|It's competition,” replied Henry, “that makes the world go round.
You never want a thing particularly until you see another fellow
trying to get it; then it strikes you all of a sudden that you've
a better right to it than he has. Take barmaids: what's the
attraction about 'em? In looks they're no better than the average
girl in the street; while as for their temper, well that's a bit
above the average--leastways, so far as my experience goes. Yet
the thinnest of 'em has her dozen, making sheep's-eyes at her
across the counter. I've known girls that on the level couldn't
have got a policeman to look at 'em. Put 'em behind a row of
tumblers and a shilling's-worth of stale pastry, and nothing
outside a Lincoln and Bennett is good enough for 'em. It's the
competition that's the making of 'em.
“Now, I'll tell you a story,” continued Henry, “that bears upon
the subject. It's a pretty story, if you look at it from one point
of view; though my wife maintains--and she's a bit of a judge,
mind you--that it's not yet finished, she arguing that there's
a difference between marrying and being married. You can have a
fancy for the one, without caring much about the other. What
I tell her is that a boy isn't a man, and a man isn't a boy.
Besides, it's five years ago now, and nothing has happened since:
though of course one can never say.”
“I would like to hear the story,” I ventured to suggest; “I'll be
able to judge better afterwards.”
“It's not a long one,” replied Henry, “though as a matter of fact
it began seventeen years ago in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He was
a wild young fellow, and always had been.”
“Who was?” I interrupted.
“Tom Sleight,” answered Henry, “the chap I'm telling you about.
He belonged to a good family, his father being a Magistrate for
Monmouthshire; but there had been no doing anything with young
Tom from the very first. At fifteen he ran away from school
at Clifton, and with everything belonging to him tied up in
a pocket-handkerchief made his way to Bristol Docks. There he
shipped as boy on board an American schooner, the Cap'n not
pressing for any particulars, being short-handed, and the boy
himself not volunteering much. Whether his folks made much of an
effort to get him back, or whether they didn't, I can't tell you.
Maybe, they thought a little roughing it would knock some sense
into him. Anyhow, the fact remains that for the next seven or
eight years, until the sudden death of his father made him a
country gentleman, a more or less jolly sailor-man he continued to
be. And it was during that period--to be exact, three years after
he ran away and four years before he returned--that, as I have
said, at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, he married, after ten days'
courtship, Mary Godselle, only daughter of Jean Godselle, saloon
keeper of that town.”
“That makes him just eighteen,” I remarked; “somewhat young for a
bridegroom.”
“But a good deal older than the bride,” was Henry's comment, “she
being at the time a few months over fourteen.”
“Was it legal?” I enquired.
“Quite legal,” answered Henry. “In New Hampshire, it would seem,
they encourage early marriages. 'Can't begin a good thing too
soon,' is, I suppose, their motto.”
“How did the marriage turn out?” was my next question. The married
life of a lady and gentleman, the united ages of whom amounted to
thirty-two, promised interesting developments.
“Practically speaking,” replied Henry, “it wasn't a marriage at
all. It had been a secret affair from the beginning, as perhaps
you can imagine. The old man had other ideas for his daughter, and
wasn't the sort of father to be played with. They separated at
the church door, intending to meet again in the evening. Two
hours later Master Tom Sleight got knocked on the head in a street
brawl. If a row was to be had anywhere within walking distance he
was the sort of fellow to be in it. When he came to his senses he
found himself lying in his bunk, and the 'Susan Pride'--if that
was the name of the ship; I think it was--ten miles out to sea.
The Captain declined to put the vessel about to please either a
loving seaman or a loving seaman's wife; and to come to the point,
the next time Mr. Tom Sleight saw Mrs. Tom Sleight was seven years
later at the American bar of the Grand Central in Paris; and then
he didn't know her.”
“But what had she been doing all the time?” I queried. “Do you
mean to tell me that she, a married woman, had been content to let
her husband disappear without making any attempt to trace him?”
“I was making it short,” retorted Henry, in an injured tone, “for
your benefit; if you want to have the whole of it, of course you
can. He wasn't a scamp; he was just a scatterbrain--that was the
worst you could say against him. He tried to communicate with her,
but never got an answer. Then he wrote to the father, and told him
frankly the whole story. The letter came back six months later,
marked--'Gone away; left no address.' You see, what had happened
was this: the old man died suddenly a month or two after the
marriage, without ever having heard a word about it. The girl
hadn't a relative or friend in the town, all her folks being
French Canadians. She'd got her pride, and she'd got a sense of
humour not common in a woman. I was with her at the Grand Central
for over a year, and came to know her pretty well. She didn't
choose to advertise the fact that her husband had run away from
her, as she thought, an hour after he had married her. She knew he
was a gentleman with rich relatives somewhere in England; and
as the months went by without bringing word or sign of him, she
concluded he'd thought the matter over and was ashamed of her.
You must remember she was merely a child at the time, and hardly
understood her position. Maybe later on she would have seen the
necessity of doing something. But Chance, as it were, saved her
the trouble; for she had not been serving in the Cafe more than
a month when, early one afternoon, in walked her Lord and Master.
'Mam'sell Marie,' as of course we called her over there, was at
that moment busy talking to two customers, while smiling at a
third; and our hero, he gave a start the moment he set eyes on
her.”
“You told me that when he saw her there he didn't know her,” I
reminded Henry.
“Quite right, sir,” replied Henry, “so I did; but he knew a pretty
girl when he saw one anywhere at any time--he was that sort, and a
prettier, saucier looking young personage than Marie, in spite of
her misfortunes, as I suppose you'd call 'em, you wouldn't have
found had you searched Paris from the Place de la Bastille to the
Arc de Triomphe.”
“Did she,” I asked, “know him, or was the forgetfulness mutual?”
“She recognised him,” returned Henry, “before he entered the Cafe,
owing to catching sight of his face through the glass door while
he was trying to find the handle. Women on some points have better
memories than men. Added to which, when you come to think of it,
the game was a bit one-sided. Except that his moustache, maybe,
was a little more imposing, and that he wore the clothes of a
gentleman in place of those of an able-bodied seaman before the
mast, he was to all intents and purposes the same as when they
parted six years ago outside the church door; while she had
changed from a child in a short muslin frock and a 'flapper,' as I
believe they call it, tied up in blue ribbon, to a self-possessed
young woman in a frock that might have come out of a Bond Street
show window, and a Japanese coiffure, that being then the fashion.
“She finished with her French customers, not hurrying herself in
the least--that wasn't her way; and then strolling over to her
husband, asked him in French what she could have the pleasure of
doing for him. His education on board the 'Susan Pride' and
others had, I take it, gone back rather than forward. He couldn't
understand her, so she translated it for him into broken English,
with an accent. He asked her how she knew he was English. She told
him it was because Englishmen had such pretty moustaches, and came
back with his order, which was rum punch. She kept him waiting
about a quarter of an hour before she returned with it. He filled
up the time looking into the glass behind him when he thought
nobody was observing him.
“One American drink, as they used to concoct it in that bar, was
generally enough for most of our customers, but he, before he
left, contrived to put away three; also contriving, during the
same short space of time, to inform 'Mam'sel Marie' that Paris,
since he had looked into her eyes, had become the only town
worth living in, so far as he was concerned, throughout the whole
universe. He had his failings, had Master Tom Sleight, but shyness
wasn't one of them. She gave him a smile when he left that would
have brought a less impressionable young man than he back again to
that Cafe; but for the rest of the day I noticed 'Mam'sel Marie'
frowned to herself a good deal, and was quite unusually cynical in
her view of things in general.
[Illustration: 0183]
“Next afternoon he found his way to us again, and much the same
sort of thing went on, only a little more of it. A sailor-man, so
I am told, makes love with his hour of departure always before his
mind, and so gets into the habit of not wasting time. He gave her
short lessons in English, for which she appeared to be grateful,
and she at his request taught him the French for 'You are just
charming! I love you!' with which, so he explained, it was his
intention, on his return to England, to surprise his mother. He
turned up again after dinner, and the next day before lunch, when
after that I looked up and missed him at his usual table, the
feeling would come to me that business was going down. Marie
always appeared delighted to see him, and pouted when he left; but
what puzzled me at the time was, that though she fooled him to the
top of his bent, she flirted every bit as much, if not more, with
her other customers--leastways with the nicer ones among them.
There was one young Frenchman in particular--a good-looking chap,
a Monsieur Flammard, son of the painter. Up till then he'd been
making love pretty steadily to Miss Marie, as, indeed, had most
of 'em, without ever getting much forrarder; for hitherto a chat
about the weather, and a smile that might have meant she was in
love with you or might have meant she was laughing at you--no man
could ever tell which,--was all the most persistent had got out
of her. Now, however, and evidently to his own surprise, young
Monsieur Flammard found himself in clover. Provided his English
rival happened to be present and not too far removed, he could
have as much flirtation as he wanted, which, you may take it,
worked out at a very tolerable amount. Master Tom could sit and
scowl, and for the matter of that did; but as Marie would explain
to him, always with the sweetest of smiles, her business was to be
nice to all her customers, and to this, of course, he had nothing
to reply: that he couldn't understand a word of what she and
Flammard talked and laughed about didn't seem to make him any the
happier.
“Well, this sort of thing went on for perhaps a fortnight, and
then one morning over our dejeune, when she and I had the Cafe
entirely to ourselves, I took the opportunity of talking to
Mam'sel Marie like a father.
“She heard me out without a murmur, which showed her sense; for
liking the girl sincerely, I didn't mince matters with her, but
spoke plainly for her good. The result was, she told me her story
much as I have told it to you.
“'It's a funny tale,' says I when she'd finished, 'though maybe
you yourself don't see the humour of it.'
“'Yes, I do,' was her answer. 'But there's a serious side to it
also,' says she, 'and that interests me more.'
“'You're sure you're not making a mistake?' I suggested.
“'He's been in my thoughts too much for me to forget him,' she
replied. 'Besides, he's told me his name and all about himself.'
“'Not quite all,' says I.
“'No, and that's why I feel hard toward him,' answers she.
“'Now you listen to me,' says I. 'This is a very pretty comedy,
and the way you've played it does you credit up till now. Don't
you run it on too long, and turn it into a problem play.'
“'How d'ye mean?' says she.
“'A man's a man,' says I; 'anyhow he's one. He fell in love with
you six years ago when you were only a child, and now you're a
woman he's fallen in love with you again. If that don't convince
you of his constancy, nothing will. You stop there. Don't you try
to find out any more.'
“'I mean to find out one thing, answers she: 'whether he's a
man--or a cad.'
“'That's a severe remark,' says I, 'to make about your own
husband.'
“'What am I to think?' says she. 'He fooled me into loving him
when, as you say, I was only a child. Do you think I haven't
suffered all these years? It's the girl that cries her eyes out
for her lover; we learn to take 'em for what they're worth later
on.'
“'But he's in love with you still,' I says. I knew what was in her
mind, but I wanted to lead her away from it if I could.
“'That's a lie,' says she, 'and you know it.' She wasn't choosing
her words; she was feeling, if you understand. 'He's in love with
a pretty waitress that he met for the first time a fortnight ago.'
“'That's because she reminds him of you,' I replied, 'or because
you remind him of her, whichever you prefer. It shows you're the
sort of woman he'll always be falling in love with.'
“She laughed at that, but the next moment she was serious again.
'A man's got to fall out of love before he falls into it again,'
she replied. 'I want a man that'll stop there. Besides,' she goes
on, 'a woman isn't always young and pretty: we've got to remember
that. We want something else in a husband besides eyes.'
“'You seem to know a lot about it,' says I.
“'I've thought a lot about it,' says she.
“'What sort of husband do you want?' says I.
“'I want a man of honour,' says she.
“That was sense. One don't often find a girl her age talking it,
but her life had made her older than she looked. All I could find
to say was that he appeared to be an honest chap, and maybe was
one.
“'Maybe,' says she; 'that's what I mean to find out. And if you'll
do me a kindness,' she adds, 'you won't mind calling me Marie
Luthier for the future, instead of Godselle. It was my mother's
name, and I've a fancy for it.'
“Well, there I left her to work out the thing for herself, having
come to the conclusion she was capable of doing it; and so for
another couple of weeks I merely watched. There was no doubt
about his being in love with her. He had entered that Cafe at the
beginning of the month with as good an opinion of himself as a man
can conveniently carry without tumbling down and falling over it.
Before the month was out he would sit with his head between his
hands, evidently wondering why he had been born. I've seen the
game played before, and I've seen it played since. A waiter has
plenty of opportunities if he only makes use of them; for if it
comes to a matter of figures, I suppose there's more love-making
done in a month under the electric light of the restaurant than
the moon sees in a year--leastways, so far as concerns what we
call the civilised world. I've seen men fooled, from boys without
hair on their faces, to old men without much on their heads. I've
seen it done in a way that was pretty to watch, and I've seen
it done in a manner that has made me feel that given a wig and a
petticoat I could do it better myself. But never have I seen it
neater played than Marie played it on that young man of hers. One
day she would greet him for all the world like a tired child that
at last has found its mother, and the next day respond to him in a
style calculated to give you the idea of a small-sized empress
in misfortune compelled to tolerate the familiarities of an
anarchist. One moment she would throw him a pout that said as
clearly as words: 'What a fool you are not to put your arms round
me and kiss me'; and five minutes later chill him with a laugh
that as good as told him he must be blind not to see that she was
merely playing with him. What happened outside the Cafe--for now
and then she would let him meet her of a morning in the Tuileries
and walk down to the Cafe with her, and once or twice had allowed
him to see her part of the way home--I cannot tell you: I only
know that before strangers it was her instinct to be reserved. I
take it that on such occasions his experiences were interesting;
but whether they left him elated or depressed I doubt if he could
have told you himself.
“But all the time Marie herself was just going from bad to worse.
She had come to the Cafe a light-hearted, sweet-tempered girl;
now, when she wasn't engaged in her play-acting--for that's all
it was, I could see plainly enough--she would go about her work
silent and miserable-looking, or if she spoke at all it would be
to say something bitter. Then one morning after a holiday she had
asked for, and which I had given her without any questions, she
came to business more like her old self than I had seen her since
the afternoon Master Tom Sleight had appeared upon the scene. All
that day she went about smiling to herself; and young Flammard,
presuming a bit too far maybe upon past favours, found himself
sharply snubbed: it was a bit rough on him, the whole thing.
“'It's come to a head,' says I to myself; 'he has explained
everything, and has managed to satisfy her. He's a cleverer chap
than I took him for.'
“He didn't turn up at the Cafe that day, however, at all, and she
never said a word until closing time, when she asked me to walk
part of the way home with her.
“'Well,' I says, so soon as we had reached a quieter street, 'is
the comedy over?'
“'No,' says she, 'so far as I'm concerned it's commenced. To tell
you the truth, it's been a bit too serious up to now to please me.
I'm only just beginning to enjoy myself,' and she laughed, quite
her old light-hearted laugh.
“'You seem to be a bit more cheerful,' I says.
“'I'm feeling it,' says she; 'he's not as bad as I thought. We
went to Versailles yesterday.'
“'Pretty place, Versailles,' says I; 'paths a bit complicated if
you don't know your way among 'em.'
“'They do wind,' says she.
“'And there he told you that he loved you, and explained
everything?'
“'You're quite right,' says she, 'that's just what happened. And
then he kissed me for the first and last time, and now he's on his
way to America.'
“'On his way to America?' says I, stopping still in the middle of
the street.
“'To find his wife,' she says. 'He's pretty well ashamed of
himself for not having tried to do it before. I gave him one or
two hints how to set about it--he's not over smart--and I've got
an idea he will discover her.' She dropped her joking manner,
and gave my arm a little squeeze. She'd have flirted with her own
grandfather--that's my opinion of her.
“'He was really nice,' she continues. 'I had to keep lecturing
myself, or I'd have been sorry for him. He told me it was his love
for me that had shown him what a wretch he had been. He said
he knew I didn't care for him two straws--and there I didn't
contradict him--and that he respected me all the more for it. I
can't explain to you how he worked it out, but what he meant was
that I was so good myself that no one but a thoroughly good fellow
could possibly have any chance with me, and that any other sort
of fellow ought to be ashamed of himself for daring even to be
in love with me, and that he couldn't rest until he had proved to
himself that he was worthy to have loved me, and then he wasn't
going to love me any more.'
“'It's a bit complicated,' says I. 'I suppose you understood it?'
“'It was perfectly plain,' says she, somewhat shortly, 'and, as I
told him, made me really like him for the first time.'
“'It didn't occur to him to ask you why you had been flirting like
a volcano with a chap you didn't like,' says I.
“'He didn't refer to it as flirtation,' says she. 'He regarded it
as kindness to a lonely man in a strange land.'
“'I think you'll be all right,' says I. 'There's all the makings
of a good husband in him--seems to be simple-minded enough,
anyhow.'
“'He has a very lovable personality when you once know him,' says
she. 'All sailors are apt to be thoughtless.'
“'I should try and break him of it later on,' says I.
“'Besides, she was a bit of a fool herself, going away and leaving
no address,' adds she; and having reached her turning, we said
good-night to one another.
“About a month passed after that without anything happening. For
the first week Marie was as merry as a kitten, but as the days
went by, and no sign came, she grew restless and excited. Then one
morning she came into the Cafe twice as important as she had gone
out the night before, and I could see by her face that her little
venture was panning out successfully. She waited till we had the
Cafe to ourselves, which usually happened about mid-day, and then
she took a letter out of her pocket and showed it me. It was a
nice respectful letter containing sentiments that would have done
honour to a churchwarden. Thanks to Marie's suggestions, for which
he could never be sufficiently grateful, and which proved her
to be as wise as she was good and beautiful, he had traced Mrs.
Sleight, nee Mary Godselle, to Quebec. From Quebec, on the death
of her uncle, she had left to take a situation as waitress in a
New York hotel, and he was now on his way there to continue his
search. The result he would, with Miss Marie's permission, write
and inform her. If he obtained happiness he would owe it all to
her. She it was who had shown him his duty; there was a good deal
of it, but that's what it meant.
“A week later came another letter, dated from New York this time.
Mary could not be discovered anywhere; her situation she had left
just two years ago, but for what or for where nobody seemed to
know. What was to be done?
“Mam'sel Marie sat down and wrote him by return of post, and wrote
him somewhat sharply--in broken English. It seemed to her he must
be strangely lacking in intelligence. Mary, as he knew, spoke
French as well as she did English. Such girls--especially such
waitresses--he might know, were sought after on the Continent.
Very possibly there were agencies in New York whose business it
was to offer good Continental engagements to such young ladies.
Even she herself had heard of one such--Brathwaite, in West
Twenty-third Street, or maybe Twenty-fourth. She signed her
new name, Marie Luthier, and added a P.S. to the effect that
a right-feeling husband who couldn't find his wife would have
written in a tone less suggestive of resignation.
“That helped him considerably, that suggestion of Marie's about
the agent Brathwaite. A fortnight later came a third letter.
Wonderful to relate, his wife was actually in Paris, of all places
in the world! She had taken a situation in the Hotel du Louvre.
Master Tom expected to be in Paris almost as soon as his letter.
“'I think I'll go round to the Louvre if you can spare me for
quarter of an hour,' said Marie, 'and see the manager.'
“Two days after, at one o'clock precisely, Mr. Tom Sleight walked
into the Cafe. He didn't look cheerful and he didn't look sad.
He had been to the 'Louvre'; Mary Godselle had left there about
a year ago; but he had obtained her address in Paris, and had
received a letter from her that very morning. He showed it to
Marie. It was short, and not well written. She would meet him in
the Tuileries that evening at seven, by the Diana and the Nymph;
he would know her by her wearing the onyx brooch he had given her
the day before their wedding. She mentioned it was onyx, in case
he had forgotten. He only stopped a few minutes, and both he and
Marie spoke gravely and in low tones. He left a small case in
her hands at parting; he said he hoped she would wear it in
remembrance of one in whose thoughts she would always remain
enshrined. I can't tell you what he meant; I only tell you what
he said. He also gave me a very handsome walking-stick with a gold
handle--what for, I don't know; I take it he felt like that.
“Marie asked to leave that evening at half-past six. I never saw
her looking prettier. She called me into the office before she
went. She wanted advice. She had in one hand a beautiful opal
brooch set in diamonds--it was what he had given her that
morning--and in her other hand the one of onyx.
“'Shall I wear them both?' asked she, 'or only the one?' She was
half laughing, half crying, already.
“I thought for a bit. 'I should wear the onyx to-night,' I said,
'by itself.'”