Part 18 (1/2)

Mr. Weil shook his head decidedly.

”Not by any means. You must not act with undue haste. Mr. Fern would say she was too young to think of matrimony, a proposition you could not successfully dispute. Besides, should he happen to give his consent and appoint a week from Wednesday for the happy occasion, see what a mess it would put you in.”

The suggestion caused the brightest of smiles to illumine the countenance of the listener.

”It would make me the happiest of mortals!” he cried. ”There is nothing that could prevent my summoning the clergyman and securing the prize I desire.”

Mr. Weil grunted.

”H--m! And in the meanwhile what would become of your great novel?”

This question brought a sober pause to the young novelist.

”I could write it after my wedding,” he answered, finally.

”Could you? You could write nothing at all then--nothing that any one would pay a cent to read. I have told you from the start that what you want is a _grande pa.s.sion_, something to stir your soul to its depths.

You are on the verge of that experience. Already you have had a glimpse of what it will be like. For the first time the touch of a woman's fingers has driven sleep from your eyelids. No, you didn't tell me you laid awake all night, but I saw it by looking at you. You can shut yourself up in your room now, and rhapsodize over the dear face, the lovely mouth, the soft voice of your beloved. In another week, if this keeps on, you can write like a combination of George Eliot (after she met Lewes) and Amelie Rives (before her marriage). A month later, Gouger might rave over your productions, for you will be on the Matterhorn of bliss unsatisfied.”

A slight laugh, at his own excess of description, issued from the lips of Mr. Weil, but the countenance of his companion was as firm as a rock.

”You are right,” said Roseleaf, gravely. ”Already I see the vast difference between this sensation of love and the thing I imagined it to be when I wrote those silly pages that Cutt & Slashem did so well to reject. But I am torn between two desires. I want to write my novel--until yesterday I thought no wish could be so great. And I also want my wife.” He breathed the word with a simple reverence that affected even the flinty heart of his hearer. ”I shall never rest easy until I find her wholly mine, to love, honor and cherish while G.o.d gives me breath!”

The hand of the elder man dropped heavily on the table by his side.

”_Good!_” he exclaimed. ”_Very_ good! You could not have said it better.

There is an opportunity before you to accomplish both of these things. I only wish to impress upon you the fact that they must come in the order I have indicated, or one of them will never come at all. Write your story while the fever of pa.s.sion is on you. The dead calm of married life would only bring the sort of novel that the shelves are already piled with, nauseating to the public and a drug in the hands of the publishers.”

Roseleaf doubted the full correctness of these conclusions. He thought, with that dear girl by his side, he could write with all the fervor of a sweetheart, for his affection was to have no boundary, no limit, no end.

But he had a high opinion of the abilities of Mr. Weil, and he had no idea of disputing the conclusions of that wise guide.

”Do you think she will accept me?” he asked, wistfully, returning to the main question. ”It came so sudden, and there was very little said, and it was late; and then Hannibal came after her, and she went into the house. Everything was left in a state of uncertainty.”

”Did nothing show whether you were indifferent to her?” was the wily interrogation that followed. ”Usually I believe something conveys the sweet word 'hope' to the waiting one. And what do you say about Hannibal? That he came to call your charmer and took her away from you?”

Without reserve the young man repeated what had happened. Archie seemed deeply interested, but whatever his thoughts he did not express them at the time.

”And that reminds me of another thing,” said Roseleaf. ”Have you noticed anything strange about Mr. Fern?”

”Yes,” said Mr. Weil, ”I have noticed. I wondered if you had done the same. Have you discovered what the trouble is?”

”No, and Daisy doesn't know, either. Indeed, she is much distressed about it. Remember, this is a secret between us, for perhaps I had no right to talk of their affairs. He is in a state of great depression, and as he is so regular in his habits I can't imagine what to lay it to.

You are so shrewd, couldn't you find out?”

Mr. Weil rose and took a few paces up and down the room.

”You are the fellow to do that, not I,” he said, presently. ”Yes, hear me out. You are in a sense a member of his family, and would have a natural right to allude to the state of his health. Then, if you were to put in a word about Miss Daisy--why, you might kill several birds with one stone.”

Roseleaf looked much puzzled.