MRS. ELDRIDGE IN FULL BLOW. THE IMPROPER STUDY OF MANKIND. NOTHING
REALLY WRONG! AN IDENTIFICATION WITH A VENGEANCE. HOW CHALLIS CAME
HOME LATE
Be good enough to note that none of the characters in this story are
picturesque or heroic--only chance samples of folk such as you may
see pass your window now, this moment, if you will only lay your book
down and look out. They are passing--passing all day long--each with a
story. And some little thing you see, a meeting, a parting, a quickened
step, a hesitation and return, may make the next hour the turning-point
of an existence. For it is of such little things the great ones are
made; and this is a tale made up of trifles--trifles touching human
souls that, for aught we know to the contrary, may last for ever.
* * * * *
It is the share Marianne had in a thousand little things like the
triviality with which our last chapter ended that makes us say that
she gave her husband no help against himself. Many a time a word of
concession from her, in answer to any of his unspoken appeals for
help--for the plain truth is, he made many such appeals--might have led
to a rushed embrace of reconciliation, and a flood of not altogether
uncontrite tears from her, and even some from him; for though one may
pity him, he cannot be held absolutely blameless. The fact is, Alfred
Challis had loved this Marianne even better than ever he did her
sister, Bob's mother--loved her, that is, as men love what is called
_beauté de diable_, and a kind of rough, good-natured manner. Besides,
see how good she was with the boy!
If there had been no core of jealous reserve born of overstrained
self-respect inside this rosy-seeming apple--if the girl would have
obligingly matured without change--she would always have remained Polly
Anne, as of old. But the core was there, and there Challis was to find
it, after a pleasant year or so of experience of the outside of the
fruit--the best part. Hence she came to be Marianne rather than Polly
Anne to him, oftener and oftener; Mrs. Challis rather than Marianne to
friends; and "your mother" rather than "mamma" to the children.
She was not the woman for the position in which she found herself.
There was really only one chance of steady sailing for the domestic
ship, and that was that she should go everywhere with her husband,
brave the snubs of the scornful toff, laugh at her own inferiorities,
and, above all, rejoice publicly at every new success of her husband.
Inwardly she may have done the last; all the other conditions she
failed in. The one chance was not caught at, and this man found himself
alternately in the brilliant world of Imperial London, made much of,
looked up to as an authority and quoted, refusing from sheer plenitude
welcomes to one rich house after another--all these on the one hand,
and on the other--suppose we put it briefly--Mrs. Steptoe.
If Marianne had only had a friend who would have pointed out the
exaggerated nature of her impressions about the motley crew we owe so
much to Sir Bernard Burke for telling the likes of us about! A friend,
even, who would have said to her, "Don't give way to jealous pride,
stupid; but go and observe the ways of the human toff, and come home
and tell me, _ici bas_. I'll do your hair for you." But there was none
such!--only Charlotte Eldridge!
Mrs. Eldridge certainly got some satisfaction out of the concern; it
would have been a sad pity if no one had got any. It was all in the way
of her own specialty, the proper--or improper--study of her kind. It
may as well be admitted that the conversation the children overheard
part of had run thus:
"I don't think, dear, that my feeling uneasy whenever John is out of
my sight ought to count. John is a fool. Besides, girls that apply
for situations are very mixed, whether telegraph or sorters. The most
dangerous class of girl may apply. The safeguard in his case is that
there is so little reserve in his nature. When his admiration is
excited he always makes grimaces about them, and then I know who, at
once. If taxed with them he always whistles popular airs and shuts one
eye. 'Pop goes the Weasel' or 'Tarara-boomdeay.' But I try to believe
he knows where to draw the line. This case is different."
"I don't see the difference."
"The girls are different. This Miss Sibyl What's-her-name...."
"The one Titus admires so much is Judith. Sibyl's the Art Coiffure one,
that wanted to do my hair like a picture of Titian's...."
"Titian's mistress, I suppose. They did, then. Well!--I meant
Judith. Don't you see how entirely different the cases are? Judith's
position!--the publicity, dear!--the whole thing!..."
"No!--I see no difference."
"My dear!--what nonsense! Do you mean to say ... why, only look how he
'Miss Arkroyds' and 'Miss Sibyls' them! One judges from little things."
"When we're here, Titus does. But when they're alone...?"
"Well, of course! When they're alone, Mr. Challis _may_ call her
Judith. I don't say he _does_, but suppose he does, what does it all
amount to?... Now _don't_ be unreasonable, Marianne dear!"
"I am _not_ unreasonable, Charlotte.... Nonsense! I'm _not_ crying
about it. I wouldn't be such a fool. But all I can say is, if Titus
wants to go away to his Judith, let him go? _I_ don't want to keep him,
against his will.... What are those children at, in there?" At which
point the conversation may stop.
Incidentally, it helps us to see that Sibyl had lent herself to an
effort, which seemed to her--as to us--a politic one, to induce Mrs.
Alfred Challis to be a little more coming and tractable. She quite
appreciated that friendship between her sister and Challis, if Marianne
was included in it, would be a very different thing from the same
thing, conditioned otherwise. And when she called at the Hermitage with
her sister, she was strongly impressed that scandal, if any arose,
would be the more dangerous unless Marianne could be induced to change
her attitude, which suggested that of a civil tigress, with a grievance
against the jungle.
* * * * *
"You needn't make a fuss about me," said Mrs. Challis to her husband,
just departing for the Acropolis Club. He always went through an
apologetic phase, partly real, every time he deserted the domestic
hearth. This time his remorse was superficial; for surely Marianne
might just as well have accompanied him to this entertainment. You know
the Acropolis Club, no doubt?--a cock-and-hen club of the purest water,
with about the proportion of hens one sees in farmyards. He would have
preferred her coming. However, he wasn't to make a fuss about her; that
was settled. It was fine, she said; and Charlotte had said she would
come in if it was fine. Challis became aware that Charlotte must have
said she would come in, sometime before he himself had been reminded
of his engagement to go out. His remorse vanished all the quicker, and
he was beginning to enjoy his clean shirt-front--a phrase his mind put
by for his next story on any light social subject--before his hansom
landed him at Wimbledon Station. The Acropolis, you remember, is
barely ten minutes cab from Waterloo, so this way did perfectly.
* * * * *
"John finds it do better," said Mrs. Eldridge, arriving in due course.
"Only when he wants a walk he goes by East Putney, because the
District saves him at the other end. Eight o'clock dinner, I suppose.
Besides, they won't be punctual. They never are, nowadays." This was
said to show how thoroughly _au fait_ the speaker was of the ways of
fashionable life. It was mere talk by the way, unspiced by direct
reference to any Eros, respectable or otherwise.
"I know nothing about them," said Marianne damningly--that is, so far
as a suggestion that she was none the worse thereby could condemn.
Another, that it was best to know little of the class referred to, was
latent. It rankled though, all the more that Mrs. Eldridge's expressive
silence recognized its existence better than words. A garrulous
person's silence may have all the force of a pause in a symphony. When
the _bâton_ of Mrs. Eldridge's conductor, Mischief, allowed the music
to steal gently in again, it came on tiptoe, with subtle finished
skill; a pianissimo flute-phrase in the stillness, harbinger perhaps of
a volume of sound.
"Couldn't you--Marianne dear--couldn't you...?"
"Couldn't I what?" It may be unfair to use the adjective grumpy to
describe this question. When a lady beds her chin in both hands, with
her elbows on her knees, and gazes at a slow-combustion stove doing its
best, while she speaks, her words may have an altogether false effect.
"Ah--well! Perhaps I oughtn't to say.... Never mind, dear! Let's talk
of something else. How's Mrs. Steptoe getting on with her soups?" A
brisk rally of the orchestra--a rousing thrill on the drum. But too
artificial!
"Elizabeth Barclay's been here to-day, to show her about
blotting-paper. Greasy, and then Titus grumbles. But what did you mean
to say?"
The conductor hushes the orchestra--gives gentle permission again to
the flute. "No, dear, I oughtn't to say. Because I know how you feel
about it, exactly. But what I thought of saying was...."
"Yes. Do go on, Charlotte!"
"Couldn't you have made up your mind to go--just this once? Because you
_were_ asked, this time."
"I shouldn't have enjoyed myself."
"Of course not, dear! Neither should I. But you know what I think.
It all turns on a question of prudence. _Anything_ is better than an
_esclandre_." The other instruments come in again, and the conductor is
warming to his work.
"I don't see why we want anything French in it. There's nothing of that
sort, so far as I know."
"Of course not, with the people!" Given, that is, this character cast,
Parisian laxities have no chance. But distinctions must be made.
"Nobody's the least likely to _do_, but people will _say_, exactly the
same as if they did do." Better expressed by Hamlet, in the plague he
offered poor Ophelia as a dowry! Who shall escape calumny?
Marianne mutters something her friend takes to be, "I don't care
what people say." The orchestra--pursuing our strained musical
metaphor--sees a _crescendo_ phrase ahead, and the conductor interprets
it as _accelerando_.
"That's where you're so wrong, dear--do forgive me for saying it! But
you _are_ wrong. Pure and honest natures like yours always make that
mistake. Of course you know, and I know--we all know--that to speak
of anything really wrong in the same breath with your husband would
be absurd, and even this fashionable girl for that matter. I mean,
you know, really wrong." A nod-supported whisper--the music goes to
_pianissimo_ quite suddenly; consider the sharp ears of Mrs. Steptoe,
and Harmood, in the kitchen! But enough of that. _Our_ text calls for
no secrecies; brush them aside, and resume without pedals, but _con
espressione_. "But everyone is not like you, dear! So many people take
pleasure in putting--well! the most horrid constructions on the most
_inno_cent.... What?" For Mrs. Charlotte had stopped to gloat so long
over the first syllable of _innocent_--she did not enjoy the "horrid
constructions" half so much--that she had not heard what Marianne said.
Who, on request, repeated it:
"I didn't say I didn't care what people said ... oh well!--I've
forgotten what I did say now, and it doesn't matter. Anyhow, I consider
I've done _my_ duty, and now I simply won't _go_ to any of their
dinners, come what may, Acropolis Club or no! So there!" This is a
stronger ground than a plea of simple non-enjoyment as a cause of
abstention, and Charlotte makes no protest. Her mind, too, is attracted
by another point. She speaks dreamily to express that it is feeling its
way, as through a mist, to illumination.
"What was it ... oh, don't you know? Lewis Smithson heard it ...
oh dear!--what _was_ the name of the club now? One of these mixed
clubs ... oh no!--of course, I know what the story itself was--you
needn't tell me that!... I mean what was the name of the club?" But
Marianne cannot help, and conversation can't stop for it. At any rate,
it wasn't the Acropolis. Which Mrs. Eldridge repeats more than once
confirmatorily, to make the Acropolis safe before resuming the general
question. She dismisses the legend itself--what it was does not matter
here--as quite unworthy of credence. "I believe Lewis Smithson made it
himself," she says. "Anyhow, it's nonsense. For my part, I should say
they were much more likely to be stiff and straight up, for fear of its
getting about. Besides, who was it you said was coming to this party?
Lord and Lady Who?"
"Some name like Albatross."
"Ross Tarbet. Why, my dear, they're _the pink_! Corstrechan Castle in
Banffshire. Oh no!--it's all right enough as far as that goes. But
still I _do_ think, if you ask me, it would have been just as well if
you hadn't refused."
"Why? I do wish you would speak plainly, Charlotte, and not go round
and round."
Mrs. Eldridge won't commit herself to a statement without passing
through a period of reflection. It is consistent with the contemplation
of the shadow of her free hand, held beyond it, on the screen she is
interposing between her face and the fire. Its silhouette of outspread
fingers seems to satisfy her, and not to interfere with the thoughts
that her drooped eyelids and fixed look are grave about. After quite
enough cogitation, she says abruptly: "I wasn't thinking of _at_ the
dinner. Nor the rest of the evening. But seeing home comes in. However,
if you think of it, she would be with the Ross Tarbets, and they would
drive her home. Let's see! The club's in Jermyn Street. Her family are
in Grosvenor Square. I fancy the Ross Tarbets are in Park Lane. It's
all in the way."
Such talk ought to have had a soothing, reassuring influence. Miss
Arkroyd under the wing of a live Countess, safe of an escort to the
paternal mansion, what more could be asked? Nevertheless, there is an
hysterical sound--to Mrs. Eldridge's experienced ear--in the laugh with
which Marianne says: "What silly nonsense! As if it made any difference
to me if Titus saw the girl home in twenty cabs!"
"Because you have such confidence in Titus, my dear. And that is right!
I wouldn't trust John myself. But he's different."
If Marianne had been in the least a humorist, the image of Mr.
Eldridge, in danger from an aristocratic enchantress, seeking to
unsettle his devotion to the stylish female he could now call his
own, would have drawn from her a more genuine laugh than her last. But
she was in no mood for laughing, and the greatest booby in Christendom
might have passed muster with her as a parallel to her husband. We are
not prepared to say he had not done so in the present case.
Marianne got up uneasily from the low chair she sat on before the
fire; took another, but did not keep it long; rose again, and walked
restlessly about the room. Unlike her!--so thought her companion,
glancing up at her keenly, but furtively. Mrs. Eldridge had no definite
plan of mischief; she only wanted the luxury of caressing her favourite
subject. She felt a little alarmed, and rather wished the disquieted
one would sit down again. But Marianne showed no tendency to do so.
On the contrary, she said suddenly: "I forgot to tell Martha those
underthings must not go to the wash. That woman always shrinks them,"
and left the room. Mrs. Eldridge heard her bedroom door close above,
but no sound of colloquy with Martha. Then her attention was taken off
by a tap at the door, whose executant she gave leave to come in.
It was Mrs. Steptoe, meek and creditable as an evening-cook; to wit,
one that has done her washing-up. A sense of chapel hangs upon her,
and the cough she gives as preface to speech seems conscious of its
indebtedness to a pause in some sort of devotional service undefined.
Her widowhood and the distinction of her sudden loss have given Aunt
Stingy a chastened identity. But though in the ascendant, she will not
obtrude herself. Mrs. Challis--servants seem lately to have left off
saying _missis_ and _master_--not being to the fore, she will retire
and remain in abeyance, exceptin' rang for. It was only to remind about
ordering Huntley and Palmer, Mr. Challis being that particular. But
Mrs. Challis would be back directly, said Mrs. Eldridge. Aunt Stingy,
nothing loth, would remain to chat.
Interrogated, Lizarann's aunt is finding the place comfortable. The
ketching chemley draws a little imperfect, certainly; but the boiler
full up, if hot over-night, lastis on the next day, and any quantity.
A great convenience! It is noticeable about Mrs. Steptoe's speech that
it does not improve when she tries to talk up to her company. When she
spoke to her equals in Tallack Street, without desire to impress, she
was provincial and unpolished, but seldom Cockney. Now, her attempts to
be classical and win respect from Mrs. Eldridge are failures.
"What sort of a place was Mrs. Fossett's!"
"_Miss!_--excusin' my makin' bold to correct. But not in a place there.
Only as a reference."
"Where was your last place, then?" But Mrs. Steptoe explained, with
many reserves and sidelights, that she had never been truly in service;
having led, broadly speaking, a regal life, until she married beneath
her, but, nevertheless, into a respectable trade connection. The
suggestion that her husband's brain had been affected rounded off a
tale that hinted at ancestry and a pursuing evil destiny--the race
of Laius! "But you used to cook, wherever you were, once," said Mrs.
Eldridge, wedded to practical issues.
"Oh, there, now!--cook, indeed! Why, I was sayin', only today, to Miss
Harmood, 'If you could have seen the table they kep' at Sea View, soups
and jellies and made-up dishes and the whole attention left to me, in
the manner of speakin'.' Owing, ma'am, you see, to uncertain health,
my aunt's sister--in charge of the establishment--suffering with a
complication, and terminated fatally eleven years this Easter Day.
Coming back to me, naturally, with the season." A retrospective sigh,
over life's changes, came well in here.
"Was it a sort of private hotel, or boarding-house?" Mrs. Eldridge
thought she saw light.
Mrs. Steptoe conveyed general assent, without close definition. "But
very select!" she added. And Mrs. Eldridge said, "Of course," entirely
without reason.
Aunt Stingy felt encouraged, and made up her mind to resume in full
all particulars of the banquet we have heard about. After all, she
is not the only person that ever dwelt overmuch on scanty incidents
of slight importance in themselves; but oases, for all that, in the
arid stretches of an eventless life. Besides--as her tale showed after
Mrs. Eldridge had heard all about the splendid cooking accommodation
of this establishment at Ramsgate, and full particulars almost of
every dish on the table--there was revealed a curious sequel to this
seaside dissipation, which no doubt would have been communicated to
Mrs. Challis, if that lady had been as inquisitive as her friend. For
Mrs. Charlotte hearing of an occasion--fifteen years ago!--when six or
eight persons of either sex had dined together, forthwith smelt rats,
and made for their places of concealment with the alacrity of a Dandie
Dinmont.
"You seem to remember them all very well, Mrs. Steptoe."
"Along of what followed, no doubt, ma'am." The speaker appeared to
become suddenly reserved, but awaiting catechism for all that.
Mrs. Eldridge's shrewd intelligence reached the issue promptly.
"Perhaps you promised not to tell it. Don't tell me!" This would have
disappointed Aunt Stingy, if she had believed it genuine. But she
didn't, and confirmation of her disbelief came. "Only really, it's
so long ago! It's almost ridiculous." The catechumen still awaited
pressure. "But do just as you feel, Mrs. Steptoe. Of course, it's no
affair of mine."
Aunt Stingy laughed slightingly, to remove the matter from among grave
responsibilities. "Ho, as for that," she said, "I was never under any
promise--only Mr. and Mrs. Hallock wished no reference made. Only,
as you was sayin', such a many years after.... Is that Mrs. Challis
coming?" But it wasn't.
"She's speaking to Martha upstairs. She won't come yet." Mrs. Eldridge
betrays her curiosity--is very transparent. So urged, Aunt Stingy
gives, not at all obscurely, a narrative some ten minutes long, which,
for all purposes of this story, may be condensed as follows:--
The Mr. and Mrs. Hallock who figure in it had, for some not very
evident reasons, felt justified in abetting the marriage of their
nursery-governess with a man supposed to be of good means and
antecedents, with the full knowledge that this marriage was concealed
from her family, and was to remain so for a term. The dinner that was
Aunt Stingy's culinary triumph was a festivity to welcome this happy
couple on their return from a short honeymoon. The young gentleman
named as Harris among the guests was a friend of the bridegroom. So
far, nothing very criminal. But there was a sequel. The Hallocks,
returning next season to the same apartments, where it seemed they
spent every summer, frequently referred to the affair, but always with
surprise that no news had reached them of the wedded couple, and this
in spite of inquiries by letter. "Ungrateful girl!" was their verdict.
One morning towards the end of their stay they were dumbfounded by an
advertisement of a wedding, in the _Telegraph_. The bride actually bore
the name of their ex-governess--her maiden name, that is--while the
bridegroom's was, to their nearest recollection, that of the friend who
had been introduced to them as Mr. Harris the year before. That was the
substance of Mrs. Steptoe's story.
"They were that surprised," she said, "you might have knocked either
of 'em down with an electric shock. 'My word,' says Mr. Hallock, 'to
think of that!' he says. 'Then Horne must be dead, and that girl
married to his friend already! And not so much as a letter!'... Oh
yes! Mr. Hallock, he was resentful like, but Mrs. Hallock, she leans
across to him, and she says: 'My dear, it's a coincidence! Kate never
would--never! I _knew_ the girl,' she says. So she talked him down,
and they put it at a coincidence, and let it go."
"But did you hear no more?"
"_They_ heard--not me! Or only remarks fell by chance. There come a
letter next day, and they was a-talking and she a-crying over it.
Little scraps they let drop, loud enough to reach. 'Ho, the miscreant!'
and 'The licensual scoundrel!' And then Mrs. Hallock she says:
'Whatever could possess us, Edwin, not to make more certain about the
ceremony?' Then they see me, and dropped to a whisper. Only saying to
me after, not to repeat anything I'd heard, which I made the promise,
as requested."
"There's Mrs. Challis coming. I wish you could have been more sure
of the names, because it's interesting. Couldn't you think them up a
little?"
Mrs. Steptoe cogitated. Hallock, of course, she said. Because she
knew _them_ a long time. But the other names hardly, to be any surer.
Except it was the young lady's single name. Because that she see in the
newspaper, when she come to look at the advertisement. Then she must
have seen the bridegroom's name, said her interrogator. It seemed not;
the glance was a hurried one. But she was sure about the girl's. It was
Catherine Verrall.
This story has only had occasion once to refer to the name of Challis's
first wife, Marianne's half-sister. And though Mrs. Eldridge had often
talked with her friend about this half-sister, dead five or six years
before the families became acquainted, it was always about "Kate"--no
other name--or "my sister" when Marianne was the speaker. It is quite
an open question whether she would at once have felt the name familiar,
if it had not been for Bob's full name. Her knowledge that it was
Robert Verrall Challis was perhaps what made her say, "What?--what's
that?--did you say Verrall?" with stimulated interest. Mrs. Steptoe
repeated "Catherine Verrall" quite distinctly, just as her mistress,
returning, opened the door. Mrs. Eldridge hoped, without having had
time to make up her mind why, that Marianne had not heard the name. For
a few moments she thought she had not. The whole thing happened very
rapidly.
Mrs. Steptoe delivered her reminder about Huntley and Palmer's Oatmeal
Biscuits, to be ordered with the stores. Mrs. Challis had not forgotten
them. One or two other small matters were referred to, and then Mrs.
Steptoe said good-night with due humility, and departed. She was
instructed not to sit up for Master Bob, who had gone to a neighbour's
to assist in acting charades. Marianne would let him in. She did not
resume her seat by the fire, but lay down on the sofa, away from it.
She had a flushed, turbulent look, and a smell of eau-de-Cologne,
backed by ruffled hair over the forehead, conveyed the idea that she
had been putting it on her face, to cool it. Mrs. Eldridge felt uneasy.
Had she gone too far?
"Was it all right about the flannels?" she asked.
"I think so. I don't know. I didn't see Martha. I felt sick, and lay
down.... Oh yes!--I'm all right now."
"No, you're not, dear! You look very flushed. Shan't I get something? A
little brandy-and-water?"
"Oh heavens, no!--make me sick! Like on the steamer--the very idea
makes me ill! There's nothing the matter."
Mrs. Eldridge wasn't convinced. Should she open the window to let a
little air in? She was one of those plaguing people that _will_ remedy,
whether you like it or no. Mrs. Challis repulsed her open-window
movement with some asperity; reduced her to fiddling with her screen
with a fixed gaze of solicitude, fraught with ultimatums about medical
advice, failing prompt improvement in the patient.
Marianne remained still on the sofa, with her eyes closed for a few
minutes. Then she said suddenly, rather as one who turns to an offered
relief: "What were you and Steptoe saying about my sister when I came
in?"
Her hearer started; grasped the coincidence of name fully for the first
time probably. "Your sister, Marianne.... Why, how?" And then, with a
complete perplexity: "How could that be?"
"My sister was Catherine Verrall--my sister Kate, that died. Why were
you talking about her?"
"It must have been another Catherine Verral--_must_ have been."
"_Who_ must have been?"
"This girl. Stop, and I'll tell you!... But, really, the
coincidence!" And, indeed, Mrs. Charlotte seems almost knocked silly
by it, as the pugilists say. Marianne is roused and interested
at her perplexity--sits up on the sofa fanning herself with her
pocket-handkerchief--seems half inclined to laugh.
"What's it all _about_, Charlotte?" she says, and then adds--a little
passing tribute to the memory abruptly revived--"Poor Kate!"
"Oh, my dear, of course it's nothing to do with poor Kate. Just an odd
coincidence of a girl Mrs. Steptoe knew at Ramsgate, I think--years
ago!"
"Kate was at Ramsgate, though, when I was a child. She taught music
to some people's children. What _was_ their name now?" But the name
would not come back, on any terms. Marianne gave it up. Her friend felt
actually glad, for the puzzle was too incisive to be pleasant.
"Very likely she was at Ramsgate. Why not? But she hadn't been twice a
widow when she married your Titus, at any rate. Come, Marianne!"
"Certainly not! She wasn't nineteen, for one thing. Was this
coincidence-lady a widow?"
"Perhaps I had better tell you the story?"
"Much better, I should say." On which Mrs. Eldridge repeats Mrs.
Steptoe's tale, neither confounding the persons nor dividing the
substance, but with a tendency--very common in narratives we pass on
to others, but ourselves have no part in--to substitute descriptions
or epithets for names. Thus the Mr. and Mrs. Hallock of the original
narrative appeared as "this lady and gentleman" until Mrs. Challis,
whose puzzled look was on the increase, asked a question about them:
"What were they--this lady and gentleman? What was their name?"
"I fancy he was a coal merchant or dealer in something. Mrs. Steptoe
didn't say. The name was Hallock." Mrs. Challis sprang up from the sofa
excitedly.
"Charlotte!--_what_ did you say? Hallock?"
"Yes--Hallock. Why not?"
Marianne's breath is quite taken away. "But that is the name I had
forgotten--Hallock," she says, as soon as she can speak. "They're
in one of those photographs in the old book--the one I brought from
mother's." Her speech is rapid and frightened. The strangeness of the
story is getting its mastery, and she feels, without imaging them, the
ambushes in wait for her. "Oh dear!" she gasps, sinking back again on
the sofa, "all this--it's so odd! Charlotte, I'm afraid to look at the
photograph."
Charlotte's nerves are stronger, and she, recovered from the momentary
alarm her friend had given her, is ready, one might say, to be in
mischief again. "Don't be a goose, Marianne," she says. "You're
frightened of everything. Do let's get the thing explained, dear,
instead of going dotty over it. Which photograph book is it?...
left-hand chiffonier?... no?--right-hand ... top shelf?... No!--I won't
make a mess.... I expect it's this."
It was, and it exactly confirmed Mrs. Eldridge's anticipation of a coal
merchant and his wife, two young daughters, and a governess a few years
older than themselves. A stupid seaside photographer's group, but
with well-marked face-features. The artist's address in a little oval
underneath, conspicuously Ramsgate.
"Of course it's all some confusion of Mrs. Steptoe's," says Mrs.
Eldridge. She knows she is talking nonsense, but she wants to calm all
troubled waters while she gets her curiosity satisfied. "You'll see she
won't recognize any of these--unless you give her hints, Marianne."
This is unprovoked, and Marianne resents it. "Show them to her when
I'm not there if you like. Show her now and I'll go. Only I'm afraid
they're gone to bed." If they have, no harm in ringing the bell! It is
rung, and evolves Harmood, apologetic for not having gone up yet. And
then Mrs. Steptoe, even more so.
Marianne does not go, but then that was mere talk. Mrs. Eldridge wants
Steptoe--so she tells her--to see if she recognizes a photograph.
Aunt Stingy is not dissatisfied to be consulted about anything. Mrs.
Eldridge shows diplomacy, astutely getting her to identify Mrs. Challis
at different ages. Having put the witness on a false scent, she shows
the group, and asks: "Now which of those is Mrs. Challis?"
The witness tried to find an excuse for identification, but failed. But
having admitted failure, why hold so tightly to the photo-album?
"Well, Mrs. Steptoe?" Mrs. Eldridge speaks.
"Nothing, ma'am. Oh no!--only what unaccountably caught my eye. Nothing
to detain. What would be termed an impression." She relinquished the
album slowly with a vaguely constructed "Excusin' the liberty I took,
I'm sure!"
"You noticed something, Mrs. Steptoe?"
"In the manner of speaking, yes! But not to detain. It just cut across
me like ... yes, ma'am, thank you, just a minute!" For Mrs. Eldridge
had said, "Look at it again," and handed the open book back.
Aunt Stingy looked and looked, in more and more visible bewilderment.
Pressed to explain it, she at last said: "I can't make no less of it,
put it how you may. That's Mr. and Mrs. Hallock I was telling of, just
now half-an-hour gone. And _that_ is the young lady."
Iterations, stimulated by an incredulity Mrs. Eldridge affects in order
to procure them, are interrupted by a knock at the front door. Mrs.
Steptoe departs to open it. It is Mr. Eldridge, to accompany his wife
home. He is not, she says, to hurry and fuss, but to sit down and wait,
and not knock things over. He makes the remark, "Somethin' up! Easy
does it!" implying, perhaps, readiness to wait for enlightenment, and
becomes seated, but knocks nothing over. His wife throws him a gleam,
to live on. "We are discussing the identity of a photograph," she says.
An occurrence interposes, Master Bob's arrival; the toleration for a
few brief moments of exultation over the evening's successes, and his
dismissal to bed, rather disgusted at Europe's want of appreciation.
Then Mrs. Steptoe, who had retired to admit him, re-enters and resumes.
"Those are the parties I told you, ma'am," says she, in an undertone
of confidence brought forward from the previous conversation, rather
definitely exclusive of the newcomer, who had overlapped it. But he has
his ideas, and as soon as he has thoroughly polished with his wrist the
bridge of a nose he has just blown, he offers counsel:
"No name on 'em? Look on the back. Look on the edges where they tuck
in. Nothin' like lookin'!" His wife accepts the suggestion without
tribute to his sagacity; and when the photo is slipped from the
_passepartout_, there on the back is plainly written: "Mr. and Mrs.
Hallock, Nelly, Totty, and self. June, 1888."
* * * * *
"She'll be all right," said Mrs. Eldridge, returning to her husband
in the drawing-room a quarter of an hour later. For Mrs. Challis,
already upset by her previous interview with her friend, had been
in no condition to have it burst upon her suddenly that important
events--which she could not the least understand, so far--relating to
her sister's life, and perhaps to his own, had been concealed from
her by this husband whom she was now called upon to have so much
faith in. She had completely broken down; had left the room white as
ashes, having been previously flushed and feverish; and had nearly
fainted away on the stairs. She had been got safely to bed, and had so
far recovered as to be able to say that she should go to sleep soon.
Perhaps her chief wish was to be let alone. She wanted to think to the
bottom of this photograph story. What was it all about?
But Mr. Eldridge perceived that this sort of weather was trying to
some constitutions, and suggested drastic treatment. His wife said,
"Be quiet while I write this," and ignored his suggestions. She wrote
a brief note to Mr. Challis, and left it in his bedroom candlestick
on the hall-table outside. He was sure to see it. She then asked her
husband whether he was coming, or was going to go on mooning there
indefinitely. He chose the former course without insisting on closer
definition of the latter.
A couple of hours later Alfred Challis paid a cabman a shilling too
much, to avoid discussion, through his confessional _guichet_ overhead,
and escaped from a guillotine--thanks to its momentary forbearance--in
a steady shower of rain that had heard that the wind had fallen,
and caught at the opportunity to come down. It was lucky he had a
waterproof on, though he had only to negotiate the garden's length to
reach shelter and discover his latchkey.
He was not in the best of humours; all the more so that Miss Arkroyd,
who was to have accompanied the Ross Tarbets, had been unable to do so
on account of a sprained ankle--a trifle in itself, but warranted to
become serious if walked on.
Seeing the envelope after lighting his candle, he opened it and read
the note. His comments, in their order, were a "Hm--hm!" of concern and
apprehension, another with some impatience in it, a grunt with nothing
else, and a suppressed "Damn the woman!" He read it twice, and again,
and went upstairs noiselessly.
Marianne was not asleep. She was wide awake, and wholesomely disposed
to trust her husband, and tell the events of the evening at whatever
risk. It would have to come out some time. Besides, the relief of
knowing, either way! However, to tell him as natural sequence to
an enquiry how things had gone with her was one thing; to rush the
position another. She could not bring herself to call out to him--so
little concerned about her as to make no such enquiry, and still
scintillating, as it were, with sparks from the brilliancies of his
evening's entertainment--to come into her room and hear the story. No,
let him go--him and his Grosvenor Squares and Countesses!
Meanwhile he, however little weight he attached to anything Charlotte
Eldridge said, conceived that he was on the safe side in paying
attention to what she enjoined about a patient whom she had seen, and
he had not. She might have been more definite about the nature of
the attack. It was just like her to make a mystery of it. But it was
evidently better to take her hint not to disturb his wife--now at near
one in the morning! Challis made as little noise as possible, and got
to bed in his own room, next to hers, without opening the door between
lest he should wake her.
This was the text of Mrs. Charlotte's letter:
"She is _much_ better, and will sleep. John and I both think you need
not be the _least_ alarmed. She has been too much excited lately, but
will be all right now. Be very careful not to disturb her when you go
up. I will try to come round in the morning. C. E."