LARRIE THE LOAFER
'She had
A heart--how shall I say? too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed: she liked what e'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.'
Larrie and Dot had come upon the great rock that lies near the beginning
of the matrimonial path of all those who marry for love.
Oh the wonderful capacity they had in those days for torturing
themselves! Larrie used to brood continually in secret over the change
that had come into their lives; his manner grew cold and indifferent and
he consumed as much tobacco as a man long years in the bush, and Dot
used to shed hot, angry, grieving tears in private and devote herself
to the management of the house or the baby in the time that once she
had always devoted to her husband.
Once in one of the passionate little outbursts she was subject to, she
scoffed at him for his idleness.
'No wonder you are so fault-finding, Larrie,' she said, 'staying at home
day after day like an old maid. Other husbands don't tie themselves to
their wives' apron-strings as you do.'
It was a little unjust of her, this pettish speech, though she had
received provocation.
Larrie had had a bad illness, a kind of brain fever soon after his last
law examination, and really had been ordered to take a long holiday.
'You are a man of means,' the doctor had said. 'Travel about, loaf
generally for a year or two, do anything you like, but avoid regular
brain work.'
As a first step to a thorough holiday he had married Dot, and as his
means, divided, would not permit of travel, he settled down with an
easy mind to 'loaf.'
He used to ride, and fish, and shoot, walk, read, and work in the garden
generally, but there were times when he had fits of superlative laziness
and did absolutely nothing but lie in the hammocks and smoke, or wander
about after Dot.
At first this state of things had been very delightful and idyllic, but
after eighteen months Dot found it very trying, and used to wish
sincerely that Larrie went off to business in the morning like other men
and stayed away till evening. She felt certain he would appreciate both
herself and his home more if he did so, and, seeing he was apparently
quite well and strong, there seemed no reason for him not to go.
It was this feeling that had prompted the cutting speech about being
tied to her apron, a garment by the way which she never wore on any
occasion.
Larrie was bitterly offended.
'You are tired of me, it has come to that already,' he said, and there
was such a note of pain in his voice that she had slipped her arm round
his neck in her old impetuous way.
'It was horrid of me,' she said, 'of course you have a right to stay at
home always if you like. Forgive me, Larrie.'
And he had forgiven her after a time, even kissed her kindly and told
her not to mind.
But the very next day he had taken an office in town and sent a man to
paint 'Laurence Armitage, Solicitor,' in white letters on the door.
All her entreaties now would not keep him at home a day, he caught the
business train at eight o'clock in the morning and the evening one home
at five.
He was like everyone else's husband at last, and the garden of Eden had
become merely a cottage with a piece of ground attached.
But oh, such long, long days they were to both of them at first.
Larrie, of course, had really nothing to do for weeks and weeks. He
used to sit on his uncomfortable cane chair, put his long legs on the
window-sill and smoke and think half the day. Or he would pin a 'Back in
ten minutes' notice on his door and stroll aimlessly about town or drop
into the offices of other men he knew, and envy them their busy air of
occupation.
Dot had never thought so many hours went to the day before.
Baby slept a great deal, and just beginning to teethe, was cross and
less companionable than usual. The household tasks that she took upon
herself now did not last long, and the little mother did so much sewing
for everyone in the cottage that there was really nothing left for Dot
to do, but put on occasional buttons and tapes. She resolved to let her
voice fill up the blank in her life, it was her one great gift, and she
determined she would cultivate it assiduously and then--but she had not
yet quite decided what difference the 'then' would make.
The Red Road Country had a little plain church at the top of one of its
hills, and Dot led the singing as a matter of course.
Sometimes she took long solo parts in the anthems, and then the ugly
barn-like place of worship seemed full of glory. Several times people
had come all the way from the shore just to hear the clear, sweet,
joyous voice of that one little person in the front row. She had been
asked more than once to join the choir of different big churches in
Sydney, but there was no train service at all on Sunday for the line,
and Larrie naturally refused to have an empty house the greater part of
the day just because his wife had a voice. Choir practices were on
Wednesday afternoons, and Dot attended regularly now; for one thing they
helped to pass the time, for another she had a genuine desire to have
the singing each Sunday as good as possible, and knew her presence
stimulated the other members.
The Red Road Country is growing famous for its healthiness. People with
land to sell in the district and the few boarding-house keepers,
advertise it as 'The Sanatorium of New South Wales.' Doctors are
beginning to send their patients there occasionally, instead of to the
Blue Mountains, and the pure, gum-tree filtered air certainly works
wonders.
Mr Sullivan Wooster had been sent up for a month. He occupied a high
position in the musical world of Sydney. He taught, conducted concerts,
gave recitals of his own on organ and piano, and composed pieces that
met with high praise in the old world. An attack of pleurisy had
prostrated him recently, and he had come up to the Red Road Country
for his convalescence, refusing to be sent to a more distant place.
A Wednesday afternoon came a week after he had arrived. He was almost
dying with the _ennui_ of the place; the abounding gum trees were
beginning to prey upon his very soul. He had taken rooms at a cottage
where the recommendations had been 'No children, beautiful views, and
a piano.'
But the daughter of the house had artistic yearnings that she longed to
impart, a passion for waltzes, and a tousled fringe that Wooster was
always dreading to find detachments of in his custards. The healthful
Eucalypt on hill and dale comprised the view.
Naturally he spent most of his time on the Red Road. When he heard
voices in the little church that afternoon, he strolled to the door just
for the urgent want of something to do. When he heard Dot's voice, he
went in and sat down in the extreme back seat, much to the discomfiture
of a nervous member of the choir.
After the practice was over he shook hands with the clergyman's wife who
had officiated at the little organ. He knew her very well; she had found
these lodgings for him, and had sent him tomatoes on one occasion and
some of her own orange wine, marvellously nasty stuff, on another.
He asked after her husband, praised the views, thought the weather would
change, said nothing bitter about the landlady's daughter, and offered
to preside at the organ the next Sunday. Then he asked to be introduced
to the girl with the beautiful voice.
A quarter of an hour later he was walking home with Dot.
Her books--she had three of them--were his excuse, and the fact that he
had been walking that way before he turned in at the church. All the way
they talked music.
Dot's eyes were bright, her speech eager. What a pleasant, unlooked for
change this was for her!
She knew him well by repute, as indeed did everyone in Sydney--she had
been to his concerts, she played his compositions,--some of her friends
had been his pupils,--he seemed more like an old than a new friend by
the time they reached the top of the second hill. Half way down they
noticed the gathering clouds; by the time they reached the gate it had
begun to rain heavily.
Dot did not hesitate a moment. He had been ill she knew: a wetting might
prove serious.
'You must come in,' she said, pushing open her little gate, 'come and
wait till it clears.' She preceded him up the path and sprang up the
verandah steps into shelter, shaking the raindrops off her little short
curls and laughing breathlessly after the few minutes' hurry.
'What a _dear_ little girl!' he said to himself, following with the
utmost gladness.
He had never spent in all his life a pleasanter hour than the next one.
His artistic eye was charmed with the arrangements of the simple
drawing-room, it was a real pleasure to run his fingers upon a good
piano once more--here was all the music that made the earth a happy
abiding place, and above all there was the presence of the sweet little
girl with short soft curls, wide, eager eyes, and a voice truly
wonderful. Oh the beautiful hour it was!
They had both gone straight to the piano as naturally as ducks go to
water; they tried whole pages of different operas together, and went
twice through some of the songs, just for the sheer pleasure of singing.
Then he played some Beethoven she had never found beautiful before, and
after that she played at his request piece after piece, and he was
surprised at her culture.
He almost feared once or twice that the whole occurrence was an
enchanted dream which would fade presently.
On his knees at the Canterbury drawer he found the score of _Faust_ bent
open at the 'Jewel Song.' He held it up eagerly.
'Let me hear you in this,' he said. 'You sing it?'
Dot nodded joyously and opened it on the music holder as he took his
seat.
She gave a little cough to clear her throat. He stood up, real concern
on his face, and closed the book instantly.
'There is _nothing_ so culpable as over-tiring the voice; it was
criminal of me to let you sing so much,' he said.
There was a warm flush on her cheeks and her eyes were brilliant.
'Let us have some tea then,' she said, with an excited little laugh.
She crossed the room and rang the bell at the fireplace. Quite a
professional look was on his face.
'I do trust you take proper care of your voice, Miss Armitage,' was his
really anxious remark.
Dot's eyes flew open, then she laughed aloud just as Peggie appeared in
the doorway.
'Tea, please, Peggie, and baby--baby first,' was her order.
Peggie departed, surprised displeasure on her face: she wondered who was
the strange gentleman her mistress was on such good terms with, and she
thought it most inconsiderate that she should want afternoon tea when
there was so much ironing on hand. But she slipped a fresh muslin
pinafore on the baby and put on his best little red shoes, before she
carried him in to them all warm and flushed with his afternoon sleep.
'I believe you thought I was only a girl, Mr Wooster,' Dot said with a
merry laugh as she stood up with her beautiful darling in her arms for
inspection.
Mr Sullivan Wooster was certainly looking as thunderstruck as if the
pretty bundle of muslin, and lace and sweetness she held had been a
phoenix instead of the dearest little baby in the world.
'I never dreamt,' he began. 'I quite thought--I certainly imagined Mrs
Ingram said _Miss_ Armitage; as well--,' his eyes sought her little bare
left hand.
Dot laughed that happy little laugh of hers again. She went over to the
Canterbury and emptied a small Dresden cup upon her palm.
'I always take my rings off before I play,' she said, 'it's a pernicious
habit, I know; my husband is always trying to break me of it, but I
really do it unconsciously. I never can play properly with them on.'
After that, of course, he paid dutiful, expected court to the baby, and
made the correct remarks about its eyes and long eyelashes and the
quantity of its hair. But he no longer thought the occurrence an
enchanted dream that might fade any minute. The baby gnawing
thoughtfully at its dear little shoe as it sat on the hearthrug, while
Dot poured out tea, gave a surprising air of reality to everything.
The rain had not ceased for a moment, so there was good enough excuse
for Mr Wooster's prolonged stay, but Dot was greatly astonished to see
Larrie come up the path presently, and know it was half-past five. She
excused herself and slipped out to meet him. He came in cold, wet, and
cross. It struck him how bright Dot's face was and how exceedingly
beautiful she was looking as she opened the door for him.
'I have a visitor here, Larrie,' she said in a whisper, 'be quick and
get your mackintosh off. It is Mr Sullivan Wooster and he is so nice;
don't stay to change your coat.'
But 'Confound him!' said Larrie.
He wanted Dot and Dot only just now. All the day he had had an
unutterable longing to take her in his arms and beg her to let them
start afresh, and make life a beautiful thing again. And now there was
a visitor here.
'You must ask him to stay for dinner, of course,' Dot said. 'He's had
pleurisy and can't go home in the rain. It's lucky there's roast fowl
to-day, and I'll open a bottle of those apricots.'
Larrie was sulkily taking off his mackintosh as she talked.
'What the deuce brought him here?' he said. Dot said 'H'sh,' and gave
him a little poke to remind him of the proximity of the drawing-room.
'I'll tell you after,' she said. 'I must go back now, I've left him
alone with baby, and perhaps he's not educated up to them.'
He went kitchenward to ask for dry boots, and Peggie was dishing up.
The appetising smell reminded him he was too hungry to tell her to keep
things in the oven on the chance of the visitor going. And as he went
back again up the hall he saw the weather was too abominable to turn a
dog out. But he said 'Confound it' under his breath outside the door, as
necessary preparation to pressing Mr Sullivan Wooster to stay to
dinner.