Immediately after the departure of Richard Morfe and Eva Harracles, his
betrothed, from the front door of the former, Mr Simon Loggerheads
arrived at the same front door, and rang thereat, and was a little
surprised, and also a little unnerved, when the door opened instantly,
as if by magic. Mr Simon Loggerheads said to himself, as he saw the door
move on its hinges, that Miss Morfe must have discovered a treasure of a
servant who, when she had nothing else to do, spent her time on the
inner door-mat waiting to admit possible visitors--even on Friday night.
Nevertheless, Mr Simon Loggerheads regretted that prompt opening, as one
regrets the prompt opening of the door of a dentist.
And it was no servant who stood in front of him, under the flickering
beam of the lobby-lamp. It was Mary Morfe herself. The simple
explanation was that she had just sped her brother and Eva Harracles,
and had remained in the lobby for the purpose of ascertaining by means
of her finger whether the servant had, as usual, forgotten to dust the
tops of the picture-frames.
"Oh!" said Mr Loggerheads, when he saw Mary Morfe. For the cashier of
the Bursley branch of the Birmingham and Sheffield Bank it was not a
very able speech, but it was all he could accomplish.
And Miss Mary Morfe said:
"Oh!"
She was thirty-eight, and he was quite that (for the Bank mentioned
does not elevate its men to the august situation of cashier under less
than twenty years' service), and yet they neither of them had enough
worldliness to behave in a reasonable manner. Then Miss Morfe, to whom
it did at last occur that something must be done, produced an
invitation:
"Do come in!" And she added, "Richard has just gone out."
"Oh!" commented Mr Simon Loggerheads again. (After all, it must be
admitted that tenors as a class have never been noted for their
conversational powers.) But he was obviously more at ease, and he went
in, and Mary Morfe shut the door. At this very instant her brother and
Eva were in secret converse at the back end of Beech Street.
"Do take your coat off!" Mary suggested to Simon. Simultaneously the
servant appeared at the kitchen extremity of the lobby, and Mary thrust
her out of sight again with the cold words: "It's all right, Susan."
Mr Loggerheads took his coat off, and Mary Morfe watched him as he did
so.
He made a pretty figure. He was something of a dandy. The lapels of the
overcoat would have showed that, not to mention the correctly severe
necktie. All his clothes, in fact, had "cut and style," even to his
boots. In the Five Towns many a young man is a dandy down to the edge of
his trousers, but not down to the ground. Mr Loggerheads looked a young
man. The tranquillity of his career and the quietude of his tastes had
preserved his youthfulness. And, further, he had the air of a
successful, solid, much-respected individual. To be a cashier, though
worthy, is not to be a nabob, but a bachelor can save a lot out of over
twenty years of regular salary. And Mr Loggerheads had saved quite a
lot. And he had had opportunities of advantageously investing his
savings. Then everybody knew him, and he knew everybody. He handed out
gold at least once a week to nearly half the town, and you cannot help
venerating a man who makes a practice of handing out gold to you. And he
had thrilled thousands with the wistful beauty of his voice in "The
Sands of Dee." In a word, Simon Loggerheads was a personage, if not
talkative.
They went into the drawing-room. Mary Morfe closed the door gently.
Simon Loggerheads strolled vaguely and self-consciously up to the
fireplace, murmuring:
"So he's gone out?"
"Yes," said Mary Morfe, in confirmation of her first statement.
"I'm sorry!" said Simon Loggerheads. A statement which was absolutely
contrary to the truth. Simon Loggerheads was deeply relieved and glad
that Richard Morfe was out.
The pair, aged slightly under and slightly over forty, seemed to hover
for a fraction of a second uncertainly near each other, and then,
somehow, mysteriously, Simon Loggerheads had kissed Mary Morfe. She
blushed. He blushed. The kiss was repeated. Mary gazed up at him. Mary
could scarcely believe that he was hers. She could scarcely believe that
on the previous evening he had proposed marriage to her--rather
suddenly, so it seemed to her, but delightfully. She could comprehend
his conduct no better than her own. They two, staid, settled-down, both
of them "old maids," falling in love and behaving like lunatics! Mary, a
year ago, would have been ready to prophesy that if ever Simon
Loggerheads--at his age!--did marry, he would assuredly marry something
young, something ingenuous, something cream-and-rose, and probably
something with rich parents. For twenty years Simon Loggerheads had been
marked down for capture by the marriageable spinsters and widows, and
the mothers with daughters, of Bursley. And he had evaded capture,
despite the special temptations to which an after-dinner tenor is
necessarily subject. And now Mary Morfe had caught him--caught him,
moreover, without having had the slightest intention of catching him.
She was one of the most spinsterish spinsters in the Five Towns; and she
had often said things about men and marriage of which the recollection
now, as an affianced woman, was very disturbing to her. However, she did
not care. She did not understand how Simon Loggerheads had had the wit
to perceive that she would be an ideal wife. And she did not care. She
did not understand how, as a result of Simon Loggerheads falling in love
with her, she had fallen in love with him. And she did not care. She did
not care a fig for anything. She _was_ in love with him, and he with
her, and she was idiotically joyous, and so was he. And that was all.
On reflection, I have to admit that she did in fact care for one thing.
That one thing was the look on her brother's face when he should learn
that she, the faithful sardonic sister, having incomprehensibly become
indispensable and all in all to a bank cashier, meant to desert him. She
was afraid of that look. She trembled at the fore-vision of it.
Still, Richard had to be informed, and the world had to be informed, for
the silken dalliance between Mary and Simon had been conducted with a
discretion and a secrecy more than characteristic of their age and
dispositions. It had been arranged between the lovers that Simon should
call on that Friday evening, when he would be sure to catch Richard in
his easy chair, and should, in presence of Mary, bluntly communicate to
Richard the blunt fact.
"What's he gone out for? Anything special?" asked Simon.
Mary explained the circumstances.
"The truth is," she finished, "that girl is just throwing herself at
Dick's head. There's no doubt of it. I never saw such work!"
"Well," said Simon Loggerheads, "of course, you know, there's been a
certain amount of talk about them. Some folks say that your
brother--er--began--"
"And do you believe that?" demanded Mary.
"I don't know," said Simon. By which he meant diplomatically to convey
that he had had a narrow escape of believing it, at any rate.
"Well," said Mary, with conviction, "you may take it from me that it
isn't so. I know Dick. Eva Harracles may throw herself at his head till
there's no breath left in her body, and it'll make no difference to
Dick. Do _you_ see Dick a married man? I don't. I only wish he _would_
take it into his head to get married. It would make me much easier in my
mind. But all the same I do think it's downright wicked that a girl
should fling herself _at_ him, right _at_ him. Fancy her calling
to-night! It's the sort of thing that oughtn't to be encouraged."
"But I understood you to say that you yourself had told him to see her
home," Simon Loggerheads put in. "Isn't that encouraging her, as it
were?"
"Ah!" said Mary, with a smile. "I only suggested it to him because it
came over me all of a sudden how nice it would be to have you here all
alone! He can't be back much before twelve."
To such a remark there is but one response. A sofa is, after all, made
for two people, and the chance of the servant calling on them was small.
"And so the clock stopped!" observed Simon Loggerheads.
"Yes," said Mary. "If it hadn't been for the sheer accident of that
clock stopping, we shouldn't be sitting here on this sofa now, and Dick
would be in that chair, and you would just be beginning to tell him that
we are engaged." She sighed. "Poor Dick! What on earth will he do?"
"Strange how things happen!" Simon reflected in a low voice. "But I'm
really surprised at that clock stopping like that. It's a clock that you
ought to be able to depend on, that clock is."
He got up to inspect the timepiece. He knew all about the clock, because
he had been chairman of the presentation committee which had gone to
Manchester to buy it.
"Why!" he murmured, after he had toyed a little with the pendulum, "it
goes all right. Its tick is as right as rain."
"How odd!" responded Mary.
Simon Loggerheads set the clock by his own impeccable watch, and then
sat down again. And he drew something from his waistcoat pocket and slid
it on to Mary's finger.
Mary regarded her finger in silent ecstasy, and then breathed "How
lovely!"--not meaning her finger.
"Shall I stay till he comes back?" asked Simon.
"If I were you I shouldn't do that," said Mary. "But you can safely stay
till eleven-thirty. Then I shall go to bed. He'll be tired and short
[curt] when he gets back. I'll tell him myself to-morrow morning at
breakfast. And you might come to-morrow afternoon early, for tea."
Simon did stay till half-past eleven. He left precisely when the clock,
now convalescent, struck the half-hour. At the door Mary said to him:
"I won't have any secrets from you, Simon. It was I who stopped that
clock. I stopped it while they were bending down looking for music. I
wanted to be as sure as I could of a good excuse for me suggesting that
he ought to take her home. I just wanted to get him out of the house."
"But why?" asked Simon.
"I must leave that to you to guess," said Mary, with a hint of tartness,
but smiling.
Loggerheads and Richard Morfe met in Trafalgar Road.
"Good-night, Morfe."
"'night, Loggerheads!"
And each passed on, without having stopped.
You can picture for yourself the breakfast of the brother and sister.