The Pretenders (Owen Oliver)/Omi

CAN shut my eyes and see Omi, and, for the matter of that, I can see her without shutting my eyes; but I cannot describe her. I could tell you hundreds of things about her, but when you added them up they wouldn’t make Omi.

She is five feet five and weighs seven and a quarter, stone twelve. She has black-brown eyes—a lot of eyes—and brown-brown hair—a lot of hair. She has a mouth like a Cupid’s bow, and even, white teeth; but you do not see them when she talks (that is nearly always), only when she laughs (that is very often). She has a funny, quick, little smile when she’s pleased, and a funny, slow, little frown, like another sort of smile, when she’s puzzled; and a rippling voice that sounds as if the world amused her; and it does. She has an ear for music and a taste for acting and a gift for drawing. Some people call her pretty and some people call her charming, and I call her both; and she likes everybody, and everybody likes her. But all that doesn’t describe Omi.

I saw her first on board the R.M.S. Briton. I was going out to South Africa alone, on business, and Omi was going out on pleasure, with her paternal grandmother; a stately, white-haired Juno. She was talking and laughing, with her head on one side, and I thought I had never seen such a jolly girl. They were with a little sandy-haired old gentleman, and I was afraid that they had only come to see him off. I nearly threw up my cap when he went ashore and they stopped aboard. I haunted them for the next day in the hope of finding some way of scraping acquaintance, but without success. Then the sea did me a good turn by doing most of the other passengers a bad one, and leaving us almost alone.

I had been used to yachting from the time I was a boy—I was five-and-twenty then—and liked rough weather. They were evidently hardened sailors, also, for they were the only ladies who sat out the second dinner. After dinner they sat on deck with rugs over their knees and talked and laughed; and I promenaded up and down, smoking a cigar. When I was passing them for the seventeenth time Omi aimed a smile at her grandmother—so she says—and hit me instead. The smile set fire to my courage and I walked up to them, and addressed the old lady.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, with a bow, “but I thought I heard you tion the Lesters of Lethbury yesterday?”

She had, in fact, related a considerable portion of their family history to another elderly lady, when I was sitting close by.

“I certainly mentioned them,” she agreed, looking at me in an awesome fashion. “I will take your word that you heard.”

“You may have heard them speak of the Grants?” I suggested. “I am James. I was at Oxford with Ted Lester.”

I had gathered from her remarks that we must have been at Oxford at the same time, though I didn’t know him.

“Indeed!” She gave me another awesome look. “Then perhaps you know his father?”

“Yes,” I stated. “Certainly.” I did not; but I never contradict elderly ladies.

Her face relaxed into a smile, and I felt more hopeful.

“What a splendid big man he is,” she remarked, as if she was speaking to herself.

“Tremendous!” I cried enthusiastically. “He must be well over six feet.”

“Six feet three,” she asserted. “And such a handsome man, when his hair was black!”

“Jet black!” I corroborated.

“I should hardly have thought that you remembered so long ago?” she observed.

“I—er—just remember,” I declared. “You see I lived in the neighborhood, when I was young.”

“Was it at Melbridge?” she asked.

“At Melbridge,” I stated.

“Ah!” she said. “I seem to remember some Grants there.”

“Oh, grandma!” Omi interposed. “The Grants you mean are chimney-sweeps!”

Her eyes twinkled most wickedly.

“My family were less useful,” I said. We only had our chimneys swept.”

“Then I am afraid I did not know your people,” said grandma.

“I am sorry,” I said. “If I might venture to introduce myself on the strength of our mutual acquaintance with the Lesters? This is my first voyage; but I believe that a little excuse goes a long way at sea?” The old lady pursed her lips and glanced at her granddaughter questioningly. “I am very lonely,” I added desperately. Omi gave a quick, little nod; and grandma laughed softly. She had rather a pleasant look when she laughed, and I did not fancy she was so severe as she seemed.

“That is almost excuse enough,” she said; “and a friend of the Lesters should be a friend of mine. Sit down, Mr. Grant. I am Estelle Raynor. This is my granddaughter Naomi, Naomi Raynor. Her mother’s family is responsible for her Christian name; and my family for her nature. Both responsibilities are heavy!”

Omi and I bowed, and she leaned forward and looked at me round her grandmother.

“I suppose you knew John Lester,” she inquired, “the one with a birthmark on his left hand? Like strawberry leaves?”

“We used to chaff him about it, and call him the duke,” I said boldly; and she gave a little scream.

“Oh!” she laughed. “How funny!”

“Very funny!” grandma agreed, with a sound like a chuckle. “We must tease John about it when we write.”

“He didn’t altogether appreciate the joke,” I observed. “So you mustn’t give me away by mentioning my name.”

“Now do we look the sort of people to give any one away?” Omi asked.

“Miss Naomi,” I said, “I daren’t tell you what I think of your looks.”

“But you can tell me what you think of grandma’s. She’s frightfully fond of admiration.”

“Use is second nature!” I suggested.

“That compliment is worthy of—John! He is a great admirer of grandma. That is why she likes him.”

“No,” grandma contradicted. “I like John because he is—what he is; and never pretends to be anything else.”

“Of course not!” cried Omi. “No nice man does!”

I began to feel a little uneasy.

“Only nice women?” I suggested.

“Of course!” said grandma. “Pretense is a poor, weak woman’s weapon; and she needs it! A man is different. He should be above all deception. Don’t you think so, Mr. Grant?”

The old lady looked very stern again; and I began to feel seriously uneasy about my friends the Lesters.

“Er—yes,” I agreed; “unless he does it on account of a poor, weak woman.” I thought I had better begin to cover my retreat.

“I could not excuse pretense in a man under any circumstances,” grandma asserted. “So, if ever you deceive me, mind that you do not get found out. However, it is not easy to deceive me.” She drew herself up.

“No-o,” I agreed. “No. I—er—I won't try.”

“And if you were a chimney-sweep,” Omi said, “you'd better own it at once.”

“My dear,” said her grandma, “you should never suspect other people of pretense, or they may think that you are capable of it!”

“But I take such an interest in chimney-sweeps,” Omi asserted plaintively. “When I tell my fortune—'tinker, tailor, you know, it always ends at ‘sweep’!”

“I was a chimney-sweep once,” I claimed promptly. “I blew up my chimney at college with gunpowder, because it smoked, and there was an awful row about it.”

“Amateurs don’t count,” said Omi decidedly. “But you can tell us.”

I told them about that and other adventures; and they told me about their travels. We sat together till they went below; and then I carried their rugs and cushions, and we said good night on excellent terms.

We continued on excellent terms for the rest of the voyage, especially Omi and I. She did not seem to object to my constant attentions, Neither did grandma, since I was—as she frequently observed—a friend of the Lesters. They were always talking about them, and especially about John. He was quite a heroic young man, I gathered; a handsome giant, with the talent of a prime minister and the courage of a lion combined with the heart of a lamb.

“John Lester is different from any man I know,” grandma would often say; and Omi would agree enthusiastically. I used to add that he was very different from any one I knew, either! That was true.

I fell head over heels in love with Omi from the first. I should have proposed to her at Madeira if it had not been for my deception; but I knew that I must own it first; and I feared that there would be an end of everything then. For though they took a light-hearted view of most things—grandma was not at all awesome when you knew her—they had extraordinarily serious views upon the subject of masculine deception. Mrs. Raynor was always preaching little sermons against men who pretended to be what they were not; and, though Omi loved to pretend herself, she always said that I mustn’t, because I was a man; and friends didn’t pretend to one another.

She certainly did not pretend about herself and me, as some girls would have done. She did not coquet [sic], or make out that she did not want to be with me, or try to conceal her friendliness. She would give me an undisguised smile the moment that I appeared, and another when I walked up to her. Old Mrs. Brown told me that Omi didn’t mind a bit when people teased her about being so friendly with me. “Of course I am!” she told them. “He's very nice.” When I let out to Omi what Mrs. Brown had said, she owned to it directly. “How can I expect my friends to like me, if I am ashamed of liking my friends?” she asked. And in the evenings she used to let me carry her off as a matter of course. Grandma seemed to take it as a matter of course, too.

“Mr. Grant is such an old friend of such old friends of ours!” she often explained.

What evenings Omi and I had together! How we walked and talked and danced and laughed and teased! And what a dear little tease she was! So merry and mischievous and unexpected; and, above all, so good-natured. She was very fond of teasing—she still is!—but, when it came to a competition between fun and kindness, kindness always won. I think I had the first glimpse of the real Omi, the Omi that I can’t describe to you, when she found that her teasing was hurting me.

She had made me very wretched by extolling John one evening, and I had grown very gloomy; and presently she looked up at me under her eyebrows.

“John never gets cross when I tease him,” she stated mischievously.

“Hang John!” I said testily.

Omi glanced up at me quickly. I think it was the first time that I had seen her look grave.

“I wouldn’t mind, if I was sure that it was only teasing, Omi,” I apologized.

“Wouldn’t you?” She bit her lip for a moment. Then she smiled a slow smile, different from her usual one.

“Let’s throw him overboard,” she said, and made as if she threw something into the sea. “There! He’s gone for the rest of the voyage!”

“Oh!” I cried. “You wonderful Omi”

“Don’t be silly! You mustn't really”

I think I should have; but some unnecessary. people came along and sat near us. So we sat down and talked reasonably. I felt in a sort of seventh heaven; and then she said something that sent a cold chill over me.

“You see,” she explained, “I don’t like to pretend to you, because I shouldn’t like you to pretend to me.”

I was very near confessing my pretense then; but I thought it would be terrible to be on board with her and see her continually, if she refused to forgive me. So I decided to defer my confession until the end of the voyage.

I kept this resolution until the night of the fancy-dress ball. Omi was a black butterfly. She wore a gauzy black dress—it was “one of granny’s state frocks done up,” she told me—with gaudy black wings, and a black lace mantilla over her head. She had three red poppies on the mantilla, and tiny bits of red ribbon all over the wings; and I had never before realized how beautiful a woman could be. I was a cardinal, because that was the only red costume that the barber had to let out, and she wanted red to go with black. She called me a bishop, because “the bishop and the butterfly” sounded better.

“You can pretend anything you like at a fancy-dress ball,” she announced. “So we'll make believe it’s a court ball, and grandma’s a wicked empress or a cruel queen; and you are the prime minister, and have all sorts of terrible state secrets; and I’m a poor little princess that you are plotting against—only you might relent a little.”

“No,” I said. “We'll pretend that other people are plotting against you, but I am your friend in secret; and in love with you.”

“Oh!” she objected. “Bishops mustn’t!”

“Yes, they may,” I contradicted, “at a fancy-dress ball. And if they are they are, and you can’t alter it.”

“Very well,” she agreed. “You shall pretend what you like to-night; and I'll pretend what I like. Only we won’t believe a word that we say, because we’re only pretenders.”

“What is this about pretenders?” said grandma, at our elbow; and Omi jumped.

“We’re pretending that this is a court ball,” she explained; “and you are a fairy queen. Such a good fairy queen, grandma!”

“Ah!” said grandma. “Ah-h! I remember when I was a fairy queen at a ball; and they said that I danced like a fairy.”

“That is how you are going to dance with me to-night,” I declared; and had two dances with her, and she danced uncommonly well.

I had three dances with Omi; and I was to have had a fourth, but we went beyond the wind-screen instead, and looked at the stars. At least Omi looked at the stars, and I looked at her. I felt as if I could eat her.

“Oh, butterfly!” I cried. “You are so lovely! May I tell you something, princess?

“Oh!” she cried. “I don’t want to pretend—out here. The sea seems so big; and the stars—I’m not a princess only—Omi.” She looked up at the skies again. “That is the Southern Cross, isn’t it?” She pointed to the great spangle of stars, and I felt as though she was pointing me to better things. “It seems—such a long way off to look up to.”

“It is the Southern Cross, Omi,” I said; “and it’s a long way off; and a man wants something nearer to look up to. I’ve found it, Omi, but Let me tell you?”

“Not—pretend.” She clasped her hands on the rail suddenly.

“Oh, Omi!” I said. “Not pretend. But there’s something to tell about ‘pretend’ first; and I’m afraid to tell you.”

Omi looked down at the sheets of white foam scurrying over the green sea.

“If I have done anything to make you afraid of me,” she said, in a low whisper, “it was only pretend!”

“It isn’t anything that you have done, Omi. It’s my own foolishness; but I did it because I—but I must tell you what it was, before” I paused.

“Before?” she asked. I saw her hands on the rail grip each other furiously.

“Before I tell you that I love you,” I said hoarsely. “I do, Omi—I do. But”

Omi unclasped her hands, and held out one shyly.

“Don’t say anything else,” she whispered, “just now!”

I didn’t.

“Omi,” I said, a long time afterward, “you are the Southern Cross and the rest of the constellations in one! Any other girl would have wanted to make me confess everything first!”

“I did want to!” Omi owned. “But—I couldn’t. You see, it’s like reading a story. You want to know the end first, because—because you want the heroine to marry the right one!”

“She hasn’t said that she would,” I observed. We hadn't, in fact, said anything sensible.

“You haven’t asked her.”

“Will you?”

“If you’re the right one. Let’s look at the stars, and not say anything. They seem to look so kind to-night!”

“You wonderful Omi! Will you be kind when I tell you?”

Omi laughed a soft, little laugh.

“I'll be kind now!” she said. “You needn’t tell me, because—I know!—you pretender!”

“What!” I gave a gasp. “You know that I don’t know the Lesters?” She nodded. “Then you are a pretender!” She laughed again. “So you don’t object to pretense?” She laughed once more.

“Grandma does,” she said, with a sudden look of horror. “What will she say, when you tell her?”

“Couldn’t you tell her?” I suggested.

“Oh, Jimmy! How mean of you!”

“Yes,” I admitted ruefully. “Well, I'll tell her—to-morrow.”

“Tell her now,” Omi whispered. “She’s come to look for me! Here I am, grandma! And here is Mr. Grant. It is a coincidence.”

“The unexpected is always happening,” grandma remarked.

“Yes. He has something to tell you.”

“I should hope so!” Grandma appeared to allude to the fact that I was holding Omi’s hand.

“I love Omi,” I stated.

“I found that out long ago,” said grandma calmly.

“And Omi loves me.”

“I found that out, too.”

“And—and I hope you and I are friends?”

“Any friend of the Lesters is a friend of mine.”

Omi pinched my arm.

“Ye-es,” I said; “but—er—there was a little—a slight—-er—misunderstanding about the Lesters. I—you see, I wanted to know Omi, and—and you, of course.”

“Of course!” grandma agreed; and Omi made a funny, suppressed noise.

“And I heard you speak about them, and so—I pretended that I knew them; but I didn’t.”

“I found that out, also!” said grandma. Omi laughed so much that I had to hold her up. Grandma laughed nearly as much. I laughed a bit, but I felt rather a fool.

“Then you forgive the pretender?” I asked.

“Pretender!” cried grandma. “You flatter yourself!” Omi made a spluttering sound. “Yes, I forgive you, Jimmy”—we shook hands—“because you have never pretended a bit about yourself. As for the Lesters—the little fair-haired gentleman who saw us off was Mr. Lester!”

“Oh-h!” I said. “Is his son John like him?”

“He hasn’t a son John,” grandma stated.

“Omi!” I cried. “You little” But Omi sank into a chair, and rocked to and fro with her face in her handkerchief. Explosive sounds came forth at intervals.

“Now,” said grandma, “take a word of advice from an old pretender. Don’t laugh, Omi, because I am very serious—hush, child! I mean it. The world is a dull place, and it’s better for a little make-believe. Be as light-hearted as you can, and make fun of things—till you find things that you can’t make fun of—and pretend as much as you like to other people; but don’t pretend to each other. Above all, don’t pretend that you are not seriously fond of each other. Sometimes pretense becomes reality, my dears.”

Qmi jumped up and gave me her hands.

“Thank you, grandma,” she said.

“Thank you,” I echoed.

Sometimes I think that we have a good deal to thank grandma for.

“Well, well,” she said, when we had each held an arm for a minute. “You are two foolish young things together; and you'll have a lot of trouble; but I think you’ll be happy, please God! I’ll give you another five minutes.”

She walked away, and I seized Omi and Omi seized me.

“Oh, Jimmy!” she cried. “Sha’n’t we get into mischief! The two of us!”

“The two of us,” I said. “It will be jolly, Omi!”

It has been.