Part 69 (2/2)
”Not a word. And by the way, Nina, Gerald has done rather an unexpected thing. I saw him last night; he came to the house and told me that he had just severed his connection with Julius Neergard's company.”
”I'm glad of it!” exclaimed Nina; ”I'm glad he showed the good sense to do it!”
”Well--yes. As a matter of fact, Neergard is going to be a very rich man some day; and Gerald might have--But I am not displeased. What appeals to me is the spectacle of the boy acting with conviction on his own initiative. Whether or not he is making a mistake has nothing to do with the main thing, and that is that Gerald, for the first time in his rather colourless career, seems to have developed the rudiments of a backbone out of the tail which I saw so frequently either flouris.h.i.+ng defiance at me or tucked sullenly between his hind legs. I had quite a talk with him last night; he behaved very decently, and with a certain modesty which may, one day, develop into something approaching dignity.
We spoke of his own affairs--in which, for the first time, he appeared to take an intelligent interest. Besides that, he seemed willing enough to ask my judgment in several matters--a radical departure from his cub days.”
”What are you going to do for him, dear?” asked his wife, rather bewildered at the unexpected news. ”Of course he must go into some sort of business again--”
”Certainly. And, to my astonishment, he actually came and solicited my advice. I--I was so amazed, Nina, that I could scarcely credit my own senses. I managed to say that I'd think it over. Of course he can, if he chooses, begin everything again and come in with me. Or--if I am satisfied that he has any ability--he can set up some sort of a real-estate office on his own hook. I could throw a certain amount of business in his way--but it's all in the air, yet. I'll see him Monday, and we'll have another talk. By gad! Nina,” he added, with a flush of half-shy satisfaction on his ruddy face, ”it's--it's almost like having a grown-up son coming bothering me with his affairs; ah--rather agreeable than otherwise. There's certainly something in that boy.
I--perhaps I have been, at moments, a trifle impatient. But I did not mean to be. You know that, dear, don't you?”
His wife looked up at her big husband in quiet amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Oh, yes! I know a little about you,” she said, ”and a little about Gerald, too. He is only a masculine edition of Eileen--the irresponsible freedom of life brought out all his faults at once, like a horrid rash; it's due to the masculine notion of masculine education. His sister's education was essentially the contrary: humours were eradicated before first symptoms became manifest. The moral, mental, and physical drilling and schooling was undertaken and accepted without the slightest hope--and later without the slightest desire--for any relaxation of the rigour when she became of age and mistress of herself. That's the difference: a boy looks forward to the moment when he can flourish his heels and wag his ears and bray; a girl has no such prospect. Gerald has brayed; Eileen never will flourish her heels unless she becomes fas.h.i.+onable after marriage--which isn't very likely--”
Nina hesitated, another idea intruding.
”By the way, Austin; the Orchil boy--the one in Harvard--proposed to Eileen--the little idiot! She told me--thank goodness! she still does tell me things. Also the younger and chubbier Draymore youth has offered himself--after a killingly proper interview with me. I thought it might amuse you to hear of it.”
”It might amuse me more if Eileen would get busy and bring Philip into camp,” observed her husband. ”And why the devil they don't make up their minds to it is beyond me. That brother of yours is the limit sometimes.
I'm fond of him--you know it--but he certainly can be the limit sometimes.”
”Do you know,” said Nina, ”that I believe he is in love with her?”
”Then, why doesn't--”
”I don't know. I was sure--I am sure now--that the girl cares more for him than for anybody. And yet--and yet I don't believe she is actually in love with him. Several times I supposed she was--or near it, anyway.
... But they are a curious pair, Austin--so quaint about it; so slow and old-fas.h.i.+oned... . And the child is the most innocent being--in some ways... . Which is all right unless she becomes one of those pokey, earnest, knowledge-absorbing young things with the very germ of vitality dried up and withered in her before she awakens... . I don't know--I really don't. For a girl _must_ have something of the human about her to attract a man, and be attracted... . Not that she need know anything about love--or even suspect it. But there must be some response in her, some--some--”
”Deviltry?” suggested Austin.
His pretty wife laughed and dropped one knee over the other, leaning back to watch him finish his good-night cigarette. After a moment her face grew grave, and she bent forward.
”Speaking of Rosamund a moment ago reminds me of something else she wrote--it's about Alixe. Have you heard anything?”
”Not a word,” said Austin, with a frank scowl, ”and don't want to.”
”It's only this--that Alixe is ill. n.o.body seems to know what the matter is; n.o.body has seen her. But she's at Clifton, with a couple of nurses, and Rosamund heard rumours that she is very ill indeed... . People go to Clifton for shattered nerves, you know.”
”Yes; for bridge-fidgets, neurosis, pip, and the various jumps that originate in the simpler social circles. What's the particular matter with her? Too many c.o.c.ktails? Or a dearth of grand slams?”
”You are brutal, Austin. Besides, I don't know. She's had a perfectly dreary life with her husband... . I--I can't forget how fond I was of her in spite of what she did to Phil... . Besides, I'm beginning to be certain that it was not entirely her fault.”
”What? Do you think Phil--”
”No, no, no! Don't be an utter idiot. All I mean to say is that Alixe was always nervous and high-strung; odd at times; eccentric--_more_ than merely eccentric--”
”You mean dippy?”
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