Where Love Is. William John Locke

But you're different from anybody else, Jimmie. I'm not given to talking sentiment—but we've grown up together—and somehow, in spite of our being thrown in different worlds, you have got to be a part of my life. There!” he concluded with a sigh of relief, putting on his hat and holding out his hand, “I've said it!”

      The brightening of Jimmie's eyes gave token of a heart keenly touched. Deeply rooted indeed must be the affection that could have impelled Morland to so unusual a demonstration of feeling. His nature was as responsive as a harp set in the wind. His counterpart in woman would have felt the tears well into her eyes. A man is allowed but a breath, a moisture, that makes the eyes bright. Morland had said the final word of sentiment; equally, utterly true of himself. Morland was equally a part of his life. It were folly to discuss the reasons. Loyal friendships between men are often the divinest of paradoxes.

      The touch upon Jimmie's heart was magnetic. It soothed pain. It set free a flood of generous emotion, even thanksgiving that he was thus allowed vicarious joy in infinite perfections. It was vouchsafed him to be happy in the happiness of two dear to him. This much he said to Morland, with what intensity of meaning the fortunate lover was a myriad leagues from suspecting.

      “I'll see you safely mounted,” said Jimmie, opening the studio door. Then suddenly like a cold wind a memory buffeted him. He shut the door again.

      “I forgot. I have a letter for you. It came this morning.”

      Morland took the letter addressed to “David Rendell” which Jimmie drew from his pocket, and uttered an angry exclamation.

      “I thought this infernal business was over and done with.”

      He tore open the envelope, read the contents, then tilted his hat to the back of his head, and sitting down on one of the dilapidated straight-backed chairs of the leather suite, looked at Jimmie in great perplexity. In justice to the man it must be said that anger had vanished.

      “I suppose you know what these letters mean that you have been taking in for me?”

      “I have never permitted myself to speculate,” said Jimmie. “You asked me to do you a very great service. It was a little one. You are not a man to do anything dishonourable. I concluded you had your reasons, which it would have been impertinent of me to inquire into.”

      “It's the usual thing,” said Morland, with a self-incriminatory shrug. “A girl.”

      “A love affair was obvious.”

      Morland spat out an exclamation of impatient disgust for himself and rose to his feet.

      “Heaven knows how it began—she was poor and lonely—almost a lady—and she had beauty and manners and that sort of thing above her class.”

      “They always have,” said Jimmie, with a pained expression. “You need n't tell me the story. It's about the miserablest on God's earth, is n't it now?”

      “I suppose so. Upon my soul, I'm not a beast, Jimmie!”

      The unwonted rarefied air of sentiment that he had been breathing for the last twelve hours had, as it were, intoxicated him. Had the letter reached him the day before, he would have left the story connected with it in the cold-storage depository where men are wont to keep such things. No one would have dreamed of its existence. But now he felt an exaggerated remorse, a craving for confession, and yet he made the naked remorseful human's instinctive clutch at palliatives.

      “Upon my soul, I'm not a beast, Jimmie. I swear I loved her at first. You know what it is. You yourself loved a little girl in Paris—you told me about it—did n't you?”

      Jimmie set his teeth, and said, “Yes.”

      Morland went on.

      “Some women have ways with them, you know. They turn you into one of those toy thermometers—you hold the bulb, and the spirit in it rises and bubbles. She got hold of me that way—I bubbled, I suppose—it was n't her fault, she was sweet and innocent. It was her nature. You artistic people call the damned thing a temperament, I believe. Anyhow I was in earnest at the beginning. Then—one always does—I found it was only a passing fancy.”

      “And like a passing cab it has splashed you with mud. How does the matter stand now?”

      “Read this,” said Morland, handing him the letter.

      “Dearest,” it ran, “the time is coming when you can be very good to me. Jenny.” That was all. Jimmie, holding the paper in front of him, looked up distressfully at Morland.

      “'The time is coming when you can be very good to me.' How confoundedly pathetic! Poor little girl! Oh, damn it, Morland, you are going to be good to her, are n't you?”

      “I'll do all I can. Of course I'll do all I can. I tell you I'm not a beast. Heaps of other men would n't care a hang about it. They would tell her to go to the devil. I'm not that sort.”

      “I know you're not,” said Jimmie.

      Morland lit another cigar with the air of a man whose virtues deserve some reward.

      “The letter can only have one interpretation. Have you known of it?”

      “Never dreamed of it.”

      “Was there any question of marriage?”

      “None whatever. Difference of position and all the rest of it. She quite understood. In fact, it was like your Quartier Latin affair.”

      Jimmie winced. “It was n't the Quartier Latin—and I was going to marry her—only she died before—oh, don't mind me, Morland. What's going to be done now?” Morland shrugged his shoulders again, having palliated himself into a more normal condition. His conscience, to speak by the book, was clothed and in its right mind.

      “It's infernally hard lines it should come just at this time. You see, I've heaps of things to think about. My position—Parliament—I'm going to contest Cosford in the autumn. If the constituency gets hold of any scandal, I'm ruined. You know the Alpine heights of morality of a British constituency—and there's always some moral scavenger about. And then there's Norma—”

      “Yes, there's Norma,” said Jimmie, seriously.

      “It's unpleasant, you see. If she should know—”

      “It would break her heart,” said Jimmie.

      Morland started and looked at Jimmie stupidly, his mental faculties for the second paralysed, incapable of grappling with the idea. Was it scathing sarcasm or sheer idiocy? Recovering his wits, he realised that Jimmie was whole-heartedly, childishly sincere. With an effort he controlled a rebellious risible muscle at the corner of his lip.

      “It would give her great pain,” he said in grave acquiescence.

      “It's a miserable business,” said Jimmie.

      Morland paced the studio. Suddenly he stopped.

      “Should there be any unpleasantness over this, can I rely on your help to pull me through?”

      “You know you can,” said Jimmie.

      Morland looked relieved.

      “May I write a note?”

      Jimmie pointed to a corner of the long deal table.

      “You'll find over there all the materials for mending a broken butterfly,” he said sadly.