I should like to begin this chapter by saying it's the unexpected that
always happens. As that, however, would be too trite a remark, I will
only say that William was the last person on earth I should have
suspected of falling in love with Gladys Harringay.
She is, indeed, exceedingly pretty in a fluffy kind of way and most men
like to flirt with her, but they do not let their attentions develop
into anything serious. Perhaps you know the sort of girl she is. She
makes a dead set at every eligible man she meets and concentrates on
him to such an extent that he ends by losing interest in her
altogether--actually avoiding her, in fact. Man is like that, I've
observed. I suppose it's the primitive instinct of the hunter which
still lurks in him and makes him desire to stalk down his quarry
instead of its stalking him. Gladys didn't seem aware of this supreme
fact, and (though she affected the giddy airs of eighteen) she was
getting perilously near the age when the country considers a woman is
wise and staid enough to vote, yet she still remained unwed.
Never for a moment did it occur to me, when I asked her to dine with us
one evening, that she would go for William. Still less did I think
that he would take even the faintest interest in such a vapid creature.
But, as I wanted to say before, it's the unexpected that always happens.
William was looking unusually nice that evening. His eyes had a
far-away, rather haunted expression, due to his wearing sock-suspenders
for the first time, but, of course, Gladys didn't know that. He seemed
like one of the strong, silent heroes of fiction. I can testify that
he was silent--perhaps because Gladys did all the talking--and he
looked unusually strong. They sat together most of the evening, and
she only left his side to go to the piano to sing one of her 'stock'
French chansons. Even then she directed it entirely at William.
'_Mamman, dîtes-moi, ce qu'on sent quand on aime
Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?_'
she warbled, rolling her r's and looking so fixedly at William that he
seemed quite uneasy--he might, indeed, have been more uneasy had his
French been equal to following the words of the song. Modern
languages, however, like modern writers, do not appeal to him. They
must be as dead as mutton before they can awaken his interest. If you
want to see him roused to a perfect frenzy of enthusiasm you should see
him arguing with Henry as to the comparative dramatic values of Homeric
hexameters and Ionian iambics.
But to return to Gladys--or rather Gladys and William, for they
remained inseparable for the remainder of the evening. He even
accompanied her home, for I saw him dart forward (in his patent leather
boots, too, which demanded slow movement on his part), when she rose to
go, and hurry out to act as her escort.
A few days later he called in to see us for the sole purpose of
inquiring about her. He pretended he wanted to borrow Ruskin's _Munera
Pulveris_, but as he went away without the volume we saw how feeble was
that pretext.
'With regard to--er--Miss Harringay,' he began, almost as soon as he
arrived, 'I must say I consider her a remarkable young lady.'
'She _is_,' I said grimly.
'Would you believe it,' he went on, addressing himself to Henry, 'she
is actually a Dr. Johnson enthusiast.'
'Nonsense!' ejaculated Henry.
'It's a fact. Isn't it unusual in one so young and--er--tender and
timid that she recalls Keats' dissertation on woman, "she is like a
milk-white lamb that bleats for man's protection."'
'Oh, so she's been bleating, has she?' I said cruelly.
'It makes it all the more astonishing that she should have leanings
toward the study of serious literature.'
'Who told you she had?'
'She told me so herself.'
'Do you mean to tell me you believe it?'
He looked puzzled. 'Why should she say that if it isn't true? She
could have no object in making such a statement. As a matter of fact,
I found out quite by accident, when she unconsciously quoted a passage
from the great master.'
I began to see light. So that was why Gladys had come up in such haste
the day following her introduction to William to borrow _Johnson's
Aphorisms_. Oh, hapless, artless William!
'I see now that you were quite right when you once remarked that you
feared you had lost your reason with your beard,' I remarked severely.
'Do let things grow again before it is too late.'
'Let what grow?' he asked.
'Everything. Moustache, beard and general air of fuzziness. It's the
best protection you can have, my poor fellow.'
He departed rather abruptly after that, seeming somewhat annoyed. I
could not understand what was making him so unusually touchy.
'Surely,' I said to Henry, 'even William isn't so blind as to let
himself be taken in by that little noodle of a Gladys.'
'Of course he isn't,' replied Henry vehemently, 'do you think a chap is
ever deceived by anything like that? He hates to be pounced on, so to
speak. Do you know, my dear, that one of the things that first
attracted you to me was your complete indifference to myself.'
'Indeed, Henry?' I said, with lowered eyes and modest mien.
'Yes. If you remember I was editing the _Gazette_ at the time I first
met you, and although you, as one of my contributors, often came up to
the office to see me, we remained for a long time on a purely business
footing.'
It is true Henry was an unconscionable time in coming to the point.
'Entirely business-like,' I acquiesced.
'When you called to see me to discuss a gross misstatement in one of
your articles (which you refused to acknowledge until I had sent for
you to put the matter clearly before you), you did not conduct yourself
like so many other girls who came to discuss their work with me. You
did not attempt to engage in a mild flirtation, make eyes, bend over me
as I glanced through the manuscript----'
'Oh, bad, bad girls,' I murmured. 'Do women behave like that with you,
Henry?'
'They _did_, my dear. I am speaking of the time before I was married.'
I smiled. What a comfort it is to have a Scotsman for a husband! He
is so solid and reliable regarding the opposite sex.
'You, however, employed none of these wiles,' he continued, 'and were
almost studiously cold and business-like. For a long time I thought I
should never interest you in myself--in fact, I know I took you very
much by surprise when I made you an offer, didn't I?'
'I was rather surprised, Henry,' I said, smiling at his retreating form
as he went out of the room. Then I turned to Marion, who happened to
be present. 'Why, of course,' I commented, 'that makes it all the more
serious about William.'
'What are you talking about?' she asked in a puzzled tone.
'If Henry was deceived so easily----'
'Deceived! Oh, Netta!'
'Well, I mean, dear, I'd decided to marry Henry before the episode of
the misstatement in my article he just mentioned. I--I--put the
misstatement in on purpose to arouse a controversy between us.'
'Netta, how terrible!'
'Why terrible, Marion? I knew Henry would make an excellent husband.
Am I not a suitable wife for him?'
[Illustration: 'Am I not a suitable wife for Henry?']
'You are just perfect, dear--but you might have been otherwise.'
'That's exactly what I'm driving at, Marion. Gladys is an "otherwise."
If I deceived Henry, how much easier is it for her to deceive William?
No, she shan't marry him. He'd be wretched.'
Marion smiled. 'You surely don't think there's anything like that
between them?'
'He's drifting that way if some one doesn't stop him.'
Again Marion smiled. 'I tell you it's impossible. He couldn't have
got over his passion for me so quickly.'
'His passion for you,' I echoed. 'My dear, what do you mean?'
Marion then laid down her sewing and began to speak. I listened
amazed, unable at first to credit what she was saying, though gradually
I began to understand many things which had hitherto been obscure.
'It's wonderful to think of his having loved you secretly all this
time,' I marvelled; 'yet why should he take Elizabeth into his
confidence rather than myself? And why didn't you tell me all this
before--it would have made things so much simpler.'
'At first, not being aware how handsome he could be made, I did not
care for him and----'
'Do you mean, then, that you no longer dislike him, Marion?'
'On the contrary, dear, I have begun to regard him with--with feelings
of warmth.'
'Then all goes well, it seems. Now I shall go and speak to Elizabeth
about the affair.'
I thought Elizabeth seemed a little uneasy under my questioning, but
she reiterated many times: 'I tell you 'e isn't 'arf gone on Miss
Marryun--fair mad about 'er 'e is, but 'e told me not to breathe a word
about it to a soul.'
'Well, he's mad about some one else now,' I interposed.
Elizabeth looked unduly startled. 'Oo with? Don't say it's that there
Miss 'Arringay 'oo wos a-settin' 'er cap so 'ard at 'im the other
night?'
I was a little taken aback. 'Yes, that's about it,' I confessed.
'Well, upon my soul, the sorcy baggage,' burst out Elizabeth with
unexpected wrath, 'such imperence after me workin' an' plannin' the way
I 'ave. But she shan't 'ave 'im. Look 'ere, 'm, Miss Marryun is just
the one fer 'im. Can't it be brought off like?'
I pondered. 'I'll do my best, Elizabeth. If, as you say, he has
formed such a strong attachment to Miss Marion, I should like to see
them both happy. You say he was particularly anxious to have her
photograph?'
I almost imagined at that moment Elizabeth avoided my eye. 'Very
pertickler,' she retorted in a muffled voice.
'Very well, then. I, myself, will restore the photo he replaced. It
will be the first step to an understanding between them.'
I left the kitchen smiling complacently, feeling that my latest
matrimonial scheme for Marion was going to be the easiest I had ever
attempted.
Alas! I was reckoning, as the saying is, without my host. The host in
this case was Gladys.