There was something distinctly puzzling about Marion's engagement to
William. It was William who puzzled me. Instinctively I knew he was
not happy. Had I been instrumental in bringing about the match, I
should have felt disturbed, but as it happened, they pulled it off
without the slightest assistance from me. It is the best way. I am
steadily determined never to involve myself in matrimonial schemes for
any one in future. Even when The Kid gets old enough to have love
affairs, she will get my advice and sympathy, but no active
co-operation on my part.
But to return to William. Though he seemed plunged in gloom, Marion
was radiant. She gaily prepared her trousseau, and took William on
long shopping expeditions from which he returned more overcast than
ever. Sometimes I wondered if he had really got over his infatuation
for Gladys, and if he had merely proposed to Marion out of pique. A
strange foreboding came over me that all was not going well.
This was deepened when Marion came to me one day with her eyes red as
though she had been weeping.
'Is anything wrong?' I inquired, an instinctive fear gripping at my
heart. 'You surely haven't quarrelled with William?'
She shook her head. 'Can you imagine William quarrelling with any one?'
I could not. He is one of those comfortable people with whom you can
be perfectly frank and outspoken without fear of giving the slightest
offence. If I say to him when he is deep in a learned discussion with
Henry, 'Do shut up, William, I can't think when you're talking,' he
does not snort, glare at me, breathe hard or show any other signs of
inward resentment. He at once relapses into silence--an affable
silence, not the strained kind when the offended party takes deep
respirations through the nose--and I am allowed to think without
interruption. It is one of the reasons why I have never minded Henry
having him about the place at any time.
'Then if you and William haven't quarrelled, what is wrong?' I asked of
the drooping Marion.
'It's--it's about our wedding, Netta. He wants to know if I'll put it
off for another six months.'
I started. 'Why should he wish to do that now, with all arrangements
made?'
'I don't know. There isn't the slightest reason for delay. It isn't a
case of money, for you know he has a good private income, and I have my
own little income as well. Then, we are both old enough to know our
own minds--yet he says he thinks we ought to have more time for
reflection. What can it mean, Netta?'
I was silent for a moment, not liking to voice my uneasy thoughts.
'It isn't that I mind the extra six months' delay,' she went on, 'but I
don't like the idea of postponing the wedding. There is something
unlucky about it.'
'You're right--it is unlucky,' said the voice of Elizabeth, coming
unexpectedly into the discussion.
'Elizabeth,' I said sternly, 'do you mean to tell me you were
listening?'
She drew herself up with dignity. 'Me listenin'! I've too much to do
to go poking myself into other people's bizness. But I wos just comin'
in to ask wot you wanted for dinner----'
'I have already given orders for dinner, Elizabeth.'
'Well, I musta forgotten 'em. An' just as I was comin' in I 'eard Miss
Marryun talkin' about Mr. Roarings wantin' to put the weddin' orf.
Don't you let 'im do it, miss. I've 'eard o' young women puttin' off
their weddin's so long that in the end they've never took place at all.
I've 'ad it 'appen to myself, so I _know_.'
'Elizabeth,' I interposed, 'we don't want your advice. Go away at
once.'
'I ain't done yet. You'll be glad o' my advice in the end. Experience
'elps a lot. Some men wot's goin' to be married gets a sort o' funk at
the last minnit and, bless you, they'd wriggle out o' it, yes, even if
they was goin' to marry an angel out o' 'eaven. My friend's 'usband
was one o' them sort--wanted to stop the 'ole thing with the weddin'
cake ordered, an' lodgings taken at Margate for the 'oneymoon. But she
'eld 'im to it--stuck to 'im like grim death until' e'd gone through
with it. An' now 'e often ses 'e never regrets it for a minnit.'
Marion looked up hopefully. 'Perhaps you're right, Elizabeth.'
'O' course I'm right,' she asserted, throwing a triumphant glance at me
as she retired.
'These tactics may be all very well for the lower classes,' I said to
Marion when we were alone, 'but I'm not quite sure whether they'd
answer in every case. No, Marion dear, if William wants to postpone
the wedding, it must be done.'
Her face fell at once, and she looked so dejected I felt troubled.
'If you like I will talk to William and try to discover the reason for
his change of plan,' I conceded reluctantly, 'but you must understand,
dear, that nothing will make me interfere with the natural course of
events.'
Rather to my surprise, William touched on the subject the next time he
came to see me. We were sitting alone and I was mentally noting his
air of depression, when he suddenly burst out: 'Tell me, frankly, do
you think a man is justified in--er--postponing a great event in his
life--such as, say, his wedding, if he feels uncertain?'
'Uncertain about what?' I asked gently.
'About himself--and everything, you know. True, Johnson has said that
marriage is one of the means of happiness--a sentiment delivered, no
doubt, by the great master when he was in a light vein--but supposing a
man is not sure that he can make a woman happy----'
'And supposing instead of the hypothetical man and woman you are
speaking of, we simply quote the case of you and Marion,' I interposed.
'Am I to understand that you do not wish to marry her?'
He started. 'It isn't exactly that. But at the--er--time
I--er--offered myself to Marion I had not weighed all the
possibilities. To be perfectly frank with you, I am not quite certain
of my own affections. I decided that, with companionship, these might
develop after marriage. But supposing they do not, then I shall have
rendered her unhappy. Is not the risk too great?'
He leaned forward and laid his hand on mine with an expression of great
earnestness. 'In this matter,' he said slowly, 'I intend to abide by
your decision. I have supreme faith in your judgment, and I do not
believe you would advise me wrongly. Tell me what I ought to do. Do
you think it is making for the happiness of two people if they are
united under these peculiar circumstances?'
'I said I would never interfere,' I began weakly.
'It isn't a question of interfering,' he broke in, 'but only a matter
of advising what you think is right or wrong.'
I hesitated, feeling the responsibility keenly. It is true that I am
accustomed to giving advice on these delicate matters. In my capacity
of writer on the Woman's Page I often discuss affairs of the heart,
getting much correspondence on the subject and (if a stamped addressed
envelope is enclosed) giving unsparing help and assistance to perplexed
lovers. But this case seemed entirely different. It lacked any
element of the frivolous. I knew that Manor's whole happiness depended
on my answer.
Supposing I suggested that the marriage should go on and afterwards the
couple turned out to be totally unsuited, what a serious situation I
should have created. As a matter of fact, I more than once suspected
that they were incompatibles, but hoped that they would ultimately
accommodate themselves to each other. If, however, they did not, I
should be confronted with the spectacle of two most excellent people
(apart) being thoroughly unhappy (together) for the remainder of their
lives. I shivered before the prospect, and was on the point of telling
William that I would never advise a union to take place unless there
was perfect understanding and sympathy between a couple, when he spoke
again.
'It's just at the last minute all these doubts have assailed me,' he
explained. 'I didn't realize before how serious a thing marriage
is--how irrevocable.'
In a flash Elizabeth's words came into my mind. I recalled her
references to men who get in a 'funk' and want to stop proceedings on
the eve of the wedding, and then I saw the whole thing. William was
that sort of man. I had an instinctive idea just then that no matter
who he was going to marry he would have come to me at the eleventh hour
with the same bewildered demand for advice.
In that moment I decided to trust to Elizabeth. She seems to have a
rude knowledge of life which is almost uncanny at times, but entirely
convincing. She has, as it were, a way of going to the heart of things
and straightway extracting truth. I felt just then that I could depend
on her judgment.
'William,' I said, looking at him steadily in the eye, 'you want my
candid opinion?'
'I do,' he replied fervently.
'Then I advise you to go on with the marriage. I have weighed it all
up, and I feel it is for the best.'
He wrung my hand silently, and then he rose. 'Thank you,' he said, 'I
am sure you are always right.' I thought I detected a note of relief
in his voice. Man is a perplexing creature.
The next day Marion came to me overjoyed. 'It's all right, dear,' she
announced. 'William wants to get married at once. Netta, you are
wonderful--how did you do it? What did you say to him?'
'Never mind,' I said, trying to look enigmatical and rather enjoying
Marion's respectful admiration of my wondrous powers, 'all's well that
ends well . . . ask Elizabeth if it isn't,' I added as that worthy
lurched in with the tea-tray.
'The wedding isn't going to be postponed after all, Elizabeth,'
announced Marion gleefully.
'I knowed it wouldn't be, Miss Marryun, when I see a weddin' wreath in
your cup. I tell you the Signs is always right.'
Marion shook her head. 'Not always. Didn't you once tell me that my
future husband would cross water to meet me? Mr. Rawlings, now, has
been here all the time.'
Elizabeth paused in the act of arranging the tea-table, and stood in a
prophetic attitude with the teapot held aloft.
'Oo ses the Signs is wrong?' she demanded. 'Isn't Mr. Roarings an
Irishman, an' was born in Dubling? Now I'd like to know 'ow any one
can get from Ireland to London without crossin' water, anyway!'
[Illustration: 'Oo ses the Signs is wrong?']
Marion bowed her head, meekly acquiescent. 'I never thought of that,
Elizabeth. You always seem to be right.'