Everything went wrong with my plans from the first. For instance,
Marion, the central figure in the plot, went away suddenly to nurse a
sick great-aunt. William now became so engrossed with Gladys that he
talked of very little else. Thus Henry and I would have avoided him at
this stage, if possible; it was not possible, however, to avoid him.
We saw more of him than ever. I will explain why.
William was one of those lovers who are terrified of being over-bold or
too confident, lest by their presumption they might alarm the timid
object of their affections. He needn't have been afraid of wooing
Gladys. She flung herself at his head rather obviously, but he seemed
so obtuse she must have found him irritating at times. Thus, instead
of calling upon her or asking her to meet him by appointment, or
arranging an evening at the theatre and otherwise behaving in a
sensible manner, he hung about her house, endeavouring to come upon her
'by chance.' Further, having met her at our place he seemed to be
under the impression that she was one of my closest friends, and came
to see me every day, judging by the times he 'dropped in' in the
obvious anticipation of meeting her. Not finding his quarry, he talked
about her to Henry, though I must admit his audience was not always
sympathetic.
'I don't believe in interfering in these things,' remarked Henry, one
evening, when we were alone, 'but, frankly, I should be really sorry to
see good old William throw himself away on that frivolous, stupid
little Gladys. They'd be desperately unhappy after being married a
week. Couldn't something be said to them, do you think--a hint thrown
out from time to time?'
'Throwing hints--or anything else--wouldn't be of the slightest use,
Henry. Have you ever met a person in love who would listen to sound
advice of the sort? If you want to know how to get yourself intensely
unpopular--with two people at least--try intervening in what you
consider an unsuitable love match.'
I spoke with feeling, for I had once been implored to use my influence
to part a couple who were, to all appearances, acutely incompatible.
The job was distasteful to me, and I only undertook it because there is
a strain of philanthropy in my nature (though that isn't what the
incompatibles called it). My intervention had no effect, of course.
They are now married--and quite happy--and neither of them will speak
to me any more.
Henry continued to look disturbed. 'If he only knew Gladys,' he said,
'but as things are going at present I'm afraid he'll propose before his
eyes are opened.'
I felt troubled. For a day or two I pondered on the distressing
affair, but I was resolutely determined not to intervene. Then it was
the idea occurred to me. To be frank, it was Elizabeth who actually
inspired it. I was giving orders for dinner and was suggesting apple
turnovers for a sweet, when she blandly remarked, 'Talkin' o'
turnovers, Mr. Roarings is dead gone on that there Miss 'Arringay now,
I 'ear.'
'Your hearing does seem unusually good,' I said coldly. Certainly, I
had never mentioned the subject to any one but Henry. It was a
surprise to discover that I had, at the same time, been mentioning it
to Elizabeth as well.
'Nice wife she'd make him,' continued the irrepressible Elizabeth, 'a
flipperty-flapperty piece o' goods like 'er.'
'We will have cheese straws after the sweet, Elizabeth,' I said in
tones of chill rebuke.
'Right-o, 'm. Well, wot are you goin' to _do_ about it?'
'Do about what?'
'Mr. Roarings an' Miss 'Arringay. 'E isn't 'er style as any one could
see with 'arf an eye, but 'e's fair blinded just now. Wot an
eye-opener it'd be if 'e got to know 'er proper--met 'er frequent, so
to speak.'
'I'm afraid I don't quite understand.'
'Well, 'ere's a case in point. My sister-in-law's brother--nice young
chap 'e was too--fell in with a girl that wasn't the right one fer
'im--no clarss like,--but 'e wouldn't 'ear a word agen 'er. So my
sister-in-law thinks of a plan. She arsks both 'er brother an' the
young woman 'e was courtin' to go and spend their 'olidays with 'er at
the seaside. Which they did an'--bless yer--wot with seein' 'er every
day an' gettin' to know 'er too well 'e soon got sick o' 'er. Why,
'e'd given 'er a black eye afore the week was out. Now if Mr. Roarings
and Miss 'Arringay met frequent like that----'
'Elizabeth,' I interposed, 'mind your own business'; and I went out of
the kitchen with dignity.
Nevertheless, I was compelled to admit that she had given me an
inspiration. That girl, under a rough and unpromising exterior, has
fecundity of ideas which astonishes me. Had she been in a higher class
in life--or even able to spell--she might have been a regular
contributor to the Sunday papers.
'Henry,' I said, hurrying into the study. 'I have got a solution
regarding William's entanglement. I am going to invite Gladys to spend
a week here with us.'
'How can that help? I don't quite see----'
'My dear ass, the idea isn't a novel one, but in this case it's
excellent. I'll write her a note on the instant and ask her if she'll
come, giving as a pretext that I'm feeling lonely in Marion's absence.'
'But why this hurry? Hadn't you better think it over first?'
'If I pause to think it over, Henry, I know I shall decide that I can't
tolerate Gladys for an entire week. As it is, I expect she'll drive me
stark mad. No, no, let me write while I am in my present frenzy of
philanthropy?'
'I suppose,' he reflected, 'William will practically spend the week
here, too, when he knows Gladys is coming.'
'Exactly. What about it?'
'I'm thinking of my work,' he grumbled. 'Two people being
disillusioned under one roof are sure to create interruptions.'
'They shan't interrupt you. I intend to leave them together as much as
possible. How glad I am that Gladys isn't the least bit clever--a week
might not be long enough if she were.'
'I'm not sanguine about the idea,' was Henry's comment. 'It might work
out all right in books and plays; but in real life its effect is
extremely doubtful.'
'Not at all. Elizabeth knew a young man who was devoted to a girl
until they spent a holiday together. At the end of the first week he
gave her a black eye. What more do you want than that?'
'Nothing,' replied Henry, 'if she was quite satisfied. Do you think
William's disillusionment will be as abrupt as all that?'
'I'm hopeful. Now don't talk to me until I've finished my letter to
Gladys, which demands effort on my part. It must read as if I really
wanted her to come.'
Evidently the letter was effective, for Gladys rang up directly she
received it and told me she'd be simply charmed to come and that it was
perfectly sweet of me to have her. (I rather thought it was myself.)
She came the next day with an abnormal amount of luggage for such a
brief visit. But as I told Henry (who said it looked as though she
intended wintering in our abode), I had distinctly stipulated that the
invitation was for a week only. I was not at that time aware of the
barnacle-like qualities of Gladys.
As I anticipated, William also descended on us when he knew we had
Gladys for a visitor. I left them alone together at every opportunity,
and for a day or two all went well.
Things might have gone better (for Gladys) if she hadn't attempted to
be clever. As a matter of fact she over-reached herself. To this day
I believe she ascribes her failure to Dr. Johnson, though she was far
more to blame than that good old man. She talks very bitterly against
him even now.
You see, knowing William's weakness, she played up to it, but not being
clever she hadn't got her subject properly in hand. I know the poor
girl worked hard at the _Aphorisms_, but she had exhausted what she
knew of those by the end of the first day. She did her best, I will
admit, and even took the _Lives of the English Poets_ to bed with her
and concentrated on them until midnight, while she dipped into _The
Vanity of Human Wishes_ before breakfast. But it was no use. William
discovered her deception rapidly, and it seemed to annoy him unduly.
His visits began to fall off, and after Gladys had artlessly remarked
to him one day, 'Who is that Mr. Boswell you're always talking
about--he must be a great friend of yours. I hope you'll introduce
me,' he ceased to come altogether.
He had, in fact, arrived at the stage where Gladys irritated him. So
had we. But unlike William we could not get away from her. Her visit
had already extended two weeks and was melting into a third, and she
gave no hint of returning home. It wouldn't have been so bad if only
she had been quiet, but she is the most restless person I have ever
known. She was always running up and down stairs, banging doors,
playing fragments on the piano, and dashing into the study to talk to
Henry when he was writing.
He is, on the whole, an equable man, but more than once I trembled for
the consequences when I saw her go up to him, lean over his shoulder
and, snatching at some loose pages of his MS., playfully remark, 'What
funny crabbed letters! And what is it all about--something you're
inventing to deceive us poor public, I'll be bound. I don't believe a
word of what you're writing, so there!'
Henry used to say scorching things about Gladys when we retired at
night (the only chance we seemed to have now of being alone was in our
bedroom), and would ask me when I meant to tell her to go. I suggested
he should tell her himself, and he declared it was not the duty of the
host. I replied that it was the first time I'd ever heard it was the
duty of the hostess either.
We planned to make little speeches in her presence based on the subject
of her departure, and fraught with deep and subtle allusion, but she
ignored them. We inquired if her mother did not miss her after such a
prolonged absence, and she said they rather liked her to be away from
home for a few months in the year, as a change was always good. No
doubt it was good for her people, but it was bad for Henry and me.
Then one night Henry revolted. 'If she hasn't gone in another two
days,' he informed me, 'I'm going to get rooms at an hotel.'
He spoke as if he meant it, and I was mournfully wondering what I ought
to do to get Gladys to go, short of being downright rude, when
Elizabeth drifted into the problem.
'If Miss 'Arringay's goin' to stop much longer, I ain't,' she
announced. 'She makes too much extry work, an' the sight o' 'er about
the place fair riles me.'
I looked wearily at Elizabeth. 'No doubt Miss Harringay will be going
soon,' I said with an utter lack of conviction.
Elizabeth approached me, and bending down, said in a hoarse whisper,
'Wot is it--carn't you get rid of 'er?'
[Illustration: 'Carn't you get rid of 'er?']
I did not reply, feeling it distasteful to discuss my guest with a
domestic, though I could not refrain from discussing her with Henry.
'Tell you wot you orter do,' said the fertile Elizabeth, 'send for Miss
Marryun to come 'ere unexpected, an' then tell Miss 'Arringay you'll
want 'er room.'
'But--but I've got another spare room. Miss Harringay knows that.'
Elizabeth winked: I pretended not to see it, but there was no mistaking
the distinct muscular movement of her left eyelid. 'No you '_aven't_,'
she said stoutly. 'You 'avent got any proper bedding in the spare room
now, 'ave you?'
'That's too thin,' I said decidedly. Yet even as I spoke I clutched at
the straw and, holding on to it, went at once and wrote to Marion.
'You must come home at once,' I commanded, 'in spite of great-aunt
Jane's rheumatism. Is it not written that it is better to have one
rheumatic great-aunt than a brother, sister-in-law, and a niece in an
asylum!'
For answer Marion wired the time of her return train, and I began to
grow hopeful.
'An' when Miss Marryun comes,' remarked Elizabeth, 'if I wos you I
wouldn't say nothin' to 'er about the way Mr. Roarings went after Miss
'Arringay.'
'Why not?' I asked involuntarily.
'She mightn't trust 'im arter that. I never thort myself 'e'd turn as
quick as 'e did. But men is queer, as my pore mother often said when
father give 'er a black eye just to show 'ow fond 'e was of her like.
No, the best thing to do is to let Miss Marryun think that Mr. Roarings
is still taken up with 'er and only went after the other young lady to
make 'er jealous.'
There was much wisdom in Elizabeth's words. Nevertheless, I did not
intend to mix myself up in any more matrimonial schemes. Much as I
desired to see Marion happy, I felt that arranging the destiny of
others did not leave me enough leisure to arrange my own, besides
interfering with my literary work. At the moment, too, the thought
uppermost in my mind was how to dispose of Gladys.
I went to her with Marion's telegram in my hand and a falsely contrite
expression on my face. 'I'm so awfully sorry, Gladys, but a most
unforeseen thing has happened,' I said. 'Marion is coming to-day, and
she'll have to take your room. Isn't it an idiotic situation?'
Gladys pondered. 'But you have another spare room, haven't you?' she
demanded brightly.
'Yes, Gladys, we have. But we haven't got the bedding for that just
now. The mattress is being cleaned, and I suppose it won't be sent
back for another fortnight at least.'
Undaunted, Gladys had another idea. 'Then do you think Marion would
mind sharing my room?'
'She would indeed--you see she walks in her sleep,' I said glibly,
wondering how it was George Washington had found any difficulty in
dissembling, 'and she's very sensitive about any one getting to know
about it.'
Gladys went after that. Henry and I have both decided that we're not
going to interfere with incompatibles in future. It's too much of a
strain on the nervous system.