MORNING AT LADBROKE GROVE ROAD, AND FAMILY DISSENSION. FACCIOLATI,
AND A LEGACY. THE LAST CONCERT THIS SEASON. THE GOODY WILL COME TO
IGGULDEN'S. BUT FANCY PROSY IN LOVE!
Towards the end of the July that very quickly followed Rosalind
noticed an intensification of what might be called the Ladbroke Grove
Road Row Chronicle--a record transmitted by Sally to her real and
adopted parent in the instalments in which she received it from Tishy.
This record on one occasion depicted a battle-royal at breakfast,
"over the marmalade," Sally said. She added that the Dragon might just
as well have let the Professor alone. "He was reading," she said,
"'The Classification of Roots in Prehistoric Dialects,' because I saw
the back; and Tacitus was on the butter. But the Dragon likes the
grease to spoil the bindings, and she knows it."
A vision of priceless Groliers soaking passed through Rosalind's mind.
"Wasn't that what this row was about, then?" she asked.
"I don't think so," said Sally, who had gone home to breakfast with
Tishy after an early swim. "It's difficult to say what it was about.
Really, the Professor had hardly said _anything at all_, and the
Dragon said she thought he was forgetting the servants. Fossett wasn't
even in the room. And then the Dragon said, 'Yes, shut it,' to Athene.
Fancy saying 'Yes, shut it,' in a confidential semitone! Really,
I can't see that it was so very wrong of Egerton, although he _is_
a booby, to say there was no fun in having a row before breakfast.
He didn't mean them to think he meant them to hear."
"But how did it get from the marmalade to Tishy's haberdasher?" asked
Fenwick.
"Can't say, Jeremiah. It all came in a buzz, like a wopses nest. And
then Egerton said it was rows, rows, rows all day long, and he should
hook it off and get a situation. It _is_ rows, rows, rows, so it's no
use pretending it isn't. But it always comes round to the haberdasher
grievance in the end. This time Tishy went to her father in the
library, and confessed up about Kensington Gardens."
Both hearers said, "Oh, I see!" and then Sally transmitted the report
of this interview. It had not been stormy, and may be looked at by the
light of the Professor's last remark. "The upshot is, Tish, that you
can marry Julius against your mother's consent right off, and never
lose a penny of your aunt's legacy."
"Legacy is good, very excellent good," said Fenwick. "How much was
it, Sarah?"
"Oh, I don't know. Lots--a good lot--a thousand pounds! The Dragon
wanted to make out that it was conditional on her consent to Tishy's
marriage. That was fibs. But what I don't see is that Gaffer Wilson
ever said a word to Tishy about his own objections to her marrying
Julius, if he has any!"
"Perhaps," Rosalind suggested, "she hasn't told you all he said." But
to this Sally replied that Tishy had told her over and over and over
again, only she said _over_ so often that her adopted parent said for
Heaven's sake stop, or he should write the word into his letters.
However, the end of the last despatch was at hand, and he himself
took up the conversation on signing it.
"Yours faithfully, Algernon Fenwick. That's the lot! I agree with
the kitten."
"What about?"
"About if he has any. I believe he'd be glad if Miss Wilson took
the bit in her teeth and bolted."
"You agree with Prosy?" As Sally says this, without a thought in
a thoughtful face but what belongs to the subject, her mother is
conscious that she herself is quite prepared to infer that Prosy
already knows all about it. She has got into the habit of hearing
that he knows about things.
"What does Vereker say?" Thus Fenwick.
"He'll be here in a minute, and you can ask him. That's him! I mean
that's his ring."
"It's just like any other ring, chick." It is her mother who speaks.
But Sally says: "Nonsense! as if I didn't know Prosy's ring!" And
Dr. Vereker appears, quartet bound, for this was the weekly musical
evening at Krakatoa Villa.
"Jeremiah wants to know whether you don't think Tishy's male parent
would be jolly glad if she and Julius took the bit in their teeth and
bolted?" "I shouldn't be the least surprised if they did," is the
doctor's reply. But it does not strike Sally as rising to the height
of her Draconic summary.
"You're not shining, Dr. Conrad," she says; "you're evading the point.
What do _you_ think Gaffer Bristles thinks, that's the point?" Dr.
Conrad appears greatly exhilarated and refreshed by Sally, whose mother
seems to share his feeling, but she enjoins caution, for all that.
"Do take care, kitten," she says. "They're on the stairs." But Sally
considers "they" are miles off, and will take ages getting upstairs.
"They've only just met at the door," is her explanatory comment,
showing appreciation of one human weakness.
"Suppose we were to get it put in more official form!" Fenwick
suggests. "Would Professor Sales Wilson be very much shocked if his
daughter and Paganini made a runaway match of it?" The name Paganini
has somehow leaked out of Cattley's counting-house, and become common
property.
"I think, if you ask me," says Vereker, speaking to Fenwick, but never
taking his eyes off Sally, on whom they feed, "that Professor Sales
Wilson would be very much relieved."
"_That's_ right!" says Sally, speaking as to a pupil who has profited.
"Now you're being a good little General Practitioner." And then, the
ages having elapsed with some alacrity, the door opens and the two
subjects of discussion make their appearance.
The anomalous cousin did not come with them, having subsided. Mrs.
Fenwick herself had taken the pianoforte parts lately. She had always
been a fair pianist, and application had made her passable--a good
make-shift, anyhow. So you may fill out the programme to your
liking--it really doesn't matter what they played--and consider that
this musical evening was one of their best that season. It was just
as well it should be so, as it was their last till the autumn. Sally
and her mother were going to the seaside all August and some of
September, and Fenwick was coming with them for a week at first,
and after that for short week-end spells. He had become a partner
in the wine-business, and was not so much tied to the desk.
* * * * *
"Well, then, it's good-bye, I suppose?" The speaker is Rosalind
herself, as the Stradivarius is being put to bed. But she hasn't the
heart to let the verdict stand--at least, as far as the doctor is
concerned. She softens it, adds a recommendation to mercy. "Unless
you'll come down and pay us a visit. We'll put you up somewhere."
"I'm afraid it isn't possible," is the answer. But the doctor can't
get his eyes really off Sally. Even as a small boy might strain at
the leash to get back to a source of cake against the grasp of an iron
nurse, even so Dr. Conrad rebels against the grip of professional
engagements, which is the name of his cold, remorseless tyrant.
But Sally is harnessing up a coach-and-six to drive through human
obligations. Her manner of addressing the doctor suggests previous
talk on the subject.
"You _must_ get the locum, and come. You know you can, and it's all
nonsense about can't." What would be effrontery in another character
makes Sally speak through and across the company. A secret confidence
between herself and the doctor, that you are welcome to the full
knowledge of, and be hanged to you! is what the manner of the two
implies.
"I spoke to Neckitt about it, and he can't manage it," says the
doctor in the same manner. But the first and second violin are waiting
to take leave.
"We'll say good-night, then--or good-bye, if it's for six weeks."
Tishy is perfectly unblushing about the _we_. She might be conveying
Mr. Tishy away. They go, and get away from Dr. Vereker, by-the-bye.
An awkward third isn't wanted.
"There's plenty more Neckitts where he comes from," pursues Sally,
as the "other two"--for that is how Fenwick thinks of them--get
themselves and their instruments out of the house. "So don't be
nonsensical, Dr. Conrad.... Stop a moment. I _must_ speak to Tishy."
And Sally gives chase, and overtakes the other two just by the
fire-alarm, where Fenwick came to a standstill. Do you remember? It
certainly has been a record effort to "get away first." You know this
experience yourself at parties? Sally speaks to Tishy in the glorious
summer night, and the three talk together earnestly under innumerable
constellations, and one gas-lamp that elbows the starry heavens out
of the way--a self-asserting, cheeky gas-lamp.
The doctor organizes tactics rapidly. He can hear that Sally's step
goes up the street, and then the voices at a distance. If he can say
good-bye and rush away just as Sally does the same, why then they
will meet outside, don't you see?
Rosalind and her husband seem to have wireless telegrams passing. For
when Sally vanishes there is a ring as of instruction received in the
tone of Fenwick's voice as he addresses the doctor:
"Couldn't you manage to get your mother to come too, Vereker? She must
be terribly in want of a change."
"So I tell her; but she's so difficult to move."
"Have a sedan-chair thing----"
"I don't mean that--not physically difficult. I mean she's got so
anchored no one can persuade her to move. She hasn't been away for
ages."
"Sally must go and persuade her." It is Rosalind who says this. "I'm
sure Sally will manage it."
"She will if any one can," says the doctor. "Of course, I could
soon get a locum if there was a chance of mother." And then the
conversation supports itself on the possible impossibility of finding
a lodging at St. Sennans-on-Sea, and consoles itself with its intense
improbability till the doctor finds it necessary to depart with the
promptitude of a fire-engine suddenly rung up.
He had calculated his time to a nicety, for he met Sally just as "the
other two" got safe round the corner.
* * * * *
"Oh no," said Fenwick, replying to a query; "he doesn't mean to carry
it all the way. He'll pick up a cab at the corner." The query was
about the violoncello, and Fenwick was coming back to the room
where his wife was closing the piano in anticipation of Ann. He had
discreetly launched the instrument and its owner under the stars, and
left the street door standing wide open--a shallow pretence that he
believed Sally already in touch with it.
"They _are_ a funny couple," Rosalind said. "Just fancy! They've known
each other two years, and there they are! But I do like him. It's all
his mother, you know ... what is?... why, goose--of course I mean he
would speak at once if it wasn't for that obese mother of his."
"But she's so fond of Sally." In reply to this his wife kisses his
cheeks, forehead, and chin consecutively, and he says it was right
that time, only the other way round. This refers to a system founded
on the crossing incident at Rheims.
"Of course she is, darling; or pretends she is. But he can neither
divorce his mamma nor ask the kitten to marry her. You see?"
"I see--in fact, I've thought so myself. In confidence, you know.
But is no compromise possible?" Rosalind shakes a slow, regretful,
negative head, and her lips form a silent "No!"
"Not with her. The woman has her own share of selfishness, and her
son's, too. _He_ has none."
"But Sally."
"I see what you mean. Sally goes to the wall one way if she doesn't
the other. So he works out selfish, poor dear fellow! in the end. But,
Gerry darling, let me tell you this: you have no idea how impossible
that young man thinks it that a girl should love _him_. If he thought
it possible the kitten really cared about, or could care about him,
he'd go clean off his head. Indeed, I am right."
"Perhaps you are. There she is."
Sally ran straight upstairs, leaving Ann to close the door. She at
once discharged her mind of its burden, _more suo_.
"Prosy thinks so, too!"
"Thinks what?"
"Thinks they'll go and get married one fine morning, whether or no!"
But she seemed to be the only one much excited about this. Something
was preoccupying the other two minds, and our Sally had not the
remotest notion what.
* * * * *
Nevertheless, it came about that before the next Monday--the day of
Sally's departure with her mother to St. Sennans-on-Sea--that young
person paid a farewell visit to the obese mother of her medical
adviser, and found her knitting.
"That, my dear, is what I am constantly saying to Conrad," was her
reply to a suggestion of Sally's that she wanted change and rest.
"Only this very morning, when he came into my room to see that I had
fresh-made toast--because you know, my dear, how tiresome servants are
about toast--they make it overnight, and warm it up in the morning.
Cook is no exception, and I have complained till I'm tired. I should
be sorry to change, she's been here so long, but I did hear the other
day of such a nice respectable person...."
Sally interrupted, catching at a slight pause: "But when Dr. Conrad
came into your room, what did he say?"
"My dear, I was going to tell you." She paused, with closed eyes
and folded hands of aggressive patience, for all trace of human
interruption to die down; then resumed: "I said to Conrad: 'I think
you might have thought of that before.' And then he was sorry. I will
do him that justice. My dear boy has his faults, as I know too well,
but he is always ready to admit he is wrong."
"We can get you lodgings, you know," said Sally, from sheer intuition,
for she had not a particle of information, so far, about what passed
over the toast. The old lady seemed to think the conversation had been
sufficiently well filled out, for she merely said, "Facing the sea,"
and went on knitting.
Sally and her mother knew St. Sennan well--had been at his
watering-place twice before--so she was able, as it were, to forecast
lodgings on the spot. "I dare say Mrs. Iggulden's is vacant," she
said. "I wish you could have hers, she's such a nice old body. Her
husband was a pilot, and she has one son a coastguard and another in
the navy. And one daughter has no legs, but can do shell-work; and
the other's married a tax-collector."
But Goody Vereker was not going to be beguiled into making herself
agreeable. She took up the attitude that Sally was young, and easily
deceived. She threw a wet blanket over her narrative of the Iggulden
family, and ignored any murmurs that came from beneath it. "Sea-faring
folk are all alike," so she said. "When I was your age, my dear, I
simply worshipped them. My father and all his brothers were devoted
to the sea, and my Uncle David published an account of his visit to
the Brazils. But you will learn by experience. At any rate, I trust
there are no vermin. That is always my terror in these lodging-houses,
and ill-aired beds."
Was it fair, Sally thought to herself, to expose that dear old Mrs.
Iggulden, who lived in a wooden dwelling covered with tar, between
two houses built of black shiny bricks, but consisting chiefly
of bay-windows with elderly visitors in them looking through
telescopes at the shipping, and telling the credulous it was brigs or
schooners--was it fair to expose Mrs. Iggulden to this gilt-spectacled
lob-worm? Sally didn't know that Mrs. Iggulden could show a proper
spirit, because in her own case the conditions had never been
favourable. They had practised no incantations.
"Very well, then, Mrs. Vereker. As soon as ever mamma and I have
shaken down, we'll see about Iggulden's; and if they can't take you
somebody else will."
"I am in your hands," said the Goody, smiling faintly and
submissively. She leaned back with her eyes closed, and was afraid
she had done too much. She used to have periodical convictions to
that effect.
Sally had an appointment with Lætitia Wilson at the swimming bath,
so the Goody, in an access of altruism, perceived that she mustn't
keep her. She herself would try to rest a little.
* * * * *
All people, as we suppose, lead two lives, more or less--their outer
life, that of the world and action, and an inner life they have all
to themselves. But how different is the proportion of the two lives
in different subjects! And how much less painful the latter life is
when we feel we could tell it all if we chose. Only we don't choose,
because it's no concern of yours or any one else's.
This was Sally's frame of mind. She would not have felt the ghost of
a reserve of an inmost thought (from her mother, for instance) in the
face of questions asked, though she kept her own counsel about many
points whose elucidation was not called for. It may easily be that
Rosalind asked no questions about some things, because she had no wish
that her daughter should formulate their answers too decisively. Her
relation with Conrad Vereker, for example. Was it love, or what? If
there was to be marrying, and families, and that sort of thing, and
possible interference with swimming-matches and athletics, and so on,
would she as soon choose this man for her accomplice as any other she
knew? Suppose she was to hear to-morrow that Dr. Vereker was engaged
to Sylvia Peplow, would she be glad or sorry?
Rosalind certainly did ask no such questions. If she had, the answers
to the first two would have been, we surmise, very clear and decisive.
What nonsense! Fancy Prosy being in love with anybody, or anybody
being in love with Prosy! And as for marrying, the great beauty of it
all was that there was to be no marrying. Did he understand that? Oh
dear, yes! Prosy understood quite well. But we wonder, is the image
our mind forms of Sally's answer to the third question correct or
incorrect? It presents her to us as answering rather petulantly: "Why
_shouldn't_ Dr. Conrad marry Miss Peplow, if he likes, and _she_
likes? I dare say _she'd_ be ready enough, though!" and then
pretending to look out of the window. And shortly afterwards: "I
suppose Prosy has a right to his private affairs, as much as I have
to mine." But with lips that tighten over her speech, without a smile.
Note that this is all pure hypothesis.
But she had nothing to conceal that she knew of, had Sally. What
a difference there was between her inner world and her mother's, who
could not breathe a syllable of that world's history to any living soul!
Rosalind acknowledged to herself now how great the relief had been
when, during the few hours that passed between her communication to
her old friend on his deathbed and the last state of insensibility
from which he never rallied, there had actually been on this earth one
other than herself who knew all her story and its strange outcome. For
those few hours she had not been alone, and the memory of it helped
her to bear her present loneliness. She could hear again, when she
woke in the stillness of the night, the voice of the old man, a
whisper struggling through his half-choked respiration, that said
again and again: "Oh, Rosey darling! can it be true? Thank God! thank
God!" And the fact that what she had then feared had never come
to pass--the fact that, contrary to her expectations, he had been
strangely able to look the wonder in the face, and never flinch from
it, seeing nothing in it but a priceless boon--this fact seemed to
give her now the fortitude to bear without help the burden of her
knowledge--the knowledge of who he was, this man that was beside her
in the stillness, this man whose steady breathing she could hear,
whose heart-beats she could count. And her heart dwelt on the old
soldier's last words, strangely, almost incredibly, resonant, a
hard-won victory in his dying fight for speech, "Evil has turned to
good. God be praised!" It had almost seemed as if the parting soul, on
the verge of the strangest chance man has to face, lost all measure of
the strangeness of any earthly thing, and was sensible of nothing but
the wonderment of the great cause of all.
But one thing that she knew (and could not explain) was that this
secret knowledge, burdensome in itself, relieved the oppression of one
still more burdensome, and helped her to drive it from her thoughts.
We speak of the collision of the record in her mind of what her
daughter was, and whence, with the fact that Sally was winding herself
more and more, daughterwise, round the heart of the man whose bond
with her mother she, small and unconscious, had had so large a share
in rending asunder twenty years ago. It was to her, in its victory
over crude physical fact, even while it oppressed her, a bewildering
triumph of spirit over matter, of soul over sense, this firm
consolidating growth of an affection such as Nature means, but often
fails to reach, between child and parent. And as it grew and grew, her
child's actual paternity shrank and dwindled, until it might easily
have been held a matter for laughter, but for the black cloud of
Devildom that hung about it, and stamped her as the infant of a
Nativity in the Venusberg, whose growing after-life had gone far to
shroud the horror of its lurid caverns with a veil of oblivion.
We say all these things quite seriously of our Sally, in spite of
her incorrigible slanginess and vulgarity. We can now go on to St.
Sennans-on-Sea, where we shall find her in full blow, but very sticky
with the salt water she passes really too much of her time in, even
for a merpussy.