Chapter XXVIII: A Tale Apart

Harry Ringrose used sometimes to complain of his life from a literary point of view. This piece of ingratitude he was wont to couch in the technical terminology with which his conversation was rather freely garnished. He acknowledged that his "African horse had good legs," as Gordon Lowndes would remind him; it was the later years that set him grumbling. In Harry's opinion they were full of "good stuff," which he longed to "handle"; but the facts were so badly "constructed" (as facts will be) that all the king's horses and all the king's men could not pull them to pieces and put them together again without spoiling them. Then there were the "unities": our author was not quite clear as to their meaning, but he had an uncomfortable presentiment that they would prove another difficulty. And the "dramatic interest" lacked continuity. It was also of too many different kinds. The play began in one theatre, went on in another, and finished across the river. Worst of all was the "love story:" it disappeared for years, and then came altogether in a lump.

This was true. It did. And if Harry Ringrose had essayed the task to which his innate subjectivity and the want of better ideas often drew him, there is no saying how much he would have made of scenes which the impersonal historian is content simply to mention. Of such was the meeting which took place within a few hours of that other meeting in the Eastbourne lodgings. Yet this proved to be the beginning of a new story rather than the end of an old one, which poor Harry meant it to be, as he returned alone to town the same afternoon, and drove straight to Berkeley Square.

His excitement is not to be described. It seemed but a day since the leave-taking in the little shabby drawing-room on Richmond Hill. He remembered his own words so clearly. He remembered her replies. There were no more mysteries now; there were no more quarrels; and he cared still, as he had always done, Heaven knew! If only she still cared for him--if only there was nobody else--what was there to hinder it for another minute?

Nothing, one would have thought: yet it was dusk when Harry rang the bell in a shivering glow of hope and fear, and nearly midnight when he came away downcast and disheartened: and during all those hours but one he had been pressing an unsuccessful suit: though he had her word for it that there was nobody else.

What was there, then?

Those six years which had once given Harry Ringrose a misleading sense of safety.

And literally nothing else!

* * * * *

He called again next day. He hindered the removal on the plea of making himself useful. And in season and out of season he tried his luck in vain.

In the broad light of day he was met by a new and awful argument: his beloved showed him what she declared to be a genuine and flagrant crow's-foot; and he only a boy of twenty-five!

The removal was soon over, and for Harry the town emptied itself just as it was filling for everybody else; so then he took to writing tremendous letters; and an answer was never wanting in the course of a day or so; only it was never the answer he besought.

Her fondness for him was obvious and not denied; only she had got it into her head that those six years between them were an insuperable bar, that a boy like Harry could not possibly know his own mind, and, therefore, that it would be manifestly unfair to take him at his word.

So the thing resolved itself into a question of time; and, in the midst of other changes in his life, Harry did his best to bury himself in his work; but his comic verses were as much as he could manage, and for several weeks in succession these were the feeblest feature in _Tommy Tiddler_.

Then he went to her in despair.

"I can't stand it any longer!"

"Then give it up."

"I've waited five months!"

"I said six."

"Surely five is enough to show whether a fellow knows his own mind?"

"Some of it may be mere obstinacy."

"Well, then, it's playing the very mischief with my work."

"Then what _will_ it be when we are married?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean to say if we ever are."

"Fanny, you said _when_!"

"I meant _if_."

"But you _said_ WHEN!!"

* * * * *

It was the thin edge of the wedge.

* * * * *

This protracted siege had other sides. It was not a joke to either party. Yet each tried to treat it as one. The man tried to conceal his disappointment, his inevitable chagrin; the woman, her deep and selfless anxiety as to whether, in all the years before them, he would be happy always--truly happy--happy as a man could be. She looked so far ahead, and he such a little way. Sometimes they told each other their thoughts; sometimes they were less happy than lovers ought to be; but all these months their inner lives were very full. They did not stagnate in each other's love. They lived intensely and they felt acutely. And that is why, if Harry Ringrose were to tell his own love story, and tell it honestly, it would be a tale apart.

* * * * *

When the time came there was some little heart-burning as to who should perform the ceremony. Harry had set his heart on being married by his dear Mr. Innes. This man still filled a unique place in his life. Indeed the many friendships that he had struck up in the last year or two only emphasised the value of that friend of friends: there was no one like Mr. Innes. They had not seen a great deal of each other during these last years; but they had never quite lost touch; and of the many influences to which the younger man's nature responded only too readily, as strings to every wind, there was none so constant or so helpful as that of the old master to whom he was now content to be as a boy all his days. It was not that he had paid very many visits to the school at Guildford: it was that each had left its own indelible impress on his mind, its own high resolves and noble yearnings in his heart. So it was natural enough that Harry Ringrose should want that man to marry him to whom he vowed that he owed such shreds of virtue as he possessed. And Fanny wished it too, for she had been with Harry to Guildford, and caught his enthusiasm, and knelt by his side one summer evening in the chapel where he had knelt as a boy. But it was not to be; there was a clergy-man in the family; it would be impossible to pass him over.

Harry thought it would be not only possible but highly desirable, since his Uncle Spencer disapproved so cordially of Gordon Lowndes; but Mrs. Ringrose (with whom her son had warm words on the subject) very justly observed that such disapproval had not once been expressed since the engagement was announced; nor had her brother uttered one syllable to mar her own great happiness in her husband's return, but had shown a more tender sympathy in her joy than in her trouble; after which he must marry them, or they could be married without their mother. The matter was settled by a private appeal to Innes himself, who sided against Harry, and by a note from Mr. Walthew, in which that gentleman accepted the responsibility with fewer reservations than Harry had ever known him make before.

"To tell you the truth," wrote Uncle Spencer, "it is against all my principles to make engagements so many weeks ahead; but every rule has its exception, and I shall be very happy to officiate on December 1st, if I am spared, and if it has not seemed good to you meanwhile to postpone the event. I must say that in my poor judgment a longer engagement would have shown greater wisdom: your Aunt and I waited some five years and a quarter! As you say that you are determined to depend (almost entirely) on your own efforts, it would have been well, in our opinion, to follow our example, and to wait until your literary position is more established than your warmest admirer can consider it to be at present. At the same time, my dear Henry, if marriage leads you into a less frivolous vein of writing (such as I once hoped you were about to adopt), I for one shall be thankful--if only you are also able to make both ends meet."

Gordon Lowndes read this letter with such uproarious delight that Harry was sorry he had shown it to him.

"There's that brother of mine," said he; "the chap we wired to for the tenner; _he_ would want a finger in the pie if he knew. But he's forgotten our existence since we left Berkeley Square, and I'm hanged if I remember his again. Besides, he's as High as your uncle's Low, and they might set on each other in the church. On the whole I'm sorry it isn't to be your schoolmaster friend. I want to meet that man, Ringrose. I want to turn that school of his into a Limited Liability Company."

* * * * *

It took place very quietly on a bright keen winter's day. Harry's parents were there, and Gordon Lowndes, and another. Mr. Walthew performed the ceremony in a slow and sober fashion which added something to its solemnity; the church was very still and empty; and in one awful pause the bridegroom's voice deserted him, in the mere fulness of his boyish heart. But the hand that he was holding pressed his with the familiar, firm, kind pressure, and it was from his heart of hearts that the lagging words burst:

"I will!"

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