I had not seen Marion and William since their marriage as they had gone
on a six-months' tour of the Italian lakes, but I was haunted with the
foreboding that the match was not, after all, turning out a success.
For one thing, Marion's silence regarding her marriage was unusual.
She wrote only brief notes that made no reference to William. As for
William, he did not write at all.
Now Marion is what you would call an ardent correspondent, as well as
being a communicative person. If she were happy she would be likely to
write no less than eight pages three times a week breathing praise of
William--I mean that would be the general tone of her letters. But now
she devoted herself exclusively to descriptions of scenery and relating
episodes regarding the constant losing and regaining of their baggage
on their journeys, which though in its way instructive, struck me as
lacking vital interest.
The affair troubled me, because I knew that I was, in a measure,
responsible for the match. William had left the decision in my hands,
and, on thinking it over, it struck me as a rather cowardly thing to
do. What right had he to put it on to me? I knew that if they were
not happy I should be haunted by remorse to the end of my days. It was
an annoying situation.
When they arrived home and wired from an hotel in London that they were
coming up to see me the next day my trepidation increased. Supposing
they came to me with reproaches, even recriminations? I awaited their
visit in a subdued frame of mind.
Not so Elizabeth. Her jubilant air, her triumphant expression when she
spoke of the newly wedded pair, ended by irritating me.
'Getting married isn't the only thing in life; as you seem to think,' I
said rather severely, after a remark of hers that she was glad to think
Marion was so happily settled.
'Maybe not, but it's the best,' she commented, 'an' as I always sed
about Miss Marryun----'
'Mrs. Rawlings,' I corrected.
'Lor', I'll never get used to the name. Mrs. Roarings, then, 'as only
got me to thank for the present 'appy state o' things.'
'What do you mean?' I asked, only half interested.
'Well, it's like this yeer,' answered Elizabeth, 'I see from the very
first that Mr. Roarings an' Miss Marryun were just suited to each
other. The trouble was they didn't see it theirselves, an' so I 'elped
to open their eyes like.'
'Explain,' I commanded.
Elizabeth did so. She unfolded a tale that, as she proceeded step by
step, left me speechless with horror. That she should have so basely
conspired to throw William and Marion at each other and, by
misrepresentations, lies and every kind of deception, brought about the
match, utterly appalled me. Everything suddenly became clear. William
had married through a misplaced sense of chivalry--offered himself up
as a sacrifice as it were. I understood then why Marion had written so
much about luggage and nothing about connubial bliss--the union was
bound to turn out a ghastly failure under such circumstances. Worst of
all, I, quite unconsciously, had aided and abetted the whole
disgraceful scheme.
'Elizabeth!' I exclaimed at last in dismay, 'you shameless, intriguing
creature, I will never forgive you for this. You have ruined two
lives, and I am involved in it as well. The only thing to do is to
explain the whole situation to Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings when they come
to-day.'
She changed colour. 'You'd never do that, 'm.'
'I shall tell them everything. It will, at any rate, help them to
begin life on a different understanding.'
'But what good will that do, 'm? It'll upset everything an' lead to
goodness knows wot.'
'It may lead to a judicial separation, of course,' I replied, 'but my
duty in this case is perfectly clear. There is only one thing to be
done.'
I have never seen the girl so genuinely distressed. 'I wouldn't do it,
if I wos you, I wouldn't indeed. If you must tell 'em, wait a year or
two, till they've settled down----'
A loud knock on the door interrupted her. 'There they are now,' I
remarked. 'And no matter what you say I shall explain everything
before they leave to-day. They shall know how they've been hoodwinked.'
'Orl right, then,' said Elizabeth, 'an' let the consingquences be on
your own head. You'll see 'ow they'll take it.' And darting defiant
looks, she went to open the door.
The next moment Marion was enfolded in my arms. Then I turned to greet
William. As I did so the words of welcome died on my lips and I stood
staring at him in puzzled wonder.
'Why, what has happened to you?' I asked.
He grinned. 'Don't you like me as I am at present?'
I did not, but thought it polite to refrain from saying so. He had
gone back to his former state of fuzziness, and looked more like Rip
van Winkle than ever. Indeed, his beard seemed even more fierce and
bristly than in the old days--probably shaving had tended to strengthen
the roots.
'How do you do, William?' I said, extending my hand, deciding as I did
so that I would not give him any other kind of salute after all. Yet
it was with a tinge of regret I thought of that nice mouth of his
hidden under such a rank undergrowth of whisker.
Marion looked on complacently as I greeted him. I remembered then that
she had rather seemed to resent the sisterly salute I thought necessary
to bestow on him after the wedding, and the brotherly salutes (repeated
four times in succession) he had given me in return. I decided at that
moment I would respect her objections and only shake hands with William
in future. I am sure she preferred it, and I should hate to displease
her.
Besides, beards do rasp one so.
Henry now emerged from the study full of hearty greeting and
_bonhomie_. He seemed less surprised at William's altered appearance
than I did, and was certainly more pleased about it.
'What made you let him do it?' I said reproachfully to Marion when we
were alone, 'he was a really handsome man before, and now----'
'That's just it,' she interrupted, 'he was too handsome, and it wasn't
safe for him.'
'Not safe, Marion?'
'Women wouldn't leave him alone--they all flirted with him. It would
have been all right if he'd been used to it before, but getting
good-looking so suddenly unbalanced him. From a kind of puzzled wonder
that he should thus attract the opposite sex, he began to develop an
interest in what he termed "their bewildering number of types." He
said he used to think they were all exactly alike. It was when he
declared his intention of writing a eulogy on woman that I stepped in
and insisted on his letting his beard grow again. Don't you think I
acted for the best?'
'No doubt you did,' I said pensively, 'but he had such an attractive
mouth.'
Marion regarded me severely. 'That's what all the other women seemed
to think. I feel I was justified in protecting him.'
'No doubt you were, dear,' I murmured, with meekly lowered eyes.
'Don't you ever regret him as he was before?'
She sighed a little. 'Sometimes--particularly when dear William was
just beginning to grow again--did I have my qualms of discouragement.
A beard in its incipient stages is an unbecoming, almost startling
affair, Netta. Then of course, I find solace by looking at this,' and
she held out a small locket containing a portrait of William in his
glorified state. 'Also I always keep his white spats and lavender
gloves as a remembrance.'
There was a hint of sadness in the idea. It seemed almost as if
William was dead--one phase of him was, at all events.
'Then you _do_ regret----' I began.
'I regret nothing, Netta,' she broke in very decidedly. 'I am now
getting quite reconciled to dear William's present appearance, and I
know he's happier in his natural state.'
This was obviously true. William, his feet once more installed on the
mantelpiece, pulling hard at his pipe (filled for him by Marion's
loving hands) was a picture of perfect contentment.
But it was some time before I ventured to put the question to him that
was uppermost in my thoughts.
'Are you happy, William?' I asked tensely when, for a moment, we were
alone. 'Was my advice for better or for worse?'
He took my hand and wrung it warmly. 'My dear Netta!' he exclaimed,
'what a fool I was to hesitate even for a moment. Had it not been for
you--and, I think I ought to add, Elizabeth--I might never have won
such a treasure as my dear Marion. "Marriage," as Dr. Johnson has
said, "is the best state for man in general," and although he added
that it is more necessary to a man than a woman as he is less able to
supply himself with domestic comforts, I think in that case it is put
too crudely. I look upon it as something higher and nobler.'
'That's all right, then,' I said, relieved. 'Dr. Johnson seems to have
as sound a philosophy as Elizabeth.'
As I sat meditating before the fire that evening, after the departure
of the happy couple, Elizabeth entered. Her face betokened anxiety.
'You--you--didn't tell 'em anything, I 'ope?' she demanded.
'Under the circumstances I did not, Elizabeth. They seemed quite happy
and so----'
'"Let sleepin' dogs lie,"' she supplemented.
'You seem able to lie a great deal more than sleeping dogs,' I said
severely. 'In future, remember to stick to the truth or you may get
yourself--and other people--into serious trouble.'
'Right-o, 'm. But Mr. Roarings seemed satisfied enough. Look wot 'e
gave me to-day?'--she held out two crisp banknotes. ''E sed they were
for my own troosoo,' she added gleefully.
'What, Elizabeth, are you going to be married next?' asked Henry, as he
strolled into the room at that moment.
'Well, I ain't got a party in view as yet, sir. But as I always ses,
you never know wot a day may bring forth. The Signs 'ave been good for
me lately. Isn't there a sayin' somewhere about not knowing the day
nor the 'our when the young man may come along? Well, I always think
it's best to be prepared, like.'
She went out, but returned a moment later bearing a tray in her hand.
'What is this?' I inquired.
'I thort p'raps you'd like to drink to the occashun of the 'appy
'ome-coming in a nice glarss o' stout,' she explained.
I noted that there were three glasses. 'Elizabeth,' I said coldly,
'you are unduly familiar. I protest----'
'Oh, hang it all, let's be democratic,' put in Henry, grinning. 'It's
only your _joie de vivre_ and natural _bonhomie_, isn't it, Elizabeth?'
'Not 'arf,' replied Elizabeth. 'Well,' she added a moment later as she
raised her glass, ''ere's to us, all of us, an' may we never want
nothin', none of us--nor me neither.'
[Illustration: 'Ere's to us, all of us!']
I saw that Henry was grappling with the construction of the sentence,
and it was a full minute and a half before he gave it up. Then he
lifted his glass. 'Thank you, Elizabeth,' he said, 'and the same to
you.'