PAGE
THE OVERTURE 1
THE OVERTURE CONTINUED 9
THE OVERTURE CONCLUDED 24
THE TWO SOLOS 34
IN BRITAIN’S VALHALLA 48
TWO SOLOS AND A DUET 71
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES 88
THE HOME-COMING 100
LAYING A COURSE 112
CONFESSIONS 128
CONCERNING MRS. BEETON 146
MR. SAMUEL PEPYS 158
A VISIT TO MR. SAMUEL PEPYS 170
TROUBLE 185
A RESCUE 204
THE BROWNING SOCIETY 218
AN INVESTMENT 236
A THUNDERCLOUD 251
DANGER 269
NO. 5 CHEYNE ROW 290
THE LAST NOTE OF THE DUET 311
THE TRIO 326
THE OVERTURE
I
ABOUT THAT DATE
THESE are the beginnings of some of the letters which they wrote about
that time.
_Woking_, _May_ 20_th_.
MY DEAREST MAUDE,—You know that your mother suggested, and we agreed,
that we should be married about the beginning of September. Don’t you
think that we might say the 3rd of August? It is a Wednesday, and in
every sense suitable. Do try to change the date, for it would in many
ways be preferable to the other. I shall be eager to hear from you about
it. And now, dearest Maude . . . (The rest is irrelevant.)
_St. Albans_, _May_ 22_nd_.
My Dearest Frank,—Mother sees no objection to the 3rd of August, and I am
ready to do anything which will please you and her. Of course there are
the guests to be considered, and the dressmakers and other arrangements,
but I have no doubt that we shall be able to change the date all right.
O Frank . . . (What follows is beside the point.)
_Woking_, _May_ 25_th_.
MY DEAREST MAUDE,—I have been thinking over that change of date, and I
see one objection which had not occurred to me when I suggested it.
August the 1st is Bank holiday, and travelling is not very pleasant about
that time. My idea now is that we should bring it off before that date.
Fancy, for example, how unpleasant it would be for your Uncle Joseph if
he had to travel all the way from Edinburgh with a Bank-holiday crowd.
It would be selfish of us if we did not fit in our plans so as to save
our relatives from inconvenience. I think therefore, taking everything
into consideration, that the 20th of July, a Wednesday, would be the very
best day that we could select. I do hope that you will strain every
nerve, my darling, to get your mother to consent to this change. When I
think . . . (A digression follows.)
_St. Albans_, _May_ 27_th_.
MY DEAREST FRANK,—I think that what you say about the date is very
reasonable, and it is so sweet and unselfish of you to think about Uncle
Joseph. Of course it would be very unpleasant for him to have to travel
at such a time, and we must strain every nerve to prevent it. There is
only one serious objection which my mother can see. Uncle Percival (that
is my mother’s second brother) comes back from Rangoon about the end of
July, and will miss the wedding (O Frank, think of its being _our_
wedding!) unless we delay it. He has always been very fond of me, and he
might be hurt if we were married so immediately before his arrival.
Don’t you think it would be as well to wait? Mother leaves it all in
your hands, and we shall do exactly as you advise. O Frank . . . (The
rest is confidential.)
_Woking_, _May_ 29_th_.
MY OWN DEAREST,—I think that it would be unreasonable upon the part of
your Uncle Percival to think that we ought to have changed the date of a
matter so important to ourselves, simply in order that he should be
present. I am sure that on second thoughts your mother and yourself will
see the thing in this light. I must say, however, that in one point I
think you both show great judgment. It would certainly be invidious to
be married _immediately_ before his arrival. I really think that he
would have some cause for complaint if we did that. To prevent any
chance of hurting his feelings, I think that it would be far best, if
your mother and you agree with me, that we should be married upon July
7th. I see that it is a Thursday, and in every way suitable. When I
read your last letter . . . (The remainder is unimportant.)
_St. Albans_, _June_ 1_st_.
DEAREST FRANK,—I am sure that you are right in thinking that it would be
as well not to have the ceremony too near the date of Uncle Percival’s
arrival in England. We should be so sorry to hurt his feelings in any
way. Mother has been down to Madame Mortimer’s about the dresses, and
she thinks that everything could be hurried up so as to be ready by July
7th. She is so obliging, and her skirts _do_ hang so beautifully. O
Frank, it is only a few weeks’ time, and then . . .
_Woking_, _June_ 3_rd_.
MY OWN DARLING MAUDE,—How good you are—and your mother also—in falling in
with my suggestions! Please, please don’t bother your dear self about
dresses. You only want the one travelling-dress to be married in, and
the rest we can pick up as we go. I am sure that white dress with the
black stripe—the one you were playing tennis with at the
Arlingtons’—would do splendidly. You looked simply splendid that day. I
am inclined to think that it is my favourite of all your dresses, with
the exception of the dark one with the light-green front. That shows off
your figure so splendidly. I am very fond also of the grey Quaker-like
alpaca dress. What a little dove you do look in it! I think those
dresses, and of course your satin evening-dress, are my favourites. On
second thoughts, they are the only dresses I have ever seen you in. But
I like the grey best, because you wore it the first time I ever—you
remember! You must _never_ get rid of those dresses. They are too full
of associations. I want to see you in them for years, and years, and
years.
What I wanted to say was that you have so many charming dresses, that we
may consider ourselves independent of Madame Mortimer. If her things
should be late, they will come in very usefully afterwards. I don’t want
to be selfish or inconsiderate, my own dearest girlie, but it would be
rather too much if we allowed my tailor or your dressmaker to be
obstacles to our union. I just want you—your dainty little self—if you
had only your ‘wee coatie,’ as Burns says. Now look here! I want you to
bring your influence to bear upon your mother, and so make a small change
in our plans. The earlier we can have our honeymoon, the more pleasant
the hotels will be. I do want your first experiences with me to be
without a shadow of discomfort. In July half the world starts for its
holiday. If we could get away at the end of this mouth, we should just
be ahead of them. This month, this very month! Oh, do try to manage
this, my own dearest girl. The 30th of June is a Tuesday, and in every
way suitable. They could spare me from the office most excellently.
This would just give us time to have the banns three times, beginning
with next Sunday. I leave it in your hands, dear. Do try to work it.
_St. Albans_, _June_ 4_th_.
MY DEAREST FRANK,—We nearly called in the doctor after your dear old
preposterous letter. My mother gasped upon the sofa while I read her
some extracts. That I, the daughter of the house, should be married in
my old black and white tennis-dress, which I wore at the Arlingtons’ to
save my nice one! Oh, you are simply splendid sometimes! And the
learned way in which you alluded to my alpaca. As a matter of fact, it’s
a merino, but that doesn’t matter. Fancy your remembering my wardrobe
like that! And wanting me to wear them all for years! So I shall, dear,
secretly, when we are quite quite alone. But they are all out of date
already, and if in a year or so you saw your poor dowdy wife with tight
sleeves among a roomful of puff-shouldered young ladies, you would not be
consoled even by the memory that it was in that dress that you first . . .
you know!
As a matter of fact, I _must_ have my dress to be married in. I don’t
think mother would regard it as a legal marriage if I hadn’t, and if you
knew how nice it will be, you would not have the heart to interfere with
it. Try to picture it, silver-grey—I know how fond you are of greys—a
little white chiffon at neck and wrists, and the prettiest pearl
trimming. Then the hat _en suite_, pale-grey lisse, white feather and
brilliant buckle. All these details are wasted upon you, sir, but you
will like it when you see it. It fulfils your ideal of tasteful
simplicity, which men always imagine to be an economical method of
dressing, until they have wives and milliners’ bills of their own.
And now I have kept the biggest news to the last. Mother has been to
Madame, and she says that if she works all night, she will have
everything ready for the 30th. O Frank, does it not seem incredible!
Next Tuesday three weeks. And the banns! Oh my goodness, I am
frightened when I think about it! Dear old boy, you won’t tire of me,
will you? Whatever should I do if I thought you had tired of me! And
the worst of it is, that you don’t know me a bit. I have a hundred
thousand faults, and you are blinded by your love and cannot see them.
But then some day the scales will fall from your eyes, and you will
perceive the whole hundred thousand at once. Oh, what a reaction there
will be! You will see me as I am, frivolous, wilful, idle, petulant, and
altogether horrid. But I do love you, Frank, with all my heart, and
soul, and mind, and strength, and you’ll count that on the other side,
won’t you? Now I am so glad I have said all this, because it is best
that you should know what you should expect. It will be nice for you to
look back and to say, ‘She gave me fair warning, and she is no worse than
she said.’ O Frank, think of the 30th.
_P.S._—I forgot to say that I had a grey silk cape, lined with cream, to
go with the dress. It is just sweet!
* * * * *
So that is how they arranged about the date.
THE OVERTURE CONTINUED
II
IN A MINOR KEY
_Woking_, _June_ 7_th_.
MY OWN DEAREST MAUDE,—How I wish you were here, for I have been down,
down, down, in the deepest state of despondency all day. I have longed
to hear the sound of your voice, or to feel the touch of your hand! How
can I be despondent, when in three weeks I shall be the husband of the
dearest girl in England? That is what I ask myself, and then the answer
comes that it is just exactly on that account that my wretched conscience
is gnawing at me. I feel that I have not used you well; I owe you
reparation, and I don’t know what to do.
In your last dear letter you talk about being frivolous. _You_ have
never been frivolous. But I have been frivolous—for ever since I have
learned to love you, I have been so wrapped up in my love, with my
happiness gilding everything about me, that I have never really faced the
prosaic facts of life or discussed with you what our marriage will really
necessitate. And now, at this eleventh hour, I realise that I have led
you on in ignorance to an act which will perhaps take a great deal of the
sunshine out of your life. What have I to offer you in exchange for the
sacrifice which you will make for me? Myself, my love, and all that I
have—but how little it all amounts to! You are a girl in a thousand, in
ten thousand—bright, beautiful, sweet, the dearest lady in all the land.
And I an average man—or perhaps hardly that—with little to boast of in
the past, and vague ambitions for the future. It is a poor bargain for
you, a most miserable bargain. You have still time. Count the cost, and
if it be too great, then draw back even now without fear of one word or
inmost thought of reproach from me. Your whole life is at stake. How
can I hold you to a decision which was taken before you realised what it
meant? Now I shall place the facts before you, and then, come what may,
my conscience will be at rest, and I shall be sure that you are acting
with your eyes open.
You have to compare your life as it is, and as it will be. Your father
is rich, or at least comfortably off, and you have been accustomed all
your life to have whatever you desired. From what I know of your
mother’s kindness, I should imagine that no wish of yours has ever
remained ungratified. You have lived well, dressed well, a sweet home, a
lovely garden, your collie, your canary, your maid. Above all, you have
never had anxiety, never had to worry about the morrow. I can see all
your past life so well. In the mornings, your music, your singing, your
gardening, your reading. In the afternoons, your social duties, the
visit and the visitor. In the evening, tennis, a walk, music again, your
father’s return from the City, the happy family-circle, with occasionally
the dinner, the dance, and the theatre. And so smoothly on, month after
month, and year after year, your own sweet, kindly, joyous nature, and
your bright face, making every one round you happy, and so reacting upon
your own happiness. Why should you bother about money? That was your
father’s business. Why should you trouble about housekeeping? That was
your mother’s duty. You lived like the birds and the flowers, and had no
need to take heed for the future. Everything which life could offer was
yours.
And now you must turn to what is in store for you, if you are still
content to face the future with me. Position I have none to offer. What
is the exact position of the wife of the assistant-accountant of the
Co-operative Insurance Office? It is indefinable. What are my
prospects? I may become head-accountant. If Dinton died—and I hope he
won’t, for he is an excellent fellow—I should probably get his berth.
Beyond that I have no career. I have some aspirations after literature—a
few critical articles in the monthlies—but I don’t suppose they will ever
lead to anything of consequence.
And my income, £400 a year with a commission on business I introduce.
But that amounts to hardly anything. You have £50. Our total, then, is
certainly under £500. Have you considered what it will mean to leave
that charming house at St. Albans—the breakfast-room, the billiard-room,
the lawn—and to live in the little £50 a year house at Woking, with its
two sitting-rooms and pokey garden? Have I a right to ask you to do such
a thing? And then the housekeeping, the planning, the arranging, the
curtailing, the keeping up appearances upon a limited income. I have
made myself miserable, because I feel that you are marrying me without a
suspicion of the long weary uphill struggle which lies before you. O
Maude, my darling Maude, I feel that you sacrifice too much for me! If I
were a man I should say to you, ‘Forget me—forget it all! Let our
relations be a closed chapter in your life. You can do better. I and my
cares come like a great cloud-bank to keep the sunshine from your young
life. You who are so tender and dainty! How can I bear to see you
exposed to the drudgery and sordid everlasting cares of such a household!
I think of your graces, your pretty little ways, the elegancies of your
life, and how charmingly you carry them off. You are born and bred for
just such an atmosphere as the one which you breathe. And I take
advantage of my good-fortune in winning your love to drag you down, to
take the beauty and charm from your life, to fill it with small and
vulgar cares, never-ending and soul-killing. Selfish beast that I am,
why should I allow you to come down into the stress and worry of life,
when I found you so high above it? And what can I offer you in
exchange?’ These are the thoughts which come back and back all day, and
leave me in the blackest fit of despondency. I confessed to you that I
had dark humours, but never one so hopeless as this. I do not wish my
worst enemy to be as unhappy as I have been to-day.
Write to me, my own darling Maude, and tell me all you think, your very
inmost soul, in this matter. Am I right? Have I asked too much of you?
Does the change frighten you? You will have this in the morning, and I
should have my answer by the evening post. I shall meet the postman.
How hard I shall try not to snatch the letter from him, or to give myself
away. Wilson has been in worrying me with foolish talk, while my
thoughts were all of our affairs. He worked me up into a perfectly
homicidal frame of mind, but I hope that I kept on smiling and was not
discourteous to him. I wonder which is right, to be polite but
hypocritical, or to be inhospitable but honest.
Good-bye, my own dearest sweetheart—all the dearer when I feel that I may
lose you.—Ever your devoted