A MAN WITH A THEORY
Even Miss Bussey was inclined to think that all had happened for the
best. John's eloquence had shaken her first disapprobation; the visible
happiness of the persons chiefly concerned pleaded yet more
persuasively. What harm, after all, was done, except for a little
trouble and a little gossip? To these Mary and John were utterly
indifferent. At first they had been rather shy in referring, before one
another, to their loves, but custom taught them to mention the names
without confusion, and ere long they had exchanged confidences as to
their future plans. John's arrangement was obviously the more prudent
and becoming. He discountenanced Mary's suggestion of an unannounced
descent on Cannes, and persuaded her to follow his example and inform
her lover that she would await news from him in Paris. They were to put
up at the European, and telegrams there from Cannes would rind them on
and after April 28th. All this valuable information was contained in
the dispatches, which lay, with their priceless messages, on the said
April 28th, in Mr. Arthur Laing's flannel jacket, inside his
portmanteau, on the way to Paris.
Paris claims to be the centre of the world, and if it be, the world has
a very good centre. Anyhow Paris becomes, from this moment, the centre
of this drama. Not only was Arthur Laing being whirled there by the
Nice express, and Miss Bussey's party proceeding thither by the eleven
o'clock train from Victoria--Mary laughed as she thought it might have
been her honeymoon she was starting on--but the Bellairs and their
friends were heading for the same point. Miss Bussey's party had the
pleasanter journey; they were all of one mind; Miss Bussey was eager to
reach Paris because it was the end of the journey; John and Mary
desired nothing but the moment when with trembling fingers they should
tear open their telegrams in the hall of the hotel. The expedition from
the south did not enjoy a like unanimity; but before following their
steps we may, in the interest of simplicity, land the first detachment
safely at its destination.
When Mary and John, followed by Miss Bussey--they outstripped her in
their eagerness--entered the hotel, a young man with an eye-glass was
just engaging a bedroom. John took his place beside the stranger, and
asked in a voice, which he strove to render calm, if there were any
letters for----.
"Beg pardon, sir. In one moment," said the clerk, and he added to
Laing, "Number 37, sir." Laing--Oh, the irony of things!--turned on
John and his companion just that one supercilious glance which we
bestow on other tourists, and followed his baggage upstairs.
"Anything," resumed John, "for Miss Travers or Mr. Ashforth?" And he
succeeded in looking as if he did not care a straw whether there were
or not.
After a search the porter answered, "Nothing, sir."
"What?" exclaimed John, aghast? "Oh, nonsense, look again."
Another search followed; it was without result.
John saw Mary's appealing eyes fixed on him.
"Nothing," he said tragically.
"Oh, John!"
"Have you taken the rooms, Mr. Ash forth?" inquired Miss Bussey.
"No. I'm sorry. I forgot all about them."
Miss Bussey was tired; she had been seasick, and the train always made
her feel queer.
"Has neither of you got an ounce of wits about you?" she demanded, and
plunged forward to the desk. John and Mary received their numbers in
gloomy silence, and mounted the stairs.
Now Arthur Laing in his hasty survey of the party had arrived at a not
unnatural but wholly erroneous conclusion. He had seen a young man,
rather nervous, a young woman, looking anxious and shy, and an elderly
person, plainly dressed (Miss Bussey was no dandy) sitting (Miss Bussey
always sat as soon as she could) on, a trunk. He took John and Mary for
a newly married couple, and Miss Bussey for an old family servant
detailed to look after her young mistress's entry into independent
housekeeping.
"More infernal honeymooners," he said to himself, as he washed his
hands. "The place is always full of 'em. Girl wasn't bad-looking,
though."
The next morning, unhappily, confirmed him in his mistake. For Miss
Bussey, overcome by the various trials of the day before, kept her bed,
and when Laing came down, the first sight which met his eyes was a
breakfast-table, whereat Mary and John sat tête-à-tête. He eyed them
with that mixture of scorn and envy which their supposed situation
awakens in a bachelor's heart, and took a place from which he could
survey them at leisure. There is a bright side to everything; and that
of Laing's mistake was the pleasure he derived from his delusion.
Sticking his glass firmly in his eye, he watched like a cat for those
playful little endearments which his cynical mood--he was, like many of
us, not at his best in the morning--led him to anticipate. He watched
in vain. The young people were decorum itself; more than that, they
showed signs of preoccupation; they spoke only occasionally, and then
with a business-like brevity.
Suddenly the waiter entered, with a hand fid of letters which he
proceeded to distribute. Laing expected none, and kept his gaze on his
honeymooners. To his surprise they showed animation enough now; their
eyes were first on the waiter's approaching form; the bridegroom even
rose an inch or two from his seat; both stretched out their hands.
Alas, with a little bow, a smile, and a shrug, the waiter passed by,
and the disappointed couple sank back, with looks of blank despair.
Surely here was enough to set any open-minded man on the right track!
Yes; but not enough to free one who was tied and bound to his own
theory.
"She's dashed anxious to hoar from home!" mused Laing. "Poor girl! It
ain't over and above flattering to him, though."
He finished his breakfast and went out to smoke. Presently he saw his
friends come out also; they went to the porter's desk and he hoard one
of them say "telegram." A sudden idea struck him.
"I am an ass!" said he. "Tell you what it is they've wired for rooms
somewhere--Monte, most likely--and can't start till they get an answer."
He was so pleased with his explanation that his last doubt vanished and
he watched Mary and John start for a walk--the fraternal relations they
had established would have allowed such a thing even in London, much
more in Paris--with quite a benevolent smile.
"Aunt Sarah is really quite poorly," remarked Mary as they crossed the
road and entered the Tuileries Gardens. "She'll have to stay in all
to-day and perhaps tomorrow. Isn't it hard upon her? Paris amuses her
so much."
John expressed his sympathy.
"Now if it had been you or I," he ended, "we shouldn't have minded.
Paris doesn't amuse us just now."
"Oh, but, John, we must be ready to start at any moment."
"You can't start without Miss Bussey,"
"I think that in a wagon-lit----" began Mary.
"But what's the good of talking?" cried John, bitterly. "Why is there
no news from her?"
"He _might_ have wired--John, is it possible our telegrams went astray?"
"Well, we must wait a day or two; or, if you like, we can wire again."
Mary hesitated.
"I--I can't do that, John. Suppose he'd received the first, and--and--"
"Yes, I see. I don't want to humiliate myself either."
"We'll wait a day, anyhow. And, now, John, let's think no more about
them! Oh, well, that's nonsense; but let's enjoys ourselves as well as
we can."
They managed to enjoy themselves very well. The town was new to Mary,
and John found a pleasure in showing it off to her. After a morning of
sight-seeing, they drove in the Bois, and ended the day at the theatre.
Miss Bussey, unfortunately, was no better. She had sent for an English
doctor and he talked vaguely about two or three days in bed. Mary
ventured to ask whether her aunt could travel.
"Oh, if absolutely necessary, perhaps; but much better not," was the
answer.
Well, it was not absolutely necessary yet, for no letter and no
telegram arrived. This was the awful fact that greeted them when they
came in from the theatre.
"We'll wire the first thing to-morrow," declared John, in a resolute
tone. "Write yours to-night, Mary, and I'll give, them to the porter--"
"Oh, not mine, please," cried Mary, in shrinking bashfulness. "I can't
let the porter see mine!"
"Well, then, we'll take them out before breakfast to-morrow."
To this Mary agreed, and they sat down and wrote their dispatches.
While they were so engaged Laing jumped out of a cab and entered the
room. He seized an English paper, and, flinging himself into a chair,
began to study the sporting news. Presently he stole a glance at Mary.
It so chanced that just at the same moment she was stealing a glance at
him. Mary dropped her eyes with a blush; Laing withdrew behind his
paper.
"Shy, of course. Anybody would be," he thought, with a smile.
"Did you like the piece, Mary?" asked John.
"Oh, very much. I wish Aunt Sarah could have seen it. She missed so
much fun."
"Well, she could hardly have come with us, could she?" remarked John.
"Oh, no," said Mary.
"Well, I should rather think not," whispered Laing, who failed to
identify 'Aunt Sarah' with the elderly person on the trunk.
"I shouldn't have been happy if she had," said Mary.
"I simply wouldn't have let her," said John, in that authoritative tone
which so well became him.
"No more would I in your place, old chap," murmured Mr. Laing.
Mary rose.
"Thanks for all your kindness, John. Good-night."
"I'm so glad you've had a pleasant day. Good-night, Mary."
So they parted--with a good-night as calm, as decorous, as frankly
fraternal as one could wish (or wish otherwise). Yet its very virtues
undid it in the prematurely suspicious eyes of Arthur Laing. For no
sooner was he left alone than he threw down his paper and began to
chuckle.
"All for my benefit, that, eh? 'Goodnight, Mary!' 'Good-night, John!'
Lord! Lord!" and he rose, lit a cigarette, and ordered a
brandy-and-soda. And ever and again he smiled. He felt very acute
indeed.
So vain is it for either wisdom or simplicity, candor or
diplomacy--nay, for facts themselves--to struggle against a Man with a
Theory. Mr. Laing went to bed no more doubting that Mary and John were
man and wife than he doubted that he had 'spotted' the winner of the
Derby. Certitude could no farther go.