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diff --git a/old/duet10h.htm b/old/duet10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..87f8e62 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/duet10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9640 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII"> +<title>A Duet</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">A Duet, by A. Conan Doyle</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Duet, by A. Conan Doyle +(#32 in our series by A. Conan Doyle) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: A Duet + +Author: A. Conan Doyle + +Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5260] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on June 18, 2002] +[Most recently updated: June 18, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p> +<a name="startoftext"></a> +Transcribed from the 1899 Grant Richards edition by David Price, email +ccx074@coventry.ac.uk<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A DUET<br> +WITH AN OCCASIONAL CHORUS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +TO MRS. MAUDE CROSSE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Dear Maude, - All the little two-oared boats which put out into the +great ocean have need of some chart which will show them how to lay +their course. Each starts full of happiness and confidence, and +yet we know how many founder, for it is no easy voyage, and there are +rocks and sandbanks upon the way. So I give a few pages of your +own private log, which tell of days of peace, and days of storm - such +storms as seem very petty from the deck of a high ship, but are serious +for the two-oared boats. If your peace should help another to +peace, or your storm console another who is storm-tossed, then I know +that you will feel repaid for this intrusion upon your privacy. +May all your voyage be like the outset, and when at last the oars fall +from your hands, and those of Frank, may other loving ones be ready +to take their turn of toil - and so, <i>bon voyage</i>!<br> +<br> +Ever your friend,<br> +THE AUTHOR.<br> +<i>Jan. </i>20, 1899.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I - THE OVERTURE - ABOUT THAT DATE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +These are the beginnings of some of the letters which they wrote about +that time.<br> +<br> +<i>Woking, May 20th.<br> +<br> +</i>My Dearest Maude, - You know that your mother suggested, and we +agreed, that we should be married about the beginning of September. +Don’t you think that we might say the 3rd of August? It +is a Wednesday, and in every sense suitable. Do try to change +the date, for it would in many ways be preferable to the other. +I shall be eager to hear from you about it. And now, dearest Maude +. . . (The rest is irrelevant.)<br> +<br> +<i>St. Albans, May 22nd.<br> +<br> +</i>My Dearest Frank, - Mother sees no objection to the 3rd of August, +and I am ready to do anything which will please you and her. Of +course there are the guests to be considered, and the dressmakers and +other arrangements, but I have no doubt that we shall be able to change +the date all right. O Frank . . . (What follows is beside the +point.)<br> +<br> +<i>Woking, May 25th.<br> +<br> +</i>My Dearest Maude, - I have been thinking over that change of date, +and I see one objection which had not occurred to me when I suggested +it. August the 1st is Bank holiday, and travelling is not very +pleasant about that time. My idea now is that we should bring +it off before that date. Fancy, for example, how unpleasant it +would be for your Uncle Joseph if he had to travel all the way from +Edinburgh with a Bank-holiday crowd. It would be selfish of us +if we did not fit in our plans so as to save our relatives from inconvenience. +I think therefore, taking everything into consideration, that the 20th +of July, a Wednesday, would be the very best day that we could select. +I do hope that you will strain every nerve, my darling, to get your +mother to consent to this change. When I think . . . (A digression +follows.)<br> +<br> +<i>St. Albans, May 27th.<br> +<br> +</i>My Dearest Frank, - I think that what you say about the date is +very reasonable, and it is so sweet and unselfish of you to think about +Uncle Joseph. Of course it would be very unpleasant for him to +have to travel at such a time, and we must strain every nerve to prevent +it. There is only one serious objection which my mother can see. +Uncle Percival (that is my mother’s second brother) comes back +from Rangoon about the end of July, and will miss the wedding (O Frank, +think of its being <i>our</i> wedding!) unless we delay it. He +has always been very fond of me, and he might be hurt if we were married +so immediately before his arrival. Don’t you think it would +be as well to wait? Mother leaves it all in your hands, and we +shall do exactly as you advise. O Frank . . . (The rest is confidential.)<br> +<br> +<i>Woking, May 29th.<br> +<br> +</i>My Own Dearest, - I think that it would be unreasonable upon the +part of your Uncle Percival to think that we ought to have changed the +date of a matter so important to ourselves, simply in order that he +should be present. I am sure that on second thoughts your mother +and yourself will see the thing in this light. I must say, however, +that in one point I think you both show great judgment. It would +certainly be invidious to be married <i>immediately</i> before his arrival. +I really think that he would have some cause for complaint if we did +that. To prevent any chance of hurting his feelings, I think that +it would be far best, if your mother and you agree with me, that we +should be married upon July 7th. I see that it is a Thursday, +and in every way suitable. When I read your last letter . . . +(The remainder is unimportant.)<br> +<br> +<i>St. Albans, June 1st</i>.<br> +<br> +Dearest Frank, - I am sure that you are right in thinking that it would +be as well not to have the ceremony too near the date of Uncle Percival’s +arrival in England. We should be so sorry to hurt his feelings +in any way. Mother has been down to Madame Mortimer’s about +the dresses, and she thinks that everything could be hurried up so as +to be ready by July 7th. She is so obliging, and her skirts <i>do</i> +hang so beautifully. O Frank, it is only a few weeks’ time, +and then . . .<br> +<br> +<i>Woking, June 3rd.<br> +<br> +</i>My Own Darling Maude, - How good you are - and your mother also +- in falling in with my suggestions! Please, please don’t +bother your dear self about dresses. You only want the one travelling-dress +to be married in, and the rest we can pick up as we go. I am sure +that white dress with the black stripe - the one you were playing tennis +with at the Arlingtons’ - would do splendidly. You looked +simply splendid that day. I am inclined to think that it is my +favourite of all your dresses, with the exception of the dark one with +the light-green front. That shows off your figure so splendidly. +I am very fond also of the grey Quaker-like alpaca dress. What +a little dove you do look in it! I think those dresses, and of +course your satin evening-dress, are my favourites. On second +thoughts, they are the only dresses I have ever seen you in. But +I like the grey best, because you wore it the first time I ever - you +remember! You must <i>never </i>get rid of those dresses. +They are too full of associations. I want to see you in them for +years, and years, and years.<br> +<br> +What I wanted to say was that you have so many charming dresses, that +we may consider ourselves independent of Madame Mortimer. If her +things should be late, they will come in very usefully afterwards. +I don’t want to be selfish or inconsiderate, my own dearest girlie, +but it would be rather too much if we allowed my tailor or your dressmaker +to be obstacles to our union. I just want you - your dainty little +self - if you had only your ‘wee coatie,’ as Burns says. +Now look here! I want you to bring your influence to bear upon +your mother, and so make a small change in our plans. The earlier +we can have our honeymoon, the more pleasant the hotels will be. +I do want your first experiences with me to be without a shadow of discomfort. +In July half the world starts for its holiday. If we could get +away at the end of this mouth, we should just be ahead of them. +This month, this very month! Oh, do try to manage this, my own +dearest girl. The 30th of June is a Tuesday, and in every way +suitable. They could spare me from the office most excellently. +This would just give us time to have the banns three times, beginning +with next Sunday. I leave it in your hands, dear. Do try +to work it.<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>St. Albans, June 4th.<br> +<br> +</i>My Dearest Frank, - We nearly called in the doctor after your dear +old preposterous letter. My mother gasped upon the sofa while +I read her some extracts. That I, the daughter of the house, should +be married in my old black and white tennis-dress, which I wore at the +Arlingtons’ to save my nice one! Oh, you are simply splendid +sometimes! And the learned way in which you alluded to my alpaca. +As a matter of fact, it’s a merino, but that doesn’t matter. +Fancy your remembering my wardrobe like that! And wanting me to +wear them all for years! So I shall, dear, secretly, when we are +quite quite alone. But they are all out of date already, and if +in a year or so you saw your poor dowdy wife with tight sleeves among +a roomful of puff-shouldered young ladies, you would not be consoled +even by the memory that it was in that dress that you first . . . you +know!<br> +<br> +As a matter of fact, I <i>must </i>have my dress to be married in. +I don’t think mother would regard it as a legal marriage if I +hadn’t, and if you knew how nice it will be, you would not have +the heart to interfere with it. Try to picture it, silver-grey +- I know how fond you are of greys - a little white chiffon at neck +and wrists, and the prettiest pearl trimming. Then the hat <i>en +suite, </i>pale-grey lisse, white feather and brilliant buckle. +All these details are wasted upon you, sir, but you will like it when +you see it. It fulfils your ideal of tasteful simplicity, which +men always imagine to be an economical method of dressing, until they +have wives and milliners’ bills of their own.<br> +<br> +And now I have kept the biggest news to the last. Mother has been +to Madame, and she says that if she works all night, she will have everything +ready for the 30th. O Frank, does it not seem incredible! +Next Tuesday three weeks. And the banns! Oh my goodness, +I am frightened when I think about it! Dear old boy, you won’t +tire of me, will you? Whatever should I do if I thought you had +tired of me! And the worst of it is, that you don’t know +me a bit. I have a hundred thousand faults, and you arc blinded +by your love and cannot see them. But then some day the scales +will fall from your eyes, and you will perceive the whole hundred thousand +at once. Oh, what a reaction there will be! You will see +me as I am, frivolous, wilful, idle, petulant, and altogether horrid. +But I do love you, Frank, with all my heart, and soul, and mind, and +strength, and you’ll count that on the other side, won’t +you? Now I am so glad I have said all this, because it is best +that you should know what you should expect. It will be nice for +you to look back and to say, ‘She gave me fair warning, and she +is no worse than she said.’ O Frank, think of the 30th.<br> +<br> +<i>P.S</i>. - I forgot to say that I had a grey silk cape, lined with +cream, to go with the dress. It is just sweet!<br> +<br> +So that is how they arranged about the date.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II - THE OVERTURE CONTINUED - IN A MINOR KEY<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>Woking, June 7th.<br> +<br> +</i>My Own Dearest Maude, - How I wish you were here, for I have been +down, down, down, in the deepest state of despondency all day. +I have longed to hear the sound of your voice, or to feel the touch +of your hand! How can I be despondent, when in three weeks I shall +be the husband of the dearest girl in England? That is what I +ask myself, and then the answer comes that it is just exactly on that +account that my wretched conscience is gnawing at me. I feel that +I have not used you well; I owe you reparation, and I don’t know +what to do.<br> +<br> +In your last dear letter you talk about being frivolous. <i>You</i> +have never been frivolous. But I have been frivolous - for ever +since I have learned to love you, I have been so wrapped up in my love, +with my happiness gilding everything about me, that I have never really +faced the prosaic facts of life or discussed with you what our marriage +will really necessitate. And now, at this eleventh hour, I realise +that I have led you on in ignorance to an act which will perhaps take +a great deal of the sunshine out of your life. What have I to +offer you in exchange for the sacrifice which you will make for me? +Myself, my love, and all that I have - but how little it all amounts +to! You are a girl in a thousand, in ten thousand - bright, beautiful, +sweet, the dearest lady in all the land. And I an average man +- or perhaps hardly that - with little to boast of in the past, and +vague ambitions for the future. It is a poor bargain for you, +a most miserable bargain. You have still time. Count the +cost, and if it be too great, then draw back even now without fear of +one word or inmost thought of reproach from me. Your whole life +is at stake. How can I hold you to a decision which was taken +before you realised what it meant? Now I shall place the facts +before you, and then, come what may, my conscience will be at rest, +and I shall be sure that you are acting with your eyes open.<br> +<br> +You have to compare your life as it is, and as it will be. Your +father is rich, or at least comfortably off, and you have been accustomed +all your life to have whatever you desired. From what I know of +your mother’s kindness, I should imagine that no wish of yours +has ever remained ungratified. You have lived well, dressed well, +a sweet home, a lovely garden, your collie, your canary, your maid. +Above all, you have never had anxiety, never had to worry about the +morrow. I can see all your past life so well. In the mornings, +your music, your singing, your gardening, your reading. In the +afternoons, your social duties, the visit and the visitor. In +the evening, tennis, a walk, music again, your father’s return +from the City, the happy family-circle, with occasionally the dinner, +the dance, and the theatre. And so smoothly on, month after month, +and year after year, your own sweet, kindly, joyous nature, and your +bright face, making every one round you happy, and so reacting upon +your own happiness. Why should you bother about money? That +was your father’s business. Why should you trouble about +housekeeping? That was your mother’s duty. You lived +like the birds and the flowers, and had no need to take heed for the +future. Everything which life could offer was yours.<br> +<br> +And now you must turn to what is in store for you, if you are still +content to face the future with me. Position I have none to offer. +What is the exact position of the wife of the assistant-accountant of +the Co-operative Insurance Office? It is indefinable. What +are my prospects? I may become head-accountant. If Dinton +died - and I hope he won’t, for he is an excellent fellow - I +should probably get his berth. Beyond that I have no career. +I have some aspirations after literature - a few critical articles in +the monthlies - but I don’t suppose they will ever lead to anything +of consequence.<br> +<br> +And my income, £400 a year with a commission on business I introduce. +But that amounts to hardly anything. You have £50. +Our total, then, is certainly under £500. Have you considered +what it will mean to leave that charming house at St. Albans - the breakfast-room, +the billiard-room, the lawn - and to live in the little £50 a +year house at Woking, with its two sitting-rooms and pokey garden? +Have I a right to ask you to do such a thing? And then the housekeeping, +the planning, the arranging, the curtailing, the keeping up appearances +upon a limited income. I have made myself miserable, because I +feel that you are marrying me without a suspicion of the long weary +uphill struggle which lies before you. O Maude, my darling Maude, +I feel that you sacrifice too much for me! If I were a man I should +say to you, ‘Forget me - forget it all! Let our relations +be a closed chapter in your life. You can do better. I and +my cares come like a great cloud-bank to keep the sunshine from your +young life. You who are so tender and dainty! How can I +bear to see you exposed to the drudgery and sordid everlasting cares +of such a household! I think of your graces, your pretty little +ways, the elegancies of your life, and how charmingly you carry them +off. You are born and bred for just such an atmosphere as the +one which you breathe. And I take advantage of my good-fortune +in winning your love to drag you down, to take the beauty and charm +from your life, to fill it with small and vulgar cares, never-ending +and soul-killing. Selfish beast that I am, why should I allow +you to come down into the stress and worry of life, when I found you +so high above it? And what can I offer you in exchange?’ +These are the thoughts which come back and back all day, and leave me +in the blackest fit of despondency. I confessed to you that I +had dark humours, but never one so hopeless as this. I do not +wish my worst enemy to be as unhappy as I have been to-day.<br> +<br> +Write to me, my own darling Maude, and tell me all you think, your very +inmost soul, in this matter. Am I right? Have I asked too +much of you? Does the change frighten you? You will have +this in the morning, and I should have my answer by the evening post. +I shall meet the postman. How hard I shall try not to snatch the +letter from him, or to give myself away. Wilson has been in worrying +me with foolish talk, while my thoughts were all of our affairs. +He worked me up into a perfectly homicidal frame of mind, but I hope +that I kept on smiling and was not discourteous to him. I wonder +which is right, to be polite but hypocritical, or to be inhospitable +but honest.<br> +<br> +Good-bye, my own dearest sweetheart - all the dearer when I feel that +I may lose you. - Ever your devoted<br> +<br> +FRANK.<br> +<br> +<i>St. Albans, June 8th.<br> +<br> +</i>Frank, tell me for Heaven’s sake what your letter means! +You use words of love, and yet you talk of parting. You speak +as if our love were a thing which we might change or suppress. +O Frank, you cannot take my love away from me. You don’t +know what you are to me, my heart, my life, my all. I would give +my life for you willingly, gladly - every beat of my heart is for you. +You don’t know what you have become to me. My every thought +is yours, and has been ever since that night at the Arlingtons’. +My love is so deep and strong, it rules my whole life, my every action +from morning to night. It is the very breath and heart of my life +- unchangeable. I could not alter my love any more than I could +stop my heart from beating. How could you, could you suggest such +a thing! I know that you really love me just as much as I love +you, or I should not open my heart like this. I should be too +proud to give myself away. But I feel that pride is out of place +when any mistake or misunderstanding may mean lifelong misery to both +of us. I would only say good-bye if I thought your love had changed +or grown less. But I know that it has not. O my darling, +if you only knew what terrible agony the very thought of parting is, +you would never have let such an idea even for an instant, on any pretext, +enter your mind. The very possibility is too awful to think of. +When I read your letter just now up in my room, I nearly fainted. +I can’t write. O Frank, don’t take my love away from +me. I can’t bear it. Oh no, it is my everything. +If I could only see you now, I know that you would kiss these heart-burning +tears away. I feel so lonely and tired. I cannot follow +all your letter. I only know that you talked of parting, and that +I am weary and miserable.<br> +<br> +MAUDE.<br> +<br> +(COPY OF TELEGRAM)<br> +<i>From Frank Crosse, </i>to <i>Miss Maude Selby,<br> +The Laurels, St. Albans<br> +</i>Coming up eight-fifteen, arrive midnight.<br> +<br> +<i>June 10th.<br> +<br> +</i>How good of you, dear old boy, to come racing across two counties +at a minute’s notice, simply in order to console me and clear +away my misunderstandings. Of course it was most ridiculous of +me to take your letter so much to heart, but when I read any suggestion +about our parting, it upset me so dreadfully, that I was really incapable +of reasoning about anything else. Just that one word PART seemed +to be written in letters of fire right across the page, to the exclusion +of everything else. So then I wrote an absurd letter to my boy, +and the dear came scampering right across the South of England, and +arrived at midnight in the most demoralised state. It was just +sweet of you to come, dear, and I shall never forget it.<br> +<br> +I am so sorry that I have been so foolish, but you must confess, sir, +that you have been just a little bit foolish also. The idea of +supposing that when I love a man my love can be affected by the size +of his house or the amount of his income. It makes me smile to +think of it. Do you suppose a woman’s happiness is affected +by whether she has a breakfast-room, or a billiard-board, or a collie +dog, or any of the other luxuries which you enumerated? But these +things are all the merest trimmings of life. They are not the +essentials. <i>You </i>and your love are the essentials. +Some one who will love me with all his heart. Some one whom I +can love with all my heart. Oh the difference it makes in life! +How it changes everything! It glorifies and beautifies everything. +I always felt that I was capable of a great love - and now I have it.<br> +<br> +Fancy your imagining that you had come into my life in order to darken +it. Why, you <i>are </i>my life. If you went out of it, +what would be left? You talk about my happiness before I met you +- but oh, how empty it all was! I read, and played, and sang as +you say, but what a void there was! I did it to please mother, +but there really seemed no very clear reason why I should continue to +do it. Then you came, and everything was changed. I read +because you are fond of reading and because I wanted to talk about books +with you. I played because you are fond of music. I sang +in the hope that it might please you. Whatever I did, you were +always in my mind. I tried and tried to become a better and nobler +woman, because I wanted to be worthy of the love you bore me. +I have changed, and developed, and improved more in the last three months +than in all my life before. And then you come and tell me that +you have darkened my life. You know better now. My life +has become full and rich, for Love fills my life. It is the keynote +of my nature, the foundation, the motive power. It inspires me +to make the most of any gift or talent that I have. How could +I tell you all this if I did not know that your own feeling was as deep. +I could not have given the one, great, and only love of my life in exchange +for a half-hearted affection from you. But you will never again +make the mistake of supposing that any material consideration can affect +our love.<br> +<br> +And now we won’t be serious any longer. Dear mother was +very much astounded by your tumultuous midnight arrival, and equally +precipitate departure next morning. Dear old boy, it was so nice +of you! But you won’t ever have horrid black humours and +think miserable things any more, will you? But if you must have +dark days, now is your time, for I can’t possibly permit any after +the 30th. - Ever your own<br> +<br> +MAUDE.<br> +<br> +<i>Woking, June 11th</i>.<br> +<br> +My Own Dearest Girlie, - How perfectly sweet you are! I read and +re-read your letter, and I understand more and more how infinitely your +nature is above mine. And your conception of love - how lofty +and unselfish it is! How could I lower it by thinking that any +worldly thing could be weighed for an instant against it! And +yet it was just my jealous love for you, and my keenness that you should +never be the worse through me, which led me to write in that way, so +I will not blame myself too much. I am really glad that the cloud +came, for the sunshine is so much brighter afterwards. And I seem +to know you so much better, and to see so much more deeply into your +nature. I knew that my own passion for you was the very essence +of my soul - oh, how hard it is to put the extreme of emotion into the +terms of human speech! - but I did not dare to hope that your feelings +were as deep. I hardly ventured to tell even you how I really +felt. Somehow, in these days of lawn-tennis and afternoon tea, +a strong strong passion, such a passion as one reads of in books and +poems, seems out of place. I thought that it would surprise, even +frighten you, perhaps, if I were to tell you all that I felt. +And now you have written me two letters, which contain all that I should +have said if I had spoken from my heart. It is all my own inmost +thought, and there is not a feeling that I do not share. O Maude, +I may write lightly and speak lightly, perhaps, sometimes, but there +never was a woman, never, never in all the story of the world, who was +loved more passionately than you are loved by me. Come what may, +while the world lasts and the breath of life is between my lips, you +are the one woman to me. If we are together, I care nothing for +what the future may bring. If we are not together, all the world +cannot fill the void.<br> +<br> +You say that I have given an impulse to your life: that you read more, +study more, take a keener interest in everything. You could not +possibly have said a thing which could have given me more pleasure than +that. It is splendid! It justifies me in aspiring to you. +It satisfies my conscience over everything which I have done. +It must be right if that is the effect. I have felt so happy and +light-hearted ever since you said it. It is rather absurd to think +that <i>I </i>should improve you, but if you in your sweet frankness +say that it is so, why, I can only marvel and rejoice.<br> +<br> +But you must not study and work too hard. You say that you do +it to please me, but that would not please me. I’ll tell +you an anecdote as a dreadful example. I had a friend who was +a great lover of Eastern literature, Sanskrit, and so on. He loved +a lady. The lady to please him worked hard at these subjects also. +In a month she had shattered her nervous system, and will perhaps never +be the same again. It was impossible. She was not meant +for it, and yet she made herself a martyr over it. I don’t +mean by this parable that it will be a strain upon your intellect to +keep up with mine. But I do mean that a woman’s mind is +<i>different </i>from a man’s. A dainty rapier is a finer +thing than a hatchet, but it is not adapted for cutting down trees all +the same.<br> +<br> +Rupton Hale, the architect, one of the few friends I have down here, +has some most deplorable views about women. I played a round of +the Byfleet Golf Links with him upon Wednesday afternoon, and we discussed +the question of women’s intellects. He would have it that +they have never a light of their own, but are always the reflectors +of some other light which you cannot see. He would allow that +they were extraordinarily quick in assimilating another person’s +views, but that was all. I quoted some very shrewd remarks which +a lady had made to me at dinner. ‘Those are the traces of +the last man,’ said he. According to his preposterous theory, +you could in conversation with a woman reconstruct the last man who +had made an impression to her. ‘She will reflect you upon +the next person she talks to,’ said he. It was ungallant, +but it was ingenious.<br> +<br> +Dearest sweetheart, before I stop, let me tell you that if I have brought +any happiness into your life, you have brought far, far more into mine. +My soul seemed to come into full being upon the day when I loved you. +It was so small, and cramped, and selfish, before - and life was so +hard, and stupid, and purposeless. To live, to sleep, to eat, +for some years, and then to die - it was so trivial and so material. +But now the narrow walls seem in an instant to have fallen, and a boundless +horizon stretches around me. And everything appears beautiful. +London Bridge, King William Street, Abchurch Lane, the narrow stair, +the office with the almanacs and the shining desks, it has all become +glorified, tinged with a golden haze. I am stronger: I step out +briskly and breathe more deeply. And I am a better man too. +God knows there was room for it. But I do try to make an ideal, +and to live up to it. I feel such a fraud when I think of being +put upon a pedestal by you, when some little hole where I am out of +sight is my true place. I am like the man in Browning who mourned +over the spots upon his ‘speckled hide,’ but rejoiced in +the swansdown of his lady. And so, my own dear sweet little swansdown +lady, good-night to you, with my heart’s love now and for ever +from your true lover,<br> +<br> +FRANK.<br> +<br> +Saturday! Saturday! Saturday! oh, how I am longing for Saturday, +when I shall see you again! We will go on Sunday and hear the +banns together.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III - THE OVERTURE CONCLUDED<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>St. Albans, June </i>14th.<br> +<br> +Dearest Frank, - What a dreadful thing it is to have your name shouted +out in public! And what a voice the man had! He simply bellowed +‘Maude Selby of this parish’ as if he meant all this parish +to know about it. And then he let you off so easily. I suppose +he thought that there was no local interest in Frank Crosse of Woking. +But when he looked round expectantly, after asking whether there was +any known cause or just impediment why we should not be joined together, +it gave me quite a thrill. I felt as if some one would jump up +like a Jack-in-the-box and make a scene in the church. How relieved +I was when he changed the subject! I sank my face in my hands, +but I know that I was blushing all down my neck. Then I looked +at you between my fingers, and there you were sitting quite cool and +cheerful, as if you rather liked it. I think that we shall go +to evening-service next week. Papa has given up going altogether +since the new organist came. He says he cannot face the music.<br> +<br> +What a sweet time we had together. I shall never, never forget +it! O Frank, how good you are to me! And how I hope you +won’t regret what you are doing. It is all very well just +now, when I am young and you think that I am pretty. I love that +you should think so, but I am compelled to tell you that it is not really +so. I can’t imagine how you came to think it! I suppose +it was from seeing me so often beside papa. If you saw me near +Nelly Sheridan, or any other <i>really </i>pretty girl, you would at +once see the difference. It just happens that you like grey eyes +and brown hair, and the other things, but that does not mean that I +am really pretty. I should be so sorry if there were any misunderstanding +about this, and you only found out when too late. You ought to +keep this letter for reference, as papa always says, and then it will +be interesting to you afterwards.<br> +<br> +I should like you to see me now - or rather I wouldn’t have you +see me for the world. I am so flushed and untidy, for I have been +cooking. Is it not absurd, if you come to think of it, that we +girls should be taught the irregular French verbs, and the geography +of China, and never to cook the simplest thing? It really does +seem ridiculous.<br> +<br> +But it is never too late to mend, so I went into the kitchen this morning +and made a tart. You can’t imagine what a lot of things +one needs even for such a simple thing as that. I thought cook +was joking when she put them all down in front of me. It was like +a conjurer giving his performance. There was an empty bowl, and +a bowl full of sliced apples, and a big board, and a rolling-pin, and +eggs, and butter, and sugar, and cloves, and of course flour. +We broke eggs and put them into a bowl - you can’t think what +a mess an egg makes when it misses the bowl. Then we stirred them +up with flour and butter and things. I stirred until I was perfectly +exhausted. No wonder a cook has usually a great thick arm. +Then when it had formed a paste, we rolled it out, and put the apples +in the dish, and roofed it in, and trimmed the edges, and stuck flat +leaves made of paste all over it, and the dearest little crown in the +middle. Then we put it into the oven until it was brown. +It looked a very nice tart, and mamma said that I had made it very solidly. +It certainly did feel very heavy for its size. Mamma would not +taste it, because she said that she thought Dr. Tristram would not approve +of her doing so, but I had a piece, and really it was not so bad. +Mamma said the servants might have it at dinner, but the servants said +that the poor window-cleaner had a large family, and so we gave it to +him. It is so sweet to feel that one is of any use to any one.<br> +<br> +What do you think happened this morning? Two wedding-presents +arrived. The first was a very nice fish slice and fork in a case. +It was from dear old Mrs. Jones Beyrick, on whom we really had no claim +whatever. We all think it so kind of her, and such a nice fish-slice. +The other was a beautiful travelling-bag from Uncle Arthur. Stamped +in gold upon it were the letters M.C., I said, ‘Oh, what a pity! +They have put the wrong initials.’ That made mamma laugh. +I suppose one soon gets used to it. Fancy how you would feel if +it were the other way about, and you changed your name to mine. +They might call you Selby, but you would continue to feel Crosse. +I didn’t mean that for a joke, but women make jokes without intending +it. The other day the curate drove up in his donkey-cart, and +mother said, ‘Oh, what a nice tandem!’ I think that +she meant to say ‘turn-out’; but papa said it was the neatest +thing he had heard for a long time, so mamma is very pleased, but I +am sure that she does not know even now why it should be so funny.<br> +<br> +What stupid letters I write! Doesn’t it frighten you when +you read them and think that is the person with whom I have to spend +my life. Yet you never seem alarmed about it. I think it +is so <i>brave </i>of you. That reminds me that I never finished +what I wanted to say at the beginning of this letter. Even supposing +that I am pretty (and my complexion sometimes is simply awful), you +must bear in mind how quickly the years slip by, and how soon a woman +alters. Why, we shall hardly be married before you will find me +full of wrinkles, and without a tooth in my head. Poor boy, how +dreadful for you! Men seem to change so little and so slowly. +Besides, it does not matter for them, for nobody marries a man because +he is pretty. But you must marry me, Frank, not for what I look +but for what I am - for my inmost, inmost self, so that if I had no +body at all, you would love me just the same. That is how I love +you, but I do prefer you with your body on all the same. I don’t +know how I love you, dear. I only know that I am in a dream when +you are near me - just a beautiful dream. I live for those moments. +- Ever your own little<br> +<br> +MAUDE.<br> +<br> +<i>P.S</i>. - Papa gave us such a fright, for he came in just now and +said that the window-cleaner and all his family were very ill. +This was a joke, because the coachman had told him about my tart. +Wasn’t it horrid of him?<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>Woking, June </i>17<i>th.<br> +<br> +</i>My own sweetest Maude, - I do want you to come up to town on Saturday +morning. Then I will see you home to St. Albans in the evening, +and we shall have another dear delightful week end. I think of +nothing else, and I count the hours. Now please to manage it, +and don’t let anything stop you. You know that you can always +get your way. Oh yes, you can, miss! I know.<br> +<br> +We shall meet at the bookstall at Charing Cross railway station at one +o’clock, but if anything should go wrong, send me a wire to the +Club. Then we can do some shopping together, and have some fun +also. Tell your mother that we shall be back in plenty of time +for dinner. Make another tart, and I shall eat it. Things +are slack at the office just now, and I could be spared for a few days.<br> +<br> +So you have had a fish-slice. It is so strange, because on that +very day I had my first present, and it was a fish-slice also. +We shall have fish at each end when we give a dinner. If we get +another fish-slice, then we shall give a fish-dinner - or keep one of +the slices to give to your friend Nelly Sheridan when <i>she </i>gets +married. They will always come in useful. And I have had +two more presents. One is a Tantalus spirit-stand from my friends +in the office. The other is a pair of bronzes from the cricket +club. They got it up without my knowing anything about it, and +I was amazed when a deputation came up to my rooms with them last night. +‘May your innings be long and your partnership unbroken until +you each make a hundred not out.’ That was the inscription +upon a card.<br> +<br> +I have something very grave to tell you. I’ve been going +over my bills and things, and I owe ever so much more than I thought. +I have always been so careless, and never known exactly how I stood. +It did not matter when one was a bachelor, for one always felt that +one could live quite simply for a few months, and so set matters straight. +But now it is more serious. The bills come to more than a hundred +pounds; the biggest one is forty-two pounds to Snell and Walker, the +Conduit Street tailors. However, I am ordering my marriage-suit +from them, and that will keep them quiet. I have enough on hand +to pay most of the others. But we must not run short upon our +honeymoon - what an awful idea! Perhaps there may be some cheques +among our presents. We will hope for the best.<br> +<br> +But there is a more serious thing upon which I want to consult you. +You asked me never to have any secrets from you, or else I should not +bother you about such things. I should have kept it for Saturday +when we meet, but I want you to have time to think about it, so that +we may come to some decision then.<br> +<br> +I am surety to a man for an indefinite sum of money. It sounds +rather dreadful, does it not? But it is not so bad as it sounds, +for there is no harm done yet. But the question is what we should +do in the future about it, and the answer is not a very easy one. +He is a very pleasant fellow, an insurance agent, and he got into some +trouble about his accounts last year. The office would have dismissed +him, but as I knew his wife and his family, I became surety that he +should not go wrong again, and so I saved him from losing his situation. +His name is Farintosh. He is one of those amiable, weak, good +fellows whom you cannot help loving, although you never can trust them. +Of course we could give notice that we should not be responsible any +longer, but it would be a thunderbolt to this poor family, and the man +would certainly be ruined. We don’t want to begin our own +happiness by making any one else unhappy, do we? But we shall +talk it over, and I shall do what you advise. You understand that +we are only liable in case he defaults, and surely it is very unlikely +that he will do so after the lesson that he has already had.<br> +<br> +I think the house will do splendidly. The Lindens is the name, +and it is on the Maybury Road, not more than a quarter of a mile from +the station. If your mother and you could come down on Tuesday +or Wednesday, I should get a half-day off, and you would be able to +inspect it. Such a nice little lawn in front, and garden behind. +A conservatory, if you please, dining-room and drawing-room. You +can never assemble more than four or five guests. On your at-home +days, we shall put up little placards as they do outside the theatres, +‘Drawing-room full,’ ‘Dining-room full,’ ‘Room +in the Conservatory.’ There are two good bedrooms, one large +maid’s room, and a lumber-room. One cook and one housemaid +could run it beautifully. Rent £50 on a three years’ +lease - with taxes, about £62. I think it was just built +for us. Rupton Hale says that we must be careful not to brush +against the walls, and that it would be safer to go outside to sneeze +- but that is only his fun.<br> +<br> +What a dull, stupid letter! I do hope that I shall be in good +form on Saturday. I am a man of moods - worse luck! and they come +quite regardless of how I wish to be, or even of how I have cause to +be. I do hope that I shall make your day bright for you - the +last day that we shall have together before <i>the </i>day. There +have been times when I have been such bad company to you, just when +I wished to be at my best. But you are always so sweet and patient +and soothing. Until Saturday, then, my own darling. - Ever your +lover, FRANK.<br> +<br> +<i>P.S</i>. - I open this to tell you that such a gorgeous fish-knife, +with our monograms upon it, has just arrived from Mrs. Preston, my father’s +old friend. I went to the Goldsmith’s Company in Regent +Street yesterday afternoon, and I bought - what do you think? +It looks so beautiful upon its snow-white cotton wadding. I like +them very broad and rather flat. I do hope you will think it all +right. It fills me with the strangest feelings when I look at +it. Come what may, foul weather or fair, sorrow or joy, that little +strip of gold will still be with us - we shall see it until we can see +no more.<br> +<br> +<i>P.P.S</i>. - Saturday! Saturday!! Saturday!!!<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IV - THE TWO SOLOS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Their tryst was at the Charing Cross bookstall at one o’clock, +and so Mr. Frank Crosse was there at quarter-past twelve, striding impatiently +up and down, and stopping dead whenever a woman emerged from the entrance, +like a pointer dog before a partridge. Before he came he had been +haunted by the idea that possibly Maude might have an impulse to come +early - and what if she were to arrive and not find him there! +Every second of her company was so dear to him, that when driving to +meet her he had sometimes changed from one cab to another upon the way, +because the second seemed to have the faster horse. But now that +he was on the ground he realised that she was very exact to her word, +and that she would neither be early nor late. And yet, in the +illogical fashion of a lover, he soon forgot that it was he who was +too soon, and he chafed and chafed as the minutes passed, until at about +quarter to one he was striding gloomily about with despondent features +and melancholy forebodings, imagining a thousand miserable reasons for +her inexplicable delay. A good many people stared at him as they +passed, and we may do so among the number.<br> +<br> +In person Frank Crosse was neither tall nor short, five feet eight and +a half to be exact, with the well-knit frame and springy step of a young +man who had been an athlete from his boyhood. He was slim, but +wiry, and carried his head with a half-defiant backward slant which +told of pluck and breed. His face was tanned brown, in spite of +his City hours, but his hair and slight moustache were flaxen, and his +eyes, which were his best features, were of a delicate blue, and could +vary in expression from something very tender to something particularly +hard. He was an orphan, and had inherited nothing from his parents +save a dash of the artist from his mother. It was not enough to +help him to earn a living, but it transformed itself into a keen appreciation +and some ambitions in literature, and it gave a light and shade to his +character which made him rather complex, and therefore interesting. +His best friends could not deny the shade, and yet it was but the shadow +thrown by the light. Strength, virility, emotional force, power +of deep feeling - these are traits which have to be paid for. +There was sometimes just a touch of the savage, or at least there were +indications of the possibility of a touch of the savage, in Frank Crosse. +His intense love of the open air and of physical exercise was a sign +of it. He left upon women the impression, not altogether unwelcome, +that there were unexplored recesses of his nature to which the most +intimate of them had never penetrated. In those dark corners of +the spirit either a saint or a sinner might be lurking, and there was +a pleasurable excitement in peering into them, and wondering which it +was. No woman ever found him dull. Perhaps it would have +been better for him if they had, for his impulsive nature had never +been long content with a chilly friendship. He was, as we may +see, a man with a past, but it <i>was </i>a past, now that Maude Selby +had come like an angel of light across the shadowed path of his life. +In age he was nearly twenty-seven.<br> +<br> +There are one or two things which might be said for him which he would +not have said for himself. He was an only child and an orphan, +but he had adopted his grandparents, who had been left penniless through +his father’s death, and through all his struggles he had managed +to keep them happy and comfortable in a little cottage in Worcestershire. +Nor did he ever tell them that he had a struggle - fearing lest it should +make their position painful; and so when their quarterly cheque arrived, +they took it as a kindly but not remarkable act of duty upon the part +of their wealthy grandson in the City, with no suspicion as to the difference +which their allowance was making to him. Nor did he himself look +upon his action as a virtuous one, but simply as a thing which must +obviously be done. In the meantime, he had stuck closely to his +work, had won rapid promotion in the Insurance Office in which he had +started as junior clerk, had gained the goodwill of his superiors through +his frank, unaffected ways, and had been asked to play for the second +Surrey eleven at cricket. So without going the length of saying +that he was worthy of Maude Selby, one might perhaps claim - if it could +be done without endangering that natural modesty which was one of his +charms - that he was as worthy as any other young man who was available.<br> +<br> +That unfortunate artistic soul of his, which had been in the tropics +of expectation, and was now in the arctic of reaction, had just finally +settled down to black despair, with a grim recognition of the fact that +Maude had certainly and absolutely given him up, when one boomed from +the station clock, and on the very stroke she hurried on to the platform. +How could he have strained his eyes after other women, as if a second +glance were ever needed when it was really she! The perfectly +graceful figure, the trimness and neatness of it, the beautiful womanly +poise of the head, the quick elastic step, he could have sworn to her +among ten thousand. His heart gave a bound at the sight of her, +but he had the English aversion to giving himself away, and so he walked +quickly forward to meet her with an impassive face, but with a look +in his eyes which was all that she wanted.<br> +<br> +‘How are you?’<br> +<br> +‘How do you do?’<br> +<br> +He stood for a few moments looking at her in silence. She had +on the dress which he loved so much, a silver-grey merino skirt and +jacket, with a blouse of white pongee silk showing in front. Some +lighter coloured trimming fringed the cloth. She wore a grey toque, +with a dash of white at the side, and a white veil which softened without +concealing the dark brown curls and fresh girlish face beneath it. +Her gloves were of grey suède, and the two little pointed tan +shoes peeping from the edge of her skirt were the only touches of a +darker tint in her attire. Crosse had the hereditary artist’s +eye, and he could only stand and stare and enjoy it. He was filled +with admiration, with reverence, and with wonder that this perfect thing +should really proclaim itself to be all his own. Whatever had +he done, or could he do, to deserve it?<br> +<br> +She looked up at him in a roguish sidelong way, with the bright mischievous +smile which was one of her charms.<br> +<br> +‘Well, sir, do you approve?’<br> +<br> +‘By Jove, it is splendid - beautiful!’<br> +<br> +‘So glad! I hoped you would, since you are so fond of greys. +Besides, it is cooler in this weather. I hope you have not been +waiting.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh no, that’s all right.’<br> +<br> +‘You looked so solemn when first I saw you.’<br> +<br> +‘Did I?’<br> +<br> +‘And then you just jumped.’<br> +<br> +‘Did I? I’m sorry.’<br> +<br> +‘Why?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know. I like our feelings to be our very +very own, and never to show them to any one else at all. I dare +say it is absurd, but that is my instinct.’<br> +<br> +‘Never mind, dear, it wasn’t such a big jump as all that. +Where are we going?’<br> +<br> +‘Come here, Maude, into the waiting-room.’<br> +<br> +She followed him into the gloomy, smoky, dingy room. Bare yellow +benches framed an empty square of brown linoleum. A labouring +man with his wife and a child sat waiting with the stolid patience of +the poor in one corner. They were starting on some Saturday afternoon +excursion, and had mistimed their train. Maude Selby and Frank +Crosse took the other corner. He drew a jeweller’s box from +his pocket and removed the lid. Something sparkled among the wadding.<br> +<br> +‘O Frank! Is that really it?’<br> +<br> +‘Do you like it?’<br> +<br> +‘What a broad one it is! Mother’s is quite thin.’<br> +<br> +‘They wear thin in time.’<br> +<br> +‘It is beautiful. Shall I try it on?’<br> +<br> +‘No, don’t. There is some superstition about it.’<br> +<br> +‘But suppose it won’t fit?’<br> +<br> +‘That is quite safe. I measured it with your sapphire ring.’<br> +<br> +‘I haven’t half scolded you enough about that sapphire ring. +How could you go and give twenty-two guineas for a ring? - oh yes, sir, +that was the price, for I saw a duplicate yesterday in the Goldsmith’s +Company. You dear extravagant old boy!’<br> +<br> +‘I had saved the money.’<br> +<br> +‘But not for that!’<br> +<br> +‘For nothing half or quarter as important. But I had the +other to the same size, so it is sure to fit.’<br> +<br> +Maude had pushed up her veil, and sat with the little golden circlet +in her hand, looking down at it, while the dim watery London sunlight +poured through the window, and tagged all her wandering curls with a +coppery gleam. It was a face beautiful in itself, but more beautiful +for its expression - sensitive, refined, womanly, full of innocent archness +and girlish mischief, but with a depth of expression in the eyes, and +a tender delicacy about the mouth, which spoke of a great spirit with +all its capacities for suffering and devotion within. The gross +admirer of merely physical charms might have passed her over unnoticed. +So might the man who is attracted only by outward and obvious signs +of character. But to the man who could see, to the man whose own +soul had enough of spirituality to respond to hers, and whose eye could +appreciate the subtlety of a beauty which is of the mind as well as +of the body, there was not in all wide London upon that midsummer day +a sweeter girl than Maude Selby, as she sat in her grey merino dress +with the London sun tagging her brown curls with that coppery glimmer.<br> +<br> +She handed back the ring, and a graver expression passed over her mobile +face.<br> +<br> +‘I feel as you said in your letter, Frank. There <i>is </i>something +tragic in it. It will be with me for ever. All the future +will arrange itself round that little ring.’<br> +<br> +‘Are you afraid of it?’<br> +<br> +‘Afraid!’ her grey glove rested for an instant upon the +back of his hand. ‘I <i>couldn’t </i>be afraid of +anything if you were with me. It is really extraordinary, for +by nature I am so easily frightened. But if I were with you in +a railway accident or anywhere, it would be just the same. You +see I become for the time part of you, as it were, and you are brave +enough for two.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t profess to be so brave as all that,’ said +Frank. ‘I expect I have as many nerves as my neighbours.’<br> +<br> +Maude’s grey toque nodded up and down. ‘I know all +about that,’ said she.<br> +<br> +‘You have such a false idea of me. It makes me happy at +the time and miserable afterwards, for I feel such a rank impostor. +You imagine me to be a hero, and a genius, and all sorts of things, +while I <i>know </i>that I am about as ordinary a young fellow as walks +the streets of London, and no more worthy of you than - well, than any +one else is.’<br> +<br> +She laughed with shining eyes.<br> +<br> +‘I like to hear you talk like that,’ said she. ‘That +is just what is so beautiful about you.’<br> +<br> +It is hopeless to prove that you are not a hero when your disclaimers +are themselves taken as a proof of heroism. Frank shrugged his +shoulders.<br> +<br> +‘I only hope you’ll find me out gradually and not suddenly,’ +said he. ‘Now, Maude, we have all day and all London before +us. What shall we do? I want you to choose.’<br> +<br> +‘I am quite happy whatever we do. I am content to sit here +with you until evening.’<br> +<br> +Her idea of a happy holiday set them both laughing.<br> +<br> +‘Come along,’ said he, ‘we shall discuss it as we +go.’<br> +<br> +The workman’s family was still waiting, and Maude handed the child +a shilling as she went out. She was so happy herself that she +wanted every one else to be happy also. The people turned to look +at her as she passed. With the slight flush upon her cheeks and +the light in her eyes, she seemed the personification of youth, and +life, and love. One tall old gentleman started as he looked, and +watched her with a rapt face until she disappeared. Some cheek +had flushed and some eye had brightened at his words once, and sweet +old days had for an instant lived again.<br> +<br> +‘Shall we have a cab?’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, we must learn to be economical. Let us walk.’<br> +<br> +‘I can’t and won’t be economical to-day.’<br> +<br> +‘There now! See what a bad influence I have upon you.’<br> +<br> +‘Most demoralising! But we have not settled yet where we +are to go to.’<br> +<br> +‘What <i>does </i>it matter, if we are together?’<br> +<br> +‘There is a good match at the Oval, the Australians against Surrey. +Would you care to see that?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, if you would.’<br> +<br> +‘And there are matinées at all the theatres.’<br> +<br> +‘You would rather be in the open air.’<br> +<br> +‘All I want is that you should enjoy yourself.’<br> +<br> +‘Never fear. I shall do that.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, first of all I vote that we go and have some lunch.’<br> +<br> +They started across the station yard, and passed the beautiful old stone +cross. Among the hansoms and the four-wheelers, the hurrying travellers, +and the lounging cabmen, there rose that lovely reconstruction of mediævalism, +the pious memorial of a great Plantagenet king to his beloved wife.<br> +<br> +‘Six hundred years ago,’ said Frank, as they paused and +looked up, ‘that old stone cross was completed, with heralds and +armoured knights around it to honour her whose memory was honoured by +the king. Now the corduroyed porters stand where the knights stood, +and the engines whistle where the heralds trumpeted, but the old cross +is the same as ever in the same old place. It is a little thing +of that sort which makes one realise the unbroken history of our country.’<br> +<br> +Maude insisted upon hearing about Queen Eleanor, and Frank imparted +the little that he knew as they walked out into the crowded Strand.<br> +<br> +‘She was Edward the First’s wife, and a splendid woman. +It was she, you remember, who sucked the wound when he was stabbed with +a poisoned dagger. She died somewhere in the north, and he had +the body carried south to bury it in Westminster Abbey. Wherever +it rested for a night he built a cross, and so you have a line of crosses +all down England to show where that sad journey was broken.’<br> +<br> +They had turned down Whitehall, and passed the big cuirassiers upon +their black chargers at the gate of the Horse Guards. Frank pointed +to one of the windows of the old banqueting-hall.<br> +<br> +‘You’ve seen a memorial of a queen of England,’ said +he. ‘That window is the memorial of a king.’<br> +<br> +‘Why so, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘I believe that it was through that window that Charles the First +passed out to the scaffold when his head was cut off. It was the +first time that the people had ever shown that they claimed authority +over their king.’<br> +<br> +‘Poor fellow!’ said Maude. ‘He was so handsome, +and such a good husband and father.’<br> +<br> +‘It is the good kings who may be the dangerous ones.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank!’<br> +<br> +‘If a king thinks only of pleasure, then he does not interfere +with matters of state. But if he is conscientious, he tries to +do what he imagines to be his duty, and so he causes trouble. +Look at Charles, for example. He was a very good man, and yet +he caused a civil war. George the Third was a most exemplary character, +but his stupidity lost us America, and nearly lost us Ireland. +They were each succeeded by thoroughly bad men, who did far less harm.’<br> +<br> +They had reached the end of Whitehall, and the splendid panorama of +Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament lay before them. +The most stately of ancient English buildings was contrasted with the +most beautiful of modern ones. How anything so graceful came to +be built by this tasteless and utilitarian nation must remain a marvel +to the traveller. The sun was shining upon the gold-work of the +roof, and the grand towers sprang up amid the light London haze, like +some gorgeous palace in a dream. It was a fit centre for the rule +to whose mild sway one-fifth of the human race acquiesces - a rule upheld +by so small a force that only the consent of the governed can sustain +it.<br> +<br> +Frank and Maude stood together looking up at it.<br> +<br> +‘How beautiful it is!’ she cried. ‘How the gilding +lights up the whole building!’<br> +<br> +‘And how absurd it is not to employ it more in our gloomy London +architecture!’ said Frank. ‘Imagine how grand a gilded +dome of St. Paul’s would look, hanging like a rising sun over +the City. But here is our restaurant, Maude, and Big Ben says +that it is a quarter to two.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER V - IN BRITAIN’S VALHALLA<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +They had discussed the rooms in their new house, and the bridesmaids’ +dresses, and Maude’s cooking, and marriage-presents, and the merits +of Brighton, and the nature of love, and volleying at tennis (Maude +was the lady-champion of a tennis club), and season tickets, and the +destiny of the universe - to say nothing of a small bottle of Perrier +Jouet. It was reprehensibly extravagant, but this would be their +last unmarried excursion, and so they drank to the dear days of the +past, and the dearer ones of the future. Good comrades as well +as lovers, they talked freely, and with pleasure. Frank never +made the common mistake of talking down, and Maude justified his confidence +by eagerly keeping up. To both of them silence was preferable +to conventional small talk.<br> +<br> +‘We’ll just get down there after lunch,’ said Frank, +as he paid his bill. ‘You have not seen the Australians, +have you?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, I saw them at Clifton four years ago.’<br> +<br> +‘But this is a new lot. There are nine of the present team +who have never played in England before.’<br> +<br> +‘They are very good, are they not?’<br> +<br> +‘Very good indeed. And the dry summer has helped them. +It is the sticky English wickets which put them off. The wickets +are very fast over there. Giffen is their best all-round man, +but Darling and Iredale and young Hill are good enough for anything. +Well, then - O Lord, what a pity!’<br> +<br> +He had turned towards the window as he rose, and saw one of those little +surprises by which Nature relieves the monotony of life in these islands. +The sun had gone, a ragged slate-coloured cloud was drifting up from +over the river, and the rain was falling with a soft persistency which +is more fatal than the most boisterous shower. There would be +no more cricket that day.<br> +<br> +‘Two coffees and two benedictines,’ cried Frank, and they +relapsed into their chairs. But a half-hour passed and the grey +cloud was thicker and the rain more heavy. The cheerless leaden +river flowed slowly under drifting skies. Beyond an expanse of +shining pavement the great black Abbey towered amidst the storm.<br> +<br> +‘Have you ever done the Abbey, Maude?’<br> +<br> +‘No, Frank; I should love to.’<br> +<br> +‘I have only been once - more shame to me to say so! Is +it not a sin that we young Englishmen should be familiar with every +music-hall in London and should know so little of this which is the +centre of the British race, the most august and tremendous monument +that ever a nation owned. Six hundred years ago the English looked +upon it as their holiest and most national shrine, and since then our +kings and our warriors and our thinkers and our poets have all been +laid there, until there is such an accumulation that the huge Abbey +has hardly space for another monument. Let us spend an hour inside +it.’<br> +<br> +They made for Solomon’s porch, since it was the nearest and they +had but the one umbrella. Under its shelter they brushed themselves +dry before they entered.<br> +<br> +‘Whom does the Abbey belong to, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘To you and me!’<br> +<br> +‘Now you are joking!’<br> +<br> +‘Not at all. It belongs in the long-run to the British taxpayer. +You have heard the story of the Scotch visitor who came on board one +of our battleships and asked to see the captain. “Who shall +I say?” said the sentry. “One of the proprietors,” +said the Scotchman. That’s <i>our </i>position towards the +Abbey. Let us inspect our property.’<br> +<br> +They were smiling as they entered, but the smile faded from their lips +as the door closed behind them. In this holy of holies, this inner +sanctuary of the race, there was a sense of serene and dignified solemnity +which would have imposed itself upon the most thoughtless. Frank +and Maude stood in mute reverence. The high arches shot up in +long rows upon either side of them, straight and slim as beautiful trees, +until they curved off far up near the clerestory and joined their sister +curves to form the lightest, most delicate tracery of stone. In +front of them a great rose-window of stained glass, splendid with rich +purples and crimsons, shone through a subdued and reverent gloom. +Here and there in the aisles a few spectators moved among the shadows, +but all round along the walls two and three deep were ranged the illustrious +dead, the perishable body within, the lasting marble without, and the +more lasting name beneath. It was very silent in the home of the +great dead - only a distant footfall or a subdued murmur here and there. +Maude knelt down and sank her face in her hands. Frank prayed +also with that prayer which is a feeling rather than an utterance.<br> +<br> +Then they began to move round the short transept in which they found +themselves - a part of the Abbey reserved for the great statesmen. +Frank tried to quote the passage in which Macaulay talks about the men +worn out by the stress and struggle of the neighbouring parliament-hall, +and coming hither for peace and rest. Here were the men who had +been strong enough to grasp the helm, and who, sometimes wisely, sometimes +foolishly, but always honestly, had tried to keep the old ship before +the wind. Canning and Peel were there, with Pitt, Fox, Grattan +and Beaconsfield. Governments and oppositions moulder behind the +walls. Beaconsfield alone among all the statues showed the hard-lined +face of the self-made man. These others look so plump and smooth +one can hardly realise how strong they were, but they sprang from those +ruling castes to whom strength came by easy inheritance. Frank +told Maude the little which he knew of each of them - of Grattan, the +noblest Irishman of them all, of Castlereagh, whose coffin was pursued +to the gates of the Abbey by a raging mob who wished to tear out his +corpse, of Fox the libertine philosopher, of Palmerston the gallant +sportsman, who rode long after he could walk. They marvelled together +at the realism of the sculptor who had pitted Admiral Warren with the +smallpox, and at the absurdity of that other one who had clad Robert +Peel in a Roman toga.<br> +<br> +Then turning to the right at the end of the Statesmen’s Transept, +they wandered aimlessly down the huge nave. It was overwhelming, +the grandeur of the roof above and of the contents below. Any +one of hundreds of these tombs was worth a devout pilgrimage, but how +could one raise his soul to the appreciation of them all. Here +was Darwin who revolutionised zoology, and here was Isaac Newton who +gave a new direction to astronomy. Here were old Ben Jonson, and +Stephenson the father of railways, and Livingstone of Africa, and Wordsworth, +and Kingsley, and Arnold. Here were the soldiers of the mutiny +- Clyde and Outram and Lawrence, - and painters, and authors, and surgeons, +and all the good sons who in their several degrees had done loyal service +to the old mother. And when their service was done the old mother +had stretched out that long arm of hers and had brought them home, and +always for every good son brought home she had sent another forth, and +her loins were ever fruitful, and her children loving and true. +Go into the Abbey and think, and as the nation’s past is borne +in upon you, you will have no fear for its future.<br> +<br> +Frank was delighted with some of the monuments and horrified by others, +and he communicated both his joy and his anger to Maude. They +noticed together how the moderns and the Elizabethans had much in common +in their types of face, their way of wearing the hair, and their taste +in monuments, while between them lie the intolerable affectations - +which culminated towards the end of last century.<br> +<br> +‘It all rings false - statue, inscription, everything,’ +said Frank. ‘These insufferable allegorical groups sprawling +round a dead hero are of the same class as the pompous and turgid prose +of Doctor Johnson. The greatest effects are the simplest effects, +and so it always was and so it always will be. But that little +bit of Latin is effective, I confess.’<br> +<br> +It was a very much defaced inscription underneath a battered Elizabethan +effigy, whose feet had been knocked off, and whose features were blurred +into nothing. Two words of the inscription had caught Frank’s +eye.<br> +<br> +<i>‘Moestissima uxor</i>! It was his “most sad wife” +who erected it! Look at it now! The poor battered monument +of a woman’s love. Now, Maude, come with me, and we shall +visit the famous Poets’ Corner.’<br> +<br> +What an assembly it would be if at some supreme day each man might stand +forth from the portals of his tomb. Tennyson, the last and almost +the greatest of that illustrious line, lay under the white slab upon +the floor. Maude and Frank stood reverently beside it.<br> +<br> +<br> +‘“Sunset and evening Star<br> +And one clear call for me.”’<br> +<br> +<br> +Frank quoted. ‘What lines for a very old man to write! +I should put him second only to Shakespeare had I the marshalling of +them.’<br> +<br> +‘I have read so little,’ said Maude.<br> +<br> +‘We will read it all together after next week. But it makes +your reading so much more real and intimate when you have stood at the +grave of the man who wrote. That’s Chaucer, the big tomb +there. He is the father of British poetry. Here is Browning +beside Tennyson - united in life and in death. He was the more +profound thinker, but music and form are essential also.’<br> +<br> +‘What a splendid face!’ cried Maude.<br> +<br> +‘It is a bust to Longfellow, the American.’ They read +the inscription. ‘This bust was placed among the memorials +of the poets of England by English admirers of an American poet.’<br> +<br> +‘I am so glad to have seen that. I know his poems so well,’ +said Maude.<br> +<br> +‘I believe he is more read than any poet in England.’<br> +<br> +‘Who is that standing figure?’<br> +<br> +‘It is Dryden. What a clever face, and what a modern type. +Here is Walter Scott beside the door. How kindly and humorous +his expression was! And see how high his head was from the ear +to the crown. It was a great brain. There is Burns, the +other famous Scot. Don’t you think there is a resemblance +between the faces? And here are Dickens, and Thackeray, and Macaulay. +I wonder whether, when Macaulay was writing his essays, he had a premonition +that he would be buried in Westminster Abbey. He is continually +alluding to the Abbey and its graves. I always think that we have +a vague intuition as to what will occur to us in life.’<br> +<br> +‘We can guess what is probable.’<br> +<br> +‘It amounts to more than that. I had an intuition that I +should marry you from the first day that I saw you, and yet it did not +seem probable. But deep down in my soul I knew that I should marry +you.’<br> +<br> +‘I knew that I should marry you, Frank, or else that I should +never marry at all.’<br> +<br> +‘There now! We both had it. Well, that <i>is </i>really +wonderful!’<br> +<br> +They stood among the memorials of all those great people, marvelling +at the mysteries of their own small lives. A voice at their elbows +brought them back to the present.<br> +<br> +‘This way, if you please, for the kings,’ said the voice. +‘They are now starting for the kings.’<br> +<br> +‘They’ proved to be a curiously mixed little group of people +who were waiting at the entrance through the enclosure for the arrival +of the official guide. There were a tall red-bearded man with +a very Scotch accent and a small gentle wife, also an American father +with his two bright and enthusiastic daughters, a petty-officer of the +navy in his uniform, two young men whose attention was cruelly distracted +from the monuments by the American girls, and a dozen other travellers +of various sexes and ages. Just as Maude and Frank joined them +the guide, a young fresh-faced fellow, came striding up, and they passed +through the opening into the royal burying-ground.<br> +<br> +‘This way, ladies and gentlemen,’ cried the hurrying guide, +and they all clattered over the stone pavement. He stopped beside +a tomb upon which a lady with a sad worn face was lying. ‘Mary, +Queen of Scots,’ said he, ‘the greatest beauty of her day. +This monument was erected by her son, James the First.’<br> +<br> +‘Isn’t she just perfectly sweet?’ said one of the +American girls.<br> +<br> +‘Well, I don’t know. I expected more of her than that,’ +the other answered.<br> +<br> +‘I reckon,’ remarked the father, ‘that if any one +went through as much as that lady did, it would not tend to improve +her beauty. Now what age might the lady be, sir?’<br> +<br> +‘Forty-four years of age at the time of her execution,’ +said the guide.<br> +<br> +‘Ah weel, she’s young for her years,’ muttered the +Scotchman, and the party moved on. Frank and Maude lingered to +have a further look at the unfortunate princess, the bright French butterfly, +who wandered from the light and warmth into that grim country, a land +of blood and of psalms.<br> +<br> +‘She was as hard as nails under all her gentle grace,’ said +Frank. ‘She rode eighty miles and hardly drew rein after +the battle of Langside.’<br> +<br> +‘She looks as if she were tired, poor dear!’ said Maude; +‘I don’t think that she was sorry to be at rest.’<br> +<br> +The guide was narrating the names of the owners of the tombs at the +further end of the chapel. ‘Queen Anne is here, and Mary +the wife of William the Third is beside her. And here is William +himself. The king was very short and the queen very tall, so in +the sculptures the king is depicted standing upon a stool so as to bring +their heads level. In the vaults beyond there are thirty-eight +Stuarts.’<br> +<br> +Thirty-eight Stuarts! Princes, bishops, generals, once the salt +of the earth, the mightiest of men, and now lumped carelessly together +as thirty-eight Stuarts. So Death the Republican and Time the +Radical can drag down the highest from his throne.<br> +<br> +They had followed the guide into another small chapel, which bore the +name of Henry VII. upon the door. Surely they were great builders +and great designers in those days! Had stone been as pliable as +wax it could not have been twisted and curved into more exquisite spirals +and curls, so light, so delicate, so beautiful, twining and turning +along the walls, and drooping from the ceiling. Never did the +hand of man construct anything more elaborately ornate, nor the brain +of man think out a design more absolutely harmonious and lovely. +In the centre, with all the pomp of mediæval heraldry, starred +and spangled with the Tudor badges, the two bronze figures of Henry +and his wife lay side by side upon their tomb. The guide read +out the quaint directions in the king’s will, by which they were +to be buried ‘with some respect to their Royal dignity, but avoiding +damnable pomp and outrageous superfluities!’ There was, +as Frank remarked, a fine touch of the hot Tudor blood in the adjectives. +One could guess where Henry the Eighth got his masterful temper. +Yet it was an ascetic and priest-like face which looked upwards from +the tomb.<br> +<br> +They passed the rifled tombs of Cromwell, Blake, and Ireton - the despicable +revenge of the men who did not dare to face them in the field, - and +they marked the grave of James the First, who erected no monument to +himself, and so justified in death the reputation for philosophy which +he had aimed at in his life. Then they inspected the great tomb +of Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, as surprising and as magnificent as +his history, cast a glance at the covering of plucky little George the +Second, the last English king to lead his own army into battle, and +so onwards to see the corner of the Innocents, where rest the slender +bones of the poor children murdered in the Tower.<br> +<br> +But now the guide had collected his little flock around him again, with +the air of one who has something which is not to be missed. ‘You +will stand upon the step to see the profile,’ said he, as he indicated +a female figure upon a tomb. ‘It is the great Queen Elizabeth.’<br> +<br> +It was a profile and a face worth seeing - the face of a queen who was +worthy of her Shakespeares upon the land and her Drakes upon the sea. +Had the Spanish king seen her, he would have understood that she was +not safe to attack - this grim old lady with the eagle nose and the +iron lips. You could understand her grip upon her cash-box, you +could explain her harshness to her lovers, you could realise the confidence +of her people, you could read it all in that wonderful face.<br> +<br> +‘She’s splendid,’ said Frank.<br> +<br> +‘She’s terrible,’ said Maude.<br> +<br> +‘Did I understand you to say, sir,’ asked the American, +‘that it was this lady who beheaded the other lady, Queen of Scotland, +whom we saw ’way back in the other compartment?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, sir, she did.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I guess if there was any beheading to be done, this was +the lady to see that it was put through with promptness and despatch. +Not a married lady, I gather?’<br> +<br> +‘No, sir.’<br> +<br> +‘And a fortunate thing for somebody. That woman’s +husband would have a mean time of it, sir, in my opinion.’<br> +<br> +‘Hush, poppa,’ said the two daughters, and the procession +moved on. They were entering the inner chapel of all, the oldest +and the holiest, in which, amid the ancient Plantagenet kings, there +lies that one old Saxon monarch, confessor and saint, the holy Edward, +round whose honoured body the whole of this great shrine has gradually +risen. A singular erection once covered with mosaic work, but +now bare and gaunt, stood in the centre.<br> +<br> +‘The body of Edward the Confessor is in a case up at the top,’ +said the guide. ‘This hollow place below was filled with +precious relics, and the pilgrims used to kneel in these niches, which +are just large enough to hold a man upon his knees. The mosaic +work has been picked out by the pilgrims.’<br> +<br> +‘What is the date of the shrine?’ asked Frank.<br> +<br> +‘About 1250, sir. The early kings were all buried as near +to it as they could get, for it was their belief in those days that +the devil might carry off the body, and so the nearer they got to the +shrine the safer they felt. Henry the Fifth, who won the battle +of Agincourt, is there. Those are the actual helmet, shield, and +saddle which he used in the battle upon the crossbeam yonder. +That king with the grave face and the beard is Edward the Third, the +father of the Black Prince. The Black Prince never lived to ascend +the throne, but he was the father of the unfortunate Richard the Second, +who lies here - this clean-shaven king with the sharp features. +Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will turn this way, I will show you +one of the most remarkable objects in the Abbey.’<br> +<br> +The object in question proved to be nothing more singular than a square +block of stone placed under an old chair. And yet as the guide +continued to speak, they felt that he had justified his words.<br> +<br> +‘This is the sacred stone of Scone upon which the kings of Scotland +have been crowned from time immemorial. When Edward the First +overran Scotland 600 years ago, he had it brought here, and since then +every monarch of England has also sat upon it when crowned.’<br> +<br> +‘The present Queen?’ asked some one.<br> +<br> +‘Yes, she also. The legend was that it was the stone upon +which Jacob rested his head when he dreamed, but the geologists have +proved that it is red sandstone of Scotland.’<br> +<br> +‘Then I understand, sir, that this other throne is the Scottish +throne,’ said the American gentleman.<br> +<br> +‘No, sir, the Scottish throne and the English throne are the same +throne. But at the time of William and Mary it was necessary to +crown her as well as him, and so a second throne was needed. But +that of course was modern.’<br> +<br> +‘Only a couple of hundred years ago. I wonder they let it +in. But I guess they might have taken better care of it. +Some one has carved his name upon it.’<br> +<br> +‘A Westminster boy bet his schoolfellows that he would sleep among +the tombs, and to prove that he had done it, he carved his name upon +the throne.’<br> +<br> +‘You don’t say!’ cried the American. ‘Well, +I guess that boy ended pretty high up.’<br> +<br> +‘As high as the gallows, perhaps,’ said Frank, and every +one tittered, but the guide hurried on with a grave face, for the dignity +of the Abbey was in his keeping.<br> +<br> +‘This tomb is that of Queen Eleanor,’ said he.<br> +<br> +Frank twitched Maude by the sleeve. ‘Eleanor of Charing +Cross,’ said he. ‘See how one little bit of knowledge +links on with another.’<br> +<br> +‘And here is the tomb of her husband, Edward the First. +It was he who brought the stone from Scone. At the time of his +death the conquest of Scotland was nearly done, and he gave orders that +his burial should be merely temporary until Scotland was thoroughly +subdued. He is still, as you perceive, in his temporary tomb.’<br> +<br> +The big Scotchman laughed loudly and derisively. All the others +looked sadly at him with the pitying gaze which the English use towards +the more excitable races when their emotion gets the better of them. +A stream from a garden hose could not have damped him more.<br> +<br> +‘They opened the grave last century,’ said the guide. +‘Inside was an inscription, which said, “Here lies the hammer +of the Scots.” He was a fine man, six feet two inches from +crown to sole.’<br> +<br> +They wandered out of the old shrine where the great Plantagenet kings +lie like a bodyguard round the Saxon saint. Abbots lay on one +side of them as they passed, and dead crusaders with their legs crossed, +upon the other. And then, in an instant, they were back in comparatively +modern times again.<br> +<br> +‘This is the tomb of Wolfe, who died upon the Heights of Abraham,’ +said the guide. ‘It was due to him and to his soldiers that +all America belongs to the English-speaking races. There is a +picture of his Highlanders going up to the battle along the winding +path which leads from Wolfe’s Cove. He died in the moment +of victory.’<br> +<br> +It was bewildering, the way in which they skipped from age to age. +The history of England appeared to be not merely continuous, but simultaneous, +as they turned in an instant from the Georgian to the Elizabethan, the +one monument as well preserved as the other. They passed the stately +de Vere, his armour all laid out in fragments upon a marble slab, as +a proof that he died at peace with all men; and they saw the terrible +statue of the onslaught of Death, which, viewed in the moonlight, made +a midnight robber drop his booty and fly panic-stricken out of the Abbey. +So awful and yet so fascinating is it, that the shuffling feet of the +party of sightseers had passed out of hearing before Maude and Frank +could force themselves away from it.<br> +<br> +In the base of the statue is an iron door, which has been thrown open, +and the sculptor’s art has succeeded wonderfully in convincing +you that it has been thrown open violently. The two leaves of +it seem still to quiver with the shock, and one could imagine that one +heard the harsh clang of the metal. Out of the black opening had +sprung a dreadful thing, something muffled in a winding-sheet, one bony +hand clutching the edge of the pedestal, the other upraised to hurl +a dart at the woman above him. She, a young bride of twenty-seven, +has fallen fainting, while her husband, with horror in his face, is +springing forward, his hand outstretched, to get between his wife and +her loathsome assailant.<br> +<br> +‘I shall dream of this,’ said Maude. She had turned +pale, as many a woman has before this monument.<br> +<br> +‘It is awful!’ Frank walked backwards, unable to take +his eyes from it. ‘What pluck that sculptor had! It +is an effect which must be either ludicrous or great, and he has made +it great.’<br> +<br> +‘Roubillac is his name,’ said Maude, reading it from the +pedestal.<br> +<br> +‘A Frenchman, or a man of French descent. Isn’t that +characteristic! In the whole great Abbey the one monument which +has impressed us with its genius and imagination is by a foreigner. +We haven’t got it in us. We are too much afraid of letting +ourselves go and of giving ourselves away. We are heavy-handed +and heavy-minded.’<br> +<br> +‘If we can’t produce the monuments, we can produce the men +who deserve them,’ said Maude, and Frank wrote the aphorism down +upon his shirt-cuff.<br> +<br> +‘We are too severe both in sculpture and architecture,’ +said he. ‘More fancy and vigour in our sculptors, more use +of gold and more ornament in our architects - that is what we want. +But I think it is past praying for. It would be better to subdivide +the work of the world, according to the capacity of the different nations. +Let Italy and France embellish us. We might do something in exchange +- organise the French colonies, perhaps, or the Italian exchequer. +That is our legitimate work, but we will never do anything at the other.’<br> +<br> +The guide had already reached the end of his round, an iron gate corresponding +to that by which they had entered, and they found him waiting impatiently +and swinging his keys. But Maude’s smile and word of thanks +as she passed him brought content into his face once more. A ray +of living sunshine is welcome to the man who spends his days among the +tombs.<br> +<br> +They walked down the North Transept and out through Solomon’s +Porch. The rain-cloud had swept over, and the summer sun was shining +upon the wet streets, turning them all to gold. This might have +been that fabled London of which young Whittington dreamed. In +front of them lay the lawns of vivid green, with the sunlit raindrops +gleaming upon the grass. The air was full of the chirping of the +sparrows. Across their vision, from the end of Whitehall to Victoria +Street, the black ribbon of traffic whirled and circled, one of the +great driving-belts of the huge city. Over it all, to their right, +towered those glorious Houses of Parliament, the very sight of which +made Frank repent his bitter words about English architecture. +They stood in the old porch gazing at the scene. It was so wonderful +to come back at one stride from the great country of the past to the +greater country of the present. Here was the very thing which +these dead men lived and died to build.<br> +<br> +‘It’s not much past three,’ said Frank. ‘What +a gloomy place to take you to! Good heavens, we have one day together, +and I take you to a cemetery! Shall we go to a matinée +to counteract it?’<br> +<br> +But Maude laid her hand upon his arm.<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think, Frank, that I was ever more impressed, or +learned more in so short a time, in my life. It was a grand hour +- an hour never to be forgotten. And you must not think that I +am ever with you to be amused. I am with you to accompany you +in whatever seems to you to be highest and best. Now before we +leave the dear old Abbey, promise me that you will always live your +own highest and never come down to me.’<br> +<br> +‘I can very safely promise that I will never come down to you,’ +said Frank. ‘I may climb all my life, and yet there are +parts of your soul which will be like snow-peaks in the clouds to me. +But you will be now and always my own dear comrade as well as my sweetest +wife. And now, Maude, what shall it be, the theatre or the Australians?’<br> +<br> +‘Do you wish to go to either very much?’<br> +<br> +‘Not unless you do.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, I feel as if either would be a profanation. +Let us walk together down to the Embankment, and sit on one of the benches +there, and watch the river flowing in the sunshine, and talk and think +of all that we have seen.’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VI - TWO SOLOS AND A DUET<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +The night before the wedding, Frank Crosse and his best man, Rupton +Hale, dined at the Raleigh Club with Maude’s brother, Jack Selby, +who was a young lieutenant in a Hussar regiment. Jack was a horsy, +slangy young sportsman who cared nothing about Frank’s worldly +prospects, but had given the match his absolute approval from the moment +that he realised that his future brother had played for the Surrey Second. +‘What more can you want?’ said he. ‘You won’t +exactly be a Mrs. W. G., but you will be on the edge of first-class +cricket.’ And Maude, who rejoiced in his approval, without +quite understanding the grounds for it, kissed him, and called him the +best of brothers.<br> +<br> +The marriage was to be at eleven o’clock at St. Monica’s +Church, and the Selbys were putting up at the Langham. Frank stayed +at the Metropole, and so did Rupton Hale. They were up early, +their heads and nerves none the better for Jack Selby’s hospitality +of the night before.<br> +<br> +Frank could eat no breakfast, and he shunned publicity in his wedding-garments, +so they remained in the upstairs sitting-room. He stood by the +window, drumming his fingers upon the pane, and looking down into Northumberland +Avenue. He had often pictured this day, and associated it with +sunshine and flowers and every emblem of joy. But Nature had not +risen to the occasion. A thick vapour, half smoke half cloud, +drifted along the street, and a thin persistent rain was falling steadily. +It pit-patted upon the windows, splashed upon the sills, and gurgled +in the water-pipes. Far down beneath him on the drab-coloured +slimy road stood the lines of wet cabs, looking like beetles with glistening +backs. Round black umbrellas hurried along the shining pavements. +A horse had fallen at the door of the Constitutional Club, and an oil-skinned +policeman was helping the cabman to raise it. Frank watched it +until the harness had been refastened, and it had vanished into Trafalgar +Square. Then he turned and examined himself in the mirror. +His trim black frock-coat and pearl grey trousers set off his alert +athletic figure to advantage. His glossy hat, too, his lavender +gloves, and dark-blue tie, were all absolutely irreproachable. +And yet he was not satisfied with himself. Maude ought to have +something better than that. What a fool he had been to take so +much wine last night! On this day of all days in their lives she +surely had a right to find him at his best. He was restless, and +his nerves were all quivering. He would have given anything for +a cigarette, but he did not wish to scent himself with tobacco. +He had cut himself in shaving, and his nose was peeling from a hot day +on the cricket-field. What a silly thing to expose his nose to +the sun before his wedding! Perhaps when Maude saw it she would +- well, she could hardly break it off, but at least she might be ashamed +of him. He worked himself into a fever over that unfortunate nose.<br> +<br> +‘You are off colour, Crosse,’ said his best man.<br> +<br> +‘I was just thinking that my nose was. It’s very kind +of you to come and stand by me.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s all right. We shall see it through together.’<br> +<br> +Hale was a despondent man, though the most loyal of friends, and he +spoke in a despondent way. His gloomy manner, the London drizzle, +and the nervousness proper to the occasion, were all combining to make +Frank more and more wretched. Fortunately Jack Selby burst like +a gleam of sunshine into the room. The sight of his fresh-coloured +smiling face - or it may have been some reminder of Maude which he found +in it - brought consolation to the bridegroom.<br> +<br> +‘How are you, Crosse? How do, Hale? Excuse my country +manners! The old Christmas-tree in the hall wanted to send for +you, but I knew your number. You’re looking rather green +about the gills, old chap.’<br> +<br> +‘I feel a little chippy to-day.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s the worst of these cheap champagnes. Late +hours are bad for the young. Have a whisky and soda with me. +No? Hale, you must buck him up, for they’ll all be down +on you if you don’t bring your man up to time in the pink of condition. +We certainly did ourselves up to the top hole last night. Couldn’t +face your breakfast, eh? Neither could I. A strawberry and +a bucket of soda-water.’<br> +<br> +‘How are they all at the Langham?’ asked Frank eagerly.<br> +<br> +‘Oh, splendid! At least I haven’t seen Maude. +She’s been getting into parade order. But mother is full +of beans. We had to take her up one link in the curb, or there +would have been no holding her.’<br> +<br> +Frank’s eyes kept turning to the slow-moving minute-hand. +It was not ten o’clock yet.<br> +<br> +‘Don’t you think that I might go round to the Langham and +see them?’<br> +<br> +‘Good Lord, no! Clean against regulations. Stand by +his head, Hale! Wo, boy, steady!’<br> +<br> +‘It won’t do, Crosse, it really won’t!’ said +Hale solemnly.<br> +<br> +‘What rot it is! Here am I doing nothing, and I might be +of some use or encouragement to her. Let’s get a cab!’<br> +<br> +‘Wo, laddie, wo then, boy! Keep him in hand, Hale! +Get to his head.’<br> +<br> +Frank flung himself down into an armchair, and muttered about absurd +conventions.<br> +<br> +‘It can’t be helped, my boy. It is correct.’<br> +<br> +‘Buck up, Crosse, buck up! We’ll make the thing go +with a buzz when we do begin. Two of our Johnnies are coming, +regular fizzers, and full of blood both of them. We’ll paint +the Langham a fine bright solferino, when the church parade is over.’<br> +<br> +Frank sat rather sulkily watching the slow minute-hand, and listening +to the light-hearted chatter of the boy-lieutenant, and the more deliberate +answers of his best man. At last he jumped up and seized his hat +and gloves.<br> +<br> +‘Half-past,’ said he. ‘Come on. I can’t +wait any longer. I must do <i>something</i>. It is time +we went to the church.’<br> +<br> +‘Fall in for the church!’ cried Jack. ‘Wait +a bit! I know this game, for I was best man myself last month. +Inspect his kit, Hale. See that he’s according to regulations. +Ring? All right. Parson’s money? Right oh! +Small change? Good! By the right, quick march!’<br> +<br> +Frank soon recovered his spirits now that he had something to do. +Even that drive through the streaming streets, with the rain pattering +upon the top of their four-wheeler, could not depress him any longer. +He rose to the level of Jack Selby, and they chattered gaily together.<br> +<br> +‘Ain’t we bringing him up fighting fit?’ cried Jack +exultingly. ‘Shows that all the care we have taken of him +in the last twenty-four hours has not been wasted. That’s +the sort I like - game as a pebble! You can’t buy ’em, +you have to breed ’em. A regular fizzer <i>he </i>is, and +full of blood. And here we are on the ground.’<br> +<br> +It was a low, old-fashioned, grey church, with a Gothic entrance and +two niches on either side, which spoke of pre-Lutheran days. Cheap +modern shops, which banked it in, showed up the quaint dignity of the +ancient front. The side-door was open, and they passed into its +dim-lit interior, with high carved pews, and rich, old, stained glass. +Huge black oak beams curved over their heads, and dim inscriptions of +mediæval Latin curled and writhed upon the walls. A single +step seemed to have taken them from the atmosphere of the nineteenth +to that of the fifteenth century.<br> +<br> +‘What a ripping old church!’ Jack whispered.<br> +<br> +‘You can’t buy ’em. But it’s as festive +as an ice-house. There’s a friendly native coming down the +aisle. He’s your man, Hale, if you want the news.’<br> +<br> +The verger was not in the best of tempers. ‘It’s at +a quarter to four,’ said he, as Hale met him.<br> +<br> +‘No, no, at eleven.’<br> +<br> +‘Quarter to four, I tell you. The vicar says so.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, it’s not possible.’<br> +<br> +‘We have them at all hours.’<br> +<br> +‘Have what?’<br> +<br> +‘Buryin’s.’<br> +<br> +‘But this is a marriage.’<br> +<br> +‘I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir. I thought when I +looked at you as you was the party about the child’s funeral.’<br> +<br> +‘Good heavens, no.’<br> +<br> +‘It was something in your expression, sir, but now that I can +see the colour of your clothes, why of course I know better. There’s +three marriages - which was it?’<br> +<br> +‘Crosse and Selby are the names.’<br> +<br> +The verger consulted an old crumpled notebook.<br> +<br> +‘Yes, sir, I have it here. Mr. or Miss Crosse to Mr. or +Miss Selby. Eleven o’clock, sir, <i>sharp. </i>The +vicar’s a terrible punctual man, and I should advise you to take +your places.’<br> +<br> +‘Any hitch?’ asked Frank nervously, as Hale returned.<br> +<br> +‘No, no.’<br> +<br> +‘What was he talking about?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, nothing. Some little confusion of ideas.’<br> +<br> +‘Shall we go up?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I think that we had better.’<br> +<br> +Their steps clattered and reverberated through the empty church as they +passed up the aisle. They stood in an aimless way before the altar +rails. Frank fidgeted about, and made sure that the ring was in +his ticket-pocket. He also took a five-pound note and placed it +where he knew he could lay his hands upon it easily. Then he sprang +round with a flush upon his cheeks, for one of the side-doors had been +flung open with a great bustle and clanging. A stout charwoman +entered with a tin pail and a mop.<br> +<br> +‘Put up the wrong bird that time,’ whispered Jack, and sniggered +at Frank’s change of expression.<br> +<br> +But almost at the same instant, the Selbys entered the church at the +further end. Mr. Selby, with his red face and fluffy side-whiskers, +had Maude upon his arm. She looked very pale and very sweet, with +downcast eyes and solemn mouth, while behind her walked her younger +sister Mary and her pretty friend Nelly Sheridan, both in pink dresses +with broad pink hats and white curling feathers. The bride was +herself in the grey travelling-dress with which Frank was already familiar +by its description in her letter. Its gentle tint and her tenderly +grave expression made a charming effect. Behind them was the mother, +still young and elegant, with something of Maude’s grace in her +figure and carriage. As the party came up the aisle, Frank was +to be restrained no longer. ‘Get to his head!’ cried +Jack to Hale in an excited whisper, but their man was already hurrying +to shake hands with Maude. He walked up on her right, and they +took their position in two little groups, the happy couple in the centre. +At the same moment the clang of the church-clock sounded above them, +and the vicar, shrugging his shoulders to get his white surplice into +position, came bustling out of the vestry. To him it was all the +most usual, commonplace, and unimportant thing in the world, and both +Frank and Maude were filled with amazement at the nonchalant way in +which he whipped out a prayer-book, and began to rapidly perform the +ceremony. It was all so new and solemn and all-important to them, +that they had expected something mystic and overpowering in the function, +and yet here was this brisk little man, with an obvious cold in his +head, tying them up in as business-like a fashion as a grocer uniting +two parcels. After all, he had to do it a thousand times a year, +and so he could not be extravagant in his emotions.<br> +<br> +The singular service was read out to them, the exhortations, and the +explanations, sometimes stately, sometimes beautiful, sometimes odious. +Then the little vicar turned upon Frank - <i>‘Wilt thou have this +woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance +in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, +honour her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep +thee only unto her as long as ye both shall live</i>?’<br> +<br> +‘<i>I will</i>,’ cried Frank, with conviction.<br> +<br> +‘<i>And wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live +together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? +Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness +and in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him so long +as ye both shall live</i>?’<br> +<br> +‘<i>I will</i>,’ said Maude, from her heart.<br> +<br> +‘<i>Who giveth this woman to be married to this man</i>?’<br> +<br> +‘<i>I do</i>. Mr. John Selby - her father, you know.’<br> +<br> +And then in turn they repeated the fateful words - ‘<i>I take +thee to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, +for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, +and obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance, +and thereto I give thee my troth</i>.’<br> +<br> +‘Ring! Ring!’ said Hale.<br> +<br> +‘Ring, you Juggins!’ whispered Jack Selby.<br> +<br> +Frank thrust his hands frantically into all his pockets. The ring +was in the last one which he attempted. But the bank-note was +not to be found. He remembered that he had put it in some safe +place. Where could it have been? Was it in his boot, or +in the lining of his hat? No, surely he could not have done anything +so infatuated. Again he took his pockets two at a time, while +a dreadful pause came in the ceremony.<br> +<br> +‘Vestry - afterwards,’ whispered the clergyman.<br> +<br> +‘Here you are!’ gasped Frank. He had come upon it +in a last desperate dive into his watch-pocket, in which he never by +any chance kept anything. Of course it was for that very reason, +that it might be alone and accessible, that he had placed it there. +Ring and note were handed to the vicar, who deftly concealed the one +and returned the other. Then Maude’s little white hand was +outstretched, and over the third finger Frank slipped the circlet of +gold.<br> +<br> +‘<i>With this ring I thee wed</i>,’ said Frank, ‘<i>and +with my body I thee worship </i>(he paused, and made a mental emendation +of ‘with my soul also’), <i>and with all my worldly goods +I thee endow</i>.’<br> +<br> +There was a prayer, and then the vicar joined the two hands, the muscular +sunburned one and the dainty white one, with the new ring gleaming upon +it.<br> +<br> +‘<i>Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder</i>,’ +said he. ‘<i>Forasmuch as Francis Crosse and Maude Selby +have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same +before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their +troth, either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving +of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and +wife together</i>.’<br> +<br> +There now, it was done! They were one, never more to part until +the coffin-lid closed over one or the other. They were kneeling +together now, and the vicar was rapidly repeating some psalms and prayers. +But Frank’s mind was not with the ritual. He looked slantwise +at the graceful, girlish figure by his side. Her hair hung beautifully +over her white neck, and the reverent droop of her head was lovely to +his eyes. So gentle, so humble, so good, so beautiful, and all +his, his sworn life-companion for ever! A gush of tenderness flowed +through his heart for her. His love had always been passionate, +but, for the instant, it was heroic, tremendous in its unselfishness. +Might he bring her happiness, the highest which woman could wish for! +God grant that he might do so! But if he were to make her unhappy, +or to take anything from her beauty and her goodness, then he prayed +that he might die now, at this supreme moment, kneeling at her side +before the altar rails. So intense was his prayer that he looked +up expectantly at the altar, as if in the presence of an imminent catastrophe. +But every one had risen to their feet, and the service was at an end. +The vicar led the way, and they all followed him, into the vestry. +There was a general murmur all round them of congratulation and approval.<br> +<br> +‘Heartiest congratulations, Crosse!’ said Hale.<br> +<br> +‘Bravo, Maude, you looked ripping!’ cried Jack, kissing +his sister. ‘By Jove, it simply went with a buzz from the +word “go.”’<br> +<br> +‘You sign it here and here,’ said the vicar, ‘and +the witnesses here and here. Thank you very much. I am sure +that I wish you every happiness. I need not detain you by any +further formality.’<br> +<br> +And so, with a curious dream-like feeling, Frank Crosse and Maude found +themselves walking down the aisle, he very proud and erect, she very +gentle and shy, while the organ thundered the wedding-march. Carriages +were waiting: he handed in his wife, stepped in after her, and they +drove off, amidst a murmur of sympathy from a little knot of idlers +who had gathered in the porch, partly from curiosity, and partly to +escape the rain.<br> +<br> +Maude had often driven alone with Frank before, but now she felt suddenly +constrained and shy. The marriage-service, with all its half-understood +allusions and exhortations, had depressed and frightened her. +She hardly dared to glance at her husband. But he soon led her +out of her graver humour.<br> +<br> +‘Name, please?’ said he.<br> +<br> +‘O Frank!’<br> +<br> +‘Name, if <i>you </i>please?’<br> +<br> +‘Why, you know.’<br> +<br> +‘Say it.’<br> +<br> +‘Maude.’<br> +<br> +‘That all?’<br> +<br> +‘Maude Crosse - O Frank!’<br> +<br> +‘You blessing! How grand it sounds! O Maude, what +a jolly old world it is! Isn’t it pretty to see the rain +falling? And aren’t the shining pavements lovely? +And isn’t everything splendid, and am I not the luckiest - the +most incredibly lucky of men. Dear girlie, give me your hand! +I can feel <i>it </i>under the glove. Now, sweetheart, you are +not frightened, are you?’<br> +<br> +‘Not now.’<br> +<br> +‘You were?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I was a little. O Frank, you won’t tire of me, +will you? I should break my heart if you did.’<br> +<br> +‘Tire of you! Good heavens! Now you’ll never +guess what I was doing while the parson was telling us about what Saint +Paul said to the Colossians, and all the rest of it.’<br> +<br> +‘I know perfectly well what you were doing. And you shouldn’t +have done it.’<br> +<br> +‘What was I doing, then?’<br> +<br> +‘You were staring at me.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, you saw that, did you?’<br> +<br> +‘I felt it.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I was. But I was praying also.’<br> +<br> +‘Were you, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘When I saw you kneeling there, so sweet and pure and good, I +seemed to realise how you had been given into my keeping for life, and +I prayed with all my heart that if I should ever injure you in thought, +or word, or deed, I might drop dead now before I had time to do it.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, what a dreadful prayer!’<br> +<br> +‘But I felt it and I wished it, and I could not help it. +My own darling, there you are just a living angel, the gentlest, most +sensitive, and beautiful living creature that walks the earth, and please +God I shall keep you so, and ever higher and higher if such a thing +is possible, and if ever I say a word or do a deed that seems to lower +you, then remind me of this moment, and send me back to try to live +up to our highest ideal again. And I for my part will try to improve +myself and to live up to you, and to bridge more and more the gap that +is between us, that I may feel myself not altogether unworthy of our +love. And so we shall act and re-act upon each other, ever growing +better and wiser, and dating what is best and brightest in our minds +and souls from the day that we were married. And that’s +<i>my </i>idea of a marriage-service, and here endeth the first lesson, +and the windows are blurred with rain, and hang the coachman, and it’s +hard lines if a man may not kiss his own wife - you blessing!’<br> +<br> +A broad-brimmed hat with a curling feather is not a good shape for driving +with an ardent young bridegroom in a discreetly rain-blurred carriage. +Frank demonstrated the fact, and it took them all the way to the Langham +to get those pins driven home again. And then after an abnormal +meal, which was either a very late breakfast or a very early lunch, +they drove on to Victoria Station, from which they were to start for +Brighton. Jack Selby and the two regimental fizzers, who had secured +immortality for the young couple, if the deep and constant drinking +of healths could have done it, had provided themselves with packages +of rice, old slippers, and other time-honoured missiles. On a +hint from Maude, however, that she would prefer a quiet departure, Frank +coaxed the three back into the luncheon-room with a perfectly guileless +face, and then locking the door on the outside, handed the key and a +half-sovereign to the head-waiter, with instructions to release the +prisoners when the carriage had gone - an incident which in itself would +cause the judicious observer to think that, given the opportunity, Mister +Frank Crosse had it in him to go pretty far in life. And so, quietly +and soberly, they rolled away upon their first journey - the journey +which was the opening of that life’s journey, the goal of which +no man may see.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VII - KEEPING UP APPEARANCES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +It was in the roomy dining-room of the Hotel Metropole at Brighton. +Maude and Frank were seated at the favourite small round table near +the window, where they always lunched. Their immediate view was +a snowy-white tablecloth with a shining centre dish of foppish little +cutlets, each with a wisp of ornamental paper, and a surrounding bank +of mashed potatoes. Beyond, from the very base of the window, +as it seemed, there stretched the huge expanse of the deep blue sea, +its soothing mass of colour broken only by a few white leaning sails +upon the furthest horizon. Along the sky-line the white clouds +lay in carelessly piled cumuli, like snow thrown up from a clearing. +It was restful and beautiful, that distant view, but just at the moment +it was the near one which interested them most. Though they lose +from this moment onwards the sympathy of every sentimental reader, the +truth must be told that they were thoroughly enjoying their lunch.<br> +<br> +With the wonderful adaptability of women - a hereditary faculty, which +depends upon the fact that from the beginning of time the sex has been +continually employed in making the best of situations which were not +of their own choosing - Maude carried off her new character easily and +gracefully. In her trim blue serge dress and sailor hat, with +the warm tint of yesterday’s sun upon her cheeks, she was the +very picture of happy and healthy womanhood. Frank was also in +a blue serge boating-suit, which was appropriate enough, for they spent +most of their time upon the water, as a glance at his hands would tell. +Their conversation was unhappily upon a very much lower plane than when +we overheard them last.<br> +<br> +‘I’ve got such an appetite!’<br> +<br> +‘So have I, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Capital. Have another cutlet.’<br> +<br> +‘Thank you, dear.’<br> +<br> +‘Potatoes?’<br> +<br> +‘Please.’<br> +<br> +‘I always thought that people on their honeymoon lived on love.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, isn’t it dreadful, Frank? We must be so material.’<br> +<br> +‘Good old mother Nature! Cling on to her skirt and you never +lose your way. One wants a healthy physical basis for a healthy +spiritual emotion. Might I trouble you for the pickles?’<br> +<br> +‘Are you happy, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘Absolutely and completely.’<br> +<br> +‘Quite, <i>quite </i>sure?’<br> +<br> +‘I never was quite so sure of anything.’<br> +<br> +‘It makes me so happy to hear you say so.’<br> +<br> +‘And you?’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, I am just floating upon golden clouds in a dream. +But your poor hands! Oh, how they must pain you!’<br> +<br> +‘Not a bit.’<br> +<br> +‘It was that heavy oar.’<br> +<br> +‘I get no practice at rowing. There is no place to row in +at Woking, unless one used the canal. But it was worth a blister +or two. By Jove, wasn’t it splendid, coming back in the +moonlight with that silver lane flickering on the water in front of +us? We were so completely alone. We might have been up in +the interstellar spaces, you and I, travelling from Sirius to Arcturus +in one of those profound gulfs of the void which Hardy talks about. +It was overpowering.’<br> +<br> +‘I can never forget it.’<br> +<br> +‘We’ll go again to-night.’<br> +<br> +‘But the blisters!’<br> +<br> +‘Hang the blisters! And we’ll take some bait with +us and try to catch something.’<br> +<br> +‘What fun!’<br> +<br> +‘And we’ll drive to Rottingdean this afternoon, if you feel +inclined. Have this last cutlet, dear!’<br> +<br> +‘No, thank you.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, it seems a pity to waste it. Here goes! By +the way, Maude, I must speak very severely to you. I can’t +if you look at me like that. But really, joking apart, you must +be more careful before the waiters.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, dear?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, we have carried it off splendidly so far. No one +has found us out yet, and no one will if we are reasonably careful. +The fat waiter is convinced that we are veterans. But last night +at dinner you very nearly gave the thing away.’<br> +<br> +‘Did I, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t look so sweetly penitent, you blessing. The +fact is that you make a shocking bad conspirator. Now I have a +kind of talent for that, as I have for every other sort of depravity, +so it will be pretty safe in my hands. You are as straight as +a line by nature, and you can’t be crooked when you try.’<br> +<br> +‘But what did I say? Oh, I <i>am </i>so sorry! I tried +to be so careful.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, about the curry, you know. It was an error of judgment +to ask if I took chutnee. And then . . . ’<br> +<br> +‘Something else?’<br> +<br> +‘About the boots. Did I get them in London or Woking.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh dear, dear!’<br> +<br> +‘And then . . . ’<br> +<br> +‘Not another! O Frank!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, the use of the word “my.” You must give +that word up. It should be “our.”’<br> +<br> +‘I know, I know. It was when I said that the salt water +had taken the curl out of the feather in my - no, in our - well, in +<i>the </i>hat.’<br> +<br> +‘That was all right. But it is <i>our </i>luggage, you know, +and <i>our </i>room, and so on.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course it is. How foolish I am! Then the waiter +knows! O Frank, what shall we do?’<br> +<br> +‘Not he. He knows nothing. I am sure of it. +He is a dull sort of person. I had my eye on him all the time. +Besides, I threw in a few remarks just to set the thing right.’<br> +<br> +‘That was when you spoke about our travels in the Tyrol?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, how <i>could </i>you? And you said how lonely +it was when we were the only visitors at the Swiss hotel.’<br> +<br> +‘That was an inspiration. That finished him.’<br> +<br> +‘And about the closeness of the Atlantic staterooms. I blushed +to hear you.’<br> +<br> +‘But he listened eagerly to it all. I could see it.’<br> +<br> +‘I wonder if he really believed it. I have noticed that +the maids and the waiters seem to look at us with a certain interest.’<br> +<br> +‘My dear girlie, you will find as you go through life that every +man will always look at you with a certain interest.’<br> +<br> +Maude smiled, but was unconvinced.<br> +<br> +‘Cheese, dear?’<br> +<br> +‘A little butter, please.’<br> +<br> +‘Some butter, waiter, and the Stilton. You know the real +fact is, that we make the mistake of being much too nice to each other +in public. Veterans don’t do that. They take the small +courtesies for granted - which is all wrong, but it shows that they +<i>are </i>veterans. That is where we give ourselves away.’<br> +<br> +‘That never occurred to me.’<br> +<br> +‘If you want to settle that waiter for ever, and remove the last +lingering doubt from his mind, the thing is for you to be rude to me.’<br> +<br> +‘Or you to me, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Sure you won’t mind?’<br> +<br> +‘Not a bit.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, hang it, I can’t - not even for so good an object.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, I can’t either.’<br> +<br> +‘But this is absurd. It is only acting.’<br> +<br> +‘Quite so. It is only fun.’<br> +<br> +‘Then why won’t you do it?’<br> +<br> +‘Why won’t you?’<br> +<br> +‘He’ll be back before we settle it. Look here! +I’ve a shilling under my hand. Heads or tails, and the loser +has to be rude. Do you agree?’<br> +<br> +‘Very well.’<br> +<br> +‘Your call.’<br> +<br> +‘Heads.’<br> +<br> +‘It’s tails.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh goodness!’<br> +<br> +‘You’ve got to be rude. Now mind you are. Here +he comes.’<br> +<br> +The waiter had come up the room bearing the pride of the hotel, the +grand green Stilton with the beautiful autumn leaf heart shading away +to rich plum-coloured cavities. He placed it on the table with +a solemn air.<br> +<br> +‘It’s a beautiful Stilton,’ Frank remarked.<br> +<br> +Maude tried desperately to be rude.<br> +<br> +‘Well, dear, I don’t think it is so very beautiful,’ +was the best that she could do.<br> +<br> +It was not much, but it had a surprising effect upon the waiter. +He turned and hurried away.<br> +<br> +‘There now, you’ve shocked him?’ cried Frank.<br> +<br> +‘Where <i>has </i>he gone, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘To complain to the management about your language.’<br> +<br> +‘No, Frank. Please tell me! Oh, I wish I hadn’t +been so rude. Here he is again.’<br> +<br> +‘All right. Sit tight,’ said Frank.<br> +<br> +A sort of procession was streaming up the hall. There was their +fat waiter in front with a large covered cheese-dish. Behind him +was another with two smaller ones, and a third with some yellow powder +upon a plate was bringing up the rear.<br> +<br> +‘This is Gorgonzola, main,’ said the waiter, with a severe +manner. ‘And there’s Camembert and Gruyère +behind, and powdered Parmesan as well. I’m sorry that the +Stilton don’t give satisfaction.’<br> +<br> +Maude helped herself to Gorgonzola and looked very guilty and uncomfortable. +Frank began to laugh.<br> +<br> +‘I meant you to be rude to <i>me, </i>not to the cheese,’ +said he, when the procession had withdrawn.<br> +<br> +‘I did my best, Frank. I contradicted you.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, it was a shocking display of temper.’<br> +<br> +‘And I hurt the poor waiter’s feelings.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, you’ll have to apologise to his Stilton before he +will forgive you.’<br> +<br> +‘And I don’t believe he is a bit more convinced that we +are veterans than he was before.’<br> +<br> +‘All right, dear; leave him to me. Those reminiscences of +mine must have settled him. If they didn’t, then I feel +it is hopeless.’<br> +<br> +It was as well for his peace of mind that Frank could not hear the conversation +between the fat waiter and their chambermaid, for whom he nourished +a plethoric attachment. They had half an hour off in the afternoon, +and were comparing notes.<br> +<br> +‘Nice-lookin’ couple, ain’t they, John?’ said +the maid, with the air of an expert. ‘I don’t know +as we’ve ‘ad a better since the spring weddin’s.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know as I’d go as far as that,’ said +the fat waiter critically. ‘’E’d pass all right. +’E’s an upstandin’ young man with a good sperrit in +’im.’<br> +<br> +‘What’s wrong with ’er, then?’<br> +<br> +‘It’s a matter of opinion,’ said the waiter. +‘I likes ’em a bit more full-flavoured myself. And +as to ’er taste, why there, if you ’ad seen ’er turn +up ’er nose at the Stilton at lunch.’<br> +<br> +‘Turn up ’er nose, did she? Well, she seemed to me +a very soft-spoken, obligin’ young lady.’<br> +<br> +‘So she may be, but they’re a queer couple, I tell you. +It’s as well they are married at last.’<br> +<br> +‘Why?’<br> +<br> +‘Because they ’ave been goin’ on most owdacious before’and. +I ’ave it from their own lips, and it fairly made me blush to +listen to it. Awful, it was, <i>awful</i>!’<br> +<br> +‘You don’t say that, John!’<br> +<br> +‘I tell you, Jane, I couldn’t ’ardly believe my ears. +They was married on Tuesday last, as we know well, and to-day’s +<i>Times </i>to prove it, and yet if you’ll believe me, they was +talkin’ about ’ow they ’ad travelled alone abroad +- ’<br> +<br> +‘Never, John!’<br> +<br> +‘And alone in a Swiss ’otel!’<br> +<br> +‘My goodness!’<br> +<br> +‘And a steamer too.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, there! I’ll never trust any one again.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, a perfec’ pair of scorchers. But I’ll let +’im see as I knows it. I’ll put that <i>Times </i>before +’im to-night at dinner as sure as my name’s John.’<br> +<br> +‘And a good lesson to them, too! If you didn’t say +you’d ’eard it from their own lips, John, I never could +’ave believed it. It’s things like that as shakes +your trust in ’uman nature.’<br> +<br> +Maude and Frank were lingering at the <i>table d’hôte </i>over +their walnuts and a glass of port wine, when their waiter came softly +behind them.<br> +<br> +‘Beg pardon, sir, but did you see it in the <i>Times</i>?’<br> +<br> +‘See what?’<br> +<br> +‘<i>That, </i>sir. I thought that it might be of interest +to you and to your good lady to see it.’<br> +<br> +He had laid one page of the paper before them, with his forefinger upon +an item in the left-hand top corner. Then he discreetly withdrew. +Frank stared at it in horror.<br> +<br> +‘Maude, your people have gone and put it in.’<br> +<br> +‘Our marriage!’<br> +<br> +‘Here it is! Listen! “Crosse - Selby. +30th June, at St. Monica’s Church, by the Rev. John Tudwell, M.A., +Vicar of St. Monica’s, Frank Crosse, of Maybury Road, Woking, +to Maude Selby, eldest daughter of Robert Selby, Esq., of St. Albans.” +Great Scot, Maude! what shall we do?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, dear, does it matter?’<br> +<br> +‘Matter! It’s simply awful!’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t mind much if they do know.’<br> +<br> +‘But my reminiscences, Maude! The travels in the Tyrol! +The Swiss Hotel! The Stateroom! Great goodness, how I have +put my foot into it.’<br> +<br> +Maude burst out laughing.<br> +<br> +‘You old dear!’ she cried, ‘I don’t believe +you are a bit better as a conspirator than I am. There’s +only one thing you can do. Give the waiter half a crown, tell +him the truth, and don’t conspire any more.’<br> +<br> +And so ignominiously ended the attempt which so many have made, and +at which so many have failed. Take warning, gentle reader, and +you also, gentler reader still, when your own turn comes.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VIII - THE HOME-COMING<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +The days of holiday were over, and for each of them the duties of life +were waiting. For him it was his work, and for her, her housekeeping. +They both welcomed the change, for there was a rush and a want of privacy +about the hotel life which had been amusing at first, but was now becoming +irksome. It was pleasant, as they rolled out of Waterloo Station +that summer night, to know that their cosy little home was awaiting +them just five-and-twenty miles down the line. They had a first-class +carriage to themselves - it is astonishing how easy it is for two people +to fit into one of those armchair partitions, - and they talked all +the way down about their plans for the future. Golden visions +of youth, how they can glorify even a suburban villa and four hundred +a year! They exulted together over the endless vista of happy +days which stretched before them.<br> +<br> +Mrs. Watson, Frank’s trusty housekeeper, had been left in charge +of The Lindens, and he had sent her a telegram the evening before to +tell her that they were coming. She had already engaged the two +servants, so everything would be ready for them. They pictured +her waiting at the door, the neat little rooms with all their useful +marriage-presents in their proper places, the lamplight and the snowy +cloth laid for supper in the dining-room. It would be ten o’clock +before they got there, and that supper would be a welcome sight. +It was all delightful to look forward to, and this last journey was +the happiest of all their wanderings. Maude wanted to see her +kitchen. Frank wanted to see his books. Both were eager +for the fight.<br> +<br> +But they found a small annoyance waiting for them at Woking. A +crowded train had preceded them, and there was not a single cab left +at the station. Some would be back soon, but nobody could tell +when.<br> +<br> +‘You don’t mind walking, Maude?’<br> +<br> +‘I should prefer it.’<br> +<br> +So a friendly porter took charge of their trunks, and promised to send +them up when a conveyance had arrived. In the meantime they started +off together down an ill-lit and ill-kept road, which opened into that +more important thoroughfare in which their own villa was situated. +They walked quickly, full of eager anticipations.<br> +<br> +‘It’s just past the third lamp-post on the right,’ +said Frank. ‘Now it’s only the second lamp-post. +You see it will not be far from the station. Those windows among +the trees are where Hale lives - my best man, you know! Now it +is only one lamp-post!’ They quickened their pace almost +to a run, and so arrived at the gate of The Lindens.<br> +<br> +It was a white gate leading into a short path - ‘carriage sweep’ +the house-agent called it, - and so to a low but comfortable-looking +little house. The night was so dark that one could only see its +outline. To their surprise, there was no sign of a light either +above the door or at any of the windows.<br> +<br> +‘Well, I’m blessed!’ cried Frank.<br> +<br> +‘Never mind, dear. They live at the back, no doubt.’<br> +<br> +‘But I gave them the hour. This is too bad. I am so +sorry.’<br> +<br> +‘It will be all the more cosy inside. What a dear little +gate this is! The whole place is perfectly charming.’<br> +<br> +But in spite of her brave attempts at making the best of it, it could +not be denied that this black house was not what they had pictured in +their dreams. Frank strode angrily up the path and pulled at the +bell. There was no answer, so he knocked violently. Then +he knocked with one hand while he rang with the other, but no sound +save that of the clanging bell came from the gloomy house. As +they stood forlornly in front of their own hall-door, a soft rain began +to rustle amidst the bushes. At this climax of their troubles +Maude burst into such a quiet, hearty, irresistible fit of laughter, +that the angry Frank was forced to laugh also.<br> +<br> +‘My word, it will be no laughing matter for Mrs. Watson if she +cannot give a good reason for it,’ said he.<br> +<br> +‘Perhaps the poor woman is ill.’<br> +<br> +‘But there should be two other people, the cook and the housemaid. +It is just as well that we did not bring up our trunks, or we should +have had to dump them down in the front garden. You wait here, +dear, under the shelter of the porch, and I will walk round and see +if I can burgle it.’<br> +<br> +He tried the back, but it was as dark as the front, and the kitchen-door +was locked. Then he prowled unhappily in the rain from window +to window. They were all fastened. He came back to the kitchen-door, +poked his stick through the glass which formed the upper panel, and +then putting his hand through the hole, he turned the key, and so stumbled +into the obscurity of his own hall. He passed through it, unlocked +the front door, and received Maude into his open arms.<br> +<br> +‘Welcome to your home, my own darling girl. May you never +have one sad hour under this roof! What a dismal home-coming! +What can I do to make amends? But good comes out of evil, you +see, for in no other possible way could I have been inside to welcome +you when you entered.’<br> +<br> +They stayed in the hall in the dark some time, these wet and foolish +young people. Then Frank struck a match, and tried to light the +hall-lamp. There was no oil in it. He muttered something +vigorous, and carried his burning vesta into the dining-room. +Two candles were standing on the sideboard. He lit them both, +and things began to look a little more cheerful. They took a candle +each and began to explore their own deserted house.<br> +<br> +The dining-room was excellent - small, but very snug. The Tantalus +spirit-stand - stood upon the walnut sideboard, and the bronzes from +the cricket-club looked splendid upon each side of the mantelpiece. +Beside the clock in the centre lay an open telegram. Frank seized +it eagerly.<br> +<br> +‘There now!’ he cried. ‘Listen to this. +“Expect us on Thursday evening about ten.” It was +<i>Tuesday </i>evening, I said. That’s the telegraphic clerk. +We’ve come two days before our time.’<br> +<br> +It was good to have any sort of explanation, although it left a great +deal unexplained. They passed through the hall with its shining +linoleum, and into the drawing-room. It was not a very good room, +too square for elegance, but they were in no humour for criticism, and +it was charming to see all the old knick-knacks, and the photographs +of friends in their frames. A big wrought-iron and brass-work +standing lamp towered up near the fireplace, but again there was no +oil.<br> +<br> +‘I think that Mrs. Watson has arranged it all splendidly,’ +said Maude, whose active fingers were already beginning to reconstruct. +‘But where can she be?’<br> +<br> +‘She must be out, for, of course, she lives in the house. +But it is the absence of the servants which amazes me, for I understood +that they had arrived. What would you like to do?’<br> +<br> +‘Aren’t you hungry, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘Simply starving.’<br> +<br> +‘So am I.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, let us forage and see if we cannot find something +to eat.’<br> +<br> +So hand in hand, and each with a candle in the other hand, like a pair +of young penitents, they continued their explorations with more purpose +than before. The kitchen, into which they penetrated, had clearly +been much used of late, for there were dirty dishes scattered about, +and the fire had been lighted, though it was now out. In one corner +was what seemed to be a pile of drab-coloured curtains. In the +other, an armchair lay upon its side with legs projecting. A singular +disorder, very alien to Mrs. Watson’s habits, pervaded the apartment. +A dresser with a cupboard over it claimed the first attention of the +hungry pair. With a cheer from Frank and hand-clapping from Maude, +they brought out a new loaf of bread, some butter, some cheese, a tin +of cocoa, and a bowl full of eggs. Maude tied an apron over her +pretty russet dress, seized some sticks and paper, and had a fire crackling +in a very few minutes.<br> +<br> +‘Put some water in the kettle, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Here you are! Anything else?’<br> +<br> +‘Some in the small saucepan for the eggs.’<br> +<br> +‘I believe they are “cookers,”’ said he, sniffing +at them suspiciously.<br> +<br> +‘Hold them up to the light, sir. There, they are quite bright +and nice. In with them! Now, if you will cut some bread +and butter it, we shall soon have our supper ready.’<br> +<br> +‘It’s too new to cut,’ cried Frank, sawing away upon +the kitchen table. ‘Besides, new bread is better in chunks. +Here are some cloths and knives and forks in the dresser drawer. +I will go and lay the table.’<br> +<br> +‘And leave me here alone. No please, Frank, if I am cook, +you must be scullery-maid. Get the cups down and put the cocoa +in them. What fun it all is! I think it is simply <i>splendid +</i>to be mistress of a house.’<br> +<br> +‘With one scullery-maid.’<br> +<br> +‘And she perfectly incompetent, and much given to embracing her +mistress. I must take my hat off. Get the sugar for the +cocoa out of the cupboard. The kettle is singing, so it won’t +be long. Do you know, Frank’ - she paused, listening, with +the egg-saucepan in her hands. ‘There’s a dog or something +in the room.’<br> +<br> +They had both become aware of a sort of sibilant breathing, and they +looked round them in bewilderment.<br> +<br> +‘Where is it?’ asked Maude. ‘Frank, I believe +it’s a mouse.’<br> +<br> +‘Hope for the best. Don’t frighten yourself unnecessarily. +I fancy it comes from under these curtains.’ He approached +them with his candle, and was suddenly aware of a boot which was projecting +from them. ‘Great Scot!’ he cried, ‘there’s +a woman here asleep.’<br> +<br> +Reassured as to the mouse, Maude approached with her saucepan still +clutched in her hand. There could be no doubt either as to the +woman or the sleep. She lay in an untidy heap, her head under +the table, and her figure sprawling. She appeared to be a very +large woman.<br> +<br> +‘Hullo!’ cried Frank, shaking her by the shoulder. +‘Hullo, you there!’<br> +<br> +But the woman slumbered peacefully on.<br> +<br> +‘Heh, wake up, wake up!’ he shouted, and pulled her up into +a sitting position. But she slept as soundly sitting as lying.<br> +<br> +‘The poor thing must be ill,’ said Maude. ‘O +Frank, shall I run for a doctor?’<br> +<br> +‘Wake up, woman, wake up!’ Frank yelled, and danced her +up and down. She flopped about like a sawdust doll, with her arms +swinging in front of her. He panted with his exertions, but she +was serenely unconscious. At last he had to lower her on to the +floor again, putting a footstool under her head.<br> +<br> +‘It’s no go,’ said he. ‘I can make nothing +of her. She will sleep it off.’<br> +<br> +‘You don’t mean to say, Frank, that she is - ’<br> +<br> +‘Indeed I do.’<br> +<br> +‘How horrible!’<br> +<br> +‘That kettle is boiling now. Suppose we have our supper.’<br> +<br> +‘Dear Frank, I could not enjoy my supper with that unfortunate +woman lying there. O Frank, I know that you could not either.’<br> +<br> +‘Bless her!’ said Frank bitterly, as he gazed at the inert +lump. ‘I really don’t see why we should put ourselves +out for her. She is quite comfortable.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh I couldn’t, Frank. It would seem inhuman.’<br> +<br> +‘What are we to do, then?’<br> +<br> +‘We must put her to bed.’<br> +<br> +‘Great heavens!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, it is our duty to put her to bed.’<br> +<br> +‘But look here, my dear girl, we must be practical. The +woman weighs half a ton, and the bedrooms are at the top of the house. +It’s simply impossible.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t you think, Frank, that if you took her head and I +took her feet, we might get her up?’<br> +<br> +‘Not up the stair, dear. She is enormous.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, on to the drawing-room sofa,’ said Maude. +‘I could have my supper, if I knew that she was safe upon the +sofa.’<br> +<br> +So Frank, seeing that there was no help for it, seized her under the +arms, and Maude took her ankles, and they bore her, bulging but serene, +down the passage. They staggered exhausted into the drawing-room, +and the new sofa groaned beneath the weight. It was a curious +and unsavoury inaugural ceremony. Maude put a rug over the prostrate +form, and they returned to their boiling kettle and their uncooked eggs. +Then they laid the table, and served the supper, and enjoyed this picnic +meal of their own creating as no conventional meal could ever have been +enjoyed. Everything seemed beautiful to the young wife - the wall-paper, +the pictures, the carpet, the rug; but to him, she was so beautiful +in mind, and soul, and body, that her presence turned the little room +into an enchanted chamber. They sat long together, and marvelled +at their own happiness - that pure serene happiness of mere companionship, +which is so much more intimate and deeper than all the transports of +passion.<br> +<br> +But suddenly he sprang from his chair. There was the sound of +steps, of several steps, outside upon the gravel path. Then a +key clicked, and a burst of cold air told them that the door was open.<br> +<br> +‘It’s agin’ the law for me to enter,’ said a +gruff voice.<br> +<br> +‘I tell you she’s very strong and violent,’ said a +second voice, which Frank recognised as that of Mrs. Watson. ‘She +chased the maid out of the house, and I can do nothing with her.’<br> +<br> +‘Very sorry, mum, but it’s clean agin’ the law of +England. Give me a warrant, and in I come. If you will bring +her to the doorstep, I will be answerable for her removal.’<br> +<br> +‘She’s in the dining-room. I can see the lights,’ +said Mrs. Watson; and then, ‘Good Lord, Mr. Crosse, what a fright +you gave me! Oh dear me, that you should have come when I was +out, and I not expecting you for another two days yet. Well, now, +I shall never forgive myself for this.’<br> +<br> +But all the mistakes and misfortunes were very quickly explained. +The telegram was the root of the evil. And then the new cook had +proved to be a violent, intermittent drunkard. She had chased +the other maid out of the house, and then, while Mrs. Watson rushed +for the police, she had drunk herself into the stupor in which she had +been found. But now, in the nick of time, the station cab came +up with the luggage, and so the still placidly slumbering culprit was +carried out to it, and sent off in the charge of the policeman. +Such was the first entry of Mr. and Mrs. Crosse into their home at The +Lindens.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IX - LAYING A COURSE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Frank Crosse was a methodical young man - his enemies might sometimes +have called him pedantic, - and he loved to reduce his life to rule +and order. It was one of his peculiarities. But how about +this new life into which he was entering? It took two to draw +up the rules for that. The little two-oared craft who put out +upon that voyage have to lay their own course, each for itself; and +all round them, as they go, they see the floating timbers and broken +keels of other little boats, which had once started out full of hope +and confidence. There are currents and eddies, low sand-banks +and sunken reefs, and happy the crews who see them ahead, and trim their +course to avoid them. Frank brooded over it all. He had +seen something of life, for his years. He was observant and reflective. +He had watched his friends who were happy, and he had watched his friends +who were not. And now, as a result of all this wise cogitation, +he sat down at a table one evening, with a solemn face, and a sheet +of foolscap.<br> +<br> +‘Now, Maude,’ said he, ‘I want to have a serious talk.’<br> +<br> +Maude looked up in surprise from the linen which she was marking.<br> +<br> +‘Oh dear!’ she cried.<br> +<br> +‘Why “oh dear”?’<br> +<br> +‘There’s something wrong?’<br> +<br> +‘Nothing in the world.’<br> +<br> +‘You looked so solemn, Frank. I thought you had been looking +at the tradesman’s books. What is it, dear?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, Maude, I have been thinking of married life in general. +Don’t you think it would be a good thing if we were to make some +resolutions as to how it should be conducted - some fundamental principles, +as it were?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh do, dear, do! What fun it will be!’<br> +<br> +‘But it’s serious, Maude.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, I am quite serious.’<br> +<br> +‘It seemed to me, that if we could reduce it to certain rules, +then, whatever came upon us in the future, we should always know exactly +how to act.’<br> +<br> +‘What are the rules, dear?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, we can only arrive at them by talking it over between ourselves. +I could not draw up a set of rules, and ask you to submit to them. +That is not my idea of a partnership. But if we found that we +were agreed upon certain points, then we could both adopt them by mutual +consent.’<br> +<br> +‘How charming, Frank! Do please tell me some of the points.’<br> +<br> +‘I have a few in my mind, and I should like to hear any which +you may have - any ideas, you know, how to get the very highest and +best out of our life. Now, first of all, there is the subject +of quarrelling.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, how horrid!’<br> +<br> +‘Dear girl, we must look into the future. We are going to +live all our lives together. We must foresee and prepare for all +the chances of life.’<br> +<br> +‘But that is absurd.’<br> +<br> +‘You can’t live all your life and never be in a bad temper!’<br> +<br> +‘But not with <i>you, </i>Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I can be very aggravating sometimes. Now, my idea is +this. Ill-humour passes and hurts nobody. But if two people +are ill-humoured, then each excites the other, and they say ever so +much more than they mean. Let us make a compact never both to +be ill-humoured at the same time. If <i>you </i>are cross, then +it is your turn, and I stand clear. If <i>I </i>am cross, you +let me work it off. When either hoists the danger-signal, the +other is on guard. What do you think of that?’<br> +<br> +‘I think you are the funniest old boy - ’<br> +<br> +‘Do you agree?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, of course I agree.’<br> +<br> +‘Article number one,’ said Frank, and scribbled upon his +paper.<br> +<br> +‘Your turn, now.’<br> +<br> +‘No, dear, I have not thought of anything.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, here is another point. Never take each other +for granted.’<br> +<br> +‘What do you mean by that?’<br> +<br> +‘Never relax those attentions which one lover shows to another. +Some husbands seem to forget that their wives are ladies. Some +wives speak to their husbands with less courtesy and consideration than +to any casual male visitor. They mean no harm, but they get into +a slack way. We must not do that.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think we are likely to.’<br> +<br> +‘People get into it unconsciously. Pull me up sharply at +the first sign.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, sir, I will.’<br> +<br> +‘The next point that I have noted is an extension of the last. +Let each strive to be worthy of the love of the other. People +get slovenly and slipshoddy, as if it didn’t matter now that they +were married. If each were very keen to please the other, that +would not be so. How many women neglect their music after marriage.’<br> +<br> +‘My goodness, I haven’t practised for a week!’ cried +Maude.<br> +<br> +‘And their dress and their hair’ - Maude’s hand flew +up to her curls. ‘My darling, yours is just perfect. +But you know how often a woman grows careless. “He will +love me anyhow,” she says to herself, and perhaps she is right, +but still it is not as it should be.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, Frank, I had no idea you knew so much.’<br> +<br> +‘I have heard my friends’ experiences. - And the man too: +he should consider his wife’s feelings as much as he did his sweetheart’s. +If she dislikes smoke, he should not smoke. He should not yawn +in her presence. He should keep himself well-groomed and attractive. +Look at that dirty cuff! I have no business to have it.’<br> +<br> +‘As if it could make any difference to me.’<br> +<br> +‘There now! That is what is so demoralising. You should +stand out for the highest. When I came to you at St Albans, I +had not dirty cuffs.’<br> +<br> +‘You forgive me the music, Frank, and I’ll forgive you the +cuff. But I agree to all you say. I think it is so wise +and good. Now I’ve got something to add.’<br> +<br> +‘Good. What is it?’<br> +<br> +‘Each should take an interest in the other’s department.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, of course they should.’<br> +<br> +‘But it is not done.’<br> +<br> +‘Why naturally, dear, you take an interest in my City work.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, sir, but do you take as keen an interest in my housekeeping?’<br> +<br> +‘Perhaps I have been a little thoughtless.’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, dear, you haven’t. You are always full of +consideration. But I have noticed it with mother, and with others +also. The husband pulls out his cheque-book at the end of the +week or month, and he says, “Well, this is rather more than we +can afford,” or “This is less than I expected,” but +he never really takes any interest in his wife’s efforts to keep +things nice on a little. He does not see it with her eyes and +try to realise her difficulties. Oh, I wish I could express myself +better, but I know that the interest is one-sided.’<br> +<br> +‘I think what you say is quite right. I’ll try to +remember that. How shall we enter it upon our list?’<br> +<br> +‘That Interests should be mutual.’<br> +<br> +‘Quite right. I have it down. Well, any more points?’<br> +<br> +‘It is your turn.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, there is this, and I feel that it is just the holiest thing +in matrimony, and its greatest justification - that love should never +degenerate into softness, that each should consciously stimulate the +better part of the other and discourage the worse, that there should +be a discipline in our life, and that we should brace each other up +to a higher ideal. The love that says, “I know it is wrong, +but I love him or her so much that I can’t refuse,” is a +poor sort of love for the permanent use of married life. The self-respect +which refuses to let the most lofty ideal of love down by an inch is +a far nobler thing, and it wears better too.’<br> +<br> +‘How will you express all that?’<br> +<br> +‘Mutual respect is necessary for mutual love.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I am sure that that is right.’<br> +<br> +‘It sounds obvious, but the very intensity of love makes love +soft and blind. Now I have another, which I am convinced that +you will not agree with.’<br> +<br> +‘Let me hear it.’<br> +<br> +‘I have put it in this way, “The tight cord is the easiest +to snap.”’<br> +<br> +‘What do you mean?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I mean that married couples should give each other a certain +latitude and freedom. If they don’t, one or other will sooner +or later chafe at the restriction. It is only human nature, which +is an older and more venerable thing than marriage.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t like that at all, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘I feared you wouldn’t, dear, but I believe you’ll +see it with me when I explain what I mean. If you don’t, +then I must try to see it with you. When one talks of freedom +in married life, it means, as a rule, freedom only for the man. +He does what he likes, but still claims to be a strict critic of his +wife. That, I am sure, is wrong. To take an obvious example +of what I mean, has a husband a right to read his wife’s letters? +Certainly not, any more than she has a right to read his without his +permission. To read them as a matter of course would be stretching +the chain too tight.’<br> +<br> +‘Chain is a horrid word, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, it is only a metaphor. Or take the subject of friendships. +Is a married man to be debarred from all friendship and intimacy with +another woman?’<br> +<br> +Maude looked doubtful.<br> +<br> +‘I should like to see the woman first,’ she said.<br> +<br> +‘Or is a married woman to form no friendship with another man +who might interest or improve her? There is such a want of mutual +confidence in such a view. People who are sure of each other should +give each other every freedom in that. If they don’t, they +are again stretching it tight.’<br> +<br> +‘If they do, it may become so slack that it might as well not +be there at all.’<br> +<br> +‘I felt sure that we should have an argument over this. +But I have seen examples. Look at the Wardrops. <i>There +</i>were a couple who were never apart. It was their boast that +everything was in common with them. If he was not in, she opened +his letters, and he hers. And then there came a most almighty +smash. The tight cord had snapped. Now, I believe that for +some people, it is a most excellent thing that they should take their +holidays at different times.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I do. No, not for us, by Jove! I am generalising +now. But for some couples, I am sure that it is right. They +reconsider each other from a distance, and they like each other the +better.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, but these rules are for our guidance, not for that of other +people.’<br> +<br> +‘Quite right, dear. I was off the rails. “As +you were,” as your brother Jack would say. But I am afraid +that I am not going to convince you over this point.’<br> +<br> +Maude looked charmingly mutinous.<br> +<br> +‘No, Frank, you are not. I don’t think marriage can +be too close. I believe that every hope, and thought, and aspiration +should be in common. I could never get as near to your heart and +soul as I should wish to do. I want every year to draw me closer +and closer, until we really are as nearly the same person as it is possible +to be upon earth.’<br> +<br> +When you have to surrender, it is well to do so gracefully. Frank +stooped down and kissed his wife’s hand, and apologised. +‘The wisdom of the heart is greater than the wisdom of the brain,’ +said he. But the love of man comes from the brain, far more than +the love of woman, and so it is that there will always be some points +upon which they will never quite see alike.<br> +<br> +‘Then we scratch out that item.’<br> +<br> +‘No, dear. ‘Put “The cord which is held tight +is the easiest to snap.” That will be all right. The +cord of which I speak is never held at all. The moment it is necessary +to hold it, it is of no value. It must be voluntary, natural, +unavoidable.’<br> +<br> +So Frank amended his aphorism.<br> +<br> +‘Anything more, dear?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I have thought of one other,’ said she. ‘It +is that if ever you had to find fault with me about anything, it should +be when we are alone.’<br> +<br> +‘And the same in your case with me. That is excellent. +What can be more vulgar and degrading than a public difference of opinion? +People do it half in fun sometimes, but it is wrong all the same. +Duly entered upon the minutes. Anything else?’<br> +<br> +‘Only material things.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, but they count also. Now, in the matter of money, +I feel that every husband should allow his wife a yearly sum of her +own, to be paid over to her, and kept by her, so that she may make her +own arrangements for herself. It is degrading to a woman to have +to apply to her husband every time she wants a sovereign. On the +other hand, if the wife has any money, she should have the spending +of it. If she chooses to spend part of it in helping the establishment, +that is all right, but I am sure that she should have her own separate +account, and her own control of it.’<br> +<br> +‘If a woman really loves a man, Frank, how can she grudge him +everything she has? If my little income would take one worry from +your mind, what a joy it would be to me to feel that you were using +it!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, but the man has his self-respect to think of. In a +great crisis one might fall back upon one’s wife - since our interests +are the same, but only that could justify it. So much for the +wife’s money. Now for the question of housekeeping.’<br> +<br> +‘That terrible question!’<br> +<br> +‘It is only hard because people try to do so much upon a little. +Why should they try to do so much? The best pleasures of life +are absolutely inexpensive. Books, music, pleasant intimate evenings, +the walk among the heather, the delightful routine of domestic life, +my cricket and my golf - these things cost very little.’<br> +<br> +‘But you must eat and drink, Frank. And as to Jemima and +the cook, it is really extraordinary the amount which they consume.’<br> +<br> +‘But the tendency is for meals to become much too elaborate. +Why that second vegetable?’<br> +<br> +‘There now! I knew that you were going to say something +against that poor vegetable. It costs so little.’<br> +<br> +‘On an average, I have no doubt that it costs threepence a day. +Come now, confess that it does. Do you know what threepence a +day comes to in a year? There is no use in having an accountant +for a husband, if you can’t get at figures easily. It is +four pounds eleven shillings and threepence.’<br> +<br> +‘It does not seem very much.’<br> +<br> +‘But for that money, and less, one could become a member of the +London Library, with the right to take out fifteen books at a time, +and all the world’s literature to draw from. Now just picture +it: on one side, all the books in the world, all the words of the wise, +and great, and witty; on the other side, a lot of cauliflowers and vegetable-marrows +and French beans. Which is the better bargain?’<br> +<br> +‘Good gracious, we shall never have a second vegetable again!’<br> +<br> +‘And pudding?’<br> +<br> +‘My dear, you always eat the pudding.’<br> +<br> +‘I know I do. It seems an obvious thing to do when the pudding +is there in front of me. But if it were not there, I should neither +eat it nor miss it, and I know that you care nothing about it. +There would be another five or six pounds a year.’<br> +<br> +‘We’ll have a compromise, dear. Second vegetable one +day, pudding the next.’<br> +<br> +‘Very good.’<br> +<br> +‘I notice that it is always after you have had a substantial meal +that you discuss economy in food. I wonder if you will feel the +same when you come back starving from the City to-morrow? Now, +sir, any other economy?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think money causes happiness. But debt causes +unhappiness. And so we must cut down every expense until we have +a reserve fund to meet any unexpected call. If you see any way +in which I could save, or any money I spend which you think is unjustifiable, +I do wish that you would tell me. I got into careless ways in +my bachelor days.’<br> +<br> +‘That red golfing-coat.’<br> +<br> +‘I know. It was idiotic of me.’<br> +<br> +‘Never mind, dear. You look very nice in it. After +all, it was only thirty shillings. Can you show me any extravagance +of mine?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, dear, I looked at that dressmaker’s bill yesterday.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, it is such a pretty dress, and you said you liked it, +and you have to pay for a good cut, and you said yourself that a wife +must not become dowdy after marriage, and it would have cost double +as much in Regent Street.’<br> +<br> +‘I didn’t think the dress dear.’<br> +<br> +‘What was it, then?’<br> +<br> +‘The silk lining of the skirt.’<br> +<br> +‘You funny boy!’<br> +<br> +‘It cost thirty shillings extra. Now, what can it matter +if it is lined with silk or not?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, doesn’t it? Just you try one and see.’<br> +<br> +‘But no one can know that it is lined with silk.’<br> +<br> +‘When I rustle into a room, dear, every woman in it knows that +my skirt is lined with silk.’<br> +<br> +Frank felt that he had ventured out of his depth, so he struck out for +land again.<br> +<br> +‘There’s only one economy which I don’t think is justifiable,’ +said he, ‘and that is, to cut down your subscriptions to charities. +It is such a very cheap way of doing things. Not that I do much +in that line - too little, perhaps. But to say that because <i>we +</i>want to economise, therefore some poor people are to suffer, is +a very poor argument. We must save at our own expense.’<br> +<br> +So now Frank, in his methodical fashion, had all his results tabulated +upon his sheet of foolscap. It was not a very brilliant production, +but it might serve as a chart for the little two-oared boats until a +better one is forthcoming. It ran in this way -<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>Maxims for the Married<br> +<br> +</i>1. Since you <i>are </i>married, you may as well make the +best of it.<br> +<br> +2. So make some maxims and try to live up to them.<br> +<br> +3. And don’t be discouraged if you fail. You <i>will +</i>fail, but perhaps you won’t always fail.<br> +<br> +4. Never both be cross at the same time. Wait your turn.<br> +<br> +5. Never cease to be lovers. If you cease, some one else +may begin.<br> +<br> +6. You were gentleman and lady before you were husband and wife. +Don’t forget it.<br> +<br> +7. Keep yourself at your best. It is a compliment to your +partner.<br> +<br> +8. Keep your ideal high. You may miss it, but it is better +to miss a high one than to hit a low one.<br> +<br> +9. A blind love is a foolish love. Encourage the best in +each other’s nature.<br> +<br> +10. Permanent mutual respect is necessary for a permanent mutual +love. A woman can love without respect, but a man cannot.<br> +<br> +11. The tight cord is the easiest to snap.<br> +<br> +12. Let there be one law for both.<br> +<br> +13. There is only one thing worse than quarrels in public. +That is caresses.<br> +<br> +14. Money is not essential to happiness, but happy people usually +have enough.<br> +<br> +15. So save some.<br> +<br> +16. The easiest way of saving is to do without things.<br> +<br> +17. If you can’t, then you had better do without a wife.<br> +<br> +18. The man who respects his wife does not turn her into a mendicant. +Give her a purse of her own.<br> +<br> +19. If you save, save at your own expense.<br> +<br> +20. In all matters of money, prepare always for the worst and +hope for the best.<br> +<br> +<br> +Such was their course as far as this ambitious young couple could lay +it. They may correct it by experience, and improve it by use, +but it is good enough to guide them safely out to sea.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER X - CONFESSIONS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Tell me, Frank, did you ever love any one before me?’<br> +<br> +‘How badly trimmed the lamp is to-night!’ said he. +It was so bad that he went off instantly into the dining-room to get +another. It was some time before he returned.<br> +<br> +She waited inexorably until he had settled down again.<br> +<br> +‘Did you, Frank?’ she asked.<br> +<br> +‘Did I what?’<br> +<br> +‘Ever love any one else?’<br> +<br> +‘My dear Maude, what <i>is </i>the use of asking questions like +that?’<br> +<br> +‘You said that there were no secrets between us.’<br> +<br> +‘No, but there are some things better left alone.’<br> +<br> +‘That is what I should call a secret.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course, if you make a point of it - ’<br> +<br> +‘I do.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, I am ready to answer anything that you ask. +But you must not blame me if you do not like my answers.’<br> +<br> +‘Who was she, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘Which?’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, more than one!’<br> +<br> +‘I told you that you would not like it.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I wish I had not asked you!’<br> +<br> +‘Then do let us drop it.’<br> +<br> +‘No, I can’t drop it now, Frank. You have gone too +far. You must tell me everything.’<br> +<br> +‘Everything?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, everything, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘I am not sure that I can.’<br> +<br> +‘Is it so dreadful as that?’<br> +<br> +‘No, there is another reason.’<br> +<br> +‘Do tell me, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘There is a good deal of it. You know how a modern poet +excused himself to his wife for all his pre-matrimonial experiences. +He said that he was looking for her.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I do like that!’ she cried indignantly.<br> +<br> +‘I was looking for you.’<br> +<br> +‘You seem to have looked a good deal.’<br> +<br> +‘But I found you at last.’<br> +<br> +‘I had rather you had found me at first, Frank.’ He +said something about supper, but she was not to be turned.<br> +<br> +‘How many did you really love?’ she asked. ‘Please +don’t joke about it, Frank. I really want to know.’<br> +<br> +‘If I choose to tell you a lie - ’<br> +<br> +‘But you won’t!’<br> +<br> +‘No, I won’t. I could never feel the same again.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, how many did you love?’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t exaggerate what I say, Maude, or take it to heart. +You see it depends upon what you mean by love. There are all sorts +and degrees of love, some just the whim of a moment, and others the +passion of a lifetime; some are founded on mere physical passion, and +some on intellectual sympathy, and some on spiritual affinity.’<br> +<br> +‘Which do you love me with?’<br> +<br> +‘All three.’<br> +<br> +‘Sure?’<br> +<br> +‘Perfectly sure.’<br> +<br> +She came over and the cross-examination was interrupted. But in +a few minutes she had settled down to it again.<br> +<br> +‘Well, now - the first?’ said she.<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I can’t, Maude - don’t.’<br> +<br> +‘Come, sir - her name?’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, Maude, that is going a little too far. Even to +you, I should never mention another woman’s name.’<br> +<br> +‘Who was she, then?’<br> +<br> +‘Please don’t let us go into details. It is perfectly +<i>horrible</i>. Let me tell things in my own way.’<br> +<br> +She made a little grimace.<br> +<br> +‘You are wriggling, sir. But I won’t be hard upon +you. Tell it your own way.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, in a word, Maude, I was always in love with some one.’<br> +<br> +Her face clouded over.<br> +<br> +‘Your love must be very cheap,’ said she.<br> +<br> +‘It’s almost a necessity of existence for a healthy young +man who has imagination and a warm heart. It was all - or nearly +all - quite superficial.’<br> +<br> +‘I should think all your love was superficial, if it can come +so easily.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t be cross, Maude. I had never seen you at the +time. I owed no duty to you.’<br> +<br> +‘You owed a duty to your own self-respect.’<br> +<br> +‘There, I knew we should have trouble over it. What do you +want to ask such questions for? I dare say I am a fool to be so +frank.’<br> +<br> +She sat for a little with her face quite cold and set. In his +inmost heart Frank was glad that she should be jealous, and he watched +her out of the corner of his eye.<br> +<br> +‘Well!’ said she at last.<br> +<br> +‘Must I go on?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I may as well hear it.’<br> +<br> +‘You’ll only be cross.’<br> +<br> +‘We’ve gone too far to stop. And I’m not cross, +Frank. Only pained a little. But I do appreciate your frankness. +I had no idea you were such a - such a Mormon.’ She began +to laugh.<br> +<br> +‘I used to take an interest in every woman.’<br> +<br> +‘“Take an interest” is good.’<br> +<br> +‘That was how it began. And then if circumstances were favourable +the interest deepened, until at last, naturally - well, you can understand.’<br> +<br> +‘How many did you take an interest in?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, in pretty nearly all of them.’<br> +<br> +‘And how many deepened?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I don’t know.’<br> +<br> +‘Twenty?’<br> +<br> +‘Well - rather more than that, I think.’<br> +<br> +‘Thirty?’<br> +<br> +‘Quite thirty.’<br> +<br> +‘Forty?’<br> +<br> +‘Not more than forty, I think.’<br> +<br> +Maude sat aghast at the depths of his depravity.<br> +<br> +‘Let me see: you are twenty-seven now, so you have loved four +women a year since you were seventeen.’<br> +<br> +‘If you reckon it that way,’ said Frank, ‘I am afraid +that it must have been more than forty.’<br> +<br> +‘It’s dreadful,’ said Maude, and began to cry.<br> +<br> +Frank knelt down in front of her and kissed her hands. She had +sweet little plump hands, very soft and velvety.<br> +<br> +‘You make me feel such a brute,’ said he. ‘Anyhow, +I love you now with all my heart and mind and soul.’<br> +<br> +‘Forty-firstly and lastly,’ she sobbed, half laughing and +half crying. Then she pulled his hair to reassure him.<br> +<br> +‘I can’t be angry with you,’ said she. ‘Besides, +it would be ungenerous to be angry when you tell me things of your own +free will. You are not forced to tell me. It is very honourable +of you. But I do wish you had taken an interest in me first.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, it was not so fated. I suppose there are some men +who are quite good when they are bachelors. But I don’t +believe they are the best men. They are either archangels upon +earth - young Gladstones and Newmans - or else they are cold, calculating, +timid, un-virile creatures, who will never do any good. The first +class must be splendid. I never met one except in memoirs. +The others I don’t want to meet.’<br> +<br> +Women are not interested in generalities.<br> +<br> +‘Were they nicer than me?’ she asked.<br> +<br> +‘Who?’<br> +<br> +‘Those forty women.’<br> +<br> +‘No, dear, of course not. Why are you laughing?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, it came into my head how funny it would be, if the forty +were all gathered into one room, and you were turned loose in the middle +of them.’<br> +<br> +‘Funny!’ Frank ejaculated. Women have such extraordinary +ideas of humour. Maude laughed until she was quite tired.<br> +<br> +‘It doesn’t strike you as comic?’ she cried at last.<br> +<br> +‘No, it doesn’t,’ he answered coldly.<br> +<br> +‘Of course it wouldn’t,’ said she, and went off into +another ripple of pretty contralto laughter. There is a soft, +deep, rich laugh, which some women have, that is the sweetest sound +in Nature.<br> +<br> +‘When you have quite finished,’ said he huffily. Her +jealousy was much more complimentary than her ridicule.<br> +<br> +‘All right now. Don’t be cross. If I didn’t +laugh I should cry. I’m so sorry if I have annoyed you.’ +He had gone back to his chair, so she paid him a flying visit. +‘Satisfied?’<br> +<br> +‘Not quite.’<br> +<br> +‘Now?’<br> +<br> +‘All right. I forgive you.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s funny too. Fancy <i>you </i>forgiving <i>me +</i>after all these confessions. But you never loved one of them +all as you love me.’<br> +<br> +‘Never.’<br> +<br> +‘Swear it.’<br> +<br> +‘I do swear it.’<br> +<br> +‘Morally, and what do you call it, and the other?’<br> +<br> +‘Not one of them.’<br> +<br> +‘And never will again?’<br> +<br> +‘Never.’<br> +<br> +‘Good boy for ever and ever?’<br> +<br> +‘For ever and ever.’<br> +<br> +‘And the forty were horrid?’<br> +<br> +‘No, hang it, Maude, I can’t say that.’<br> +<br> +She pouted and hung her head.<br> +<br> +‘You do like them better, then?’<br> +<br> +‘How absurd you are, Maude! If I had liked one better, I +should have married her.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, yes, I suppose you would. You must have taken a deeper +interest in me than in the others, since you married me. I hadn’t +thought of that.’<br> +<br> +‘Silly old girl! Of course I liked you best. Let us +drop the thing, and never talk about it any more.’<br> +<br> +‘Have you their photographs?’<br> +<br> +‘No.’<br> +<br> +‘None of them?’<br> +<br> +‘No.’<br> +<br> +‘What did you do with them?’<br> +<br> +‘I never had most of them.’<br> +<br> +‘And the others?’<br> +<br> +‘I destroyed some when I married.’<br> +<br> +‘That was nice of you. Aren’t you sorry?’<br> +<br> +‘No, I thought it was only right.’<br> +<br> +‘Were you fondest of dark women or fair?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I don’t know<i>. I</i> was never pernickety in +<i>my </i>tastes. You know those lines I read you from Henley: +“Handsome, ugly - all are women.” That’s a bachelor’s +sentiment.’<br> +<br> +‘But do you mean to say, sir - now, you are speaking on your honour, +that out of all these forty, there was not one who was prettier than +I am?’<br> +<br> +‘Do let us talk of something else.’<br> +<br> +‘And not one as clever?’<br> +<br> +‘How absurd you are to-night, Maude!’<br> +<br> +‘Come, answer me.’<br> +<br> +‘I’ve answered you already.’<br> +<br> +‘I did not hear you.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, you did. I said that I had married you, and that +shows that I liked you best. I don’t compare you quality +for quality against every one in the world. That would be absurd. +What I say is that your combination of qualities is the one which is +most dear to me.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I see,’ said Maude dubiously. ‘How nice +and frank you are!’<br> +<br> +‘Now I’ve hurt you!’<br> +<br> +‘Oh no, not in the least. I like you to be frank. +I should hate to think that there was anything you did not dare to tell +me.’<br> +<br> +‘And you, Maude - would you be equally frank with me?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, I will. I feel that I owe it to you after your +confidence in me. I have had my little experiences too.’<br> +<br> +‘You!’<br> +<br> +‘Perhaps you would rather that I said nothing about them. +What good can there be in raking up these old stories?’<br> +<br> +‘No, I had rather you told me.’<br> +<br> +‘You won’t be hurt?’<br> +<br> +‘No, no - certainly not.’<br> +<br> +‘You may take it from me, Frank, that if any married woman ever +tells her husband that until she saw him she never felt any emotion +at the sight of another man, it is simple nonsense. There may +be women of that sort about, but I never met them. I don’t +think I should like them, for they must be dry, cold, unsympathetic, +unemotional, unwomanly creatures.’<br> +<br> +‘Maude, you have loved some one else!’<br> +<br> +‘I won’t deny that I have been interested deeply interested +in several men.’<br> +<br> +‘Several!’<br> +<br> +‘It was before I had met you, dear. I owed you no duty.’<br> +<br> +‘You have loved several men.’<br> +<br> +‘The feeling was for the most part quite superficial. There +are many different sorts and degrees of love.’<br> +<br> +‘Good God, Maude! How many men inspired this feeling in +you?’<br> +<br> +‘The truth is, Frank, that a healthy young woman who has imagination +and a warm heart is attracted by every young man. I know that +you wish me to be frank and to return your confidence. But there +is a certain kind of young man with whom I always felt my interest deepen.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, you did discriminate?’<br> +<br> +‘Now you are getting bitter. I will say no more.’<br> +<br> +‘You have said too much. You must go on now.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I was only going to say that dark men always had a peculiar +fascination for me. I don’t know what it is, but the feeling +is quite overpowering.’<br> +<br> +‘Is that why you married a man with flaxen hair?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I couldn’t expect to find every quality in my husband, +could I? It would not be reasonable. I assure you, dear, +that taking your <i>tout</i> <i>ensemble</i>, I like you far the best +of all. You may not be the handsomest, and you may not be the +cleverest - one cannot expect one’s absolute ideal, - but I love +you far, far the best of any. I do hope I haven’t hurt you +by anything I have said.’<br> +<br> +‘I am sorry I am not your ideal, Maude. It would be absurd +to suppose myself anybody’s ideal, but I hoped always that the +eyes of love transfigured an object and made it seem all right. +My hair is past praying for, but if you can point out anything that +I can mend - ’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, I want you just as you are. If I hadn’t liked +you best, I shouldn’t have married you, Frank, should I?’<br> +<br> +‘But those other experiences?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, we had better drop them. What good can it possibly +do to discuss my old experiences? It will only annoy you.’<br> +<br> +‘Not at all. I honour you for your frankness in speaking +out, although I acknowledge that it is a little unexpected. Go +on.’<br> +<br> +‘I forget where I was.’<br> +<br> +‘You had just remarked that before your marriage you had love-affairs +with a number of men.’<br> +<br> +‘How horrid it sounds, doesn’t it?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, it did strike me in that way.’<br> +<br> +‘But that’s because you exaggerate what I said. I +said that I had been attracted by several men.’<br> +<br> +‘And that dark men thrilled you.’<br> +<br> +‘Exactly.’<br> +<br> +‘I had hoped that I was the first.’<br> +<br> +‘It was not fated to be so. I could easily tell you a lie, +Frank, and say that you were, but I should never forgive myself if I +were to do such a thing. You see I left school at seventeen, and +I was twenty-three when I became engaged to you. There are six +years. Imagine all the dances, picnics, parties, visitings of +six years. I could not help meeting young men continually. +A good many were interested in me, and I - ’<br> +<br> +‘You were interested in them.’<br> +<br> +‘It was natural, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, perfectly natural. And then I understand that the +interest deepened.’<br> +<br> +‘Sometimes. When you met a young man who was interested +several times running, at a dance, then in the street, then in the garden, +then a walk home at night - of course your interest began to deepen.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes.’<br> +<br> +‘And then - ’<br> +<br> +‘Well, what was the next stage?’<br> +<br> +‘Sure you’re not angry?’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, not at all. Why don’t you keep the key in +the spirit-stand?’<br> +<br> +‘It might tempt Jemima. Shall I get it?’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, go on! The next stage was?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, when you have been deeply interested some time, then you +begin to have experiences.’<br> +<br> +‘Ah!’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t shout, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Did I shout? Never mind. Go on! You had experiences.’<br> +<br> +‘Why go into details?’<br> +<br> +‘You must go on. You have said too much to stop. I +insist upon hearing the experiences.’<br> +<br> +‘Not if you ask for them in that way, Frank.’ Maude +had a fine dignity of her own when she liked.<br> +<br> +‘Well, I don’t insist. I beg you to have confidence +in me, and tell me some of your experiences.’<br> +<br> +She leaned back in her armchair with her eyes half closed, and a quiet +retrospective smile upon her face.<br> +<br> +‘Well, if you would really like to hear, Frank, as a proof of +my confidence and trust, I will tell you. You will remember that +I had not seen you at the time.’<br> +<br> +‘I will make every excuse.’<br> +<br> +‘I will tell you a single experience. It was my first of +the sort, and stands out very clearly in my memory. It all came +through my being left alone with a gentleman who was visiting my mother.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, we were alone in the room, you understand.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, yes, go on!’<br> +<br> +‘And he paid me many little compliments: kept saying how pretty +I was, and that he had never seen a sweeter girl, and so on. You +know what gentlemen would say?’<br> +<br> +‘And you?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I hardly answered him, but of course I was young and inexperienced, +and I could not help being flattered and pleased at his words. +I may have shown him what I felt, for he suddenly - ’<br> +<br> +‘Kissed you!’<br> +<br> +‘Exactly. He kissed me. Don’t walk up and down +the room, dear. It fidgets me.’<br> +<br> +‘All right. Go on. Don’t stop. After this +outrage what happened next?’<br> +<br> +‘You really want to know?’<br> +<br> +‘I must know. What did you do?’<br> +<br> +‘I am so sorry that I ever began, for I can see that it is exciting +you. Light your pipe, dear, and let us talk of something else. +It will only make you cross if I tell you the truth.’<br> +<br> +‘I won’t be cross. Go on. What did you do?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, Frank, since you insist - I kissed him back.’<br> +<br> +‘You - you kissed him back!’<br> +<br> +‘You’ll have Jemima up if you go on like that.’<br> +<br> +‘You kissed him back!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear; it may be wrong, but I did.’<br> +<br> +‘Good God! why did you do that?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I liked him.’<br> +<br> +‘A dark man?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, he was dark.’<br> +<br> +‘O Maude! Maude! Well, don’t stop. What +then?’<br> +<br> +‘Then he kissed me several times.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course he would, if you kissed him. What else could +you expect? And then?’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, I can’t.’<br> +<br> +‘Go on. I am ready for anything!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, do sit down, and don’t run about the room. +I am only agitating you.’<br> +<br> +‘There, I am sitting. You can see that I am not agitated. +For Heaven’s sake, go on!’<br> +<br> +‘He asked me if I would sit upon his knee.’<br> +<br> +‘Yek!’<br> +<br> +Maude began to laugh.<br> +<br> +‘Why, Frank, you are croaking like a frog.’<br> +<br> +‘I am glad you think it a laughing matter. Go on! +Go on! You yielded to his very moderate and natural request. +You sat upon his knee.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, Frank, I did.’<br> +<br> +‘Good heavens!’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t be so excitable, dear. It was long before I +ever saw you.’<br> +<br> +‘You mean to sit there and tell me in cold blood that you sat +upon this ruffian’s knee!’<br> +<br> +‘What else could I do?’<br> +<br> +‘What could you do? You could have screamed, you could have +rung the bell, you could have struck him - you could have risen in the +dignity of your insulted womanhood and walked out of the room.’<br> +<br> +‘It was not so easy for me to walk out of the room.’<br> +<br> +‘He held you?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, he held me.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, if I had been there!’<br> +<br> +‘And there was another reason.’<br> +<br> +‘What was that?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I wasn’t very good at walking at that time. +You see, I was only three years old.’<br> +<br> +Frank sat for a few minutes absorbing it.<br> +<br> +‘You little wretch!’ he said at last.<br> +<br> +‘Oh you dear old goose! I feel so much better.’<br> +<br> +‘You horror!’<br> +<br> +‘I had to get level with you over my forty predecessors. +You old Bluebeard! But I did harrow you a little - didn’t +I?’<br> +<br> +‘Harrow me! I’m raw all over. It’s a nightmare. +O Maude, how could you have the heart?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, it was lovely - beautiful!’<br> +<br> +‘It was dreadful.’<br> +<br> +‘And how jealous you were! Oh, I <i>am </i>so glad!’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think,’ said Frank, as he put his arms round +her, ‘that I ever quite realised before - ’<br> +<br> +And just then Jemima came in with the tray.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XI - CONCERNING MRS. BEETON<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Frank Crosse had only been married some months when he first had occasion +to suspect that his wife had some secret sorrow. There was a sadness +and depression about her at times, for which he was unable to account. +One Saturday afternoon he happened to come home earlier than he was +expected, and entering her bedroom suddenly, he found her seated in +the basket-chair in the window, with a large book upon her knees. +Her face, as she looked up at him with a mixed expression of joy and +of confusion, was stained by recent tears. She put the book hastily +down upon the dressing-stand.<br> +<br> +‘Maude, you’ve been crying.’<br> +<br> +‘No, Frank, no!’<br> +<br> +‘O Maude, you fibber! Remove those tears instantly.’ +He knelt down beside her and helped. ‘Better now?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dearest, I am quite happy.’<br> +<br> +‘Tears all gone?’<br> +<br> +‘Quite gone.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, explain!’<br> +<br> +‘I didn’t mean to tell you, Frank!’ She gave +the prettiest, most provocative little wriggles as her secret was drawn +from her. ‘I wanted to do it without your knowing. +I thought it would be a surprise for you. But I begin to understand +now that my ambition was much too high. I am not clever enough +for it. But it is disappointing all the same.’<br> +<br> +Frank took the bulky book off the table. It was Mrs. Beeton’s +<i>Book of Household Management</i>. The open page was headed, +‘General Observations on the Common Hog,’ and underneath +was a single large tear-drop. It had fallen upon a woodcut of +the Common Hog, in spite of which Frank solemnly kissed it, and turned +Maude’s trouble into laughter.<br> +<br> +‘Now you are all right again. I do hate to see you crying, +though you never look more pretty. But tell me, dear, what was +your ambition?’<br> +<br> +‘To know as much as any woman in England about housekeeping. +To know as much as Mrs. Beeton. I wanted to master every page +of it, from the first to the last.’<br> +<br> +‘There are 1641 of them,’ said Frank, turning them over.<br> +<br> +‘I know. I felt that I should be quite old before I had +finished. But the last part, you see, is all about wills, and +bequests, and homeopathy, and things of that kind. We could do +it later. It is the early part that I want to learn now - but +it <i>is </i>so hard.’<br> +<br> +‘But why do you wish to do it, Maude?’<br> +<br> +‘Because I want you to be as happy as Mr. Beeton.’<br> +<br> +‘I’ll bet I am.’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, you can’t be, Frank. It says somewhere here +that the happiness and comfort of the husband depend upon the housekeeping +of the wife. Mrs. Beeton must have been the finest housekeeper +in the world. Therefore, Mr. Beeton must have been the happiest +and most comfortable man. But why should Mr. Beeton be happier +and more comfortable than my Frank? From the hour I read that +I determined that he shouldn’t be - and he won’t be.’<br> +<br> +‘And he isn’t.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, you think so. But then you know nothing about it. +You think it right because I do it. But if you were visiting Mrs. +Beeton, you would soon see the difference.’<br> +<br> +‘What an awkward trick you have of always sitting in a window,’ +said Frank, after an interval. ‘I’ll swear that the +wise Mrs. Beeton never advocates that - with half a dozen other windows +within point-blank range.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, you shouldn’t do it.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, you shouldn’t be so nice.’<br> +<br> +‘You really still think that I am nice?’<br> +<br> +‘Fishing!’<br> +<br> +‘After all these months?’<br> +<br> +‘Nicer and nicer every day.’<br> +<br> +‘Not a bit tired?’<br> +<br> +‘You blessing! When I am tired of you, I shall be tired +of life.’<br> +<br> +‘How wonderful it all seems!’<br> +<br> +‘Does it not?’<br> +<br> +‘To think of that first day at the tennis-party. “I +hope you are not a very good player, Mr. Crosse!” - “No, +Miss Selby, but I shall be happy to make one in a set.” +That’s how we began. And now!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, it is wonderful.’<br> +<br> +‘And at dinner afterwards. “Do you like Irving’s +acting?” - “Yes, I think that he is a great genius.” +How formal and precise we were! And now I sit curling your hair +in a bedroom window.’<br> +<br> +‘It <i>does </i>seem funny. But I suppose, if you come to +think of it, something of the same kind must have happened to one or +two people before.’<br> +<br> +‘But never quite like us.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh no, never quite like us. But with a kind of family resemblance, +you know. Married people do usually end by knowing each other +a little better than on the first day they met.’<br> +<br> +‘What <i>did </i>you think of me, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘I’ve told you often.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, tell me again.’<br> +<br> +‘What’s the use when you know?’<br> +<br> +‘But I like to hear.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, it’s just spoiling you.’<br> +<br> +‘I love to be spoiled.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, I thought to myself - If I can only have that woman +for my own, I believe I will do something in life yet. And I also +thought - If I don’t get that woman for my own, I will never, +never be the same man again.’<br> +<br> +‘Really, Frank, the very first day you saw me?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, the very first day.’<br> +<br> +‘And then?’<br> +<br> +‘And then, day by day, and week by week, that feeling grew deeper +and stronger, until at last you swallowed up all my other hopes, and +ambitions, and interests. I hardly dare think, Maude, what would +have happened to me if you had refused me.’<br> +<br> +She laughed aloud with delight.<br> +<br> +‘How sweet it is to hear you say so! And the wonderful thing +is that you have never seemed disappointed. I always expected +that some day after marriage - not immediately, perhaps, but at the +end of a week or so - you would suddenly give a start, like those poor +people who are hypnotised, and you would say, “Why, I used to +think that she was pretty! I used to think that she was sweet! +How could I be so infatuated over a little, insignificant, ignorant, +selfish, uninteresting - ” O Frank, the neighbours will +see you?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, you mustn’t provoke me.’<br> +<br> +‘What <i>will </i>Mrs. Potter think?’<br> +<br> +‘You should pull down the blinds before you make speeches of that +sort.’<br> +<br> +‘Now do sit quiet and be a good boy.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, tell me what you thought.’<br> +<br> +‘I thought you were a very good tennis-player.’<br> +<br> +‘Anything else?’<br> +<br> +‘And you talked nicely.’<br> +<br> +‘Did I? I never felt such a stick in my life. I was +as nervous as a cat.’<br> +<br> +‘That was so delightful. I do hate people who are very cool +and assured. I saw that you were disturbed, and I even thought +- ’<br> +<br> +‘Yes?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I thought that perhaps it was I who disturbed you.’<br> +<br> +‘And you liked me?’<br> +<br> +‘I was very interested in you.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, that is the blessed miracle which I can never get over. +You, with your beauty, and your grace, and your rich father, and every +young man at your feet, and I, a fellow with neither good looks, nor +learning, nor prospects, nor - ’<br> +<br> +‘Be quiet, sir! Yes, you shall! Now?’<br> +<br> +‘By Jove, there <i>is </i>old Mrs. Potter at the window! +We’ve done it this time. Let us get back to serious conversation +again.’<br> +<br> +‘How did we leave it?’<br> +<br> +‘It was that hog, I believe. And then Mr. Beeton. +But where does the hog come in? Why should you weep over him? +And what are the Lady’s Observations on the Common Hog?’<br> +<br> +‘Read them for yourself.’<br> +<br> +Frank read out aloud: ‘“The hog belongs to the order Mammalia, +the genus <i>sus scrofa, </i>and the species <i>pachydermata, </i>or +thick-skinned. Its generic characters are a long, flexible snout, +forty-two teeth, cloven feet, furnished with four toes, and a tail, +which is small, short, and twisted, while, in some varieties, this appendage +is altogether wanting.” - But what on earth has all this +to do with housekeeping?’<br> +<br> +‘That’s what <i>I </i>want to know. It is so disheartening +to have to remember such things. What does it matter if the hog +<i>has </i>forty-two toes. And yet, if Mrs. Beeton knew it, one +feels that one ought to know it also. If once I began to skip, +there would be no end to it. But it really is such a splendid +book in other ways. It doesn’t matter what you want, you +will find it here. Take the index anywhere. Cream. +If you want cream, it’s all there. Croup. If you want +- I mean, if you don’t want croup, it will teach you how not to +get it. Crumpets - all about them. Crullers - I’m +sure you don’t know what a cruller is, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘No, I don’t.’<br> +<br> +‘Neither do I. But I could look it up and learn. Here +it is - paragraph 2847. It is a sort of pancake, you see. +That’s how you learn things.’<br> +<br> +Frank Crosse took the book and dropped it. It fell with a sulky +thud upon the floor.<br> +<br> +‘Nothing that it can teach you, dear, can ever make up to me if +it makes you cry, and bothers you. - You bloated, pedantic thing!’ +he cried, in sudden fury, aiming a kick at the squat volume. ‘It +is to you I owe all those sad, tired looks which I have seen upon my +wife’s face. I know my enemy now. You pompous, fussy +old humbug, I’ll kick the red cover off you!’<br> +<br> +But Maude snatched it up, and gathered it to her bosom. ‘No, +no, Frank, I don’t know what I should do without it. You +have no idea what a wise old book it is. Now, sit there on the +footstool at my feet, and I will read to you.’<br> +<br> +‘Do, dear; it’s delightful.’<br> +<br> +‘Sit quiet, then, and be good. Now listen to this pearl +of wisdom: “As with the commander of an army, so it is with the +mistress of a house. Her spirit will be seen through the whole +establishment, and, just in proportion as she performs her duties thoroughly, +so will her domestics follow in her path.”’<br> +<br> +‘From which it follows,’ said her husband, ‘that Jemima +must be a perfect paragon.’<br> +<br> +‘On the contrary, it explains all Jemima’s shortcomings. +Listen to this: “Early rising is one of the most essential qualities. +When a mistress is an early riser, it is almost certain that her house +will be orderly and well managed.”’<br> +<br> +‘Well, you are down at nine - what more do you want?’<br> +<br> +‘At nine! I am sure that Mrs. Beeton was always up at six.’<br> +<br> +‘I have my doubts about Mrs. B. Methinks the lady doth protest +too much. I should not be very much surprised to learn that she +had breakfast in bed every morning.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank! You have no reverence for anything.’<br> +<br> +‘Let us have some more wisdom.’<br> +<br> +‘“Frugality and Economy are home virtues without which no +household can prosper. Dr. Johnson says, ‘Frugality may +be termed - ’”<br> +<br> +‘Oh, bother Dr. Johnson! Who cares for a man’s opinion. +Now, if it had been Mrs. Johnson - !’<br> +<br> +‘Johnson kept house for himself for years - and a queer job he +made of it.’<br> +<br> +‘So I should think.’ Maude tossed her pretty curls. +‘Mrs. Beeton is all right, but I will not be lectured by Dr. Johnson. +Where was I? Oh yes - “‘We must always remember that +to manage a little well, is a great merit in housekeeping.”’<br> +<br> +‘Hurrah! Down with the second vegetable! No pudding +on fish days. <i>Vive la bière de Pilsen</i>!’<br> +<br> +‘What a noisy boy you are!’<br> +<br> +‘This book excites me. Anything more?’<br> +<br> +“Friendships should not be hastily formed, nor the heart given +at once to every newcomer - ”’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I should hope not! Don’t let me catch you at +it! You don’t mind my cigarette? Has Mrs. Beeton a +paragraph about smoking in bedrooms?’<br> +<br> +‘Such an enormity never occurred to her as a remote possibility. +If she had known you, dear, she would have had to write an appendix +to her book to meet all the new problems which you would suggest. +Shall I go on?’<br> +<br> +‘Please do!’<br> +<br> +‘She next treats conversation. “In conversation, trifling +occurrences such as small disappointments, petty annoyances, and other +everyday incidents, should never be mentioned to friends. If the +mistress be a wife, never let a word in connection with her husband’s +failings pass her lips - ”’<br> +<br> +‘By Jove, this book has more wisdom to the square inch than any +work of man,’ cried Frank, in enthusiasm.<br> +<br> +‘I thought that would please you. “Good temper should +be cultivated by every mistress, as upon it the welfare of the household +may be said to turn.”’<br> +<br> +‘Excellent!’<br> +<br> +‘“In starting a household, it is always best in the long-run +to get the very best articles of their kind.”’<br> +<br> +‘That is why I got you, Maude.’<br> +<br> +‘Thank you, sir. We have a dissertation then upon dress +and fashion, another upon engaging domestics, another about daily duties, +another about visiting, another about fresh air and exercise - ’<br> +<br> +‘The most essential of any,’ cried Frank, jumping up, and +pulling his wife by the arms out of her low wicker-chair. ‘There +is just time for nine holes at golf before it is dark, if you wilt come +exactly as you are. But listen to this, young lady. If ever +again I see you fretting or troubling yourself about your household +affairs - ’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, Frank, I won’t!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, if you do, Mrs. Beeton goes into the kitchen-fire. +Now remember?’<br> +<br> +‘You are sure you don’t envy Mr. Beeton?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t envy a man upon earth.’<br> +<br> +‘Then why should I try to be Mrs. Beeton?’<br> +<br> +‘Why indeed?’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, what a load off my mind! Those sixteen hundred +pages have just lain upon it for months. Dear old boy! come on!’<br> +<br> +And they clattered downstairs for their golf-clubs.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XII - MR. SAMUEL PEPYS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +There were few things which Maude liked so much as a long winter evening +when Frank and she dined together, and then sat beside the fire and +made good cheer. It would be an exaggeration to say that she preferred +it to a dance, but next to that supreme joy, and higher even than the +theatre in her scale of pleasures, were those serene and intimate evenings +when they talked at their will, and were silent at their will, within +their home brightened by those little jokes and endearments and allusions +which make up that inner domestic masonry which is close-tiled for ever +to the outsider. Five or six evenings a week, she with her sewing +and Frank with his book, settled down to such enjoyment as men go to +the ends of the earth to seek, while it awaits them, if they will but +atune their souls to sympathy, beside their own hearthstones. +Now and again their sweet calm would be broken by a ring at the bell, +when some friend of Frank’s would come round to pay them an evening +visit. At the sound Maude would say ‘bother,’ and +Frank something shorter and stronger, but, as the intruder appeared, +they would both break into, ‘Well, really now it <i>was </i>good +of you to drop in upon us in this homely way.’ Without such +hypocrisy, the world would be a hard place to live in.<br> +<br> +I may have mentioned somewhere that Frank had a catholic taste in literature. +Upon a shelf in their bedroom - a relic of his bachelor days - there +stood a small line of his intimate books, the books which filled all +the chinks of his life when no new books were forthcoming. They +were all volumes which he had read in his youth, and many times since, +until they had become the very tie-beams of his mind. His tastes +were healthy and obvious without being fine. Macaulay’s +<i>Essays, </i>Holmes’ <i>Autocrat, </i>Gibbons’ <i>History, +</i>Jefferies’ <i>Story of my Heart, </i>Carlyle’s Life, +Pepys’ <i>Diary, </i>and Borrow’s <i>Lavengro </i>were among +his inner circle of literary friends. The sturdy East Anglian, +half prize-fighter, half missionary, was a particular favourite of his, +and so was the garrulous Secretary of the Navy. One day it struck +him that it would be a pleasant thing to induce his wife to share his +enthusiasms, and he suggested that the evenings should be spent in reading +selections from these old friends of his. Maude was delighted. +If he had proposed to read the rig-vedas in the original Sanskrit, Maude +would have listened with a smiling face. It is in such trifles +that a woman’s love is more than a man’s.<br> +<br> +That night Frank came downstairs with a thick well-thumbed volume in +his hand.<br> +<br> +‘This is Mr. Pepys,’ said he solemnly.<br> +<br> +‘What a funny name!’ cried Maude. ‘It makes +me think of indigestion. Why? Oh yes, pepsine, of course.’<br> +<br> +‘We shall take a dose of him every night after dinner to complete +the resemblance. But seriously, dear, I think that now that we +have taken up a course of reading, we should try to approach it in a +grave spirit, and endeavour to realise - Oh, I say, don’t!’<br> +<br> +‘I <i>am </i>so sorry, dear! I do hope I didn’t hurt, +you!’<br> +<br> +‘You did - considerably.’<br> +<br> +‘It all came from my having the needle in my hand at the time +- and you looked so solemn - and - well, I couldn’t help it.’<br> +<br> +‘Little wretch - !’<br> +<br> +‘No, dear; Jemima may come in any moment with the coffee. +Now, do sit down and read about Mr Pepys to me. And first of all, +would you mind explaining all about the gentleman, from the beginning, +and taking nothing for granted, just as if I had never heard of him +before.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t believe - ’<br> +<br> +‘Never mind, sir! Be a good boy and do exactly what you +are told. Now begin!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, Maude, Mr. Pepys was born - ’<br> +<br> +‘What was his first name?’<br> +<br> +‘Samuel.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh dear, I’m sure I should not have liked him.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, it’s too late to change that. He was born - +I could see by looking, but it really doesn’t matter, does it? +He was born somewhere in sixteen hundred and something or other, and +I forget what his father was.’<br> +<br> +‘I must try to remember what you tell me.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, it all amounts to this, that he got on very well in the +world, that he became at last a high official of the navy in the time +of Charles the Second, and that he died in fairly good circumstances, +and left his library, which was a fine one, to one of the universities, +I can’t remember which.’<br> +<br> +‘There is an accuracy about your information, Frank - ’<br> +<br> +‘I know, dear, but it really does not matter. All this has +nothing to do with the main question.’<br> +<br> +‘Go on, then!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, this library was left as a kind of dust-catcher, as such +libraries are, until one day, more than a hundred years after the old +boy’s death, some enterprising person seems to have examined his +books, and he found a number of volumes of writing which were all in +cipher, so that no one could make head or tail of them.’<br> +<br> +‘Dear me, how very interesting!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, it naturally excited curiosity. Why should a man write +volumes of cipher? Imagine the labour of it! So some one +set to work to solve the cipher. This was about the year 1820. +After three years they succeeded.’<br> +<br> +‘How in the world did they do it?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, they say that human ingenuity never yet invented a cipher +which human ingenuity could not also solve. Anyhow, they did succeed. +And when they had done so, and copied it all out clean, they found they +had got hold of such a book as was never heard of before in the whole +history of literature.’<br> +<br> +Maude laid her sewing on her lap, and looked across with her lips parted +and her eyebrows raised.<br> +<br> +‘They found that it was an inner Diary of the life of this man, +with all his impressions, and all his doings, and all his thoughts - +not his ought-to-be thoughts, but his real, real thoughts, just as he +thought then at the back of his soul. You see this man, and you +know him very much better than his own wife knew him. It is not +only that he tells of his daily doings, and gives us such an intimate +picture of life in those days, as could by no other means have been +conveyed, but it is as a piece of psychology that the thing is so valuable. +Remember the dignity of the man, a high government official, an orator, +a writer, a patron of learning, and here you have the other side, the +little thoughts, the mean ideas which may lurk under a bewigged head, +and behind a solemn countenance. Not that he is worse than any +of us. Not a bit. But he is frank. And that is why +the book is really a consoling one, for every sinner who reads it can +say to himself, “Well, if this man who did so well, and was so +esteemed, felt like this, it is no very great wonder that I do.”’<br> +<br> +Maude looked at the fat brown book with curiosity. ‘Is it +really all there?’ she asked.<br> +<br> +‘No, dear, it will never all be published. A good deal of +it is, I believe, quite impossible. And when he came to the impossible +places, he doubled and trebled his cipher, so as to make sure that it +should never be made out. But all that is usually published is +here.’ Frank turned over the leaves, which were marked here +and there with pencilings.<br> +<br> +‘Why are you smiling, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘Only at his way of referring to his wife.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, he was married?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, to a very charming girl. She must have been a sweet +creature. He married her at fifteen on account of her beauty. +He had a keen eye for beauty had old Pepys.’<br> +<br> +‘Were they happy?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, fairly so. She was only twenty-nine when she died!’<br> +<br> +‘Poor girl!’<br> +<br> +‘She was happy in her life - though he <i>did </i>blacken her +eye once.’<br> +<br> +‘Not really?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, he did. And kicked the housemaid.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, the brute!’<br> +<br> +‘But on the whole he was a good husband. He had a few very +good points about him.’<br> +<br> +‘But how does he allude to his wife?’<br> +<br> +‘He has a trick of saying, “my wife, poor wretch!”’<br> +<br> +‘Impertinent! Frank, you said to-night that other men think +what this odious Mr. Pepys says. Yes, you did! Don’t +deny it! Does that mean that you always think of me as “poor +wretch”?’<br> +<br> +‘We have come along a little since then. But how these passages +take you back to the homely life of those days!’<br> +<br> +‘Do read some.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, listen to this, “And then to bed without prayers, +to-morrow being washing-day.” Fancy such a detail coming +down to us through two centuries.’<br> +<br> +‘Why no prayers?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know. I suppose they had to get up early +on washing-days, and so they wanted to go to sleep soon.’<br> +<br> +‘I’m afraid, dear, you do the same without as good an excuse. +Read another!’<br> +<br> +‘He goes to dine with some one - his uncle, I think. He +says, “An excellent dinner, but the venison pasty was palpable +beef, which was not handsome.”’<br> +<br> +‘How beautiful! Mrs. Hunt Mortimer’s sole last week +was palpable plaice. Mr. Pepys is right. It was not handsome.’<br> +<br> +‘Here’s another grand entry: “Talked with my wife +of the poorness and meanness of all that the people about us do, compared +with what we do.” I dare say he was right, for they did +things very well. When he dined out, he says that his host gave +him “the meanest dinner of beef, shoulder and umbles of venison, +and a few pigeons, and all in the meanest manner that ever I did see, +to the basest degree.”<br> +<br> +‘What are umbles, dear?’<br> +<br> +‘I have no idea.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, whatever they are, it sounds to me a very good dinner. +People must have lived very well in those days.’<br> +<br> +‘They habitually over-ate and over-drank themselves. But +Pepys gives us the menu of one of his own entertainments. I’ve +marked it somewhere. Yes, here it is. “Fricassee of +rabbits and chickens, a leg of mutton boiled, three carps in a dish, +a great dish of a side of lamb, a dish of roasted pigeons, a dish of +four lobsters, three tarts, a lamprey pie (a most rare pie!), a dish +of anchovies, good wine of several sorts, and all things mighty noble +and to my great content.”’<br> +<br> +‘Good gracious! I told you that I associated him with indigestion.’<br> +<br> +‘He did them pretty well that time.’<br> +<br> +‘Who cooked all this?’<br> +<br> +‘The wife helped in those days.’<br> +<br> +‘No wonder she died at twenty-nine. Poor dear! What +a splendid kitchen-range they must have had! I never understood +before why they had such enormous grates in the old days. Naturally, +if you have six pigeons, and a lamprey, and a lobster, and a side of +lamb, and a leg of mutton, and all these other things cooking at the +same time, you would need a huge fire.’<br> +<br> +‘The wonderful thing about Pepys,’ said Frank, looking thoughtfully +over the pages, ‘is that he is capable of noting down the mean +little impulses of human nature, which most men would be so ashamed +of, that they would hasten to put them out of their mind. His +occasional shabbiness in money matters, his jealousies, his envies, +all his petty faults, which are despicable on account of their pettiness. +Fancy any man writing this. He is describing how he visited a +friend and was reading a book from his library. “A very +good book,” says he, “especially one letter of advice to +a courtier, most true and good, which made me once resolve to tear out +the two leaves that it was writ in, but I forbore it.” Imagine +recording such a vile thought.’<br> +<br> +‘But what you have never explained to me yet, dear, or if you +did, I didn’t understand - you don’t mind my being a little +stupid, do you? - is, what object Mr. Pepys had in putting down all +this in such a form that no one could read it.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, you must bear in mind, dear, that he could read it himself. +Besides he was a fellow with a singularly methodical side to his mind. +He was, for example, continually adding up how much money he had, or +cataloguing and indexing his library, and so on. He liked to have +everything shipshape. And so with his life, it pleased him to +have an exact record which he could turn to. And yet, after all, +I don’t know that that is a sufficient explanation.’<br> +<br> +‘No, indeed, it is not. My experience of man - ’<br> +<br> +‘<i>Your </i>experience, indeed!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, sir, my experience of men - how rude you are, Frank! - tells +me that they have funny little tricks and vanities which take the queerest +shapes.’<br> +<br> +‘Indeed! Have I any?’<br> +<br> +‘You - you are compounded of them. Not vanity - no, I don’t +mean that. But pride - you are as proud as Lucifer, and much too +proud to show it. That is the most subtle form of pride. +Oh yes, I know perfectly well what I mean. But in this man’s +case, it took the form of wishing to make a sensation after his death. +He could not publish such a thing when he lived, could he?’<br> +<br> +‘Rather not.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, he had to do it after his death. He had to +write it in cipher, or else some one would have found him out during +his lifetime. But, very likely, he left a key to the cipher, so +that every one might read it when he was gone, but the key and his directions +were in some way lost.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, it is very probable.’<br> +<br> +The fire had died down, so Maude shipped off her chair, and sat on the +black fur rug, with her back against Frank’s knees. ‘Now, +dear, read away!’ said she.<br> +<br> +But the lamp shone down upon her dainty head, and it gleamed upon her +white neck, and upon the fluffy, capricious, untidy, adorable, little +curlets, which broke out along the edges of the gathered strands of +her chestnut hair. And so, after the fashion of men, his thoughts +flew away from Mr. Pepys and the seventeenth century, and all that is +lofty and instructive, and could fix upon nothing except those dear +little wandering tendrils, and the white column on which they twined. +Alas, that so small a thing can bring the human mind from its empyrean +flights! Alas, that vague emotions can drag down the sovereign +intellect! Alas, that even for an hour, a man should prefer the +material to the spiritual!<br> +<br> +But the man who doesn’t misses a good deal.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XIII - A VISIT TO MR. SAMUEL PEPYS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +There are several unjustifiable extravagances which every normal man +commits. There are also several unjustifiable economies. +Among others, there is that absurd eagerness to save the striking of +a second match, which occasions so many burned fingers, and such picturesque +language. And again, there is the desire to compress a telegraphic +message into the minimum sixpennyworth, and so send an ambiguous and +cryptic sentence, when sevenpence would have made it as clear as light. +We all tend to be stylists in our telegrams.<br> +<br> +A week after the conversation about Mr. Pepys, when some progress had +been made with the reading of the <i>Diary</i>, Maude received the following +wire from Frank -<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Mrs. Crosse. Woking. - Pepys buttered toast suède +gloves four Monument wait late.’<br> +<br> +As a sixpennyworth it was a success, but as a message it seemed to leave +something to be desired. Maude puzzled over it, and tried every +possible combination of the words. The nearest approach to sense +was when it was divided in this way - Pepys - buttered toast - suède +gloves - four - Monument, wait late.<br> +<br> +She wrote it out in this form, and took it section by section. +‘Pepys,’ that was unintelligible. ‘Buttered +toast,’ no sense in that. ‘Suède gloves,’ +yes, she had told Frank that when she came to town, she would buy some +suède gloves at a certain shop in the City, where she could get +for three and threepence a pair which would cost her three and ninepence +in Woking. Maude was so conscientiously economical, that she was +always prepared to spend two shillings in railway fares to reach a spot +where a sixpence was to be saved, and to lavish her nerve and energy +freely in the venture. Here, then, in the suède gloves, +was a central point of light. And then her heart bounded with +joy, as she realised that the last part could only mean that she was +to meet Frank at the Monument at four, and that she was to wait for +him if he were late.<br> +<br> +So, now, returning to the opening of the message, with the light which +shone from the ending, she realised that buttered toast might refer +to a queer little City hostel, remarkable for that luxury, where Frank +had already taken her twice to tea. And so leaving Mr. Pepys to +explain himself later, Maude gave hurried orders to Jemima and the cook, +and dashed upstairs to put on her new fawn-coloured walking-dress - +a garment which filled her with an extraordinary mixture of delight +and remorse, for it was very smart, cost seven guineas, and had not +yet been paid for.<br> +<br> +The rendezvous was evidently a sudden thought upon the part of Frank, +for he had left very little time for her to reach the trysting-place. +However, she was fortunate in catching a train to Waterloo, and another +thence to the City, and so reached the Monument at five minutes to four. +The hour was just striking when Frank, with his well-brushed top-hat +and immaculate business frock-coat, came rushing from the direction +of King William Street. Maude held out her hand and he shook it, +and then they both laughed at the formality.<br> +<br> +‘I am so glad you were able to come, dearest. How you do +brighten up the old City!’<br> +<br> +‘Do I? I felt quite lonely until you came. Nothing +but droves of men - and all staring.’<br> +<br> +‘It’s your dress.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, thank you, sir!’<br> +<br> +‘Entirely that pretty brown - ’<br> +<br> +‘Brown! Fawn colour.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, that’s brown. Anyhow, it looks charming. +And so do you - by Jove you do, Maude! Come this way!’<br> +<br> +‘Where are we going?’<br> +<br> +‘By underground. Here we are. - Two second singles, Mark +Lane, please! - No, that’s for the west-end trains. Down +here! Next train, the man says.’<br> +<br> +They were in the mephitic cellar, with the two long wooden platforms +where the subterranean trains land or load their freights. A strangling +gas tickled their throats and set them coughing. It was all dank +and dark and gloomy. But little youth and love care for that! +They were bubbling over with the happiness of this abnormal meeting. +Both talked together in their delight, and Maude patted Frank’s +sleeve with every remark. They could even illuminate all that +was around them, by the beauty and brightness of their own love. +It went the length of open praise for their abominable surroundings.<br> +<br> +‘Isn’t it grand and solemn?’ said Maude. ‘Look +at the black shadows.’<br> +<br> +‘When they come to excavate all this some thousands of years hence, +they will think it was constructed by a race of giants,’ Frank +answered.<br> +<br> +‘The modern works for the benefit of the community are really +far greater than those which sprang from the caprice of kings. +The London and North-Western Railway is an infinitely grander thing +than the pyramids. Look at the two headlights in the dark!’<br> +<br> +Two sullen crimson discs glowed in the black arch of the tunnel. +With a menacing and sinister speed, they grew and grew until roaring +they sprang out of the darkness, and the long, dingy train, with a whining +of brakes, drew up at the platform.<br> +<br> +‘Here’s one nearly empty,’ said Frank, with his hand +on the handle.<br> +<br> +‘Don’t you think - ’ said Maude.<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I do,’ cried Frank.<br> +<br> +And they got into one which was quite empty. For the underground +railway is blessed as regards privacy above all other lines, and where +could a loving couple be more happy, who have been torn apart by cruel +fate for seven long hours or so? It was with a groan that Frank +remarked that they had reached Mark Lane.<br> +<br> +‘Bother!’ said Maude, and wondered if there were any shop +near where she could buy hairpins. As every lady knows, or will +know, there is a very intimate connection between hairpins and a loving +husband.<br> +<br> +‘Now, Frank, about your telegram.’<br> +<br> +‘All right, dear. Come along where I lead you, and you will +understand all about it.’<br> +<br> +They passed out of Mark Lane Station and down a steep and narrow street +to the right. At the bottom lay an old smoke-stained church with +a square tower, and a small open churchyard beside it.<br> +<br> +‘That’s the church of Saint Olave,’ said Frank. +‘We are going into it.’<br> +<br> +He pushed open a folding oaken door, and they found themselves inside +it. Rows of modern seats filled the body of it, but the walls +and windows gave an impression of great antiquity. The stained +glass - especially that which surmounted the altar - contained those +rich satisfying purples and deep deep crimsons which only go with age. +It was a bright and yet a mellow light, falling in patches of vivid +colour upon the brown woodwork and the grey floors. Here and there +upon the walls were marble inscriptions in the Latin tongue, with pompous +allegorical figures with trumpets, for our ancestors blew them in stone +as well as in epitaphs over their tombs. They loved to die, as +they had lived, with dignity and with affectation. White statues +glimmered in the shadows of the corners. As Frank and his wife +passed down the side-aisle, their steps clanged through the empty and +silent church.<br> +<br> +‘Here he is!’ said Frank, and faced to the wall.<br> +<br> +He was looking up at the modern representation of a gentleman in a full +and curly wig. It was a well-rounded and comely face, with shrewd +eyes and a sensitive mouth. The face of a man of affairs, and +a good fellow, with just that saving touch of sensuality about it which +makes an expression human and lovable. Underneath was printed +-<br> +<br> +<br> +SAMUEL PEPYS<br> +Erected by public subscription<br> +1883.<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Oh, isn’t he nice?’ said Maude.<br> +<br> +‘He’s not a bad-looking chap, is he?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t believe that man ever could have struck his wife +or kicked the maid.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s calling him a liar.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh dear, I forgot that he said so himself. Then I suppose +he must have done it. What a pity it seems.’<br> +<br> +‘Cheer up! We must say what the old heathen lady said when +they read the gospels to her.’<br> +<br> +‘What did she say?’<br> +<br> +‘She said, “Well, it was a long time ago, and we’ll +hope that it wasn’t true!”’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, how can you tell such stories in a church. Do +you really suppose that Mr. Pepys is in that wall?’<br> +<br> +‘I presume that the monument marks the grave.’<br> +<br> +‘There’s a little bit of plaster loose. Do you think +I might take it?’<br> +<br> +‘It isn’t quite the thing.’<br> +<br> +‘But it can’t matter, and it isn’t wrong, and we are +quite alone.’ She picked off the little flake of plaster, +and her heart sprang into her mouth as she did so, for there came an +indignant snort from her very elbow, and there was a queer little smoke-dried, +black-dressed person who seemed to have risen, like the Eastern genii +or a modern genius, in a single instant. A pair of black list +slippers explained the silence of his approach.<br> +<br> +‘Put that back, young lady,’ said he severely.<br> +<br> +Poor Maude held out her guilty relic on the palm of her hand. +‘I am so sorry,’ said she. ‘I am afraid I cannot +put it back.’<br> +<br> +‘We’ll ’ave the ’ole church picked to pieces +at this rate,’ said the clerk. ‘You shouldn’t +’ave done it, and it was very wrong.’ He snorted and +shook his head.<br> +<br> +‘It’s of no consequence,’ said Frank. ‘The +plaster was hanging, and must have fallen in any case. Don’t +make a fuss about a trifle.’<br> +<br> +The clerk looked at the young gentleman and saw defiance in one of his +eyes and half a crown in the other.<br> +<br> +‘Well, well!’ he grumbled. ‘It shows as the +young lady takes an interest, and that’s more than most. +Why, sir, if you’ll believe me, there’s not one in a hundred +that comes to this church that ever ’eard of Pepys. “Pepys!” +says they. “’Oo’s Pepys?” “The +Diarist,” says I. “Diarist!” says they, “wot’s +a Diarist?” I could sit down sometimes an’ cry. +But maybe, miss, you thought as you were picking that plaster off ’is +grave?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I thought so.’<br> +<br> +The clerk chuckled.<br> +<br> +‘Well, it ain’t so. I’ll tell you where ’e +really lies, if you’ll promise you won’t pick another chunk +off that. Well, then, it’s there - beside the communion. +I saw ’im lyin’ there with these very eyes, and ’is +wife in the coffin beneath ’im.’<br> +<br> +‘You saw him?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, sir, I saw ’im, an’ that’s more than any +livin’ man could say, for there were only four of us, and the +other three are as dead as Pepys by now.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh do tell us about it!’ cried Maude.<br> +<br> +‘Well, it was like this, miss. We ’ad to examine to +see ’ow much room there was down there, and so we came upon them.’<br> +<br> +‘And what did you see?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, miss, ’is coffin lay above, and ’is wife’s +below, as might be expected, seeing that she died thirty years or so +before ’im. The coffins was very much broken, an’ +we could see ’im as clear us I can see you. When we first +looked in I saw ’im lying quite plain - a short thick figure of +a man - with ’is ’ands across ’is chest. And +then, just as we looked at ’im, ’e crumbled in, as you might +say, across ’is breast bone, an’ just quietly settled down +into a ’uddle of dust. It’s a way they ’as when +the fresh air strikes ’em. An’ she the same, an’ +‘is dust just fell through the chinks o’ the wood and mixed +itself with ’ers.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank!’ Maude’s ready tears sprang to her +eyes. She put her hand upon her husband’s and was surprised +to find how cold it was. Women never realise that the male sex +is the more sensitive. He had not said, ‘O Maude!’ +because he could not.<br> +<br> +‘They used some powder like pepper for embalmin’ in those +days,’ said the clerk. ‘And the vicar - it was in +old Bellamy’s time - ’e took a sniff into the grave, an’ +’e sneezed an’ sneezed till we thought we should ’ave +to fetch a doctor. ’Ave you seen Mrs. Pepys’ tomb?’<br> +<br> +‘No, we have only just come.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s it on the left of the common.’<br> +<br> +‘With the woman leaning forward?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, sir. That’s Mrs. Pepys herself.’<br> +<br> +It was an arch laughing face, the face of a quite young woman; the sculptor +had depicted her as leaning forward in an animated and natural attitude. +Below was engraved -<br> +<br> +<br> +Obiit<br> +Xo Novembris<br> +Ætatis 29<br> +Conjugii 15<br> +Anno Domini 1669.<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Poor dear!’ whispered Maude.<br> +<br> +‘It was hard that she should die just as her husband was becoming +famous and successful,’ said Frank. ‘She who had washed +his shirts, and made up the coal fires, when they lived in a garret +together. What a pity that she could not have a good time!’<br> +<br> +‘Ah well, if she loved him, dear, she had a good time in the garret.’<br> +<br> +Maude was leaning forward with her face raised to look at the bust of +the dead woman, which also leaned forward as if to look down upon her. +A pair of marble skulls flanked the lady’s grave. A red +glow from the evening sun struck through a side-window and bathed the +whole group in its ruddy light. As Frank, standing back in the +shadow, ran his eyes from the face of the dead young wife to that of +his own sweet, girlish bride, with those sinister skulls between, there +came over him like a wave, a realisation of the horror which lies in +things, the grim close of the passing pageant, the black gloom, which +swallows up the never-ending stream of life. Will the spirit wear +better than the body; and if not, what infernal practical joke is this +to which we are subjected!<br> +<br> +‘It will. It must,’ he said.<br> +<br> +‘<i>Why</i>, Frank - Frank dear, what is the matter? You +are quite pale.’<br> +<br> +‘Come out into the air, Maude. I have had enough of this +stuffy old church.’<br> +<br> +‘Stuffy!’ said the clerk. ‘Well, we’ve +’ad the Lord Mayor ’ere at least once a year, an’ +’e never found it stuffy. A cleaner, fresher church you +won’t find in the city of London. It’s ’ad its +day, I’ll allow. There was a time - and I can remember it +- when folk used to spend their money where they made it, and the plate +would be full of paper and gold, where now we find it ’ard enough +to get coppers. That was fifty year ago, when I was a young clerk. +You might not think it, but I’ve seen a Lord Mayor, a past Lord +Mayor, and a Lord Mayor elect of the city of London, all sitting on +one bench in this very church. And <i>you</i> call it stuffy!’<br> +<br> +Frank soothed the wounded feelings of the old clerk, and explained that +by stuffy he meant interesting. He also shook hands with him in +a peculiar way as he held his palm upturned in the small of his back. +Then Maude and he retraced their steps up the narrow street which is +called Seething Lane.<br> +<br> +‘Poor old boy! What was it, then?’ asked Maude, looking +up with her sympathetic eyes. It is at such moments that a man +realises what the companionship of women means. The clouds melted +before the sun.<br> +<br> +‘What an ass I was! I began to think of all sorts of horrible +things. Never mind, Maude! We are out for a holiday. +Hang the future! Let us live in the present.’<br> +<br> +‘I always do,’ said Maude, and she spoke for her sex.<br> +<br> +‘Well, what now? Buttered toast or suède gloves?’<br> +<br> +‘Business first!’ said Maude primly, and so proceeded to +save her sixpence on the gloves. As she was tempted, however (‘such +a civil obliging shopman, Frank!’), to buy four yards of so-called +Astrakhan trimming, a frill of torchon lace, six dear little festooned +handkerchiefs, and four pairs of open-work stockings - none of which +were contemplated when she entered the shop - her sixpenny saving was +not as brilliant a piece of finance as she imagined.<br> +<br> +And then they finished their excursion in the dark, wainscotted, low-ceilinged +coffee-room of an old-fashioned inn, once the mother of many coaches, +and now barren and deserted, but with a strange cunning in the matter +of buttered toast which had come down from more prosperous days. +It was a new waiter who served them, and he imagined them to be lovers +and scented an intrigue; but when they called for a second plate of +toast and a jug of boiling water, he recognised the healthy appetite +of the married. And then, instead of going home like a good little +couple, Maude suddenly got it into her head that it would cheer away +the last traces of Frank’s gloom if they went to see ‘Charley’s +Aunt’ at the Globe. So they loitered and shopped for a couple +of hours, and then squeezed into the back of the pit; and wedged in +among honest, hearty folk who were not ashamed to show their emotions, +they laughed until they were tired. And so home, as their friend +Pepys would have said, after such a day as comes into the memory, shining +golden among the drab, when old folk look back, and think of the dear +dead past. May you and I, reader, if ever we also come to sit +in our final armchairs in the chimney corners, have many such to which +our minds may turn, sweet and innocent and fragrant, to cheer us in +those darksome hours to come.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XIV - TROUBLE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +One evening Frank came home with a clouded face. His wife said +nothing, but after dinner she sat on a footstool beside his chair and +waited. She knew that if it were for the best, he would tell her +everything, and she had confidence enough in his judgment to acquiesce +in his silence if he thought it best to be silent. As a matter +of fact, it was just this telling her which made his trouble hard to +bear. And yet he thought it wiser to tell.<br> +<br> +‘I’ve had something to worry me, dear.’<br> +<br> +‘Poor old boy, I know you have. What was it?’<br> +<br> +‘Why should I bother you with it?’<br> +<br> +‘A nice wife I should be, if I shared all your joys and none of +your sorrows! Anyhow, I had rather share sorrow with you than +joy within any one else.’ She snuggled her head up against +his knee. ‘Tell me about it, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘You remember my telling you just before our marriage that I was +surety for a man?’<br> +<br> +‘I remember perfectly well.’<br> +<br> +‘His name was Farintosh. He was an insurance-agent, and +I became surety for him in order to save his situation.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, it was so noble of you.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, Maude, he was on the platform this morning, and when he +saw me, he turned on his heel and hurried out of the station. +I read guilt in his eyes. I am sure that his accounts are wrong +again.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, what an ungrateful wretch!’<br> +<br> +‘Poor devil, I dare say he has had a bad time. But I was +a fool not to draw out of that. It was all very well when I was +a bachelor. But here I am as a married man faced with an indefinite +liability and nothing to meet it with. I don’t know what +is to become of us, Maude.’<br> +<br> +‘How much is it, dearest?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know. That is the worst of it.’<br> +<br> +‘But surely your own office would not be so hard upon you?’<br> +<br> +‘It is not my own office. It is another office - the Hotspur.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh dear! What have you done about it, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘I called at their office in my lunch-hour, and I requested them +to send down an accountant to examine Farintosh’s books. +He will be here to-morrow morning, and I have leave of absence for the +day.’<br> +<br> +And so they were to spend an evening and a night without knowing whether +they were merely crippled or absolutely ruined. Frank’s +nature was really a very proud one, and the thought of failing in his +engagements wounded his self-respect most deeply. His nerves winced +and quivered before it. But her sweet, strong soul rose high above +all fear, and bore him up with her, into the serenity of love and trust +and confidence. The really precious things, the things of the +spirit, were permanent, and could not be lost. What matter if +they lived in an eight-roomed villa, or in a tent out on the heath? +What matter if they had two servants, or if she worked for him herself? +All this was the merest trifle, the outside of life. But the intimate +things, their love, their trust, their pleasures of mind and soul, these +could not be taken away from them while they had life to enjoy them. +And so she soothed Frank with sweet caresses and gentle words, until +this night of gloom had turned to the most beautiful of all his life, +and he had learned to bless the misfortune which had taught him to know +the serene courage and the wholehearted devotion which can only be felt, +like the scent of a fragrant leaf, when Fate gives us a crush between +its iron fingers.<br> +<br> +Shortly after breakfast Mr. Wingfield, the accountant from London, arrived +- a tall, gentlemanly man, with a formal manner.<br> +<br> +‘I’m sorry about this business, Mr. Crosse,’ said +he.<br> +<br> +Frank made a grimace. ‘It can’t be helped.’<br> +<br> +‘We will hope that the amount is not very serious. We have +warned Mr. Farintosh that his books will be inspected to-day. +When you are ready we shall go round.’<br> +<br> +The agent lived in a side-street not far off. A brass plate, outside +a small brick house, marked it out from the line of other small brick +houses. A sad-faced woman opened the door, and Farintosh himself, +haggard and white, was seated among his ledgers in the little front +room. A glance at the man’s helpless face turned all Frank’s +resentment to pity.<br> +<br> +They sat down at the table, the accountant in the centre, Farintosh +on the right, and Frank on the left. There was no talk save an +occasional abrupt question and answer. For two hours the swish +and rustle of the great blue pages of the ledgers were the chief sound, +with the scratching of Mr. Wingfield’s pen as he totalled up long +columns of figures. Frank’s heart turned to water as he +saw the huge sums which had passed through this man’s hands. +How much had remained there? His whole future depended upon the +answer to that question. How prosaic and undramatic are the moments +in which a modern career is made or marred! In this obscure battlefield, +the squire no longer receives his accolade in public for his work well +done, nor do we see the butcher’s cleaver as it hacks off the +knightly spurs, but failure and success come strangely and stealthily, +determined by trifles, and devoid of dignity. Here was the crisis +of Frank’s young life, in this mean front room, amongst the almanacs +and the account-books.<br> +<br> +‘Can I rely upon these figures?’ asked Wingfield at last.<br> +<br> +‘You can, sir.’<br> +<br> +‘In that case I congratulate you, Mr. Crosse. I can only +find a deficiency of fifty pounds.’<br> +<br> +Only enough to swallow the whole of their little savings, which they +had carefully invested! However, it was good news, and Frank shook +the proffered hand of the accountant.<br> +<br> +‘I will stay for another hour to check these figures,’ said +Wingfield. ‘But there is no need to detain you.’<br> +<br> +‘You will come round and lunch with us?’<br> +<br> +‘With pleasure.’<br> +<br> +‘<i>Au revoir</i>, then.’ Frank ran all the way home, +and burst in upon his wife. ‘It is not so very bad, dear +- only fifty pounds.’ They danced about in their joy like +two children.<br> +<br> +But Wingfield came to his lunch within a solemn face.<br> +<br> +‘I am very sorry to disappoint you,’ he said, ‘but +the matter is more serious than I thought. We have entered some +sums as unpaid which he has really received, but the receipts for which +he has held back. They amount to another hundred pounds.’<br> +<br> +Maude felt inclined to cry as she glanced at Frank, and saw his resolute +effort to look unconcerned.<br> +<br> +‘Then it’s a hundred and fifty.’<br> +<br> +‘Certainly not less. I have marked the items down upon this +paper for your inspection.’<br> +<br> +Frank glanced his practised eyes over the results of the accountant’s +morning’s work.<br> +<br> +‘You have credited him within a hundred and twenty pounds in the +bank, I see.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, his bank-book shows a balance of that amount.’<br> +<br> +‘When was it made out?’<br> +<br> +‘Last Saturday.’<br> +<br> +‘He may have drawn it since them.’<br> +<br> +‘It is certainly possible.’<br> +<br> +‘We might go round after lunch and make sure.’<br> +<br> +‘Very good.’<br> +<br> +‘And in any case, as it is the Company’s money, don’t +you think we had better take it out of his hands?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I think you are right.’<br> +<br> +It was a miserable meal, and they were all glad when it was finished. +Maude drew Frank into the other room before he started.<br> +<br> +‘I could not let you go without <i>that, </i>dearest. Keep +a brave heart, my own laddie, for I know so well that we shall come +through it all right.’<br> +<br> +So Frank set out with a higher courage, and they both returned to the +agent’s house. His white face turned a shade whiter when +he understood their errand.<br> +<br> +‘Is this necessary, Mr. Wingfield?’ he pleaded. ‘Won’t +you take my word for this money?’<br> +<br> +‘I am sorry to have to say it, sir, but we have trusted in your +word too often.’<br> +<br> +‘But the money is there, I swear it.’<br> +<br> +‘It is the Company’s money, and we must have it.’<br> +<br> +‘It will ruin my credit locally if I draw out my whole account +under compulsion.’<br> +<br> +‘Then let him keep ten pounds in,’ said Frank. Farintosh +agreed with an ill grace to the compromise, and they all started off +for the bank. When they reached the door the agent turned upon +them with an appealing face.<br> +<br> +‘Don’t come in with me, gentlemen. I could never hold +up my head again.’<br> +<br> +‘It is for Mr. Crosse to decide.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t want to be unreasonable, Farintosh. Go in +alone and draw the money.’<br> +<br> +They could never understand why he begged for that extra five minutes. +Perhaps it was that he had some mad hope of persuading the bank manager +to allow him to overdraw to that amount. If so, the refusal was +a curt one, for he reappeared with a ghastly face and walked up to Frank.<br> +<br> +‘I may as well confess to you, Mr. Crosse, I have nothing in the +bank.’<br> +<br> +Frank whistled and turned upon his heel. He could not by reproaches +add to the wretched man’s humiliation. After all, he had +himself to blame. He had incurred a risk with his eyes open, and +he was not the man to whine now that the thing had gone against him. +Wingfield walked home with him and murmured some words of sympathy. +At the gate the accountant left him and went on to the station.<br> +<br> +So their liability had risen from fifty to two hundred and seventy pounds. +Even Maude was for an instant daunted by the sum. The sale of +their furniture would hardly meet it. It was the blackest hour +of their lives, and yet, always a strange sweet undercurrent of joy +was running through it, for it is only sorrow, fairly shared and bravely +borne, which can weld two human souls together.<br> +<br> +Dinner was over when there came a ring at the bell.<br> +<br> +‘If you please, sir, Mr. Farintosh would like to see you,’ +said the maid Jemima.<br> +<br> +‘Show him in here.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t you think, Frank, that I had better go?’<br> +<br> +‘No, I don’t. I never asked him to come. If +he comes, let him face us both. I have not made much of my dealings +with him alone.’<br> +<br> +He was shown in, downcast, shifty-eyed, and ill at ease. He laid +his hat upon the floor, and crept humbly towards the chair which Frank +pushed towards him.<br> +<br> +‘Well, Farintosh?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, Mr. Crosse, I have come round to tell you, and you too, +missus, the sorrow I feel that I have brought this trouble upon you. +I hoped all would have gone right after that last time, but I’ve +had to pay up back debts, and that’s what has put me wrong. +I’ve never had what one may call a fair chance. But I’m +really sorry, sir, that you who have, as one might say, befriended me, +should have to suffer for it in this way.’<br> +<br> +‘Words won’t mend it, Farintosh. I only blame you +for not coming to me when first things began to go wrong.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, sir, I was always hoping that I could turn them right again, +so as you wouldn’t need to be troubled at all. And so it +went from bad to worse until we find ourselves here. But what +I wanted to ask you, Mr. Crosse, was what you meant to do about it?’<br> +<br> +Frank writhed before this home question.<br> +<br> +‘Well, I suppose I am responsible,’ said he.<br> +<br> +‘You mean to pay the money, sir?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, somebody must pay it.’<br> +<br> +‘Do you remember the wording of the bond, Mr. Crosse?’<br> +<br> +‘Not the exact wording.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, sir, I should advise you to get your lawyer to read it. +In my opinion, sir, you are not liable at all.’<br> +<br> +‘Not liable!’ Frank felt as if his heart had turned +suddenly from a round-shot to an air-balloon. ‘Why not liable?’<br> +<br> +‘You were a little slapdashy, if one might say so, in matters +of business, sir, and perhaps you read that bond less carefully than +I did. There was a clause in it by which the Company agreed frequently +and periodically to audit my accounts, so as to prevent your liability +being at any time a very high one.’<br> +<br> +‘So there was!’ cried Frank. ‘Well, didn’t +they?’<br> +<br> +‘No, sir, they didn’t.’<br> +<br> +‘By Jove - Maude, do you hear that? - if that is right, they brought +their own misfortunes upon themselves. Do you mean to say they +never audited you?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, sir, they did so four times.’<br> +<br> +‘In how long?’<br> +<br> +‘In fourteen months.’<br> +<br> +The air-balloon was gone and the cannon-ball back in its place once +more.<br> +<br> +‘That will be held to exonerate them.’<br> +<br> +‘No, sir, I think not. “Frequently and periodically” +does not mean four times in fourteen months.’<br> +<br> +‘A jury might take it so.’<br> +<br> +‘Consider, sir, that the object was that your liability should +be limited. Thousands of pounds were passing through my hands +in that time, and therefore these four audits were, as one might say, +insufficient for the object of the bond.’<br> +<br> +‘So I think,’ cried Maude, with conviction. ‘Frank, +we’ll have the best advice upon the subject to-morrow.’<br> +<br> +‘And meanwhile, Mr. Crosse,’ said Farintosh, rising from +his chair, ‘I am your witness, whether the Company prosecutes +me or not. And I hope that this will be some humble atonement +for the trouble that I have brought you.’<br> +<br> +And so a first rift of light began to shine in the dark place. +But it was not broadened by the letter which he found waiting upon his +breakfast-table -<br> +<br> +<br> +<i>Re </i>Farintosh’s Accounts.<br> +<br> +HOTSPUR INSURANCE OFFICE.<br> +<br> +Dear Sir, - On arriving in London I came here at once, and checked Farintosh’s +accounts from the books of the head office. I am sorry to say +that I find a further discrepancy of seventy pounds. I am able, +however, to assure you that we have now touched bottom. The total +amount is three hundred and forty pounds, and a cheque for that sum +at your early convenience would oblige us, as we are anxious to bring +so unpleasant a business to a conclusion. - Yours truly,<br> +<br> +JAMES WINGFIELD.<br> +<br> +<br> +To which Frank and Maude in collaboration -<br> +<br> +<br> +Dear Sir, - I note your claim for £340 on account of the affairs +of your agent Farintosh. I am advised, however, that there have +been certain irregularities in the matter, about which I must make some +investigation before paying the claim. - Yours truly,<br> +<br> +Frank Crosse.<br> +<br> +<br> +To which the Hotspur Insurance Office -<br> +<br> +<br> +Sir, - Had your letter been a plea for more time to fulfil your engagement, +we should have been content to wait; but since you appear disposed to +dispute your liability, we have no alternative but to take immediate +steps to enforce payment. -<br> +<br> +Yours truly, JOHN WATERS, <i>Secretary.<br> +<br> +<br> +</i>To which Frank and Maude -<br> +<br> +<br> +Sir, - My solicitor, A. C. R. Owen, of 14 Shirley Lane, E.C., will be +happy to accept service.<br> +<br> +<br> +Which is the correct legal English for ‘You may go to the devil!’<br> +<br> +But this is an anticipation. In the meantime, having received +the original letter and answered it, Frank went up to town as usual, +while Maude played the more difficult part of waiting quietly at home. +In his lunch-hour Frank went to see his friend and solicitor, who in +turn obtained leave to see the bond, and came back with a grave face.<br> +<br> +‘You have a case,’ said he, ‘but by no means a certainty. +It all depends upon how the judge might read the document. I think +that it would strengthen our case very materially if we had counsel’s +opinion. I’ll copy the bond and show it to Manners, and +have his opinion before you go back to-night.’<br> +<br> +So Frank went round again after office-hours, and found Owen waiting +in very low spirits, for their relations were closer than those of mere +solicitor and client.<br> +<br> +‘Very sorry,’ said he.<br> +<br> +‘Opinion against us.’<br> +<br> +‘Dead against us.’<br> +<br> +Frank tried to look as if he didn’t mind.<br> +<br> +‘Let me see it.’<br> +<br> +It was a long blue document with the heading, ‘The Hotspur Insurance +Company, Limited, <i>v</i>. Frank Crosse.’<br> +<br> +‘I have perused the case submitted to me, and the papers accompanying +the same,’ said the learned counsel, ‘and in my opinion +the Hotspur Insurance Company, Limited, are entitled to recover from +Mr. Crosse under his guarantee, the sum of £340, being monies +received by Mr. Farintosh, and not paid over by him to the said Company.’ +There was a great deal more, but it was anticlimax.<br> +<br> +‘Well, what shall we do?’ asked Frank helplessly. +The British law makes one feel so.<br> +<br> +‘Well, I should stand out, if I were you. There is certainly +a chance.’<br> +<br> +‘Look here, old chap,’ said Frank, ‘I may as well +be honest with you. If this thing goes against me, I am stony +broke. I don’t know where your costs are coming from.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t bother about that,’ said Owen kindly. +‘After all, Manners is not infallible. Let us have Holland, +and see what he can make of it.’<br> +<br> +So twenty-four hours later Frank found Owen radiant with another opinion +in his hand.<br> +<br> +‘Dead for us this time. Look here!’<br> +<br> +And he read out, ‘I have carefully considered the case submitted +to me for my opinion, and the documents sent therewith. In my +opinion the Hotspur Insurance Company, Limited, are not entitled to +recover against Mr. Crosse the sum claimed by them or any part thereof, +as there has been a breach on their part of an essential condition of +the guarantee.’ ‘He reads “frequently and periodically” +as we do,’ continued Owen, glancing over the long document, ‘and +he is very clear as to our case.’<br> +<br> +‘Suppose we have another, and try the best of three,’ said +Frank.<br> +<br> +‘It’s too expensive a game. No, Holland is a sound +man, and his opinion would weigh with any judge. I think we have +enough to go on with.’<br> +<br> +‘And you think it is safe?’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, nothing is ever safe in the law. But we can make +a fight of it now.’<br> +<br> +And now Frank was to learn what it meant to be entangled in an intricate +clumsy old machine, incredibly cumbrous and at the same time incredibly +powerful, jolting along with its absurd forms and abominable English +towards an end which might or might not be just, but was most certainly +ruinously expensive. The game began by a direct letter from the +Queen, of all people, an honour which Frank had never aspired to before, +and certainly never did again.<br> +<br> +Victoria, by the grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain +and Ireland, Queen, Defender of the Faith, remarked abruptly to Frank +Crosse of Woking, in the county of Surrey, ‘We command you that +within eight days of the service of this writ on you, inclusive of the +day of such service, you cause an appearance to be entered for you in +an action at the suit of the Hotspur Insurance Company, Limited.’ +If he didn’t do so, Her Majesty remarked that several very unpleasant +things might occur, and Hardinge Stanley, Earl of Halsbury, corroborated +Her Majesty. Maude was frightened to death when she saw the document, +and felt as if unawares they must have butted up against the British +Constitution, but Owen explained that it was only a little legal firework, +which meant that there might be some trouble later.<br> +<br> +‘Well, at any rate,’ said Frank, ‘it means that in +eight days it will all be over.’<br> +<br> +Owen laughed heartily at the remark.<br> +<br> +‘It means,’ said he, ‘that in eight days we must promise +that at some future date we will begin to make preparations for something +to happen in the future. That is about the meaning of it. +All you can do now is to be perfectly philosophic, and leave the rest +to me.’<br> +<br> +But how is a man with a capital of fifty pounds going to be philosophic +when he is fighting an opponent whose assets, as a certain hoarding +near Clapham Junction told him every morning, exceeded three millions +of pounds. He treated it lightly to Maude, and she to him, but +each suffered horribly, and each was well aware of the other’s +real feelings. Sometimes there was a lull, and they could almost +believe that the whole thing was over. And then the old machine +gave a creak, and the rusty cog-wheels took one more turn, and they +both felt the horrid thing which held them.<br> +<br> +First of all, they had to enter appearances, which meant that they would +dispute the action. Then the other side had to make an affidavit +verifying their claim. Then a Master had to pronounce whether +the action should be treated offhand, or whether he would listen to +what they had to say about it. He decided to listen to what was +to be said. Then each side claimed to see the other’s documents, +‘discovery’ they called it, as if the documents were concealed, +and they had to hunt for them stealthily with lanterns. Then each +made remarks about the other’s documents, and claimed to see the +remarks so made. Then the lawyers of the Company made a statement +of their claim, and when she read it Maude burst into tears, and said +that it was all over, and they must make the best of it, and she should +never forgive herself for that new dress in the spring. And then +Frank’s lawyer drew up a defence, and when Frank heard it, he +said, ‘Why, what a silly business it seems! They have not +got a leg to stand upon.’ And so, after all these flourishes +and prancings, the two parties did actually begin to show signs of coming +to a hearing after all, and a day was fixed for the trial. By +a coincidence it was Frank’s birthday. ‘There’s +a good omen!’ cried Maude.<br> +<br> +The first herald of the approaching conflict was a seedy person, who +thrust a paper into Frank’s hand as he emerged from The Lindens +in the morning. It was another letter from Her Majesty, in which +sub pœnâ (Her Majesty has not a gracious way of putting +things in these documents), Mr. Frank Crosse had ‘to attend at +the Royal Courts of Justice, Strand, at the sittings of the Queen’s +Bench Division of our High Court of Justice, to give evidence on behalf +of the Hotspur Company.’<br> +<br> +This seemed to Frank to be a most unexpected and fearsome stroke, but +Owen simply laughed.<br> +<br> +‘That is mere bluff,’ said he. ‘It makes me +think that they are weakening. They want to frighten you.’<br> +<br> +‘They did,’ said Frank.<br> +<br> +‘Two can play at that game. We must keep a bold front.’<br> +<br> +‘What do you mean to do?’<br> +<br> +‘To subpœna all their crowd.’<br> +<br> +‘Capital!’ cried Frank. So a clerk was sent across +to the Hotspur office with a whole bundle of subpœnas, and served +them liberally out. And in two days’ time was the day of +battle.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XV - A RESCUE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +As the day fixed for the hearing drew near, Ruin lived with them by +day and slept with them by night. Its dark shadow covered their +lives, and they moved in the gloom of its presence. If the trial +went against them, and Owen in his most hopeful moods did not disguise +from them that it might, they would have to pay the double costs as +well as the original claim. All that they possessed would not +cover it. On the other hand, if they won, this rich Company might +carry the matter to a higher Appeal Court, and so involve them in a +fresh succession of anxieties and expenses. Do what they would, +there was always danger. Frank said little, and he slept little +also.<br> +<br> +One night, just before the trial, Wingfield, the accountant of the Society, +came down to Woking. He had managed the case all through for the +directors. His visit was a sort of ultimatum.<br> +<br> +‘We are still ready to pay our own law-costs,’ said he, +‘if you will allow the original claim.’<br> +<br> +‘I can’t do that,’ said Frank doggedly.<br> +<br> +‘The costs are piling up at a furious rate, and some one will +have to pay them.’<br> +<br> +‘I hope that it will be you.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, don’t say afterwards that I did not warn you. +My dear Crosse, I assure you that you are being misled, and that you +have not really got a leg to stand upon.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s what the trial is about,’ said Frank.<br> +<br> +He kept a bold face to the enemy, but after Wingfield’s departure, +Maude saw that his confidence was greatly shaken.<br> +<br> +‘He seemed very sure of their case,’ said he. ‘He +would not speak like that if he did not know.’<br> +<br> +But Maude took quite another view.<br> +<br> +‘If they know that they can recover their money in court, why +should they send Mr. Wingfield down in this way.’<br> +<br> +‘He is such a good chap - he wants to save us expense.’<br> +<br> +Maude was less trusting.<br> +<br> +‘He is doing the best for his own side,’ said she. +‘It is his duty, and we can’t blame him. But if he +thought it best to get behind his own lawyers and come down here, then +he must have some doubts about going into court. Perhaps he would +be willing to consider some compromise.’<br> +<br> +But Frank only shook his head.<br> +<br> +‘We have drawn the cork, and we must drink the wine,’ said +he. ‘We have gone too far to stop. Any compromise +which they would accept would be as much out of our power to pay as +the whole sum would be, and so we may just as well see it through.’ +But for once Maude did not take his opinion as final, but lay awake +all night and thought it over. She had determined to begin acting +upon her own account, and she was so eager to try what she could do +that she lay longing for the morning to break. When she came down +to breakfast, her plan of campaign was formed.<br> +<br> +‘I am coming up to town with you, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Delighted to hear it, dear.’ When she had shopping +to do, she frequently went up with him, so it did not surprise him. +What would have surprised him was to know that she had despatched three +telegrams, by means of Jemima, before he was up.<br> +<br> +<br> +‘To John Selby, 53 Fenchurch Street, E.C. Will call eleven +o’clock. Important business. -<br> +MAUDE.’<br> +<br> +‘To Lieutenant Selby, the Depôt, Canterbury. Please +come up next train, meet me Fenchurch Street, eleven thirty. Important. +-<br> +MAUDE.’<br> +<br> +‘To Owen, 14 Shirley Lane, E.C. Will call twelve o’clock. +Important. - MRS. CROSSE.’<br> +<br> +<br> +So she had opened her campaign.<br> +<br> +‘By the way, Frank,’ said she, as they travelled up together, +‘to-morrow is your birthday.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, it is,’ he answered lugubriously.<br> +<br> +‘Dear me! What shall I give my boy for a birthday present? +Nothing you particularly want?’<br> +<br> +‘I have all I want,’ said he, looking at her.<br> +<br> +‘Oh, but I think I could find something. I must look round +when I am in town.’<br> +<br> +She began her looking round by a visit to her father in Fenchurch Street. +It was something new for him to get telegrams from Maude upon business, +and he was very much surprised.<br> +<br> +‘Looking remarkably well, my dear. Your appearance is a +certificate of character to your husband. Well, and how is all +at Woking? I hope the second cook proved to be a success.’<br> +<br> +But Maude was not there for small talk. ‘Dear dad,’ +said she, ‘I want you to stand by me, for I am in trouble. +Now, my dear good dad, please see things from my point of view, and +don’t make objections, and do exactly what I ask you.’ +She threw her arms round his neck and gave him a hearty squeeze.<br> +<br> +‘Now I call that exerting undue pressure,’ said he, extricating +his white head. ‘If this sort of thing is allowed in the +city of London, there is an end of all business.’ However, +his eyes twinkled and looked as if he liked it. ‘Now madame, +what can I do for you?’<br> +<br> +‘I’m going to be perfectly business-like,’ said she, +and gave him another squeeze before sitting down. ‘Look +here, dad. You give me an income of fifty pounds a year, don’t +you?’<br> +<br> +‘My dear girl, I can’t raise it. Jack’s expenses +in the Hussars - ’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t want you to raise it.’<br> +<br> +‘What do you want?’<br> +<br> +‘I seem to remember, dad, that you told me that this fifty pounds +was the interest on a thousand pounds which was invested for me.’<br> +<br> +‘So it is - five per cent. debentures.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, dad, if I were content with an income of twenty-five pounds +a year instead of fifty pounds, then I could take five hundred pounds +out of my money, and nobody would be the worse.’<br> +<br> +‘Except yourself.’<br> +<br> +Maude laughed at that.<br> +<br> +‘I want the use of the money just for one day. I certainly +won’t need it all. I just want to feel that I have as much +as that in case I need it. Now, my dear old daddy, do please not +ask any questions, but be very nice and good, and tell me how I can +get these five hundred pounds.’<br> +<br> +‘And you won’t tell me why you want them?’<br> +<br> +‘I had rather not - but I will if you insist.’<br> +<br> +Old Selby looked into the brave, clear eyes of his daughter, and he +did not insist.<br> +<br> +‘Look here! You’ve got your own little banking account, +have you not?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dad.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s right. Never mix it up with your husband’s.’ +He scribbled a cheque. ‘Pay that in! It is for five +hundred pounds. I will sell half your debentures and charge you +with brokerage. I believe in strict business between relatives. +When you pay back the five hundred pounds, your allowance will be fifty +a year once more.’<br> +<br> +Maude then and there endorsed the cheque and posted it to her bank. +Then with a final embrace to her father, she hastened out to further +victories. Jack Selby was smoking a cigarette upon the doorstep.<br> +<br> +‘Hullo, Maude! Calling up the reserves? What’s +the matter? Jolly lucky it wasn’t my day on duty. +You girls think a soldier has nothing to do. It was so once, but +we are all scientific blokes now. No, thank you, I won’t +see the dad! He’d think I had come for money, and it would +upset him for the day.’<br> +<br> +Maude took her brother in the cab with her, and told him the whole story +of Frank’s misfortune, with some account of her own intentions. +Jack was vastly interested.<br> +<br> +‘What did dad say about it?’<br> +<br> +‘I didn’t tell him. I thought Frank would rather not.’<br> +<br> +‘Quite right. He won’t mind me. He knows I’m +a bit of a business man myself. Only signed a paper once in my +life, and quite a small paper too, and I haven’t heard the last +of it yet. The thing wasn’t much bigger than a postcard, +but the fuss those people made afterwards! I suppose they’ve +been worrying Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘We have had no peace for months.’<br> +<br> +‘Worry is bad for the young. But he should not mind. +He should go on fizzing like I did. Now we’ll put this thing +through together, Maude. I see your line, and I’ll ride +it with you.’<br> +<br> +They found Mr. Owen at home, and Maude did the talking.<br> +<br> +‘I am convinced, Mr. Owen, that they don’t want to go into +court. Mr. Wingfield coming down like that proves it. My +husband is too proud to bargain with them, but I have no scruples. +Don’t you think that I might go to Mr. Wingfield myself, and pay +the three hundred and forty pounds, and so have done with the worry +for ever?’<br> +<br> +‘Speaking as a lawyer,’ said Owen, ‘I think that it +is very irregular. Speaking as a man, I think no harm could come +of it. But I should not like you to offer the whole sum. +Simply say that you are prepared for a reasonable compromise, and ask +them to suggest what is the lowest sum which the office would accept +to close the business.’<br> +<br> +‘You leave it with me,’ said Jack, winking at the lawyer. +‘I am seeing her through. I’ll keep her on the rails. +I am Number 1, Class A, at business. We’ll take ’em +up one link in the curb if they try any games with us! Come on, +Maude, and get it over.’<br> +<br> +He was an excellent companion for her, for his buoyancy turned the whole +thing into fun. She could not take it too seriously in his company. +They called at the Hotspur office and asked to see Mr. Wingfield. +He was engaged, but Mr. Waters, the secretary, a very fat, pompous man, +came in to them.<br> +<br> +‘I am very sorry,’ said he, ‘very sorry, indeed, Mrs. +Crosse, but it is too late for any compromise of the sort. We +have our costs to consider, and there is no alternative but for the +case to go into court.’<br> +<br> +Poor Maude nearly burst into tears.<br> +<br> +‘But suppose that we were to offer - ’<br> +<br> +‘To give you an hour to think it over,’ cried Jack.<br> +<br> +Mr. Waters shook, his head despondently.<br> +<br> +‘I do not think that we should alter our decision. However, +Mr. Wingfield will be here presently, and he will, of course, listen +to any representations which you may have to make. In the meantime +you must excuse me, as I have matters of importance to attend to.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, Maude, you little Juggins,’ cried Jack, when the door +was shut, ‘you were just going to offer to pay their costs. +I only just headed you off in time.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I was going to inquire about it.’<br> +<br> +‘Great Scot, it’s lucky you’ve got a business man +at your elbow. I couldn’t stand that chap at any price. +A bit too hairy in the fetlocks for my taste. Couldn’t you +see that he was only bluffing?’<br> +<br> +‘How do you know, Jack?’<br> +<br> +‘It was shining all over him. Do you suppose a man has bought +as many hairies as I have, and can’t tell when a dealer is bluffing? +He was piling it on so that when the next Christmas-tree comes along, +he may find a soft job waiting for him. I tell you you want a +friendly native, like me, when you get into this kind of country. +Now ride this one on the curb, and don’t let him have his head +for a moment.’<br> +<br> +Mr. Wingfield had entered, and his manner was very different to that +of the secretary. He had great sympathy with the Crosses, and +no desire to wash the Company’s dirty linen in public. He +was, therefore, more anxious than he dared to show to come to some arrangement.<br> +<br> +‘It is rather irregular for me to see you. I should refer +you to our solicitors,’ said he.<br> +<br> +‘Well, we saw you when you came to Woking,’ said Maude. +‘I believe that we are much more likely to come to an arrangement +if we talk it over ourselves.’<br> +<br> +‘I am sure I earnestly hope so,’ Wingfield answered. +‘I shall be delighted to listen to anything which you may suggest. +Do you, in the first place, admit your liability?’<br> +<br> +‘To some extent,’ said Maude, ‘if the Company will +admit that they are in the wrong also.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, we may go so far as to say that we wish the books had been +inspected more often, and that we regret our misplaced confidence in +our agent. That should satisfy you, Mrs. Crosse. And now +that you admit <i>some </i>liability, that is a great step in advance. +We have no desire to be unreasonable, but as long as no liability was +admitted, we had no course open to us but litigation. We now come +to the crucial point, which is, how much liability should fall upon +you. My own idea is, that each should pay their own costs, and +that you should, in addition, pay over to the Company - ’<br> +<br> +‘Forty pounds,’ said Jack firmly.<br> +<br> +Maude expected Mr. Wingfield to rise up and leave the room. As +he did not do so, nor show any signs of violence, she said, ‘Yes, +forty pounds.’<br> +<br> +He shook his head.<br> +<br> +‘Dear me, Mrs. Crosse, this is a very small sum.’<br> +<br> +‘Forty pounds is our offer,’ said Jack.<br> +<br> +‘But on what is this offer based?’<br> +<br> +‘We have worked it out,’ said Jack, ‘and we find that +forty pounds is right.’<br> +<br> +Mr. Wingfield rose from his chair.<br> +<br> +‘Well,’ said he, ‘of course any offer is better than +no offer. I cannot say what view the directors may take of this +proposal, but they will hold a board meeting this afternoon, and I will +lay it before them.’<br> +<br> +‘And when shall we know?’<br> +<br> +‘I could send you round a line by hand to your solicitor.’<br> +<br> +‘No hurry about it! Quite at your own convenience!’ +said Jack. When he got outside, in the privacy of their hansom, +he was convulsed with the sense of his own achievements.<br> +<br> +‘Class A, Number 1, and mentioned at the Agricultural Hall,’ +he cried, hugging himself in his delight. His sister hugged him +also, so he was a much-embraced young man. ‘Am I not a man +of business, Maude? You can’t buy ’em - you must breed +’em. One shilling with the basket. I shook him in +the first round, and he never rallied after.’<br> +<br> +‘You are a dear good boy. You did splendidly.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s the way to handle ’em. He saw that I +was a real fizzer and full of blood. One business man can tell +another at a glance.’<br> +<br> +Maude laughed, for Jack, with his cavalry swagger and a white weal all +round his sunburned face to show where his chin-strap hung, looked the +most unbusiness-like of mortals.<br> +<br> +‘Why did you offer forty pounds?’ she asked.<br> +<br> +‘Well, you have to begin somewhere.’<br> +<br> +‘But why forty?’<br> +<br> +‘Because it is what we offer when we are buying the hairies - +trooper’s chargers, you know. It’s a great thing to +have a fixed rule in business. I never go higher than forty - +rule one, section one, and no exceptions in the margin.’<br> +<br> +They lunched together at the Holborn, and Jack took Maude afterwards +to what he called ‘a real instructive show,’ which proved +to be a horse-sale at Tattersall’s. They then drove back +to the lawyer’s, and there they found a letter waiting addressed +to Mrs. Crosse. Maude tore it open.<br> +<br> +‘Dear Mrs. Crosse,’ said this delightful note, ‘I +am happy to be able to inform you that the directors have decided to +stop the legal proceedings, and to accept your offer of forty pounds +in full satisfaction of all claims due against your husband.’<br> +<br> +Maude, Jack, and the good Owen performed a triumphant <i>pas de trois.<br> +<br> +</i>‘You have done splendidly, Mrs. Crosse, splendidly!’ +cried Owen. ‘I never heard a better day’s work in +my life. Now, if you will give me your cheque and wait here, I +will go over and settle everything.’<br> +<br> +‘And please bring the bond back with you,’ said Maude.<br> +<br> +<br> +So it was that Frank, coming down upon the morning of his birthday, +perceived a pretty silver cigarette-box laid in front of his plate.<br> +<br> +‘Is this for me, my darling?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, Frank, a wee present from your wife.’<br> +<br> +‘How sweet of you! I never saw such a lovely case. +Why, there’s something inside it.’<br> +<br> +‘Cigarettes, I suppose.<br> +<br> +‘No, it is a paper of some kind. “Hotspur Insurance +Company.” Good Lord, I never seem for one instant to be +able to shake that infernal thing off! How on earth did it get +in there? What’s this? - “I hereby guarantee to you +- ” What’s this? Maude, Maude, what have you +been doing?’<br> +<br> +‘Dear old boy,’ she cried, as she put her arms round him. +‘Dear old boy! Oh, I <i>do</i> feel so happy!’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XVI - THE BROWNING SOCIETY<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +It all began by Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, the smart little up-to-date wife +of the solicitor, saying to Mrs. Beecher, the young bride of the banker, +that in a place like Woking it was very hard to get any mental friction, +or to escape from the same eternal grooves of thought and conversation. +The same idea, it seemed, had occurred to Mrs. Beecher, fortified by +a remark from the <i>Lady’s Journal </i>that an internal intellectual +life was the surest method by which a woman could preserve her youth. +She turned up the article - for the conversation occurred in her drawing-room +- and she read extracts from it. ‘Shakespeare as a Cosmetic’ +was the title. Maude was very much struck, and before they separated +they had formed themselves into a Literary Society which should meet +and discuss classical authors every Wednesday afternoon at each other’s +houses. That one hour of concentrated thought and lofty impulse +should give a dignity and a tone to the whole dull provincial week.<br> +<br> +What should they read? It was well that they should decide it +before they separated, so as to start fair upon the next Wednesday. +Maude suggested Shakespeare, but Mrs. Hunt Mortimer thought that a good +deal of it was improper.<br> +<br> +‘Does it matter?’ said Mrs. Beecher. ‘We are +all married.’<br> +<br> +‘Still I don’t think it would be quite nice,’ said +Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. She belonged to the extreme right on matters +of propriety.<br> +<br> +‘But surely Mr. Bowdler made Shakespeare quite respectable,’ +Mrs. Beecher argued.<br> +<br> +‘He did his work very carelessly. He left in much that might +be dispensed with, and he omitted a good deal which was quite innocent.’<br> +<br> +‘How do you know?’<br> +<br> +‘Because I once got two copies and read all the omissions.’<br> +<br> +‘Why did you do that?’ asked Maude mischievously.<br> +<br> +‘Because I wanted to make sure that they <i>had </i>been omitted,’ +said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer severely.<br> +<br> +Mrs. Beecher stooped and picked an invisible hairpin out of the rug. +Mrs. Hunt Mortimer continued.<br> +<br> +‘There is Byron, of course. But he is so very suggestive. +There are passages in his works - ’<br> +<br> +‘I could never see any harm in them,’ said Mrs. Beecher.<br> +<br> +‘That is because you did not know where to look,’ said Mrs. +Hunt Mortimer. ‘If you have a copy in the house, Mrs. Beecher, +I will undertake to make it abundantly clear to you that he is to be +eschewed by those who wish to keep their thoughts unsullied. Not? +I fancy that even quoting from memory I could convince you that it is +better to avoid him.’<br> +<br> +‘Pass Byron,’ said Mrs. Beecher, who was a very pretty little +kittenish person, with no apparent need of any cosmetics, literary or +otherwise. ‘How about Shelley?’<br> +<br> +‘Frank raves about Shelley,’ observed Maude.<br> +<br> +Mrs. Hunt Mortimer shook her head.<br> +<br> +‘His work has some dreadful tendencies. He was, I am informed, +either a theist or an atheist, I cannot for the moment recall which +- I think that we should make our little course as improving as possible.’<br> +<br> +‘Tennyson,’ Maude suggested.<br> +<br> +‘I have been told that his meaning is too clear to entitle him +to rank among the great thinkers of our race. The lofty thought +is necessarily obscure. There is no merit in following a poem +which is perfectly intelligible. Which leads us to - ’<br> +<br> +‘Browning!’ cried the other ladies.<br> +<br> +‘Exactly. We might form a little Browning Society of our +own.’<br> +<br> +‘Charming! Charming!’<br> +<br> +And so it was agreed.<br> +<br> +There was only one other point to be settled at this their inaugural +meeting, which was, to choose the other ladies who should be admitted +into their literary circle. There were to be no men.<br> +<br> +‘They do distract one so,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.<br> +<br> +The great thing was to admit no one save those earnest spirits who would +aspire to get the full benefit from their studies. Mrs. Fortescue +could not be thought of, she was much too talkative. And Mrs. +Jones had such a frivolous mind. Mrs. Charles could think and +talk of nothing but her servants. And Mrs. Patt-Beatson always +wanted to lay down the law. Perhaps on the whole it would be better +to start the society quietly among themselves, and then gradually to +increase it. The first meeting should be next Wednesday, at Mrs. +Crosse’s house, and Mrs. Hunt Mortimer would bring her complete +two-volume edition with her. Mrs. Beecher thought that one volume +would be enough just at first, but Mrs. Hunt Mortimer said that it was +better to have a wide choice. Maude went home and told Frank in +the evening. He was pleased, but rather sceptical.<br> +<br> +‘You must begin with the simpler things first,’ said he. +‘I should recommend <i>Hervé Riel </i>and <i>Gold</i> <i>Hair</i>.’<br> +<br> +But Maude put on the charming air of displeasure which became her so +well.<br> +<br> +‘We are serious students, sir,’ said she. ‘We +want the very hardest poem in the book. I assure you, Frank, that +one of your little faults is that you always underrate a woman’s +intelligence. Mrs. Hunt Mortimer says that though we may be less +original than men, we are more assim - more assmun - ’<br> +<br> +‘Assimulative.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s what I say - assimulative. Now, you always +talk as if - oh yes, you do! No, you mustn’t! How +absurd you are, Frank! Whenever I try to speak seriously to you, +you always do that and spoil everything. How would you like to +discuss Browning if at the end of every sentence somebody came and kissed +you? You wouldn’t mind! No, I dare say not. +But you would feel that you were not being taken seriously. Wait +till the next time <i>you </i>are in earnest about anything - you’ll +see!’<br> +<br> +<br> +The meeting was to be at three o’clock, and at ten minutes to +the hour Mrs. Hunt Mortimer arrived with two large brown volumes under +her arm. She had come early, she said, because there was to be +a rehearsal of the amateur theatricals at the Dixons’ at a quarter-past +four. Mrs. Beecher did not appear until five minutes after the +hour. Her cook had quarrelled with the housemaid, and given instantaneous +notice, with five people coming to dinner on Saturday. It had +upset the lady very much, and she explained that she would not have +come if she had not promised. It was so difficult to follow poetry +when you were thinking about the entrée all the time.<br> +<br> +‘Why the entrée?’ asked Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, looking +up from the book which she held open in front of her.<br> +<br> +‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Beecher, who had the art of saying +the most simple things as if they were profoundly confidential secrets, +- ‘My dear, my parlourmaid is really an excellent cook, and I +shall rely upon her if Martha really goes. But she is limited, +very limited, and entrées and savouries are the two things in +which I cannot entirely trust her. I must, therefore, find some +dish which is well within her capacity.’<br> +<br> +Mrs. Hunt Mortimer prided herself upon her housekeeping, so the problem +interested her. Maude also began to feel the meeting less dull +than she had expected.<br> +<br> +‘Of course there are many things to be considered,’ said +Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, with the air of a Q.C. giving an opinion. +‘Oyster patties or oyster vol-au-vents - ’<br> +<br> +‘Oysters are out of season,’ said Maude.<br> +<br> +‘I was about to say,’ Mrs. Hunt Mortimer continued, with +admirable presence of mind, ‘that these entrées of oysters +are inadmissible because they are out of season. Now curried prawns +- ’<br> +<br> +‘My husband loathes them.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, well! What do you say to sweetbreads en caisse? +All you want are chopped mushrooms, shalots, parsley, nutmeg, pepper, +salt, breadcrumb, bacon fat - ’<br> +<br> +‘No, no,’ cried Mrs. Beecher despairingly. ‘Anne +would never remember all that.’<br> +<br> +‘Cutlets à la Constance,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. +‘I am sure that they are simple enough. Cutlets, butter, +fowls’ livers, cocks’ combs, mushrooms - ’<br> +<br> +‘My dear, my dear, remember that she is only a parlourmaid. +It is unreasonable.’<br> +<br> +‘Ragout of fowl, chicken patties, croquettes of veal with a little +browning - ’<br> +<br> +‘We’ve got back to Browning after all,’ cried Maude.<br> +<br> +‘Dear me,’ said Mrs. Beecher, ‘it is all my fault, +and I am so sorry. Now, Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, do please read us +a little of that delightful poetry.’<br> +<br> +‘You can always get small entrées sent down from the Stores,’ +cried Maude, as a happy thought.<br> +<br> +‘You dear, good girl, how sweet of you to think of it. Of +course one can. That is really an admirable idea. There +now, we may consider the entrée as being removed, so we proceed +to - ’<br> +<br> +‘The <i>pièce de résistance</i>,’ said Mrs. +Hunt Mortimer solemnly, glancing down the index of the first volume. +‘I confess that my acquaintance with the poet has up to now been +rather superficial. Our ambition must be to so master him that +he becomes from this time forward part and parcel of ourselves. +I fancy that the difficulties in understanding him have been very much +exaggerated, and that with goodwill and perseverance we shall manage +to overcome them.’<br> +<br> +It was a relief to Mrs. Beecher and to Maude to realise that Mrs. Hunt +Mortimer knew no more about the matter than themselves. They both +ventured upon a less diffident air now that it was clear that it might +be done in safety. Maude frowned thoughtfully, and Mrs. Beecher +cast up her pretty brown eyes at the curtain-rod, as if she were running +over in her memory the whole long catalogue of the poet’s works.<br> +<br> +‘I will tell you what we should do,’ said she. ‘We +must make a vow that we shall never pass a line until we understand +it. We will go over it again and again until we grasp its meaning.’<br> +<br> +‘What an excellent idea!’ cried Maude, with one of her little +bursts of enthusiasm. ‘Now that is really splendid, Mrs. +Beecher.’<br> +<br> +‘My friends always call me Nellie,’ said the little brunette.<br> +<br> +‘How nice of you to say so! I should love to call you so, +if you don’t mind. It is such a pretty name too. Only +you must call me Maude.’<br> +<br> +‘You look like a Maude,’ said Mrs. Beecher. ‘I +always picture a Maude as bright and pretty and blonde. Isn’t +it strange how names associate themselves with characters. Mary +is always domestic, and Rose is a flirt, and Elizabeth is dutiful, and +Evelyn is dashing, and Alice is colourless, and Helen is masterful - +’<br> +<br> +‘And Matilda is impatient,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, laughing. +‘Matilda has reason to be, seated here with an index in front +of her while you two are exchanging compliments.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, we were waiting for you to begin,’ said Mrs. Beecher +reproachfully. ‘Do let us have something, for really the +time is slipping away.’<br> +<br> +‘It would be a pity to begin at the beginning, because that represents +his immature genius,’ remarked Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘I +think that on this the opening day of the Society, we should have the +poet at his best.’<br> +<br> +‘How are we to know which <i>is </i>his best?’ Maude asked.<br> +<br> +‘I should be inclined to choose something with a title which suggests +profundity - “A Pretty Woman,” “Love in a Life,” +“Any Wife to any Husband” - ’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, what <i>did </i>she say to him?’ cried Maude.<br> +<br> +‘Well, I was about to say that all these subjects rather suggested +frivolity.’<br> +<br> +‘Besides, it really is a very absurd title,’ remarked Mrs. +Beecher, who was fond of generalising from her six months’ experience +of matrimony. ‘<i>A</i> husband to <i>a</i> wife’ +would be intelligible, but how can you know what <i>any </i>husband +would say to <i>any </i>wife? No one can really foretell what +a man will do. They really are such extraordinary creatures.’<br> +<br> +But Mrs. Hunt Mortimer had been married for five years, and felt as +competent to lay down the law about husbands as about entrées.<br> +<br> +‘When you have had a larger experience of them, dear, you will +find that there is usually a reason, or at least a primitive instinct +of some sort, at the root of their actions. But, seriously, we +must really concentrate our attention upon the poet, for my other engagement +will call me away at four, which only leaves me ten minutes to reach +Maybury.’<br> +<br> +Mrs. Beecher and Maude settled down with anxious attention upon their +faces.<br> +<br> +‘Do please go on!’ they cried.<br> +<br> +‘Here is “The Pied Piper of Hamelin.”’<br> +<br> +‘Now that interests me more than I can tell,’ cried Maude, +with her eyes shining with pleasure. ‘Do please read us +everything there is about that dear piper.’<br> +<br> +‘Why so?’ asked her two companions.<br> +<br> +‘Well, the fact is,’ said Maude, ‘Frank - my husband, +you know - came to a fancy-dress at St. Albans as the Pied Piper. +I had no idea that it came from Browning.’<br> +<br> +‘How did he dress for it?’ asked Mrs. Beecher. ‘We +are invited to the Aston’s dress ball, and I want something suitable +for George.’<br> +<br> +‘It was a most charming dress. Red and black all over, something +like Mephistopheles, you know, and a peaked hat with a bell at the top. +Then he had a flute, of course, and a thin wire from his waist with +a stuffed rat at the end of it.’<br> +<br> +‘A rat! How horrid!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, that was the story, you know. The rats all followed +the Pied Piper, and so this rat followed Frank. He put it in his +pocket when he danced, but once he forgot, and so it got stood upon, +and the sawdust came out all over the floor.’<br> +<br> +Mrs. Hunt Mortimer was also invited to the dress ball, and her thoughts +flew away from the book in front of her.<br> +<br> +‘How did you go, Mrs. Crosse?’ she asked.<br> +<br> +‘I went as “Night.”’<br> +<br> +‘What! you with your brown hair!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, father said that I was not a very dark night. I was +in black, you know, just my ordinary black silk dinner-dress. +Then I had a silver half-moon over my head, and black veils round my +hair, and stars all over my bodice and skirt, with a long comet right +across the front. Father upset a cup of milk over me at supper, +and said afterwards that it was the milky way.’<br> +<br> +‘It is simply maddening how men <i>will </i>make jokes about the +most important subjects,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘But +I have no doubt, dear, that your dress was an exceedingly effective +one. Now, for my own part, I had some idea of going as the “Duchess +of Devonshire.”’<br> +<br> +‘Charming!’ cried Mrs. Beecher and Maude.<br> +<br> +‘It is not a very difficult costume, you know. I have some +old Point d’Alençon lace which has been in the family for +a century. I make it the starting-point of my costume. The +gown need not be very elaborate - ’<br> +<br> +‘Silk?’ asked Mrs. Beecher.<br> +<br> +‘Well, I thought that perhaps a white-flowered brocade - ’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, with pearl trimming.’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, dear, with my lace for trimming.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course. You said so.’<br> +<br> +‘And then a muslin fichu coming over here.’<br> +<br> +‘How perfectly sweet!’ cried Maude.<br> +<br> +‘And the waist cut high, and ruffles at the sleeves. And, +of course, a picture hat - you know what I mean - with a curling ostrich +feather.’<br> +<br> +‘Powdered hair, of course?’ said Mrs. Beecher.<br> +<br> +‘Powdered in ringlets.’<br> +<br> +‘It will suit you admirably - beautifully. You are tall +enough to carry it off, and you have the figure also. How I wish +I was equally certain about my own!’<br> +<br> +‘What had you thought of, dear?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I had some idea about “Ophelia.” Do you +think that it would do?’<br> +<br> +‘Certainly. Had you worked it out at all?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Beecher, relapsing into her pleasant +confidential manner. ‘I had some views, but, of course, +I should be so glad to have your opinion about it. I only saw +<i>Hamlet </i>once, and the lady was dressed in white, with a gauzy +light nun’s-veiling over it. I thought that with white pongee +silk as an under-dress, and then some sort of delicate - ’<br> +<br> +‘Crepe de Chine,’ Maude suggested.<br> +<br> +‘But in Ophelia’s day such a thing had never been heard +of,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘A net of silver thread +- ’<br> +<br> +‘Exactly,’ cried Mrs. Beecher, ‘with some sort of +jewelling upon it. That was just what I had imagined. Of +course it should be cut classically and draped - my dressmaker is such +a treasure - and I should have a gold embroidery upon the white silk.’<br> +<br> +‘Crewel work,’ said Maude.<br> +<br> +‘Or a plain cross-stitch pattern. Then a tiara of pearls +on the head. Shakespeare - ’<br> +<br> +At the name of the poet their three consciences pricked simultaneously. +They looked at each other and then at the clock with dismay.<br> +<br> +‘We must - we really <i>must </i>go on with our reading,’ +cried Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘How did we get talking about +these dresses?’<br> +<br> +‘It was my fault,’ said Mrs. Beecher, looking contrite.<br> +<br> +‘No, dear, it was mine,’ said Maude. ‘You remember +it all came from my saying that Frank had gone to the ball as the Pied +Piper.’<br> +<br> +‘I am going to read the very first poem that I open,’ said +Mrs. Hunt Mortimer remorselessly. ‘I am afraid that it is +almost time that I started, but we may still be able to skim over a +few pages. Now then! There! <i>Setebos</i>! +What a funny name!’<br> +<br> +‘What <i>does </i>it mean?’ asked Maude.<br> +<br> +‘We shall find out, no doubt, as we proceed,’ said Mrs. +Hunt Mortimer. ‘We shall take it line by line and draw the +full meaning from it. The first line is -<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Will sprawl now that the heat of day is best - ’<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Who will?’ asked Mrs. Beecher.<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know. That’s what it says.’<br> +<br> +‘The next line will explain, no doubt.’<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Flat on his - ’<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Dear me, I had no idea that Browning was like this!’<br> +<br> +‘Do read it, dear.’<br> +<br> +‘I couldn’t possibly think of doing so. With your +permission we will pass on to the next paragraph.’<br> +<br> +‘But we vowed not to skip.’<br> +<br> +‘But why read what cannot instruct or elevate us. Let us +begin this next stanza, and hope for something better. The first +line is - I wonder if it really can be as it is written.’<br> +<br> +‘Do please read it!’<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Setebos and Setebos and Setebos.’<br> +<br> +<br> +The three students looked sadly at each other. ‘This is +worse than anything I could have imagined,’ said the reader.<br> +<br> +‘We mast skip that line.’<br> +<br> +‘But we are skipping everything.’<br> +<br> +‘It’s a person’s name,’ said Mrs. Beecher.<br> +<br> +‘Or three persons.’<br> +<br> +‘No, only one, I think.’<br> +<br> +‘But why should he repeat it three times?’<br> +<br> +‘For emphasis!’<br> +<br> +‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Beecher, ‘it was Mr. Setebos, +and Mrs. Setebos, and a little Setebos.’<br> +<br> +‘Now, if you are going to make fun, I won’t read. +But I think we were wrong to say that we would take it line by line. +It would be easier sentence by sentence.’<br> +<br> +‘Quite so.’<br> +<br> +‘Then we will include the next line, which finishes the sentence. +It is, “thinketh he dwelleth in the cold of the moon.”’<br> +<br> +‘Then it <i>was </i>only one Setebos!’ cried Maude.<br> +<br> +‘So it appears. It is easy to understand if one will only +put it into ordinary language. This person Setebos was under the +impression that his life was spent in the moonlight.’<br> +<br> +‘But what nonsense it is!’ cried Mrs. Beecher. Mrs. +Hunt Mortimer looked at her reproachfully. ‘It is very easy +to call everything which we do not understand “nonsense,”’ +said she. ‘I have no doubt that Browning had a profound +meaning in this.’<br> +<br> +‘What was it, then?’<br> +<br> +Mrs. Hunt Mortimer looked at the clock.<br> +<br> +‘I am very sorry to have to go,’ said she, ‘but really +I have no choice in the matter. Just as we were getting on so +nicely - it is really most vexatious. You’ll come to my +house next Wednesday, Mrs. Crosse, won’t you? And you also, +Mrs. Beecher. Good-bye, and thanks for <i>such </i>a pleasant +afternoon!’<br> +<br> +But her skirts had hardly ceased to rustle in the passage before the +Browning Society had been dissolved by a two-thirds’ vote of the +total membership.<br> +<br> +‘What is the use?’ cried Mrs. Beecher. ‘Two +lines have positively made my head ache, and there are two volumes.’<br> +<br> +‘We must change our poet.’<br> +<br> +‘His verbosity!’ cried Mrs. Beecher.<br> +<br> +‘His Setebosity!’ cried Maude.<br> +<br> +‘And dear Mrs. Hunt Mortimer pretending to like him! Shall +we propose Tennyson next week?’<br> +<br> +‘It would be far better.’<br> +<br> +‘But Tennyson is quite simple, is he not?’<br> +<br> +‘Perfectly.’<br> +<br> +‘Then why should we meet to discuss him if there is nothing to +discuss?’<br> +<br> +‘You mean that we might as well each read him for herself.’<br> +<br> +‘I think it would be easier.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, of course it would.’<br> +<br> +And so after one hour of precarious life, Mrs. Hunt Mortimer’s +Mutual Improvement Society for the elucidation of Browning came to an +untimely end.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XVII - AN INVESTMENT<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +‘I want your advice, Maude.’<br> +<br> +She was looking very sweet and fresh in the morning sunlight. +She wore a flowered, French print blouse - little sprigs of roses on +a white background - and a lace frill round her pretty, white, smooth +throat. The buckle of her brown leather belt just gleamed over +the edge of the table-cloth. In front of her were a litter of +correspondence, a white cup of coffee, and two empty eggshells - for +she was a perfectly healthy young animal with an excellent appetite.<br> +<br> +‘Well, dear, what is it?’<br> +<br> +‘I shall take the later train. Then I need not hurry, and +can walk down at my ease.’<br> +<br> +‘How nice of you!’<br> +<br> +‘I am not sure that Dinton will think so.’<br> +<br> +‘Only one little hour of difference - what can it matter?’<br> +<br> +‘They don’t run offices on those lines. An hour means +a good deal in the City of London.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I do hate the City of London! It is the only thing +which ever comes between us.’<br> +<br> +‘I suppose that it separates a good many loving couples every +morning.’<br> +<br> +He had come across and an egg-cup had been upset. Then he had +been scolded, and they sat together laughing upon the sofa. When +he had finished admiring her little, shining, patent-leather, Louis +shoes and the two charming curves of open-work black stocking, she reminded +him that he had asked for her advice.<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, what was it?’ She knitted her brows and +tried to look as her father did when he considered a matter of business. +But then her father was not hampered by having a young man’s arm +round his neck. It is so hard to be business-like when any one +is curling one’s hair round his finger.<br> +<br> +‘I have some money to invest.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, how clever of you!’<br> +<br> +‘It is only fifty pounds.’<br> +<br> +‘Never mind, dear, it is a beginning.’<br> +<br> +‘That is what I feel. It is the foundation-stone of our +fortunes. And so I want Her Majesty to lay it - mustn’t +wrinkle your brow though - that is not allowed.’<br> +<br> +‘But it is a great responsibility, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, we must not lose it.’<br> +<br> +‘No, dear, we must not lose it. Suppose we invest it in +one of those modern fifty-guinea pianos. Our dear old Broadwood +was an excellent piano when I was a girl, but it is getting so squeaky +in the upper notes. Perhaps they would allow us something for +it.’<br> +<br> +He shook his head.<br> +<br> +‘I know that we want one very badly, dear. And such a musician +as you are should have the best instrument that money can buy. +I promise you that when we have a little to turn round on, you shall +have a beauty. But in the meantime we must not buy anything with +this money - I mean nothing for ourselves - we must invest it. +We cannot tell what might happen. I might fall ill. I might +die.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, how horrid you are this morning!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, we have to be ready for anything. So I want to put +this where we can get it on an emergency, and where in the meantime +it will bring us some interest. Now what shall we buy?’<br> +<br> +‘Papa always bought a house.’<br> +<br> +‘But we have not enough.’<br> +<br> +‘Not a little house?’<br> +<br> +‘No, not the smallest.’<br> +<br> +‘A mortgage, then?’<br> +<br> +‘The sum is too small.’<br> +<br> +‘Government stock, Frank - if you think it is safe.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, it is safe enough. But the interest is so low.’<br> +<br> +‘How much should we get?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I suppose the fifty pounds would bring us in about thirty +shillings a year.’<br> +<br> +‘Thirty shillings! O Frank!’<br> +<br> +‘Rather less than more.’<br> +<br> +‘Fancy a great rich nation like ours taking our fifty pounds and +treating us like that. How <i>mean </i>of them! Don’t +let them have it, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘No, I won’t.’<br> +<br> +‘If they want it, they can make us a fair offer for it.’<br> +<br> +‘I think we’ll try something else.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, they have only themselves to thank. But you have +some plan in your head, Frank. What is it?’<br> +<br> +He brought the morning paper over from the table. Then he folded +it so as to bring the financial columns to the top.<br> +<br> +‘I saw a fellow in the City yesterday who knows a great deal about +gold-mining. I only had a few minutes’ talk, but he strongly +advised me to have some shares in the El Dorado Proprietary Gold Mine.’<br> +<br> +‘What a nice name! I wonder if they would let us have any?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, they are to be bought in the open market. It is +like this, Maude. The mine was a very good one, and paid handsome +dividends. Then it had some misfortunes. First, there was +no water, and then there was too much water, and the workings were flooded. +So, of course, the price of the shares fell. Now they are getting +the mine all right again, but the shares are still low. It certainly +seems a very good chance to pick a few of them up.’<br> +<br> +‘Are they very dear, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘I looked them up in the <i>Mining Register </i>before I came +home yesterday. The original price of each share was ten shillings, +but as they have had these misfortunes, one would expect to find them +rather lower.’<br> +<br> +‘Ten shillings! It does not seem much to pay for a share +in a thing with a name like that.’<br> +<br> +‘Here it is,’ said he, pointing with a pencil to one name +in a long printed list. ‘This one, between the Royal Bonanza +and the Alabaster Consols. You see - El Dorado Proprietary! +Then after it you have printed, 4¾ - 4.875. I don’t +profess to know much about these things, but that of course means the +price.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, it is printed at the top of the column - “Yesterday’s +prices.”’<br> +<br> +‘Quito so. Well, we know that the original price of each +share was ten shillings, and of course they must have dropped with a +flood in the mine, so that these figures must mean that the price yesterday +was four shillings and nine-pence, or thereabouts.’<br> +<br> +‘What a clear head for business you have, dear!’<br> +<br> +‘I think we can’t do wrong in buying at that price. +You see, with our fifty pounds we could buy two hundred of them, and +then if they went up again we could sell, and take our profit.’<br> +<br> +‘How delightful! But suppose they don’t go up.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, they can’t go down. I should not think that +a share at four shillings and ninepence <i>could </i>go down very much. +There is no room. But it may go up to any extent.’<br> +<br> +‘Besides, your friend said that they would go up.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, he seemed quite confident about it. Well, what do +you think, Maude? Is it good enough or not?’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, I hardly dare advise you. Just imagine if we were +to lose it all. Do you think it would be wiser to get a hundred +shares, and then we could buy twenty-five pounds’ worth of Royal +Bonanza as well. It would be impossible for them both to go wrong.’<br> +<br> +‘The Royal Bonanza shares are dear, and then we have had no information +about it. I think we had better back our own opinion.’<br> +<br> +‘All right, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘Then that is settled. I have a telegraph-form here.’<br> +<br> +‘Could you not buy them yourself when you are in town?’<br> +<br> +‘No, you can’t buy things yourself. You have to do +it through a broker.’<br> +<br> +‘I always thought a broker was a horrid man, who came and took +your furniture away.’<br> +<br> +‘Ah, that’s another kind of broker. He comes afterwards. +I promised Harrison that he should have any business which I could put +in his way, so here goes. How is that?’ -<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Harrison, 13a Throgmorton Street, E.C. - Buy two hundred El Dorado +Proprietaries.<br> +<br> +‘CROSSE, Woking.’<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Doesn’t it sound rather peremptory, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, that is mere business.’<br> +<br> +‘I hope he won’t be offended.’<br> +<br> +‘I think I can answer for that.’<br> +<br> +‘You have not said the price.’<br> +<br> +‘One cannot say the price because one does not know it. +You see, it is always going up and down. By this time it may be +a little higher or a little lower than yesterday. There cannot +be much change, that is certain. Great Scot, Maude, it is ten-fifteen. +Three and a half minutes for a quarter of a mile. Good-bye, darling! +I just love you in that bodice. O Lord - good-bye!’<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Well, has anything happened?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, you have come back. Oh I am so glad to see you, you +dear old boy!’<br> +<br> +‘Take care of that window, darling!’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, my goodness, I hope he didn’t see. No, it’s +all right. He was looking the other way. We have the gold +shares all right.’<br> +<br> +‘Harrison has telegraphed?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, here it is.’ -<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Crosse, The Lindens, Woking. - Bought two hundred El Dorados +at 4¾.<br> +<br> +HARRISON.’<br> +<br> +<br> +‘That is capital. I rather expected to see Harrison in the +train. I shouldn’t be surprised if he calls on his way from +the station. He has to pass our door, you know, on his way to +Maybury.’<br> +<br> +‘He is sure to call.’<br> +<br> +‘What are you holding there?’<br> +<br> +‘It’s a paper.’<br> +<br> +‘What paper?’<br> +<br> +‘Who is it who talks about woman’s curiosity?’<br> +<br> +‘Let me see it.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, sir, if you must know, it is the <i>Financial Whisper.’<br> +<br> +</i>‘Where in the world did you get it?’<br> +<br> +‘I knew that the Montresors took a financial paper. I remember +Mrs. Montresor saying once how dreadfully dry it was. So when +you were gone I sent Jemima round and borrowed it, and I have read it +right through to see if there was anything about our mine in it <i>- +our </i>mine, Frank; does it not sound splendid?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, is there anything?’<br> +<br> +She clapped her hands with delight.<br> +<br> +‘Yes, there is. “This prosperous mine - ” that +is what it says. Look here, it is under the heading of Australian +Notes,’ she held out the paper and pointed, but his face fell +as he looked.<br> +<br> +‘O Maude, it’s preposterous.’<br> +<br> +‘What is preposterous?’<br> +<br> +‘The word is preposterous and not prosperous - “this preposterous +mine.”’<br> +<br> +‘Frank!’ She turned her face away.<br> +<br> +‘Never mind, dear! What’s the odds?’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, our first investment - our fifty pounds! And to +think that I should have kept the paper as a surprise for you!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, the print is a little slurred, and it was a very natural +mistake. After all, the paper may be wrong. Oh don’t, +Maude, please don’t! It’s not worth it - all the gold +on the earth is not worth it. There’s a sweet girlie! +Now, are you better? Oh, damn those open curtains!’<br> +<br> +A tall and brisk young man with a glossy hat was coming through the +garden. An instant later Jemima had ushered him in.<br> +<br> +‘Hullo, Harrison!’<br> +<br> +‘How do you do, Crosse? How are you, Mrs. Crosse?’<br> +<br> +‘How do you do? I’ll just order tea if you will excuse +me.’<br> +<br> +Ordering tea seemed to involve a good deal of splashing water. +Maude came back with a merrier face.<br> +<br> +‘Is this a good paper, Mr. Harrison?’<br> +<br> +‘What is it? <i>Financial Whisper</i>! No, the most +venal rag in the city.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I am so glad!’<br> +<br> +‘Why?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, you know, we bought some shares to-day, and it calls our +mine a preposterous one.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, is that all. Who cares what the <i>Financial Whisper +</i>says! It would call the Bank of England a preposterous institution +if it thought it could bear Consols by doing so. Its opinion is +not worth a halfpenny. By the way, Crosse, it was about those +shares that I called.’<br> +<br> +‘I thought you might. I have only just got back myself, +and I saw by your wire that you had bought them all right.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I thought I had better let you have your contract at once. +Settling day is on Monday, you know.’<br> +<br> +‘All right. Thank you. I will let you have a cheque. +What - what’s this?’<br> +<br> +The contract had been laid face upwards upon the table. Frank +Crosse’s face grew whiter and his eyes larger as he stared at +it. It ran in this way -<br> +<br> +<br> +13a THROGMORTON STREET.<br> +<br> +Bought for Francis Crosse, Esq.<br> +<br> +<pre> +(Subject to the Specific Rules and Regulations of the Stock Exchange.)<br> +200 El Dorado Proprietaries at 4¾ £950 + 0 0<br> +Stamps and Fees + 4 17 6<br> +Commission + 7 10 0<br> + £962 + 7 6<br> +<br> +For the 7th inst.<br> +</pre> +<p> +<br> +<br> +‘I fancy there is some mistake here, Harrison,’ said he, +speaking with a very dry pair of lips.<br> +<br> +‘A mistake!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, this is not at all what I expected.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank! Nearly a thousand pounds!’ gasped Maude.<br> +<br> +Harrison glanced from one of them to the other. He saw that the +matter was serious.<br> +<br> +‘I am very sorry if there has been any mistake. I tried +to obey your instructions. You wanted two hundred El Dorados, +did you not?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, at four and ninepence.’<br> +<br> +‘Four and ninepence! They are four pound fifteen each.’<br> +<br> +‘But I read that they were only ten shillings originally, and +that they had been falling.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, they have been falling for months. But they were as +high as ten pounds once. They are down at four pound fifteen now.’<br> +<br> +‘Why on earth could the paper not say so?’<br> +<br> +‘When a fraction is used, it always means a fraction of a pound.’<br> +<br> +‘Good heavens! And I have to find this sum before Monday.’<br> +<br> +‘Monday is settling day.’<br> +<br> +‘I can’t do it, Harrison. It is impossible.’<br> +<br> +‘Then there is the obvious alternative.’<br> +<br> +‘No, I had rather die. I will never go bankrupt - never!’<br> +<br> +Harrison began to laugh, and then turned stonily solemn as he met a +pair of reproachful grey eyes.<br> +<br> +‘It strikes me that you have not done much at this game, Crosse.’<br> +<br> +‘Never before - and by Heaven, never again!’<br> +<br> +‘You take it much too hard. When I spoke of an alternative, +I never dreamed of bankruptcy. All you have to do is to sell your +stock to-morrow morning, and pay the difference.’<br> +<br> +‘Can I do that?’<br> +<br> +‘Rather. Why not?’<br> +<br> +‘What would the difference be?’<br> +<br> +Harrison took an evening paper from his pocket. ‘We deal +in rails chiefly, and I don’t profess to keep in touch with the +mining market. We’ll find the quotation here. By Jove!’ +He whistled between his teeth.<br> +<br> +‘Well!’ said Frank, and felt his wife’s little warm +palm fall upon his hand under the table.<br> +<br> +‘The difference is in your favour.’<br> +<br> +‘In my favour?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, listen to this. “The mining markets, both the +South African and the Australian, opened dull, but grew more animated +as the day proceeded, prices closing at the best. Out crops upon +the Rand mark a general advance of one-sixteenth to one-eighth. +The chief feature in the Australian section was a sharp advance of five-eighths +in El Dorados, upon a telegram that the workings had been pumped dry.” +Crosse, I congratulate you.’<br> +<br> +‘I can really sell them for more than I gave?’<br> +<br> +‘I should think so. You have two hundred of them, and a +profit of ten shillings on each.’<br> +<br> +‘Maude, we’ll have the whisky and the soda. Harrison, +you must have a drink. Why, that’s a hundred pounds.’<br> +<br> +‘More than a hundred.’<br> +<br> +‘Without my paying anything?’<br> +<br> +‘Not a penny.’<br> +<br> +‘When does the Exchange open to-morrow?’<br> +<br> +‘The rattle goes at eleven.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, be there at eleven, Harrison. Sell them at once.’<br> +<br> +‘You won’t hold on and watch the market?’<br> +<br> +‘No, no - I won’t have an easy moment until they are sold.’<br> +<br> +‘All right, my boy. You can rely upon me. You will +get a cheque for your balance on Tuesday or Wednesday. Good evening! +I am so glad that it has all ended well.’<br> +<br> +‘And the joke of it is, Maude,’ said her husband, after +they had talked over the whole adventure from the beginning. ‘The +joke of it is that we have still to find an investment for our original +fifty pounds. I am inclined to put it into Consols after all.’<br> +<br> +‘Well,’ said Maude, ‘perhaps it would be the patriotic +thing to do.’<br> +<br> +Two days later the poor old Broadwood with the squeaky treble and the +wheezy bass was banished for ever from The Lindens, and there arrived +in its place a ninety-five-guinea cottage grand, all dark walnut and +gilding, with notes in it so deep and rich and resonant that Maude could +sit before it by the hour and find music enough in simply touching one +here and one there, and listening to the soft, sweet, reverberant tones +which came swelling from its depths. Her El Dorado piano, she +called it, and tried to explain to lady visitors how her husband had +been so clever at business that he had earned it in a single day. +As she was never very clear in her own mind how the thing had occurred, +she never succeeded in explaining it to any one else, but a vague and +solemn impression became gradually diffused abroad that young Mr. Frank +Crosse was a very remarkable man, and that he had done something exceedingly +clever in the matter of an Australian mine.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XVIII - A THUNDERCLOUD<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Blue skies and shining sun, but far down on the horizon one dark cloud +gathers and drifts slowly upwards unobserved. Frank Crosse was +aware of its shadow when coming down to breakfast he saw an envelope +with a well-remembered handwriting beside his plate. How he had +loved that writing once, how his heart had warmed and quickened at the +sight of it, how eagerly he had read it - and now a viper coiled upon +the white table-cloth would hardly have given him a greater shock. +Contradictory, incalculable, whimsical life! A year ago how scornfully +he would have laughed, what contemptuous unbelief would have filled +his soul, if he had been told that any letter of hers could have struck +him cold with the vague apprehension of coming misfortune. He +tore off the envelope and threw it into the fire. But before he +could glance at the letter there was the quick patter of his wife’s +feet upon the stair, and she burst, full of girlish health and high +spirits, into the little room. She wore a pink crepon dressing-gown, +with cream guipure lace at the neck and wrists. Pink ribbon outlined +her trim waist. The morning sun shone upon her, and she seemed +to him to be the daintiest, sweetest tiling upon earth. He had +thrust his letter into his pocket as she entered.<br> +<br> +‘You will excuse the dressing-gown, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘I just love you in it. No, you mustn’t pass. +Now you can go.’<br> +<br> +‘I was so afraid that you would breakfast without me that I had +no time to dress. I shall have the whole day to finish in when +you are gone. There now - Jemima has forgotten to warm the plates +again! And your coffee is cold. I wish you had not waited.’<br> +<br> +‘Better cold coffee with Maude’s society.’<br> +<br> +‘I always thought men gave up complimenting their wives after +they married them. I am so glad you don’t. I think +on the whole that women’s ideas of men are unfair and severe. +The reason is that the women who have met unpleasant men run about and +make a noise, but the women who are happy just keep quiet and enjoy +themselves. For example, I have not time to write a book explaining +to every one how nice Frank Crosse is; but if he were nasty my life +would be empty, and so of course I should write my book.’<br> +<br> +‘I feel such a fraud when you talk like that.’<br> +<br> +‘That is part of your niceness.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh don’t, Maude! It really hurts me.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, Frank, what is the matter with you to-day?’<br> +<br> +‘Nothing, dear.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, there is. I can tell easily.’<br> +<br> +‘Perhaps I am not quite myself.’<br> +<br> +‘No, I am sure that you are not. I believe that you have +a cold coming on. O Frank, do take some ammoniated quinine.’<br> +<br> +‘Good heavens, no!’<br> +<br> +‘Please! Please!’<br> +<br> +‘My dear girlie, there is nothing the matter with me.’<br> +<br> +‘But it is such splendid stuff.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I know. But really I don’t want it.’<br> +<br> +‘Have you had any letters, Frank?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, one.’<br> +<br> +‘Anything important?’<br> +<br> +‘I have hardly glanced at it yet.’<br> +<br> +‘Glance at it now.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I will keep it for the train. Good-bye, dearest. +It is time that I was off.’<br> +<br> +‘If you would only take the ammoniated quinine. You men +are so proud and obstinate. Good-bye, darling. Eight hours, +and then I shall begin to live again.’<br> +<br> +He had a quiet corner of a carriage to himself, so he unfolded his letter +and read it. Then he read it again with frowning brows and compressed +lips. It ran in this way -<br> +<br> +<br> +My Dearest Frankie, - I suppose that I should not address you like this +now that you are a good little married man, but the force of custom +is strong, and, after all, I knew you long before she did. I don’t +suppose you were aware of it, but there was a time when I could very +easily have made you marry me, in spite of all you may know about my +trivial life and adventures, but I thought it all over very carefully, +and I came to the conclusion that it was not good enough. You +were always a dear good chap yourself, but your prospects were not quite +dashing enough for your festive Violet. I believe in a merry time +even if it is a short one. But if I had really wanted to settle +down in a humdrum sort of way, you are the man whom I should have chosen +out of the whole batch of them. I hope what I say won’t +make you conceited, for one of your best points used to be your modesty.<br> +<br> +But for all that, my dear Frankie, I by no means give you up altogether, +and don’t you make any mistake about that. It was only yesterday +that I saw Charlie Scott, and he told me all about you, and gave me +your address. Don’t you bless him? And yet I don’t +know. Perhaps you have still a kindly thought of your old friend, +and would like to see her.<br> +<br> +But you are going to see her whether you like or not, my dear boy, so +make up your mind to that. You know how you used to chaff me about +my whims. Well, I’ve got a whim now, and I’ll have +my way as usual. I am going to see you to-morrow, and if you won’t +see me under my conditions in London, I shall call at Woking in the +evening. Oh my goodness, what a bombshell! But you know +that I am always as good as my word. So look out!<br> +<br> +Now I’ll give you your orders for the day, and don’t you +forget them. To-morrow (Thursday, 14th, no excuses about the date) +you will leave your office at 3.30. I know that you can when you +like. You will drive to Mariani’s, and you will find me +at the door. We shall go up to our old private room, and we shall +have tea together, and a dear old chat about all sorts of things. +So come! But if you don’t, there is a train which leaves +Waterloo at 6.10 and reaches Woking at 7. I will come by it and +be just in time for dinner. What a joke it will be!<br> +<br> +Good-bye, old boy! I hope your wife does not read your letters, +or this will rather give her fits.<br> +<br> +- Yours as ever, VIOLET WRIGHT.<br> +<br> +<br> +At the first reading this letter filled him with anger. To be +wooed by a very pretty woman is pleasant even to the most austere of +married men (and never again trust the one who denies it), but to be +wooed with a very dangerous threat mixed up with the wooing is no such +pleasant experience. And it was no empty threat. Violet +was a woman who prided herself upon being as good as her word. +She had laughingly said with her accustomed frankness upon one occasion +that it was her sole remaining virtue. If he did not go to Mariani’s, +she would certainly come to Woking. He shuddered to think of Maude +being annoyed by her. It was one thing to speak in a general way +to his wife of prematrimonial experiences, and it was another to have +this woman forcing herself upon her and making a scene. The idea +was so vulgar. The sweet, pure atmosphere of The Lindens would +never be the same again.<br> +<br> +No, there was no getting out of it. He must go to Mariani’s. +He was sufficiently master of himself to know that no harm could come +of that. His absolute love for his wife shielded him from all +danger. The very thought of infidelity nauseated him. And +then, as the idea became more familiar to him, other emotions succeeded +that of anger. There was an audacity about his old flame, a spirit +and devilment, which appealed to his sporting instincts. Besides, +it was complimentary to him, and flattering to his masculine vanity, +that she should not give him up without a struggle. Merely as +a friend it would not be disagreeable to see her again. Before +he had reached Clapham Junction his anger had departed, and by the time +that he arrived at Waterloo he was surprised to find himself looking +forward to the interview.<br> +<br> +Mariani’s is a quiet restaurant, famous for its <i>lachryma christi +spumante, </i>and situated in the network of sombre streets between +Drury Lane and Covent Garden. The fact of its being in a by-street +was not unfavourable to its particular class of business. Its +customers were very free from the modern vice of self-advertisement, +and would even take some trouble to avoid publicity. Nor were +they gregarious or luxurious in their tastes. A small, simple +apartment was usually more to their taste than a crowded salon, and +they were even prepared to pay a higher sum for it.<br> +<br> +It was five minutes to four when Frank arrived, and the lady had not +yet appeared. He stood near the door and waited. Presently +a hansom rattled into the narrow street, and there she sat framed in +its concavity. A pretty woman never looks prettier than in a hansom, +with the shadows behind to give their Rembrandt effect to the face in +front. She raised a yellow kid hand, and flashed a smile at him.<br> +<br> +‘Just the same as ever,’ said she, as he handed her down.<br> +<br> +‘So are you.’<br> +<br> +‘So glad you think so. I am afraid I can’t quite agree +with you. Thirty-four yesterday. It’s simply awful. +Thank you, I have some change. All right, cabby. Well, have +you got a room?’<br> +<br> +‘No.’<br> +<br> +‘But you’ll come?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, I should like to have a chat.’<br> +<br> +The clean-shaven, round-faced manager, a man of suave voice and diplomatic +manner, was standing in the passage. His strange life was spent +in standing in the passage. He remembered the pair at once, and +smiled paternally.<br> +<br> +‘Not seen you for some time, sir!’<br> +<br> +‘No, I have been engaged.’<br> +<br> +‘Married,’ said the lady.<br> +<br> +‘Dear me!’ said the proprietor. ‘Tea, sir?’<br> +<br> +‘And muffins. You used to like the muffins.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, muffins by all means.’<br> +<br> +‘Number ten,’ said the proprietor, and a waiter showed them +upstairs. ‘All meals nine shillings each,’ he whispered, +as Frank passed him at the door. He was a new waiter, and so mistook +every one for a new customer, which is an error which runs through life.<br> +<br> +It was a dingy little room with a round table covered by a soiled cloth +in the middle. Two windows, discreetly blinded, let in a dim London +light. An armchair stood at each side of the empty fireplace, +and an uncomfortable, old-fashioned, horsehair sofa lined the opposite +wall. There were pink vases upon the mantelpiece, and a portrait +of Garibaldi above it.<br> +<br> +The lady sat down and took off her gloves. Frank stood by the +window and smoked a cigarette. The waiter rattled and banged and +jingled with the final effect of producing a tea-tray and a hot-water +dish. ‘You’ll ring if you want me, sir,’ said +he, and shut the door with ostentatious completeness.<br> +<br> +‘Now we can talk,’ said Frank, throwing his cigarette into +the fireplace. ‘That waiter was getting on my nerves.’<br> +<br> +‘I say, I hope you’re not angry.’<br> +<br> +‘What at?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, my saying I should come down to Woking, and all that.’<br> +<br> +‘I should have been angry if I thought you had meant it.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I meant it right enough.’<br> +<br> +‘But with what object?’<br> +<br> +‘Just to get level with you, Frankie, if you threw me over too +completely. Hang it all, she has three hundred and sixty-five +days in the year! Am I to be grudged a single hour?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, Violet, we won’t quarrel about it. You see +I came all right. Pull up your chair and have some tea.’<br> +<br> +‘You haven’t even looked at me yet. I won’t +take any tea until you do.’<br> +<br> +She stood up in front of him, and pushed up her veil. It was a +face and a figure worth looking at. Hazel eyes, dark chestnut +hair, a warm flush of pink in her cheeks, the features and outline of +an old Grecian goddess, but with more of Juno than of Venus, for she +might perhaps err a little upon the side of opulence. There was +a challenge and defiance dancing in those dark devil-may-care eyes of +hers which might have roused a more cold-blooded man than her companion. +Her dress was simple and dark, but admirably cut. She was clever +enough to know that a pretty woman should concentrate attention upon +herself, and a plain one divert it to her adornments.<br> +<br> +‘Well?’<br> +<br> +‘By Jove, Violet, you look splendid.’<br> +<br> +‘Well?’<br> +<br> +‘The muffins are getting cold.’<br> +<br> +‘Frankie, what <i>is </i>the matter with you?’<br> +<br> +‘Nothing is the matter.’<br> +<br> +‘Well?’<br> +<br> +She put out her two hands and took hold of his. That well-remembered +sweet, subtle scent of hers rose to his nostrils. There is nothing +more insidious than a scent which carries suggestions and associations. +‘Frankie, you have not kissed me yet.’<br> +<br> +She turned her smiling face upwards and sideways, and for an instant +he leaned forward towards it. But he had himself in hand again +in a moment. It gave him confidence to find how quickly and completely +he could do it. With a laugh, still holding her two hands, he +pushed her back into the chair by the table.<br> +<br> +‘There’s a good girl!’ said he. ‘Now we’ll +have some tea, and I’ll give you a small lecture while we do so.’<br> +<br> +‘You are a nice one to give lectures.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, there’s no such preacher as a converted sinner.’<br> +<br> +‘You really are converted then?’<br> +<br> +‘Rather. Two lumps, if I remember right. You ought +to do this, not I. No milk, and very strong - how you keep your +complexion I can’t imagine. But you do keep it; my word, +you do! Now please don’t look so crossly at me.’<br> +<br> +Her flushed cheeks and resentful eyes had drawn forth the remonstrance.<br> +<br> +‘You <i>are </i>changed,’ she said, with surprise as well +as anger in her voice.<br> +<br> +‘Why, of course I am. I am married.’<br> +<br> +‘For that matter Charlie Scott is married.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t give Charlie Scott away.’<br> +<br> +‘I think I give myself away. So you have lost all your love +for me. I thought it was to last for ever.’<br> +<br> +‘Now, do be sensible, Violet.’<br> +<br> +‘Sensible! How I loathe that word! A man only uses +it when he is going to do something cold-blooded and mean. It +is always the beginning of the end.’<br> +<br> +‘What do you want me to do?’<br> +<br> +‘I want you to be my own Frankie - just the same as before. +Ah do, Franck - don’t leave me! You know I would give any +of them up for you. And you have a good influence over me - you +have really! You call’t think how hard I am with other people. +Ask Charlie Scott. He will tell you. I’ve been so +different since I have lost sight of you. Now, Frankie, don’t +be horrid to me! Kiss and be nice!’ Again her soft +warm hand was upon his, and the faint sweet smell of violets went to +his blood like wine. He jumped up, lit another cigarette, and +paced about the room.<br> +<br> +‘You shan’t have a cigarette, Frankie.’<br> +<br> +‘Why not?’<br> +<br> +‘Because you said once it helped you to control yourself. +I don’t want you to control yourself. I want you to feel +as I feel.’<br> +<br> +‘Do sit down, like a good girl!’<br> +<br> +‘Cigarette out!’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t be absurd, Violet!’<br> +<br> +‘Come, out with it, sir.’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, leave it alone!’<br> +<br> +She had snatched it from his lips and thrown it into the grate.<br> +<br> +‘What is the use of that? I have a case full.’<br> +<br> +‘They shall all follow the first.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, then, I won’t smoke.’<br> +<br> +‘I’ll see that you don’t.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, what the better are you for that?’<br> +<br> +‘Now, be nice.’<br> +<br> +‘Go back to your chair and have some more tea.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, bother the tea!’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I won’t speak to you unless you sit down and behave +yourself.’<br> +<br> +‘There now! Speak away.’<br> +<br> +‘Look here, dear Violet, you must not talk about this any more. +Some things are possible and some are impossible. This is absolutely, +finally impossible. We can never go back upon the past. +It is finished and done with.’<br> +<br> +‘Then what did you come here for?’<br> +<br> +‘To bid you good-bye.’<br> +<br> +‘A Platonic good-bye.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course.’<br> +<br> +‘In a private room at Mariani’s.’<br> +<br> +‘Why not?’<br> +<br> +She laughed bitterly.<br> +<br> +‘You were always a little mad, Frankie.’<br> +<br> +He leaned earnestly over the table.<br> +<br> +‘Look here, Violet, the chances are that we shall never meet again.’<br> +<br> +‘It takes two to say that.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I mean that after to-day I should not meet you again. +If you were not quite what you are it would be easier. But as +it is I find it a little too much of a test. No, don’t mistake +me or think that I am weakening. That is impossible. But +all the same I don’t want to go through it again.’<br> +<br> +‘So sorry if I have upset you.’<br> +<br> +He disregarded her irony.<br> +<br> +‘We have been very good friends, Violet. Why should we part +as enemies?’<br> +<br> +‘Why should we part at all?’<br> +<br> +‘We won’t go back over that. Now do please look facts +in the face and help me to do the right thing, for it would be so much +easier if you would help me. If you were a very good and kind +girl you would shake my hand, like any other old pal, and wish me joy +of my marriage. You know that I should do so if I knew that you +were going to be married.’<br> +<br> +But the lady was not to be so easily appeased. She took her tea +in silence or answered his remarks with monosyllables, while the occasional +flash of her dark eyes as she raised them was like the distant lightning +which heralds the storm. Suddenly, with a swift rustle of skirts, +she was between the door and his chair.<br> +<br> +‘Now, Frankie, we have had about enough of this nonsense,’ +said she. ‘Don’t imagine that you are going to get +out of this thing so easily. I’ve got you, and I’ll +keep you.’<br> +<br> +He faced round in his chair and looked helplessly at her with a hand +upon each knee.<br> +<br> +‘O Lord! Don’t begin it all over again,’ said +he.<br> +<br> +‘No, I won’t,’ she answered with an angry laugh. +‘I’ll try another line this time, Master Frank. I’m +not the sort of woman who lets a thing go easily when once I have set +my heart upon it. I won’t try coaxing any longer - ’<br> +<br> +‘So glad,’ he murmured.<br> +<br> +‘You may say what you like, but you can’t do it, my boy. +I knew you before she did, and I’ll keep you, or else I’ll +make such a row that you will be sorry that you ever put my back up. +It’s all very fine to sit there and preach, but it won’t +do, Frankie. You can’t slip out of things as easily as all +that.’<br> +<br> +‘Why should you turn nasty like this, Violet? What do you +think you will gain by it?’<br> +<br> +‘I mean to gain <i>you</i>. I like you, Frankie. I’m +not sure that I don’t really love you - real, real love, you know. +Any way, I don’t intend to let you go, and if you go against my +will I give you my word that I shall make it pretty sultry for you down +at Woking.’<br> +<br> +He stared moodily into his teacup.<br> +<br> +‘Besides, what rot it all is!’ she continued, laying her +hand upon his shoulder. ‘When did you begin to ride the +high moral horse? You were just as cheerful as the rest of them +when last I saw you. You speak as if a man ceased to live just +because he is married. What has changed you?’<br> +<br> +‘I’ll tell you what has changed me,’ said he, looking +up. ‘My wife has changed me.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, bother your wife!’<br> +<br> +A look which was new to her came over his face.<br> +<br> +‘Stop that!’ said he sharply.<br> +<br> +‘Oh, no harm! How has your wife made this wonderful change?’<br> +<br> +His mood softened as his thoughts flew back to Woking.<br> +<br> +‘By her own goodness - the atmosphere that she makes round her. +If you knew how wholesome she was, how delicate in her most intimate +thoughts, how fresh and how sweet and how pure, you would understand +that the thought of being false to her is horrible. When I think +of her as she sat at breakfast this morning, so loving and so innocent +- ’<br> +<br> +He would have been more discreet if he had been less eloquent. +The lady’s temper suddenly overflowed.<br> +<br> +‘Innocent!’ she cried. ‘As innocent as I am.’<br> +<br> +He sprang to his feet with eyes which were more angry than her own.<br> +<br> +‘Hold your tongue! How dare you talk against my wife! +You are not fit to mention her name.’<br> +<br> +‘I’ll go to Woking,’ she gasped.<br> +<br> +‘You can go to the devil!’ said he, and rang the bell for +his bill. She stared at him with a surprise which had eclipsed +her anger, while she pulled on her gloves with little sharp twitches. +This was a new Frank Crosse to her. As long as a woman gets on +very well with a man, she is apt, at the back of her soul, to suspect +him of weakness. It is only when she differs from him that she +can see the other side, and it always comes as a surprise. She +liked him better than ever for the revelation.<br> +<br> +‘I’m not joking,’ she whispered, as they went down +the stair. ‘I’ll go, as sure as fate.’<br> +<br> +He took no notice, but passed on down the street without a word of farewell. +When he came to the turning he looked back. She was standing by +the curb, with her proud head high in the air, while the manager screamed +loudly upon a whistle. A cab swung round a distant corner. +Crosse reached her before it did.<br> +<br> +‘I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings,’ said he. +‘I spoke too roughly.’<br> +<br> +‘Trying to coax me away from Woking,’ she sneered. +‘I’m coming all the same.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s your affair,’ said he, as he handed her into +the cab.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XIX - DANGER<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Again the bright little dining-room, with the morning sun gleaming upon +the high silver coffee pot and the electro-plated toast-rack - everything +the same, down to the plates which Jemima had once again forgotten to +warm. Maude, with the golden light playing upon the fringes of +her curls, and throwing two little epaulettes of the daintiest pink +across her shoulders, sat in silence, glancing across from time to time +with interrogative eyes at her husband. He ate his breakfast moodily, +for he was very ill at ease. There was a struggle within him, +for his conscience was pulling him one way and his instincts the other. +Instincts are a fine old conservative force, while conscience is a thing +of yesterday, so it is usually safe to prophesy which will sway the +other.<br> +<br> +The matter at issue was whether he should tell Maude about Violet Wright. +If she were going to carry out her threat, then certainly it would be +better to prepare her. But after all, his arguments of yesterday +might prevail with her when her first impetuous fit of passion was over. +Why should he go half-way to meet danger? If it came, nothing +which he could say would ward it off. If it did not come, there +was no need for saying anything. Conscience told him that it would +be better to be perfectly straight with his wife. Instinct told +him that though she would probably be sweet and sympathetic over it, +yet it would rankle in her mind and poison her thoughts. And perhaps +for once, Instinct may have been better than Conscience. Do not +ask too many questions, you young wife! Do not be too free with +your reminiscences, you young husband. There are things which +can be forgiven, but never, never, can they be forgotten. That +highest thing on earth, the heart of a loving woman, is too tender, +too sacred, to be bruised by a wanton confidence. You are hers. +She is yours. The future lies with both of you. It is wiser +to leave the past alone. The couples who boast that they have +never had a secret are sometimes happy because the boast is sometimes +untrue.<br> +<br> +‘You won’t be late to-day, Frank,’ said Maude at last, +peeping round the tall coffee-pot.<br> +<br> +‘No, dear, I won’t.’<br> +<br> +‘You were yesterday, you know.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I know I was.’<br> +<br> +‘Were you kept at the office?’<br> +<br> +‘No, I had tea with a friend.’<br> +<br> +‘At his house?’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, at a restaurant. Where has Jemima put my boots? +I wonder if she has cleaned them. I can never tell by looking. +Here they are. And my coat? Anything I can get you in town? +Well, good-bye, dear, good-bye!’ Maude had never seen him +make so hurried an exit.<br> +<br> +It is always a mystery to the City man how his wife puts in the seven +hours a day of loneliness while the E.C. has claimed him for its own. +She cannot explain it to him, for she can hardly explain it to herself. +It is frittered away in a thousand little tasks, each trivial in itself, +and yet making in their sum the difference between a well-ordered and +a neglected household. Under the illustrious guidance of the omniscient +Mrs. Beeton there is the usual routine to be gone through. The +cook has to be seen, the larder examined, the remains cunningly transformed +into new and attractive shapes, the dinner to be ordered (anything will +do for lunch), and the new supplies to be got in. The husband +accepts the excellent little dinner, the fried sole, the <i>ris de veau +en caisse</i>, the lemon pudding, as if they had grown automatically +out of the table-cloth. He knows nothing of the care, the judgment, +the prevision which ring the changes with every season, which never +relax and never mistake. He enjoys the fruits, but he ignores +the work which raised them. And yet the work goes cheerfully and +uncomplainingly on.<br> +<br> +Then when every preparation has been made for the dinner - that solemn +climax of the British day, there is plenty for Maude to do. There +is the white chiffon to be taken out of the neck of that dress, and +the pink to be put in. Amateur dressmaking is always going on +at The Lindens, and Frank has become more careful in his caresses since +he found one evening that his wife had a row of pins between her lips +- which is not a pleasant discovery to make with your own. Then +there are drawers to be tidied, and silver to be cleaned, and the leaves +of the gutta-percha plant to be washed, and the feather which was damped +yesterday to be re-curled before the fire. That leaves just time +before lunch to begin the new novel by glancing at the last two pages +to see what <i>did </i>happen, and then the three minutes lunch of a +lonely woman. So much for business, now for the more trying social +duties. The pink dressing-gown is shed and a trim little walking +dress - French grey cloth with white lisse in front and a grey zouave +jacket - takes its place. Visiting strangers is not nearly so +hard when you are pleased with your dress, and even entertaining becomes +more easy when your costumière lives in Regent Street. +On Tuesdays Maude is at home. Every other day she hunts through +her plate of cards, and is overwhelmed by the sense of her rudeness +towards her neighbours. But her task is never finished, though +day after day she comes back jaded with her exertions. Strangers +still call upon her - ‘hope it is not too late to do the right +thing, and to welcome,’ etc., etc. - and they have to be re-visited. +While she is visiting them, other cards appear upon her hall table, +and so the foolish and tiresome convention continues to exhaust the +time and the energies of its victim.<br> +<br> +Those original receptions were really very difficult. Jemima announced +a name which might or might not bear some relation to the visitor’s. +The lady entered. Her name might perhaps be Mrs. Baker. +Maude had no means of knowing who Mrs. Baker might be. The visitor +seldom descended to an explanation. Ten minutes of desultory and +forced conversation about pinewoods and golf and cremation. A +cup of tea and a departure. Then Maude would rush to the card-tray +to try to find out whom it was that she had been talking to, and what +it was all about.<br> +<br> +Maude did not intend to go visiting that particular day, and she had +hoped that no one might visit her. The hours of danger were almost +past, and it was close upon four o’clock, when there came a brisk +pull at the bell.<br> +<br> +‘Mrs. White,’ said Jemima, opening the drawing-room door.<br> +<br> +‘Wright,’ said the visitor, as she walked in - ‘Mrs. +Violet Wright.’<br> +<br> +Maude rose with her pleasant smile. It was a peculiarly sweet +and kindly smile, for it was inspired by a gentle womanly desire to +make things pleasant for all who were around her. Amiability was +never artificial with her, for she had the true instincts of a lady +- those instincts so often spoken of, so seldom, so very seldom seen. +Like a gentleman, or a Christian, or any other ideal, it is but a poor +approximation which is commonly attained.<br> +<br> +But the visitor did not respond to the pretty gesture of welcome, nor +did her handsome face return that sympathetic smile. They stood +for an instant looking at each other, the one tall, masterful, mature, +the other sweet, girlish, and self-distrustful, but each beautiful and +engaging in her own way. Lucky Master Frank, whose past and present +could take such a form; but luckier still if he could have closed the +past when the present opened. The visitor was silent, but her +dark eyes looked critically and fixedly at her rival. Maude, setting +the silence down to the shyness of a first visit, tried to make matters +easier.<br> +<br> +‘Please try this armchair. No doubt you have had a tiring +walk. It is still very warm in the afternoons. I think it +was so kind of you to call.’<br> +<br> +A faint smile flickered upon the dark face.<br> +<br> +‘Kind of me to call!’ said she.<br> +<br> +‘Yes; for in a rising place like Woking, with so many new arrivals, +it must be quite a task for the older inhabitants to welcome them. +I have been so surprised by the kindness which every one has shown.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I see,’ said her visitor, ‘you think that I live +here. I have really just come down from London.’<br> +<br> +‘Indeed,’ said Maude, and awaited an explanation. +As none was forthcoming, she added, ‘You will find Woking a very +nice place.’<br> +<br> +‘A nice place to be buried in, alive or dead,’ said her +visitor.<br> +<br> +There was something peculiarly ungracious in her tone and manner. +It seemed to Maude that she had never before been alone with so singular +a person. There was, in the first place, her striking and yet +rather sinister and voluptuous beauty.<br> +<br> +Then there was the absolute carelessness of her manner, the quiet assumption +that she was outside the usual conventionalities of life. It is +a manner only to be met in English life, among some of the highest of +the high world, and some of the highest of the half world. It +was new to Maude, and it made her uncomfortable, while mingled with +it there was something else which made her feel for the first time in +her life that she had incurred the hostility of a fellow-mortal. +It chilled her, and made her unhappy.<br> +<br> +The visitor made no effort to sustain the conversation, but leaned back +in her chair and stared at her hostess with a very critical and searching +glance. Those two questioning dark eyes played eagerly over her +from her brown curls down to the little shining shoe-tips which peeped +from under the grey skirt. Especially they dwelt upon her face, +reading it and rereading it. Never had Maude been so inspected, +and her instinct told her that the inspection was not altogether a friendly +one.<br> +<br> +Violet Wright having examined her rival, proceeded now with the same +cool attention to take in her surroundings. She looked round deliberately +at the furniture of the room, and reconstructed in her own mind the +life of the people who owned it. Maude ventured upon one or two +conventional remarks, but her visitor was not to be diverted to the +weather or to the slowness of the South-Western train service. +She continued her quiet and silent inspection. Suddenly she rose +and swept across to the side-table. A photograph of Frank in his +volunteer uniform stood upon it.<br> +<br> +‘This is your husband, Mr. Frank Crosse?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, do you know him?’<br> +<br> +‘Slightly. We have mutual friends.’ An ambiguous +smile played across her face as she spoke. ‘This must have +been taken after I saw him.’<br> +<br> +‘It was taken just after our marriage.’<br> +<br> +‘Quite so. He looks like a good little married man. +The photograph is flattering.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, you think so!’ said Maude coldly. ‘My own +impression is that it fails to do him justice.’<br> +<br> +Her visitor laughed. ‘Of course that <i>would </i>be your +impression,’ said she.<br> +<br> +Maude’s gentle soul began to rise in anger.<br> +<br> +‘It is the truth,’ she cried.<br> +<br> +‘It is right that you should think so,’ the other answered, +with the same irritating laugh.<br> +<br> +‘You must have known him very slightly if you can’t see +that it is the truth.’<br> +<br> +‘Then I must have known him very slightly.’<br> +<br> +Maude was very angry indeed. She began to find sides to her own +nature the very existence of which she had never suspected. She +tapped her little shoe upon the ground, and she sat with a pale face, +and compressed lips, and bright eyes, quite prepared to be very rude +indeed to this eccentric woman who ventured to criticise her Frank in +so free and easy a style. Her visitor watched her, and a change +had come over her expression. Maude’s evident anger seemed +to amuse and interest her. Her eyes lost their critical coldness, +and softened into approval. She suddenly put her hand upon the +other’s shoulder with so natural and yet masterful a gesture, +that Maude found it impossible to resent it.<br> +<br> +‘He is a lucky man to have such a warm little champion,’ +said she.<br> +<br> +Her strong character and greater knowledge of the world gave her an +ascendency over the girlish wife such as age has over youth. There +were not ten years between them, and yet Maude felt that for some reason +the conversation between them could not quite be upon equal terms. +The quiet assurance of her visitor, whatever its cause, made resentment +or remonstrance difficult. Besides, they were a pair of very kindly +as well as of very shrewd eyes which now looked down into hers.<br> +<br> +‘You love him very much, then?’<br> +<br> +‘Of course I love him. He is my husband.’<br> +<br> +‘Does it always follow?’<br> +<br> +‘You are married yourself. Don’t you love yours?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, never mind mine. <i>He’s</i> all right. +Did you ever love any one else?’<br> +<br> +‘No, not really.’<br> +<br> +Maude was astonished at herself, and yet the questions were so frankly +put that a frank answer came naturally to them. It pleased her +to lose that cold chill of dislike, and to feel that for some reason +her strange visitor had become more friendly to her.<br> +<br> +‘You lucky girl, you actually married the one love of your life!’<br> +<br> +Maude smiled and nodded.<br> +<br> +‘What a splendid thing to do! I thought it only happened +in books. How happy you must be!’<br> +<br> +‘I <i>am </i>very, very happy.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I dare say you deserve to be. Besides, you really +are very pretty. If ever you had a rival, I should think that +it must be some consolation to her to know that it was so charming a +person who cut her out.’<br> +<br> +Maude laughed at the thought.<br> +<br> +‘I never had a rival,’ said she. ‘My husband +never <i>really </i>loved until he met me.’<br> +<br> +‘Did he - oh yes, quite so! That is so nice that you should +both start with a clean sheet! I thought you were very handsome +just now when you were angry with me, but you are quite delightful with +that little flush upon your cheeks. If I had been a man, your +husband would certainly have had one rival in his wooing. And +so he really never loved any one but you? I thought that also +only happened in books.’<br> +<br> +There was a hard and ironic tone in the last sentences which jarred +upon Maude’s sensitive nature. She glanced up quickly and +was surprised at the look of pain which had come upon her companion’s +face. It relaxed into a serious serenity.<br> +<br> +‘That fits in beautifully,’ said she. ‘But there’s +one bit of advice which I should like to give you, if you won’t +think it a liberty. Don’t be selfish in your married life.’<br> +<br> +‘Selfish!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, there is a kind of family selfishness which is every bit +as bad - I am not sure that it is not worse - than personal selfishness. +People love each other, and they shut out the world, and have no thought +for any one else, and the whole universe can slide to perdition so long +as their love is not disturbed. That is what I call family selfishness. +It’s a sin and a shame.’<br> +<br> +Maude looked at this strange woman in amazement. She was speaking +fast and hotly, like one whose bitter thoughts have been long penned +up for want of a suitable listener.<br> +<br> +‘Remember the women who have been less fortunate than you. +Remember the thousands who are starving, dying, for want of love, and +no love comes their way; whose hearts yearn and faint for that which +Nature owes them, but Nature never pays her debt. Remember the +plain women. Remember the lonely women. Above all, remember +your unfortunate sisters; they, the most womanly of all, who have been +ruined by their own kindliness and trust and loving weakness. +It is that family selfishness which turns every house in the land into +a fort to be held against these poor wanderers. They make them +evil, and then they revile the very evil which they have made. +When I look back - ’<br> +<br> +She stopped with a sudden sob. Her forearm fell upon the mantelpiece, +and her forehead upon her forearm. In an instant Maude was by +her side, the tears running down her cheeks, for the sight of grief +was always grief to her, and her nerves were weakened by this singular +interview.<br> +<br> +‘Dear Mrs. Wright, don’t cry!’ she whispered, and +her little white hand passed in a soothing, hesitating gesture over +the coil of rich chestnut hair. ‘Don’t cry! +I am afraid you have suffered. Oh, how I wish I could help you! +Do tell me how I can help you.’<br> +<br> +But Violet’s occasional fits of weakness were never of a very +long duration. She dashed her hand impatiently across her eyes, +straightened her tall figure, and laughed as she glanced at herself +in the mirror.<br> +<br> +‘Madame Celandine would be surprised if she could see how I have +treated one of her masterpieces,’ said she, as she straightened +her crushed hat, and arranged her hair with those quick little deft +pats of the palm with which women can accomplish so much in so short +a time. Rumpled finery sets the hands of every woman within sight +of it fidgeting, so Maude joined in at the patting and curling and forgot +all about her tears.<br> +<br> +‘There, that will have to do,’ said Violet at last. +‘I am so sorry to have made such a fool of myself. I don’t +err upon the sentimental side as a rule. I suppose it is about +time that I thought of catching my train for town. I have a theatre +engagement which I must not miss.’<br> +<br> +‘How strange it is!’ said Maude, looking at her own pretty +tear-marked face in the mirror. ‘You have only been here +a few minutes, as time goes, and yet I feel that in some things I am +more intimate with you than with any woman I have ever met. How +can it be? What bond can there be to draw us together like this? +And it is the more extraordinary, because I felt that you disliked me +when you entered the room, and I am sure that you won’t be offended +if I say that when you had been here a little I thought that I disliked +you. But I don’t. On the contrary, I wish you could +come every day. And I want to come and see you also when I am +in town.’<br> +<br> +Maude, for all her amiability, was not gushing by nature, and this long +speech caused her great astonishment when she looked back upon it. +But at the moment it came so naturally from her heart that she never +paused to think of its oddity. Her enthusiasm was a little chilled, +however, by the way in which her advances were received. Violet +Wright’s eyes were more kindly than ever, but she shook her head.<br> +<br> +‘No, I don’t suppose we shall ever meet again. I don’t +think I could ask you to visit me in London. I wanted to see you, +and I have seen you, but that, I fear, must be the end of it.’<br> +<br> +Maude’s lip trembled in a way which it had when she was hurt.<br> +<br> +‘Why did you wish to see me, then?’ she asked.<br> +<br> +‘On account of that slight acquaintance with your husband. +I thought it would be interesting to see what sort of wife he had chosen.’<br> +<br> +‘I hope you are not disappointed,’ said Maude, making a +roguish face.<br> +<br> +‘He has done very well - better than I expected.’<br> +<br> +‘You had not much respect for his taste, then?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, I always thought highly of his taste.’<br> +<br> +‘You have such a pretty way of putting things. You know +my husband very slightly, but still I can see that you know the world +very well. I often wonder if I am really the best kind of woman +that he could have married. Do you think I am, Mrs. Wright?’<br> +<br> +Her visitor looked in silence for a little at the gentle grace and dainty +sympathetic charm of the woman before her.<br> +<br> +‘Yes,’ she said slowly, as one who weighs her words. +‘I think you are. You are a lady with a lady’s soul +in you. A woman can draw a man down very low, or she can make +him live at his very highest. Don’t be soft with him. +Don’t give way when you know that your way is the higher way. +Pull him up, don’t let him ever pull you down. Then his +respect for you will strengthen his love for you, and the two together +are so much greater than either one apart. Your instinct would +be to do this, and therefore you are the best sort of woman for him.’<br> +<br> +Her opinion was given with so much thought, and yet so much decision, +that Maude glowed with pride and with pleasure. There was knowledge +and authority behind the words of this unaccountable woman.<br> +<br> +‘How sweet you are!’ she cried. ‘I feel that +what you say is true. I feel that that is what a wife should be +to her husband. Please God, I will be so to Frank!’<br> +<br> +‘And one other piece of advice before I leave you,’ said +Violet Wright. ‘Don’t ever take your husband for granted. +Don’t ever accept his kiss or caress as a routine thing. +Don’t ever relax those little attentions which you showed him +in the earliest days. Don’t let the freshness go out of +love, for the love may soon follow it, even when duty keeps the man +true. It is the commonest mistake which married women make. +It has caused more unhappiness than any other. They do not realise +it until it is too late. Be keenly watchful for your husband’s +wants and comforts. It is not the comfort but the attention which +he values. If it is not there he will say nothing, if he is a +good fellow, but he notices it all the same. She has changed, +he thinks. And from that moment he will begin to change also. +Be on your guard against that. It is very unselfish of me to give +you all this wise counsel.’<br> +<br> +‘It is very good of you, and I feel that it is all so true. +But why is it unselfish of you?’<br> +<br> +‘I only meant that I had no interest in the matter. What +does it matter to me whether you keep his love or not. And yet +I don’t know.’ She suddenly put her arms round Maude, +and kissed her upon the cheek. ‘You are a good little sort, +and I hope you will be happy.’<br> +<br> +<br> +Frank Crosse had disentangled himself from the rush of City men emerging +from the Woking station, and he was walking swiftly through the gathering +gloom along the vile, deeply-rutted road, which formed a short cut to +The Lindens. Suddenly, with a sinking heart, he was aware of a +tall graceful figure which was sweeping towards him. There could +not be two women of that height, who carried themselves in that fashion.<br> +<br> +‘Violet!’<br> +<br> +‘Hullo, Frankie! I thought it might be you, but those tall +hats and black overcoats make every one alike. Your wife will +be glad to see you.’<br> +<br> +‘Violet! You have ruined our happiness. How could +you have the heart to do it! It is not for myself I speak, God +knows. But to think of her feelings being so abused, her confidence +so shaken - ’<br> +<br> +‘All right, Frankie, there is nothing to be tragic about.’<br> +<br> +‘Haven’t you been to my house?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I have.’<br> +<br> +‘And seen her?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes.’<br> +<br> +‘Well then - ’<br> +<br> +‘I didn’t give you away, my boy. I was a model of +discretion. I give you my word that it is all right. And +she’s a dear little soul, Frankie. You’re not worthy +to varnish those pretty patent leathers of hers. You know you’re +not. And by Jove, Frankie, if you had stayed with me yesterday +I should never have forgiven you - no, never! I’ll resign +in her favour. I will. But in no one else’s, and if +ever I hear of your going wrong, my boy, or doing anything but the best +with that sweet trusting woman, I’ll make you curse the day that +ever you knew me - I will, by the living Jingo.’<br> +<br> +‘Do, Violet - you have my leave.’<br> +<br> +‘All right. The least said the soonest mended. Give +me a kiss before we part.’<br> +<br> +She raised her veil, and he kissed her. He was wearing some withered +flower in his overcoat, and she took it from him.<br> +<br> +‘It’s a souvenir of our friendship, Frankie, and rather +a good emblem of it also. So-long!’ said she, as she turned +down the weary road which leads to the station. A young golfer, +getting in at Byfleet, was surprised to see a handsome woman weeping +bitterly in the corner of a second-class carriage. ‘Comm’ +up from roastin’ somebody at that damned crematory place,’ +was his explanation to his companion.<br> +<br> +Frank had a long and animated account from Maude of the extraordinary +visitor whom she had entertained. ‘It’s such a pity, +dear, that you don’t know her well, for I should really like to +hear every detail about her. At first I thought she was mad, and +then I thought she was odious, and then finally she seemed to be the +very wisest and kindest woman that I had ever known. She made +me angry, and frightened, and grieved, and grateful, and affectionate, +one after the other, and I never in my life was so taken out of myself +by any one. She <i>is </i>so sensible!’<br> +<br> +‘Sensible, is she?’<br> +<br> +‘And she said that I was - oh! I can’t repeat it - +everything that is nice.’<br> +<br> +‘Then she <i>is </i>sensible.’<br> +<br> +‘And such a high opinion of your taste.’<br> +<br> +‘Had she indeed.’<br> +<br> +‘Do you know, Frank, I really believe that in a quiet, secret, +retiring sort of way she has been fond of you herself.’<br> +<br> +‘O Maude, what funny ideas you get sometimes! I say, if +we are going out for dinner, it is high time that we began to dress.’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XX - NO. 5 CHEYNE ROW<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Frank had brought home the <i>Life of Carlyle, </i>and Maude had been +dipping into it in the few spare half-hours which the many duties of +a young housekeeper left her. At first it struck her as dry, but +from the moment that she understood that this was, among other things, +an account of the inner life of a husband and a wife, she became keenly +interested, and a passionate and unreasonable partisan. For Frederick +and Cromwell and the other great issues her feelings were tolerant but +lukewarm. But the great sex-questions of ‘How did he treat +her?’ and of ‘How did she stand it?’ filled her with +that eternal and personal interest with which they affect every woman. +Her gentle nature seldom disliked any one, but certainly amongst those +whom she liked least, the gaunt figure of the Chelsea sage began to +bulk largely. One night, as Frank sat reading in front of the +fire, he suddenly found his wife on her knees upon the rug, and a pair +of beseeching eyes upon his face.<br> +<br> +‘Frank, dear, I want you to make me a promise.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, what is it?’<br> +<br> +‘Will you grant it?’<br> +<br> +‘How can I tell you when I have not heard it?’<br> +<br> +‘How horrid you are, Frank! A year ago you would have promised +first and asked afterwards.’<br> +<br> +‘But I am a shrewd old married man now. Well, let me hear +it.’<br> +<br> +‘I want you to promise me that you will never be a Carlyle.’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, never.’<br> +<br> +‘Really?’<br> +<br> +‘Really and truly.’<br> +<br> +‘You swear it?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, I do.’<br> +<br> +‘O Frank, you can’t think what a relief that is to me. +That dear, good, helpful, little lady - it really made me cry this morning +when I thought how she had been used.’<br> +<br> +‘How, then?’<br> +<br> +‘I have been reading that green-covered book of yours, and he +seemed so cold and so sarcastic and so unsympathetic. He never +seemed to appreciate all that she did for him. He had no thought +for her. He lived in his books and never in her - such a harsh, +cruel man!’<br> +<br> +Frank went upstairs, and returned with a volume in his hand.<br> +<br> +‘When you have finished the ‘Life,’ you must read +this, dear.’<br> +<br> +‘What is it?’<br> +<br> +‘It is her letters. They were arranged for publication after +her death, while her husband was still alive. You know that - +’<br> +<br> +‘Please take it for granted, darling, that I know nothing. +It is so jolly to have some one before whom it is not necessary to keep +up appearances. Now, begin at the beginning and go ahead.’ +She pillowed her head luxuriously against his knees.<br> +<br> +‘There’s nothing to tell - or very little. As you +say, they had their troubles in life. The lady could take particularly +good care of herself, I believe. She had a tongue like a lancet +when she chose to use it. He, poor chap, was all liver and nerves, +porridge-poisoned in his youth. No children to take the angles +off them. Half a dozen little buffer states would have kept them +at peace. However, to hark back to what I was about to say, he +outlived her by fifteen years or so. During that time he collected +these letters, and he has annotated them. You can read those notes +here, and the man who wrote those notes loved his wife and cherished +her memory, if ever a man did upon earth.’<br> +<br> +The graceful head beside his knee shook impatiently.<br> +<br> +‘What is the use of that to the poor dead woman? Why could +not he show his love by kindness and thought for her while she was alive?’<br> +<br> +‘I tell you, Maude, there were two sides to that. Don’t +be so prejudiced! And remember that no one has ever blamed Carlyle +as bitterly as he has blamed himself. I could read you bits of +these notes - ’<br> +<br> +‘Well, do.’<br> +<br> +‘Here’s the first letter, in which she is talking about +how they first moved into the house at Cheyne Row. They spent +their early years in Scotland, you know, and he was a man going on to +the forties when he came to London. The success of <i>Sartor Resartus +</i>encouraged them to the step. Her letter describes all the +incoming. Here is his comment, written after her death: “In +about a week all was swept and garnished, fairly habitable; and continued +incessantly to get itself polished, civilised, and beautified to a degree +that surprised one. I have elsewhere alluded to all that, and +to my little Jeannie’s conduct of it; heroic, lovely, pathetic, +mournfully beautiful as in the light of Eternity that little scene of +time now looks to me. From birth upwards she had lived in opulence, +and now became poor for me - so nobly poor. No such house for +beautiful thrift, quiet, spontaneous, nay, as it were, unconscious minimum +of money reconciled to human comfort and human dignity, have I anywhere +looked upon where I have been.” Now, Maude, did that man +appreciate his wife?’<br> +<br> +But the obstinate head still shook.<br> +<br> +‘Words, words,’ said she.<br> +<br> +‘Yes, but words with the ring of truth in them. Can’t +you tell real feeling from sham? I don’t believe women can, +or they would not be so often taken in. Here’s the heading +of the next letter: “Mournfully beautiful is this letter to me, +a clear little household light shining pure and brilliant in the dark +obstructive places of the past” - a little later comes the note: +“Oh my poor little woman - become poor for me.”’<br> +<br> +‘I like to hear him talk like that. Yes, I do like him better +after what you have said, Frank.’<br> +<br> +‘You must remember two things about him, Maude. The first, +that he was a Scotchman, who are of all men the least likely to wear +their hearts upon their sleeves; the other, that his mind was always +grappling with some far-away subject which made him forget the smaller +things close by him.’<br> +<br> +‘But the smaller things are everything to a woman,’ said +Maude. ‘If ever you forget those smaller things, sir, to +be as courteous to your wife as you would be to any other lady, to be +loving and thoughtful and sympathetic, it will be no consolation to +me to know that you have written the grandest book that ever was. +I should just hate that book, and I believe that in her inmost heart +this poor lady hated all the books that had taken her husband away from +her. I wonder if their house is still standing.’<br> +<br> +‘Certainly it is. Would you like to visit it?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think there is anything I should like more.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, Maude, we are getting quite a distinguished circle of acquaintances. +Mr. Pepys last month - and now the Carlyles. Well, we could not +spend a Saturday afternoon better, so if you will meet me to-morrow +at Charing Cross, we shall have a cosy little lunch together at Gatti’s, +and then go down to Chelsea.’<br> +<br> +<br> +Maude was a rigid economist, and so was Frank in his way, for with the +grand self-respect of the middle classes the thought of debt was unendurable +to them. A cab in preference to a ’bus gave both of them +a feeling of dissipation, but none the less they treated themselves +to one on the occasion of this, their little holiday. It is a +delightful thing to snuggle up in, is a hansom; but in order to be really +trim and comfortable one has to put one’s arm round one’s +companion’s waist. No one can observe it there, for the +vehicle is built upon intelligent principles. The cabman, it is +true, can overlook you through a hole in the roof. This cabman +did so, and chuckled in his cravat. ‘If that cove’s +wife could see him - huddup, then!’ said the cabman.<br> +<br> +He was an intelligent cabman too, for having heard Frank say ‘Thomas +Carlyle’s house’ after giving the address 5 Cheyne Row, +he pulled up on the Thames Embankment. Right ahead of them was +Chelsea Bridge, seen through a dim, soft London haze - monstrous, Cyclopean, +giant arches springing over a vague river of molten metal, the whole +daintily blurred, as though out of focus. The glamour of the London +haze, what is there upon earth so beautiful? But it was not to +admire it that the cabman had halted.<br> +<br> +‘I beg your pardin’, sir,’ said he, in the softly +insinuating way of the Cockney, ‘but I thought that maybe the +lidy would like to see Mr. Carlyle’s statue. That’s +’im, sir, a-sittin’ in the overcoat with the book in ’is +’and.’<br> +<br> +Frank and Maude got out and entered the small railed garden, in the +centre of which the pedestal rose. It was very simple and plain +- an old man in a dressing-gown, with homely wornout boots, a book upon +his knee, his eyes and thoughts far away. No more simple statue +in all London, but human to a surprising degree. They stood for +five minutes and stared at it.<br> +<br> +‘Well,’ said Frank at last, ‘small as it is, I think +it is worthy of the man.’<br> +<br> +‘It is so natural.’<br> +<br> +‘You can see him think. By Jove, it is splendid!’ +Frank had enough of the true artist to be able to feel that rush of +enthusiasm which adequate work should cause. That old man, with +his head shamefully defiled by birds, was a positive joy to him. +Among the soulless, pompous, unspeakable London statues, here at last +there was one over which it is pleasant to linger.<br> +<br> +‘What other one is there?’<br> +<br> +‘Gordon in Trafalgar Square.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, Gordon, perhaps. But our Nelsons and Napiers and +Havelocks - to think that we could do no better than that for them! +Now, dear, we have seen the man - let us look at the house!’<br> +<br> +It had evidently been an old-fashioned building when first they came +to it. 1708 was the date at the corner of the street. Six +or seven drab-coloured, flat-chested, dim-windowed houses stood in a +line - theirs wedged in the middle of them. A poor medallion with +a profile head of him had been clumsily let into the wall. Several +worn steps led to the thin high door with an old-fashioned fanlight +above it. Frank rang the bell, and a buxom cheerful matron came +at the call.<br> +<br> +‘Names in this book, sir - <i>and</i> address, if you please,’ +said the cheery matron. ‘One shilling each - thank you, +sir. First door to the left, sir! This was the dining-room, +sir - ’<br> +<br> +But Frank had come to a dead stop in the dim, dull, wood-panelled hall. +In front of them rose the stairs with old-fashioned banisters, cracked, +warped, and dusty.<br> +<br> +‘It’s awful to think of, Maude - awful! To think that +she ran up those stairs as a youngish woman - that he took them two +at a time as an active man, and then that they hobbled and limped down +them, old and weary and broken, and now both dead and gone for ever, +and the stairs standing, the very rails, the very treads - I don’t +know that I ever felt so strongly what bubbles of the air we are, so +fragile, so utterly dissolved when the prick comes.’<br> +<br> +‘How <i>could</i> they be happy in such a house?’ said Maude. +‘I can feel that there have been sorrow and trouble here. +There is an atmosphere of gloom.’<br> +<br> +The matron-attendant approved of emotion, but in its due order. +One should be affected in the dining-room first, and then in the hall. +And so at her summons they followed her into the long, low, quaint room +in which this curious couple had lived their everyday life. Little +of the furniture was left, and the walls were lined with collected pictures +bearing upon the life of the Carlyles.<br> +<br> +‘There’s the fireplace that he smoked his pipe up,’ +said Frank.<br> +<br> +‘Why up the fireplace?’<br> +<br> +‘She did not like the smell in the room. He often at night +took his friends down into the kitchen.’<br> +<br> +‘Fancy my driving you into the kitchen.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, the habit of smoking was looked upon much less charitably +at that time.’<br> +<br> +‘And besides, he smoked clay pipes,’ said the matron. +‘This is considered a good print of Mrs. Carlyle.’<br> +<br> +It was a peaky eager face, with a great spirit looking out of it, and +possibilities of passion both for good and evil in the keen, alert features. +Just beside her was the dour, grim outline of her husband. Their +life-histories were in those two portraits.<br> +<br> +‘Poor dear!’ said Maude.<br> +<br> +‘Ay, you may say so,’ said the matron, whose accent showed +that she was from the north of the Tweed. ‘He was gey ill +to live wi’. His own mither said so. Now, what think +you that room was for?’<br> +<br> +It was little larger than a cupboard, without window or skylight, opening +out of the end of the dining-room.<br> +<br> +‘I can’t imagine.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, sir, it was the powdering-room in the days when folk wore +wigs. The powder made such a mess that they just had a room for +nothing else. There was a hole in the door, and the man put his +head through the hole, and the barber on the other side powdered him +out of the flour-dredger.’<br> +<br> +It was curious to be brought back in this fashion to those far-off days, +and to suddenly realise how many other people had played their tragi-comedies +within these walls. Wigs! Only the dressy people wore wigs. +So people of fashion in the days of the early Georges trod these same +rooms where Carlyle grumbled and his wife fretted. And they too +had grumbled and fretted - or worse perhaps. It was a ghostly +old house.<br> +<br> +‘This,’ said the matron, when they had passed up the stair, +‘used to be the drawing-room. That’s their sofa.’<br> +<br> +‘Not <i>the </i>sofa,’ said Frank.<br> +<br> +‘Yes, sir, the sofa that is mentioned in the letters.’<br> +<br> +‘She was so proud of it, Maude. Gave eighteen shillings +for it, and covered and stuffed it herself. And that, I suppose, +is <i>the </i>screen. She was a great housekeeper - brought up +a spoiled child, according to her own account, but a great housekeeper +all the same. What’s that writing in the case?’<br> +<br> +‘It is the history that he was at work on when he died - something +about the kings of Norway, sir. Those are his corrections in blue.’<br> +<br> +‘I can’t read them.’<br> +<br> +‘No more could any one else, sir. Perhaps that’s why +the book has never been published. Those are the portraits of +the kings of Prussia, about whom he wrote a book.’<br> +<br> +Frank looked with interest at the old engravings, one of the schoolmaster +face of the great Frederick, the other of the frog-like features of +Frederick William, the half-mad recruiter of the big Potsdam grenadiers. +When he had finished, the matron had gone down to open the door, and +they were alone. Maude’s hand grasped his.<br> +<br> +‘Is it not strange, dear?’ she said. ‘Here they +lived, the most talented couple in the world, and yet with all their +wisdom they missed what we have got - what perhaps that good woman who +showed us round has got - the only thing, as it seems to me, that is +really worth living for. What are all the wit and all the learning +and all the insight into things compared to love.’<br> +<br> +‘By Jove, little woman, in all this house of wise sayings, no +wiser or deeper saying has been said than that. Well, thank God, +we have that anyhow!’ And he kissed his wife, while six +grand electors of Brandenburg and kings of Prussia looked fiercely out +upon them from the wall.<br> +<br> +They sat down together in two old chairs in the window, and they looked +out into the dingy street, and Frank tried to recount all the great +men - ‘the other great men, as Maude said, half chaffing and half +earnest - who had looked through those panes. Tennyson, Ruskin, +Emerson, Mill, Froude, Mazzini, Leigh Hunt - he had got so far when +the matron returned.<br> +<br> +There was a case in the corner with some of the wreckage from those +vanished vessels. Notes from old Goethe in a singularly neat boyish +writing inscribed upon little ornamented cards. Here, too, were +small inscriptions which had lain upon presents from Carlyle to his +wife. It was pleasant among all that jangling of the past to think +of the love which had written them, and that other love which had so +carefully preserved them. On one was written: ‘All good +attend my darling through this gulf of time and through the long ocean +it is leading to. Amen. Amen. T. C.’ On +another, dated 1850, and attached evidently to some birthday present, +was: ‘Many years to my poor little Jeannie, and may the worst +of them be past. No good that is in me to give her shall ever +be wanting while I live. May God bless her.’ How strange +that this apostle of reticence should have such privacies as these laid +open before the curious public within so few years of his death!<br> +<br> +‘This is her bedroom,’ said the matron.<br> +<br> +‘And here is the old red bed,’ cried Frank. It looked +bare and gaunt and dreary with its uncurtained posts.<br> +<br> +‘The bed belonged to Mrs. Carlyle’s mother,’ the matron +explained. ‘It’s the same bed that Mrs. Carlyle talks +about in her letters when she says how she pulled it to pieces.’<br> +<br> +‘Why did she pull it to pieces?’ asked Maude.<br> +<br> +‘Better not inquire, dear.’<br> +<br> +‘Indeed you’re right, sir. If you get them into these +old houses, it is very hard to get them out. A cleaner woman than +Mrs. Carlyle never came out of Scotland. This little room behind +was his dressing-room. There’s his stick in the corner. +Look what’s written upon the window!’<br> +<br> +<br> +Decidedly it was a ghostly house. Scratched upon one of the panes +with a diamond was the following piece of information - ‘John +Harbel Knowles cleaned all the windows in this house, and painted part, +in the eighteenth year of age. <i>March 7th, </i>1794.’<br> +<br> +<br> +‘Who was <i>he</i>?’ asked Maude.<br> +<br> +‘Nobody knows, miss!’ It was characteristic of Maude +that she was so gentle in her bearing that every one always took it +for granted that she was Miss. Frank examined the writing carefully.<br> +<br> +‘He was the son of the house and a young aristocrat who had never +done a stroke of work before in his life,’ said he.<br> +<br> +The matron was surprised.<br> +<br> +‘What makes you say that, sir?’<br> +<br> +‘What would a workman do with such a name as John Harbel Knowles, +or with a diamond ring for that matter? And who would dare to +disfigure a window so, if he were not of the family? And why should +he be so proud of his work, unless work was a new and wondrous thing +to him. To paint <i>part </i>of the windows also sounds like the +amateur and not the workman. So I repeat that it was the first +achievement of the son of the house.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, indeed, I dare say you are right, though I never thought +of it before,’ said the matron. ‘Now this, up here, +is Carlyle’s own room, in which he slept for forty-seven years. +In the case is a cast of his head taken after death.’<br> +<br> +It was strange and rather ghastly to see a plaster head in this room +where the head of flesh had so often lain. Maude and Frank stood +beside it, and gazed long and silently while the matron, half-bored +and half-sympathetic, waited for them to move on. It was an aquiline +face, very different from any picture which they had seen, sunken cheeks, +an old man’s toothless mouth, a hawk nose, a hollow eye - the +gaunt timbers of what had once been a goodly house. There was +repose, and something of surprise also, in the features - also a very +subtle serenity and dignity.<br> +<br> +‘The distance from the ear to the forehead is said to be only +equalled by Napoleon and by Gladstone. That’s what they +<i>say</i>,’ said the matron, with Scotch caution.<br> +<br> +‘It’s the face of a noble man when all is said and done,’ +said Frank. ‘I believe that the true Thomas Carlyle without +the dyspepsia, and the true Jane Welsh without the nerves, are knowing +and loving each other in some further life.’<br> +<br> +‘It is sweet to think so,’ cried Maude. ‘Oh, +I do hope that it is so! How dear death would be if we could only +be certain of that!’<br> +<br> +The matron smiled complacently in the superior wisdom of the Shorter +Catechism. ‘There is neither marriage nor giving in marriage,’ +said she, shaking her head. ‘This is the spare bedroom, +sir, where Mr. Emerson slept when he was here. And now if you +will step this way I will show you the study.’<br> +<br> +It was the singular room which Carlyle had constructed in the hopes +that he could shut out all the noises of the universe, the crowing of +cocks, and the jingling of a young lady’s five-finger exercise +in particular. It had cost him a hundred odd pounds, and had ended +in being unendurably hot in summer, impossibly cold in winter, and so +constructed acoustically that it reverberated every sound in the neighbourhood. +For once even his wild and whirling words could hardly match the occasion +- not all his <i>kraft sprachen </i>would be too much. For the +rest it was at least a roomy and lofty apartment, with space for many +books, and for an irritable man to wander to and fro. Prints there +were of many historical notables, and slips of letters and of memoranda +in a long glass case.<br> +<br> +‘That is one of his clay pipes,’ said the matron. +‘He had them all sent through to him from Glasgow. And that +is the pen with which he wrote <i>Frederick</i>.’<br> +<br> +It was a worn, stubby old quill, much the worse for its monstrous task. +It at least of all quill pens might rest content with having done its +work in the world. Some charred paper beside it caught Frank’s +eye.<br> +<br> +‘Oh look, Maude,’ he cried. ‘This is a little +bit of the burned <i>French Revolution</i>.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh, I remember. He lent the only copy to a friend, and +it was burned by mistake.’<br> +<br> +‘What a blow! What a frightful blow! And to think +that his first comment to his wife was, “Well, Mill, poor fellow, +is very much cut up about this.” There is Carlyle at his +best. And here is actually a shred of the old manuscript. +How beautifully he wrote in those days!’<br> +<br> +‘Read this, sir,’ said the matron.<br> +<br> +It was part of a letter from Carlyle to his publisher about his ruined +work. ‘Do not pity me,’ said he; ‘forward me +rather as a runner that is tripped but will not lie there, but run and +run again.’<br> +<br> +‘See what positive misfortune can do for a man,’ said Frank. +‘It raised him to a hero. And yet he could not stand the +test of a crowing cock. How infinitely complex is the human soul +- how illimitably great and how pitiably small! Now, if ever I +have a study of my own, this is what I want engraved upon the wall. +This alone is well worth our pilgrimage to Chelsea.’<br> +<br> +It was a short exclamation which had caught his eye.<br> +<br> +‘Rest! Rest! Shall I not have all eternity to rest +in!’ That serene plaster face down yonder gave force to +the brave words. Frank copied them down onto the back of one of +Maude’s cards.<br> +<br> +And now they had finished the rooms, but the matron, catching a glow +from these enthusiastic pilgrims, had yet other things to show them. +There was the back garden. Here was the green pottery seat upon +which the unphilosophic philosopher had smoked his pipe - a singularly +cold and uncomfortable perch. And here was where Mrs. Carlyle +had tried to build a tent and to imagine herself in the country. +And here was the famous walnut tree - or at least the stumpy bole thereof. +And here was where the dog Nero was buried, best known of small white +mongrels.<br> +<br> +And last of all there was the subterranean and gloomy kitchen, in which +there had lived that long succession of serving-maids of whom we gain +shadowy glimpses in the <i>Letters </i>and in the <i>Journal</i>. +Poor souls, dwellers in the gloom, working so hard for others, so bitterly +reviled when by chance some weakness of humanity comes to break, for +an instant, the routine of their constant labour, so limited in their +hopes and in their pleasures, they are of all folk upon this planet +those for whom a man’s heart may most justly soften. So +said Frank as he gazed around him in the dark-cornered room. ‘And +never one word of sympathy for them, or of anything save scorn in all +his letters. His pen upholding human dignity, but where was the +dignity of these poor girls for whom he has usually one bitter line +of biography in his notes to his wife’s letters? It’s +the worst thing I have against him.’<br> +<br> +‘Jemima wouldn’t have stood it,’ said Maude.<br> +<br> +It was pleasant to be out in the open air once more, but they were in +the pine groves of Woking before Maude had quite shaken off the gloom +of that dark, ghost-haunted house. ‘After all, you are only +twenty-seven,’ she remarked as they walked up from the station. +She had a way of occasionally taking a subject by the middle in that +way.<br> +<br> +‘What then, dear?’<br> +<br> +‘When Carlyle was only twenty-seven I don’t suppose he knew +he was going to do all this.’<br> +<br> +‘No, I don’t suppose so.’<br> +<br> +‘And his wife - if he were married then - would feel as I do to +you.’<br> +<br> +‘No doubt.’<br> +<br> +‘Then what guarantee have I that you won’t do it after all?’<br> +<br> +‘Do what?’<br> +<br> +‘Why, turn out a second Carlyle.’<br> +<br> +‘Hear me swear!’ cried Frank, and they turned laughing into +their own little gateway at the Lindens.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XXI - THE LAST NOTE OF THE DUET<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Our young married couples may feel that two is company and three is +none, but there comes a little noisy intruder to break into their sweet +intimacy. The coming of the third is the beginning of a new life +for them as well as for it - a life which is more useful and more permanent, +but never so concentrated as before. That little pink thing with +the blinking eyes will divert some of the love and some of the attention, +and the very trouble which its coming has caused will set its mother’s +heart yearning over it. Not so the man. Some vague resentment +mixes with his pride of paternity, and his wife’s sufferings rankle +in his memory when she has herself forgotten them. His pity, his +fears, his helplessness, and his discomfort, give him a share in the +domestic tragedy. It is not without cause that in some societies +it is the man and not the woman who receives the condolence and the +sympathy.<br> +<br> +There came a time when Maude was bad, and there came months when she +was better, and then there were indications that a day was approaching, +the very thought of which was a shadow upon her husband’s life. +For her part, with the steadfast, gentle courage of a woman, she faced +the future with a sweet serenity. But to him it was a nightmare +- an actual nightmare which brought him up damp and quivering in those +gray hours of the dawn, when dark shadows fall upon the spirit of man. +He had a steady nerve for that which affected himself, a nerve which +would keep him quiet and motionless in a dentist’s chair, but +what philosophy or hardihood can steel one against the pain which those +whom we love have to endure. He fretted and chafed, and always +with the absurd delusion that his fretting and chafing were successfully +concealed. A hundred failures never convince a man how impossible +it is to deceive a woman who loves him. Maude watched him demurely, +and made her plans.<br> +<br> +‘Do you know, dear,’ said she, one evening, ‘if you +can get a week of your holidays now, I think it would be a very good +thing for you to accept that invitation of Mr. Mildmay’s, and +spend a few days in golfing at Norwich.’<br> +<br> +Frank stared at her open-eyed.<br> +<br> +‘What! Now!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear, now - at once.’<br> +<br> +‘But <i>now </i>of all times.’<br> +<br> +Maude looked at him with that glance of absolute obvious candour which +a woman never uses unless she has intent to deceive.<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear - but only next week. I thought it would brace +you up for - well, for the week afterwards.’<br> +<br> +‘You think the week afterwards?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, dear. It would help me so, if I knew that you were +in your best form.’<br> +<br> +‘<i>I</i>! What can it matter what form <i>I </i>am in. +But in any case, it is out of the question.’<br> +<br> +‘But you could get leave.’<br> +<br> +‘Oh yes, easily enough.’<br> +<br> +‘Then do go.’<br> +<br> +‘And leave you at such a time!’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, you would be back.’<br> +<br> +‘You can’t be so sure of that. No, Maude, I should +never forgive myself. Such an idea would never enter my head.’<br> +<br> +‘But for my sake - !’<br> +<br> +‘That’s enough, Maude. It is settled.’<br> +<br> +Master Frank had a heavy foot when he did bring it down, and his wife +recognised a decisive thud this time. With a curious double current +of feeling, she was pleased and disappointed at the same time, but more +pleased than disappointed, so she kissed the marrer of her plots.<br> +<br> +‘What an obstinate old boy it is! But of course you know +best, and I should much rather have you at home. As you say, one +can never be certain.’<br> +<br> +In a conflict of wits the woman may lose a battle, but the odds are +that she will win the campaign. The man dissipates over many things, +while she concentrates upon the one. Maude had made up her mind +absolutely upon one point, and she meant to attain it. She tried +here, she tried there, through a friend, through her mother, but Frank +was still immovable. The ordeal coming upon herself never disturbed +her for an instant. But the thought that Frank would suffer was +unendurable. She put herself in his place, and realised what it +would be to him if he were in the house at such a time. With many +cunning devices she tried to lure him off, but still, in his stubborn +way, he refused to be misled. And then suddenly she realised that +it was too late.<br> +<br> +It was early one morning that the conviction came home to her, but he, +at her side, knew nothing of it. He came up to her before he left +for the City.<br> +<br> +‘You have not eaten anything, dear.’<br> +<br> +‘No, Frank, I am not hungry.’<br> +<br> +‘Perhaps, after you get up - ’<br> +<br> +‘Well, dear, I thought of staying in bed.’<br> +<br> +‘You are not - ?’<br> +<br> +‘What nonsense, dear! I want to keep very quiet until next +week, when I may need all my strength.’<br> +<br> +‘Dear girl, I would gladly give ten years of my life to have next +week past.’<br> +<br> +‘Silly old boy! But I do think it would be wiser if I were +to keep in bed.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, yes, do.’<br> +<br> +‘I have a little headache. Nothing to speak of, but just +a little.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t you think Dr. Jordan had better give you something +for it.’<br> +<br> +‘Do you think so? Well, just as you like. You might +call as you pass, and tell him to step up.’<br> +<br> +And so, upon a false mission, the doctor was summoned to her side, but +found a very real mission waiting for him when he got there. She +had written a note for Frank the moment that he had left the house, +and he found both it and a conspiracy of silence waiting for him when +he returned in the late afternoon. The note was upon the hall-table, +and he eagerly tore it open.<br> +<br> +‘My dear boy,’ said this mendacious epistle, ‘my head +is still rather bad, and Dr. Jordan thought that it would be wiser if +I were to have an undisturbed rest, but I will send down to you when +I feel better. Until then I had best, perhaps, remain alone. +Mr. Harrison sent round to say that he would come to help you to pot +the bulbs, so that will give you something to do. Don’t +bother about me, for I only want a little rest. - MAUDE.’<br> +<br> +It seemed very unnatural to him to come back and not to hear the swift +rustle of the dress which followed always so quickly upon the creak +of his latch-key that they might have been the same sound. The +hall and dining-room seemed unhomely without the bright welcoming face. +He wandered about in a discontented fashion upon his tiptoes, and then, +looking through the window, he saw Harrison his neighbour coming up +the path with a straw basket in his hand. He opened the door for +him with his finger upon his lips.<br> +<br> +‘Don’t make a row, Harrison,’ said he, ‘my wife’s +bad.’<br> +<br> +Harrison whistled softly.<br> +<br> +‘Not - ?’<br> +<br> +‘No, no, not that. Only a headache, but she is not to be +disturbed. We expect <i>that </i>next week. Come in here +and smoke a pipe with me. It was very kind of you to bring the +bulbs.’<br> +<br> +‘I am going back for some more.’<br> +<br> +‘Wait a little. You can go back presently. Sit down +and light your pipe. There is some one moving about upstairs. +It must be that heavy-footed Jemima. I hope she won’t wake +Maude up. I suppose one must expect such attacks at such a time.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, my wife was just the same. No, thank you, I’ve +just had some tea. You look worried, Crosse. Don’t +take things too hard.’<br> +<br> +‘I can’t get the thought of next week out of my head. +If anything goes wrong - well there, what can I do? I never knew +how a man’s nerves may be harrowed before. And she is such +a saint, Harrison - such an absolutely unselfish saint! You’ll +never guess what she tried to do.’<br> +<br> +‘What, then?’<br> +<br> +‘She knew what it would mean to me - what it will mean to me - +to sit here in impotence while she goes through this horrible business. +She guessed in some extraordinary way what my secret feelings were about +it. And she actually tried to deceive me as to when it was to +occur - tried to get me out of the house on one pretext or another until +it was all over. That was her plot, and, by Jove, she tried it +so cleverly that she would have managed it if something had not put +me on my guard. She was a little too eager, unnaturally so, and +I saw through her game. But think of it, the absolute unselfishness +of it. To consider <i>me </i>at such a time, and to face her trouble +alone and unsupported in order to make it easier for me. She wanted +me to go to Norwich and play golf.’<br> +<br> +‘She must have thought you pretty guileless, Crosse, to be led +away so easily.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, it was a hopeless attempt to deceive me on such a point, +or to dream for an instant that my instincts would not tell me when +she had need of me. But none the less it was beautiful and characteristic. +You don’t mind my talking of these things, Harrison?’<br> +<br> +‘My dear chap, it is just what you need. You have been bottling +things up too much. Your health will break down under it. +After all, it is not so serious as all that. The danger is very +much exaggerated.’<br> +<br> +‘You think so.’<br> +<br> +‘I’ve had the experience twice now. You’ll go +to the City some fine morning, and when you come back the whole thing +will be over.’<br> +<br> +‘Indeed it won’t. I have made arrangements at the +office, and from the hour that she first seems bad I will never stir +from the house. For all she may say, I know very well that it +gives her strength and courage to feel that I am there.’<br> +<br> +‘You may not know that it is coming on?’<br> +<br> +Frank laughed incredulously.<br> +<br> +‘We’ll see about that,’ said he. ‘And +you think from your experience, Harrison, that it is not so very bad +after all?’<br> +<br> +‘Oh no. It soon passes.’<br> +<br> +‘Soon! What do you mean by soon?’<br> +<br> +‘Jordan was there six hours the first time.’<br> +<br> +‘Good God! Six hours!’ Frank wiped his forehead. +‘They must have seemed six years.’<br> +<br> +‘They <i>were </i>rather long. I kept on working in the +garden. That’s the tip. Keep on doing something and +it helps you along wonderfully.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s a good suggestion, Harrison. What a curious +smell there is in the air! Do you notice a sort of low, sweetish, +spirity kind of scent? Well, perhaps it’s my imagination. +I dare say that my nerves are a bit strung up these days. But +that is a capital idea of yours about having some work to do. +I should like to work madly for those hours. Have everything up +out of the back garden and plant it all again in the front.’<br> +<br> +Harrison laughed.<br> +<br> +‘I’ll tell you something less heroic,’ said he; ‘you +could keep all these bulbs, and pot them then. By the way, I’ll +go round and get the others. Don’t bother about the door. +I shall leave it open, for I won’t be five minutes.’<br> +<br> +‘And I’ll put these in the greenhouse,’ said Frank. +He took the basket of bulbs and he laid them all out on the wooden shelf +of the tiny conservatory which leaned against the back of the house. +When he came out there was a kitten making a noise somewhere. +It was a low sound, but persistent, coming in burst after burst. +He took the rake and jabbed with the handle amongst the laurel bushes +under their bedroom window. The beast might waken Maude, and so +it was worth some trouble to dislodge it. He could not see it, +but when he had poked among the bushes and cried ‘Skat!’ +several times, the crying died away, and he carried his empty basket +into the dining-room. There he lit his pipe again, and waited +for Harrison’s return.<br> +<br> +There was that bothersome kitten again. He could hear it mewing +away somewhere. It did not sound so loud as in the garden, so +perhaps it would not matter. He felt very much inclined to steal +upstairs upon tiptoe and see if Maude were stirring yet. After +all, if Jemima, or whoever it was, could go clumping about in heavy +boots over his head, there was no fear that he could do any harm. +And yet she had said that she would ring or send word the moment she +could see him, and so perhaps he had better wait where he was. +He put his head out of the window and cried ‘Shoo!’ into +the laurel bushes several times. Then he sat in the armchair with +his back to the door. Steps came heavily along the hall, and he +saw dimly with the back corner of his eye that some one was in the doorway +carrying something. He thought that really Harrison might have +brought the bulbs in more quietly, and so he treated him with some coldness, +and did not turn round to him.<br> +<br> +‘Put it in the out-house,’ said he.<br> +<br> +‘Why the out-house?’<br> +<br> +‘We keep them there. But you can put it under the sideboard, +or in the coal-scuttle, or where you like as long as you don’t +make any more noise.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, surely, Crosse - ’ But Frank suddenly sprang +out of his chair.<br> +<br> +‘I’m blessed if that infernal kitten isn’t somewhere +in the room!’<br> +<br> +And there when he turned was the grim, kindly face of old Doctor Jordan +facing him. He carried in the crook of his arm a brown shawl with +something round and small muffled up in it. There was one slit +in front, and through this came a fist about the size of a marble, the +thumb doubled under the tiny fingers, and the whole limb giving circular +waves, as if the owner were cheering lustily at his own successful arrival. +‘Here am I, good people, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!’ cried +the waving hand. Then as the slit in the shawl widened Frank saw +that behind the energetic fist there was a huge open mouth, a little +button of a nose, and two eyes which were so resolutely screwed up that +it seemed as if the owner had made a resolution never under any circumstances +to take the least notice of this new world into which it had been transported. +Frank dropped his pipe and stood staring at this apparition.<br> +<br> +‘What! What’s that?’<br> +<br> +‘The baby!’<br> +<br> +‘Baby? Whose baby?’<br> +<br> +‘Your baby, of course.’<br> +<br> +‘My baby! Where - where did you get it?’<br> +<br> +Doctor Jordan burst out laughing.<br> +<br> +‘You are like a man who has just been wakened out of his sleep,’ +said he. ‘Why, Crosse, your wife has been bad all day, but +she’s all right now, and here’s your son and heir - a finer +lad of the age I never saw - fighting weight about seven pounds.’<br> +<br> +Frank was a very proud man at the roots of his nature. He did +not readily give himself away. Perhaps if he had been quite alone +he might at that moment, as the great wave of joy washed through his +soul, bearing all his fears and forebodings away upon its crest, have +dropped upon his knees in prayer. But prayer comes not from the +knee but from the heart, and the whole strength of his nature breathed +itself out in silent thanks to that great Fate which goes its way regardless +either of thanks or reproaches. The doctor saw a pale self-contained +young man before him, and thought him strangely wanting in emotion.<br> +<br> +‘Well!’ said he, impatiently. ‘Is she all right?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes. Won’t you take your son?’<br> +<br> +‘Could she see me?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t suppose five minutes would do any harm.’<br> +<br> +Dr. Jordan said afterwards that it was three steps which took Frank +up the fifteen stairs. The nurse who met him at the corner looks +back on it as the escape of her lifetime. Maude lay in bed with +a face as pale as the pillow which framed it. Her lips were bloodless +but smiling.<br> +<br> +‘Frank!’<br> +<br> +‘My own dear sweet girlie!’<br> +<br> +‘You never knew. Did you, Frank? Tell me that you +never knew.’<br> +<br> +And at that anxious question the foolish pride which keeps the emotions +of the strong man buried down in his soul as though they were the least +honourable part of his nature, fell suddenly to nothing, and Frank dropped +with his head beside the white face upon the pillow, and lay with his +arm across the woman whom he loved, and sobbed as he had not sobbed +since his childhood. Her cheek was wet with his tears. He +never saw the doctor until he came beside him and touched him on the +shoulder.<br> +<br> +‘I think you had better go now,’ said he.<br> +<br> +‘Sorry to be a fool, doctor,’ said Frank, blushing hotly +in his clumsy English fashion. ‘It’s just more than +I can stand.’<br> +<br> +‘Sir,’ the doctor answered, ‘I owe you an apology, +for I had done you an injustice. Meanwhile your son is about to +be dressed, and there is hardly room for three men in one bedroom.’<br> +<br> +So Frank went down into the darkening room below, and mechanically lighting +his pipe, he sat with his elbows upon his knees and stared out into +the gathering gloom where one bright evening star twinkled in a violet +sky. The gentle hush of the gloaming was around him, and some +late bird was calling outside amongst the laurels. Above he heard +the shuffling of feet, the murmur of voices, and then amid it all those +thin glutinous cries, <i>his </i>voice, the voice of this new man with +all a man’s possibilities for good and for evil, who had taken +up his dwelling with them. And as he listened to those cries, +a gentle sadness was mixed with his joy, for he felt that things were +now for ever changed - that whatever sweet harmonies of life might still +be awaiting him, from this hour onwards, they might form themselves +into the subtlest and loveliest of chords, but it must always be as +a trio, and never as the dear duet of the past.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XXII - THE TRIO<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +(<i>Extract from a letter to the Author from Mrs. Frank Crosse</i>.)<br> +<br> +‘It is very singular that you should say with such confidence +that you know that our baby is a splendid one, and further on you say +that in some ways it differs from any other baby. It is so true, +but neither Frank nor I can imagine how you knew. We both think +it so <i>clever </i>of you to have found it out. When you write +to us, do please tell us how you discovered it.<br> +<br> +‘I want to tell you something about baby, since you so kindly +ask me, but Frank says there is no use my beginning as there is only +one quire of paper in the house. As a matter of fact, I shall +be quite short, which is not because I have not plenty to say - you +cannot think what a <i>dear </i>he is - but because he may wake up at +any moment. After that happens I can only write with one hand, +while I wave a feather fan with the other, and it is so difficult then +to say exactly what you mean. In any case you know that I have +not the habit of collecting and writing down my ideas, so please forgive +me if this seems a stupid letter. Frank could have done it splendidly. +But he has so many sweet and quite <i>remarkable </i>ways, that I ought +to be able to put some of them down for you.<br> +<br> +‘It will be easier perhaps if I imagine a day of him - and one +of his days is very much like another. No one could ever say that +he was irregular in his habits. First thing in the morning I go +over to his cot to see if he is awake yet - though, of course, I know +that he can’t be, for he always lets us know - the darling! +However, I go over all the same, and I find everything quiet and nothing +visible of baby, but a tiny, turned-up nose. It is so exactly +Frank’s nose, only that his is curved the other way. Then, +as I bend over his cot, there is a small sigh, such a soft, comfortable +sound! Then a sort of earthquake takes place under the eider down, +and a tightly clenched fist appears and is waved in the air. He +has such a pleasant, cheerful way of waving his fists. Then one +eye is half opened, as if he were looking round to see if it were safe +to open the other one, and then he gives a long, sorrowful wail as he +realises that his bottle is not where he left it when he went to sleep. +In a moment he is in my arms and quite happy again, playing with the +lace round the neck of my pink dressing-gown. When he finds that +his nice warm bath is all ready for him, he becomes quite jovial, and +laughs and chuckles to himself. Something awfully funny must have +happened to him before ever he came into this world at all, for nothing +that has occurred since could account for the intense expression of +amusement that one can often see in his eyes. When he laughs, +Frank says that he looks like some jolly old clean-shaven toothless +friar - so chubby and good-humoured. He takes the greatest interest +in everything in the room, watches the nurse moving about, looks out +of the window, and examines my hair and my dress very critically. +He loves to see untidy hair and a bright tie, or a brooch will often +catch his eye, and make him smile. His smile is the most wonderful +thing! As he lies gazing with his great serious blue eyes, his +whole face suddenly lights up, his mouth turns up at one corner in the +most irresistible way, and his cheeks all go off into dimples. +He looks so sweet and innocent, and at the same time so humorous and +wicked, that his foolish mother wants to laugh at him and to weep over +him at the same time.<br> +<br> +‘Then comes his bath, and there is a sad display of want of faith +upon his part. He enjoys the process, but he is convinced that +only his own exertions keep him from drowning, so his little fists are +desperately clenched, his legs kick up and down the whole time, and +he watches every movement of mother and nurse with suspicion. +He enjoys being dressed, and smiles at first, and then he suddenly remembers +that he has not had his breakfast. Then the smiles vanish, the +small round face grows so red and angry, and all covered with little +wrinkles, and there is a dismal wailing - poor darling! If the +bottle is not instantly forthcoming he will howl loudly, and beat the +air with his fists until he gets it. He <i>does </i>remind me +so of his father sometimes. He is always hunting for his bottle, +and will seize my finger, or a bit of my dress, or anything, and carry +it to his mouth, and when he finds it isn’t what he wants, he +throws it away very angrily. When finally he does get the bottle, +he becomes at once the most contented being in the whole world, and +sucks away with such great long pulls, and such dear little grunts in +between. Then afterwards, a well-washed, well-fed atom, he is +ready to look about him and observe things. I am sure that he +has his father’s brains, and that he is storing up all sorts of +impressions and observations for future use, for he notices <i>everything</i>. +I used to think that babies were stupid and indifferent - and perhaps +other babies are - but <i>he </i>is never indifferent. Sometimes +he is pleased and amused, and sometimes angry, and sometimes gravely +interested, but he is always wide awake and taking things in. +When I go into his room, he always looks at my head, and if I have my +garden hat with the flowers, he is so pleased. He much prefers +chiffon to silk.<br> +<br> +‘Almost the first thing that struck me when I saw him, and it +strikes me more and more, was, how could any one have got the idea of +original sin? The people who believe in it can never have looked +into a baby’s eyes. I love to watch them, and sometimes +fancy I can see a faint shade of reminiscence in them, as if he had +still some memories of another life, and could tell me things if he +could only speak. One day as I sat beside his cot - Oh dear! +I hear his Majesty calling. So sorry! Good-bye. - Yours +very truly,<br> +<br> +MAUDE CROSSE.’<br> +<br> +<i>P.S</i>. - I have not time to read this over, but I may say, in case +I omitted it before, that he really is a very remarkable baby.’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, A DUET ***<br> +<pre> + +******This file should be named duet10h.htm or duet10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, duet11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, duet10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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