# Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Summer/Chapter 19

CHAPTER XIX.
We have never quarrelled before, Paul and I, never. We have had little disputes about this, that, and t'other; he has been jealous, I provoking, but we have never actually quarrelled till to-day. We are at it at this very moment, and oh! what dull, dull work I find it! We are not saying bitter things to each other shrilly and fast, with angry tears in our voices and treacherously soft hearts. (When one is having a good downright quarrel with a person one loves, does not the tongue wax the bitterer in proportion as the heart grows softer? Mine does.) We are in the sulky, dignified silent stage, each waiting for the other to speak, and each grimly determined not to be first. Paul is in one arm-chair, I am in another—we are yards apart; and on the hearthrug, sprawling on their backs, as though they had alighted in a hurry, lie two books. I shall not say what the quarrel began about. I was certainly very rude; but what business had he to take up a newspaper, and read it right before me, after I had said what I did? I lost my temper ​then—always an easy matter with me—and my manners along with it, and threw a thin little book at him, and it just shaved his nose.
He looked up and said, "Don't do that again, Nell!" And his cold voice so provoked me that I threw another one, and could have wept for shame when it struck his newspaper, and then fell down beside the first; for he neither spoke, nor moved, nor looked at me.
How different a man is to quarrel with to a woman! Now, if I were falling out with the latter, she would be so amazed at my holding my tongue, instead of going at her hammer and tongs, that she would be thoroughly nonplussed, and suspect me of possessing some weapon against her of which she knew nothing; in short, to thoroughly rout and overcome a female opponent, nothing answers like a stolid silence, whereas a man considers a woman who holds her tongue instead of storming at him, a good, sensible little soul, worthy of his best consideration. Therefore I am harassed by fears that he will think I am meek and sorry; and, indeed, I am neither.
I always thought men remained on their knees until they married. I know a good many of them hop up pretty quickly afterwards, for the cold plunge of matrimony once taken, they have an awkward knack of remembering Byron's words,—
but I never heard before of a lover behaving as Paul is doing.
In novels, if Amanda is offended with her Adolphus (although she may be entirely in the wrong), Adolphus always tears his hair, and beats his breast, and does everything but walk on his head to restore serenity to her ruffled brow. I am sure George would never have sat in my presence mute as a fish for five whole minutes. I wonder if I should have cared so intensely if he had? not that I do care much.
​How the minutes drag—the ugly, empty, dull minutes. The hands of the clock are surely standing still, for I am sure that it is hours that Paul and I have been sitting apart, with this leaden silence between us. I was very rude to him just now, and when he held out his hand to me and said, "Nell, did you mean what you said just now?" why did I not jump out of my chair and say, "No, no, no!" instead of answering, "Yes, certainly," in the confident expectation that he would cross over to me the very next moment and fetch me? But he is sitting in his chair, and I am in mine; and if he will not come to me, or I swallow my pride and go to him, shall we sit on and on in this old school-room till Doomsday? I shut my eyes and count sixty seconds at a smart gallop, then sixty more; then I unlatch one eye cautiously to see what he is doing.
The newspaper hangs from his hand; he is staring into the fire rather wearily. Suddenly he looks full at me, but as my one open optic is more suggestive of mirthful winking than penitence, he looks away again. It is full a minute before I take another peep and discover that he is, to all appearance, following my example, and courting slumber—or pretending to. I had no idea Paul was so sulky! He looks very handsome with his head lying back upon the cushion, and I am just thinking so, when he opens his eyes and looks at me as I hastily shut mine. After all, it is very like a game of bo-peep, and if it goes on much longer I shall burst out laughing, which would be dreadful; for how could I dictate terms of surrender in the midst of breathless giggles?
I wonder what will bring him into a state of repentance quickest—reproaches? It would be very infra dig to speak to him. Hysterics? I don't know the way, and he hates them. Faint away? He would not know when I began unless I made a series of horrible faces; and he might consider them purely vicious, and ​take no notice. Tears? The very thing. Decent, touching, non-compromising tears, that may mean anything or nothing. If only I could get them up, there's the rub; tears never came easy to me at any time. Joy or sorrow must prick me pretty sharply before the salt fount is unsealed. I sit bolt upright, take out my handkerchief, and with the heartiness with which I always set about all my undertakings, I try hard to "weep a little weep." I think of my own tomb, and nobody to weep over it—always a subject of dismal contemplation with me; of the end of the world, and the sorry figure that I shall cut; of Jack, cut off in the flower of his youth; of George, a victim to my charms, standing on his head with his heels sticking out of the Thames mud; of every dismal picture, in short, that I can conjure up before my mind, but all in vain. My tears come not; and though I scrub my eyes and nose and cheeks into a high state of refulgency, they remain dry as bones.
I am putting away my handkerchief, feeling that my last weapon has broken in my hand, and that nothing is now left to me but dignified flight, when I catch Paul's eye, and discover that he is absolutely—yes, absolutely laughing. I stare at him for a minute in amazed silence is this his way of going down on his knees?
"Have you quite finished trying to pump up those tears?" he asks, passing his hand over his mouth. "I have been watching you for some time, and I am sure you must have hurt yourself with that piece of cambric."
"I am going," I say, jumping up. "Oh, I had no idea you could behave so ill; I thought you liked me."
He snatches at my skirts as I pass him, and in a second has perched me on his knee, holding me there with a firm grasp that I cannot shake off. Tears, real tears, are in my eyes now, but they do not fall; he shall not think that what is a laughing matter with him is a crying one with me.
​"Now, Nell," he says, and there is no laughter in his voice, it is very grave; "I want to know what you mean by this stupid behaviour?"
Stupid behaviour! I never heard of a man saying such a thing as that to his lady love before; and I thought Paul was so hopelessly, drivellingly, besottedly in love with me. . . .
"I think it is you who have been stupid," I say blankly.
"What did you say to me when I asked you to———?"
"That will do," I say hastily; "we have discussed all that before."
"And do you call that a proper way to speak to me?"
No answer.
"Do you call it a proper thing to throw books at my head?"
"Do you call it a proper thing to read a newspaper before me?"
"Certainly; if you are sulky and will not speak to me."
"You were sulky too."
"I spoke to you."
"And I answered you."
"In a nice manner."
"I had better not speak to you at all," I say with dignity: "perhaps you will allow me to leave you, Mr. Vasher?"
"Presently. Now, Nell, do you think that because we are lovers we are to be careless of each other's feelings? The most passionate love that ever existed between man and woman would make neither happy if consideration did not form a part of it. Do you think I would wound you as you did me ten minutes ago; do you think I could ever make such a speech to you as you did to me
"Is it only ten minutes ago?" I say, looking at the clock; "it seems like ten hours."
"Are you sorry that you made it, Nell?"
I lift my head and look him in the face silently, and for a minute I have a sharp, short struggle with myself, then, for I love him very dearly, I say "Yes."
​"Little darling!" he says, clasping me tighter; but—oh, wonder of wonders!—he does not kiss me; does not even try to. What a deal of time we have wasted, to be sure. "But that is not all; there are the books."
"The books," I repeat; "what of them?"
"You have not picked them up yet."
"Did you suppose I was going to?" I ask, smiling at his joke which is excellent.
"I am sure you will."
I look at him quickly, fancying my ears have played me false but he is grave enough."
"Do you mean it?" I ask slowly.
"Most certainly."
"Then I never will," I say with spirit. "Oh! I did not think you were so mean, after I had said I was sorry too."
"What did I say to you after you had thrown the first one!" heasks.
"That I was not to do that again."
"And you threw another the next moment; so you were not only rude but disobedient."
"Am I your daughter?" I ask, turning round to look at him with a hovering smile.
"No, miss, but I am your lord and master, and you are bound to obey me."
"Don't be so sure of that," I say, putting my head on one side to look at my smart engagement ring of big opals and diamonds—the "jewels of calamity," as folks say. "If you are such a tyrant now, when we are only courting, whatever would you be if we were married?"
I don't feel a bit miserable now, or sorry or ashamed. He is talking to me; there is not a dreadful wall of silence built up between us.
​"Do you expect me to tell you I am pleased with you when I am not?" he asks gravely. "Would you like me to be a hypocrite? I cannot say one thing and mean another, and the same with you; when you are vexed I should like you to speak out and have done with it."
"I am very much vexed with you now," I say with alacrity; "I wish to get off your knee this very minute, and you will not let me."
"You shall go when you have picked up those books."
"Then we shall stay here until we are fossils," I say, swinging my foot. "Simpkins will be here presently to say dinner is ready; shall we eat it as we are?"
"The dinner can wait."
"Only I can't wait for my dinner."
There is a little pause, during which I look into the red-hot heart of the fire and take counsel with myself. Clearly he is not to be managed by dignity, and I don't mean to give in. Nevertheless, I have no mind to sit here mumchance till we do turn into fossils. I will try coaxing, and see if that will bring him to a proper frame of mind. I steal my arms round his neck and hold up my mouth to be kissed, but he does not bring his face a jot nearer to mine; and for the first time in my life my offered caress is refused. If he had slapped me he could not have astonished me more.
'Nell," he says, "Nell," and he looks into my eyes with a vexed and strong pain in his own, "could you not give up your wilfulness for once to please me?"
For a little space I look at him; then I slip out of his arms and sit down on the hearthrug. There the books lie, nasty little toads! How I hate the man that wrote, the printer that printed, and the person that brought them here! I turn them over with the point of my shoe, and take a covert look at Paul; his head is ​turned away, thank heaven! or I could never pick them up, never. A thought strikes me; and I smile to myself as I scramble up, and into a chair, and lift up one of the volumes between my two feet and hold it towards him.
"Paul," I say, in a very small voice, "here it is!"
He turns quickly, but, on seeing the fashion in which my offering is made, he reseats himself.
"That is not the way, Nell," he says; and is it fancy, or is there a keen disappointment in his voice? I lower the book to the ground, and consider for a little while, then I jump up and kneel down by his side.
"Paul," I say, wistfully, "won't you let me off, dear? I'll never throw any more at you, big or little, never!"
He turns and looks at me.
"I misunderstood you, child," he says, "I thought you would have done it; but never mind."
"And so I will," I say, heartily. "I would pick up a whole library full rather than you should look at me like that." And I stoop down to gather up those nasty, nasty little volumes, but Paul snatches me in his arms.
My plucky little girl!" he cries; "after all she has not disappointed me. Do you know, Nell, that I had made up my mind just now that, with all our love for each other, we should never hit it off if you were too proud to own yourself in the wrong?"
"Only I did not pick them up, after all," I say, slyly. "And how do you know I ever intended to?"
"Did you not?" he asks, pinching my cheek; "I know better!"
"If I have come out of the ordeal well, sir, so have not you! A more pig-headed, self-willed, obstinate person I never met; and how you could bring yourself to behave in such a way to a lady———"
​"Why did you provoke me so, then?" he asks, quickly; "have you forgotten what it was that you said?"
"Hush!" I say, putting my hand over his mouth. "At any rate, I will kiss you now."
"If you please," says Simpkins the ubiquitous; "hem! dinner is waiting!"