THE GOOD DAYS
For the next month, or, to be accurate, the next five weeks, everything
went merrily at Monk’s Abbey. It was as though some cloud had been
lifted off the place and those who dwelt therein. No longer did the
Colonel look solemn when he came down in the morning, and no longer was
he cross after he had read his letters. Now his interviews with the
steward in the study were neither prolonged nor anxious; indeed, that
functionary emerged thence on Saturday mornings with a shining
countenance, drying the necessary cheque, heretofore so difficult to
extract, by waving it ostentatiously in the air. Lastly, the Colonel
did not seem to be called upon to make such frequent visits to his man
of business, and to tarry at the office of the bank manager in
Northwold. Once there was a meeting, but, contrary to the general
custom, the lawyer and the banker came to see him in company, and
stopped to luncheon. At this meal, moreover, the three of them appeared
to be in the best of spirits.
Morris noted all these things in his quiet, observant way, and from
them drew certain conclusions of his own. But he shrank from making
inquiries, nor did the Colonel offer any confidences. After all, why
should he, who had never meddled with his father’s business, choose
this moment to explore it, especially as he knew from previous
experience that such investigations would not be well received? It was
one of the Colonel’s peculiarities to keep his affairs to himself until
they grew so bad that circumstances forced him to seek the counsel or
the aid of others. Still, Morris could well guess from what mine the
money was digged that caused so comfortable a change in their
circumstances, and the solution of this mystery gave him little joy.
Cash in consideration of an unconcluded marriage; that was how it read.
To his sensitive nature the transaction seemed one of doubtful worth.
However, no one else appeared to be troubled, if, indeed, these things
existed elsewhere than in his own imagination. This, Morris admitted,
was possible, for their access of prosperity might, after all, be no
more than a resurrection of credit, vivified by the news of his
engagement with the only child of a man known to be wealthy. His uncle
Porson, with a solemnity that was almost touching, had bestowed upon
Mary and himself a jerky but earnest blessing before he drove home on
the night of the dinner-party. He went so far, indeed, as to kiss them
both; an example which the Colonel followed with a more finished but
equally heartfelt grace.
Now his uncle John beamed upon him daily like the noonday sun. Also he
began to take him into his confidence, and consult him as to the
erection of houses, affairs of business, and investments. In the course
of these interviews Morris was astonished, not to say dismayed, to
discover how large were the sums of money as to the disposal of which
he was expected to express opinions.
“You see, it will all be yours, my boy,” said Mr. Porson one day, in
explanation; “so it is best that you should know something of these
affairs. Yes, it will all be yours, before very long,” and he sighed.
“I trust that I shall have nothing to do with it for many years,”
blurted out Morris.
“Say months, say months,” answered his uncle, stretching out his hands
as though to push something from him. Then, to all appearances overcome
by a sudden anguish, physical or mental, he turned and hurried from the
room.
Taking them all together, those five weeks were the happiest that
Morris had ever known. No longer was he profoundly dissatisfied with
things in general, no longer ravaged by that desire of the moth for the
star which in some natures is almost a disease. His outlook upon the
world was healthier and more hopeful; for the first time he saw its
wholesome, joyous side. Had he failed to do so, indeed, he must have
been a very strange man, for he had much to make the poorest heart
rejoice.
Thus Mary, always a charming woman, since her engagement had become
absolutely delightful; wittier, more wideawake, more beautiful. Morris
could look forward to the years to be spent in her company not only
without misgiving, but with a confidence that a while ago he would have
thought impossible. Moreover, as good fortunes never come singly, his
were destined to be multiplied. It was in those days after so many
years of search and unfruitful labour that at last he discovered a clue
which in the end resulted in the perfection of the instrument that was
the parent of the aerophone of commerce, and gave him a name among the
inventors of the century which will not easily be forgotten.
Strangely enough it was Morris’s good genius, Mary, who suggested the
substance, or, rather, the mixture of substances, whereof that portion
of the aerophone was finally constructed which is still known as the
Monk Sound Waves Receiver. Whether, as she alleged, she made this
discovery by pure accident, or whether, as seems possible, she had
thought the problem out in her own feminine fashion with results that
proved excellent, does not matter in the least. The issue remains the
same. An apparatus which before would work only on rare occasions—and
then without any certitude—between people in the highest state of
sympathy or nervous excitement, has now been brought to such a stage of
perfection that by its means anybody can talk to anybody, even if their
interests are antagonistic, or their personal enmity bitter.
After the first few experiments with this new material Morris was not
slow to discover that although it would need long and careful testing
and elaboration, for him it meant, in the main, the realisation of his
great dream, and success after years of failure. And—that was the
strange part of it—this realisation and success he owed to no effort of
his own, but to some chance suggestion made by Mary. He told her this,
and thanked her as a man thanks one through whom he has found
salvation. In answer she merely laughed, saying that she was nothing
but the wire along which a happy inspiration had reached his brain, and
that more than this she neither wished, nor hoped, nor was capable of
being.
Then suddenly on this happy, tranquil atmosphere which wrapped them
about—like the sound of a passing bell at a child’s feast—floated the
first note of impending doom and death.
The autumn held fine and mild, and Mary, who had been lunching at the
Abbey, was playing croquet with Morris upon the side lawn. This game
was the only one for which she chanced to care, perhaps because it did
not involve much exertion. Morris, who engaged in the pastime with the
same earnestness that he gave to every other pursuit in which he
happened to be interested, was, as might be expected, getting the best
of the encounter.
“Won’t you take a couple of bisques, dear?” he asked affectionately,
after a while. “I don’t like always beating you by such a lot.”
“I’d die first,” she answered; “bisques are the badge of advertised
inferiority and a mark of the giver’s contempt.”
“Stuff!” said Morris.
“Stuff, indeed! As though it wasn’t bad enough to be beaten at all; but
to be beaten with bisques!”
“That’s another argument,” said Morris. “First you say you are too
proud to accept them, and next that you won’t accept them because it is
worse to be defeated with points than without them.”
“Anyway, if you had the commonest feelings of humanity you wouldn’t
beat me,” replied Mary, adroitly shifting her ground for the third
time.
“How can I help it if you won’t have the bisques?”
“How? By pretending that you were doing your best, and letting me win
all the same, of course; though if I caught you at it I should be
furious. But what’s the use of trying to teach a blunt creature like
you tact? My dear Morris, I assure you I do not believe that your
efforts at deception would take in the simplest-minded cow. Why, even
Dad sees through you, and the person who can’t impose upon my Dad——.
Oh!” she added, suddenly, in a changed voice, “there is George coming
through the gate. Something has happened to my father. Look at his
face, Morris; look at his face!”
In another moment the footman stood before them.
“Please, miss, the master,” he began, and hesitated.
“Not dead?” said Mary, in a slow, quiet voice. “Do not say that he is
dead!”
“No, miss, but he has had a stroke of the heart or something, and the
doctor thought you had better be fetched, so I have brought the
carriage.”
“Come with me, Morris,” she said, as, dropping the croquet mallet, she
flew rather than ran to the brougham.
Ten minutes later they were at Seaview. In the hall they met Mr.
Charters, the doctor. Why was he leaving? Because——
“No, no,” he said, answering their looks; “the danger is past. He seems
almost as well as ever.”
“Thank God!” stammered Mary. Then a thought struck her, and she looked
up sharply and asked, “Will it come back again?”
“Yes,” was his straightforward answer.
“When?”
“From time to time, at irregular periods. But in its fatal shape, as I
hope, not for some years.”
“The verdict might have been worse, dear,” said Morris.
“Yes, yes, but to think that _it_ has passed so near to him, and he
quite alone at the time. Morris,” she went on, turning to him with an
energy that was almost fierce, “if you won’t have my father to live
with us, I won’t marry you. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, dear, you leave no room for misconception. By all means let
him live with us—if he can get on with my father,” he added meaningly.
“Ah!” she replied, “I never thought of that. Also I should not have
spoken so roughly, but I have had such a shock that I feel inclined to
treat you like—like—a toad under a harrow. So please be sympathetic,
and don’t misunderstand me, or I don’t know what I shall say.” Then by
way of making amends, Mary put her arms round his neck and gave him a
kiss “all of her own accord,” saying, “Morris, I am afraid—I am afraid.
I feel as if our good time was done.”
After this the servant came to say that she might go up to her father’s
room, and that scene of our drama was at an end.
Mr. Porson owned a villa at Beaulieu, in the south of France, which he
had built many years before as a winter house for his wife, whose chest
was weak. Here he was in the habit of spending the spring months, more,
perhaps, because of the associations which the place possessed for him
than of any affection for foreign lands. Now, however, after this last
attack, three doctors in consultation announced that it would be well
for him to escape from the fogs and damp of England. So to Beaulieu he
was ordered.
This decree caused consternation in various quarters. Mr. Porson did
not wish to go; Mary and Morris were cast down for simple and
elementary reasons; and Colonel Monk found this change of plan—it had
been arranged that the Porsons should stop at Seaview till the New
Year, which was to be the day of the marriage—inconvenient, and,
indeed, disturbing. Once those young people were parted, reflected the
Colonel in his wisdom, who could tell what might or might not happen?
In this difficulty he found an inspiration. Why should not the wedding
take place at once? Very diplomatically he sounded his brother-in-law,
to find that he had no opposition to fear in this quarter provided that
Mary and her husband would join him at Beaulieu after a week or two of
honeymoon. Then he spoke to Morris, who was delighted with the idea.
For Morris had come to the conclusion that the marriage state would be
better and more satisfactory than one of prolonged engagement.
It only remained, therefore, to obtain the consent of Mary, which would
perhaps, have been given without much difficulty had her uncle been
content to leave his son or Mr. Porson to ask it of her. As it chanced,
this he was not willing to do. Porson, he was sure, would at once give
way should his daughter raise any objection, and in Morris’s tact and
persuasive powers the Colonel had no faith.
In the issue, confident in his own diplomatic abilities, he determined
to manage the affair himself and to speak to his niece. The mistake was
grave, for whereas she was as wax to her father or her lover, something
in her uncle’s manner, or it may have been his very personality, always
aroused in Mary a spirit of opposition. On this occasion, too, that
manner was not fortunate, for he put the proposal before her as a thing
already agreed upon by all concerned, and one to which her consent was
asked as a mere matter of form.
Instantly Mary became antagonistic. She pretended not to understand;
she asked for reasons and explanations. Finally, she announced in idle
words, beneath which ran a current of determination, that neither her
father nor Morris could really wish this hurried marriage, since had
they done so one or other of them would have spoken to her on the
subject. When pressed, she intimated very politely, but in language
whereof the meaning could hardly be mistaken, that she held this fixing
of the date to be peculiarly her own privilege; and when still further
pressed said plainly that she considered her father too ill for her to
think of being married at present.
“But they both desire it,” expostulated the Colonel.
“They have not told me so,” Mary answered, setting her red lips.
“If that is all, they will tell you so soon enough, my dear girl.”
“Perhaps, uncle, after they have been directed to do so, but that is
not quite the same thing.”
The Colonel saw that he had made a mistake, and too late changed his
tactics.
“You see, Mary, your father’s state of health is precarious; he might
grow worse.”
She tapped her foot upon the ground. Of these allusions to the
possible, and, indeed, the certain end of her beloved father’s illness,
she had a kind of horror.
“In that event, that dreadful event,” she answered, “he will need me,
my whole time and care to nurse him. These I might not be able to give
if I were already married. I love Morris very dearly. I am his for
whatever I may be worth; but I was my father’s before Morris came into
my life, and he has the first claim upon me.”
“What, then, do you propose?” asked the Colonel curtly, for opposition
and argument bred no meekness in his somewhat arbitrary breast.
“To be married on New Year’s Day, wherever we are, if Morris wishes it
and the state of my father’s health makes it convenient. If not, Uncle
Richard, to wait till a more fitting season.” Then she rose—for this
conversation took place at Seaview—saying that it was time she should
give her father his medicine.
Thus the project of an early marriage fell through; for, having once
been driven into announcing her decision in terms so open and
unmistakable, Mary would not go back on her word.
Morris, who was much disappointed, pleaded with her. Her father also
spoke upon the subject, but though the voice was the voice of Mr.
Porson, the arguments, she perceived, were the arguments of Colonel
Monk. Therefore she hardened her heart and put the matter by, refusing,
indeed, to discuss it at any length. Yet—and it is not the first time
that a woman has allowed her whims to prevail over her secret wishes—in
truth she desired nothing more than to be married to Morris so soon as
it was his will to take her.
Finally, a compromise was arranged. There was to be no wedding at
present, but the whole party were to go together to Beaulieu, there to
await the development of events. It was arranged, moreover, by all
concerned, that unless something unforeseen occurred to prevent it, the
marriage should be celebrated upon or about New Year’s Day.