AT ROYD AGAIN. THE BREAD OF IDLENESS. A GOOD PLAIN COOK. A DIALOGUE
BETWEEN A PRIEST AND A PROFANE AUTHOR. THE RECTORY AND ITS GUEST,
LIZARANN. HOW THE CARRIAGE DIDN'T STOP
That Whitsuntide the may-trees were thick with bloom at Royd when
Marianne Challis once for all flatly decided not to accompany her
husband there. As for him, he couldn't possibly refuse to go merely
because she wouldn't. And when you particularly want to do anything,
intrinsic impossibility to refuse to do it is always welcome. So on
an early day in June Challis found himself again on the lawn at Royd;
not exactly breathing freely because Marianne had refused to join the
party, but distinctly glad that he was not called on to speculate as
to what she would have said or done in this contingency or that, or
which of the guests she would have fallen out with, or the extent to
which he would have been bound to try to lubricate the situation, or
the exact nature of the mess he would have made of it. Marianne had
decided the matter, in spite of _bona fide_ efforts on his part to
reverse her decision. He had made them _bona fide_, in the interest of
his conscience later on.
Anyhow, that was all settled, and he could inhale the aroma of the
may-trees and the lilacs, and identify the note of the wood-pigeon--he
was just bucolic enough for that--and pretend he meant blackbird
when he said nightingale, and, in short, betray his Cockney origin
_ad libitum_, while basking on the lawn in the first enjoyment of
his escape from the hoots and shrieks and petroleum-stench of town.
For even Wimbledon Common is not exempt. And nowhere can the music
and the silence--strange compound!--of the world of growing trees go
home more strongly to the jaded sense of a mere town-rat than in the
charmed circle of a park-girt home, with centuries of repose behind
and possible decades of conservation ahead. Not too many, because
that would savour of sentimentalism; and it is always our duty to be
prosaic in the interests of an advancing Civilization. Not too many,
in this case of Royd, because that would imply too great a delay in
the development of the wealth of coal that is known to exist below the
beech and cedar of the three-mile drive, and the woods of ash and oak
the deer and the keepers have pretty nearly kept to themselves since
the days of William the Socialist. And when the coal comes, what that
means in the end is--perhaps more people! Never mind what sort! Don't
bother!
Don't bother! That was Alfred Challis's view of the Universe in two
words as he settled down to the enjoyment of faultless afternoon tea,
which would be a little stronger presently for those who waited; of the
society of his hostess, the Rector, and two of the previous chits; of
whom one, the young soldier's idol of last September, was drawling with
sweetness, but without interest, to oblige. She was looking frequently
towards the house. Challis said to himself that she need not be uneasy,
because _he_ would come, all right enough, in due time. He knew
this, because they had ridden from Euston together, and talked about
tobacco the whole way, that being their only topic in common. When the
young man appeared, with the visible benediction on his head of two
ivory-backed hair-brushes with no handles--which Challis had seen when
a dressing-case was opened in the train for a moment--the young lady
received him ceremoniously, almost distantly. Never mind!--thought the
author to himself--they'll be romping like school-children the minute
we oldsters are turned off.
There was no one else yet, of all a large house-party; nearly the
same as in September, said Lady Arkroyd. She apologized for this to
Mr. Challis, who replied that he, too, was nearly the same as in
September, if not quite, and that it was a coincidence. He hoped his
identity would be as welcome to the house-party as its would be to
him. Lady Arkroyd smiled acquiescence without analysis. She remained
gracefully on the surface of things, confident that all would go well
below it in the hands, for instance, of an eminent, if sometimes
puzzling novelist. Lady Arkroyd had not the insight of Judith, Challis
perceived. He indulged a disposition to detect insight in Judith.
_Geist_ in that quarter made their relation--not that they had any,
mind you!--plausible and warrantable.
There may have been concession to some such relativity in her
ladyship's remark that Judith would not be back till dinner. Challis
fell flat over it, not knowing whether he ought to say, "Cheer up!--I
can wait," or shed tears. Athelstan Taylor relieved the position
by saying that he hoped Miss Arkroyd had stopped on her way at the
Rectory, as he wanted her to see the little girl. Then her ladyship
bestowed on Challis, for a snack, as it were, the odd chit, who was at
a loose end; devised her to him by name, and went back to a talk on
local games at Providence with the Rector. The chit's name, however
improbable it may seem, was Lady Henrietta Mounttullibardine, and she
did not look as if she could live up to it. She coloured at intervals,
and seemed hushed. Challis distinctly saw her want to say something
several times, and give it up. He encouraged her tenderly, and in
time she confessed that she really wanted to know whether it was
Pepperstraw, in Challis's last novel, that hit upon the idea of using
digitalis, or Bessie. He told her, and she retired on her information,
in awe at having spoken to a live author. Challis could listen
undisturbed to the conversation of the Parson and their hostess.
"There is something very engaging about the child," said the latter.
"Of course, she has that defect. The mouth is too large for beauty. But
she cossets up to you nicely, and opens her eyes wide. The eyes are
fine in themselves, and remind me of ... oh dear!--what was that girl's
name, now, in Somersetshire? I can't recollect the least." Athelstan
Taylor felt helpless, and was wondering if it would be legitimate to
say never mind, when her ladyship decided that it didn't matter, and
continued: "Sir Murgatroyd is quite of our opinion, that it would never
do to let the child lapse."
"Never do at all!" said the Rector. "Indeed, even if the child were
not there, I should be very reluctant to lose sight of the father. I
suspect, too, that the people at the cottage--where I put him to stay,
you know--wouldn't thank me for taking him away. It's very curious to
me how a man with such qualifications for being an encumbrance can
manage to make himself welcome at all. But he's become very popular
there, especially with old Margy. She says it's like a clock to hear
him tell. I think she means that he goes on chatting in a pleasant,
easy kind of way. Sea stories, you know--that sort of thing!"
"Didn't you say he was inclined to give trouble?--they _are_
troublesome sometimes." She referred, no doubt, to the _intransigeant_
pauper population, and their natural love of independence combined with
outdoor relief.
"I didn't mean exactly troublesome in that sense. Troublesomely averse
to giving trouble, perhaps I should have said. He never said anything
to me, but old Margy is in his confidence. It seems that that sister of
his--the Steptoe woman, you know? ... oh yes!--_you_ know--the woman
whose husband was drowned in the lock--the _delirium tremens_ man...."
"_Delirium tremens_ man?" said her ladyship dimly. And then suddenly,
"Oh yes, I know, of course," almost in one word. Challis listened with
stimulated attention, and Mr. Taylor continued:
"Well!--she's Jim Coupland's sister, you see--and it seems that she
used to twit him with eating the bread of idleness before he took to
the retail match-trade. He considers that he is eating the bread of
idleness now. Perhaps he is. But he is submitting, until he is strong
on his legs again--that's his expression. Besides, we have made a
composition, and half his keep is to be deducted from his savings.
By-the-bye...." The Rector paused, with recollection on his face.
Lady Arkroyd's speech is apt to have a superseding character--to pass
by lesser folks' unimportant remarks. "I liked the father at the
Hospital," she says indifferently. "I hope the child isn't going to be
delicate." Mr. Taylor was arrested long enough to say, oh dear no!--oh
no, it was or would be all right as far as that went--and then left it,
whatever it was, to finish his own beginning.
"I was just going to say what an odd chance it was that Mr. Challis's
housekeeping should have absorbed Mrs. Steptoe. How does the woman
answer, Challis?" For, as we have heard, these two gentlemen had become
fairly well acquainted last September, in spite of the cloth of the
one and the predisposition of the other--a better word for the case
than "antipathies," which had almost crept into the text. One or two
country-walk chats had ended in Challis giving the Rev. Athelstan
practical absolution for his black stock and silk waistcoat, and the
latter reflecting much on the figments of mediæval creed and formulary
that make a gulf between so many intellects with concord at the root,
and play into the hands of their common enemy, the Devil. Why was
he glad that his friend Gus was safe in London dabbling in incense,
coquetting with Holy Water, preaching Immaculate Conceptions, and not
letting his left hand know that his right hand had renounced the Bishop
of Rome--when a visitor like Challis might accrue at any moment at Royd
Rectory, as per promise given eight months ago? Why?--simply because
he felt that the bridge of his own liberality, however long the span
of it, was not enough to cover the great gulf! And there was Ahriman,
chuckling all the while!
"I am given to understand that Mrs. Steptoe is a good plain cook," was
Challis's answer to the Rector's question. Something in the manner
of it seemed to throw doubt on his good faith. Otherwise, why seek
confirmatory evidence, as his hearers seemed to do?
"I suppose you dine at home?" said the Rector, going to the point.
"I don't judge so much by that. It wouldn't be fair to do so,
because I gather that in our house the flues don't act, and the best
kitchen-coal at twenty shillings has no burn in it, and goes to
cender in no time. Also we have no saucepans the right size. Also
our greengrocer supplies us with potatoes which on peeling turn out
irregular polyhedrons. So it doesn't do to be biassed by what we get to
eat. But I am convinced she is a good plain cook."
Lady Arkroyd was accepting all Challis said in the spirit of Bradshaw.
A territorial lady knows nothing of the small domesticities of any
middle class. The Rector, perceiving a danger ahead--a new-born
interest in the peculiar potatoes obtaining in suburban villas--headed
Lady Arkroyd off just as she had begun, "What very curious pota...!"
without a smile.
"Challis isn't in earnest," said he. "It's only his chaff." Her
ladyship said, "Oh!" and looked puzzled--awaited enlightenment. Challis
laughed, admitting jurisdiction. But he pleaded in extenuation of his
offence that it was difficult to fight against the conviction that Mrs.
Steptoe was a good plain cook--whatever direct evidence there was to
the contrary--in the face of her apron and the material of her dress,
her punctual attendance at chapel, her handwriting and its blots, her
arithmetic and its totals. She really had all the qualities of a good
plain cook, except the bald and crude ability to do plain cookery--a
thing no one who looks below the surface ever bothers over.
"I'm afraid the good woman's a bit of a humbug," was Athelstan Taylor's
conclusion. It was welcomed by the lady, as a relief to the necessity
for smiling in a well-bred way--a Debretticent way, call it--while
queer arrivals from below uttered paradoxes on Olympus.
Judith might be late; she was at Thanes. Challis pretended he hadn't
known this. But he knew well enough that the young lady had forgiven
the Castle, because they were going to have theatricals; and she, with
an imputed experience, had been petitioned to accept the principal
part. All this was in her last letter, written to Challis at his club.
It had also told him that William Rufus, her brother, would not be at
Royd for a few days, as he was busy in town over the Great Idea, which
was going to be a very great Idea indeed, as some men had come forward
and were going to put a good deal of Capital into it. Challis had said,
"Dear me!--how like!..." and had not finished the sentence.
A little thing occurred that amused the novelmonger's heart and
stirred his sympathies. When he began talking with his hostess and
the Rector, he had turned his back on the chit and the young soldier.
When, as the Rector's departure provoked dispersal, he looked their
way again--behold!--they had vanished, as by magic. "I think," said
the second chit, "they have gone for a walk to Fern Hollow." And
thenceforward there was a consciousness about this young couple and
their destiny between Mr. Challis and the second chit. For had she not
detected his thought about them, when his eyes looked for them and
found them not?
The other visitors, some of whom were as identical with those of
September as circumstance permits in such a case, were scattered about
elsewhere, subject to well-grounded confidences that they would be back
to dinner. And the only important variation of identity among these was
that one had become a Confirmed Christian Scientist. Challis didn't
know whether he was expected to be glad or sorry.
He became somehow aware that her ladyship was going to drive to Thanes
Castle accompanied by the second chit, to bring Judith back. Also that
he was not going to be asked to accompany her. "_What_ is Mr. Challis
going to do if we all forsake him?" spoken with a sweet smile, left no
doubt on the point. Mr. Challis had a letter he must write; so that was
settled.
"You haven't got a letter to write, Challis," said the Rector at the
front gate, to which both had walked in company. "Come some of the
way with me, and talk as profanely as you like. I won't go fast." For
the resolute stride of a pedestrian had made Challis cry for mercy in
September.
"Yes--it was a lie about the letter," said he. "But it was good and
unselfish in me to tell it. Saved bother, in fact! Can you wait two
minutes while I put on walking-boots?"
"I can wait five, luckily; which I take it is your meaning." He waited
six, beguiling them by letting the gate swing to and fro, and noting
what a long time it took to reach equilibrium. "Wait a second," said
he to Challis, arriving booted at the end of the fourth experiment.
"Let's see how long it means to go on!" And then, having settled the
point, the two were walking along the great avenue through the murmur
of the beeches, conscious of a dispute between the woodlands and the
hay-fields as to which was adding the sweeter flavour to the air of
heaven.
Neither spoke at first. Then Challis said, as though still thinking
over recent words: "Why 'as profanely as I liked'? I am a Profane
Author, certainly, in the old sense of the word. Was that what you
meant?"
"Why--yes! That is, if that was the sense you used the word in the last
time we talked together, in September. Do you remember? You said you
always had diabolical promptings towards profanity in the presence of
anything sacred. Then you said my cloth was conventionally sacred, and
that made matters worse."
"I remember. We were getting very candid. You said you liked it."
"So I did. I said what I said just now because I wanted to go on where
we left off. We were just going to quarrel healthily when Mr. Brownrigg
pointed out that in the millennium of Graubosch the impious man would
have no cause for despondency. The class of Insulated Ideas, evolved
from the theory of Metaphysical Checks, will at once provide the
Dogmatist with materials, and the Blasphemer with an object to give his
attention to...."
"I remember. If I belonged to the latter class, I shouldn't be a
Grauboschite. Too much like Temperance Drinks, that make you feel as
if you were drunk...." Challis arrested his own speech, as if he had
had enough of triviality, and spoke seriously. "I want you to tell me
something, without any reserve."
"Go on. I will, if I can."
"You read one of my books, I know ... what!--two more since
September!--fancy that!... Well--what was your impression? As to what
we are speaking of, I mean. Did it strike you that I made light of
subjects usually held sacred?"
"It struck me that you did not hold them sacred. I do not mean a
syllable more than I say. Your writing, so far as I have read it, is
negative."
"I have wished to keep it so. Why should any author try to disturb or
unsettle beliefs that he cannot replace--even by a Metaphysical Check?
You remember what I said to you last year, just the other side of
where the brook runs across the road on its own account, by the little
footbridge?... well!--it was quite true. I have no antipathy to any
beliefs of other people, having none of my own. I merely take exception
to the recitation of Creeds."
"Even when the reciter is free to choose silence."
"If he stands up it comes to the same thing."
"He needn't unless he likes. At least, in my Church."
"Then suppose he _does_ believe some of it, is he to jump up and down?
There must be what my Bob calls a good few persons who believe the
first seven and the last four words of the Creed ... well!--the regular
Creed--you know which one I mean ... and you could hardly expect them
to sit still all through the business part of the recitation and cut in
at the end."
"You're only half serious, Challis. Your inveterate propensity to quips
of thought and paradox, as it is called, misleads you and spoils your
talk. Surely a declaration of faith is an intrinsic necessity in a
communion! How can it exist otherwise?"
"You must keep the disbelievers out--is that it?" Challis thought it
time for a cigar. When he had got it lighted, he resumed: "Yes!--as a
means of constructing communions, Creeds are invaluable. The communion
that had none would be too big. As for me, I never can help thinking of
those lines:
"'One all too sure of God to need
That token to the world without
Of homage paid by faith to doubt,
The recitation of a Creed.'
... Where do they come from, did you say? 'In Memoriam,' I suppose."
"Can't recollect them!... I wish you would tell me what you understand
by the word 'believe.'"
"I'm very doubtful. It just depends on how I use it. When I tell my
wife that I believe her letter has gone to the Post, my meaning is
clear. I mean that I didn't see it on the hall-table when I last
looked. When I say that I believe I am engaged on Thursday, it is
equally unmistakable. I mean that I don't want to meet the So-and-so's
at your house, morning-dress. But when I say, as I am apt to do, that
I believe in God Almighty, I do so with a misgiving that my meaning is
not intelligible to myself. Perhaps I regard my speech as a civility to
the absolutely Unknown--I really couldn't say. Or it may be I only use
it in fulfilment of a convention which, so long as I comply with its
conditions, binds all the other signatories not to bother."
"You always make me think you are going to be serious, and then you go
off at a tangent. I never have any doubt what I mean by the word...."
"What, for instance?"
"Whatever my mind does not question, I believe."
"Then the Creed might be reworded, 'I don't and won't question the
existence of God the Father,' and so on. Somehow it doesn't sound
convincing."
"Because it seems to imply that the question is an open one."
"And saying you believe it doesn't? I'm agreeable, if you're satisfied.
But, then, you see, I stop away from Church, by hypothesis. And I
should do so just the same if the re-wording were made. Nokes and
Stokes and Styles and Brown and Thompson in a row, shouting that they
didn't and wouldn't question the existence of God Almighty, would keep
me out just as much as if they said they 'believed' in Him."
They walked on a little in silence, the Rector very thoughtful.
Presently he said, rather as one who comes to a sudden conclusion: "My
definition of the word doesn't cover it. One means more...."
"And doesn't exactly know what," said Challis.
"Precisely. But isn't it possible that the common use of a word long
received among many people may, from the habit of its usage, acquire a
meaning to each and all alike, and yet continue to baffle definition?"
"Very possible indeed, and certain. I know a case in point. I went to a
sort of spiritualistic _séance_ once, and in the course of operations
the audience was requested to _will_ powerfully. To my surprise, all
the _habitués_ seemed prepared to comply as a matter of course. One
young man said, 'How?' but was sat upon by public opinion. I heard him
after ask a friend, 'How did _you_ will'? And the reply was: 'I held
my breath and caught firmly hold of four-and-sixpence in my breeches
pocket. How did you?' He answered that he had shut his eyes tight and
thought of his toes. But all the faithful--these two were outsiders,
like myself--seemed to know what to do; and did it right, I suppose,
because an accordion played. They had found out what _willing_ meant,
by habit and telepathic interchange. Probably believers know in the
same way what is meant by belief. But it's no use outsiders holding
their breath and thinking of their toes."
This sort of chat continued till the two reached the Rectory. It is
given in the story to throw light on the friendship that sprang up
between two such opposites, or seeming opposites.
When one walks part of the way home with a friend, Euclid's axioms get
flawed sometimes, for the whole of the way is no greater than its part.
Challis went all the way to the Rectory, of course; said he wouldn't
come in, of course; said he mustn't sit down, of course; did so, of
course; and kept his eye on his watch, of course. Having complied with
all forms and precedents, he started to walk back.
His short visit had given him odds and ends of human things to think
of. That was the Rector's sister-in-law, that dry lady who had made
him feel tolerated; and that other one who had begged him not to throw
his cigar away was only an old friend. Challis was sorry the reverse
was not the case, for the Rector's sake. He felt that the old friend
might be kissed with advantage to the kisser, while the officially
permissible peck of the dry lady's cheek could not be a source of
satisfaction to any connoisseur. It was a thought entirely on his
friend's behalf--he himself was indifferent. However, he might be
wrong. The dry lady seemed very congenial to the two little girls,
her nieces, who, it appeared--hurriedly, for his visit was short--had
engaged a nurse for their baby. Challis suspected that a dispute
between the two children, which the dry lady peremptorily silenced,
turned on a question of paternity. Which of them was to be the baby's
papa? It seemed late in the day for considering the point, thought
Challis. The oldest sister was _always_ the papa, said that claimant;
and confirmed it by adding, "Eliza Ann says so, and she knows." The
colloquy was half-heard, but this seemed the upshot.
That little Eliza Ann in the blue cotton dress--the nurse in this
drama--was, of course, the little girl whose mouth was too large for
beauty; Mrs. Steptoe's brother's child. How small the world was! "So is
the kid herself, for that matter," was Challis's reflection thereon; a
typical instance of the whimsical way his mind twisted things. He would
have said it aloud with perfect gravity to any hearer, had he had one.
She was a nice little wench, anyhow, the nurse, with her great big eyes
and her Cockney-up-to-date accent. Also Challis had noted her quickness
in repeating words just heard. "The biby is on no attount to be wyked,"
she had said, with an earnest sense of the reality of her part. "_O si
sic omnes!_" Challis had thought to himself.
But the nurse forgot herself the moment after, saying: "I must sow this
biby to my daddy, tomollow--maten't I?" However, she resumed her part
at once, on assurance given. She was certainly to show that baby to her
daddy. And he would feel it, and see how fat it was. Thereon Challis
had remembered what had till then escaped his mind, that Mrs. Steptoe's
brother was eyeless and half legless. Oh, what an indurated baby, for
an appreciator dependent on touch alone! And, oh, the stony glare of
its eyes fixed on the zenith, when roused from sleep by a practicable
wire in its spine!
A man with a permanent source of disquiet always lights on something
to remind him of it, go where he may. Challis had succeeded on his way
from London in persuading himself that the warmth of his own farewell
to Marianne had been more than skin-deep, whatever hers was; and had
felt that he could justifiably stand his own self-reproaches over, and
enjoy the day that was passing, without remorse. And then what must he
needs come across, of all things in the world, but a sister-in-law! Not
one certainly resembling in the least the sister-in-law of a decade
past, whom she reminded him of! There was nothing in this one of the
girl who then, in the language of Oliver, bestowed herself like a ripe
sister, and was accepted with a sense that she more than made up for a
too mature mother-in-law, and put the advantages of marriage outside
all question. Nothing of Marianne then or now, for that matter, in the
dry lady personally; but much to remind him of his own case in the way
she had taken over the two little girls, much as Marianne had taken
over Bob.
Was it his fault--the whole thing? For there was a "whole thing" by
now. He could not disguise that whole thing from himself, and that
it was a thing that had somehow grown, slowly and surely, since the
first days when he and Marianne were rejoicing together in the dark
front parlour of the Great Coram Street house over a letter just come
from the publishers, Saxby's, Ltd., which accepted "The Spendthrift's
Legacy," and named terms which led to a calculation that success,
followed by a book per annum equally successful, would yield two
thousand a year; and to castles in Spain, the building of which would
have cost that sum twice over.
Or, if not from that hour exactly, it had grown since the days of the
success that followed. It was hard to say when it began. Was he aware
of it--of "the whole thing"--when Marianne refused to go with him
to Lady Horse's because the Honourable Mrs. Diamonds had been rude
to her first, and encouraged her after? These were not the ladies'
real names, but everything else held good. Marianne had then said
that once was quite enough, and she knew all along exactly how it was
going to be, ever since that woman in skirts had given herself such
airs--a reference to a previous delinquent. Oh dear!--now suppose the
Honourable Diamonds had not "encouraged" her--how then? Anyhow, Challis
could see now, too late, what he ought to have done. He ought to have
taken bulls by the horns, and bits in his teeth, and opportunities by
their forelocks, and said flatly that _he_ wouldn't go to Lady Horse's
unless Marianne came, too. It was his going that once without her that
had done it! And all because of the confounded good-nature of that
diamond woman, who must needs go _encouraging_ her. That was what hurt
the most, a thousandfold. The Diamonds might have stood on Marianne's
lilac silk all day long, and broken that little crickly man's arm with
her fan, if she chose, and her victim would have forgiven it. But
when she came off, she scarcely apologized. And then, after that, to
_encourage her_!
Still, in those days he was not aware of "the whole thing" that had
"come about." Suspicion that something was amiss was followed by belief
that the something had melted away. Intermittent phases succeeded,
now and then with an appearance of concession to Society on Marianne's
part; occasional acceptances of invitations to houses where Challis
innocently hoped all had gone well, till he found himself driving home
with a hurt and silent lady, and came to know that the very things he
had fondly fancied almost angelic ebullitions of sweetness in their
hostess were really only the woman's impertinence; and that what
seemed to him good-humoured informality in her daughters was nothing
but that sort of hoydenishness that seemed to be thought the proper
thing nowadays. He could recall many incidents of this description, yet
none that seemed to warrant the evolution of married discomfort--of
disintegrated family life--that kept on gaining slowly, slowly on his
resistance to it.
It had intensified, he knew, since his first visit to Royd in
September. It was mixed up with his professional association with
Judith Arkroyd. It _was_ a professional relation, and nothing else.
He called the ancestral beeches of the family to bear witness to the
utter impossibility of its being anything else. If he, Alfred Challis,
ex-accountant, ephemeral scribbler of an empty day, was conscious
of a certain warmth in his admiration for that lady, that was _his_
concern--not even the business of the beech-trees, or the new young
fern he was treading underfoot. It would remain a buried secret,
unknown to all men, most of all to Judith herself. He would even, as
an act of discipline, never think of it but to question its reality,
as he did now. It was to die, and should do so. At least he could keep
his own counsel about this soul-quake, heart-quake, self-quake--call
it what you will!--admitting that one existed. If he failed to do so
successfully, would he be the first man that had ever loved two women,
and been forced to hide away his love for one from the other and
herself? But he was obliged to admit that this was the first time he
had allowed the word "love" to be heard in his intercourse with himself
on this subject, even as an hypothesis.
He was relieved to observe the pleasure he felt in the thought that,
at any rate, Polly Anne need never know anything about it. _She_ need
never have any real cause for a moment's disquiet. Of course, any
_groundless_ suspicions she might choose to nourish were entirely
her own look-out. He could only recognize those that had a warrant
in reality. She should not be provided with materials for any such.
Of course, Polly Anne _was_ Polly Anne, after all, and her happiness
must always be a first consideration with him. Think of all their old
days together! Think of his hours of acute misery, when that young
monkey Emmie, five years ago, must needs imperil her mother's life
and her own by her indecent haste to see the World. Think, never too
often, of his gratitude to her when she took him, a mere derelict, in
tow, ten years since, and piloted him into safe waters. Think as much
as possible of her many nursings of him--of the many pipes they had
virtually had together, though he was the operative smoker--of the
many welcomes he had looked forward to. And as little as possible of
the shortness of temper that had certainly grown upon her, but was
very likely only a phase of health that would one day pass away and
be forgotten. Remember that confounded little monkey--bless her! of
course--and be forbearing to her mother.
There was one thought about her that twisted and tortured this
victim of over-self-examination beyond all reason. Look how utterly,
how almost terribly, Polly Anne had replaced poor Kate! Surely the
Great Unknown had made a record in cruelty when he created Love the
Monopolist! Why feel shocked because, after Kate had ceased, her sister
had taken over her inheritance so thoroughly? Besides, this entire
supersession of poor Kate showed him how really devoted he was to
Marianne, and how safe he and she were from intrusions from without.
It never struck him as strange that he should be seeking for assurance
that he loved his own wife.
It probably would have done so, in time, if his reflections had not
been interrupted at this point. The sound of the carriage--with Judith
in it, no doubt--returning from Thanes. Saladin, the huge boarhound,
coming on the scene first, examined Mr. Challis without any sign of
recognition, and seemed to decide that he had nothing contraband about
him. Then he waited till the carriage he had charge of came in sight,
and trotted on. The import of his demeanour was that an appointment
awaited him at the house, but that he could find time to see that
carriage and pair to the door--if only it wouldn't dawdle!
Whether it was from consideration for Saladin, or because it was
haughty, that carriage hardly stopped. Its pause was barely long enough
to say, through the mixed and hurried inspirations of its occupants,
that it could bring itself to accommodate Mr. Challis on the front
seat. Mr. Challis, alive to the importance of not sitting down on
miscellanea, preferred walking; for all that the miscellanea professed
readiness to be quite happy elsewhere. It was only a step to the house
now. And Saladin was waiting. All right--go on!
Why should Challis feel something akin to pique because that carriage
and pair took him at his word and went on, all right? Why need that
unfortunate propensity of the foot-passenger beset him, the vice of
mind that ascribes every action of a two-horse carriage to aristocratic
pride? Perhaps he wanted to file an accusation against something or
someone, and was not ready to admit that Judith's majestic smile and
head-inclination had anything to do with it. Anyhow, the rest of his
step to the house associated itself with a warm forgiving feeling
towards Polly Anne the tiresome, the miffy; and an intensified sense
of outsideness as to his own social whereabouts; the insidedness being
that of a fold with Sir Bernard Burke for shepherd, and Rouge Dragon
and Garter King-at-arms for collie dogs.
He arrived at the house to find the world flocking to dress for dinner,
or doing it already, out of sight. Flying cordialities from members
of the family, unseen till then, or visitors known to him previously,
intercepted him in his flight up the great staircase; but innuendoes
from well-informed contemporaries that dinner was at a quarter to eight
justified abruptness and pointed to opportunities for explanation.
Challis escaped to his room, and found his external self of the evening
to come--all but the head and hands he had on--laid out upon the bed,
waiting patiently to be scrambled into in a hurry, and have its studs
and buttons sworn at.
But he was not destined to be the last in the drawing-room, although he
thought it could not be otherwise. For when he arrived at the foot of
the stairs, it was with a consciousness on him of having heard, as in
a waking-dream, the sweetest possible drawl to the following effect:
"It was awl yaw fault. It wawsn't mine one bit," and a male reply, with
the climax of human contentment in every syllable, "I'm jolly glad--it
lasted so much longer?" and then a headlong rush to a chaotic toilette.
And that young man's appearance seven minutes later, looking as
if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, would have done honour to a
lightning transformationist. But the distant manner of the guilty
couple was carried too far, as everybody guessed all about it, and
would have done so even without the furtive looks they exchanged from
either end of a long table.