Neither Elizabeth or Marion like William. Of the two, Elizabeth is
more tolerant towards him, merely commenting that 'she couldn't abide
his ways.' Marion, however, views him with an antipathy entirely
foreign to one of her gentle nature. I think, in the light of what
happened later, if she had only shown a little more forbearance towards
him it might have simplified matters.
William is our friend. He drops in to see us when he likes, sits with
his feet on our mantelpiece, strews tobacco ash on the carpet, and
always tells me which of my hats are the most unbecoming, so you can
imagine what a close friend he is. Though he does not stick any closer
than a brother, he is equally as frank. He likes Henry and tolerates
me. For the rest of the women in the world he has a strong objection.
Not that he is a misogynist; but he always holds that a woman
interferes with a man's life. I often think that William would be all
the better for a little judicious feminine interference. He has,
however, now got beyond the stage of redemption.
[Illustration: Our Friend William.]
Home means nothing more to William than a comfortable ledge below the
mantelpiece where he can put his feet, a carpet which will not spoil
with tobacco ash, and a few tables and chairs scattered about just to
hold a good supply of old magazines and newspapers handy for lighting
his pipe. He wears those shaggy, unbrushed-looking clothes which all
good women abhor. Worst of all, he is constantly getting imbued with
new and fantastic ideas which cause him to live in a (quite
unnecessary) ferment of enthusiasm.
A good wife, now, would nip these ideas in the bud and make existence
infinitely more restful to him. Henry and he once got up a notion of
inventing a new drink which was to make them both everlastingly famous
and superlatively rich. They talked about it for hours and had even
got to designing the labels and bottles when I stepped in and told
Henry not to be a silly ass, that he was making a fool of himself, and
a few other sensible wifely things like that which finally brought him
to reason. William, however, having no one to bring him to reason,
goes on day by day becoming more of a lunatic. I could never
understand why there is such a close bond between him and Henry, unless
it is because they enjoy arguing together. Henry, being a Scotsman,
likes argument; and William, being an Irishman, likes hearing his own
voice. Thus they seldom got bored with each other.
The time we did get bored with William was when he turned inventor. It
came rather as a surprise to us; and when he began to be abstracted,
profoundly meditative, almost sullen, with an apparent desire to be
alone, we thought at first that it was the onset of hydrophobia. In
fact, we looked it up on the back of the dog-licence to make sure.
William's remarks next became irrelevant. For example, after being
wrapped in silence for over half an hour, he suddenly flung out the
question, 'How many people do you know who possess a trousers-press?
Faced with the problem, I confessed I could not connect a single
acquaintance with a trousers-press. 'Henry hasn't got one,' I admitted.
'Neither have I,' said William. (I didn't doubt that for an instant.)
He went on to remark that he knew many men in many walks of life, and
only two of them owned a trousers-press, and they shared it between
them. Yet the inventor of this apparently negligible article had made
a small fortune out of the idea.
'If,' concluded William, 'you can make a small fortune out of a thing
that you can dispense with, how much more can you make out of something
that you can't do without?'
This sentence I give as William composed it, and from its construction
you will understand the state of his mind, for he was as fastidious
regarding style as Henry himself. Of course there was some excuse for
him. You see, when you're an inventor you can't be anything else. It
takes all your time. Judging by William's procedure you must sit up
experimenting all night long; you lie down in your clothes and snatch a
little sleep at odd moments. When you walk abroad you stride along
muttering, waving your arms and bumping into people; you forget to eat;
your friends fall away from you. Let me advise parents who are
thinking of a career for their sons never to make inventors of them.
It's a dog's life. Far better to put them to something with regular
hours, say from 10.30 to 4 o'clock, which leaves them with the evenings
free.
William wouldn't divulge what his invention was, because, he said, he
was afraid of the idea getting about before he took out the patent. He
merely told us it was a device which no man living could do without.
But he went so far as to show us the inner workings of his discovery
(hereinafter referred to as It), which, not knowing what they were for,
rather mystified us. I know there was a small suction valve which
involved the use of water, because William demonstrated to us one
Sunday afternoon in the drawing-room. He said afterwards that the
unexpected deluge that broke over the politely interested faces
gathered round him was merely due to a leakage in the valve, and he set
to work to repair it at once.
At that time William always carried on his person a strange assortment
of screws, metal discs, springs, bits of rubber and the like. He
pulled them out in showers when he took out his handkerchief; they
dripped from him when he stood up. I think he kept them about him for
inspiration.
William completed It in a frenzy of enthusiasm. He said that nothing
now stood between him and a vast fortune, and in a mood of reckless
generosity he promised us all shares, which certainly tended to deepen
our interest in the invention. Then he betook himself to the Patent
Office.
I saw him the following day, and it occurred to me at once that all was
not well with William. For one thing he did not burst in unannounced
with hair dishevelled, which seems to be the usual way for an inventor
to come into a room; he entered slowly and sat down heavily.
'Is anything wrong with the invention?' I asked.
He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. A metal disc fell
out and rolled unheeded across the floor.
'Nothing is wrong with it,' he answered dully.
'You don't mean that some one else has thought of It before you?'
'Most people seem to have thought of It.' He paused and absently
plucked off a stray piece of rubber from his coat sleeve. 'It seems to
have originated in America in 1880. Then a large colony of German
inventors applied for the patent; a body of Russians were imbued with
the idea; several Scandinavians had variations of it. It even seems to
have filtered into the brain of certain West African tribes; and in
1918 a Czecho-Slovak----' He paused, overcome with emotion.
'But if It is a thing man can't do without, why haven't we heard of
it?' I demanded.
'Men,' replied William sadly, seem determined to do without It. They
don't know what is good for them.'
Suddenly he raised his head with the light of enthusiasm in his eyes.
'By the way, I was talking to a chap at the Patent Office who told me
that there's an enormous boom in inventing in this country just now.
Henry ought to get a good article out of it.'
As a matter of fact it was the only thing that ever was got out of the
invention.
William, being an Irishman, didn't let failure depress him in the
least. We were all glad to see him rational again--as rational as
could be expected from him, I mean. As Elizabeth was wont to express
it, ''E aint screwed up like other folk, so what can you expect.' But
as I have said, she did not approve of William. It was not so much
that she took exception to the trail of tobacco ash that followed in
his wake, or the unusual litter he created during his inventive period.
She resented the fact that he was unmarried, having, at all times, a
strong objection to celibacy.
'When a man gets to the age o' that there Mr. Roarings' (William's
surname is Rawlings, so she didn't get so far out for her)--'an' isn't
married 'e's cheatin' some pore girl out of 'er rights, I ses,' she
declared. 'Selfishness! Spendin' all 'is money on 'isself. W'y isn't
'e married?'
'I don't know, Elizabeth,' I replied, 'but if you like, I'll ask him.'
'That'll do no good. 'E orter be thrown together with the right kind
o' young lady and kept up to the scratch. That's wot orter be done.
I'll look up the cards for 'im and see wot 'is Signs is. I'd like to
see 'im married and settled down.'
'Perhaps you mean to marry him yourself, Elizabeth?'
She gave a snort of indignation. 'Me! 'E's not my style. Give me a
young man who can set off a bright necktie an' a white waistcoat with a
nice watch an' albert 'ung on to it. But Mr. Roarings' now, 'e'd do
well for some one who 'ad settled down, like, with quiet sort o'
tastes. I got some one in my mind's eye for 'im already.'
From the moment that Elizabeth took his destiny in hand William was no
longer safe, I felt sure. The Signs began to get to work upon him.
'William,' I said to him one day, 'Elizabeth means to marry you.'
'Why should I marry Elizabeth?' he asked placidly.
'I don't mean that she herself is to be the blushing bride. She
prefers a man with a taste in waistcoats, a flowing auburn moustache,
and a tendency to bright neckties, none of which qualities or
quantities you possess. She means to get you married to some one else.'
William slowly removed his pipe from his mouth and regarded me with
intense earnestness. He is not the sort of person who lets his
emotions ripple to the surface, so his serious mien surprised me. He
raised his hand in a prophetic attitude and began to speak. 'Dr.
Johnson has rightly said that the incommodities of a single life are
necessary and certain, but those of a conjugal state are avoidable.
Excellent philosophy. Sooner than get married, my dear madame, I would
walk in the wilderness, conversing with no man; I would fly to the
fastnesses of Tibet; I would make of myself a hermit in a cave that was
strongly barricaded. I would eschew tobacco. I would pay, to the
uttermost farthing, any bachelor tax imposed by the State.'
'Do you so utterly abhor the idea of marriage?' I asked, profoundly
astonished.
'I do,' said William.
A strange sound broke on our ears. It seemed to come through the
keyhole, and resembled the contemptuous sniff with which Elizabeth
always expresses incredulity. But, of course, it couldn't have been
that.
As I have said, Elizabeth never listens at doors.