PAGE 12
Married
by
“Yes.”
“And the fireflies beginning to flash in the trees?”
“Yes.”
“And that sad, deep red in the West, where the sun had gone down?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Marjorie, crushing her cheek to his neck.
“Now listen to me, honey: That water running over the bright stones in that little river; the grass spreading out, soft and green, over the slope; the cow-bells tinkling; the smoke curling up from your mother’s chimney; your father looking like a patriarch out of Bible days coming home — all the soft sounds, all the sweet odors, all the carolling of birds — where do you suppose all that is now?”
“I don’t know,” replied Marjorie, anticipating some thing complimentary.
“It’s here,” he replied easily, drawing her close and petting her.”It’s done up in one little body here in my arms. Your voice, your hair, your eyes, your pretty body, your emotional moods — where do you suppose they come from? Nature has a chemistry all her own. She’s like a druggist sometimes, compounding things. She takes a little of the beauty of the sunset, of the sky, of the fields, of the water, of the flowers, of dreams and aspirations and simplicity and patience, and she makes a girl. And some parents somewhere have her, and then they name her “Marjorie” and then they raise her nicely and innocently, and then a bold, bad man like Duer comes along and takes her, and then she cries because she thinks he doesn’t see anything in her. Now, isn’t that funny?”
“O-oh!” exclaimed Marjorie, melted by the fire of his feeling for beauty, the quaintness and sweetness of his diction, the subtlety of his compliment, the manner in which he coaxed her patiently out of herself.
“Oh, I love you, Duer dear! I love you, love you, love you! Oh, you’re wonderful! You won’t ever stop loving me, will you, dearest? You’ll always be true to me, won’t you, Duer? You’ll never leave me, will you? I’ll always be your little Margie, won’t I? Oh, dear, I’m so happy!” and she hugged him closer and closer.
“No, no,” and “Yes, yes,” assured Duer, as the occasion demanded, as he stared patiently into the fire. This was not real passion to him, not real love in any sense, or at least he did not feel that it was. He was too skeptical of himself, his life and love, however much he might sympathize with and be drawn to her. He was questioning himself at this very time as to what it was that caused him to talk so. Was it sympathy, love of beauty, power of poetic expression, delicacy of sentiment? — certainly nothing more. Wasn’t it this that was already causing him to be hailed as a great musician? He believed so. Could he honestly say that he loved Marjorie? No, he was sure that he couldn’t, now that he had her and realized her defects, as well as his own — his own principally. No; he liked her, sympathized with her, felt sorry for her. That ability of his to paint a picture in notes and musical phrases, to extract the last ringing delicacy out of the keys of a piano, was at the bottom of this last description. To Marjorie, for the moment, it might seem real enough, but he –he was thinking of the truth of the picture she had painted of herself. It was all so — every word she said. She was not really suited to these people. She did not understand them; she never would. He would always be soothing and coaxing, and she would always be crying and worrying.