Marion gave me what the newspapers term 'a verbatim report' of the
interview which took place between her and George Harbinger. She
omitted no detail. As far as I understand, when I left them he was
standing with his right foot on the fender and the other on the rug,
and his elbow on the mantelpiece. She was sitting in the easy chair to
the left of the fireplace, in the full glow of the shaded lamp,
knitting a jumper. There was a pause and then he began, 'You never
seem idle for a minute. How nimble your fingers are!'
Marion knitted a little harder.
'I have always hoped,' he went on, 'that the woman I married would be
fond of her needle. There is something so restful in the idea of
coming home in the evening to see one's companion sitting at the
fireside engaged in such womanly tasks.'
Marion said that, no doubt, after a hard day at assessing, such a sight
would be soothing to a man.
He now came and sat beside her. 'I want to ask you something rather
important,' he said, 'but I wonder if I have known you long enough to
warrant it.'
She paused in her knitting for a moment to remind him--very
earnestly--that real friendship and understanding is more a matter of
affinity than actual length of acquaintance.
'You're right,' he said, pondering, 'and, of course, you're so . . . so
sensible.'
Women hate to be told they are sensible by any one but their
mothers-in-law. But how could an assessor know that? He continued to
regard her earnestly. 'I feel sure, too, that you're so much older
than you look.'
To this day Marion says she's not sure whether this was intended as a
compliment or a deadly insult.
'Do you think,' he went on, 'that a man should ask a woman to marry him
only when she has reached maturity?'
Marion, moving well into the glow of the pink-shaded lamp, said it
depended on the stage of maturity. Nowadays, when women so often look
younger than they really are, it is difficult to tell.
He seemed relieved. 'That's exactly what I feel about it. But
supposing my mother shouldn't approve of my choice? I hate family
squabbles above everything. I have always maintained that I would only
marry the woman that my mother really liked.'
'Isn't that rather a handicap for your future wife?' asked Marion
gently. 'But why not ask your mother's opinion of her?'
'That's just what I want to speak to you about,' he put in eagerly. 'I
. . . I want to ask you if I can introduce you to my mother?'
The knitting fell from Marion's nerveless fingers. She can show you
the uneven row on the jumper where she dropped fifteen stitches at that
moment.
[Illustration: Marion dropped fifteen stitches.]
'I shall be most happy to meet your mother,' she murmured.
'This is really good of you,' he said eagerly. 'You see, you're the
very one she would take to in an instant. I knew it directly I met
you. I don't know any one else she would listen to so willingly, if
you will consent to intervene.'
'Intervene!' echoed Marion. Somehow she did not like the word. Not at
that moment, I mean.
'Yes, intervene,' he repeated. There was no mistaking it--what could
be clearer. Latin, _inter_, between; _venio_, I come. Marion may have
translated it differently, but she had served in the capacity of buffer
too often to misinterpret its meaning.
'I am to understand that you wish for my aid in a love affair?' she
said.
'That's just about it. You see, I always hoped I should fall in love
with a quiet, homely, staid sort of girl, but dash it all, you can't
govern these things, can you?'
'Sometimes one has to,' said Marion, picking up dropped stitches.
'So I've completely lost my heart to a girl who--well, she's an
actress. She's second from the left in the front row chorus of
"Whizz-Bang" at the Hilarity Theatre; I tell you she's wonderful.'
'No doubt,' said Marion, bending lower over her knitting.
'Lottie's quite a good little girl, you know, but she's so
young--barely twenty--and she can't cook or sew or housekeep or do any
of those things which my mother approves. But she dances wonderfully
and kicks higher than anyone else in the chorus----'
'And you want me to make your mother appreciate the . . . the . . .
high kicks?' broke in Marion rather bitterly.
'Well, not exactly, but you know what mothers are--about the stage, I
mean. So don't you understand that if some sensible little woman like
you were to speak to her about it, she might reconstruct her views----'
He paused, staring in a puzzled way at Marion. Beneath her gentle
exterior she has a decided temper which she is apt to deplore and, she
affirms, must instantly be held in check. This, however, was an
occasion when she did not seem to think the check action need be
applied. She faced George with flashing eyes.
'If you were anything of a man,' she declared, 'you would manage an
affair like that alone without asking help from your woman friends.
Good evening.'
'Good evening,' responded George, not, I suppose, at the moment
thinking of anything more original to say. He departed in a pensive
mood.
'And that,' said Marion, concluding the narrative, 'is all there is to
be told.'
She sat before me with her eyes downcast, her lips quivering, and a
fierce anger rose within me against George Harbinger and mankind in
general who could be so blind to Marion's excellent qualities. As I
took her in my arms and comforted her, kissing her soft cheeks and
fluffy hair, I felt that if I were a man she would be the one woman
above all others that I would desire to have and to hold henceforth and
for evermore. 'Never mind,' I said tenderly, 'some day you'll meet
another who will----'
'No, no, I never shall,' interposed Marion, now openly weeping on my
shoulder. 'I shall never interest any one; I know that now. You can't
understand, Netta, for men are attracted towards you. If Henry died
tomorrow, you'd have half a dozen offers of marriage at once.'
I was rather startled at this suggestion, which somehow hinted
disregard for the unconscious Henry.
'I think I must lack charm,' went on Marion in a choked voice. 'Who
was it described charm as a--a--sort of a bloom on a woman, and said if
she had that she didn't need anything else?'
'It was Barrie,' I said, stroking her hair, 'but don't take any notice
of him, dear.'
'It's just what a man would say. Oh, Netta, why is life so hard to a
woman? Why must she always be the one to stifle her feelings, repress
her natural instincts, wait for man to take the lead? Why can't she be
the leading spirit if she wishes, without being humiliated? Why
shouldn't women propose?'
'That's just what I've been writing about,' I said involuntarily.
She raised her head from my shoulder. 'And what did you say about it?'
'I held that a woman can--er--oh, hang it all, never mind what I
_wrote_ about it. What I _say_ is that of course they ought to propose
if they want to. There should be perfect equality of the sexes.'
'Well, if there was,' put in Marion, her practical common sense coming
to her aid, 'it wouldn't after all make a man want to marry me just
because it was I who put the question. It's no use, Netta. I'm a born
old maid. I've got to go through life heart-hungry, loving other
people's babies instead of my own, and stepping aside to let all the
fair things go past me.'
Poor little Marion! She looked very wistful and pathetic at that
moment. A lump rose in my throat as I strove to dry her eyes and find
words of comfort.
She sobbed on unrestrainedly, however, and nothing I could say would
soothe her. 'Marion, darling,' I whispered, my own eyes growing moist,
'don't cry any more. Isn't there anything I can say to cheer you up?
Can't I suggest anything----?'
The door opened and Elizabeth entered. She carried a tray in her hand
on which were a bottle of stout and a glass.
'I thort so,' she said, setting down the tray and looking at Marion's
drooping form. 'Ah, these men--'ounds, I call 'em. I came in to 'ave
a word with Miss Marryun and cheer 'er up, like. I bin through it
myself, so I knows.'
She approached Marion and laid a damp red hand on her shoulder. 'I bin
lookin' at the cards for you, miss, an' I see a loverly future,' she
began in a coaxing voice. 'I see a tall dark man crossin' water for
you, with a present in 'is right 'and.'
Marion, who was not without a sense of humour, smiled rather wanly.
Encouraged, Elizabeth continued: 'Wot's the use o' spoilin' your pretty
eyes cryin' for the moon--by which I mean Mr. 'Arbinger--when 'e isn't
your Fate? Why, bless you, I was once goin' to marry a plumber's mate,
and jest a week afore the weddin 'e went orf with some one else an'
owin' me arf-a-crown, too. I was cut up at the time, but I know now 'e
wasn't my Fate, 'avin been told since that I'm goin' to marry a man
wot'll work with 'is brain. So cheer up, Miss Marryun, and come an'
'ave this nice glarss o' stout I've brought in for you.' She unscrewed
the bottle as she spoke. 'I always find that when things are at their
worst, an' you're feelin' real pipped like, a glarss o' stout acts like
magic. Yes, it's the right stuff, is stout.'
The situation was distinctly ludicrous. Yet neither Marion nor I
laughed. We watched Elizabeth solemnly pouring out the stout, after
which she handed it to Marion, who, though she 'never touches' anything
alcoholic as a rule, took it and drank it off 'like a lamb,' as
Elizabeth expressed it.
There was a pause. Then the corners of Marion's mouth ceased to droop.
She smiled. I smiled. Elizabeth smiled.
There was another pause. 'I think, Elizabeth,' I remarked, 'I'll have
a glass--just a small glass--of stout myself.'
'You do right, 'm. I'll fetch you a glass.'
'And Elizabeth, if you'd care to have some----'
'Thank you very much 'm, I _did_ take the liberty of 'avin' a taste
already, but a little drop more wouldn't do me any 'arm, as the sayin'
is.'
She went out. Marion set down her glass and put away her
pocket-handkerchief. 'How silly of me to worry about Mr. Harbinger,'
she said. 'After all, I suppose Fate never intended us for each other.'
I recognized in a flash that Elizabeth had succeeded where I had
failed, and I was conscious of a certain admiration for her methods.
Yet at that moment no hint of subsequent events filtered into my mind;
I did not suspect--even dimly--the possibilities of Elizabeth.