The Greatest Works of R. Austin Freeman: 80+ Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). R. Austin Freeman
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drawn the wrong number and you realize that there is no second chance—well, it isn't very inspiriting, is it?"
I had to admit that it was not; and, after a short pause, she continued: "Women are poor dependent creatures, Dr. Jardine; dependent, I mean, for their happiness on the people who surround them."
"But that is true of us all."
"Not quite. A man—like yourself, for instance—has his work and his ambitions that make him independent of others. But, for a woman, whatever pretences she may make as to larger interests in life, a husband, a home and one or two nice children form the real goal of her ambition."
"But you are not a lone spinster, Mrs. Samway," I reminded her.
"No, I am not. But I have no children, no proper home, and not a real friend in the world—unless I may think of you as one."
"I hope you always will," I exclaimed impulsively; for there was, to me, something very pathetic in the evident loneliness of this woman. She must, I felt, be friendless indeed if she must needs appeal for friendship to a comparative stranger like myself.
"I am glad to hear you say that," she replied, "for I am making you bear a friend's burden. I hope you will forgive me for pouring out my complaints to you in this way."
"It isn't difficult," said I, "to bear other people's troubles with fortitude. But if sympathy is any good, believe me, Mrs. Samway, when I tell you that I am really deeply grieved to think that you are getting so much less out of life than you ought. I only wish that I could do something more than sympathize."
"I believe you do," she said. "I felt, at Folkestone, how kind you were—as a good man is to a woman in her moments of weakness. That is why, I suppose, I was impelled to talk to you like this. And that is why," she added, after a little pause, "I felt a pang of envy when I saw you pass with your pretty companion."
I started somewhat at this. Where the deuce could she have seen us near enough to tell whether my companion was pretty or not? I turned the matter over rapidly in my mind, and meanwhile, I said: "I don't quite see why you envied me, Mrs. Samway."
"I didn't say that I envied you," she replied, with a faint smile and the suspicion of a blush.
"Or her either," I retorted. "We are only the merest acquaintances."
My conscience smote me somewhat as I made this outrageous statement, but Mrs. Samway took me up instantly. "Then you've only known her quite a short time?"
The rapidity with which she had jumped to this conclusion fairly took my breath away, and I had answered her question before I was aware of it. "But," I added, "I don't quite see how you arrived at your conclusion."
"I thought," she replied, "that you seemed to like one another very well."
"So we do, I think. But can't acquaintances like one another?"
"Oh, certainly; but if they are a young man and a maiden they are not likely to remain mere acquaintances very long. That was how I argued."
"I see. Very acute of you. By the way, where did you see us? I didn't see you."
"Of course you didn't. Yet you passed quite close to me on the Spaniard's Road, immersed in conversation, and little suspecting that the green eyes of envy were fixed on you."
"Oh, now, Mrs. Samway, I can't have that. They're not green, you know, although what their exact colour is I shouldn't like to say offhand."
"What! Not after that careful inspection?"
"That didn't include the eyes. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if I made another, just to satisfy my curiosity and settle the question for good."
"Oh, do, by all means, if it is such a weighty question."
We both halted and I stared into the clear depths of her singular, pale hazel eyes with an impertinent affectation of profound scrutiny, while she looked up smilingly into mine. Suddenly, to my utter confusion, her eyes filled and she turned away her head. "Oh! please forgive me!" she exclaimed. "I beg your pardon—I do beg your pardon most earnestly for being such a wretched bundle of emotions. You would forgive me if you knew—what I can't tell you."
"There is no need, dear Mrs. Samway," I said very gently, laying my hand on her arm. "Are we not friends? And may I not give you my warmest sympathy without asking too curiously what brings the tears to your eyes?"
I was, in truth, deeply moved, as a young man is apt to be by a pretty woman's tears. But more than this, something whispered to me that my playful impertinence had suddenly brought home to her the void that was in her life; the lack of intimate affection at which she had seemed to hint. And, instantly, all that was masculine in me had risen up with the immemorial instinct of the male in defence of the female; for, whatever her faults may have been, Mrs. Samway was feminine to the finger-tips.
She pressed my hand for a moment and impatiently brushed the tears from her eyes. "I do hope, Dr. Jardine." she said, looking up at me with a smile," that your wife will be a good woman. You'll be a dreadful victim if she isn't, with your quick sympathy and your endless patience with feminine silliness. And now I won't plague you any more with my tantrums. I hope I am not bringing you a great deal out of your way. You do live in this direction, don't you?"
"Yes; and I have been assuming that my direction was yours, too. Is that right? Are you going back to Hampstead Road?"
"Not at once. I'm going to make a call at Highgate first."
"Then you'll want to go up Highgate Rise or Swain's Lane; and I will walk up with you if you'll let me."
"I think my nearest way will be up the little path that leads out of Swain's Lane. You know it, I expect?"
"Yes. It is locally known as Love Lane: it leads to the crest of the hill."
"That is right. You shall see me to the top of it and then I'll take myself off and leave you in peace."
We had by this time crossed Parliament Hill Fields and passed the end of the Highgate Ponds. A few paces more brought us out at the top of the Grove and a few more to the entrance of the rather steep and very narrow lane. For some time Mrs. Samway walked by my side in silence, and, by the reflective way in which she looked at the ground before her, seemed to be wrapped in meditation, which I did not disturb. As we entered the lane, however, she looked up at me thoughtfully and said: "I wonder what you think of me, Dr. Jardine."
It was a fine opening for a compliment, but somehow, compliments seemed out of place, after what had passed between us. I accordingly evaded the question with another. "What do you suppose I think of you?"
"I don't know. I hardly know what I think of myself. You would be quite justified in thinking me rather forward, to waylay you in this deliberate fashion."
"Well, I don't. Your curiosity about that Folkestone affair seems most natural and reasonable."
"I'm glad you don't think me forward," she said; "but, as to my curiosity, I am beginning to doubt whether it was that alone that determined me of a sudden to come here and talk to you. I half suspect that I was feeling a little more solitary than usual, and that some instinct told me that you would be kind to me and say nice things and pet me just a little—as you have done."
I was deeply touched by her pathetic little confession; so deeply that I could find nothing to say in return. "You don't think any the worse of me," she continued, "for coming to you and begging a little sympathy and friendship?"
As she spoke, she looked up very wistfully and earnestly in my face, and rested her hand for a moment on my arm. I took it in mine and drew her arm under my own as I replied: "Of course I don't. Only I think it a wonder and a shame that my poor friendship and sympathy should be worth the consideration of a woman like you."
She pressed my arm slightly, and, after a little interval, said in a low voice with just the suspicion of a tremor in it: "You have been very kind to me, Dr. Jardine; more kind than you know. I am very, very grateful to you for taking what was really an intrusion so nicely."
"It was not in the least an