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It takes an engineer to dam a river: a mere manmay stem the tide of a child’s crying, and if he can’tthere is always the woman waiting; it’s her job.
It takes an engineer to dam a river: a mere manmay stem the tide of a child’s crying, and if he can’tthere is always the woman waiting; it’s her job.
It takes an engineer to dam a river: a mere manmay stem the tide of a child’s crying, and if he can’tthere is always the woman waiting; it’s her job.
It takes an engineer to dam a river: a mere man
may stem the tide of a child’s crying, and if he can’t
there is always the woman waiting; it’s her job.
“Horrible!”thought Marcus as he made his way towards the house where lodged the girl and her mother, and he supposed her brothers and sisters. Supper? And shrimps for supper? The shrimps he had been asked to shrimp for? Why had Shan’t got him into this difficulty?
It was her fault. If she had been less get-at-able, less ready with her all-embracing smile, he would never have known the girl and her mother. If Sibyl hadn’t married Eustace Carston this could never have happened.
Arrived at the house Marcus found the door wide open. He knocked on it with his stick and viciously broke a blister in the paint which took him back to the joys of boyhood. Out rushed a small boy—exactly the kind of small boy he should have expected. A boy covered with sand—his hair full of it—his knees sandy—his stockings held sand in every rib.
“Hullo! You have come, then? Mum said you would funk it at the last moment.”
“Did she?” asked Marcus. Was here an excuse he could seize—
“Come in—the teapot’s on the table.”
Marcus followed the sandy boy into a room that seemed full to overflowing—of the girl’s relations. They all had great big eyes, some brown, some blue: all too big. Their cheeks were too pink—they were all horribly healthy. It was just the sort of family she would belong to. The girl detached herself from a crowd gathered round what they chose to call an aquarium, to make much of Marcus—to put him at his ease. She wore a pink blouse and was quite free from sand. Her cheeks were flushed, but that might come from shrimping. She was a little too pleased to see him, and a little too grateful to him for coming. Perhaps she knew how much he was suffering. She must know he wasn’t accustomed to this kind of thing. He thought of Diana. How would she look in the midst of this family? Delightfully cool, he knew, and tremendously amused. She would love to see him being made a fuss of by the wrong kind of people.
The sandy boy, having given his sister her chance, proceeded to take his and monopolized Mr. Maitland.
Marcus thought in despair that the tea, if ever possible at this hour, must by now be quite undrinkable. The sandy boy had a crab in water toshow Mr. Maitland, and a starfish imprisoned—it had died—and there were jellyfish in a bucket—jellyfish of all pets the least likely to move Marcus to enthusiasm. He tried to be interested—was beginning to like the small boy a little—when the mother came and told Sandy to leave Mr. Maitland alone.
“Why should Rose have him?” asked the sandy boy, defiantly.
“Sandy, you scamp,” said his mother, “what nonsense you talk!”
“Itisn’t—yousaid—we were to leave Rosie with Mr. Maitland—”
“Sandy, Sandy, where do you expect to go to—?”
“When?Well—you said, we were to leave him”—nodding in Marcus’s direction—“to Rosie—it comes to the same thing.”
“Are you interested in old things, Mr. Maitland?” asked Mrs. Madder.
Marcus said he was—in some old things.
“We are always on the lookout—this is a sweet little print, isn’t it?” She held out a cheaply framed, hand-coloured print for his inspection.
Marcus looked at it and asked where she had got it.
“Oh, that’s telling,” she answered playfully; “the man said it was a bargain, though I don’tthink even he knew its true value. What do you think I gave for it?”
Marcus said he had no idea. Mrs. Madder challenged him to guess, but did not wait to hear whether he made a good guess or not. He must see the quaintest little bit of china she had bought! Was he jealous? That it was quaint Marcus could say with perfect truth—with less truth that he was very jealous.
“It’s such fun collecting, isn’t it?” she asked impetuously. She was terribly impetuous and inclined to be playful.
He admitted it was—great—fun.
“And it doesn’t cost much, if you know!”
Marcus said no doubt she was right, it was a question of knowledge, and he sat with the china woolly lamb in his hands, with his thoughts on that horrible teapot.
“Isn’t supper ready?” asked some one.
“Ages ago,” said the sandy boy; “I simply yelled that the teapot was on the table.”
“You should have said it louder,” suggested another.
Marcus was put next to Rosie; Mrs. Madder explaining that there was no need for ceremony; besides, she was so busy with the teapot she wouldn’t be able to amuse Mr. Maitland:—and Auntie was deaf, so she liked to have her next her,so that she could repeat the jokes to her. “Here, Auntie! Next to me; I will tell you if Mr. Maitland says anything amusing.”
On the other side of Marcus sat a man who, gathering that Mr. Maitland was interested in old things, told him of all the cheap places he knew in London—and after having done that, told him most of the contents of a shilling hand-book on “How to collect anything, and everything.” It was most interesting—only a shilling! He would lend it to Mr. Maitland.
Mr. Maitland said he had hardly time to collect everything. The man smiled and said it did not mean “everything” literally, naturally, and he was hurt and refused to talk any more. Gratefully Marcus turned to the quiet Rose at his other side who had nothing to teach him, but a generous sympathy to offer any one. She was ready to be sorry about anything—sorry that he wouldn’t have any more tea—no more lobster salad? Well, blanc-mange, then? Not with strawberry jam? Well—sardines? Shrimps, then? Shrimps, hemust, because they were the shrimps he ought to have caught.
No, nothing, Marcus assured her. He had dined—suppered—he had had quite enough.
“We make cocoa when we come in,” said Rose, beaming at him.
Here at least was certain comfort and something to look forward to.
“Come in from where?” he asked.
“Oh, we just go out and wander about—it’s so delicious—you will—won’t you? It’s too hot to stay indoors, isn’t it?”
“Much too hot.”
“Before you go out, Rosie,” said her mother, “just play Mr. Maitland that dear little Berceuse—Tum-ti tum-ti tum—you know.”
“Oh, no, mother.”
“Oh, no,” said Marcus.
“Don’t you like music?” she asked, surprised, men so often did.
“I have never—”
“Well you should hear Rosie. I’m sure you would like it—but I’m afraid the piano hasn’t been tuned—”
“Please don’t, mother!”
“After all we have paid for you, Rosie! Rosie!”
“Some other time,” pleaded Marcus; “it’s so hot indoors.”
“Do you find it hot? Sandy, let Mr. Maitland sit next the door; there, do move, Mr. Maitland! Auntie, make room for Mr. Maitland and Rosie.” She shook her head, “She can’t hear. Well, shall we go out, then?”
Marcus stepped out into the fresh, cool air witha sigh of deepest thankfulness. Even the girl who trod the red-bricked path beside him he could forgive for daring to fall in love with him. The mother for trying to catch him he should never forgive; but there was something attractive about Rosie. “Shall we sit here?” she asked when they reached the sands. He would rather she had left it to him to choose the place; but in full view of the whole watering-place and that a favourite one, there should be no immediate danger. Under the shelter of a rock they sat. Yes—she was attractive—he could see no reason why she should marry as the old lady in the bath-chair had imagined she should. Surely there must be something between Marcus Maitland and that other man? Rose knew how to be quiet, which was a great thing in woman.—She stuck out her feet. Her shoes? Bad shape; and her stockings? They weren’t quite right. He didn’t see what was wrong exactly—unless it was that the other sides of the seams showed through—but still she was very attractive: her simplicity was engaging. Well-shaped shoes were after all a matter—a question of money.
“It’s funny you should be Mr. Maitland, isn’t it?” she said, digging her heels into the soft sand and looking up at him under her long, dark eyelashes.
“It would be far funnier if I was not—funnier to me, at all events.”
“Yes, of course: you are so amusing, aren’t you?”
“Am I? I don’t think so.” He was open to conviction.
“Yes, you are—I’m serious—don’t you think you are?”
“Amusing?”
“Yes.”
“I never thought so.”
“Well, you are—and I’m sure you are—kind too!”
“Are you, why?” Unconsciously, perhaps, Marcus put on the kindest face in the world—an absurd face it was, but Rose was looking the other way.
“You look it,” she said softly.
Marcus said she had said he looked so many things, amongst them a widower.
“Oh, I am so glad you are not that.” The tragic eyes were turned upon him—they were positively wells of deep thankfulness.
“Why?” He was terrified—yet, fascinated, he must know why.
She said she would have hated him to be unhappy.
“But,”—he was getting very uncomfortable: he wished Shan’t would come and bury him in the sand, as she was wont to do—deep, deep, deep.“But,” he went on desperately, “I might not have been unhappy—”
“Not if your wife had died? I should have hated that—I mean I should hate you to be—shallow. I know you would have been heart-broken: I should wish you to be.” That settled it, once and for all—
“Why?” Marcus felt he was now paddling in pathos. He saw himself a widower walking to church with a child on either side: their hands in his.
“Because I want you to think rather wonderfully of marriage—and married life.”
Marcus said hastily that he could not think of them at all.
“Why—you must—for my sake. You will—if I ask you to.”
“Because there are reasons” (there were none, of course) “I can never marry.”
“I—am—so sorry—” There was a terrific silence—an impossible silence.
She broke it gently—broke it as softly as the waves broke upon the sands. “But you won’t mind if I do?”
“My dear child, of course not—do you want to?” This was a marvellous way out.
She said, Yes, but she could not do it without him.
He asked what he had to do with it, and she said, “More than you know,” which he was willing enough to admit!—So far as he could see he had nothing to do with it.
“Much more than you know,” she repeated.
She drew up her feet. They were very pretty slim feet, he discovered. He liked the shoes even, except that they were white. He didn’t really like white shoes. She clasped her hands round her knees. He liked her hands, particularly liked them. They were long and delightfully brown. He didn’t mind brown hands—not a bit—at the seaside.
“Whom do you want to marry?” he asked, feeling a sudden rush of tenderness towards this dark-eyed girl, and a slight resentment towards the man she would marry. This girl had found him both sympathetic and amusing. If Diana thought him amusing she would never tell him so.
“That’s the curious part of the whole thing—I heard from some one this morning.”
“The some one?” said Marcus, with marvellous intuition. He really was sympathetic, he felt the glow of it himself.
“Yes, and he said you were here—”
“Why did he say that?” What business had any one to say Marcus Maitland was anywhere—even if he were? He hated his movements discussed.
“Because you are, I suppose.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But how does he know?”
“He’s in your office—isn’t it extraordinary?”
“Very—and what is he in my office? And my office, by the way, is so little mine. I have left the business—”
“Yes—I know! It’s rather a pity, from our point of view.”
“It was hardly worth the trouble of getting to know me?” suggested Marcus.
“No—I don’t mean that—but although he doesn’t see you now, he knew you in America—he was sent over there for a year or two—”
“What position does he hold?”
“He’s getting on very well—for his age wonderfully well—but I thought if you could just tell me what his prospects are—I might tell my mother—and she would give her consent, I am sure—if I could just say he was getting on wonderfully well—and—”
“What’s his name?”
“Flueyn—pronounced Flynn—he said you never got it right.”
“Does he? I’m sorry. Flueyn? Why, he’s a most excellent fellow. I remember him.”
“Will—he—get on?”
“Yes—of course—bound to—”
“How—much a year will he get on?”
Marcus thought for a moment—Flueyn—excellentchap—fine big fellow—he had rather a terrible laugh: too boisterous in private life, he should say. But he didn’t know him in private life—no question of knowing him—very good worker—very keen—it was quite possible he would get on. But why did this girl want to marry him?
“How—much—?” The tragic eyes were turned upon him; they were pleading eyes, dangerous eyes—the red lips trembled a little—dangerous too—very. How much was going to make such a tremendous difference—the hands tensely clasped said that: the eyes clouded expressed that—the parted lips meant that.
“Of course—I would do anything within my power—but I am not in a—”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t cry—it will be all right—tell your mother it will be all right—don’t thank me.”
“HowcanI thank you?”
“By not thanking me—Flueyn’s an excellent chap—no, I won’t come and have cocoa, thank you. I never drink it at night. You will be all right? Then you will forgive me if I go home; I have letters to write. I won’t forget, only don’t build on it—because—”
“I have built—it’s finished—all but the roof.”
Marcus looked at her—there were tears in hereyes. “Please don’t look so—happy,” he said; “it frightens me.”
On his way back to the hotel, he called in to see Mrs. Sloane. She was delighted to see him and to hear his news.
“Tell me all about it—begin at the very beginning. Tell me first about the young man.”
“He’s very big and I should say wonderfully healthy: has lots of hair—fair! It stands on end at the slightest provocation. He laughs, I should imagine, tremendously. Out of office hours he would be boisterous, I am sure of that—but none of her family will mind—‘Auntie’ wouldn’t hear him if he wasn’t. He plays games, I believe—I don’t know what else to tell you. You see I didn’t know him—I didn’t even know how to pronounce his name.”
“But you ought to have known him. He sounds so eminently desirable.”
“For her—yes, but he would jar upon you a thousand times a day.”
“That would be my fault—it’s a bad thing for a woman when she grows too fragile, too exotic, to stand a boisterous laugh. You are very gentle, my friend, to an old woman.... I told Shan’t I felt very old to-day, and she said, so kindly: ‘You’re not so old as Moses would have been if he had lived.’”
She put out her hand and Marcus took it and held it as delicately and as carefully as he would have held a vase of the Ming period.
“The Flueyns must be happy,” she said. “You will see that they are.”
“I have very little influence—really.”
“Is that quite true?”
“Not quite.”
Mrs. Sloane said that was rather a comfort to her because she had a confession to make. She had not been quite—well, truthful herself. Marcus was a little alarmed. He could not imagine an elderly woman in a bath-chair departing in any way from the path of goodness and righteousness. He asked what she had to confess and asked it so charmingly that she vowed he had missed his vocation in life. “You would forgive so nicely,” she explained.
“Hardly as nicely as you would tell a—lie,” he suggested.
“A lie is perhaps a little too strong—no, I suppose it’s not—I led you to believe I did not know Shan’t, whereas I know her very well: and of course I know Elsie. I live in Bestways, and I have known her for a long time, and the longer I know her the better I love her. Now, am I forgiven?”
“The best thing I have heard of her is that you are her friend,” said Marcus.
“How nice of you—to tell an untruth so charmingly! But tell me why you dislike each other so much? It was in order to find out if Elsie was justified in her ridiculous attitude towards you that I did not tell you who I was.”
“Does she really dislike me?” asked Marcus. “Why should she? I have never done anything to her.”
Mrs. Sloane asked him if he hadn’t made the children rather fond of him.
“But surely she couldn’t mind that?”
“Why do you dislike her?”
“I don’t; but she is always trying to keep the children away from me.”
“I see very little difference between you,” said Mrs. Sloane; and after what she had said about Elsie, Marcus was obliged to say he was glad of that.
When Marcus reached the hotel he was met by the hall porter, who astonished him by saying: “I’m a family man myself, sir, you will excuse me—but will you go upstairs at once? I was told to say—directlyyou came in.”
Marcus went upstairs. Over the banisters at each landing hung an anxious housemaid. Each housemaid expressed her relief at seeing him, each begged him to hurry. Each assured him the lift was working. He had been in too great a hurry toremember the lift. When he got near his room a voice broke upon his ear—a long wail—the cry of one in great distress; the wail spoke loudly of Irish blood in the veins of her who wailed. It was the voice of his niece. Infuriated old women glanced at him through half-opened doors. “What had he been doing gallivanting about at night?” they seemed to say and no doubt they would have liked to add: “If he had left the mother he might at least stay with the child.”
“Shan’t,” he called, “I’m coming.” He passed lady’s-maids gathered together, and strode into Shan’t’s room. Then and there he decided that he had never seen a child cry—never imagined a child could cry—not the child of any one belonging to him—as this child cried. It was impossible that anything could cry so terribly. Tears poured down her face: her eyes were screwed up. It was a horrible exhibition showing a deplorable lack of self-restraint.
“Shan’t, stop!” He sat down beside her, he shook her gently—nothing made any difference. “I’m here, your Uncle Marcus is here—”
This was why there were people in the world who didn’t love children. They had seen them like this.
“I don’t want him—I want my darlin’—Aunt Elsie—”
“No, Shan’t, you don’t. You are at the seaside with your darling uncle.”
“I’m—not—I won’t be at the seaside. I want my darlin’ Aunt Elsie.”
“Shan’t—listen!” He tried to take her in his arms. She became rigid, unbendable—unbreakable—“Shan’t—!”
“I—want—my—darlin’ Aunt—Elsie.”
The management sent up to say, Would the young lady be quiet? There was an elderly gentleman above her—and an old lady below her—who could get no sleep.
“Shan’t—be quiet!”
“Nasty Uncle Marcus!”
“Shan’t—listen—”
But she refused to listen—she wriggled away under the bedclothes.
“What do you want, Shan’t?”
She emerged from under the bedclothes.
“I want my darlin’ Aunt Elsie.”
“But you can’t have her—she’s miles away. Would you like the kind lady who played with you on the sands?”
“She’s dead!” cried Shan’t—wailing afresh.
“No—she’s not. Look here, will you be good if I fetch her?”
“Will she bring my darlin’ crab—what was on the sands—?”
“Yes—yes—”
“W—ill—you fet-ch—her?”
“Yes.”
Marcus was off downstairs, three steps at a time—scattering housemaids as he went, out on to the sea-front, and finally reached the Madders’ door just as the cocoa was pronounced ready. “Oh, you’re just in time!” they all cried, as he came into the room. “Rose, fetch another cup and a spoon; no, you must share spoons.”
“What is it?” asked Rose, who was quick to see that something was wrong.
“It’s Shan’t, she won’t go to sleep—she does nothing but cry—will you come—and bring a crab?”
To which unusual request Rose made no objection. “Sandy,” she cried, “lend me a crab!”
“All right—there’s one under the sofa. Move, will you, Auntie, there’s a crab—hold hard—it’s in a bucket—it won’t bite.”
Marcus apologized to the assembled family, begged them to forgive him, didn’t wait to be assured of their ready forgiveness, but was off in the wake of Rose. As he had run down the pavement in London after Diana, so he now ran down the red-brick path after Rose. She ran less lightly, perhaps, than Diana had run, but then she was less lightly dressed. She ran just as fast—horriblyfast. His life had become a restless and strenuous one. Arrived at the hotel he and Rose went up in the lift. He noticed the water from the pail streaming down the front of her skirt; he never thought of the poor crab as he tried to dry it. She begged him not to; he mustn’t wet his handkerchief. He said it was already wet with the tears of Shan’t—soaked!
They found Shan’t sitting up in bed. The storm was passing; the waves of her sobs were breaking—the moaning of the outgoing tide was still to be heard. Rose was on her knees beside the bed, and in one moment her arms were round the child. Marcus turned away; he could not have said why, except that somehow or other he felt as if it were Flueyn’s right before any other man’s to see Rose as she looked now—altogether adorable like this—he had never seen her so desirable.
He felt he ought not to be listening to the crooning of that voice, even to the absurd things she was saying—they were women’s secrets he was overhearing; he was a listener on the threshold of a door he had deliberately closed in his life.
After the storm there came peace. Shan’t was whispering: every now and then came the backwash of a sob—but peace followed it. He seemed to see the golden reflection of the setting sun onthe wet sands. Shan’t was putting her fingers in and out of the button-holes in the girl’s knitted coat and was smiling up into her face. Rose was wiping away the tears from the child’s face. Shan’t was shyly promising to be good—never to cry any more? She nodded. Rose persuaded her to lie down. Shan’t insisted that she must say good-night to the crab. This was accomplished—poor crab! She must then pray for the crab and for all little crabs. This was done. By degrees she fell asleep, and until Rose was quite certain that nothing would awaken her she knelt beside her. Marcus watched her for a moment, then turned away and walked to the window. He felt lonely. There was silence except for the sound of the waves breaking on the shore beneath the window, very softly. The world, with Shan’t, had fallen gently to sleep and the waves sang a lullaby.
“She’s all right,” whispered Rose; “there will be some one near if she wakes?”
Marcus nodded.
“Then I shall go home—give me that poor crab.”
Marcus was afraid it was dead. Rose said all Sandy’s pets died young. They walked back to the lodgings together, in silence.
At the door he stopped. “I can’t thank you,” he said.
“There’s nothing to thank me for—I love children.”
“There is one thing I want to say—it will be all right with Flueyn.”
He asked her not to thank him, he said there was nothing to thank him for. She laughed, then added shyly, “How little you know!”