SIDNEY SETTLES DOWN
Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's newest seaside resort had the artistic charm
which characterised everything she selected. It was a straggling,
hilly, leafy village, full of archaic relics--human as well as
architectural--sloping down to a gracefully curved bay, where the blue
waves broke in whispers, for on summer days a halcyon calm overhung
this magic spot, and the great sea stretched away, unwrinkled, ever
young. There were no neutral tones in the colours of this divine
picture--the sea was sapphire, the sky amethyst. There were dark red
houses nestling amid foliage, and green-haired monsters of grey stone
squatted about on the yellow sand, which was strewn with quaint shells
and mimic earth-worms, cunningly wrought by the waves. Half a mile to
the east a blue river rippled into the bay. The white bathing-tents
which Mrs. Goldsmith had pitched stood out picturesquely, in
harmonious contrast with the rich boscage that began to climb the
hills in the background.
Mrs. Goldsmith's party lived in the manse; it was pretty numerous, and
gradually overflowed into the bedrooms of the neighbouring cottages.
Mr. Goldsmith only came down on Saturday, returning on Monday. One
Friday Mr. Percy Saville, who had been staying for the week, left
suddenly for London, and next day the beautiful hostess poured into
her husband's projecting ears a tale that made him gnash his
projecting teeth, and cut the handsome stockbroker off his
visiting-list for ever. It was only an indiscreet word that the
susceptible stockbroker had spoken--under the poetic influences of the
scene. His bedroom came in handy for Sidney, unexpectedly dropped down
from Norway, _via_ London, on the very Friday. The poetic influences
of the scene soon infected the newcomer, too. On the Saturday he was
lost for hours, and came up smiling, with Addie on his arm. On the
Sunday afternoon the party went boating up the river--a picturesque
medley of flannels and parasols. Once landed, Sidney and Addie did not
return for tea, prior to re-embarking. While Mr. Montagu Samuels was
gallantly handing round the sugar, they were sitting somewhere along
the bank, half covered with leaves like babes in the wood. The sunset
burnt behind the willows--a fiery rhapsody of crimson and orange. The
gay laughter of the picnic-party just reached their ears, otherwise an
almost solemn calm prevailed--not a bird twittered, not a leaf
stirred.
'It'll be all over London to-morrow,' said Sidney in a despondent
tone.
'I'm afraid so,' said Addie, with a delicious laugh.
The sweet English meadows over which her humid eyes wandered were
studded with simple wild-flowers. Addie vaguely felt the angels had
planted such in Eden. Sidney could not take his eyes off his
terrestrial angel clad in appropriate white. Confessed love had given
the last touch to her intoxicating beauty. She gratified his artistic
sense almost completely. But she seemed to satisfy deeper instincts,
too. As he looked into her limpid, trustful eyes, he felt he had been
a weak fool. An irresistible yearning to tell her all his past and
crave forgiveness swept over him.
'Addie,' he said, 'isn't it funny I should be marrying a Jewish girl,
after all?'
He wanted to work round to it like that, to tell her of his engagement
to Miss Hannibal at least, and how, on discovering with whom he was
really in love, he had got out of it simply by writing to the Wesleyan
M.P. that he was a Jew--a fact sufficient to disgust the disciple of
Dissent and the clamant champion of religious liberty. But Addie only
smiled at the question.
'You smile,' he said: 'I see you do think it funny.'
'That's not why I am smiling.'
'Then why are you smiling?' The lovely face piqued him; he kissed the
lips quickly with a bird-like peck.
'Oh--I--no, you wouldn't understand.'
'That means _you_ don't understand. But there! I suppose, when a girl
is in love, she's not accountable for her expression. All the same, it
is strange. You know, Addie dear, I have come to the conclusion that
Judaism exercises a strange centrifugal and centripetal effect on its
sons--sometimes it repulses them, sometimes it draws them; only it
never leaves them neutral. Now, here had I deliberately made up my
mind not to marry a Jewess.'
'Oh! Why not?' said Addie, pouting.
'Merely because she would be a Jewess. It's a fact.'
'And why have you broken your resolution?' she said, looking up
naively into his face, so that the scent of her hair thrilled him.
'I don't know,' he said frankly, scarcely giving the answer to be
expected. '_C'est plus fort que moi._ I've struggled hard, but I'm
beaten. Isn't there something of the kind in Esther--in Miss Ansell's
book? I know I've read it somewhere--and anything that's beastly
subtle I always connect with her.'
'Poor Esther!' murmured Addie.
Sidney patted her soft warm hand, and smoothed the finely-curved arm,
and did not seem disposed to let the shadow of Esther mar the moment,
though he would ever remain grateful to her for the hint which had
simultaneously opened his eyes to Addie's affection for him, and to
his own answering affection so imperceptibly grown up. The river
glided on softly, glorified by the sunset.
'It makes one believe in a dogged destiny,' he grumbled, 'shaping the
ends of the race, and keeping it together, despite all human volition.
To think that I should be doomed to fall in love, not only with a
Jewess, but with a pious Jewess! But clever men always fall in love
with conventional women. I wonder what makes you so conventional,
Addie.'
Addie, still smiling, pressed his hand in silence, and gazed at him in
fond admiration.
'Ah, well, since you are so conventional, you may as well kiss me.'
Addie's blush deepened, her eyes sparkled ere she lowered them, and
subtly fascinating waves of expression passed across the lovely face.
'They'll be wondering what on earth has become of us,' she said.
'It shall be nothing on earth--something in heaven,' he answered.
'Kiss me, or I shall call you unconventional.'
She touched his cheek hurriedly with her soft lips.
'A very crude and amateur kiss,' he said critically. 'However, after
all, I have an excuse for marrying you--which all clever Jews who
marry conventional Jewesses haven't got--you're a fine model. That is
another of the many advantages of my profession. I suppose you'll be a
model wife, in the ordinary sense, too. Do you know, my darling, I
begin to understand that I could not love you so much if you were not
so religious, if you were not so curiously like a Festival
Prayer-Book, with gilt edges and a beautiful binding.'
'Ah, I am so glad, dear, to hear you say that,' said Addie, with the
faintest suspicion of implied past disapproval.
'Yes,' he said musingly; 'it adds the last artistic touch to your
relation to me.'
'But you will reform!' said Addie, with girlish confidence.
'Do you think so? I might commence by becoming a vegetarian--that
would prevent me eating forbidden flesh. Have I ever told you my idea
that vegetarianism is the first step in a great secret conspiracy for
gradually converting the world to Judaism? But I'm afraid I can't be
caught as easily as the Gentiles, Addie dear. You see, a Jewish
sceptic beats all others. _Corruptio optimi pessima_, probably.
Perhaps you would like me to marry in a synagogue?'
'Why, of course! Where else?'
'Heavens!' said Sidney, in comic despair. 'I feared it would come to
that. I shall become a pillar of the synagogue when I am married, I
suppose.'
'Well, you'll have to take a seat,' said Addie seriously, 'because
otherwise you can't get buried.'
'Gracious, what ghoulish thoughts for an embryo bride! Personally, I
have no objection to haunting the Council of the United Synagogue till
they give me a decently comfortable grave. But I see what it will be!
I shall be whitewashed by the Jewish press, eulogised by platform
orators as a shining light in Israel, the brilliant impressionist
painter, and all that. I shall pay my synagogue bill and never go. In
short, I shall be converted to Philistinism, and die in the odour of
respectability. And Judaism will continue to flourish. Oh, Addie,
Addie, if I had thought of all that, I should never have asked you to
be my wife.'
'I am glad you didn't think of it,' laughed Addie ingenuously.
'There! You never will take me seriously!' he grumbled. 'Nobody ever
takes me seriously--I suppose because I speak the truth. The only time
you ever took me seriously in my life was a few minutes ago. So you
actually think I'm going to submit to the benedictions of a Rabbi.'
'You must,' said Addie.
'I'm blest if I do,' he said.
'Of course you will,' said Addie, laughing merrily.
'Thanks--I'm glad you appreciate my joke. You perhaps fancy it's
yours. However, I'm in earnest. I won't be a respectable high-hatted
member of the community--not even for your sake, dear. Why, I might as
well go back to my ugly real name, Samuel Abrahams, at once.'
'So you might, dear,' said Addie boldly; and smiled into his eyes to
temper her audacity.
'Ah, well, I think it'll be quite enough if _you_ change your name,'
he said, smiling back.
'It's just as easy for me to change it to Abrahams as to Graham,' she
said with charming obstinacy.
He contemplated her for some moments in silence, with a whimsical look
on his face. Then he looked up at the sky--the brilliant colour
harmonies were deepening into a more sober magnificence.
'I'll tell you what I will do. I'll join the Asmoneans. There! that's
a great concession to your absurd prejudices. But you must make a
concession to mine. You know how I hate the Jewish canvassing of
engagements. Let us keep ours entirely _entre nous_ a fortnight--so
that the gossips shall at least get their material stale, and we shall
be hardened. I wonder why you're so conventional,' he said again, when
she had consented without enthusiasm. 'You had the advantage of
Esther--of Miss Ansell's society.'
'Call her Esther if you like; _I_ don't mind,' said Addie.
'I wonder Esther didn't convert you,' he went on musingly. 'But I
suppose you had Raphael on your right hand, as some prayer or other
says. And so you really don't know what's become of her?'
'Nothing beyond what I wrote to you. Mrs. Goldsmith discovered she had
written the nasty book, and sent her packing. I have never liked to
broach the subject myself to Mrs. Goldsmith, knowing how unpleasant it
must be to her. Raphael's version is that Esther went away of her own
accord; but I can't see what grounds he has for judging.'
'I would rather trust Raphael's version,' said Sidney, with an
adumbration of a wink in his left eyelid. 'But didn't you look for
her?'
'Where? If she's in London, she's swallowed up. If she's gone to
another place, it's still more difficult to find her.'
'There's the Agony Column!'
'If Esther wanted us to know her address, what can prevent her sending
it?' asked Addie with dignity.
'I'd find her soon enough, if I wanted to,' murmured Sidney.
'Yes; but I'm not sure we want to. After all, she cannot be so nice as
I thought. She certainly behaved very ungratefully to Mrs. Goldsmith.
You see what comes of wild opinions.'
'Addie! Addie!' said Sidney reproachfully, 'how _can_ you be so
conventional?'
'I'm _not_ conventional,' protested Addie, provoked at last. 'I always
liked Esther very much. Even now, nothing would give me greater
pleasure than to have her for a bridesmaid. But I can't help feeling
she deceived us all.'
'Stuff and nonsense!' said Sidney warmly. 'An author has a right to be
anonymous. Don't you think I'd paint anonymously if I dared? Only, if
I didn't put my name to my things, no one would buy them. That's
another of the advantages of my profession. Once make your name as an
artist, and you can get a colossal income by giving up art.'
'It was a vulgar book!' persisted Addie, sticking to the point.
'Fiddlesticks! It was an artistic book--bungled.'
'Oh, well!' said Addie, as the tears welled from her eyes, 'if you're
so fond of unconventional girls, you'd better marry them.'
'I would,' said Sidney, 'but for the absurd restriction against
polygamy.'
Addie got up with an indignant jerk. 'You think I'm a child to be
played with!'
She turned her back upon him. His face changed instantly; he stood
still a moment, admiring the magnificent pose. Then he recaptured her
reluctant hand.
'Don't be jealous already, Addie,' he said. 'It's a healthy sign of
affection, is a storm-cloud; but don't you think it's just a wee,
tiny, weeny bit too previous?'
A pressure of the hand accompanied each of the little adjectives.
Addie sat down again, feeling deliciously happy. She seemed to be
lapped in a great drowsy ecstasy of bliss.
The sunset was fading into sombre greys before Sidney broke the
silence; then his train of thought revealed itself.
'If you're so down on Esther, I wonder how you can put up with me! How
is it?'
Addie did not hear the question.
'You think I'm a very wicked, blasphemous boy,' he insisted. 'Isn't
that the thought deep down in your heart of hearts?'
'I'm sure tea must be over long ago,' said Addie anxiously.
'Answer me,' said Sidney inexorably.
'Don't bother. Aren't they cooeying for us?'
'Answer me.'
'I do believe that was a water-rat. Look! the water is still eddying.'
'I'm a very wicked, blasphemous boy. Isn't that the thought deep down
in your heart of hearts?'
'You are there, too,' she breathed at last, and then Sidney forgot her
beauty for an instant, and lost himself in unaccustomed humility. It
seemed passing wonderful to him--that he should be the deity of such a
spotless shrine. Could any man deserve the trust of this celestial
soul?
Suddenly the thought that he had not told her about Miss Hannibal,
after all, gave him a chilling shock. But he rallied quickly. Was it
really worth while to trouble the clear depths of her spirit with his
turbid past? No; wiser to inhale the odour of the rose at her bosom,
sweeter to surrender himself to the intoxicating perfume of her
personality, to the magic of a moment that must fade like the sunset,
already grown grey.
So Addie never knew.