Part 26 (1/2)
”I haven't. Of course you were angry with me when I seemed so disagreeable and unkind; any girl would have been,” replied Chris, forgetting how very unreasonable her anger had seemed only five minutes ago. But five minutes can make such a difference--sometimes.
Elisabeth cheerfully caught at this straw of comfort; she was always ready to take a lenient view of her own shortcomings. If Christopher had been wise he would not have encouraged such leniency; but who is wise and in love at the same time?
”Of course it did seem rather unkind of you,” she admitted; ”you see, I thought you had thrown me over just for the sake of some tiresome business arrangement, and that you didn't care about me and my disappointment a bit.”
A little quiver crept into Christopher's voice. ”I think you might have known me better than that.”
”Yes, I might; in fact, I ought to have done,” agreed Elisabeth with some truth. ”But why didn't you tell me the real reason?”
”Because I thought it might worry and frighten you. Not that there really was anything to be frightened about,” Christopher hastened to add; ”but you might have imagined things, and been upset; you have such a tremendous imagination, you know.”
”I'm afraid I have; and it sometimes imagines vain things at your expense, Chris dear.”
”How did you find me out?” Chris asked.
”Alan told me about the cholera scare at Burlingham, and I guessed the rest.”
”Then Alan was an a.s.s. What business had he to go frightening you, I should like to know, with a lot of fiction that is just trumped up to sell the papers?”
”But, Chris, I want you to understand how sorry I am that I was so vile to you. I really was vile, wasn't I?” Elisabeth was the type of woman for whom the confessional will always have its fascinations.
”You were distinctly down on me, I must confess; but you needn't worry about that now.”
”And you quite forgive me?”
”As I said before, I've nothing to forgive. You were perfectly right to be annoyed with a man who appeared to be so careless and inconsiderate; but I'm glad you've found out that I wasn't quite as selfish as you thought.”
Elisabeth stroked his coat sleeve affectionately. ”You are not selfish at all, Chris; you're simply the nicest, thoughtfullest, most unselfish person in the world; and I'm utterly wretched because I was so unkind to you.”
”Don't be wretched, there's a dear! Your wretchedness is the one thing I can't and won't stand; so please leave off at once.”
To Christopher remorse for wrong done would always be an agony; he had yet to learn that to some temperaments, whereof Elisabeth's was one, it partook of the nature of a luxury--the sort of luxury which tempts one to pay half a guinea to be allowed to swell up one's eyes and redden one's nose over imaginary woes in a London theatre.
”Did you mind very much when I was so cross?” Elisabeth asked thoughtfully.
Christopher was torn between a loyal wish to do homage to his idol and a laudable desire to save that idol pain. ”Of course I minded pretty considerably; but why bother about that now?”
”Because it interests me immensely. I often think that your only fault is that you don't mind things enough; and so, naturally, I want to find out how great your minding capacity is.”
”I see. Your powers of scientific research are indeed remarkable; but did it never strike you that even vivisection might be carried too far--too far for the comfort of the vivisected, I mean; not for the enjoyment of the vivisector?”
”It is awfully good for people to feel things,” persisted Elisabeth.
”Is it? Well, I suppose it is good--in fact, necessary--for some poor beggars to have their arms or legs cut off; but you can't expect me to be consumed with envy of the same?”
”Please tell me how much you minded,” Elisabeth coaxed.
”I can't tell you; and I wouldn't if I could. If I were a rabbit that had been cut into living pieces to satisfy the scientific yearnings of a learned professor, do you think I would leave behind me--for my executors to publish and make large fortunes thereby--confidential letters and private diaries accurately describing all the tortures I had endured, for the recreation of the reading public in general and the said professor in particular? Not I.”