Arlington Stringham made a joke in the House of Commons. It was a thin
House, and a very thin joke; something about the Anglo-Saxon race
having a great many angles. It is possible that it was unintentional,
but a fellow-member, who did not wish it to be supposed that he was
asleep because his eyes were shut, laughed. One or two of the papers
noted "a laugh" in brackets, and another, which was notorious for the
carelessness of its political news, mentioned "laughter." Things often
begin in that way.
"Arlington made a joke in the House last night," said Eleanor Stringham
to her mother; "in all the years we've been married neither of us has
made jokes, and I don't like it now. I'm afraid it's the beginning of
the rift in the lute."
"What lute?" said her mother.
"It's a quotation," said Eleanor.
To say that anything was a quotation was an excellent method, in
Eleanor's eyes, for withdrawing it from discussion, just as you could
always defend indifferent lamb late in the season by saying "It's
mutton."
And, of course, Arlington Stringham continued to tread the thorny path
of conscious humour into which Fate had beckoned him.
"The country's looking very green, but, after all, that's what it's
there for," he remarked to his wife two days later.
"That's very modern, and I dare say very clever, but I'm afraid it's
wasted on me," she observed coldly. If she had known how much effort
it had cost him to make the remark she might have greeted it in a
kinder spirit. It is the tragedy of human endeavour that it works so
often unseen and unguessed.
Arlington said nothing, not from injured pride, but because he was
thinking hard for something to say. Eleanor mistook his silence for an
assumption of tolerant superiority, and her anger prompted her to a
further gibe.
"You had better tell it to Lady Isobel. I've no doubt she would
appreciate it."
Lady Isobel was seen everywhere with a fawn coloured collie at a time
when every one else kept nothing but Pekinese, and she had once eaten
four green apples at an afternoon tea in the Botanical Gardens, so she
was widely credited with a rather unpleasant wit. The censorious said
she slept in a hammock and understood Yeats's poems, but her family
denied both stories.
"The rift is widening to an abyss," said Eleanor to her mother that
afternoon.
"I should not tell that to anyone," remarked her mother, after long
reflection.
"Naturally, I should not talk about it very much," said Eleanor, "but
why shouldn't I mention it to anyone?"
"Because you can't have an abyss in a lute. There isn't room."
Eleanor's outlook on life did not improve as the afternoon wore on.
The page-boy had brought from the library BY MERE AND WOLD instead of
BY MERE CHANCE, the book which every one denied having read. The
unwelcome substitute appeared to be a collection of nature notes
contributed by the author to the pages of some Northern weekly, and
when one had been prepared to plunge with disapproving mind into a
regrettable chronicle of ill-spent lives it was intensely irritating to
read "the dainty yellow-hammers are now with us and flaunt their
jaundiced livery from every bush and hillock." Besides, the thing was
so obviously untrue; either there must be hardly any bushes or hillocks
in those parts or the country must be fearfully overstocked with
yellow-hammers. The thing scarcely seemed worth telling such a lie
about. And the page-boy stood there, with his sleekly brushed and
parted hair, and his air of chaste and callous indifference to the
desires and passions of the world. Eleanor hated boys, and she would
have liked to have whipped this one long and often. It was perhaps the
yearning of a woman who had no children of her own.
She turned at random to another paragraph. "Lie quietly concealed in
the fern and bramble in the gap by the old rowan tree, and you may see,
almost every evening during early summer, a pair of lesser whitethroats
creeping up and down the nettles and hedge-growth that mask their
nesting-place."
The insufferable monotony of the proposed recreation! Eleanor would
not have watched the most brilliant performance at His Majesty's
Theatre for a single evening under such uncomfortable circumstances,
and to be asked to watch lesser whitethroats creeping up and down a
nettle "almost every evening" during the height of the season struck
her as an imputation on her intelligence that was positively offensive.
Impatiently she transferred her attention to the dinner menu, which the
boy had thoughtfully brought in as an alternative to the more solid
literary fare. "Rabbit curry," met her eye, and the lines of
disapproval deepened on her already puckered brow. The cook was a
great believer in the influence of environment, and nourished an
obstinate conviction that if you brought rabbit and curry-powder
together in one dish a rabbit curry would be the result. And Clovis
and the odious Bertie van Tahn were coming to dinner. Surely, thought
Eleanor, if Arlington knew how much she had had that day to try her, he
would refrain from joke-making.
At dinner that night it was Eleanor herself who mentioned the name of a
certain statesman, who may be decently covered under the disguise of X.
"X," said Arlington Stringham, "has the soul of a meringue."
It was a useful remark to have on hand, because it applied equally well
to four prominent statesmen of the day, which quadrupled the
opportunities for using it.
"Meringues haven't got souls," said Eleanor's mother.
"It's a mercy that they haven't," said Clovis; "they would be always
losing them, and people like my aunt would get up missions to
meringues, and say it was wonderful how much one could teach them and
how much more one could learn from them."
"What could you learn from a meringue?" asked Eleanor's mother.
"My aunt has been known to learn humility from an ex-Viceroy," said
Clovis.
"I wish cook would learn to make curry, or have the sense to leave it
alone," said Arlington, suddenly and savagely.
Eleanor's face softened. It was like one of his old remarks in the
days when there was no abyss between them.
It was during the debate on the Foreign Office vote that Stringham made
his great remark that "the people of Crete unfortunately make more
history than they can consume locally." It was not brilliant, but it
came in the middle of a dull speech, and the House was quite pleased
with it. Old gentlemen with bad memories said it reminded them of
Disraeli.
It was Eleanor's friend, Gertrude Ilpton, who drew her attention to
Arlington's newest outbreak. Eleanor in these days avoided the morning
papers.
"It's very modern, and I suppose very clever," she observed.
"Of course it's clever," said Gertrude; "all Lady Isobel's sayings are
clever, and luckily they bear repeating."
"Are you sure it's one of her sayings?" asked Eleanor.
"My dear, I've heard her say it dozens of times."
"So that is where he gets his humour," said Eleanor slowly, and the
hard lines deepened round her mouth.
The death of Eleanor Stringham from an overdose of chloral, occurring
at the end of a rather uneventful season, excited a certain amount of
unobtrusive speculation. Clovis, who perhaps exaggerated the
importance of curry in the home, hinted at domestic sorrow.
And of course Arlington never knew. It was the tragedy of his life
that he should miss the fullest effect of his jesting.