Part 120 (2/2)

d.i.c.k was permitted to see the girls off. They were going by the Dover night-boat; and they hoped to return in August. It was then February, and d.i.c.k felt that he was being hardly used. Maisie was so busy stripping the small house across the Park, and packing her canvases, that she had not time for thought. d.i.c.k went down to Dover and wasted a day there fretting over a wonderful possibility. Would Maisie at the very last allow him one small kiss? He reflected that he might capture her by the strong arm, as he had seem women captured in the Southern Soudan, and lead her away; but Maisie would never be led. She would turn her gray eyes upon him and say, ”d.i.c.k, how selfish you are!” Then his courage would fail him. It would be better, after all, to beg for that kiss.

Maisie looked more than usually kissable as she stepped from the night-mail on to the windy pier, in a gray waterproof and a little gray cloth travelling-cap. The red-haired girl was not so lovely. Her green eyes were hollow and her lips were dry. d.i.c.k saw the trunks aboard, and went to Maisie's side in the darkness under the bridge. The mail-bags were thundering into the forehold, and the red-haired girl was watching them.

”You'll have a rough pa.s.sage tonight,” said d.i.c.k. ”It's blowing outside.

I suppose I may come over and see you if I'm good?”

”You mustn't. I shall be busy. At least, if I want you I'll send for you. But I shall write from Vitry-sur-Marne. I shall have heaps of things to consult you about. Oh, d.i.c.k, you have been so good to me!--so good to me!”

”Thank you for that, dear. It hasn't made any difference, has it?”

”I can't tell a fib. It hasn't--in that way. But don't think I'm not grateful.”

”d.a.m.n the grat.i.tude!” said d.i.c.k, huskily, to the paddle-box.

”What's the use of worrying? You know I should ruin your life, and you'd ruin mine, as things are now. You remember what you said when you were so angry that day in the Park? One of us has to be broken. Can't you wait till that day comes?”

”No, love. I want you unbroken--all to myself.”

Maisie shook her head. ”My poor d.i.c.k, what can I say!”

”Don't say anything. Give me a kiss. Only one kiss, Maisie. I'll swear I won't take any more. You might as well, and then I can be sure you're grateful.”

Maisie put her cheek forward, and d.i.c.k took his reward in the darkness.

It was only one kiss, but, since there was no time-limit specified, it was a long one. Maisie wrenched herself free angrily, and d.i.c.k stood abashed and tingling from head to toe.

”Goodbye, darling. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry. Only--keep well and do good work,--specially the Melancolia. I'm going to do one, too. Remember me to Kami, and be careful what you drink. Country drinking-water is bad everywhere, but it's worse in France. Write to me if you want anything, and good-bye. Say good-bye to the whatever-you-call-um girl, and--can't I have another kiss? No. You're quite right. Goodbye.”

A shout told him that it was not seemly to charge of the mail-bag incline. He reached the pier as the steamer began to move off, and he followed her with his heart.

”And there's nothing--nothing in the wide world--to keep us apart except her obstinacy. These Calais night-boats are much too small. I'll get Torp to write to the papers about it. She's beginning to pitch already.”

Maisie stood where d.i.c.k had left her till she heard a little gasping cough at her elbow. The red-haired girl's eyes were alight with cold flame.

”He kissed you!” she said. ”How could you let him, when he wasn't anything to you? How dared you to take a kiss from him? Oh, Maisie, let's go to the ladies' cabin. I'm sick,--deadly sick.”

”We aren't into open water yet. Go down, dear, and I'll stay here.

I don't like the smell of the engines.... Poor d.i.c.k! He deserved one,--only one. But I didn't think he'd frighten me so.”

d.i.c.k returned to town next day just in time for lunch, for which he had telegraphed. To his disgust, there were only empty plates in the studio.

He lifted up his voice like the bears in the fairy-tale, and Torpenhow entered, looking guilty.

”H's.h.!.+” said he. ”Don't make such a noise. I took it. Come into my rooms, and I'll show you why.”

d.i.c.k paused amazed at the threshold, for on Torpenhow's sofa lay a girl asleep and breathing heavily. The little cheap sailor-hat, the blue-and-white dress, fitter for June than for February, dabbled with mud at the skirts, the jacket trimmed with imitation Astrakhan and ripped at the shoulder-seams, the one-and-elevenpenny umbrella, and, above all, the disgraceful condition of the kid-topped boots, declared all things.

”Oh, I say, old man, this is too bad! You mustn't bring this sort up here. They steal things from the rooms.”

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