# Imagination (Hope)

Extracted from Idler magazine, vol. 6 1894-95 pp. 411-418. Accompanying illustrations by Hal Hurst omitted. A Vansittart story.
Imagination
By Anthony Hope.
I MET her on the shores of the lake. There were real tears in her eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Vansittart," she cried. "What shall I do? My husband's out in a boat, ever so far away, and the wind's rising, and the boatman says that it's awfully dangerous when there's a storm, and——"
I tilted my hat forward and scratched my head.
"I don't see what you can do," said I, compassionately. I had sat next her three nights at table d'hôte, and liked her extremely.
"Look at those trees! Oh, how it blows! And see! Great waves!"
"The wind is certainly getting up," I admitted, sitting down on a garden-seat.
"Oh, Mr. Vansittart, suppose he should be drowned!"
"Suppose he——?" I paused. The idea was a new one to me. I turned it over in my mind. "Well, suppose he should?" I said at last in an inquiring tone.
"And we've only been married a year!"
"Yes, yes," said I, thoughtfully. "Your love is still fresh?"
"As fresh as the day when——"
"Your romance has not worn off, the day of disillusion has not come. Your husband's memory would be the sweetest of consolations to you."
"But, Mr. Vansit——"
"There would be no alloy in your recollections. You are young, your life would not be spoilt, but it would be, as it were, hallowed by sweet and not too poignant regrets. In the course of time the violence of grief would wear off."
She sat down on the bench beside me, and dug the end of her parasol into the path.
"You would feel," I pursued, "that sacred as these memories were—precious as they were—you would not be justified in giving your whole life to them. And, at last, it may be that another would come who——"
"Oh, I can hardly imagine that, Mr. Vansittart."
"Try," said I, encouragingly. "One who, though not perhaps the equal in all respects of him you had lost, could yet shelter you from the world——"
"I should want someone, shouldn't I?"
"And give you an honest, enduring, unwavering affection."
"It wouldn't be the same thing," said she.
"Depend upon it," I returned earnestly, "it would be in some ways better. For he—your second husband—might well be one who could appreciate the depths of your nature, who would be serious when you were——"
"Instead of always making jokes? Ye-es, Mr. Vansittart."
"Serious, and yet able to enter into your lighter moods—always good-tempered——"
"He would be a wonderful husband, then!"
"Generous, nay, lavish in giving you whatever——"
"Fancy!"
"You wished for; unsparing in his efforts to please you——"
"What, after marriage?"
"Devoted absolutely to you. Why, it's a lovely picture."
"Yes, it does sound nice," she conceded, digging with the parasol.
"Could not such a one," I continued, leaning towards her, "by his affectionate and constant efforts, in the course of time heal the wound caused by your cruel calamity."
"I don't know. Yes—I suppose so—well, perhaps in time, Mr. Vansittart, he might."
"He would," said I, positively. "I can imagine myself——"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Vansittart?"
"I say, I can imagine myself making it the work—the whole preoccupation—the worthy task—of my life thus to restore happiness to one from whom it seemed to have departed for ever."
"It would be a splendid thing for a man to do, wouldn't it."
There was a pause. Then she said:
"But, Mr. Vansittart, would you—who are so young and so—and so—and so—I mean, who are so young—be content with a heart that had spent its first love on another, in which the freshness of youthful——"
"I sometimes think," I interrupted, in low but urgent tones, "that affection of that kind is nobler, higher, better than the rash impulsiveness of an ignorant girl. It would be a sympathetic communion of minds, of souls, Mrs. Lawrence."
"Yes, I see. Yes, it would, Mr. Vansittart."
"My sympathy for you," I pursued, "would soften and inspire my nature. I should be elevated to your level. And perhaps, at last, when long years had obliterated——"
"Well, had blurred, Mr. Vansittart."
"Yes, had blurred the pain of memory, we might come to see—to understand—how what once seemed so distressing was really, in spite of its sadness, the necessary condition for the perfect development of two human lives."
For a few moments we sat in thought. Then Mrs. Lawrence observed: "Good so often comes out of suffering, doesn't it?"
"It indeed seems to be the way of the world."
"A woman placed as you describe, Mr. Vansittart, would feel, I'm sure, so deep, so strong a gratitude for the man who had nobly dedicated his life to her, that, as time wore on, she would give to him an affection, different in kind, perhaps, but not inferior in intensity, to that which she had felt for the man who first won her heart."
"That would be the only reward I should hope for," said I.
"So that, in the end, I should feel—it would be borne in upon me that this man was my real, my true, my only——"
At this point Mrs. Lawrence stopped abruptly, for a shadow fell between us, and, on looking up, we saw a stout, elderly man, wearing a blue jersey, standing just in front of us.
"Beg pardon, mum," said he, "but are you the lady what asked Jim Dobbs about the gentleman what's out in the boat?"
"About the—what? Oh, yes, I suppose—oh, yes, I am."
"Well, you've no cause to be put out about 'im, mum. He's just rounding the point, and he'll be ashore in two minutes' time."
"But Dobbs said it was very dangerous," I protested.
"Dobbs don't know everything, sir, beggin' your pardon. Anyways the gentleman's safe enough. Glad of it for your sake, mum."
"Thank you—thank you, so much," said Mrs. Lawrence.
The elderly man stood looking at me in such a manner that I took sixpence out of my pocket and gave it to him. To be frank, I have seldom grudged a sixpence more. Then the elderly man passed on.
There was a long silence. Mrs. Lawrence had made quite a little pit in the gravel walk. Once she looked at me, and, finding me regarding her (rather gloomily, I believe), hastily turned away again with a blush. At last the silence became intolerable—almost improper, in fact.
"What were we talking about when that man interrupted us?" asked Mrs. Lawrence, with a desperate assumption of ease.
It is a rule of mine to give a plain answer to a plain question.
"We were talking," said I, "of what would have happened if Dobbs had known everything," And, having thus said, I suddenly began to laugh.
Women are strange creatures. Mrs. Lawrence leapt up from her seat and stood over me. Her eyes flashed with indignation, and she positively brandished her parasol at me.
"You horrid, horrid boy!" she cried.
"My dear Mrs. Lawrence——" I protested.
"You've made me talk as if I——"
"It was a mere hypothesis," I pleaded.
"As if I—oh! Anyhow, if my husband were drowned a thousand times over, I'd never speak to you."
"So you say now," said I, composedly. "But you know you were quite taken with the prospect a little while ago."
"Mr. Vansittart, you're wicked! How can I go and tell my poor dear Robbie?"
"I don't insist on your telling him," said I, in a conciliatory tone.
"Perhaps you think I don't care for him?" she cried, defiantly.
"The hypothesis was that you did," said I. "That's what made it so interesting."
"I shall sit somewhere else at dinner, to-night," Mrs. Lawrence announced, haughtily.
"If you go on like this," I observed warningly, "I shall end by being——"
"You can be just what you like."
"By being glad," I concluded.
"Glad! Glad of what?"
"Glad," said I, "that I see your husband walking towards us in perfect health."
As I spoke he came within speaking distance.
"Hullo, Georgie!" he cried to his wife. "Here I am—had a bit of a blow, though."
Mrs. Lawrence ran a few steps towards him. I took the liberty of following.
"Vansittart been looking after you?" asked Lawrence, with a smile.
"Oh, my darling Robbie," cried Mrs. Lawrence, "I've been imagining all sorts of things about you."
"Foolish child! " said he, fondly. "Did you think I was going to be drowned?"
"We didn't exactly think it," I broke in, "We assumed it by way of——"
"Please, Robbie, will you take me into the house?" said Mrs. Lawrence, hastily.
Mrs. Lawrence did sit elsewhere at dinner; but Lawrence said to me, as we played billiards afterwards:
"Tell you what, old chap. If a fellow wants his wife to be extra pleasant to him, he can't do better than risk his life on this beastly lake," and he smiled most contentedly.
It was merely penitence, of course. But I let him alone.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1933, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 90 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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