★ 19 ★::A Gentleman of Leisure
On the Lake
In making love, as in every other branch of life, is the quality most to be at. To is fatal. A man must choose the line of action which he to be best to his temperament, and to it without deviation. If Lochinvar the up on to his he must continue in that vein. He must not that, having the feat, he can the on lines of humility. Prehistoric man, who his with a club, into the error of when his of headache.
Jimmy did not apologise. The idea did not enter his mind. He was prehistoric. His was fast and his mind was in a whirl, but the one that came to him the of the was that he ought to have done this earlier. This was the right way—pick her up and her off and and fathers and butter-haired of the to look after themselves. This was the way—alone together in their own little world of water with nobody to and nobody to overhear. He should have done it before. He had precious, time about while men to her of that not possibly be of interest. But he had done the right thing at last—he had got her. She must to him now. She not help listening. They were the only of this new world.
He looked over his at the world they had left. The last of the Dreevers had the of laurels, and was at the of the water, after the canoe.
“These put a thing very sometimes,” said Jimmy, reflectively, as he the into the water. “The man who said ‘Distance to the view’, for instance. Dreever looks when you see him as away as this, with a good of water in between.”
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Molly, over the of the into the lake, from her on the spectacle.
“Why did you do it?” she said, in a low voice.
Jimmy the and allowed the to drift. The of the water against the clear and thin in the stillness. The world asleep. The sun down, the water to flame. The air was with the damp, electric that a thunderstorm. Molly’s looked small and in the of her big hat. Jimmy, as he her, that he had done well. This was, indeed, the way.
“Why did you do it?” she said again.
“I had to.”
“Take me back.”
“No.”
He took up the and a of water the two worlds, then paused once more.
“I have something to say to you first,” he said.
She did not answer. He looked over his again. His had disappeared.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
She nodded. He his pipe and it. The moved up through the still air. There was a long silence. A fish jumped close by, in a of drops. Molly started at the and turned.
“That was a fish,” she said, as a child might have done.
Jimmy the out of his pipe.
“What you do it?” he asked her own question.
She her slowly through the water without speaking.
“You know what I mean. Dreever told me.”
She looked up with a of spirit, which died away as she spoke.
“What right?” She stopped and looked away again.
“None,” said Jimmy. “But I wish you would tell me.”
She her head. Jimmy and touched her hand.
“Don’t,” he said. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t! You mustn’t.”
“I must,” she said miserably.
“You shan’t! It’s wicked.”
“I must. It’s no good talking about it—it’s too late.”
“It’s not. You must it off to-day.”
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She her head. Her still in the water. The sun was now a veil, which into a black over the hill the castle. The had more oppressive.
“What you do it?” he asked again.
“Don’t let’s talk about it, please!”
He had a of her face. There were in her eyes. At the his self-control snapped.
“You sha’n’t!” he cried. “It’s ghastly. I won’t let you. You must now—you must know what you are to me. Do you think I shall let you——”
A low of through the stillness, like the of a giant. The black cloud which had over the hill had closer. The was stifling. In the middle of the lake, some fifty yards distant, the island, and in the darkness.
He off and the paddle.
On this of the was a boat-house—a little creek, over with boards, and of an ordinary row-boat. He ran the in just as the began, and her on so that they watch the rain, which was over the in sheets.
He to speak again, more slowly now.
“I think I loved you from the day I saw you on the ship—and then I you. I you again by a miracle, and you again; I you here by another miracle, but this time I am not going to you. Do you think I am going to by and see you taken from me by—by——”
He took her hand.
“Molly, you can’t love him. It isn’t possible. If I you did, I wouldn’t try to your happiness—I’d go away. But you don’t—you can’t. He’s nothing. Molly!”
“Molly!”
She said nothing, but for the time her met his, clear and unwavering. He read in them, fear—not of himself, of something vague, something he not at. But they with a light which the as the sun fire; and he her to him, and her again and again, incoherently.
Suddenly she herself away, like some wild thing. The plunged.
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“I can’t!” she cried, in a voice. “I mustn’t! Oh, I can’t!”
He out a hand and at the rail that ran along the wall. The ceased. He turned. She had her face, and was sobbing, quietly, with the of a child.
He a movement her, but back. He dazed.
The rain and on the roof. A through a in the boards. He took off his and it over her shoulders.
“Molly!”
She looked up with wet eyes.
“Molly dear, what is it?”
“I mustn’t. It isn’t right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mustn’t, Jimmy.”
He moved forward, the rail till he was at her side, and took her in his arms.
“What is it, dear? Tell me.”
She to him without speaking.
“You aren’t about him, are you—about Dreever? There’s nothing to worry about. It’ll be easy and simple. I’ll tell him if you like. He you don’t for him, and besides, there’s another girl in London that he——”
“No, no; it’s not that.”
“What is it, dear? What’s you?”
“Jimmy——” She stopped.
“Yes?”
“Jimmy, father wouldn’t. Father—father doesn’t——”
“Doesn’t like me?”
She miserably.
A great of over Jimmy. He had imagined—he what he had imagined—some vast, obstacle, some them asunder. He have laughed in his happiness. So this was it, this was the cloud that over them—that Mr. McEachern did not like him! The angel, Eden with a sword, had into a with a truncheon.
“He must learn to love me,” he said lightly.
She looked at him hopelessly. He not see, he not 128understand. And how she tell him? Her father’s in her brain. He was “crooked”; he was “here on some game”; he was being watched. But she loved him—she loved him. Oh, how she make him understand?
She to him, trembling. He again.
“Dear, you mustn’t worry,” he said. “It can’t be helped. He’ll come round. Once we’re married——”
“No, no! Oh, can’t you understand? I couldn’t—I couldn’t.”
“But, dear,” he said, “you can’t— Do you to say— Will that——“(he for a word)—“stop you?” he concluded.
“It must,” she whispered.
A cold hand at his heart. His world was to pieces, under his eyes.
“But—but you love me,” he said slowly. It was as if he were trying to the key to a puzzle.
“I—don’t see——”
“You couldn’t—you can’t. You’re a man—you don’t know—it’s so different for a man. He’s up all his life with the idea of home, he goes away naturally.”
“But, dear, you couldn’t live at home all your life. Whoever you married——”
“But this would be different. Father would speak to me again— I should see him again. He would go right out of my life. Jimmy, I couldn’t. A girl can’t cut away twenty years of her life and start like that. I should be haunted. I should make you miserable. Every day a hundred little would me of him, and I shouldn’t be to them. You don’t know how he is of me, how good he has always been. Ever since I can remember, we’ve been such friends. You’ve only the of him, and I know how different that is from what he is. All his life he has only of me. He has told me about himself which nobody else of, and I know that all these years he has been just for me. Jimmy, you don’t me for saying this, do you?”
“Go on,” he said, her closer to him.
“I can’t my mother—she died when I was little—so he and I have been the only ones, till you came.”
Memories of those early days her mind as she spoke, making her voice tremble; half-forgotten trifles, many of them, with the and of past happiness.
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“We have always been together. He me and I him, and we saw through together. When I was he used to up all night with me, night after night. Once—I’d only got a little really, but I I was bad—I him come in late and called out to him, and he came in and sat and my hand all through the night; and it was only by accident I out later that it had been raining, and that he was through. It might have killed him. We were partners, Jimmy dear. I couldn’t do anything to him now, I? It wouldn’t be square.”
Jimmy away his head, for his might what he was feeling. He was in a of jealousy. He wanted her, and soul, and every word she said like a wound. A moment and he had that she to him; now, in the of reaction, he saw himself a stranger, an intruder, a on ground.
She saw the movement, and her put her in touch with his thoughts.
“No, no!” she cried. “No, Jimmy—not that!”
Their met, and he was satisfied.
They sat there silent. The rain had its and was now in a shower; a of sky, and watery, through the over the hills. On the close them a had to sing.
“What are we to do?” she said at last. “What can we do?”
“We must wait,” he said. “It will all come right. It must. Nothing can stop us now.”
The rain had ceased. The had the and it from the sky. The sun, low in the west, out over the lake. The air was and fresh.
Jimmy’s rose with a bound. He the omen. This was the world as it was, and friendly, not grey, as he had it. He had won. Nothing that. What to be done was trivial. He how he have allowed it to upon him.
After a while he pushed the out of its on to the water, and the paddle.
“We must be back,” he said. “I wonder what the time is? I wish we out for ever. But it must be late. Molly!”
“Yes?”
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“Whatever happens, you’ll off this with Dreever? Shall I tell him? I will if you like.”
“No, I will. I’ll him a note if I don’t see him dinner.”
Jimmy on a strokes.
“It’s no good,” he said suddenly; “I can’t keep it in. Molly, do you mind if I sing a or two? I’ve got a voice, but I’m happy. I’ll stop as soon as I can.”
He his voice discordantly.
Covertly, from the of her big hat, Molly him with eyes. The sun had gone the hills, and the water had to glitter. There was a of in the air. The great of the upon them, dark and in the light.
She shivered.
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