"It's competition," replied Henry, "that makes the world go round. You
never want a thing particularly until you see another fellow trying to
get it; then it strikes you all of a sudden that you've a better right to
it than he has. Take barmaids: what's the attraction about 'em? In
looks they're no better than the average girl in the street; while as for
their temper, well that's a bit above the average--leastways, so far as
my experience goes. Yet the thinnest of 'em has her dozen, making
sheep's-eyes at her across the counter. I've known girls that on the
level couldn't have got a policeman to look at 'em. Put 'em behind a row
of tumblers and a shilling's-worth of stale pastry, and nothing outside a
Lincoln and Bennett is good enough for 'em. It's the competition that's
the making of 'em.
"Now, I'll tell you a story," continued Henry, "that bears upon the
subject. It's a pretty story, if you look at it from one point of view;
though my wife maintains--and she's a bit of a judge, mind you--that it's
not yet finished, she arguing that there's a difference between marrying
and being married. You can have a fancy for the one, without caring much
about the other. What I tell her is that a boy isn't a man, and a man
isn't a boy. Besides, it's five years ago now, and nothing has happened
since: though of course one can never say."
"I would like to hear the story," I ventured to suggest; "I'll be able to
judge better afterwards."
"It's not a long one," replied Henry, "though as a matter of fact it
began seventeen years ago in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He was a wild
young fellow, and always had been."
"Who was?" I interrupted.
"Tom Sleight," answered Henry, "the chap I'm telling you about. He
belonged to a good family, his father being a Magistrate for
Monmouthshire; but there had been no doing anything with young Tom from
the very first. At fifteen he ran away from school at Clifton, and with
everything belonging to him tied up in a pocket-handkerchief made his way
to Bristol Docks. There he shipped as boy on board an American schooner,
the Cap'n not pressing for any particulars, being short-handed, and the
boy himself not volunteering much. Whether his folks made much of an
effort to get him back, or whether they didn't, I can't tell you. Maybe,
they thought a little roughing it would knock some sense into him.
Anyhow, the fact remains that for the next seven or eight years, until
the sudden death of his father made him a country gentleman, a more or
less jolly sailor-man he continued to be. And it was during that
period--to be exact, three years after he ran away and four years before
he returned--that, as I have said, at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, he
married, after ten days' courtship, Mary Godselle, only daughter of Jean
Godselle, saloon keeper of that town."
"That makes him just eighteen," I remarked; "somewhat young for a
bridegroom."
"But a good deal older than the bride," was Henry's comment, "she being
at the time a few months over fourteen."
"Was it legal?" I enquired.
"Quite legal," answered Henry. "In New Hampshire, it would seem, they
encourage early marriages. 'Can't begin a good thing too soon,' is, I
suppose, their motto."
"How did the marriage turn out?" was my next question. The married life
of a lady and gentleman, the united ages of whom amounted to thirty-two,
promised interesting developments.
"Practically speaking," replied Henry, "it wasn't a marriage at all. It
had been a secret affair from the beginning, as perhaps you can imagine.
The old man had other ideas for his daughter, and wasn't the sort of
father to be played with. They separated at the church door, intending
to meet again in the evening. Two hours later Master Tom Sleight got
knocked on the head in a street brawl. If a row was to be had anywhere
within walking distance he was the sort of fellow to be in it. When he
came to his senses he found himself lying in his bunk, and the 'Susan
Pride'--if that was the name of the ship; I think it was--ten miles out
to sea. The Captain declined to put the vessel about to please either a
loving seaman or a loving seaman's wife; and to come to the point, the
next time Mr. Tom Sleight saw Mrs. Tom Sleight was seven years later at
the American bar of the Grand Central in Paris; and then he didn't know
her."
"But what had she been doing all the time?" I queried. "Do you mean to
tell me that she, a married woman, had been content to let her husband
disappear without making any attempt to trace him?"
"I was making it short," retorted Henry, in an injured tone, "for your
benefit; if you want to have the whole of it, of course you can. He
wasn't a scamp; he was just a scatterbrain--that was the worst you could
say against him. He tried to communicate with her, but never got an
answer. Then he wrote to the father, and told him frankly the whole
story. The letter came back six months later, marked--'Gone away; left
no address.' You see, what had happened was this: the old man died
suddenly a month or two after the marriage, without ever having heard a
word about it. The girl hadn't a relative or friend in the town, all her
folks being French Canadians. She'd got her pride, and she'd got a sense
of humour not common in a woman. I was with her at the Grand Central for
over a year, and came to know her pretty well. She didn't choose to
advertise the fact that her husband had run away from her, as she
thought, an hour after he had married her. She knew he was a gentleman
with rich relatives somewhere in England; and as the months went by
without bringing word or sign of him, she concluded he'd thought the
matter over and was ashamed of her. You must remember she was merely a
child at the time, and hardly understood her position. Maybe later on
she would have seen the necessity of doing something. But Chance, as it
were, saved her the trouble; for she had not been serving in the Cafe
more than a month when, early one afternoon, in walked her Lord and
Master. 'Mam'sell Marie,' as of course we called her over there, was at
that moment busy talking to two customers, while smiling at a third; and
our hero, he gave a start the moment he set eyes on her."
"You told me that when he saw her there he didn't know her," I reminded
Henry.
"Quite right, sir," replied Henry, "so I did; but he knew a pretty girl
when he saw one anywhere at any time--he was that sort, and a prettier,
saucier looking young personage than Marie, in spite of her misfortunes,
as I suppose you'd call 'em, you wouldn't have found had you searched
Paris from the Place de la Bastille to the Arc de Triomphe."
"Did she," I asked, "know him, or was the forgetfulness mutual?"
"She recognised him," returned Henry, "before he entered the Cafe, owing
to catching sight of his face through the glass door while he was trying
to find the handle. Women on some points have better memories than men.
Added to which, when you come to think of it, the game was a bit
one-sided. Except that his moustache, maybe, was a little more imposing,
and that he wore the clothes of a gentleman in place of those of an able-
bodied seaman before the mast, he was to all intents and purposes the
same as when they parted six years ago outside the church door; while she
had changed from a child in a short muslin frock and a 'flapper,' as I
believe they call it, tied up in blue ribbon, to a self-possessed young
woman in a frock that might have come out of a Bond Street show window,
and a Japanese coiffure, that being then the fashion.
"She finished with her French customers, not hurrying herself in the
least--that wasn't her way; and then strolling over to her husband, asked
him in French what she could have the pleasure of doing for him. His
education on board the 'Susan Pride' and others had, I take it, gone back
rather than forward. He couldn't understand her, so she translated it
for him into broken English, with an accent. He asked her how she knew
he was English. She told him it was because Englishmen had such pretty
moustaches, and came back with his order, which was rum punch. She kept
him waiting about a quarter of an hour before she returned with it. He
filled up the time looking into the glass behind him when he thought
nobody was observing him.
"One American drink, as they used to concoct it in that bar, was
generally enough for most of our customers, but he, before he left,
contrived to put away three; also contriving, during the same short space
of time, to inform 'Mam'sel Marie' that Paris, since he had looked into
her eyes, had become the only town worth living in, so far as he was
concerned, throughout the whole universe. He had his failings, had
Master Tom Sleight, but shyness wasn't one of them. She gave him a smile
when he left that would have brought a less impressionable young man than
he back again to that Cafe; but for the rest of the day I noticed
'Mam'sel Marie' frowned to herself a good deal, and was quite unusually
cynical in her view of things in general.
"Next afternoon he found his way to us again, and much the same sort of
thing went on, only a little more of it. A sailor-man, so I am told,
makes love with his hour of departure always before his mind, and so gets
into the habit of not wasting time. He gave her short lessons in
English, for which she appeared to be grateful, and she at his request
taught him the French for 'You are just charming! I love you!' with
which, so he explained, it was his intention, on his return to England,
to surprise his mother. He turned up again after dinner, and the next
day before lunch, when after that I looked up and missed him at his usual
table, the feeling would come to me that business was going down. Marie
always appeared delighted to see him, and pouted when he left; but what
puzzled me at the time was, that though she fooled him to the top of his
bent, she flirted every bit as much, if not more, with her other
customers--leastways with the nicer ones among them. There was one young
Frenchman in particular--a good-looking chap, a Monsieur Flammard, son of
the painter. Up till then he'd been making love pretty steadily to Miss
Marie, as, indeed, had most of 'em, without ever getting much forrarder;
for hitherto a chat about the weather, and a smile that might have meant
she was in love with you or might have meant she was laughing at you--no
man could ever tell which,--was all the most persistent had got out of
her. Now, however, and evidently to his own surprise, young Monsieur
Flammard found himself in clover. Provided his English rival happened to
be present and not too far removed, he could have as much flirtation as
he wanted, which, you may take it, worked out at a very tolerable amount.
Master Tom could sit and scowl, and for the matter of that did; but as
Marie would explain to him, always with the sweetest of smiles, her
business was to be nice to all her customers, and to this, of course, he
had nothing to reply: that he couldn't understand a word of what she and
Flammard talked and laughed about didn't seem to make him any the
happier.
"Well, this sort of thing went on for perhaps a fortnight, and then one
morning over our dejeune, when she and I had the Cafe entirely to
ourselves, I took the opportunity of talking to Mam'sel Marie like a
father.
"She heard me out without a murmur, which showed her sense; for liking
the girl sincerely, I didn't mince matters with her, but spoke plainly
for her good. The result was, she told me her story much as I have told
it to you.
"'It's a funny tale,' says I when she'd finished, 'though maybe you
yourself don't see the humour of it.'
"'Yes, I do,' was her answer. 'But there's a serious side to it also,'
says she, 'and that interests me more.'
"'You're sure you're not making a mistake?' I suggested.
"'He's been in my thoughts too much for me to forget him,' she replied.
'Besides, he's told me his name and all about himself.'
"'Not quite all,' says I.
"'No, and that's why I feel hard toward him,' answers she.
"'Now you listen to me,' says I. 'This is a very pretty comedy, and the
way you've played it does you credit up till now. Don't you run it on
too long, and turn it into a problem play.'
"'How d'ye mean?' says she.
"'A man's a man,' says I; 'anyhow he's one. He fell in love with you six
years ago when you were only a child, and now you're a woman he's fallen
in love with you again. If that don't convince you of his constancy,
nothing will. You stop there. Don't you try to find out any more.'
"'I mean to find out one thing, answers she: 'whether he's a man--or a
cad.'
"'That's a severe remark,' says I, 'to make about your own husband.'
"'What am I to think?' says she. 'He fooled me into loving him when, as
you say, I was only a child. Do you think I haven't suffered all these
years? It's the girl that cries her eyes out for her lover; we learn to
take 'em for what they're worth later on.'
"'But he's in love with you still,' I says. I knew what was in her mind,
but I wanted to lead her away from it if I could.
"'That's a lie,' says she, 'and you know it.' She wasn't choosing her
words; she was feeling, if you understand. 'He's in love with a pretty
waitress that he met for the first time a fortnight ago.'
"'That's because she reminds him of you,' I replied, 'or because you
remind him of her, whichever you prefer. It shows you're the sort of
woman he'll always be falling in love with.'
"She laughed at that, but the next moment she was serious again. 'A
man's got to fall out of love before he falls into it again,' she
replied. 'I want a man that'll stop there. Besides,' she goes on, 'a
woman isn't always young and pretty: we've got to remember that. We want
something else in a husband besides eyes.'
"'You seem to know a lot about it,' says I.
"'I've thought a lot about it,' says she.
"'What sort of husband do you want?' says I.
"'I want a man of honour,' says she.
"That was sense. One don't often find a girl her age talking it, but her
life had made her older than she looked. All I could find to say was
that he appeared to be an honest chap, and maybe was one.
"'Maybe,' says she; 'that's what I mean to find out. And if you'll do me
a kindness,' she adds, 'you won't mind calling me Marie Luthier for the
future, instead of Godselle. It was my mother's name, and I've a fancy
for it.'
"Well, there I left her to work out the thing for herself, having come to
the conclusion she was capable of doing it; and so for another couple of
weeks I merely watched. There was no doubt about his being in love with
her. He had entered that Cafe at the beginning of the month with as good
an opinion of himself as a man can conveniently carry without tumbling
down and falling over it. Before the month was out he would sit with his
head between his hands, evidently wondering why he had been born. I've
seen the game played before, and I've seen it played since. A waiter has
plenty of opportunities if he only makes use of them; for if it comes to
a matter of figures, I suppose there's more love-making done in a month
under the electric light of the restaurant than the moon sees in a
year--leastways, so far as concerns what we call the civilised world.
I've seen men fooled, from boys without hair on their faces, to old men
without much on their heads. I've seen it done in a way that was pretty
to watch, and I've seen it done in a manner that has made me feel that
given a wig and a petticoat I could do it better myself. But never have
I seen it neater played than Marie played it on that young man of hers.
One day she would greet him for all the world like a tired child that at
last has found its mother, and the next day respond to him in a style
calculated to give you the idea of a small-sized empress in misfortune
compelled to tolerate the familiarities of an anarchist. One moment she
would throw him a pout that said as clearly as words: 'What a fool you
are not to put your arms round me and kiss me'; and five minutes later
chill him with a laugh that as good as told him he must be blind not to
see that she was merely playing with him. What happened outside the
Cafe--for now and then she would let him meet her of a morning in the
Tuileries and walk down to the Cafe with her, and once or twice had
allowed him to see her part of the way home--I cannot tell you: I only
know that before strangers it was her instinct to be reserved. I take it
that on such occasions his experiences were interesting; but whether they
left him elated or depressed I doubt if he could have told you himself.
"But all the time Marie herself was just going from bad to worse. She
had come to the Cafe a light-hearted, sweet-tempered girl; now, when she
wasn't engaged in her play-acting--for that's all it was, I could see
plainly enough--she would go about her work silent and miserable-looking,
or if she spoke at all it would be to say something bitter. Then one
morning after a holiday she had asked for, and which I had given her
without any questions, she came to business more like her old self than I
had seen her since the afternoon Master Tom Sleight had appeared upon the
scene. All that day she went about smiling to herself; and young
Flammard, presuming a bit too far maybe upon past favours, found himself
sharply snubbed: it was a bit rough on him, the whole thing.
"'It's come to a head,' says I to myself; 'he has explained everything,
and has managed to satisfy her. He's a cleverer chap than I took him
for.'
"He didn't turn up at the Cafe that day, however, at all, and she never
said a word until closing time, when she asked me to walk part of the way
home with her.
"'Well,' I says, so soon as we had reached a quieter street, 'is the
comedy over?'
"'No,' says she, 'so far as I'm concerned it's commenced. To tell you
the truth, it's been a bit too serious up to now to please me. I'm only
just beginning to enjoy myself,' and she laughed, quite her old light-
hearted laugh.
"'You seem to be a bit more cheerful,' I says.
"'I'm feeling it,' says she; 'he's not as bad as I thought. We went to
Versailles yesterday.'
"'Pretty place, Versailles,' says I; 'paths a bit complicated if you
don't know your way among 'em.'
"'They do wind,' says she.
"'And there he told you that he loved you, and explained everything?'
"'You're quite right,' says she, 'that's just what happened. And then he
kissed me for the first and last time, and now he's on his way to
America.'
"'On his way to America?' says I, stopping still in the middle of the
street.
"'To find his wife,' she says. 'He's pretty well ashamed of himself for
not having tried to do it before. I gave him one or two hints how to set
about it--he's not over smart--and I've got an idea he will discover
her.' She dropped her joking manner, and gave my arm a little squeeze.
She'd have flirted with her own grandfather--that's my opinion of her.
"'He was really nice,' she continues. 'I had to keep lecturing myself,
or I'd have been sorry for him. He told me it was his love for me that
had shown him what a wretch he had been. He said he knew I didn't care
for him two straws--and there I didn't contradict him--and that he
respected me all the more for it. I can't explain to you how he worked
it out, but what he meant was that I was so good myself that no one but a
thoroughly good fellow could possibly have any chance with me, and that
any other sort of fellow ought to be ashamed of himself for daring even
to be in love with me, and that he couldn't rest until he had proved to
himself that he was worthy to have loved me, and then he wasn't going to
love me any more.'
"'It's a bit complicated,' says I. 'I suppose you understood it?'
"'It was perfectly plain,' says she, somewhat shortly, 'and, as I told
him, made me really like him for the first time.'
"'It didn't occur to him to ask you why you had been flirting like a
volcano with a chap you didn't like,' says I.
"'He didn't refer to it as flirtation,' says she. 'He regarded it as
kindness to a lonely man in a strange land.'
"'I think you'll be all right,' says I. 'There's all the makings of a
good husband in him--seems to be simple-minded enough, anyhow.'
"'He has a very lovable personality when you once know him,' says she.
'All sailors are apt to be thoughtless.'
"'I should try and break him of it later on,' says I.
"'Besides, she was a bit of a fool herself, going away and leaving no
address,' adds she; and having reached her turning, we said good-night to
one another.
"About a month passed after that without anything happening. For the
first week Marie was as merry as a kitten, but as the days went by, and
no sign came, she grew restless and excited. Then one morning she came
into the Cafe twice as important as she had gone out the night before,
and I could see by her face that her little venture was panning out
successfully. She waited till we had the Cafe to ourselves, which
usually happened about mid-day, and then she took a letter out of her
pocket and showed it me. It was a nice respectful letter containing
sentiments that would have done honour to a churchwarden. Thanks to
Marie's suggestions, for which he could never be sufficiently grateful,
and which proved her to be as wise as she was good and beautiful, he had
traced Mrs. Sleight, nee Mary Godselle, to Quebec. From Quebec, on the
death of her uncle, she had left to take a situation as waitress in a New
York hotel, and he was now on his way there to continue his search. The
result he would, with Miss Marie's permission, write and inform her. If
he obtained happiness he would owe it all to her. She it was who had
shown him his duty; there was a good deal of it, but that's what it
meant.
"A week later came another letter, dated from New York this time. Mary
could not be discovered anywhere; her situation she had left just two
years ago, but for what or for where nobody seemed to know. What was to
be done?
"Mam'sel Marie sat down and wrote him by return of post, and wrote him
somewhat sharply--in broken English. It seemed to her he must be
strangely lacking in intelligence. Mary, as he knew, spoke French as
well as she did English. Such girls--especially such waitresses--he
might know, were sought after on the Continent. Very possibly there were
agencies in New York whose business it was to offer good Continental
engagements to such young ladies. Even she herself had heard of one
such--Brathwaite, in West Twenty-third Street, or maybe Twenty-fourth.
She signed her new name, Marie Luthier, and added a P.S. to the effect
that a right-feeling husband who couldn't find his wife would have
written in a tone less suggestive of resignation.
"That helped him considerably, that suggestion of Marie's about the agent
Brathwaite. A fortnight later came a third letter. Wonderful to relate,
his wife was actually in Paris, of all places in the world! She had
taken a situation in the Hotel du Louvre. Master Tom expected to be in
Paris almost as soon as his letter.
"'I think I'll go round to the Louvre if you can spare me for quarter of
an hour,' said Marie, 'and see the manager.'
"Two days after, at one o'clock precisely, Mr. Tom Sleight walked into
the Cafe. He didn't look cheerful and he didn't look sad. He had been
to the 'Louvre'; Mary Godselle had left there about a year ago; but he
had obtained her address in Paris, and had received a letter from her
that very morning. He showed it to Marie. It was short, and not well
written. She would meet him in the Tuileries that evening at seven, by
the Diana and the Nymph; he would know her by her wearing the onyx brooch
he had given her the day before their wedding. She mentioned it was
onyx, in case he had forgotten. He only stopped a few minutes, and both
he and Marie spoke gravely and in low tones. He left a small case in her
hands at parting; he said he hoped she would wear it in remembrance of
one in whose thoughts she would always remain enshrined. I can't tell
you what he meant; I only tell you what he said. He also gave me a very
handsome walking-stick with a gold handle--what for, I don't know; I take
it he felt like that.
"Marie asked to leave that evening at half-past six. I never saw her
looking prettier. She called me into the office before she went. She
wanted my advice. She had in one hand a beautiful opal brooch set in
diamonds--it was what he had given her that morning--and in her other
hand the one of onyx.
"'Shall I wear them both?' asked she, 'or only the one?' She was half
laughing, half crying, already.
"I thought for a bit. 'I should wear the onyx to-night,' I said, 'by
itself.'"