The Forerunner Part 29

Johnnie tugged at a bureau drawer. "He keeps the water in here!" he said, and before she could stop him he had out a little box with bits of looking-gla.s.s in it, which soon became lakes and rivers in his clay continent.

Mrs. Leland put them back afterward, admiring the fine quality and goodly number of garments in that drawer, and their perfect order. Her husband had been a man who made a chowder of his bureau drawers, and who expected her to find all his studs and put them in for him.

"A man like this would be no trouble at all," she thought for a moment--but then she remembered other things and set her mouth hard.

"Not for mine!" she said determinedly.

By and by he came back, serene as ever, friendly and unpresuming.

"Aren't you going to tell me why you don't smoke?" she suddenly demanded of him on another quiet dusky afternoon when tea was before them.

He seemed so impersonal, almost remote, though nicer than ever to Johnny; and Mrs. Leland rather preferred the personal note in conservation.

"Why of course I am," he replied cordially. "That's easy," and he fumbled in his inner pocket.

"Is that where you keep your reasons?" she mischievously inquired.

"It's where I keep yours," he promptly answered, producing the little notebook. "Now look here--I've got these all answered--you won't be able to hold to one of 'em after this. May I sit by you and explain?"

She made room for him on the sofa amiably enough, but defied him to convince her. "Go ahead," she said cheerfully.

"First," he read off, "Previous Marriage. This is not a sufficient objection. Because you have been married you now know what to choose and what to avoid. A girl is comparatively helpless in this matter; you are armed. That your first marriage was unhappy is a reason for trying it again. It is not only that you are better able to choose, but that by the law of chances you stand to win next time. Do you admit the justice of this reasoning?"

"I don't admit anything," she said. "I'm waiting to ask you a question."

"Ask it now."

"No--I'll wait till you are all through. Do go on."

"'Second--The Boy,'" he continued. "Now Mrs. Leland, solely on the boy's account I should advise you to marry again. While he is a baby a mother is enough, but the older he grows the more he will need a father.

Of course you should select a man the child could love--a man who could love the child."

"I begin to suspect you of deep double-dyed surrept.i.tious designs, Mr.

Olmstead. You know Johnnie loves you dearly. And you know I won't marry you," she hastily added.

"I'm not asking you to--now, Mrs. Leland. I did, in good faith, and I would again if I thought I had the shadow of a chance--but I'm not at present. Still, I'm quite willing to stand as an instance. Now, we might resume, on that basis. Objection one does not really hold against me--now does it?"

He looked at her cheerily, warmly, openly; and in his clean, solid strength and tactful kindness he was so unspeakably different from the dark, fascinating slender man who had become a nightmare to her youth, that she felt in her heart he was right--so far. "I won't admit a thing," she said sweetly. "But, pray go on."

He went on, unabashed. "'Second--Boy,' Now if you married me I should consider the boy as an added attraction. Indeed--if you do marry again--someone who doesn't want the boy--I wish you'd give him to me. I mean it. I think he loves me, and I think I could be of real service to the child."

He seemed almost to have forgotten her, and she watched him curiously.

"Now, to go on," he continued. "'Third-Profession.' As to your profession," said he slowly, clasping his hands over one knee and gazing at the dark soft-colored rug, "if you married me, and gave up your profession I should find it a distinct loss, I should lose my favorite actress."

She gave a little start of surprise.

"Didn't you know how much I admire your work?" he said. "I don't hang around the stage entrance--there are plenty of chappies to do that; and I don't always occupy a box and throw bouquets--I don't like a box anyhow. But I haven't missed seeing you in any part you've played yet--some of 'em I've seen a dozen times. And you're growing--you'll do better work still. It is sometimes a little weak in the love parts--seems as if you couldn't quite take it seriously--couldn't let yourself go--but you'll grow. You'll do better--I really think--after you're married "

She was rather impressed by this, but found it rather difficult to say anything; for he was not looking at her at all. He took up his notebook again with a smile.

"So--if you married me, you would be more than welcome to go on with your profession. I wouldn't stand in your way any more than I do now.

'Fourth--Freedom,'" he read slowly. "That is easy in one way--hard in another. If you married me,"--She stirred resentfully at this constant reference to their marriage; but he seemed purely hypothetical in tone; "_I_ wouldn't interfere with your freedom any. Not of my own will. But if you ever grew to love me--or if there were children--it would make _some_ difference. Not much. There mightn't be any children, and it isn't likely you'd ever love me enough to have that stand in your way.

Otherwise than that you'd have freedom--as much as now. A little more; because if you wanted to make a foreign tour, or anything like that, I'd take care of Johnnie. 'Fifth--Lovers.'" Here he paused leaning forward with his chin in his hands, his eyes bent down. She could see the broad heavy shoulders, the smooth fit of the well-made, coat, the spotless collar, and the fine, strong, clean-cut neck. As it happened she particularly disliked the neck of the average man--either the cordy, the beefy or the adipose, and particularly liked this kind, firm and round like a Roman's, with the hair coming to a clean-cut edge and stopping there.

"As to lovers," he went on--"I hesitate a little as to what to say about that. I'm afraid I shall shock you. Perhaps I'd better leave out that one."

"As insuperable?" she mischievously asked.

"No, as too easy," he answered.

"You'd better explain," she said.

"Well then--it's simply this: as a man--I myself admire you more because so many other men admire you. I don't sympathize with them, any!--Not for a minute. Of course, if you loved any one of them you wouldn't be my wife. But if you were my wife--"

"Well?" said she, a little breathlessly. "You're very irritating! What would you do? Kill 'em all? Come--If I were your wife?--"

"If you were my wife--" he turned and faced her squarely, his deep eyes blazing steadily into hers, "In the first place the more lovers you had that you didn't love the better I'd be pleased."

"And if I did?" she dared him.

"If you were my wife," he purused with perfect quietness, "you would never love anyone else."

There was a throbbing silence.

"'Sixth--Housekeeping,'" he read.

At this she rose to her feet as if released. "Sixth and last and all-sufficient!" she burst out, giving herself a little shake as if to waken. "Final and conclusive and admitting no reply!"--I will not keep house for any man. Never! Never!! Never!!!"

"Why should you?" he said, as he had said it before; "Why not board?"

"I wouldn't board on any account!"

"But you are boarding now. Aren't you comfortable here?"

"O yes, perfectly comfortable. But this is the only boarding-house I ever saw that was comfortable."

"Why not go on as we are--if you married me?"

She laughed shrilly. "With the other boarders round them and a whole floor laid between," she parodied gaily. "No, sir! _If_ I ever married again--and I wont--I'd want a home of my own--a whole house--and have it run as smoothly and perfectly as this does. With no more care than I have now!"

"If I could give you a whole house, like this, and run it for you as smoothly and perfectly as this one--then would you marry me?" he asked.

"O, I dare say I would," she said mockingly.

"My dear," said he, "I have kept this house--for you--for three years."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, flus.h.i.+ngly.

"I mean that it is my business," he answered serenely. "Some men run hotels and some restaurants: I keep a number of boarding houses and make a handsome income from them. All the people are comfortable--I see to that. I planned to have you use these rooms, had the dumbwaiter run to the top so you could have meals comfortably there. You didn't much like the first housekeeper. I got one you liked better; cooks to please you, maids to please you. I have most seriously tried to make you comfortable. When you didn't like a boarder I got rid of him--or her--they are mostly all your friends now. Of course if we were married, we'd fire 'em all." His tone was perfectly calm and business like. "You should keep your special apartments on top; you should also have the floor above this, a larger bedroom, drawing-room, and bath and private parlor for you;--I'd stay right here as I am now--and when you wanted me--I'd be here."