his father that opened his eyes not only to the camps and their respective managers but also to the fact that this boy Sam was no longer a wriggling, writhing youngster with no thought for anything but play. He had thoughts, good original ones, and wanted to do things with his hands. His father realized that there was a wistfulness in his funny, offhanded remarks that held a hidden appeal for a new kind of sympathy, a yearning for understanding that he could not get from only women.

Sam talked a little about Mary Elizabeth, too, and how she had been “such a good scout” and was interested in boy things, and finally his father said, “So you’d like to go down to the shore with your uncle’s household awhile when your mother goes to the mountains, would you?”

“Sure I would!”

“All right, we’ll fix it that way, if your cousin really wants you. But, Son, don’t get up an argument with your mother. Just you hold your tongue and grin, and we’ll fix it.”

“Okay!” said Sam with satisfaction and followed his father up to the office.

All that morning he stuck to his father gravely, sitting silently without wriggling and doing eagerly any little errand his father found for him. He proved himself keen and attentive when he was allowed to look through the files for some papers. Of course, he didn’t know that they were not important papers and that his father was merely trying him out, but he was just as careful as if he had known. Somehow Sam had a new motive in his life, a motive that made it seem worthwhile to do everything you had to do in the very best way you knew how.

During the whole morning while Mr. Robert Wainwright was engaged in important affairs, there was an undercurrent of interest in that quiet stubby boy over there, his freckled face so earnest over the filing cards he was working with, his brow drawn in a puckered frown as he laboriously copied names and addresses from the filing cards into a neat list. When he brought it at last for inspection, his father was surprised at the neatness of the work and the clear, legible writing. There was going to be character in that hand a little later. There was character and strength of purpose in the freckled tip-tilted nose and clear brown eyes. There was something else, too, his father saw. A clear vision and balance that he was sure had not been there a short time before. Could it be the result of that Florida camp? He must look into that. He must cultivate this son. It would help to ease his loneliness about losing the other son.