THERE are several unjustifiable extravagances which every normal man
commits. There are also several unjustifiable economies. Among others,
there is that absurd eagerness to save the striking of a second match,
which occasions so many burned fingers, and such picturesque language.
And again, there is the desire to compress a telegraphic message into the
minimum sixpennyworth, and so send an ambiguous and cryptic sentence,
when sevenpence would have made it as clear as light. We all tend to be
stylists in our telegrams.
A week after the conversation about Mr. Pepys, when some progress had
been made with the reading of the _Diary_, Maude received the following
wire from Frank—
‘MRS. CROSSE. Woking.—Pepys buttered toast suède gloves four
Monument wait late.’
As a sixpennyworth it was a success, but as a message it seemed to leave
something to be desired. Maude puzzled over it, and tried every possible
combination of the words. The nearest approach to sense was when it was
divided in this way—Pepys—buttered toast—suède gloves—four—Monument, wait
late.
She wrote it out in this form, and took it section by section. ‘Pepys,’
that was unintelligible. ‘Buttered toast,’ no sense in that. ‘Suède
gloves,’ yes, she had told Frank that when she came to town, she would
buy some suède gloves at a certain shop in the City, where she could get
for three and threepence a pair which would cost her three and ninepence
in Woking. Maude was so conscientiously economical, that she was always
prepared to spend two shillings in railway fares to reach a spot where a
sixpence was to be saved, and to lavish her nerve and energy freely in
the venture. Here, then, in the suède gloves, was a central point of
light. And then her heart bounded with joy, as she realised that the
last part could only mean that she was to meet Frank at the Monument at
four, and that she was to wait for him if he were late.
So, now, returning to the opening of the message, with the light which
shone from the ending, she realised that buttered toast might refer to a
queer little City hostel, remarkable for that luxury, where Frank had
already taken her twice to tea. And so leaving Mr. Pepys to explain
himself later, Maude gave hurried orders to Jemima and the cook, and
dashed upstairs to put on her new fawn-coloured walking-dress—a garment
which filled her with an extraordinary mixture of delight and remorse,
for it was very smart, cost seven guineas, and had not yet been paid for.
The rendezvous was evidently a sudden thought upon the part of Frank, for
he had left very little time for her to reach the trysting-place.
However, she was fortunate in catching a train to Waterloo, and another
thence to the City, and so reached the Monument at five minutes to four.
The hour was just striking when Frank, with his well-brushed top-hat and
immaculate business frock-coat, came rushing from the direction of King
William Street. Maude held out her hand and he shook it, and then they
both laughed at the formality.
‘I am so glad you were able to come, dearest. How you do brighten up the
old City!’
‘Do I? I felt quite lonely until you came. Nothing but droves of
men—and all staring.’
‘It’s your dress.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir!’
‘Entirely that pretty brown—’
‘Brown! Fawn colour.’
‘Well, that’s brown. Anyhow, it looks charming. And so do you—by Jove
you do, Maude! Come this way!’
‘Where are we going?’
‘By underground. Here we are.—Two second singles, Mark Lane, please!—No,
that’s for the west-end trains. Down here! Next train, the man says.’
They were in the mephitic cellar, with the two long wooden platforms
where the subterranean trains land or load their freights. A strangling
gas tickled their throats and set them coughing. It was all dank and
dark and gloomy. But little youth and love care for that! They were
bubbling over with the happiness of this abnormal meeting. Both talked
together in their delight, and Maude patted Frank’s sleeve with every
remark. They could even illuminate all that was around them, by the
beauty and brightness of their own love. It went the length of open
praise for their abominable surroundings.
‘Isn’t it grand and solemn?’ said Maude. ‘Look at the black shadows.’
‘When they come to excavate all this some thousands of years hence, they
will think it was constructed by a race of giants,’ Frank answered.
‘The modern works for the benefit of the community are really far greater
than those which sprang from the caprice of kings. The London and
North-Western Railway is an infinitely grander thing than the pyramids.
Look at the two headlights in the dark!’
Two sullen crimson discs glowed in the black arch of the tunnel. With a
menacing and sinister speed, they grew and grew until roaring they sprang
out of the darkness, and the long, dingy train, with a whining of brakes,
drew up at the platform.
‘Here’s one nearly empty,’ said Frank, with his hand on the handle.
‘Don’t you think—’ said Maude.
‘Yes, I do,’ cried Frank.
And they got into one which was quite empty. For the underground railway
is blessed as regards privacy above all other lines, and where could a
loving couple be more happy, who have been torn apart by cruel fate for
seven long hours or so? It was with a groan that Frank remarked that
they had reached Mark Lane.
‘Bother!’ said Maude, and wondered if there were any shop near where she
could buy hairpins. As every lady knows, or will know, there is a very
intimate connection between hairpins and a loving husband.
‘Now, Frank, about your telegram.’
‘All right, dear. Come along where I lead you, and you will understand
all about it.’
They passed out of Mark Lane Station and down a steep and narrow street
to the right. At the bottom lay an old smoke-stained church with a
square tower, and a small open churchyard beside it.
‘That’s the church of Saint Olave,’ said Frank. ‘We are going into it.’
He pushed open a folding oaken door, and they found themselves inside it.
Rows of modern seats filled the body of it, but the walls and windows
gave an impression of great antiquity. The stained glass—especially that
which surmounted the altar—contained those rich satisfying purples and
deep deep crimsons which only go with age. It was a bright and yet a
mellow light, falling in patches of vivid colour upon the brown woodwork
and the grey floors. Here and there upon the walls were marble
inscriptions in the Latin tongue, with pompous allegorical figures with
trumpets, for our ancestors blew them in stone as well as in epitaphs
over their tombs. They loved to die, as they had lived, with dignity and
with affectation. White statues glimmered in the shadows of the corners.
As Frank and his wife passed down the side-aisle, their steps clanged
through the empty and silent church.
‘Here he is!’ said Frank, and faced to the wall.
He was looking up at the modern representation of a gentleman in a full
and curly wig. It was a well-rounded and comely face, with shrewd eyes
and a sensitive mouth. The face of a man of affairs, and a good fellow,
with just that saving touch of sensuality about it which makes an
expression human and lovable. Underneath was printed—