I charge Gilray's unreasonableness to his ignoble passion for
cigarettes; and the story of his flower-pot has therefore an obvious
moral. The want of dignity he displayed about that flower-pot, on his
return to London, would have made any one sorry for him. I had my own
work to look after, and really could not be tending his chrysanthemum
all day. After he came back, however, there was no reasoning with him,
and I admit that I never did water his plant, though always intending
to do so.
The great mistake was in not leaving the flower-pot in charge of William
John. No doubt I readily promised to attend to it, but Gilray deceived
me by speaking as if the watering of a plant was the merest pastime. He
had to leave London for a short provincial tour, and, as I see now, took
advantage of my good nature.
As Gilray had owned his flower-pot for several months, during which time
(I take him at his word) he had watered it daily, he must have known
he was misleading me. He said that you got into the way of watering
a flower-pot regularly just as you wind up your watch. That certainly
is not the case. I always wind up my watch, and I never watered the
flower-pot. Of course, if I had been living in Gilray's rooms with the
thing always before my eyes I might have done so. I proposed to take it
into my chambers at the time, but he would not hear of that. Why? How
Gilray came by this chrysanthemum I do not inquire; but whether, in the
circumstances, he should not have made a clean breast of it to me is
another matter. Undoubtedly it was an unusual thing to put a man to
the trouble of watering a chrysanthemum daily without giving him its
history. My own belief has always been that he got it in exchange for a
pair of boots and his old dressing-gown. He hints that it was a present;
but, as one who knows him well, I may say that he is the last person a
lady would be likely to give a chrysanthemum to. Besides, if he was so
proud of the plant he should have stayed at home and watered it himself.
He says that I never meant to water it, which is not only a mistake, but
unkind. My plan was to run downstairs immediately after dinner every
evening and give it a thorough watering. One thing or another, however,
came in the way. I often remembered about the chrysanthemum while I was
in the office; but even Gilray could hardly have expected me to ask
leave of absence merely to run home and water his plant. You must draw
the line somewhere, even in a government office. When I reached home I
was tired, inclined to take things easily, and not at all in a proper
condition for watering flower-pots. Then Arcadians would drop in. I put
it to any sensible man or woman, could I have been expected to give up
my friends for the sake of a chrysanthemum? Again, it was my custom of
an evening, if not disturbed, to retire with my pipe into my cane chair,
and there pass the hours communing with great minds, or, when the mood
was on me, trifling with a novel. Often when I was in the middle of a
chapter Gilray's flower-pot stood up before my eyes crying for water.
He does not believe this, but it is the solemn truth. At those moments
it was touch and go, whether I watered his chrysanthemum or not. Where
I lost myself was in not hurrying to his rooms at once with a tumbler.
I said to myself that I would go when I had finished my pipe, but by that
time the flower-pot had escaped my memory. This may have been weakness;
all I know is that I should have saved myself much annoyance if I had
risen and watered the chrysanthemum there and then. But would it not
have been rather hard on me to have had to forsake my books for the sake
of Gilray's flowers and flower-pots and plants and things? What right
has a man to go and make a garden of his chambers?
All the three weeks he was away, Gilray kept pestering me with letters
about his chrysanthemum. He seemed to have no faith in me--a detestable
thing in a man who calls himself your friend. I had promised to water
his flower-pot; and between friends a promise is surely sufficient. It
is not so, however, when Gilray is one of them. I soon hated the sight
of my name in his handwriting. It was not as if he had said outright
that he wrote entirely to know whether I was watering his plant.
His references to it were introduced with all the appearance of
afterthoughts. Often they took the form of postscripts: By the way,
are you watering my chrysanthemum? or, The chrysanthemum ought to be
a beauty by this time; or, You must be quite an adept now at watering
plants. Gilray declares now that, in answer to one of these ingenious
epistles, I wrote to him saying that I had just been watering his
chrysanthemum. My belief is that I did no such thing; or, if I did,
I meant to water it as soon as I had finished my letter. He has never
been able to bring this home to me, he says, because he burned my
correspondence. As if a business man would destroy such a letter.
It was yet more annoying when Gilray took to post-cards. To hear the
postman's knock and then discover, when you are expecting an important
communication, that it is only a post-card about a flower-pot--that is
really too bad. And then I consider that some of the post-cards bordered
upon insult. One of them said, What about chrysanthemum?--reply at
once. This was just like Gilray's overbearing way; but I answered
politely, and so far as I knew, truthfully, Chrysanthemum all right.
Knowing that there was no explaining things to Gilray, I redoubled my
exertions to water his flower-pot as the day for his return drew near.
Once, indeed, when I rang for water, I could not for the life of me
remember what I wanted it for when it was brought. Had I had any
forethought I should have left the tumbler stand just as it was to
show it to Gilray on his return. But, unfortunately, William John had
misunderstood what I wanted the water for, and put a decanter down
beside it. Another time I was actually on the stair rushing to Gilray's
door, when I met the housekeeper, and, stopping to talk to her, lost
my opportunity again. To show how honestly anxious I was to fulfil
my promise, I need only add that I was several times awakened in the
watches of the night by a haunting consciousness that I had forgotten
to water Gilray's flower-pot. On these occasions I spared no trouble
to remember again in the morning. I reached out of bed to a chair and
turned it upside down, so that the sight of it when I rose might remind
me that I had something to do. With the same object I crossed the tongs
and poker on the floor. Gilray maintains that instead of playing fool's
tricks like these (fool's tricks!) I should have got up and gone
at once to his rooms with my water-bottle. What? and disturbed my
neighbors? Besides, could I reasonably be expected to risk catching my
death of cold for the sake of a wretched chrysanthemum? One reads of men
doing such things for young ladies who seek lilies in dangerous ponds or
edelweiss on overhanging cliffs. But Gilray was not my sweetheart, nor,
I feel certain, any other person's.
I come now to the day prior to Gilray's return. I had just reached the
office when I remembered about the chrysanthemum. It was my last chance.
If I watered it once I should be in a position to state that, whatever
condition it might be in, I had certainly been watering it. I jumped
into a hansom, told the cabby to drive to the inn, and twenty minutes
afterward had one hand on Gilray's door, while the other held the
largest water-can in the house. Opening the door I rushed in. The can
nearly fell from my hand. There was no flower-pot! I rang the bell. Mr.
Gilray's chrysanthemum! I cried. What do you think William John said?
He coolly told me that the plant was dead, and had been flung out days
ago. I went to the theatre that night to keep myself from thinking. All
next day I contrived to remain out of Gilray's sight. When we met he was
stiff and polite. He did not say a word about the chrysanthemum for a
week, and then it all came out with a rush. I let him talk. With the
servants flinging out the flower-pots faster than I could water them,
what more could I have done? A coolness between us was inevitable. This
I regretted, but my mind was made up on one point: I would never do
Gilray a favor again.
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