_William resumes his story_: I am now aware that I should not have
invoked the aid of Elizabeth. A man should work out his own destiny.
Once a woman precipitates herself in an affair, complications are bound
to follow. Also Elizabeth is no ordinary woman. There are times when
I question whether she is human. Was it not her idea that I
should--but I must try to chronicle the events in their correct
sequence.
The mistake I made primarily, was in not going away directly I first
heard from Elizabeth of Miss Warrington's unfortunate and misplaced
attachment for me. Things might then have adjusted themselves quite
naturally. The idea, however, of a sensitive woman suffering on my
account was exceedingly distasteful to me. If, I decided, I could
bring about her complete disillusionment my conscience would be at
rest. Also there would then be no necessity to cut myself off from the
Warringtons, and give up my pleasant discourses with Henry. Thus, I
felt, I was taking the most advisable course under the circumstances.
As for Miss Warrington herself, her behaviour was so inexplicable I
wondered if her mind was not beginning to get unhinged. In the first
place it was, I thought, unmaidenly enough that she should, through the
medium of Elizabeth, thrust her photo on me; but that the photo should
be accompanied by some feeble selection from the ill-balanced
outpourings of Byron (who is my pet aversion) was, indeed, almost
revolting.
Further, her attitude towards me in the presence of others was one of
open hostility. So well, indeed, did she act on one occasion when I
happened to be dining at her brother's house, that a new hope sprang up
within me. I began to think that her strange uncalled-for passion for
me had passed--in short, that her love had turned to hate. So
impressed was I with this idea that when I next called at the
Warringtons' I asked Elizabeth if I could speak to her alone for a few
moments.
'About Miss Marryun, I'll bet,' she remarked. Looking at her I thought
she accompanied her words with a slight lowering of the left eyelid. I
trust I was mistaken. Free as the girl is in her speech I have never
given her any encouragement to embellish it by winking.
[Illustration: A slight lowering of the left eyelid.]
'Naturally, the subject has been preying on my mind,' I admitted. 'But
I am not so tortured with misgivings as before. Miss Warrington has
ceased to--er--interest herself in me. In fact she detests me.'
'Oo ses that tom-my-rot?' asked the girl, turning on me almost fiercely.
'Miss Warrington was so excessively rude and abrupt in her manner to me
the other evening,' I explained, 'that I am now convinced she has
suddenly grown to hate me.'
'If you're not as blind as a bat!' commented Elizabeth. 'Can't you see
she's doin' that to 'ide 'er feelings--so that you'll never guess 'ow
'er 'eart is torn an' bleedin' like.'
'Dear me, Elizabeth, do you mean this?' I asked in the utmost concern.
'Sure of it. As a matter o' fact she's more gone on you than ever.
She's got to not eatin' now, so you can guess 'ow bad she is.'
I wiped the gathering moisture from my brow. 'Elizabeth, this is
terrible--it must be stopped. I must discover some way to make Miss
Warrington actually dislike me. In this I hope for your assistance.
You know Miss Warrington much better than I do. You are, no doubt,
acquainted with her likes and prejudices?'
'Not 'arf, I aint,' she said.
Taking this as meaning an affirmative, I continued, 'Perhaps you are
able to tell me what it is about me that attracts her. I have a
plan--I shall do exactly the opposite of what she desires of me.'
'To set her agen you, like,' remarked Elizabeth.
'Exactly.'
She stood for a few moments regarding me with her head on one side.
Had you known her to be capable of it you might almost have imagined
that she was thinking. Certainly she breathed much harder than usual.
At last, to my profound astonishment, she suddenly sat down, threw her
apron over her face and burst into unrestrained laughter.
'Compose yourself, my good girl,' I said, anxious lest the family
should overhear, 'what is the matter?'
'I got an idea,' she said as soon as she had recovered. 'It aint 'arf
a bad one. You say you want to know wot it is Miss Marryun likes about
you?'
'I do, indeed,' I said eagerly.
'Well, I can tell you that right away. It's your towsled look, so to
speak. Only the other day she ses to me, she ses, "Wot I like about
Mr. Roarings is the rough kind o' suits 'e wears, them baggy trousis,
an' also 'is great clompin' boots. I like the free an' easy way 'e
throws 'is feet up to the ledge of the mantelpiece," she ses, "an' the
way 'e 'as of wearin' 'is 'air 'anging all about 'is ears,
shaggy-like."'
'Incredible!' I exclaimed.
'An' only yesterday she stood on this very spot where you are now and
ses to me, thoughtful like: "Don't you love a man with a heavy beard
an' moustarch--like Mr. Roarings, f'r instance?" she ses.'
'"Well, miss, since you put the question to me," I ses plain out; "I'm
not parshul to either, though I've 'ad young men with 'em, singly and
both together. I prefers 'em entirely without, but beggars can't be
choosers, can they?"
'Then Miss Marryun said thoughtful like: "I think I'm rather different
from other wimmin, Elizabeth. Very few would admire a man like Mr.
Roarings. But 'e's my style, so to speak, if I was pickin' an'
choosin'. But to show you 'ow strange I am," she goes on, "if 'e made
'isself spruce I should get to dislike 'im all at once."'
I raised my head sharply, suffused by a glow of hope. 'Elizabeth, my
good girl,' I exclaimed, 'is it so easy to accomplish as all that?'
'I'm not so sure about easy,' she commented, looking me over as if I'd
been an unlabelled exhibit in a Zoo. '"Rome wasn't built in a day," as
the sayin' is, but it's a long lane that 'as no turnin'. "If 'e," ses
Miss Marryun, meanin' you, "was got up real smart with a fancy
westcoat, a crease down the front of 'is trousis, shinin' button boots,
and wos to shave orf 'is beard and moustarch--" she said that bit very
earnest, too--"well, I should fair detest the sight of 'im."'
I sank down in a seat with a groan of despair. Elizabeth was right.
Such a metamorphosis would not be easy. It would mean the overturning
of my most cherished convictions, an upheaval of the very routine of my
existence. Would life be worth living if one awoke in a morning to the
knowledge of the rites that every day would bring forth? A matutinal
shave, trousers to be taken from the press, collars and cuffs to be
changed, hair and nails to be trimmed, the two latter, if not every
day, at all events occurring with enough frequency to keep a simple man
in a constant state of unrest.
'Elizabeth,' I said, shuddering, 'I cannot do all this.'
'Oo's arskin' you to?' demanded the girl. 'I was only repeating wot
Miss Marryun ses to me with 'er own lips. "Yes, I should fair get to
detest 'im if 'e was spruce," was 'er very words.'
I pondered. 'Are you quite sure she stipulated about the beard?'
'She did that. She mentioned it pertickler three times.'
I shook my head firmly. Whatever happened I did not mean to concede
that point. My beard is one of my best friends. By allowing it to
grow to a suitable length it conceals the fact when my ties have grown
shabby, and saves me any unnecessary changing of collars. No, I would
never be clean-shaven. I could not face the world stripped of my
natural facial coverings.
'There may be something in what you say, and I will consider your
suggestion regarding the trousers, Elizabeth,' I conceded, 'but the
suggestion that I should shave is perfectly monstrous and I won't think
of it for a moment.'
'Well, to my mind it's one of the first things wot ought to be done
with you,' she said in what seemed to me a disparaging sort of voice,
'wots the good o' puttin' a fancy westcoat an' a watch an' albert on a
chap when 'e's got an 'ead like a wild man o' the woods. There ort to
be no 'arf an' 'arf about it, I ses.'
I looked at the girl sternly, feeling that her speech was becoming
unduly familiar. Nevertheless, I was conscious of a certain gratitude
for her suggestion, and after she had gone out, I began to consider it
from all points. There could be no harm in gradually making those
changes in my habits and apparel which would bring about Miss
Warrington's disillusionment, but it must be fairly gradual. Otherwise
it might attract undue attention, for there are times when I think I am
just a trifle careless about my appearance.
I decided I had better begin operations with a new suit. This would
involve changing my regular tailor. The one who has had my custom for
the last quarter of a century is used to my way of putting my head
round his door once in three years and commanding, 'A tweed lounge
suit, the same as the last.'
'Yes, sir,' he invariably concurs, 'any difference in measurements,
sir?'
'I think not,' I reply, 'but make it quite loose and comfortable in
case I've added a few inches to the waist.'
That is all. Occasionally, of course, I vary the order by making it an
overcoat, or an extra pair of slacks (when I burn holes in my usual
ones, which frequently happens), but the procedure is always the same.
It can easily be understood that I had not the courage to confront him
after all these years with a demand for the latest thing in the
season's suitings, and especial injunctions regarding style and cut.
As I was dwelling on the annoyances and difficulties that were already
presenting themselves, Miss Warrington came in. I must confess that,
as I looked at the irritating female whose misplaced affections were
already harassing me, I felt slightly confused. Since I had first
learned of her insane infatuation I had studiously avoided being left
alone with her for one instant. At the moment, however, there was no
possibility of escape, as she stood between me and the door, thus
effectively barring my exit. I could only confront her uneasily,
trying to avoid her direct gaze and, as I did so, I could not help
remarking that she, too, was obviously embarrassed.
Then, as if taking a resolution, she came up to me and looked me
squarely in the face. I moved away, a faint shiver of apprehension
going down my spine.
'Mr. Rawlings,' she said slowly and impressively, 'there is one thing I
want to say regarding your conduct. When you are addressing
photographs, may I ask you to do it with lowered voice, or at all
events in a purely conversational tone?' Then she swept out of the
room, banging the door behind her.
As for me, I was left dazed and struggling to grasp the strange import
of her mystic words. Why this constant reference to the photograph she
had so shamelessly thrust upon me, and which, as a direct hint to her
that I did not desire it, I had replaced in its frame at the first
opportunity?
What had come over the woman? I began to be more than ever convinced
of my former suspicion that her fatal and erratic passion for myself
was beginning to unhinge her mind. I saw that I must lose no time in
bringing about her disillusionment.