It is not easy to write--even on such a simple topic as 'How to Retain
a Husband's Love'--if your attention is being distracted by a
conscientious rendering of Czerny's 101 Exercises in an adjoining room.
I could get no further with my article than the opening lines (they
like an introductory couplet on the Woman's Page):--
It is the little rift within the lute
That by and by will make the music mute!
whereas The Kid, having disposed of all the major and minor scales and
a goodly slice of Czerny, had now started her 'piece,' 'The Blue Bells
of Scotland.' It was too much. I flung down my pencil and strode to
the door. 'Moira,' I shrieked, 'stop that practising instantly.'
'Yes, Mama, dear.'
'Don't you understand I'm writing and want to be quiet?'
'Yes, Mama, dear. May I go on when you've finished writing?'
'I suppose so; but when I've quite finished it will be about your
bedtime,' I said, trying not to feel exasperated.
'Then, may I get up an hour earlier in the morning to practise, Mama,
dear?'
There is something almost unnatural in the way that child fights her
way through all obstacles to the piano and the monotony of Czerny. All
the other parents in the world seem to be bewailing the fact that they
can't get their children to practise. I know I ought to be proud and
glad that The Kid is so bent upon a musical career, but even as the
lion and the lamb cannot lie down together, neither can a writer and an
incipient musician dwell in the same house in amity.
Through almost illimitable difficulties (for when at work Henry can no
more stand piano practice than I can) The Kid has got to the Variations
of 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.' Nevertheless she is yearning for the
day when she will arrive at the part where she crosses hands (Var.
8)--a tremendous achievement in her eyes, but viewed with cold
aloofness by Henry and me.
As I returned to my writing Henry entered the room.
'Will you as a Scotsman tell me,' I inquired before he could speak,
'what English people have done that they should be so unduly annoyed by
the bells of Scotland, why those bells should be blue, and who was
responsible for bringing the said blue bells (with variations) across
the Border?'
'I see The Kid's been annoying you again,' he commented. 'It's a pity
she gets no chance of practising.'
I looked at him sternly. 'No chance! On the contrary, she never lets
a chance escape her. I think it's the fierce Northern strain she
inherits from you, Henry, that makes her so persistent. She reminds me
of Bannockburn----'
'Bannockburn!' ejaculated Henry.
'King Bruce and the Spider and all that, you know. Didn't he go on
trying and trying until he succeeded? That's what The Kid does with
her scales. I think I understand why in 1603 we put a Scotch King on
the English throne--you wouldn't have given us any peace if we hadn't.'
'Well, don't blame me for it, my dear,' replied Henry. 'I dropped in
to tell you that William has just 'phoned up to say he accepts our
invitation to dinner this evening, but he is most anxious to know who
else is coming.'
I stared. 'This is most unusual. What should it matter to him who is
coming?'
'I told him, of course, that there was only Marion and ourselves, and
then he asked if he should get into evening dress. What do you think
of that?' We looked at each other in silent amazement.
'William--in--evening--dress,' I echoed blankly. 'What can it mean?'
'Frankly, I think the poor old chap's brain is getting a little
unhinged,' hazarded Henry. 'Do you remember the episode with the white
spats and gloves the other day? I think you ought to persuade him to
see a specialist, my dear.'
Suddenly I remembered the apparent reason for poor William's altered
manner and smiled. 'I don't think we need call in medical aid just
yet,' I replied.
Nevertheless, I felt that he must be cured of this foolishness as soon
as possible, for, as I had already hinted to him, any attempt at
embellishing his person would only make him appear more grotesque. How
little did I then dream of the amazing surprise that was in store for
me!
I was sitting alone in the drawing-room that same evening awaiting my
two guests, Marion and William (Henry was upstairs dressing), when
Elizabeth burst into the room.
'Oh, 'm, 'e's come!' she exclaimed, 'an' you never did see anything in
your life 'arf so funny. I've been larfin' fit to split my sides.'
'Elizabeth,' I said coldly, 'what is wrong? Of whom are you speaking?'
For answer she threw her apron over her head and went off into an
almost hysterical fit of laughing.
''Oo'd have thort it,' she said when she had slightly recovered. 'That
there grizzly bear of a Mr. Roarings, too!'
'So you are referring to one of my guests,' I interrupted sternly.
'I'm ashamed of you, Elizabeth.'
'Well, you only ort ter see 'im now! Talk about grubs turnin' into
butterflies----'
'I'm not talking about anything of the sort,' I interposed with extreme
asperity of manner. 'Am I to understand that Mr. Rawlings has arrived?'
'Not 'arf, 'e 'asn't. Wait till you see Mamma's boy. 'E's a fair
razzle-dazzle from top to toe. Oh, my godmother!' And being seized
with another burst of hysterical laughter she dashed from the room.
[Illustration: 'A fair razzle-dazzle.']
I sighed as I put aside the French novel I had been reading when I was
so rudely disturbed. I could not help wishing just then that Elizabeth
had a little less character and a little more deference, and I decided
that I must rebuke her for her familiarity. Then, remembering her
supreme art in grilling a steak, I decided that rebukes--practised on
domestics--are rather risky things in these days.
'Good evening,' said the deep voice of William behind me.
'Good evening,' I said casually, turning round and holding out my hand.
Then I started back, my hand falling limply to my side. It was William
who stood before me, because I recognized his voice--but that was all I
recognized at the moment. Not a shred of his former self seemed to
have remained.
I think I have, from time to time, represented William as shabby,
bulky, shapeless, hairy, and altogether impossible as far as appearance
goes. Can any words depict my astonishment at seeing him so suddenly
transformed, glorified, redeemed and clean-shaven? His figure, which
once appeared so stodgy, now looked merely strong and athletic encased
in a well-fitting morning coat, a waistcoat of a discreet shade of
smoke grey, with a hint of starched piqué slip at the opening. His
irreproachable trousers were correctly creased--not too marked to be
ostentatious, but just a graceful fold emerging, as it were, out of the
texture, even as the faint line of dawn strikes across the darkened sky.
But it was his head that attracted me most. There was no denying
it--shorn of his overgrowth of whiskers and put into a correct setting,
William was handsome; even more than that, he was interesting. He had
that firm, chiselled kind of mouth which women and artists find so
attractive, and a delightful cleft in his chin; his hair, which had
hitherto always struck me as being so unkempt and disordered, now that
it was brushed smoothly back from his brow and curled into the nape of
his neck gave him a distinguished appearance. I directed one long look
at him and then instinctively dived to the mirror.
'Oh, William,' I gasped, 'is it possible?'
'Is what possible?' he inquired.
'Why just think of it,' I replied, groping in my pocket for my powder
puff. '_You're a man!_'
'What else should I be?' he asked, apparently mystified.
'You used to be--just William. But now,' I sidled up to him, 'you've
changed amazingly.'
'Yes, I know that,' he growled with some of his former gruffness of
manner. 'Can you imagine what a tremendous amount of determination and
will power I required to get myself up like this?'
'And a good tailor as well--don't forget that,' I added, running an
appraising eye over his form. 'I must get his address for Henry. Yes,
it was brave of you. What made you do it, William?'
He avoided my eye and looked embarrassed. 'I had an object, of course.
Didn't I explain the other evening----'
'I remember. You did say something about a man not getting into a
groove.' I smiled, feeling slightly self-conscious for a moment. 'And
how do you feel now you're entirely metamorphosed?'
'Entirely metamorphosed, am I?' he said rather bitterly, 'Just on
account of a change of raiment. Yet Dr. Johnson said, "Fine clothes
are good only as they supply the want of other means of procuring
respect."'
'Oh, I always respected you, William,' I put in hastily, 'And don't
quote Dr. Johnson now. It doesn't go with your tie.'
He groaned. 'Must I change my expressions, my thoughts, my very mode
of living to match the garments I wear?'
'I'm afraid you must. But tell me,' I added, looking earnestly into
his face, 'doesn't this outward change affect you inwardly as
well--just a little? You _must_ be feeling more--what shall I
say--sprightly than before?'
He looked down at me as if puzzled, and then said in a half shame-faced
way, 'Mrs. Warrington, there is some truth in that remark of yours.
Some subtle, inexplicable change that I cannot account for has come
over me. Even as Samson's strength lay in his hair, do you think my
reason lay in my beard?'
'It depends on the quality of the reason. Describe your present
symptoms to me, William.'
He avoided my gaze. 'It is quite impossible to analyse them, I assure
you.'
'Let me help. Look at me steadily,' I said impressively. 'Now try, as
far as possible, to describe me.'
There was a pause. 'I'm afraid you'll be offended, Madame,' he began.
'No, I won't. Go on,' I commanded.
'Well, as a matter of fact, although I have known you for over nine
years, it has never before occurred to me to notice that you are
an--an--exceedingly pretty woman--but I am offending you?'
'Not in the least, William. Go on.'
'Before, I merely remarked you as Henry's wife--that was all. Why
should I so suddenly observe your facial aspect? As Dr. Johnson once
said----'
'Cut out Dr. Johnson, and go on with that bit about the facial aspect,'
I put in gently.
'It must, of course, be self-consciousness arising out of my unusual
adornment,' he went on, 'but despite myself I am compelled to notice
your attractive qualities. I must, however, overcome this deplorable
tendency--combat it----'
'I shouldn't combat it too strongly at first,' I suggested. 'It's
always better to do things by degrees. What a nice mouth you have,
William.'
'So have you,' he said, pondering on the discovery.
I blushed. William suddenly started back and smote his brow with his
hand. 'Isn't Henry coming in? Where is he?' he demanded wildly.
'Are you so anxious to see Henry at the moment?'
'I am. Mrs. Warrington, I am ashamed to admit the preposterous idea
that came into my mind just now. You and Henry would never forgive
me--never countenance me again--it was intolerable, incredible----' He
paused and wiped his brow. 'Why doesn't Henry come in?'
'What was the preposterous idea?' I asked, wondering.
'Well, you'll hardly believe it--scarcely realize what you've
escaped . . . just now, had you been a foot closer to me I believe--I
believe, Mrs. Warrington, I should have kissed you!'
I moved a step nearer to him. 'William, I should never have forgiven
you if you had,' I said, raising my face to his so that he could see
how intensely earnest I was.
The door opened, and Henry and Marion came in together.
'Netta!' exclaimed Marion, 'how could you!'
'My dear,' remarked Henry, 'I am surprised. How is it I come in and
find a man kissing you?'
'I don't know, Henry,' I replied meekly, 'unless it's because that door
opens so quietly!'