William resumes his story: I am now aware that I should not have invoked the aid of Elizabeth. A man should work out his own destiny. Once a woman precipitates herself in an affair, complications are bound to follow. Also Elizabeth is no ordinary woman. There are times when I question whether she is human. Was it not her idea that I should—but I must try to chronicle the events in their correct sequence.
The mistake I made primarily, was in not going away directly I first heard from Elizabeth of Miss Warrington's unfortunate and misplaced attachment for me. Things might then have adjusted themselves quite naturally. The idea, however, of a sensitive woman suffering on my account was exceedingly distasteful to me. If, I decided, I could bring about her complete disillusionment my conscience would be at rest. Also there would then be no necessity to cut myself off from the Warringtons, and give up my pleasant discourses with Henry. Thus, I felt, I was taking the most advisable course under the circumstances.
As for Miss Warrington herself, her behaviour was so inexplicable I wondered if her mind was not beginning to get unhinged. In the first place it was, I thought, unmaidenly enough that she should, through the medium of Elizabeth, thrust her photo on me; but that the photo should be accompanied by some feeble selection from the ill-balanced outpourings of Byron (who is my pet aversion) was, indeed, almost revolting.
Further, her attitude towards me in the presence of others was one of open hostility. So well, indeed, did she act on one occasion when I happened to be dining at her brother's house, that a new hope sprang up within me. I began to think that her strange uncalled-for passion for me had passed—in short, that her love had turned to hate. So impressed was I with this idea that when I next called at the Warringtons' I asked Elizabeth if I could speak to her alone for a few moments.
'About Miss Marryun, I'll bet,' she remarked. Looking at her I thought she accompanied her words with a slight lowering of the left eyelid. I trust I was mistaken. Free as the girl is in her speech I have never given her any encouragement to embellish it by winking.
A slight lowering of the left eyelid.[Illustration: A slight lowering of the left eyelid.]
A slight lowering of the left eyelid.[Illustration: A slight lowering of the left eyelid.]
'Naturally, the subject has been preying on my mind,' I admitted. 'But I am not so tortured with misgivings as before. Miss Warrington has ceased to—er—interest herself in me. In fact she detests me.'
'Oo ses that tom-my-rot?' asked the girl, turning on me almost fiercely.
'Miss Warrington was so excessively rude and abrupt in her manner to me the other evening,' I explained, 'that I am now convinced she has suddenly grown to hate me.'
'If you're not as blind as a bat!' commented Elizabeth. 'Can't you see she's doin' that to 'ide 'er feelings—so that you'll never guess 'ow 'er 'eart is torn an' bleedin' like.'
'Dear me, Elizabeth, do you mean this?' I asked in the utmost concern.
'Sure of it. As a matter o' fact she's more gone on you than ever. She's got to not eatin' now, so you can guess 'ow bad she is.'
I wiped the gathering moisture from my brow. 'Elizabeth, this is terrible—it must be stopped. I must discover some way to make Miss Warrington actually dislike me. In this I hope for your assistance. You know Miss Warrington much better than I do. You are, no doubt, acquainted with her likes and prejudices?'
'Not 'arf, I aint,' she said.
Taking this as meaning an affirmative, I continued, 'Perhaps you are able to tell me what it is about me that attracts her. I have a plan—I shall do exactly the opposite of what she desires of me.'
'To set her agen you, like,' remarked Elizabeth.
'Exactly.'
She stood for a few moments regarding me with her head on one side. Had you known her to be capable of it you might almost have imagined that she was thinking. Certainly she breathed much harder than usual. At last, to my profound astonishment, she suddenly sat down, threw her apron over her face and burst into unrestrained laughter.
'Compose yourself, my good girl,' I said, anxious lest the family should overhear, 'what is the matter?'
'I got an idea,' she said as soon as she had recovered. 'It aint 'arf a bad one. You say you want to know wot it is Miss Marryun likes about you?'
'I do, indeed,' I said eagerly.
'Well, I can tell you that right away. It's your towsled look, so to speak. Only the other day she ses to me, she ses, "Wot I like about Mr. Roarings is the rough kind o' suits 'e wears, them baggy trousis, an' also 'is great clompin' boots. I like the free an' easy way 'e throws 'is feet up to the ledge of the mantelpiece," she ses, "an' the way 'e 'as of wearin' 'is 'air 'anging all about 'is ears, shaggy-like."'
'Incredible!' I exclaimed.
'An' only yesterday she stood on this very spot where you are now and ses to me, thoughtful like: "Don't you love a man with a heavy beard an' moustarch—like Mr. Roarings, f'r instance?" she ses.'
'"Well, miss, since you put the question to me," I ses plain out; "I'm not parshul to either, though I've 'ad young men with 'em, singly and both together. I prefers 'em entirely without, but beggars can't be choosers, can they?"
'Then Miss Marryun said thoughtful like: "I think I'm rather different from other wimmin, Elizabeth. Very few would admire a man like Mr. Roarings. But 'e's my style, so to speak, if I was pickin' an' choosin'. But to show you 'ow strange I am," she goes on, "if 'e made 'isself spruce I should get to dislike 'im all at once."'
I raised my head sharply, suffused by a glow of hope. 'Elizabeth, my good girl,' I exclaimed, 'is it so easy to accomplish as all that?'
'I'm not so sure about easy,' she commented, looking me over as if I'd been an unlabelled exhibit in a Zoo. '"Rome wasn't built in a day," as the sayin' is, but it's a long lane that 'as no turnin'. "If 'e," ses Miss Marryun, meanin' you, "was got up real smart with a fancy westcoat, a crease down the front of 'is trousis, shinin' button boots, and wos to shave orf 'is beard and moustarch—" she said that bit very earnest, too—"well, I should fair detest the sight of 'im."'
I sank down in a seat with a groan of despair. Elizabeth was right. Such a metamorphosis would not be easy. It would mean the overturning of my most cherished convictions, an upheaval of the very routine of my existence. Would life be worth living if one awoke in a morning to the knowledge of the rites that every day would bring forth? A matutinal shave, trousers to be taken from the press, collars and cuffs to be changed, hair and nails to be trimmed, the two latter, if not every day, at all events occurring with enough frequency to keep a simple man in a constant state of unrest.
'Elizabeth,' I said, shuddering, 'I cannot do all this.'
'Oo's arskin' you to?' demanded the girl. 'I was only repeating wot Miss Marryun ses to me with 'er own lips. "Yes, I should fair get to detest 'im if 'e was spruce," was 'er very words.'
I pondered. 'Are you quite sure she stipulated about the beard?'
'She did that. She mentioned it pertickler three times.'
I shook my head firmly. Whatever happened I did not mean to concede that point. My beard is one of my best friends. By allowing it to grow to a suitable length it conceals the fact when my ties have grown shabby, and saves me any unnecessary changing of collars. No, I would never be clean-shaven. I could not face the world stripped of my natural facial coverings.
'There may be something in what you say, and I will consider your suggestion regarding the trousers, Elizabeth,' I conceded, 'but the suggestion that I should shave is perfectly monstrous and I won't think of it for a moment.'
'Well, to my mind it's one of the first things wot ought to be done with you,' she said in what seemed to me a disparaging sort of voice, 'wots the good o' puttin' a fancy westcoat an' a watch an' albert on a chap when 'e's got an 'ead like a wild man o' the woods. There ort to be no 'arf an' 'arf about it, I ses.'
I looked at the girl sternly, feeling that her speech was becoming unduly familiar. Nevertheless, I was conscious of a certain gratitude for her suggestion, and after she had gone out, I began to consider it from all points. There could be no harm in gradually making those changes in my habits and apparel which would bring about Miss Warrington's disillusionment, but it must be fairly gradual. Otherwise it might attract undue attention, for there are times when I think I am just a trifle careless about my appearance.
I decided I had better begin operations with a new suit. This would involve changing my regular tailor. The one who has had my custom for the last quarter of a century is used to my way of putting my head round his door once in three years and commanding, 'A tweed lounge suit, the same as the last.'
'Yes, sir,' he invariably concurs, 'any difference in measurements, sir?'
'I think not,' I reply, 'but make it quite loose and comfortable in case I've added a few inches to the waist.'
That is all. Occasionally, of course, I vary the order by making it an overcoat, or an extra pair of slacks (when I burn holes in my usual ones, which frequently happens), but the procedure is always the same. It can easily be understood that I had not the courage to confront him after all these years with a demand for the latest thing in the season's suitings, and especial injunctions regarding style and cut.
As I was dwelling on the annoyances and difficulties that were already presenting themselves, Miss Warrington came in. I must confess that, as I looked at the irritating female whose misplaced affections were already harassing me, I felt slightly confused. Since I had first learned of her insane infatuation I had studiously avoided being left alone with her for one instant. At the moment, however, there was no possibility of escape, as she stood between me and the door, thus effectively barring my exit. I could only confront her uneasily, trying to avoid her direct gaze and, as I did so, I could not help remarking that she, too, was obviously embarrassed.
Then, as if taking a resolution, she came up to me and looked me squarely in the face. I moved away, a faint shiver of apprehension going down my spine.
'Mr. Rawlings,' she said slowly and impressively, 'there is one thing I want to say regarding your conduct. When you are addressing photographs, may I ask you to do it with lowered voice, or at all events in a purely conversational tone?' Then she swept out of the room, banging the door behind her.
As for me, I was left dazed and struggling to grasp the strange import of her mystic words. Why this constant reference to the photograph she had so shamelessly thrust upon me, and which, as a direct hint to her that I did not desire it, I had replaced in its frame at the first opportunity?
What had come over the woman? I began to be more than ever convinced of my former suspicion that her fatal and erratic passion for myself was beginning to unhinge her mind. I saw that I must lose no time in bringing about her disillusionment.
'Henry, do you think William has been looking particularly unhappy lately?' I inquired.
Henry grunted. Converted for the moment into 'A Well-known Actor,' he was digging amongst his theatrical cuttings for reminiscent purposes, and was, therefore, somewhat abstracted.
I, too, was supposed to be working, but try as I would I could not help thinking of William. I felt sorry for him—he looked so distrait. When, as he vaguely hinted, he had conceived an attachment for me I did not think it was likely to cause him any unhappiness. Indeed, I never imagined him capable of feeling any emotions but those of a purely physical character—such as the effects of cold, heat, hunger or bodily pain. And here he was, sighing and looking so dejected it was depressing even to see him about the place. I had just been re-readingCyrano de Bergerac, whose case seemed rather applicable to William. Could it be possible that under his rough exterior the poor fellow had all the sentiment and fiery imagination of Cyrano, and suffered the same sensitive torment about his appearance. Did William, like Cyrano, shudder when his eye rested even on his own shadow? Did he feel that because of his physical failings the love of woman must be for ever denied him?
I must admit that William was a trifle more interesting to me now than he had previously been. Every woman finds something rather gratifying in being worshipped from afar, even if it is by an 'impossible.' Yet the idea of making him unhappy was distasteful to me. I repeated my question to Henry.
'Never seen William unhappy yet,' replied Henry, looking up, 'he's one of those few chaps who seem contented with life—only wish I was the same.'
Something in his tone made me promptly forget William and concentrate on Henry. 'Aren't you contented?' I asked.
He paused a moment before replying, and then rather wearily indicated the article he was writing. 'It's this kind of thing, you know—where does it all lead to? At times I think journalism is the most exacting profession in the world.'
'What do you mean?' I asked, puzzled at his tone.
'It is exacting because it seems to lead to nothing,' he continued. 'For instance, just think of all the energy, brains and effort involved in the bringing out of a newspaper. Yet it is only read casually, skimmed over by most people, then tossed on one side and instantly forgotten. It is conceived, born, and it dies all in one day. Do you ever see any one reading a morning paper at, say, four o'clock in the afternoon? It is hopelessly out of date by that time.'
'I hadn't thought of it like that,' I pondered. 'Of course, journalism isn't like a business that you can build up and constantly improve; but you can at least establish a reputation amongst newspaper readers.'
'You can't do that so well nowadays,' returned Henry, who seemed in pessimistic vein, 'owing to the present demand for getting well-known names attached to articles. We write them all the same, of course, but it's the people with the well-known names that get the credit for having a good literary style. Well, I always put the best of myself into my work—I can't write anything in a hasty, slovenly manner—but where does it lead to? Some day, perhaps, my ideas will give out and then——' he made a little hopeless gesture.
He was silent a moment, staring out of the window. 'Then there's another thing,' he went on, 'this constant grind leaves me no time to get on with my play. If I could only get it finished it might bring me success—even fame. But how shall I ever get the leisure to complete it?'
A feeling of compunction swept over me. I went up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. 'Henry, dear old chap, I never thought you felt like this about things.' Certainly he was writing a play, but as he had been engaged on it now for over ten years (Henry is a conscientious writer), my interest in it was not so keen as it had been when he first told me of the idea a decade previously.
'Couldn't you do a little of your play every evening after dinner?' I suggested.
'I'm too brain weary by that time—my ideas seem to have given out. Sometimes I think I must renounce the notion of going on with it—and it's been one of my greatest ambitions.'
I smoothed his hair tenderly, noticing how heavily flecked it was with grey and how it silvered at the temples. Poor Henry, he reminded me just then ofL'homme à la cervelle d'or, a fantastic story of Daudet's, where he tells of a man possessed of a brain of gold which he tore out, atom by atom, to buy gifts for the woman he loved until, in the end (she being an extravagant type), he was left without a scrap of brain to call his own and so expired. The man was, of course, supposed to be a writer, and the brain of gold his ideas. It made me feel quite uneasy to think that Henry, too, might be, metaphorically speaking, steadily divesting himself of brain day by day in order to support The Kid and me in comfort.
'I ought not to grumble,' he said at last. 'Very few people can do what they want to in this world. Take you, my dear, for instance. You are not following your natural bent when you write those articles for the Woman's Page.'
'I should hope not—I loathe 'em,' I said viciously.
'There's one thing about it,' he went on musingly, 'we'll see that The Kid has every chance when she grows up.'
We are looking forward very much to the time when The Kid will be grown up. Henry says he pictures her moving silently about the house, tall, graceful, helpful, smoothing his brow when he is wearied, keeping his papers in order, correcting his proofs and doing all his typing for him. I, too, for my part, have visions of her taking all household cares off my shoulders, mending, cooking, making my blouses and her own clothes, and playing Beethoven to us in the evenings when our work is done. In her spare time we anticipate that she will write books and plays that will make her famous.
We have visions of these things, I repeat—generally when The Kid is in bed asleep with her hands folded on her breast in a devotional attitude, a cherubic smile on her lips. There are, however, other times when I hope for nothing more exacting than the day to come when she will keep herself clean.
I often wonder where all the stickiness comes from that she manages to communicate from her person to the handles of doors, backs of chairs and other such places where you are most likely to set your hand unconsciously. Henry has a theory about it oozing from the pores of her skin, and says she conceals some inexhaustible sources of grime which is constantly rising to the surface. In which case you can't entirely blame The Kid.
Under the circumstances, however, we feel that she ought to practise more restraint. Always when she is most thickly coated in dirt and varnished with the glutinous substance already referred to, does she most strongly feel the calls of affection. Then is the moment when she flings her arms about Henry and presses long kisses on his clean collar, or gently caresses the entire surface of my new blouse. Nothing, I have remarked, can stir her demonstrative nature so much as the sight of Henry and me arrayed in all the glory of evening attire. The merest glimpse of my georgette theatre gown, or the chaste folds of Henry's tie, scintillating collar and shirt front send her flying to us with hands that fondle and lips that cling. If we repel her and compromise by kissing the middle of her head, she has a way of giving us haunting looks that, after we have sallied forth to the halls of pleasure, can make us feel uncomfortable for the entire evening.
'Yes, when The Kid is grown up,' Henry went on, 'perhaps she'll have the success that has been denied to us, old girl.'
I was about to reply when my attention was arrested by a confused murmur of voices in the hall. I distinguished Elizabeth's, and as the other was a man's tones, I supposed she was having a little badinage at the side door with one of the tradesmen, as is her wont. As in time it did not die away, but began to get a little more heated (one voice appearing to be raised in entreaty and the other, Elizabeth's, in protest), I thought I had better saunter out and interrupt the causerie. Elizabeth has occasionally to be reminded of her work in this manner. She is too fond of gossiping.
I opened the door ostentatiously and sallied out—just in time to see Elizabeth playfully pulling William by the beard. 'You get them whiskers orf—narsty, rarspin' things,' she was saying.
It was an awful moment. Elizabeth had the grace to look ashamed of herself for once, and drifted back to her sink without a word. As for William, he appeared thoroughly unnerved. He tottered towards me. 'Let me explain,' he began.
'William!' I said in stern tones. Then again, 'William!' He wilted under my gaze. 'I should never have thought such a thing of you,' I continued.
He pointed with a finger that trembled in the direction of the kitchen. 'That girl has no respect for any one or anything in the world. Traditions, class distinctions are as nothing to her. She would put out her tongue at Homer.'
'Or pull the beard of William,' I added sarcastically.
'Until I met her,' he went on fiercely, 'I was entirely a democrat. But now I see that once power gets into the hands of the common people we are damned!'
'But what has all this to do with your flirting with Elizabeth?' I demanded.
He seemed so overcome at this very natural comment on my part that for a moment I thought he was going to have a seizure of some sort. 'I—I—flirt, and with Elizabeth?' he repeated when he had slightly recovered himself. 'Madame, what do you mean to insinuate?'
He drew himself up to his full height of six feet three, and, looking at him as he towered above me with his mane of disordered hair and flowing beard, I could not help thinking he rather resembled Samson in one of his peevish moods. The indignation that possessed him seemed sincere enough, but the circumstances of the case utterly bewildered me. I was gazing at him in perplexity when Henry came out of the study.
'What's all this parleying in the hall, noise without, voices heard "off," and so forth?' he demanded.
William gave me such an agonized look of entreaty I decided I would say nothing about what had just occurred. 'It is only I endeavouring to get our friend William to rub his feet on the mat,' I retorted cheerfully. 'But let us go into the consulting chamber.'
Henry, being a Scotsman, likes argument.[Illustration: Henry, being a Scotsman, likes argument.]
Henry, being a Scotsman, likes argument.[Illustration: Henry, being a Scotsman, likes argument.]
William followed me into the study and took his usual seat at the fireside in a dejected manner. Then went through a strange gymnastic.
He had just started to swing his feet up to the mantelpiece when he paused with them in mid-air and brought them down again. The arrested action had a droll effect.
'Have a smoke,' said Henry, pretending not to notice this peculiar conduct and pushing the tobacco jar towards him.
'No thanks, old man,' he replied. 'I'm giving up smoking—for a time.'
It was now Henry's turn to look surprised. 'Giving up smoking,' he ejaculated. 'What's wrong—is it your liver?'
'No, no, my liver's all right.'
'Your lungs, then?'
'Of course, not.'
'It surely can't be your heart?'
William began to look annoyed. 'Look here, can't I go without a smoke for once without my entire anatomy being held up for discussion?' He then produced a cigarette and proceeded to light it.
'I thought you'd given up smoking,' commented the puzzled Henry.
'Do you call this smoking?' he replied in disgust. 'You might as well give lemonade to a man who asks for a brandy and soda and tell him it's just as good.'
'Then why renounce your pipe at all?' asked Henry, still mystified.
'I've decided to go through a sort of mental training,' replied William, speaking rather quickly and avoiding my eye. 'I think a man has no right to become the slave of habit. Directly he feels he is dropping into a groove he ought to face about and go in exactly the opposite direction.'
'Is that what you're doing just now?' I asked, wondering if this was an explanation of the Elizabeth episode.
'Exactly. It is the only way to build up one's character. Now, some people might think me a little careless regarding dress.'
'The ultra-fastidious might consider you a trifle insouciant, William.'
'That is one of the points in my character I intend to correct.' He dived into his pocket as he spoke and produced a brown paper parcel. William can carry any number of things in his pockets without making his figure look any bulgier or more unsymmetrical than usual. He boasts that he has at times gone on a three weeks' walking tour with all the luggage he required for that period disposed about his person, his damp sponge (concealed in the crown of his hat) keeping his head delightfully cool in the heat of the day.
'What have you got there, William?' I inquired as he unfolded the parcel.
'My first step in the evolution of character,' he replied solemnly, and took out a pair of white spats, and some fawn-coloured gloves.
'You don't mean you're going to wear those?' gasped Henry.
'I am—abhorrent as they are to me,' rejoined William mournfully.
'You may call it building up character if you like,' said Henry shortly, 'but I call it a lot of damned rot.' He pulled hard at his cigar, and then added, 'You're suffering from softening of the brain, my boy, or something of the sort.'
William looked at me in questioning despair, and in that moment my heart softened towards him. In a flash I understood. He had so often heard me urge Henry to wear white spats and light-coloured gloves, though all my coercion and entreaty had been in vain. William had thought by donning these things—which on him would have a grotesque effect—he would win my favour. Poor fellow! I was quite touched by his devotion, his absolutely hopeless passion.
'These things wouldn't be in keeping with the rest of you,' I said gently; 'they require to be accompanied by all the—er—appurtenances of the smart man.'
'Is—is—a beard an appurtenance?' he asked in a hollow voice.
'Not an appurtenance, William—perhaps a detriment would be the better word.'
He emitted a sound that was half a groan. 'I knew it,' he said. 'Well, what must be, must be, I suppose.'
'You're getting profound,' snorted Henry, who apparently objected to William in his present mood; and he proceeded to distract his attention by touching on a recent stirring debate in the House. William allowed Henry to talk on unchecked—your man who indulges in argument abhors that—and left unusually early for him.
'That fellow is undoubtedly going off his head,' commented Henry after his departure. 'I wonder what's wrong with him.'
I smiled rather sadly, and mentally decided that I must cure William of his infatuation for me without delay.
It is not easy to write—even on such a simple topic as 'How to Retain a Husband's Love'—if your attention is being distracted by a conscientious rendering of Czerny's 101 Exercises in an adjoining room. I could get no further with my article than the opening lines (they like an introductory couplet on the Woman's Page):—
It is the little rift within the luteThat by and by will make the music mute!
whereas The Kid, having disposed of all the major and minor scales and a goodly slice of Czerny, had now started her 'piece,' 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.' It was too much. I flung down my pencil and strode to the door. 'Moira,' I shrieked, 'stop that practising instantly.'
'Yes, Mama, dear.'
'Don't you understand I'm writing and want to be quiet?'
'Yes, Mama, dear. May I go on when you've finished writing?'
'I suppose so; but when I've quite finished it will be about your bedtime,' I said, trying not to feel exasperated.
'Then, may I get up an hour earlier in the morning to practise, Mama, dear?'
There is something almost unnatural in the way that child fights her way through all obstacles to the piano and the monotony of Czerny. All the other parents in the world seem to be bewailing the fact that they can't get their children to practise. I know I ought to be proud and glad that The Kid is so bent upon a musical career, but even as the lion and the lamb cannot lie down together, neither can a writer and an incipient musician dwell in the same house in amity.
Through almost illimitable difficulties (for when at work Henry can no more stand piano practice than I can) The Kid has got to the Variations of 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.' Nevertheless she is yearning for the day when she will arrive at the part where she crosses hands (Var. 8)—a tremendous achievement in her eyes, but viewed with cold aloofness by Henry and me.
As I returned to my writing Henry entered the room.
'Will you as a Scotsman tell me,' I inquired before he could speak, 'what English people have done that they should be so unduly annoyed by the bells of Scotland, why those bells should be blue, and who was responsible for bringing the said blue bells (with variations) across the Border?'
'I see The Kid's been annoying you again,' he commented. 'It's a pity she gets no chance of practising.'
I looked at him sternly. 'No chance! On the contrary, she never lets a chance escape her. I think it's the fierce Northern strain she inherits from you, Henry, that makes her so persistent. She reminds me of Bannockburn——'
'Bannockburn!' ejaculated Henry.
'King Bruce and the Spider and all that, you know. Didn't he go on trying and trying until he succeeded? That's what The Kid does with her scales. I think I understand why in 1603 we put a Scotch King on the English throne—you wouldn't have given us any peace if we hadn't.'
'Well, don't blame me for it, my dear,' replied Henry. 'I dropped in to tell you that William has just 'phoned up to say he accepts our invitation to dinner this evening, but he is most anxious to know who else is coming.'
I stared. 'This is most unusual. What should it matter to him who is coming?'
'I told him, of course, that there was only Marion and ourselves, and then he asked if he should get into evening dress. What do you think of that?' We looked at each other in silent amazement.
'William—in—evening—dress,' I echoed blankly. 'What can it mean?'
'Frankly, I think the poor old chap's brain is getting a little unhinged,' hazarded Henry. 'Do you remember the episode with the white spats and gloves the other day? I think you ought to persuade him to see a specialist, my dear.'
Suddenly I remembered the apparent reason for poor William's altered manner and smiled. 'I don't think we need call in medical aid just yet,' I replied.
Nevertheless, I felt that he must be cured of this foolishness as soon as possible, for, as I had already hinted to him, any attempt at embellishing his person would only make him appear more grotesque. How little did I then dream of the amazing surprise that was in store for me!
I was sitting alone in the drawing-room that same evening awaiting my two guests, Marion and William (Henry was upstairs dressing), when Elizabeth burst into the room.
'Oh, 'm, 'e's come!' she exclaimed, 'an' you never did see anything in your life 'arf so funny. I've been larfin' fit to split my sides.'
'Elizabeth,' I said coldly, 'what is wrong? Of whom are you speaking?'
For answer she threw her apron over her head and went off into an almost hysterical fit of laughing.
''Oo'd have thort it,' she said when she had slightly recovered. 'That there grizzly bear of a Mr. Roarings, too!'
'So you are referring to one of my guests,' I interrupted sternly. 'I'm ashamed of you, Elizabeth.'
'Well, you only ort ter see 'im now! Talk about grubs turnin' into butterflies——'
'I'm not talking about anything of the sort,' I interposed with extreme asperity of manner. 'Am I to understand that Mr. Rawlings has arrived?'
'Not 'arf, 'e 'asn't. Wait till you see Mamma's boy. 'E's a fair razzle-dazzle from top to toe. Oh, my godmother!' And being seized with another burst of hysterical laughter she dashed from the room.
'A fair razzle-dazzle.'[Illustration: 'A fair razzle-dazzle.']
'A fair razzle-dazzle.'[Illustration: 'A fair razzle-dazzle.']
I sighed as I put aside the French novel I had been reading when I was so rudely disturbed. I could not help wishing just then that Elizabeth had a little less character and a little more deference, and I decided that I must rebuke her for her familiarity. Then, remembering her supreme art in grilling a steak, I decided that rebukes—practised on domestics—are rather risky things in these days.
'Good evening,' said the deep voice of William behind me.
'Good evening,' I said casually, turning round and holding out my hand. Then I started back, my hand falling limply to my side. It was William who stood before me, because I recognized his voice—but that was all I recognized at the moment. Not a shred of his former self seemed to have remained.
I think I have, from time to time, represented William as shabby, bulky, shapeless, hairy, and altogether impossible as far as appearance goes. Can any words depict my astonishment at seeing him so suddenly transformed, glorified, redeemed and clean-shaven? His figure, which once appeared so stodgy, now looked merely strong and athletic encased in a well-fitting morning coat, a waistcoat of a discreet shade of smoke grey, with a hint of starched piqué slip at the opening. His irreproachable trousers were correctly creased—not too marked to be ostentatious, but just a graceful fold emerging, as it were, out of the texture, even as the faint line of dawn strikes across the darkened sky.
But it was his head that attracted me most. There was no denying it—shorn of his overgrowth of whiskers and put into a correct setting, William was handsome; even more than that, he was interesting. He had that firm, chiselled kind of mouth which women and artists find so attractive, and a delightful cleft in his chin; his hair, which had hitherto always struck me as being so unkempt and disordered, now that it was brushed smoothly back from his brow and curled into the nape of his neck gave him a distinguished appearance. I directed one long look at him and then instinctively dived to the mirror.
'Oh, William,' I gasped, 'is it possible?'
'Is what possible?' he inquired.
'Why just think of it,' I replied, groping in my pocket for my powder puff. 'You're a man!'
'What else should I be?' he asked, apparently mystified.
'You used to be—just William. But now,' I sidled up to him, 'you've changed amazingly.'
'Yes, I know that,' he growled with some of his former gruffness of manner. 'Can you imagine what a tremendous amount of determination and will power I required to get myself up like this?'
'And a good tailor as well—don't forget that,' I added, running an appraising eye over his form. 'I must get his address for Henry. Yes, it was brave of you. What made you do it, William?'
He avoided my eye and looked embarrassed. 'I had an object, of course. Didn't I explain the other evening——'
'I remember. You did say something about a man not getting into a groove.' I smiled, feeling slightly self-conscious for a moment. 'And how do you feel now you're entirely metamorphosed?'
'Entirely metamorphosed, am I?' he said rather bitterly, 'Just on account of a change of raiment. Yet Dr. Johnson said, "Fine clothes are good only as they supply the want of other means of procuring respect."'
'Oh, I always respected you, William,' I put in hastily, 'And don't quote Dr. Johnson now. It doesn't go with your tie.'
He groaned. 'Must I change my expressions, my thoughts, my very mode of living to match the garments I wear?'
'I'm afraid you must. But tell me,' I added, looking earnestly into his face, 'doesn't this outward change affect you inwardly as well—just a little? Youmustbe feeling more—what shall I say—sprightly than before?'
He looked down at me as if puzzled, and then said in a half shame-faced way, 'Mrs. Warrington, there is some truth in that remark of yours. Some subtle, inexplicable change that I cannot account for has come over me. Even as Samson's strength lay in his hair, do you think my reason lay in my beard?'
'It depends on the quality of the reason. Describe your present symptoms to me, William.'
He avoided my gaze. 'It is quite impossible to analyse them, I assure you.'
'Let me help. Look at me steadily,' I said impressively. 'Now try, as far as possible, to describe me.'
There was a pause. 'I'm afraid you'll be offended, Madame,' he began.
'No, I won't. Go on,' I commanded.
'Well, as a matter of fact, although I have known you for over nine years, it has never before occurred to me to notice that you are an—an—exceedingly pretty woman—but I am offending you?'
'Not in the least, William. Go on.'
'Before, I merely remarked you as Henry's wife—that was all. Why should I so suddenly observe your facial aspect? As Dr. Johnson once said——'
'Cut out Dr. Johnson, and go on with that bit about the facial aspect,' I put in gently.
'It must, of course, be self-consciousness arising out of my unusual adornment,' he went on, 'but despite myself I am compelled to notice your attractive qualities. I must, however, overcome this deplorable tendency—combat it——'
'I shouldn't combat it too strongly at first,' I suggested. 'It's always better to do things by degrees. What a nice mouth you have, William.'
'So have you,' he said, pondering on the discovery.
I blushed. William suddenly started back and smote his brow with his hand. 'Isn't Henry coming in? Where is he?' he demanded wildly.
'Are you so anxious to see Henry at the moment?'
'I am. Mrs. Warrington, I am ashamed to admit the preposterous idea that came into my mind just now. You and Henry would never forgive me—never countenance me again—it was intolerable, incredible——' He paused and wiped his brow. 'Why doesn't Henry come in?'
'What was the preposterous idea?' I asked, wondering.
'Well, you'll hardly believe it—scarcely realize what you've escaped … just now, had you been a foot closer to me I believe—I believe, Mrs. Warrington, I should have kissed you!'
I moved a step nearer to him. 'William, I should never have forgiven you if you had,' I said, raising my face to his so that he could see how intensely earnest I was.
The door opened, and Henry and Marion came in together.
'Netta!' exclaimed Marion, 'how could you!'
'My dear,' remarked Henry, 'I am surprised. How is it I come in and find a man kissing you?'
'I don't know, Henry,' I replied meekly, 'unless it's because that door opens so quietly!'
An exclamation from William made us all turn and look at him.
'I must have been mad,' he groaned, sinking into a chair and covering his face with his hands.
'That's what I thought myself just now when I caught sight of your waistcoat,' said Henry, staring at him. 'What is the meaning of all this—why the flawless trousers, the immaculate morning coat?'
'I—I—put on a morning coat because you said I wasn't to get into evening dress,' he replied. 'I know it isn't the correct thing for dinner, but you've only yourself to blame.'
Henry continued to stare at him. 'I was quite right. Your brain is unhinged, William. When I last saw you, you appeared fairly normal—and now I come in and discover you arrayed like the lilies of the field and kissing my wife.'
William gave a cry like a wounded animal. 'Your indictment is only too true. Henry, it is terrible. I can never even hope for your forgiveness for such a heinous offence. The only reparation I can make is to go forth from your house, shake from my feet the dust of your hospitable roof——'
'That metaphor's wrong, William,' I interposed.
'—and pass out of your lives for ever.'
'What on earth are you talking about, old chap?' inquired Henry.
'Have I not betrayed the trust you always reposed in me?'
'I wouldn't put it as strong as that,' replied Henry, eyeing him up and down, 'though you certainly have made a bit of a guy of yourself. Who created those trousers?'
'I—I—was not referring to my change of apparel, Henry, but to that most unfortunate aberration on my part, when I was impelled by some strange uncontrollable impulse to bestow a labial salute on your wife. Heaven only knows that I——'
'As for that, I expect she egged you on,' calmly rejoined that horrid Henry. 'I know her. You did flirt with him, didn't you, Netta?'
Before I could reply William sprang to his feet and placed himself before me. 'Stop, Henry!' he exclaimed, 'You have no right to suggest such a thing. If I took a gentle unsuspecting woman unawares, then I am willing to stand by the consequences of my rash act. Never for one moment, I can assure you, did such a thought enter Mrs. Warrington's head. She was wholly unprepared——'
'I'm not so sure of that,' put in Marion, with a sniff.
I began to feel somewhat of a martyr. 'Yes, itwasrather a surprise,' I remarked.
'Only a moment before,' continued William, 'Mrs. Warrington had said to me, "If you do kiss me, I shall never forgive you!"' Oh, clumsy, clumsy William!
'Then you had been discussing it,' commented Marion, who seemed unusually chilly about the innocent affair.
'Well, I'm hungry, so let's have dinner now,' suggested Henry, 'and we can settle the discussion afterwards.'
But William strode to the door. 'No, no, Henry, I cannot break bread in your house again after this distressing incident. I have imposed on your kindness and good faith, disturbed your trust in me——'
'Well, I forgive you this time if you promise never to bestow any of those, what d'ye call 'em—labial salutes on Netta again. Now let's have dinner.'
'No, no, old man, you may forgive me, but I shall never forgive myself.'
Henry began to look irritated. 'For Heaven's sake, Netta, tell him the truth and admit it was your fault, or we shall never get anything to eat to-night.'
I sighed, and going up to William gently pulled back his retreating form by the coat tails. 'You are young, Father William,' I said, 'and innocent in the wiles of women. You've only been born a few hours as far as they are concerned—I don't think it's quite safe for you to go about without your beard just yet. I will tell you nothing but the truth. I incited you to kiss me.'
'I knew it!' snapped Marion.
'Henry, as you see, has treated me under the First Offenders Act and forgiven me. And now, William, I will kiss you once again (with Henry's full consent) for your youth and innocence.' And I suited the action to the word. 'So will Marion, won't you, dear?'
At this William started as if shot. 'Never, never!' he exclaimed, staring at Marion with a hunted look, 'it would be preposterous—infamous.'
The situation was decidedly awkward, especially as Marion, going suddenly pale, gave a little hysterical sort of cry and ran out of the room.
The meal that followed was a silent one. Marion did not speak at all, and when she was not casting furtive glances in William's direction, kept her gaze fixed on her plate. William was monosyllabic, partly, I gathered, on account of recent events, and partly because one of his patent leather boots was obviously causing him anguish. I noticed that he occasionally lifted his foot (as an animal raises a wounded paw) and then set it down again with a sort of half moan.
For one reason I was rather grateful that my guests were so abstracted. That reason was Elizabeth. Her behaviour during dinner, to put it mildly, was disturbing and abnormal. Every time she entered the room to change the plates or hand round the dishes she went through remarkable pantomimic gestures behind the unconscious William's back. She drew my attention to him by nods, winks, and significant gestures. Once or twice she was impelled to clap her hand over her mouth and dash from the room in a spasm of uncontrollable mirth. It was most unnerving; and what with William's gloomy looks, Marion's abstraction, and my constant fear that Elizabeth would spill gravy, custard or something of an equally clinging character, over William during her contortions behind him, I was relieved when the meal was ended.