Part 22 (1/2)
”'Have it out with her' doesn't sound very lover-like,” suggested the President, mildly. ”I can a.s.sure you beforehand that you will have to take a different tone with her, whether you are sincere or not; otherwise you will waste your breath and enrich half a dozen charities we know of.”
”Oh, I'll do it right,” said Fleetwell, nonchalantly; ”but I'd give my share of the money twice over if it didn't have to be done at all--that is, if the money matter could be taken out of it entirely, I mean.”
They smoked on in reflective silence for five full minutes before the President saw fit to resume the conversation. Then he said, slowly and in his levellest tone:
”You are going to speak to her to-night; very good--you have my best wishes, as you know. But if anything should happen; if you should agree to disagree; it is you who must take the initiative. If you don't mean to marry her, you must tell her so plainly, and before you have given her a chance to refuse you. Do you understand?”
Fleetwell sprang to his feet as if he had received a blow. He was a young giant in physique, and he looked uncomfortably belligerent as he towered above the President's chair.
”By Jove, I do understand you, Cousin Francis, and I'm ashamed to admit it!” he burst out, wrathfully. ”The men on my side of the family have all been gentlemen, so far as I know, and I'll not be the first to break the record. I shall do what my grandfather expected me to do--what Gertrude has a right to expect me to do--and in good faith; you may be very sure of that!” And having thus spoken his mind, he went out, leaving Mr. Francis Vennor to his own reflections, which were not altogether gladsome.
XXIII
THE LAND OF HEART'S DELIGHT
”Here is the place I was looking for,” said Brockway, handing Gertrude to a seat on a great fallen fir which had once been a sentinel on the farthest outpost of the timber-line. ”It's three years since I was here, but I remember this log and the little stream of snow-water. Isn't it clear and pure?”
”Everything ought to be that, up here in the face of that great s.h.i.+ning mountain,” she said; and then they spread their luncheon on the tree-trunk between them, and pitied the crowded Tadmorians in the little hotel below.
”I feel as if I could look down benignantly on the whole world,”
Gertrude declared, searching for the paper of salt and finding it not.
”The things of yesterday seem immeasurably far away; and as for to-morrow, I could almost persuade myself there isn't going to be any.”
”I wish there wasn't going to be any,” said Brockway; but the manner in which he attacked the cold chicken slew the pessimism in the remark.
”Do you? I could almost say Amen to that,” she rejoined, soberly.
”You? I should have thought you would be the last person in the world to want to stop Time's train.”
She laughed softly. ”That is very human, isn't it? I was thinking precisely the same thing of you. Tell me why you would like to abolish the to-morrows--or is it only the very next one that ever will be that you want to escape?”
”It's all of them, I think: but you mustn't ask me to tell you why.”
”Why mustn't I?”
”Because I can't do it and keep my promise to tell you the truth.”
”That is frank, at least,” she retorted. ”I hope you are not a conscience-stricken train-robber, or a murderer, or anything of that kind.”
”Hardly,” Brockway replied, helping himself to another sandwich; ”but you would be quite horrified if I should tell you what I have really done.”
”Do you think so? You might try me and see,” she said, half pleading and half jesting.
Brockway thought about it for a moment.
”I'll do it--on one condition.”