MYSELF AND I

For an hour I have looked at the unsullied page of this diary. It amused me to turn back over its pages, but when I started to write the words would not come.

A liar is one who by direction or indirection seeks to deceive. The man who lies to an enemy is a diplomat; the man who lies to give harmless play to his imagination is an artist; the man who lies to his friends for the purpose of taking advantage of them is a scoundrel, and the man who lies to himself is a fool.

After re-reading this diary I am convinced that I belong in the last cla.s.s.

I have been lying to myself for the past three weeks. With a smile on my lips I have looked myself in the eye and told the one falsehood over and over again. I have been the a.s.s fondly to believe I told it with such detail and verisimilitude as to carry conviction to myself. I told it for the last time a few minutes ago.

My alter ego laughed in my face. I dislike to be jeered at, even by myself. I humbly apologised. I promised to reform and confess, and here is the confession:

I am in love. I have been in love for three weeks. It is not necessary to say with whom, since I and myself both know, but in order that the crimes of evasion and equivocation may no longer be charged against me, I frankly record that I am in love with Grace Harding!

There you have it, John Henry Smith! Head it over carefully. Does that suit you? With it goes my humble apology. Does not this const.i.tute the amende honorable? What did you say? Ah, it does! Good Shake hands, old fellow! Now let's sit quietly down and talk this matter over, and see how we stand. I wish you to help me.

The situation is slightly less complicated. It is settled that I am in love with Grace Harding. What's that? "_We_ are in love with Grace Harding," you say. Very well, old fellow, have it your own way. You are the only one in the world with whom I shall refuse to become jealous.

They say that two heads are better than one, even if one is a blockhead--meaning me, of course.

_We_ are in love with Grace Harding. Well, what if I did say it before? I like to keep on saying it. It's the best thing I have written since I started this stupid diary. _We_ are in love with Grace Harding.

When you come to think of it, John, we cannot take any great amount of credit for that. It is not startling, and I'm awfully afraid it is not original. Now, as I look at it, it would be much more remarkable if I--I beg your pardon, John Henry Smith--it would be much more remarkable if we were _not_ in love with Grace Harding. Did you ever think of that?

Falling in love with Grace Harding was the easiest thing we ever did, Smith, and you know it. We are ent.i.tled to no more credit for it than for admiring one of those glorious sunsets, when the eye is ravished by blended and ever-changing tints of cloud, sky, and enchanted landscape.

We do not boast, Smith, that we love the songs of the birds, or the graceful bend of the willow as it yields to the summer's breeze; we do not call attention to our worship of the early morn, when the dew sparkles like swarming diamonds on gra.s.s and flower, and bridal veils of mist float over the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the hills.

We loved her, Smith, from the moment she dawned upon us the day her father made that wonderful drive. We loved her while she was playing that first game of golf--and now we can talk frankly with each other, I will confess I never saw a woman play worse than she did that day. But the fact that our admiration grew during every moment of that weird and wonderful exhibition of how not to hit a ball, proves we were in love.

You never denied it, you say? I know you didn't; and it's to your credit.

But does she love us, Smith? You don't know? Of course you don't know, but what do you think about it? You hope, she does, you say. Smith you're as stupid as I am! Certainly you hope she does, and so do I, but have you any reason to believe she does? Why don't you say something?

"She is pleasant to us, smiles at us, and seems to enjoy our society,"

you say. Well, what of it? What does that prove? I could say the same thing of Miss Ross, Miss Dangerfield, and even of Miss Lawrence. I am not so conceited as to imagine these charming girls are in love with us because they laugh, smile, and seem to be pleased at our attempts to entertain them.

Carter could make claim that Miss Harding was in love with him on the same plea. And speaking of Carter, I should like your opinion of him.

I'll tell you frankly I don't like the way he acts.

Mind you, Smith, I'm not going to say anything against Carter, and I shall not permit you to. Carter has as much right to fall in love with Grace Harding as we have, and for that matter I'm afraid he has more claim in that direction. If you will recollect, it was Carter who introduced us to Miss Harding.

I have no idea when and where he met her. Carter is a chap who attends to his own affairs and who does not permit others to interfere in them.

It is not likely he will tell us, and I shall never ask him.

Mr. Harding sometimes calls him "Jim." That goes to prove that Carter has known the Hardings for a long time. Harding once spoke of knowing Carter's father.

That is not what worries me. It is Carter's air and whole att.i.tude which puts me on guard. Carter must know, John Henry Smith, that we pay an unusual amount of attention to Miss Harding, and sometimes I almost imagine he has surmised what I have confessed to you, but it does not seem to annoy or concern him in the least. It is as if he knew just how far we can go. It strikes me as the confidence bred of a.s.sured supremacy, but, of course, I may be in error, and sincerely hope I am, for your sake as well as mine.

Carter and Miss Harding are much together. They take long walks, and both seem very happy in one another's company.

I stumbled across them last evening while looking for a lost ball in the old graveyard. They were on a scat under a weeping willow tree, and were sitting very close together. Carter was reading something and she was looking over his shoulder. They were laughing when they looked up and saw me poking about in the gra.s.s with my club.

"h.e.l.lo, Smith!" drawled Carter, looking at me through that monocle of his. "Lost your ball? How many times must I tell you that the proper way to play this hole is to drive over this sacred spot and not into it?"

Miss Harding drew slightly away from him when she saw me--at least I imagined so--and smiled and looked innocent as could be.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Miss Harding ... smiled and looked innocent as could be"]

What I am getting at, John Henry Smith, is this: We would not dare ask Miss Harding to sit with us in such a lonely and secluded spot, and I think we would have been more embarra.s.sed than was Carter at so unexpected an interruption. It simply goes to prove that--well, I don't know just what it does prove.

Chilvers told me a year ago he had heard Carter was engaged to be married to a very pretty and immensely wealthy girl. I did not think much of it at the time, having only pa.s.sing interest in whether Carter married or remained single. The other day I asked Chilvers if he had heard anything more about Carter's engagement, and he looked at me rather oddly and said he had not. He said his wife might know something about it, and advised me to ask her or Carter.

Suppose they were engaged, John Henry Smith? That would settle it, you say. You quit too easily. If you desert me in this extremity I shall go ahead on my own account. I love her; I must have her! Let Carter fall in love with someone else!

For some malignant reason this man Carter has persistently stood between me and the realisation of my cherished ambitions. He has won cup after cup and medal after medal which would have fallen to me were it not for his devilish combination of skill and luck. But he shall not thwart my love! He shall not; I swear it; he shall not! Smile, John Henry Smith, you do not love her as I do.

"Why should she fall in love with me, or wish to marry me? What have I done in the world, or what do I expect to do which will compel that admiration and respect which is the basis of true love?"

Those are harsh questions, John Henry Smith. I tell you I love her; is not that sufficient? She is not the woman to weigh a man in the same scales with his money, his miles of railroad track, and such material a.s.sets. I would love her if her father were still a section boss.

And I _am_ going to do something in this world. I propose to show you, John Henry Smith, that I can do something beside play golf. Am I not doing something now? Am I not risking practically every dollar I have in the world on my business judgment? Call it gambling if you will; if so, it is big gambling. The man who wins must take chances. Mr. Harding did not become a railway magnate by remaining a section boss. He is a commanding figure in Wall Street. I shall be that and more.

Laugh if you will, John Henry Smith; I mean every word of it!

What does Carter do? He has not done a stroke of work in five years. He says a man with an income of $100,000 a year has no right to work and strive to increase it. I claim a man should do something to make a name for himself, and leave a record of which his children and grand-children will be proud. You watch me, John Henry Smith! I'll show you and Miss Harding that I can do something beside play golf.

We have wandered from our subject. The question is this: what shall we do in order to ascertain if Miss Harding entertains toward us any sentiment stronger than friendship? Ask her, you say. Suppose _you_ ask her. No, my dear John Henry, that is not the proper step at this time.

I do not set myself up as an authority in matters of love, but I do hold that no wise man ever proposed to a good and true woman without knowing in advance that she would accept him. Love has its secret code, and Nature gives the key to its discerning votaries. I have that key, John Henry Smith.

One need not speak or write in order to send the first timid messages of love; and by the same token the recipient need not even frown in order to tenderly reject the proffered pa.s.sion. There are as many words in this unwritten and unspoken vocabulary of love as may be found in lexicons. Did you know that, John Henry?

The man who fails to avail himself of this silent but eloquent language, and who stupidly a.s.saults a woman with an avowal of an alleged love, deserves to be coldly rejected. It is as much of an insult or an indiscretion as to walk unheralded and unbidden into a private room.

Never do it, John Henry!

If a man becomes convinced he loves a woman he should tell her by some message in the code which both understand. He will know if she receives it. It is not necessary that she answer, "yes." If she answer not at all he has achieved a notable victory, but if she promptly signals a decided "no" he has met with irreparable defeat. That settles it, my dear Smith.

A woman may refuse a man with words, and he be justified in declining to accept the implied rejection, but there is no appeal from the silent decision which leaps from the heart.

So long as no message comes back unopened keep on sending them. You are justified in a.s.suming that they have been read and are being entertained. The time will come, John Henry, when you will get your answer. If it is against you, accept it with the best grace you can command. Do not be the fool to think her lips will veto her heart.

If, on the contrary, there comes the glad day when over the throbbing unseen wire there comes a telepagram sounding the letters "Y-E-S,"

proceed with the sweet formality of a verbal avowal of your love, and you will not be disappointed.

Smile if you will, John Henry Smith, you know I have told the truth.

We have sent a few of these messages to Miss Harding, and thus far none have been returned unopened. As you say, John Henry, they have been very timid ones, and possibly are so vague she does not think them worth even a decided negative. We will send more emphatic ones; not too emphatic, mind you, but couched in symbols which cannot be misunderstood.

That is our best plan, John Henry Smith, don't you think so? I am glad we agree at last. As yet nothing has happened of a character positively discouraging.

Carter? I wish you would not mention his name. From this on we will ignore Carter.