Part 18 (1/2)
”You mean Dolly?” Mostyn's tongue felt thick and inactive.
”Yes, I mean _Dolly_.” Mrs. Moore continued to laugh. ”When I saw her she was young enough to play with a doll, though I believe she was reading some serious book. Well, she _is_ pretty--I can't dispute it--and Jarvis declares she is more than that. To do her full justice, she looked like a girl of strong character. I remember how the young thing stared through her long lashes at me that day. Yes, I knew she would turn your head. d.i.c.k, you are a man summer flirt. You are even more; you enjoy the distinction of actually believing, temporarily, at least, in every flirtation you indulge in. You have imagination, and it plays you terrible pranks. You wouldn't have been home so soon--you would even have been in your usual hot water over the girl--but for your obligation to Irene Mitch.e.l.l.”
Mostyn tried to be resolute. He was conscious of his frailty of purpose, of his lack of sincerity when he spoke.
”I am not obligated to Irene, and, what is more, Bess, I have positively made up my mind to marry the little girl you are speaking of.”
The woman's eyes flickered, her lips became more rigid. It was as if a certain pallor lay beneath her transparent skin and was forcing itself out. He heard her exhale a long breath.
”To think that you could actually sit here and say as ridiculous a thing as that to me in a serious tone,” she said, in an attempt at lightness. ”Why, d.i.c.k, whatever your faults are, you are _not_ a fool.”
”I hope not,” he said, weakly defiant. ”I really care very much for the girl. You see, I knew her three years ago. You needn't oppose me, Bess; I have made up my mind.”
”You have done no such thing!” Mrs. Moore blurted out. ”That is the pity of it--the absurdity of it. You haven't made up your mind--that is just exactly what you haven't done. You thought you had, I don't doubt, when you said good-by to her, but already you are full of doubt, and in a frightful stew. You show it in your face. You know and I know that you cannot carry that thing through. You are not that type of man.
Jarvis Saunders could. If he ever marries, he will marry like that. It wouldn't surprise me to see him walk off any day with some stenographer, with nothing but a s.h.i.+rt-waist for a trousseau, but you--_you_--Oh, Lord! You are quite a different proposition.”
”You think you know me, Bess, but--”
”I am the only person who _does_ know you,” she broke in. ”I have watched you since you were in the cradle. When you were ten you fell in love with a little girl and cried when she fell and bruised her nose.
You have imagined yourself in love dozens of times, and have learned nothing from it. But we are losing time. Tell me one thing, and let's be done with it. Have you engaged yourself to this _new_ one?”
”No, but--”
”Thank G.o.d for the 'but,' and let it go at that,” she laughed, more freely. ”I understand why you didn't better than you do. You doubted your own feelings. You thought you would for once in your life think it over.”
”It was not that which held me back.”
”I know; it was Irene Mitch.e.l.l, her fine prospects, and your natural good horse sense. d.i.c.k, you couldn't carry that silly dream through to save your life. You are not made that way. Suppose you really married that little country thing. What would you do with her? Well, I'll tell you. You would break her heart--that's what you'd do. You couldn't fit her into your life if you were deity itself and she were an archangel.
She seemed perfect up there in her Maud Muller surroundings, but here in this mad town she would be afraid of you, and you would--ask her to keep her finger out of her mouth. Why, you would be the joke of every soul in Atlanta. Mr. Mitch.e.l.l would despise you. You would lose his influence. In fact, my dear boy, you have gone too far with Irene Mitch.e.l.l to turn back now. You may not be actually engaged to her, but she and everybody else consider it settled. For you to marry any one else now--to turn a woman like Irene down, after the way you have acted--would ruin you socially. The men would kick you out of your club. You'd never hold your head up afterward. Oh, I'm glad I got at you this morning. It would be a crime against that mountain child to bring her here on account of your--d.i.c.k, I have to speak plainly, more plainly than I ever did before. But it is for your good. d.i.c.k, pa.s.sion is the greatest evil on earth. It has wrought more harm than anything else. Pa.s.sion often fools the wisest of men. To be plain, you think, or thought, that you loved that pretty girl, but you do not and did not.
It was simply pa.s.sion in a new and more subtle dress. Up there, with plenty of time on your hands, you looked back on your life and became sick of it (for you have been wild and thoughtless--not worse than many others perhaps, but bad enough). You were disgusted and decided to make a fresh start. But what sort of start appealed to you? It wasn't to build a hospital with the better part of your capital. It wasn't really to undo any of the little things more or less wrong in your past. Oh no, it was something much more to your fancy. You decided to marry the youngest, most physically perfect girl you had ever found. You may have told yourself that you would lift her a bit socially, that you would aid her people, make her happy, and what not. But pa.s.sion was at the bottom of it. Real love does not feed on ideal forms and perfect complexions. The man who marries beneath himself for only a pair of bright eyes is the prime fool of the universe--the whole world loves to sneer at him and watch his prize fade on his hands. Real love is above doubt and suspicion, but you would doubt that girl's honesty at the slightest provocation. Let another man be alone with her for a moment, and you--”
The remainder fell on closed ears. He was thinking of the night he stood watching Dolly's window in the moonlight. How true were the words just uttered! Had he not suspected Dolly, even when she had been most courageous and self-sacrificing? How well his sister understood him!
Just then the telephone bell rang. A maid-servant went to it and spoke in a low tone. Presently she came to the door and called her mistress.
Mostyn sat limp, cold, undecided, miserable.
”She is right,” he whispered, finding himself alone. ”She is right. My G.o.d, she is right! I am a fool, and yet--and yet--what _am_ I to do?”
Mrs. Moore came in at the door, a significant smile playing between her eyes and lips. He was too despondent to be curious as to its cause.
”Guess who had me on the 'phone?” she asked, sitting down in her chair.
”How could I know?” he answered, too gloomy to fight his gloom.
”n.o.body but the most rational, well-rounded, stylish woman in Atlanta.