Gilray's Flower-pot





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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