She dashed from the room in a spasm of mirth.[Illustration: She dashed from the room in a spasm of mirth.]
She dashed from the room in a spasm of mirth.[Illustration: She dashed from the room in a spasm of mirth.]
William at once retired to the study with Henry, presumably for a chat, but chiefly, as I afterwards discovered, to remove his right boot for an hour's respite. He left early, limping heavily.
'It is really most curious about William,' I said to Marion as we sat alone in the drawing-room—Henry having remained in the study to finish some work. 'One can hardly conceive a reason strong enough to induce him to renounce his aboriginal mode of living and become so highly civilized almost in a day.'
Marion lowered her head, and I thought she looked self-conscious. 'A man might do a thing like that for—for love,' she murmured.
I blushed slightly. 'I scarcely think it's more than a passing infatuation.'
'I feel convinced it's stronger than that,' she replied tensely.
'I hope not,' I said in an alarmed tone. 'It would be horrid to see the poor fellow in the throes of a hopeless passion.'
'Perhaps after all it might not be quite hopeless,' rejoined Marion softly.
I raised my head sharply. 'I don't think you are justified in that remark,' I said stiffly, 'what you saw between him and me was only a little harmless fun. As if, indeed, there is any man living who could make me forget dear old Henry for a minute——'
'You!' exclaimed Marion with a start. 'I wasn't thinking of you, Netta.'
'Then who——?'
'I—I—was referring to—myself.' She put down her knitting on her knee and looked at me half defiantly, her cheeks flushed.
'But, my dear Marion, when has he shown you the slightest attention?' I was impelled to remark. 'You have always professed the profoundest contempt for him.'
'Not contempt, Netta. I have remarked that he was untidy.'
'You said the other evening that you considered him to be the last man on earth a woman could like.'
'No doubt, dearest, but that was before I had discovered a woman kissing him.'
'Perhaps you regret it was not yourself in that enviable position, darling?'
'No, my love. I don't think the position of a married woman discovered kissing a man other than her husbandisenviable; do you?'
Marion's obtuse and unreasonable attitude puzzled me. I am quick tempered, and was about to reply hotly, when the door opened and Elizabeth entered.
'Miss Marryun,' she said, nodding mysteriously in the direction of my sister-in-law, 'I bin lookin' at the cards for you an' I see a warnin' in 'em. You'll 'ave to keep an eye on 'im if you want to keep 'im.'
Marion did not look so mystified as I expected at this unusual outburst. 'Thank you for the warning, Elizabeth,' she said in an affable tone.
'You gotta rival for 'is affeckshuns,' continued Elizabeth.
Marion raised an eyebrow in my direction. 'No doubt,' she commented.
'What is all this nonsense?' I asked, a little testily.
'Elizabeth is, as you know, a fatalist,' explained Marion. 'She places her faith in cards, which, I am repeatedly telling her, is utter nonsense.'
'It aint nonsense,' expostulated Elizabeth in an injured tone. 'You gotta fair rival acrost your parth——'
'I'm glad I'm dark,' I murmured.
'Fair an' false she is,' continued the soothsayer, 'the words of 'er mouth are like 'oney an'——'
'I tell you I consider all this rubbish,' interrupted Marion briskly. 'You would be far better not to believe in such foolish things, Elizabeth. They do you no good.'
Elizabeth retired in some indignation, muttering, 'Well, don't say you wasn't told.'
We sat in strained silence—for it was the first occasion there had been any hint of a tiff between us—and after a time Marion rose to go. When Henry had put on his overcoat to accompany her home she was nowhere to be found. Hearing voices proceeding from the kitchen, I went in that direction. It was then I heard Marion remark in a casual tone—the casualness a little overdone: 'You might let me hear if he says any more about it.'
'Right-o, Miss.'
'And, oh, by the way, Elizabeth, what was that you said about a rival—are you quite sure that she is fair?'
I should like to begin this chapter by saying it's the unexpected that always happens. As that, however, would be too trite a remark, I will only say that William was the last person on earth I should have suspected of falling in love with Gladys Harringay.
She is, indeed, exceedingly pretty in a fluffy kind of way and most men like to flirt with her, but they do not let their attentions develop into anything serious. Perhaps you know the sort of girl she is. She makes a dead set at every eligible man she meets and concentrates on him to such an extent that he ends by losing interest in her altogether—actually avoiding her, in fact. Man is like that, I've observed. I suppose it's the primitive instinct of the hunter which still lurks in him and makes him desire to stalk down his quarry instead of its stalking him. Gladys didn't seem aware of this supreme fact, and (though she affected the giddy airs of eighteen) she was getting perilously near the age when the country considers a woman is wise and staid enough to vote, yet she still remained unwed.
Never for a moment did it occur to me, when I asked her to dine with us one evening, that she would go for William. Still less did I think that he would take even the faintest interest in such a vapid creature. But, as I wanted to say before, it's the unexpected that always happens.
William was looking unusually nice that evening. His eyes had a far-away, rather haunted expression, due to his wearing sock-suspenders for the first time, but, of course, Gladys didn't know that. He seemed like one of the strong, silent heroes of fiction. I can testify that he was silent—perhaps because Gladys did all the talking—and he looked unusually strong. They sat together most of the evening, and she only left his side to go to the piano to sing one of her 'stock' French chansons. Even then she directed it entirely at William.
'Mamman, dîtes-moi, ce qu'on sent quand on aimeEst-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?'
she warbled, rolling her r's and looking so fixedly at William that he seemed quite uneasy—he might, indeed, have been more uneasy had his French been equal to following the words of the song. Modern languages, however, like modern writers, do not appeal to him. They must be as dead as mutton before they can awaken his interest. If you want to see him roused to a perfect frenzy of enthusiasm you should see him arguing with Henry as to the comparative dramatic values of Homeric hexameters and Ionian iambics.
But to return to Gladys—or rather Gladys and William, for they remained inseparable for the remainder of the evening. He even accompanied her home, for I saw him dart forward (in his patent leather boots, too, which demanded slow movement on his part), when she rose to go, and hurry out to act as her escort.
A few days later he called in to see us for the sole purpose of inquiring about her. He pretended he wanted to borrow Ruskin'sMunera Pulveris, but as he went away without the volume we saw how feeble was that pretext.
'With regard to—er—Miss Harringay,' he began, almost as soon as he arrived, 'I must say I consider her a remarkable young lady.'
'Sheis,' I said grimly.
'Would you believe it,' he went on, addressing himself to Henry, 'she is actually a Dr. Johnson enthusiast.'
'Nonsense!' ejaculated Henry.
'It's a fact. Isn't it unusual in one so young and—er—tender and timid that she recalls Keats' dissertation on woman, "she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats for man's protection."'
'Oh, so she's been bleating, has she?' I said cruelly.
'It makes it all the more astonishing that she should have leanings toward the study of serious literature.'
'Who told you she had?'
'She told me so herself.'
'Do you mean to tell me you believe it?'
He looked puzzled. 'Why should she say that if it isn't true? She could have no object in making such a statement. As a matter of fact, I found out quite by accident, when she unconsciously quoted a passage from the great master.'
I began to see light. So that was why Gladys had come up in such haste the day following her introduction to William to borrowJohnson's Aphorisms. Oh, hapless, artless William!
'I see now that you were quite right when you once remarked that you feared you had lost your reason with your beard,' I remarked severely. 'Do let things grow again before it is too late.'
'Let what grow?' he asked.
'Everything. Moustache, beard and general air of fuzziness. It's the best protection you can have, my poor fellow.'
He departed rather abruptly after that, seeming somewhat annoyed. I could not understand what was making him so unusually touchy.
'Surely,' I said to Henry, 'even William isn't so blind as to let himself be taken in by that little noodle of a Gladys.'
'Of course he isn't,' replied Henry vehemently, 'do you think a chap is ever deceived by anything like that? He hates to be pounced on, so to speak. Do you know, my dear, that one of the things that first attracted you to me was your complete indifference to myself.'
'Indeed, Henry?' I said, with lowered eyes and modest mien.
'Yes. If you remember I was editing theGazetteat the time I first met you, and although you, as one of my contributors, often came up to the office to see me, we remained for a long time on a purely business footing.'
It is true Henry was an unconscionable time in coming to the point. 'Entirely business-like,' I acquiesced.
'When you called to see me to discuss a gross misstatement in one of your articles (which you refused to acknowledge until I had sent for you to put the matter clearly before you), you did not conduct yourself like so many other girls who came to discuss their work with me. You did not attempt to engage in a mild flirtation, make eyes, bend over me as I glanced through the manuscript——'
'Oh, bad, bad girls,' I murmured. 'Do women behave like that with you, Henry?'
'Theydid, my dear. I am speaking of the time before I was married.'
I smiled. What a comfort it is to have a Scotsman for a husband! He is so solid and reliable regarding the opposite sex.
'You, however, employed none of these wiles,' he continued, 'and were almost studiously cold and business-like. For a long time I thought I should never interest you in myself—in fact, I know I took you very much by surprise when I made you an offer, didn't I?'
'I was rather surprised, Henry,' I said, smiling at his retreating form as he went out of the room. Then I turned to Marion, who happened to be present. 'Why, of course,' I commented, 'that makes it all the more serious about William.'
'What are you talking about?' she asked in a puzzled tone.
'If Henry was deceived so easily——'
'Deceived! Oh, Netta!'
'Well, I mean, dear, I'd decided to marry Henry before the episode of the misstatement in my article he just mentioned. I—I—put the misstatement in on purpose to arouse a controversy between us.'
'Netta, how terrible!'
'Why terrible, Marion? I knew Henry would make an excellent husband. Am I not a suitable wife for him?'
'Am I not a suitable wife for Henry?'[Illustration: 'Am I not a suitable wife for Henry?']
'Am I not a suitable wife for Henry?'[Illustration: 'Am I not a suitable wife for Henry?']
'You are just perfect, dear—but you might have been otherwise.'
'That's exactly what I'm driving at, Marion. Gladys is an "otherwise." If I deceived Henry, how much easier is it for her to deceive William? No, she shan't marry him. He'd be wretched.'
Marion smiled. 'You surely don't think there's anything like that between them?'
'He's drifting that way if some one doesn't stop him.'
Again Marion smiled. 'I tell you it's impossible. He couldn't have got over his passion for me so quickly.'
'His passion for you,' I echoed. 'My dear, what do you mean?'
Marion then laid down her sewing and began to speak. I listened amazed, unable at first to credit what she was saying, though gradually I began to understand many things which had hitherto been obscure.
'It's wonderful to think of his having loved you secretly all this time,' I marvelled; 'yet why should he take Elizabeth into his confidence rather than myself? And why didn't you tell me all this before—it would have made things so much simpler.'
'At first, not being aware how handsome he could be made, I did not care for him and——'
'Do you mean, then, that you no longer dislike him, Marion?'
'On the contrary, dear, I have begun to regard him with—with feelings of warmth.'
'Then all goes well, it seems. Now I shall go and speak to Elizabeth about the affair.'
I thought Elizabeth seemed a little uneasy under my questioning, but she reiterated many times: 'I tell you 'e isn't 'arf gone on Miss Marryun—fair mad about 'er 'e is, but 'e told me not to breathe a word about it to a soul.'
'Well, he's mad about some one else now,' I interposed.
Elizabeth looked unduly startled. 'Oo with? Don't say it's that there Miss 'Arringay 'oo wos a-settin' 'er cap so 'ard at 'im the other night?'
I was a little taken aback. 'Yes, that's about it,' I confessed.
'Well, upon my soul, the sorcy baggage,' burst out Elizabeth with unexpected wrath, 'such imperence after me workin' an' plannin' the way I 'ave. But she shan't 'ave 'im. Look 'ere, 'm, Miss Marryun is just the one fer 'im. Can't it be brought off like?'
I pondered. 'I'll do my best, Elizabeth. If, as you say, he has formed such a strong attachment to Miss Marion, I should like to see them both happy. You say he was particularly anxious to have her photograph?'
I almost imagined at that moment Elizabeth avoided my eye. 'Very pertickler,' she retorted in a muffled voice.
'Very well, then. I, myself, will restore the photo he replaced. It will be the first step to an understanding between them.'
I left the kitchen smiling complacently, feeling that my latest matrimonial scheme for Marion was going to be the easiest I had ever attempted.
Alas! I was reckoning, as the saying is, without my host. The host in this case was Gladys.
Everything went wrong with my plans from the first. For instance, Marion, the central figure in the plot, went away suddenly to nurse a sick great-aunt. William now became so engrossed with Gladys that he talked of very little else. Thus Henry and I would have avoided him at this stage, if possible; it was not possible, however, to avoid him. We saw more of him than ever. I will explain why.
William was one of those lovers who are terrified of being over-bold or too confident, lest by their presumption they might alarm the timid object of their affections. He needn't have been afraid of wooing Gladys. She flung herself at his head rather obviously, but he seemed so obtuse she must have found him irritating at times. Thus, instead of calling upon her or asking her to meet him by appointment, or arranging an evening at the theatre and otherwise behaving in a sensible manner, he hung about her house, endeavouring to come upon her 'by chance.' Further, having met her at our place he seemed to be under the impression that she was one of my closest friends, and came to see me every day, judging by the times he 'dropped in' in the obvious anticipation of meeting her. Not finding his quarry, he talked about her to Henry, though I must admit his audience was not always sympathetic.
'I don't believe in interfering in these things,' remarked Henry, one evening, when we were alone, 'but, frankly, I should be really sorry to see good old William throw himself away on that frivolous, stupid little Gladys. They'd be desperately unhappy after being married a week. Couldn't something be said to them, do you think—a hint thrown out from time to time?'
'Throwing hints—or anything else—wouldn't be of the slightest use, Henry. Have you ever met a person in love who would listen to sound advice of the sort? If you want to know how to get yourself intensely unpopular—with two people at least—try intervening in what you consider an unsuitable love match.'
I spoke with feeling, for I had once been implored to use my influence to part a couple who were, to all appearances, acutely incompatible. The job was distasteful to me, and I only undertook it because there is a strain of philanthropy in my nature (though that isn't what the incompatibles called it). My intervention had no effect, of course. They are now married—and quite happy—and neither of them will speak to me any more.
Henry continued to look disturbed. 'If he only knew Gladys,' he said, 'but as things are going at present I'm afraid he'll propose before his eyes are opened.'
I felt troubled. For a day or two I pondered on the distressing affair, but I was resolutely determined not to intervene. Then it was the idea occurred to me. To be frank, it was Elizabeth who actually inspired it. I was giving orders for dinner and was suggesting apple turnovers for a sweet, when she blandly remarked, 'Talkin' o' turnovers, Mr. Roarings is dead gone on that there Miss 'Arringay now, I 'ear.'
'Your hearing does seem unusually good,' I said coldly. Certainly, I had never mentioned the subject to any one but Henry. It was a surprise to discover that I had, at the same time, been mentioning it to Elizabeth as well.
'Nice wife she'd make him,' continued the irrepressible Elizabeth, 'a flipperty-flapperty piece o' goods like 'er.'
'We will have cheese straws after the sweet, Elizabeth,' I said in tones of chill rebuke.
'Right-o, 'm. Well, wot are you goin' todoabout it?'
'Do about what?'
'Mr. Roarings an' Miss 'Arringay. 'E isn't 'er style as any one could see with 'arf an eye, but 'e's fair blinded just now. Wot an eye-opener it'd be if 'e got to know 'er proper—met 'er frequent, so to speak.'
'I'm afraid I don't quite understand.'
'Well, 'ere's a case in point. My sister-in-law's brother—nice young chap 'e was too—fell in with a girl that wasn't the right one fer 'im—no clarss like,—but 'e wouldn't 'ear a word agen 'er. So my sister-in-law thinks of a plan. She arsks both 'er brother an' the young woman 'e was courtin' to go and spend their 'olidays with 'er at the seaside. Which they did an'—bless yer—wot with seein' 'er every day an' gettin' to know 'er too well 'e soon got sick o' 'er. Why, 'e'd given 'er a black eye afore the week was out. Now if Mr. Roarings and Miss 'Arringay met frequent like that——'
'Elizabeth,' I interposed, 'mind your own business'; and I went out of the kitchen with dignity.
Nevertheless, I was compelled to admit that she had given me an inspiration. That girl, under a rough and unpromising exterior, has fecundity of ideas which astonishes me. Had she been in a higher class in life—or even able to spell—she might have been a regular contributor to the Sunday papers.
'Henry,' I said, hurrying into the study. 'I have got a solution regarding William's entanglement. I am going to invite Gladys to spend a week here with us.'
'How can that help? I don't quite see——'
'My dear ass, the idea isn't a novel one, but in this case it's excellent. I'll write her a note on the instant and ask her if she'll come, giving as a pretext that I'm feeling lonely in Marion's absence.'
'But why this hurry? Hadn't you better think it over first?'
'If I pause to think it over, Henry, I know I shall decide that I can't tolerate Gladys for an entire week. As it is, I expect she'll drive me stark mad. No, no, let me write while I am in my present frenzy of philanthropy?'
'I suppose,' he reflected, 'William will practically spend the week here, too, when he knows Gladys is coming.'
'Exactly. What about it?'
'I'm thinking of my work,' he grumbled. 'Two people being disillusioned under one roof are sure to create interruptions.'
'They shan't interrupt you. I intend to leave them together as much as possible. How glad I am that Gladys isn't the least bit clever—a week might not be long enough if she were.'
'I'm not sanguine about the idea,' was Henry's comment. 'It might work out all right in books and plays; but in real life its effect is extremely doubtful.'
'Not at all. Elizabeth knew a young man who was devoted to a girl until they spent a holiday together. At the end of the first week he gave her a black eye. What more do you want than that?'
'Nothing,' replied Henry, 'if she was quite satisfied. Do you think William's disillusionment will be as abrupt as all that?'
'I'm hopeful. Now don't talk to me until I've finished my letter to Gladys, which demands effort on my part. It must read as if I really wanted her to come.'
Evidently the letter was effective, for Gladys rang up directly she received it and told me she'd be simply charmed to come and that it was perfectly sweet of me to have her. (I rather thought it was myself.)
She came the next day with an abnormal amount of luggage for such a brief visit. But as I told Henry (who said it looked as though she intended wintering in our abode), I had distinctly stipulated that the invitation was for a week only. I was not at that time aware of the barnacle-like qualities of Gladys.
As I anticipated, William also descended on us when he knew we had Gladys for a visitor. I left them alone together at every opportunity, and for a day or two all went well.
Things might have gone better (for Gladys) if she hadn't attempted to be clever. As a matter of fact she over-reached herself. To this day I believe she ascribes her failure to Dr. Johnson, though she was far more to blame than that good old man. She talks very bitterly against him even now.
You see, knowing William's weakness, she played up to it, but not being clever she hadn't got her subject properly in hand. I know the poor girl worked hard at theAphorisms, but she had exhausted what she knew of those by the end of the first day. She did her best, I will admit, and even took theLives of the English Poetsto bed with her and concentrated on them until midnight, while she dipped intoThe Vanity of Human Wishesbefore breakfast. But it was no use. William discovered her deception rapidly, and it seemed to annoy him unduly. His visits began to fall off, and after Gladys had artlessly remarked to him one day, 'Who is that Mr. Boswell you're always talking about—he must be a great friend of yours. I hope you'll introduce me,' he ceased to come altogether.
He had, in fact, arrived at the stage where Gladys irritated him. So had we. But unlike William we could not get away from her. Her visit had already extended two weeks and was melting into a third, and she gave no hint of returning home. It wouldn't have been so bad if only she had been quiet, but she is the most restless person I have ever known. She was always running up and down stairs, banging doors, playing fragments on the piano, and dashing into the study to talk to Henry when he was writing.
He is, on the whole, an equable man, but more than once I trembled for the consequences when I saw her go up to him, lean over his shoulder and, snatching at some loose pages of his MS., playfully remark, 'What funny crabbed letters! And what is it all about—something you're inventing to deceive us poor public, I'll be bound. I don't believe a word of what you're writing, so there!'
Henry used to say scorching things about Gladys when we retired at night (the only chance we seemed to have now of being alone was in our bedroom), and would ask me when I meant to tell her to go. I suggested he should tell her himself, and he declared it was not the duty of the host. I replied that it was the first time I'd ever heard it was the duty of the hostess either.
We planned to make little speeches in her presence based on the subject of her departure, and fraught with deep and subtle allusion, but she ignored them. We inquired if her mother did not miss her after such a prolonged absence, and she said they rather liked her to be away from home for a few months in the year, as a change was always good. No doubt it was good for her people, but it was bad for Henry and me.
Then one night Henry revolted. 'If she hasn't gone in another two days,' he informed me, 'I'm going to get rooms at an hotel.'
He spoke as if he meant it, and I was mournfully wondering what I ought to do to get Gladys to go, short of being downright rude, when Elizabeth drifted into the problem.
'If Miss 'Arringay's goin' to stop much longer, I ain't,' she announced. 'She makes too much extry work, an' the sight o' 'er about the place fair riles me.'
I looked wearily at Elizabeth. 'No doubt Miss Harringay will be going soon,' I said with an utter lack of conviction.
Elizabeth approached me, and bending down, said in a hoarse whisper, 'Wot is it—carn't you get rid of 'er?'
'Carn't you get rid of 'er?'[Illustration: 'Carn't you get rid of 'er?']
'Carn't you get rid of 'er?'[Illustration: 'Carn't you get rid of 'er?']
I did not reply, feeling it distasteful to discuss my guest with a domestic, though I could not refrain from discussing her with Henry.
'Tell you wot you orter do,' said the fertile Elizabeth, 'send for Miss Marryun to come 'ere unexpected, an' then tell Miss 'Arringay you'll want 'er room.'
'But—but I've got another spare room. Miss Harringay knows that.'
Elizabeth winked: I pretended not to see it, but there was no mistaking the distinct muscular movement of her left eyelid. 'No you 'aven't,' she said stoutly. 'You 'avent got any proper bedding in the spare room now, 'ave you?'
'That's too thin,' I said decidedly. Yet even as I spoke I clutched at the straw and, holding on to it, went at once and wrote to Marion.
'You must come home at once,' I commanded, 'in spite of great-aunt Jane's rheumatism. Is it not written that it is better to have one rheumatic great-aunt than a brother, sister-in-law, and a niece in an asylum!'
For answer Marion wired the time of her return train, and I began to grow hopeful.
'An' when Miss Marryun comes,' remarked Elizabeth, 'if I wos you I wouldn't say nothin' to 'er about the way Mr. Roarings went after Miss 'Arringay.'
'Why not?' I asked involuntarily.
'She mightn't trust 'im arter that. I never thort myself 'e'd turn as quick as 'e did. But men is queer, as my pore mother often said when father give 'er a black eye just to show 'ow fond 'e was of her like. No, the best thing to do is to let Miss Marryun think that Mr. Roarings is still taken up with 'er and only went after the other young lady to make 'er jealous.'
There was much wisdom in Elizabeth's words. Nevertheless, I did not intend to mix myself up in any more matrimonial schemes. Much as I desired to see Marion happy, I felt that arranging the destiny of others did not leave me enough leisure to arrange my own, besides interfering with my literary work. At the moment, too, the thought uppermost in my mind was how to dispose of Gladys.
I went to her with Marion's telegram in my hand and a falsely contrite expression on my face. 'I'm so awfully sorry, Gladys, but a most unforeseen thing has happened,' I said. 'Marion is coming to-day, and she'll have to take your room. Isn't it an idiotic situation?'
Gladys pondered. 'But you have another spare room, haven't you?' she demanded brightly.
'Yes, Gladys, we have. But we haven't got the bedding for that just now. The mattress is being cleaned, and I suppose it won't be sent back for another fortnight at least.'
Undaunted, Gladys had another idea. 'Then do you think Marion would mind sharing my room?'
'She would indeed—you see she walks in her sleep,' I said glibly, wondering how it was George Washington had found any difficulty in dissembling, 'and she's very sensitive about any one getting to know about it.'
Gladys went after that. Henry and I have both decided that we're not going to interfere with incompatibles in future. It's too much of a strain on the nervous system.
Being a further extract from the diary of Miss Marion Warrington. It seemed particularly unfortunate that I should be called away so hurriedly to the bedside of dear Aunt Jane at the very moment of the blossoming of my first real love episode. Yes, I must admit my feelings have undergone a change regarding Mr. Rawlings, whom I call my silent lover.
Evidently he has, all the time, been fated for me. Truly, as the poet says, there's a Divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will. Divinity, so to speak, has shaped Mr. Rawlings' rough ends and completely transformed him. After seeing him without his beard and, above all, realizing what sacrifices he has made for my sake, I cannot but be touched by such overwhelming devotion.
There is something almost sublime in the way that man has thrown off the habits of a lifetime for my sake! To think he has even donned white spats to please me! Netta has been trying for ten years to get Henry to wear them, but he remains as obdurate about it as ever.
I was relieved when (the malady of Aunt Jane having somewhat abated) I was able to go back to town after an urgent message from Netta asking me to return at once. No doubt Mr. Rawlings inspired that message. He is a timid lover, but unusually full of resource. Though, for example, he seems afraid to approach me, he actually engaged in a mild flirtation with Gladys Harringay to awaken my interest in him. His intention was so obvious that I found it actually amusing. Any one could see through it. Poor fellow, perhaps he thinks the idea of evoking love by first arousing jealousy is a new one. He is an infant in such matters. I intend him to remain so.
Thursday: I have neglected my diary for nearly a fortnight, for I have been too troubled about Mr. Rawlings to concentrate on anything else. He is certainly a most remarkable man. Though obviously suffering he shrinks from any declaration. Often we are alone for hours (I have asked dear Netta to give him the necessary opportunity to unburden himself) and he does nothing but stare at me in a fixed and dreadful way, and remains mute. Of course I know that I am to blame on account of my former indifference—even antagonism—to him. He is afraid of rebuff. I have extended encouragement to him by all the slight means in my power, and Netta has openly handed him my photo, observing that she knew he would like to have it. I have even gone to the length of asking Henry to convey to him that he has nothing to fear; but Henry resolutely refuses to touch on the subject with him. I cannot understand why, when the happiness of two people is at stake.
Sunday: I don't know what impelled me to do it. Perhaps it was the remembrance of an article of Netta's I once read entitled, 'Should Women Propose?' where she cited the historic instance of Queen Victoria, in whose case, on account of her rank, it was a necessity. I had begun to realize that William was not likely to bring his courage to the sticking point without a great deal of encouragement. Distasteful as the idea was to me, I did not intend to shrink from what I felt was to be my duty. If he, though languishing for love, was too faint-hearted to propose, I saw that it would be necessary for me to undertake that task.
Last evening, therefore, when he called I received him in the drawing-room and explained that Netta and Henry had gone out to the theatre. He at once made for the door, saying in that case he would not stop, but I intercepted him. Closing the door, I said gently, 'I am going to ask you to keep me company for an hour—if,' I added archly, 'it won't bore you.'
In a confused sort of way he assured me it would not, and he sat down and dropped into the silence that is becoming habitual when we are left alone together.
I knitted and he pulled hard at his cigarette. At last I said: 'Why don't you smoke a pipe, Mr. Rawlings? I know you prefer it.'
'No, no,' he said vehemently, 'I would much rather have a cigarette. It's a cleaner habit than pipe-smoking, isn't it?'
I smiled faintly and mentally decided that when we were married I would not allow him to deprive himself of one of his greatest joys for my sake.
There was another long silence and then, feeling extremely nervous, I murmured haltingly, 'I—I—wonder if you missed me when I was away nursing my great sick aunt—I—I—mean my sick great-aunt. Did—did—the time seem long?'
'I—I'm not quite sure,' he stammered, obviously as ill at ease as myself. 'You see, to be perfectly frank, Miss Warrington, I was at the time in love as far as I believe, and it seems a confused period.'
I waited for him to continue, my eyes discreetly lowered. As, however, he did not go on, I raised them again.
'Yes?' I said encouragingly.
'That's all,' he replied. He looked so embarrassed and unhappy, and wore such an imploring expression I realized that now or never I must come to his relief.
I laid down my knitting and leaned forward. 'Mr. Rawlings,' I said impressively—'or, shall I say William—I have known of the state of your feelings towards me for some time now.'
He raised his head, and there was no disguising the look of hope in his eye. 'Do you really mean that?' he asked eagerly.
I nodded. 'I want to tell you not to be afraid. However harsh I once seemed to you, the sight of your devotion and self-sacrifice has touched me.'
'Devotion—self-sacrifice,' he murmured in a wondering tone.
'As such do I regard them, William. But they have reaped their reward. I … how shall I tell you … it is so difficult …'
I paused in some distress, wondering if Queen Victoria had felt as uncomfortable about it as I did.
'I want to tell you that … I love you, William,' I said at last, very softly.
There was an intense silence, broken only by his laboured breathing. The intensity of his emotions was evidently too much for him.
'And so,' I concluded, raising my eyes to his for a moment, 'I am going to be your wife.'
There! It was out at last. Having spoken I lowered my eyes again and did not look at him until I heard him say in a strained kind of voice, 'But—but—this is too much honour. Believe me, Miss Warrington, I am not worthy——'
'I think you are,' I replied softly, 'and isn't that enough?'
'It isn't enough—I assure you it isn't,' he replied. I noted that his eyes had a rather staring look and slight beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead—he must be a man of strong emotions. 'It would be a most unfair thing for a man like me, with all my shortcomings, to inflict myself on any woman.'
'Don't be too modest about yourself,' I put in encouragingly, and somewhat timidly laying my hand on his, I added, 'I like you as you are.'
'Nothing would induce me to let you sacrifice yourself,' he exclaimed hotly, 'it would be monstrous, intolerable!' He sprang to his feet as he spoke. 'I must go at once,' he went on, 'we can never meet again, never, never!'
I rose also, going rather pale. In that moment a dreadful thought came to me that perhaps I had made a mistake. Yet there could have been no misconstruing what he had said to Elizabeth regarding his passion for me.
'Stop, William!' I cried as he retreated to the door, 'why are you so obtuse? Don't you understand how difficult you are making everything for me—as well as for yourself! What is all this talk of sacrifice and your unworthiness. I don't think you are unworthy. I—I—love you—isn't it enough when I say that?'
'Stop, William!' Marion cried.[Illustration: 'Stop, William!' Marion cried.]
'Stop, William!' Marion cried.[Illustration: 'Stop, William!' Marion cried.]
Involuntarily I stretched out my hands to him as I spoke. He has told me since that the sight of me standing there bathed in the light of the rose-shaded lamp, my eyes and lips unusually soft and tender (so he says), with my arms held out to him, forms a picture that he will never forget. He looked at me for a moment in absolute silence, and appeared to be thinking deeply. When at last he spoke he made an astonishing remark. 'What does it matter about me, after all?' he murmured slowly, as if speaking to himself. 'Good God, little woman, I was just about to act the part of a consummate cad and coward!'
He then strode up to me and continued in a serious tone: 'If you care enough for me to take me with all my faults, I shall be proud to be your husband.'
After which he bent and kissed me very gravely on the forehead, and surprised me by walking out of the room. It was the most remarkable proposal. But then, in every way, my dear William is a most remarkable man.
There was something distinctly puzzling about Marion's engagement to William. It was William who puzzled me. Instinctively I knew he was not happy. Had I been instrumental in bringing about the match, I should have felt disturbed, but as it happened, they pulled it off without the slightest assistance from me. It is the best way. I am steadily determined never to involve myself in matrimonial schemes for any one in future. Even when The Kid gets old enough to have love affairs, she will get my advice and sympathy, but no active co-operation on my part.
But to return to William. Though he seemed plunged in gloom, Marion was radiant. She gaily prepared her trousseau, and took William on long shopping expeditions from which he returned more overcast than ever. Sometimes I wondered if he had really got over his infatuation for Gladys, and if he had merely proposed to Marion out of pique. A strange foreboding came over me that all was not going well.
This was deepened when Marion came to me one day with her eyes red as though she had been weeping.
'Is anything wrong?' I inquired, an instinctive fear gripping at my heart. 'You surely haven't quarrelled with William?'
She shook her head. 'Can you imagine William quarrelling with any one?'
I could not. He is one of those comfortable people with whom you can be perfectly frank and outspoken without fear of giving the slightest offence. If I say to him when he is deep in a learned discussion with Henry, 'Do shut up, William, I can't think when you're talking,' he does not snort, glare at me, breathe hard or show any other signs of inward resentment. He at once relapses into silence—an affable silence, not the strained kind when the offended party takes deep respirations through the nose—and I am allowed to think without interruption. It is one of the reasons why I have never minded Henry having him about the place at any time.
'Then if you and William haven't quarrelled, what is wrong?' I asked of the drooping Marion.
'It's—it's about our wedding, Netta. He wants to know if I'll put it off for another six months.'
I started. 'Why should he wish to do that now, with all arrangements made?'
'I don't know. There isn't the slightest reason for delay. It isn't a case of money, for you know he has a good private income, and I have my own little income as well. Then, we are both old enough to know our own minds—yet he says he thinks we ought to have more time for reflection. What can it mean, Netta?'
I was silent for a moment, not liking to voice my uneasy thoughts.
'It isn't that I mind the extra six months' delay,' she went on, 'but I don't like the idea of postponing the wedding. There is something unlucky about it.'
'You're right—it is unlucky,' said the voice of Elizabeth, coming unexpectedly into the discussion.
'Elizabeth,' I said sternly, 'do you mean to tell me you were listening?'
She drew herself up with dignity. 'Me listenin'! I've too much to do to go poking myself into other people's bizness. But I wos just comin' in to ask wot you wanted for dinner——'
'I have already given orders for dinner, Elizabeth.'
'Well, I musta forgotten 'em. An' just as I was comin' in I 'eard Miss Marryun talkin' about Mr. Roarings wantin' to put the weddin' orf. Don't you let 'im do it, miss. I've 'eard o' young women puttin' off their weddin's so long that in the end they've never took place at all. I've 'ad it 'appen to myself, so Iknow.'
'Elizabeth,' I interposed, 'we don't want your advice. Go away at once.'
'I ain't done yet. You'll be glad o' my advice in the end. Experience 'elps a lot. Some men wot's goin' to be married gets a sort o' funk at the last minnit and, bless you, they'd wriggle out o' it, yes, even if they was goin' to marry an angel out o' 'eaven. My friend's 'usband was one o' them sort—wanted to stop the 'ole thing with the weddin' cake ordered, an' lodgings taken at Margate for the 'oneymoon. But she 'eld 'im to it—stuck to 'im like grim death until' e'd gone through with it. An' now 'e often ses 'e never regrets it for a minnit.'
Marion looked up hopefully. 'Perhaps you're right, Elizabeth.'
'O' course I'm right,' she asserted, throwing a triumphant glance at me as she retired.
'These tactics may be all very well for the lower classes,' I said to Marion when we were alone, 'but I'm not quite sure whether they'd answer in every case. No, Marion dear, if William wants to postpone the wedding, it must be done.'
Her face fell at once, and she looked so dejected I felt troubled.
'If you like I will talk to William and try to discover the reason for his change of plan,' I conceded reluctantly, 'but you must understand, dear, that nothing will make me interfere with the natural course of events.'
Rather to my surprise, William touched on the subject the next time he came to see me. We were sitting alone and I was mentally noting his air of depression, when he suddenly burst out: 'Tell me, frankly, do you think a man is justified in—er—postponing a great event in his life—such as, say, his wedding, if he feels uncertain?'
'Uncertain about what?' I asked gently.
'About himself—and everything, you know. True, Johnson has said that marriage is one of the means of happiness—a sentiment delivered, no doubt, by the great master when he was in a light vein—but supposing a man is not sure that he can make a woman happy——'
'And supposing instead of the hypothetical man and woman you are speaking of, we simply quote the case of you and Marion,' I interposed. 'Am I to understand that you do not wish to marry her?'
He started. 'It isn't exactly that. But at the—er—time I—er—offered myself to Marion I had not weighed all the possibilities. To be perfectly frank with you, I am not quite certain of my own affections. I decided that, with companionship, these might develop after marriage. But supposing they do not, then I shall have rendered her unhappy. Is not the risk too great?'
He leaned forward and laid his hand on mine with an expression of great earnestness. 'In this matter,' he said slowly, 'I intend to abide by your decision. I have supreme faith in your judgment, and I do not believe you would advise me wrongly. Tell me what I ought to do. Do you think it is making for the happiness of two people if they are united under these peculiar circumstances?'
'I said I would never interfere,' I began weakly.
'It isn't a question of interfering,' he broke in, 'but only a matter of advising what you think is right or wrong.'
I hesitated, feeling the responsibility keenly. It is true that I am accustomed to giving advice on these delicate matters. In my capacity of writer on the Woman's Page I often discuss affairs of the heart, getting much correspondence on the subject and (if a stamped addressed envelope is enclosed) giving unsparing help and assistance to perplexed lovers. But this case seemed entirely different. It lacked any element of the frivolous. I knew that Manor's whole happiness depended on my answer.
Supposing I suggested that the marriage should go on and afterwards the couple turned out to be totally unsuited, what a serious situation I should have created. As a matter of fact, I more than once suspected that they were incompatibles, but hoped that they would ultimately accommodate themselves to each other. If, however, they did not, I should be confronted with the spectacle of two most excellent people (apart) being thoroughly unhappy (together) for the remainder of their lives. I shivered before the prospect, and was on the point of telling William that I would never advise a union to take place unless there was perfect understanding and sympathy between a couple, when he spoke again.
'It's just at the last minute all these doubts have assailed me,' he explained. 'I didn't realize before how serious a thing marriage is—how irrevocable.'
In a flash Elizabeth's words came into my mind. I recalled her references to men who get in a 'funk' and want to stop proceedings on the eve of the wedding, and then I saw the whole thing. William was that sort of man. I had an instinctive idea just then that no matter who he was going to marry he would have come to me at the eleventh hour with the same bewildered demand for advice.
In that moment I decided to trust to Elizabeth. She seems to have a rude knowledge of life which is almost uncanny at times, but entirely convincing. She has, as it were, a way of going to the heart of things and straightway extracting truth. I felt just then that I could depend on her judgment.
'William,' I said, looking at him steadily in the eye, 'you want my candid opinion?'
'I do,' he replied fervently.
'Then I advise you to go on with the marriage. I have weighed it all up, and I feel it is for the best.'
He wrung my hand silently, and then he rose. 'Thank you,' he said, 'I am sure you are always right.' I thought I detected a note of relief in his voice. Man is a perplexing creature.
The next day Marion came to me overjoyed. 'It's all right, dear,' she announced. 'William wants to get married at once. Netta, you are wonderful—how did you do it? What did you say to him?'
'Never mind,' I said, trying to look enigmatical and rather enjoying Marion's respectful admiration of my wondrous powers, 'all's well that ends well … ask Elizabeth if it isn't,' I added as that worthy lurched in with the tea-tray.
'The wedding isn't going to be postponed after all, Elizabeth,' announced Marion gleefully.
'I knowed it wouldn't be, Miss Marryun, when I see a weddin' wreath in your cup. I tell you the Signs is always right.'
Marion shook her head. 'Not always. Didn't you once tell me that my future husband would cross water to meet me? Mr. Rawlings, now, has been here all the time.'
Elizabeth paused in the act of arranging the tea-table, and stood in a prophetic attitude with the teapot held aloft.
'Oo ses the Signs is wrong?' she demanded. 'Isn't Mr. Roarings an Irishman, an' was born in Dubling? Now I'd like to know 'ow any one can get from Ireland to London without crossin' water, anyway!'