OF JULIUS BRADSHAW'S INNER SOUL. AND OF THE HABERDASHER'S BATTLE AT
LADBROKE GROVE ROAD. ON CARPET STRETCHING, AND VACCINATION FROM
THE CALF. AN AFTER-DINNER INTERVIEW, AND GOOD RESOLUTIONS. EVASIVE
TRAPPISTS
You can remember, if you are male and middle-aged, or worse, some
little incident in your own early life more or less like that
effervescence of unreal passion which made us first acquainted with
Mr. Julius Bradshaw and his violin. Do you shake your head, and deny
it? Are you prepared to look us in the face, and swear you never, when
a young man, had a sleepless night because of some girl whom you had
scarcely spoken to, and who would not have known who you were if you
had been able to master your trepidation and claim acquaintance; and
who, in the sequel, changed her identity, and became what the greatest
word-coiner of our time called a "speech-friend" of yours, without
a scrap of romance or tenderness in the friendship?
Sally's sudden change of identity from the bewitching little gardener
who had fascinated this susceptible youth, to a merely uncommonly nice
girl, was no doubt assisted by his introduction just at that moment
to the present Mrs. Julius Bradshaw. For it would be the merest
affectation to conceal the ultimate outcome of their acquaintance.
When Julius came to Krakatoa Villa, he came already half disillusioned
about Sally. What sort of an _accolade_ he expected on arriving to
keep his passion on its legs, Heaven only knows! He certainly had
been chilled by her easy-going invitation to her mother's. A definite
declaration of callous indifference would not have been half so
effective. Sally had the most extraordinary power of pointing out that
she stipulated to be considered as a chap; or conveying it, which came
to the same thing. On the other hand, Lætitia, who had been freely
spoken of by Sally as "making a great ass of herself about social
tommy-rot and people's positions," and who was aware of the justice of
the accusation, had been completely jerked out of the region of Grundy
by Julius's splendid rendering of Tartini, and had felt disconcerted
and ashamed; for Tishy was a thorough musician at heart. The
consequence was an _amende honorable_ to the young man, on whom--he
having no idea whatever of its provoking cause--it produced the effect
that might have been anticipated. Any young lady who wishes to enslave
a young man will really do better work by showing an interest in
himself than by any amount of fascination and allurement, on the lines
of Greuze. We are by no means sure that it is safe to reveal this
secret, so do not let it go any farther. Young women are formidable
enough, as it is, without getting tips from the camp of the enemy.
Anyhow, Sally became a totally different identity to Mr. Julius
Bradshaw. He, for his part, underwent a complete transformation in
hers--so much so that the vulgar child was on one occasion quite
taken aback at a sudden recollection of his _début_, and said to
her stepfather: "Only think, Jeremiah! Tishy's Julius is really that
young idiot that came philandering after me Sundays, and I had quite
forgotten it!"
The young idiot had settled down to a reasonable personality; if not
to a manifestation of his actual self, at any rate as near as he was
likely to go to it for some time to come; for none of us ever succeeds
in really showing himself to his fellow-creatures outright. That's
impossible.
Sally had never said very much to her friend of this pre-introduction
phase of Julius--had, in fact, thought little enough about it. Perhaps
her taking care to say nothing at all of it in his later phase was her
most definite acknowledgment of its existence at any time. It was only
a laughable incident. She saw at once, when she took note of that sofa
_séance_, which way the cat was going to jump; and we are bound to say
it was a cat that soon made up its mind, and jumped with decision.
Mrs. Sales Wilson's endeavour to intercept that cat had been prompt
and injudicious. She destroyed whatever chance there was of a sudden
_volte-face_ on its part--and oh, the glorious uncertainty of this
class of cat!--first by taking no notice of it aggressively, next
by catching hold of its tail, too late. In the art of ignoring
bystanders, she was no match for the cat. And detention seemed only
to communicate impetus.
Julius Bradshaw's first receptions at the Ladbroke Grove House had
been based mainly on his Stradivarius. The Dragon may be said to have
admitted the instrument, but only to have tolerated its owner, as one
might tolerate an organman who owned a distinguished monkey. Still, the
position was an ambiguous one. The Dragon felt she had made a mistake
in not shutting the door against this lion at first. She had "let
him in, to see if she could turn him out again," and the crisis of
the campaign had come over the question whether Mr. Bradshaw
might, or should, or could be received into the inner bosom of the
household--that is to say, the dinner-bosom. The Dragon said no--she
drew the line at that. Tea, yes--dinner, no!
After many small engagements over the question in the abstract, the
plot thickened with reference to the arrangements of a particular
Thursday evening. The Dragon felt that a decisive battle must be
fought; the more so that her son Egerton, whom she had relied on
to back her against a haberdasher, though he might have been useless
against a jockey or a professional cricketer, had gone over to the
enemy, and announced (for the Professor had failed to communicate
the virus of scholarship to this young man) that he was unanimous
that Mr. Bradshaw should be forthwith invited to dinner.
His mother resorted to the head of the household as to a Court of
Appeal, but not, as we think, in a manner likely to be effective. Her
natural desire to avenge herself on that magazine of learning for
marrying her produced an unconciliatory tone, even in her preamble.
"I suppose," she said, abruptly entering his library in the vital
centre of a delectable refutation of an ignoramus--"I suppose it's no
use looking to you for sympathy in a matter of this sort, but----"
"I'm busy," said the Professor; "wouldn't some other time do as well?"
"I knew what I had to expect!" said the lady, at once allowing her
desire to embitter her relations with her husband to get the better
of her interest in the measure she desired to pass through Parliament.
She left the room, closing the door after her with venomous quietness.
The refutation would have to stand over; it was spoiled now, and the
delicious sarcasm that was on his pen's tip was lost irrevocably. He
blotted a sentence in the middle, put his pen in a wet sponge, and
opened his door. He jerked it savagely open to express his attitude
of mind towards interruption. His "_What_ is it?" as he did so was in
keeping with the door-jerk.
"I can speak of nothing to you if you are so _tetchy_"--a word said
spitefully, with a jerk explanatory of its meaning. "Another time will
do better, now. I prefer to wait."
When these two played at the domestic game of exasperate-my-neighbour,
the temper lost by the one was picked up by the other, and added to
his or her pack. It was so often her pack that there must have been an
unfair allotment of knaves in it when dealt--you know what that means
in beggar-my-neighbour? On this occasion Mrs. Wilson won heavily.
It was not every day that she had a chance of showing her great
forbearance and self-restraint, on the stairs to an audience of a man
in leather kneecaps who was laying a new drugget in the passage, and
a model of discretion with a dustpan, whose self-subordination was
beyond praise; her daughter Athene in the passage below inditing her
son Egerton for a misappropriation of three-and-fivepence; and a faint
suspicion of Lætitia's bedroom door on the jar, for her to listen
through, above.
It wasn't fair on the Professor, though; for even before he exploded,
his lady-wife had had ample opportunity of reconnoitring the
battle-field, and, as it were, negotiating with auxiliaries, by a show
of gentle sweetness which had the force of announcement that she was
being misunderstood elsewhere. But she would bear it, conscious of
rectitude. Now, the Professor didn't know there was any one within
hearing; so he snapped, and she bit him _sotto voce_, but raised a meek
voice to follow:
"Another time will be better. I prefer to wait." This was all the
public heard of her speech. But she went into the library.
"What do you want to speak to me about?" Thus the Professor, remaining
standing to enjoin the temporary character of the interview; to
countercheck which the lady sank in an armchair with her back to the
light. Both she and Lætitia conveyed majesty in swoops--filled up
_fauteuils_--could motion humbler people to take a seat beside them.
"Tishy's Goody runs into skirts--so does _she_ if you come to that!"
was Sally's marginal note on this point. The countercheck was effectual,
and from her position of vantage the lady fired her first shot.
"You know perfectly well what I want to speak about." The awkward part
of this was that the Professor did know.
"Suppose I do; go on!" This only improved his position very slightly,
but it compelled the bill to be read a first time.
"Do you wish your daughter to marry a haberdasher?"
"I do not. If I did, I should take her round to some of the shops."
But his wife is in no humour to be jested with. "If you cannot be
serious, Mr. Wilson, about a serious matter, which concerns the
lifelong well-being of your eldest daughter, I am only wasting my time
in talking to you." She threatens an adjournment with a slight move.
Her husband selects another attitude, and comes to business.
"You may just as well say what you have come to say, Roberta. It's
about Lætitia and this young musician fellow, I suppose. Why can't
you leave them alone?" Now, you see, here was a little triumph for
Roberta--she had actually succeeded in getting the subject into the
realm of discussion without committing herself to any definite
statement, or, in fact, really saying what it was. She could prosecute
it now indirectly, on the lines of congenial contradiction of her
husband.
"I fully expected to be accused of interfering with what does not
concern me. I am not surprised. My daughter's welfare is, it appears,
to be of as little interest to me as it is to her father. Very well."
"What do you wish me to do? Will you oblige me by telling me what
it is you understand we are talking about?" A gathering storm of
determination must be met, the Dragon decides, by a corresponding
access of asperity on her part. She rises to the occasion.
"I will tell you about what I do _not_ understand. But I do not expect
to be listened to. I do _not_ understand how any father can remain in
his library, engaged in work which cannot possibly be remunerative,
while his eldest daughter contracts a disgraceful marriage with a
social inferior." The irrelevance about remuneration was ill-judged.
"I can postpone the Dictionary--if that will satisfy you--and go on
with some articles for the Encyclopædia, which pay very well, until
after the ceremony. Is the date fixed?"
"It is easy for you to affect stupidity, and to answer me with would-be
witty evasions. But if you think to deter me from my duty--a mother's
duty--by such pitiful expedients you are making a great mistake. You
make my task harder to me, Septimus, but you do not discourage me. You
know as well as I do--although you choose to affect the contrary--that
what I am saying does not relate to any existing circumstances, but
only to what may come about if you persist in neglecting your duty
to your family. I came into this room to ask you to exercise your
authority with your daughter Lætitia, or if not your authority--for she
is over twenty-one--your influence. But I see that I shall get no help.
It is, however, what I expected--no more and no less." And the skirts
rustle with an intention of getting up and going away injured.
Mrs. Wilson had a case against her husband, if not a strong one. His
ideas of the duties of a male parent were that he might incur paternity
of an indefinite number of sons and daughters, and discharge all his
obligations to them by providing their food and education. Having paid
quittance, he was at liberty to be absorbed in his books. Had his
payments been large enough to make his wife's administration of the
household easy, he might have been justified, especially as she, for
her part, was not disposed to allow him any voice in any matter.
Nevertheless, she castigated him frightfully at intervals for not
exercising an authority she was not prepared to permit. He was nothing
but a ninepin, set up to be knocked down, an Aunt Sally who was never
allowed to keep her pipe in her mouth for ten consecutive seconds. The
natural consequence of which was that his children despised him, but
to a certain extent loved him; while, on the other hand, they somewhat
disliked their mother, but (to a certain extent) respected her. It is
very hard on the historian and the dramatist that every one is not
quite good or quite bad. It would make their work so much easier. But
it would not be nearly so interesting, especially in the case of the
last-named.
The Professor may have had some feeling on these lines when he stopped
the skirts from rustling out of the apartment by a change in his
manner.
"Tell me seriously what you wish me to do, Roberta."
"I wish you to give attention, if not to the affairs--_that_ I cannot
expect--of your household, at least to this--you may call it foolish
and pooh-pooh it--business of Lætitia and this young man--I really
cannot say young gentleman, for it is mere equivocation not to call
him a haberdasher."
The Professor resisted the temptation to criticize some points of
literary structure, and accepted the obvious meaning of this.
"Tell me what he really is."
"I have told you repeatedly. He is nothing--unless we palter with the
meaning of words--but a clerk in the office at the stores where we pay
a deposit and order goods on a form. They were originally haberdashers,
so I don't see how you can escape from what I have said. But I have
no doubt you will try to do so."
"How comes he to be such a magnificent violinist? Are they all...?"
"I know what you are going to say, and it's foolish. No, they are not
all magnificent violinists. But you know the story quite well."
"Perhaps I do. But now listen. I want to make out one thing. This
young man talked quite freely to me and Egerton about his place, his
position, salary--everything. And yet you say he isn't a gentleman."
"Of course he isn't a gentleman. I don't the least understand what
you mean. It's some prevarication or paradox." Mrs. Wilson taps the
chair-arm impatiently.
"I mean this--if he isn't a gentleman, how comes it that he isn't
ashamed of being a haberdasher? Because he _isn't_. Seemed to take
it all as a matter of course."
"I cannot follow your meaning at all. And I will not trouble you to
explain it. The question now is--will you, or will you not, _do_
something?"
"Has the young gentleman?"--Mrs. Wilson snorted audibly--"Well, has
this young haberdasher made any sort of definite declaration to
Lætitia?"
"I understand not. But it's impossible not to see."
"Would it not be a little premature for me to say anything to him?"
"Have I asked you to do so?"
"I am a little uncertain what it is you have asked me to do."
Mrs. Wilson contrived, by pantomime before she spoke, to express her
perfect patience under extremest trial, inflicted on her by an impudent
suggestion that she hadn't made her position clear. She would, however,
state her case once more with incisive distinctness. To that end she
separated her syllables, and accented selections from them, even as
a resolute hammer accents the head of a nail.
"Have I not told you dis_tinct_ly"--the middle syllable of this word
was a sample nailhead--"a _thou_sand times that what I wish you to
do--however much you may shirk doing it--is to _speak_ to Lætitia--to
remonstrate with her about the encouragement she is giving to this
young man, and to _point out_ to her that a girl in her position--in
short, the duties of a girl in her position?" Mrs. Wilson's come-down
at this point was an example of a solemn warning to the elocutionist
who breaks out of bounds. She was obliged to fall back arbitrarily on
her key-note in the middle of the performance. "Have I said this to
you, Mr. Wilson, or have I not?"
"Speaking from memory I should say _not_. Yes--certainly _not_. But
I can raise no reasonable objection to speaking to Lætitia, provided
I am at liberty to say what I like. I understand that to be part of
the bargain."
"If you mean," says the lady, whose temper had not been improved by the
first part of the speech; "if you mean that you consider yourself at
liberty to encourage a rebellious daughter against her mother, I know
too well from old experience that that is the case. But I trust that
for once your right feeling will show you that it is your _plain duty_
to tell her that the course she is pursuing can only lead to the loss
of her position in society, and probably to poverty and unhappiness."
"I can tell her you think so, of course," says the Professor, drily.
"I will say no more"--very freezingly. "You know as well as I do what
it is your _duty_ to say to your daughter. What you will _decide_
to say, I do _not_ know." And premonitory rustles end in a move to
the door.
"You can tell her to come in now--if you like." The Professor won't
show too vivid an interest. It isn't as if the matter related to a
Scythian war-chariot, or a gold ornament from a prehistoric tomb, or
_variæ lectiones_.
"At least, Septimus," says the apex of the departing skirts, "you will
remember what is due to yourself and your family--_I_ am nobody--so far
as not to encourage the girl in resisting her mother's authority." And,
receiving no reply, departs, and is heard on the landing rejecting
insufficient reasons why the drugget will not lay flat. And presently
issuing a mandate to an upper landing:
"Your father wishes to speak to you in his library. _I_ wish you to
go." The last words not to seem to abdicate as Queen Consort.
Lætitia isn't a girl whom we find new charms in after making her
mother's acquaintance. You know how some young people would be passable
enough if it were not for a lurid light thrown upon their identity by
other members of their family. You know the sister you thought was a
beauty and dear, until you met her sister, who was gristly and a jade.
But it's a great shame in Tishy's case, because we do honestly believe
her seeming _da capo_ of her mother is more skirts than anything else.
We credit their respective _apices_ with different dispositions,
although (yes, it's quite true what you say) we don't see exactly from
what corner of the Professor's his daughter got her better one. He's
all very well, but....
Anyhow, we are sorry for Tishy now, as she comes uneasily into the
library to be "spoken to." She comes in buttoning a glove and saying,
"Yes, papa." She was evidently just going out--probably arrested by
the voices in the library.
"Well, my dear, your mother wishes me to speak to you.... H'm! h'm!
By-the-bye," he interrupts himself, "it really is a very extraordinary
thing, but it's just like work-people. A man spends all his life laying
carpets, and the minute he lays mine it's too big or too small."
"The man outside? He's very tiresome. He says the passage is an unusual
size."
"I should have taken that point when I measured it. It seems to me late
in the day now the carpet's made up. However, that's neither here nor
there. Your mother wishes me to--a--to speak to you, my dear."
"What does she want you to say, papa?"
"H'm--well!--it's sometimes not easy to understand your mother. I
cannot say that I have gathered precisely what it is she wishes me
to say. Nor am I certain that I should be prepared to say it if I
knew what it was."--Tishy brightened perceptibly.--"But I am this
far in sympathy with what I suppose to be her meaning"--Tishy's face
fell--"that I should be very sorry to hear that you had made any
binding promises to any young gentleman without knowing more of his
antecedents and connexions than I suppose you do at the present about
this--a--musical friend of yours--without consulting me." The
perfunctory tone in which he added, "and your mother," made the words
hardly worth recording.
But perhaps the way they, in a sense, put the good lady out of court,
helped to make her daughter brighten up again. "Dear papa," she said,
"I should never dream for one moment of doing such a thing. Nor would
Mr. Bradshaw dream of asking me to do so."
"That's quite right, my dear--quite enough. Don't say anything more.
I am not going to catechize you." And Tishy was not sorry to hear
this, because her disclaimer of a binding promise was only true in the
letter. In fact, our direct Sally had only the day before pounced upon
her friend with, "You know perfectly well he's kissed you heaps of
times!" And Tishy had only been able to begin an apology she was not
to be allowed to finish with, "And suppose he has...?"
However, her sense of an untruthfulness that was more than merely
technical was based not so much on the bare fact of a kissing-relation
having come about, as upon a particular example. She knew it was the
merest hypocrisy to make believe that the climax of that interview at
Riverfordhook, where there were the moonrise and things, did not
constitute a pledge on the part of both. However, Tishy is not the
first young lady, let me tell you--if you don't know already--who has
been guilty of equivocation on those lines. It is even possible that
her father was conniving at it, was intentionally accepting what he
knew to be untrue, to avoid the trouble of further investigation, and
to be able to give his mind to the demolition of that ignoramus. A
certain amount of fuss was his duty; but the sooner he could find an
excuse to wash his hands of these human botherations and get back to
his inner life the better.
Perhaps it was a sense of chill at the suspicion that her father was
not concerned enough about her welfare that made Lætitia try to arrest
his retirement into his inner life. Or it may have been that she was
sensitive, as young folk are, at her new and strange experience of Real
Love, and at the same time grated on--scraped the wrong way--in her
harsh collision with her mother, who was showing Cupid no quarter, and
was only withheld from overt acts of hostility to Julius Bradshaw by
the knowledge that excess on her part would precipitate what she sought
to avert.
Whatever the cause was, her momentary sense of relief that her father
was not going to catechize her was followed by a feeling that she
almost wished he would. It would be so nice to have a natural parent
that was really interested in his daughter's affairs. Poor Tishy felt
lonely, and as if she was going to cry. She must unpack her heart, even
if it bored papa, who she knew wanted to turn her out and write. She
broke down over it.
"Oh, papa--papa! Indeed, I want to do everything you wish--whatever you
tell me. I _will_ be good, as we used to say." A sob grew in her throat
over this little nursery recollection. "Only--only--only--it isn't
really quite true about no promises. We haven't made them, you know,
but they're _there_ all the same." Tishy stops suddenly to avoid a sob
she knows is coming. A pocket-handkerchief is called in to remove tears
surreptitiously, under a covering pretence of a less elegant function.
The Professor hates scenes worse than poison, and Tishy knows it.
"There, there! Well, well! Nothing to cry about. _That's_ right." This
is approval of the disappearance of the pocket-handkerchief--some
confusion between cause and effect, perhaps. "Come, my child--come,
Lætitia--suppose now you tell me all about it."
Tishy acknowledges to herself that she desires nothing better. Yes,
papa dear, she will, indeed she will, tell him everything. And then
makes a very fair revelation of her love-affair--a little dry and
stilted in the actual phrasing, perhaps, but then, what can you expect
when one's father is inclined to be stiff and awkward in such a matter,
to approach it formally, and consider it an interview? It was all
mamma's fault, of course. Why should she be summoned before the bar of
the house? Why couldn't her father find his way into her confidence in
the natural current of events? However, this was better than nothing.
Besides, we softened gradually as we developed the subject. One of
us, who was Mr. Bradshaw at first, became Julius later, with a strong
lubricating effect. We began with sincere attachment, but we loved
each other dearly before we had done. We didn't know when "it" began
exactly--which was a fib, for we were perfectly well aware that "it"
began that evening at Krakatoa Villa, which has been chronicled
herein--but for a long time past Julius had been asking to be allowed
to memorialise the Professor on the subject.
"But you know, papa dear, I couldn't say he was to speak to you until
I was quite certain of myself. Besides, I did want him to be on better
terms with mamma first."
Professor Wilson flushed angrily, and began with a knitted brow, "I
wish your mother would----" but stopped abruptly. Then, calming down:
"But you are quite certain _now_, my dear Lætitia?" Oh dear, yes; no
doubt of that. And how about Julius? The confident ring of the girl's
laugh, and her "Why, you should hear him!" showed that she, at least,
was well satisfied of her lover's earnestness.
"Well, my dear child," said the Professor, who was beginning to feel
that it was time to go back to his unfinished ignoramus, tyro, or
sciolist; "I tell you what I shall do. When's he coming next? Thursday,
to dinner. Very well. I shall make a little opportunity for a quiet
talk with him, and we shall see."
The young lady came out of the library on the whole comfortabler then
she had entered it, and finished buttoning that glove in the passage.
As she stood reflecting that papa would really be very nice if he would
shave more carefully--for the remains of his adieu was still rasping
her cheek--she was aware of the voice of the carpet; she heard it
complain, through the medium of its layer, or stretcher, who seemed
to mean to pass the remainder of his days scratching the head of
perplexity on the scene of his recent failure to add to his
professional achievements.
"It's what I say to the guv'nor"--thus ran his Jeremiad--"in dealin'
with these here irregular settin's out, where nothin's not to say
parallel with anything else, nor dimensions lendin' theirselves to
accommodation. 'Just you let me orfer it in,' I says 'afore the final
stitchin' to, or even a paper template in extra cases is a savin' in
the end.' Because it stands to reason there goes more expense with an
ill-cut squint or obtoose angle, involvin' work to rectify, than cut
ackerate in the first go-off. Not but what ruckles may disappear under
the tread, only there's no reliance to be placed. You may depend on it,
to make a job there's nothin' like careful plannin', and foresight in
the manner of speakin'. And, as I say to the guv'nor, there's no need
for a stout brown-paper template to go to waste, seein' it works in
with the under-packin'." And much more which Tishy could still hear
murmuring on in the distance as she closed the street door and fled
to an overdue appointment with Sally, into whose sympathetic ear she
could pour all her new records of the progress of the row.
To tell the whole of the prolonged pitched battle that ensued would
take too much ink and paper. The Dragon fought magnificently, so long
as she had the powerful backing of her married daughter, Mrs. Sowerby
Bagster, and the skirmishing help of Athene. This latter was, however,
not to be relied on--might go over to the enemy any moment. Mrs.
Bagster, or Clarissa, who was an elder sister of Lætitia's, became
lukewarm, too, on a side-issue being raised. It did not appear to
connect itself logically with the bone of contention, having reference
entirely to vaccination from the calf. But it led to an exaggerated
sensitiveness on her part as to the responsibility we incurred by
interference with what might (after all) be the Will of Providence.
If this should prove so, it would be our duty not to repine. Clarissa
contrived to surround the subject with an unprovoked halo of religious
meekness, and to work round to the conclusion that it would be
presumptuous not to ask Mr. Bradshaw to dinner. Only this resulted
absolutely and entirely from her refusing to have her three children
all vaccinated from the calf forthwith, because their grandmother
thought it necessary. The latter, finding herself deserted in her hour
of need by a powerful ally--for three whole children had given Clarissa
a deep insight into social ethics, and a weighty authority--surrendered
grudgingly. She tried her best to make her invitation to dinner take
the form of leave to come to dinner, and partly succeeded. Her
suggestions that she hoped Mr. Bradshaw would understand the rules of
the game at the table of Society caused the defection of her remaining
confederate, Athene, who turned against her, exclaiming: "He won't eat
with his knife, at any rate!" However, it was too late to influence
current events. The battle was fought and over.
The obnoxious young man didn't eat with his knife when he came, with
docility, a day after he received the invitation. Remember, he appears
originally in this story as a chosen of Cattley's, one warranted to
defy detection by the best-informed genteelologist. He went through
his ordeal very well, on the whole, considering that Egerton (from
friendship) was always on the alert to give him tips about civilised
conduct, and that Mrs. Wilson called him nearly every known dissyllabic
name with _A_'s in it--Brathwaite, Palgrave, Bradlaugh, Playfair, and
so on, but not Bradshaw. She did this the more as she never addressed
him directly, treating him without disguise as the third-person
singular in a concrete form. This was short-sighted, because it
stimulated her husband to a tone of civility which would probably
have risen to deference if the good lady had not just stopped short
of insult.
Egerton and the only other male guest (who was the negative young
pianist known to Sally as Somebody Elsley) having found it convenient
to go away at smoking-time to inspect the latter's bicycle, the
Professor seized his opportunity for conversation with the
third-person-singular. He approached the subject abruptly:
"Well, it's Lætitia, I understand, that we're making up to, eh?"
Perhaps it was this sudden conversion to the first person plural that
made the young man blush up to the roots of his hair.
"What can I say?" he asked hesitatingly. "You see, Professor Wilson,
if I say yes, it will mean that I have been p-paying my addresses, as
the phrase is...."
"And taking receipts?"
"Exactly--and taking receipts, without first asking her father's leave.
And if I say no----"
"If you say no, my dear young man, her father will merely ask you
to help yourself and pass the port (decanter with the little brass
ticket--yes, that one. Thank you!). Well, I see what you mean, and we
needn't construct enigmas. We really get to the point. Now tell me all
about it." We don't feel at all sure the Professor's way of getting to
the point was not a good one. You see, he had had a good deal to do
with young men in early academical phases of existence--tutorships and
the like--and had no idea of humming and hawing and stuttering over
their affairs. Besides, it was best for Bradshaw, as was shown by the
greater ease with which he went on speaking, and began telling the
Professor all about it.
"I shouldn't be speaking truthfully, sir, if I were to pretend things
haven't gone a little beyond--a little beyond--the exact rules. But
you've no idea how easily one can deceive oneself."
"Haven't I?" The Professor's mind went back to his own youth. He knew
very well how easily he had done it. A swift dream of his past shot
through his brain in the little space before Bradshaw resumed.
"Well, it was only a phrase. Of course you know. I mean it has all
crept on so imperceptibly. And I have had no real chance of talking
about it--to _you_, sir--without asking for a formal interview. And
until very lately nothing Læt--Miss Wilson...."
"Tut-tut! Lætitia--Lætitia. What's the use of being prigs about it?"
"Nothing Lætitia has said would have warranted me in doing this. I
_could_ have introduced the subject to Mrs. Wilson once or twice,
but...."
"All right. I understand. Well, now, what's the exact state of things
between you and Lætitia?"
"You will guess what our wishes are. But we know quite well that their
fulfilment is at present impossible. It may remain so. I have no means
at present except a small salary. And my mother and sister----"
"Have a claim on you--is that it?" The Professor's voice seems to
forestall a forbidding sound. But he won't be in too great a hurry.
He continues: "You must have some possibility in view, some sort of
expectation."
Bradshaw's reply hesitated a good deal.
"I am afraid I have--I am afraid--allowed myself to fancy--that, in
short, I might be able to--outgrow this unhappy nervous affection."
"And then?"
"I know what you mean, Professor Wilson. You mean that a violinist's
position, however successful, would be less than you have a right to
expect for your daughter's husband. Of course that is so, but----"
"But I mean nothing of the sort." The Professor is abrupt and decisive,
as one who repudiates. "I know nothing about positions. However, Mr.
Bradshaw, you are quite right this far--that is what Mrs. Wilson would
have meant. _She_ knows about positions. What _I_ meant was that you
wouldn't have enough to live upon at the best, in any comfort, and
that I shouldn't be able to help you. Suppose you had a large family,
and the nervous affection came back?" His hearer quakes at this crude,
unfeeling forecast of real matrimonial facts. He and Lætitia fully
recognise in theory that people who marry incur families; but, like
every other young couple, would prefer a veil drawn over their
particular case. The young man flinches visibly at the Professor's
needlessly savage hypothesis of disasters. Had he been a rapid and
skilful counsel in his own behalf, he would have at once pounced on
a weak point, and asked how many couples would ever get married at
all, if we were to beg and borrow every trouble the proper people
(whoever they are) are ready to give away and lend. He can only look
crestfallen, and feel about in his mind for some way of saying, "If
I wanted Lætitia to promise to marry me, that would apply. As matters
stand, it is not to the purpose," without seeming to indite the
Professor for prematureness. Of course, the position had been created
entirely by the Dragon. Why could she not have let them alone, as her
husband had said to her? Why not, indeed?
But Master Julius has to see his way out into the open, and he is
merely looking puzzled, and letting a very fair cigar out--and, you
know, they are never the same thing relighted. Perhaps what he does
is as good as anything else.
"I see you are right, sir, and I am afraid I am to blame--I must
be--because my selfish thoughtlessness, or whatever it ought to be
called, has placed us in a position out of which no happiness can
result for either?" He looks interrogatively into the Professor's gold
spectacles, but sees no relaxation in the slightly knitted brow above
them. Their owner merely nods.
"But you needn't take all the blame to yourself," he says. "I've no
doubt my daughter is entitled to her share of it"--to which Bradshaw
tries to interpose a denial--"only it really doesn't matter whose fault
it is."
The disconcerted lover, who felt all raw, public, and uncomfortable,
wondered a little what the precise "it" was that could be said to be
any one's fault. After all, he and Lætitia were just two persons going
on existing, and how could it be any concern of any one else's what
each thought of or felt for the other? It is true he lacked absolution
for the kissing transgressions; they were blots on a clean sheet of
mere friendship. But would the Dragon be content that he and Lætitia
should continue to see each other if they signed a solemn agreement
that there was to be no kissing? You see, he was afraid he was going
to be cut off from his lady-love, and he didn't like the looks of the
Professor. But he didn't propose the drawing up of any such compact.
Perhaps he didn't feel prepared to sign it. However, he was to be
relieved from any immediate anxiety. The Professor had never meant
to take any responsibility, and now that he had said his say, he only
wanted to wash his hands of it.
"Now, understand me, Bradshaw," said he--and there was leniency and
hope in the dropped "Mr."--"I do not propose to do more than advise;
nor do I know, as my daughter is twenty-four, what I can do except
advise. We won't bring authority into court.... Oh yes, no doubt
Lætitia believes she will never act against my wishes. Many girls have
thought that sort of thing. But----" He stopped dead, with a little
side-twist of the head, and a lip-pinch, expressing doubt, then
resumed: "So I'll give you my advice, and you can think it over. It
is that you young people just keep out of each other's way, and let
the thing die out. You've no idea till you try what a magical effect
absence has; poetry is all gammon. Take my advice, and try it. Have
some more port? No--thank me! Then let's go upstairs."
Upstairs were to be found all the materials for an uncomfortable
evening. A sort of wireless telegraphy that passed between Bradshaw
and Lætitia left both in low spirits. They did not rise (the spirits)
when the Professor said, to the public generally, "Well, I must say
good-night, but _you_ needn't go," and went away to his study; nor when
his Dragon followed him, with a strong flavour of discipline on her.
For thereupon it became necessary to ignore conflict in the hinterland
of some folding-doors, accompanied by sounds of forbearance and a high
moral attitude. There was no remedy but music, and as soon as Bradshaw
got at his Stradivarius the mists seemed to disperse. The _adagio_ of
Somebody's quartette No. 101 seemed to drive a coach-and-six through
mortal bramble-labyrinths. But as soon as it ceased, the mists came
back all the thicker for being kept waiting. And the outcome of a
winding-up interview between the sweethearts was the conclusion that
after what had been said by the father of one of them, it was necessary
that all should be forgotten, and be as though it had never been.
And the gentleman next day, when he showed himself at his desk at
Cattley's, provoked the remark that Paganini had got the hump this
morning--which shows that his genius as a violinist was recognised
at Cattley's.
As for the lady, we rather think she made up her mind in the course
of the night that if her family were going to interfere with her
love-affairs, she would let them know what it was to have people
yearning for other people in the house. For she refused boiled eggs,
eggs and bacon, cold salmon-trout, and potted tongue at breakfast next
day, and left half a piece of toast and half a cup of tea as a visible
record that she had started pining, and meant to do it in earnest.
What Lætitia and Julius suffered during their self-inflicted
separation, Heaven only knows! This saying must be interpreted as
meaning that nobody else did. They were like evasive Trappist monks,
who profess mortification of the flesh, but when it comes to the
scratch, don't flog fair. Whatever they lost in the cessation of
uncomfortable communion at the eyrie, or lair, of the Dragon was more
than made up for by the sub-rosaceous, or semi-clandestine, character
of the intercourse that was left. Stolen kisses are notoriously
sweetest, but when, in addition to this, every one is actually the
very last the shareholders intend to subscribe for, their fascination
is increased tenfold. And every accidental or purely unintentionally
arranged meeting of these two had always the character of an interview
between people who never meet--which, like most truths, was only false
in exceptional cases; and in this instance these were numerous.
Factitious absence of this sort will often make the heart grow fonder,
where the real thing would make it look about for another; and another
is generally to be found.
It might have been unsafe to indulge in speculation, based on the then
_status quo_, as to when the inevitable was going to happen. We know
all about it now, but that doesn't count. Stories, true or false,
should be told consecutively.