you myself to Bushey and Thames Ditton. Surely you must see that
the streets are the quintessence of vulgarity, of artificiality, of
hideousness, of ludicrous effort?”
“If they’re as bad as that, sir, why do all the great ladies stay all
the summer in ’em, when they might be in the country? Our little street
ain’t much, for sure, but there’s a deal o’ neighbourliness in it; and
I’m so used to listening for Sam’s growler rattlin’ home I don’t think
sleep ’ud come to me without it.”
“We really cannot take Sam and his cab into our wedded life,” remarks
Bertram, with irritation; “and why will you say ‘sir,’ and not Wilfrid?”
“Your Christian name would sound so cheeky, sir,” replies Annie. “I
couldn’t bring myself to say it. You’re so different to me, sir. That’s
what mother allus says: ‘Mr. Bertram’s got queer notions,’ says she;
‘but he was born of the quality, and quality he’ll be till he die, let
him fuss and fad and fettle as much as ever he likes.’”
Bertram is looking uneasily down the Mile: “Won’t your primroses wither
in the sun?”
“No; there’s the shade o’ the tree.”
Bertram says to himself: “However shall I get rid of her? If Marlow
should come back while she’s sitting here, or Fanshawe come out of his
house!” (_Aloud._) “Dear Annie, if you won’t misunderstand me, I think
we’d better not be seen sitting here together. Cæsar’s wife--no, I
don’t mean that, I mean an Englishman’s betrothed--in fact, you know
what I mean. It was very kind of you to send those violets yesterday,
but it was a mistake--my rooms were full--people laughed.”
“Oh, Mr. Bertram, I am sorry. It was silly, of course, now I think
of it,” says the girl, as she rises and takes up the baskets. “Mr.
Bertram, if you don’t like to be seen with me settin’ on this bench,
how ever will you stand being seen with me all your life?”
“You don’t comprehend,” replies Bertram, nervously. “That isn’t the
question at all. I don’t want people to say coarse and rude things of
you. Of my wife no one will ever dare to do so.”
Annie hangs her head in silence for a minute; then murmurs:
“Do you really love me, sir? Mother says as how it’s moonshine.”
“I dislike the word love. It is coarse, and implies coarse feelings. It
is a degrading impulse, shared with the beasts of the fields. Poets
are responsible for having covered its unloveliness with a starry
garment which has disguised--fatally disguised--its nakedness. What I
feel for you is respect, esteem, the sweetness of fulfilled duty, the
means of proving to the world the sincerity of my sociology.”
“Yes, sir. You told me that afore.”
“Well, what better sentiment can you desire? Love fills lunatic
asylums, divorce courts, cemeteries, heats charcoal braziers, fires
revolvers, gives human bodies to fishes; but such a sentiment as I
have for you purifies society, advances civilisation, ensures mutual
respect, and eliminates passion, the tyrant of man.”
He stops abruptly, for before his memory floats the vision of Cecily
Seymour, and he seems to hear her saying: “What heresy! And how untrue!”
Annie murmurs, keeping her head down, and in a disappointed voice:
“Yes, sir.”
“You do not seem to understand! You are vexed?”
“I’ll try to understand, sir. I’m only a poor girl, and all that you
say is very beautiful, I dessay; but--it makes me think of a novel I
got onst from the library, where a poor governess, without a umberellar
or a friend, stands out in the rain and looks through the winder at a
cosy kitchen, where they’re a-toastin’ muffins for tea, and a cat’s
a-warming hisself at the fire.”
“‘Jane Eyre.’ I fail to see the connection.”
“Well, Mr. Bertram, I say it ill; but when you talk in that kind o’
way it makes me feel out in the cold like as that poor teacher was, and
I think I’d rather have the fire and the muffins and the cat.”
“I fear you are a sad Philistine, Annie.”
“I don’t know what that is, sir. I daresay as it’s only that your
beautiful talk’s too fine for me. I think I’ll go now. I didn’t ought
to have dawdled here.”
“You are crying, child!”
“Oh, no, sir.”
She gets up and hurries away.
“O Heavens!” Bertram says to himself. “One does not go to that sturdy
class to get a sensitive plant that droops at a touch. She says
_liberry_ and _umberellar_. It is absurd that such a trifle should
irritate one, but it does; it is like a grain of dust in one’s eye, a
crumb of bread in one’s sock. What atoms they are, yet how miserable
they can make one! And then her absolute inability to understand one!
Love! Good gracious! She would want to have a bride cake from Gunter’s;
a temple of Hymen in spun sugar!”
The remembrance of Cicely Seymour’s fair face, with its tender, dreamy
eyes and its beautiful mouth, comes over him. He shivers in the warmth
of the pleasant and unusual sunshine.
Marlow, who has left the ladies after his snubbing, passes him again,
puts his glass in his eye, and gazes after Annie Brown.
“A _protégée_? Younger than your disciples usually are,” he remarks.
“Ah, to be sure--that must be the Annie of the violets? My dear
Bertram, surely chivalry should suggest that we should carry her
baskets for her? If you will take the one, I will take the other.”
Bertram deigns no answer. He feels considerably annoyed, and gazes at
the cupola of the hotel in front of him.
Marlow digs holes in the gravel with his cane.
“What an opportunity lost of practical illustration of your doctrines,
and--she’s got a smart pair of ankles; rather thick, but still----”
Bertram continues to gaze abstractedly at the hotel roof.
“But why, oh why, let her wear highlows?” continues Marlow. “They would
deform a goddess.”
Suddenly, with the sense of taking a plunge into water of unknown
depth, the man whom he torments faces what he considers an imperative
obligation.
“The young person in the highlows is my future wife,” he says between
his teeth. “You will be so good as to make your jokes about some other
matter than her ankles.”
Marlow stares, utterly incredulous and stupefied.
“Good Lord! you can’t mean it! Your wife? Why, she is--she is--she is
a very decent sort of girl no doubt; I should be sorry to imply the
contrary, but----”
“Be so good as to understand that I am not in jest. That is
the--the--the daughter of the people who I am about to marry.”
“Oh, Lord!”
Marlow drops into a chair, so astonished that he could not recover his
speech. Annie is too far off to hear, and there is no one else within
earshot except a groom on the other side of the rails; the policeman
has gone on down the road.
“I was much to blame,” says Bertram, in his chilliest manner, “not
to make the announcement yesterday when you asked who were the Brown
family. My reticence was a weakness of which I am sincerely ashamed.”
He has done what he believes that courage, truth, and loyalty to this
poor little girl with the primrose skips demanded, but doing our duty,
unhappily, is apt to leave a shivery and prickly sensation behind it,
and his reasons do not, even to himself, appear so logical, admirable,
and clear as they had done three months ago.
And why will she say “_liberry_” and “_umberellar_”? and her ankles
certainly are thick! He tries to remember Sybil in Disraeli’s romance
of that name, but he cannot conceal from his mind that Annie is not in
the very least like Sybil, if he himself somewhat resembles Egremont.
“And may I tell people?” asks Marlow, with his eyes staring wide open.
“You may tell every one. The office of bellman to society is, I
believe, very congenial to you.”
“Eh? Lord, how they will laugh! They’ll die of laughin’.”
Bertram reddens angrily.
“No doubt they will laugh. Such laughter is still as like the crackling
of thorns under a pot as it was in the days of Solomon.”
Marlow continues to stare stupidly.
“Are you sure you aren’t jokin’? chaffin’? humbuggin’?” he asks.
“I do not joke,” replies Bertram, with chill dignity. “And certainly I
should not use banter on so delicate and solemn a subject. If you think
the actions of my insignificant personality will amuse people, you are
at liberty to amuse them.”
With that he nods slightly, and walks towards the French Embassy,
leaving Marlow rooted to his chair, still staring with a blank
expression of incredulity and amaze.
“And that prig, that dolt, that triple idiot might marry Cicely Seymour
if he chose!” mutters the young man with the gold crook of his cane
between his teeth.
Marlow cannot believe his own senses. It is eleven o’clock in the
morning, and he has taken nothing but some black coffee and a devilled
kidney, or he really would think he had been drinking, and forgotten
the debauch.
He feels that it would be very agreeable to his feelings to return to
barbarian methods and pound into a jelly the highly cultured brains of
the author of the _Age to Come_.
“But what do you marry her for?” he shouts after Bertram’s retreating
figure. He receives no answer, and Bertram passes away under the
budding April boughs. To explain his reasons to Marlow would be indeed
to throw pearls before swine.
As he walks backward in the direction of Hyde Park Corner he sees the
figure of Annie Brown going down the almost-deserted roadway of the
drive.
“Her ankles _are_ thick,” he thinks painfully; “and why will she
use such very odd words as ‘_liberry_’? Why? I believe philologists
consider that the vernacular of the illiterate is the purest Saxon
English spoken; but it grates unpleasantly on one’s ears. Is that you,
Fanshawe, at last?”
Fanshawe, who has come out of his house, which is near to the French
Embassy, fixes his eyeglass on the retreating figure of the unconscious
Annie. He is of a supernatural quickness of observation.
Bertram, to his vexation, feels extreme embarrassment. He knows he
ought to repeat to Fanshawe the confession just made to Marlow, but
he cannot; it sticks in his throat like a fish bone. The eyes of the
potent editor are malicious and inexorable.
“I saw you from my bedroom window sitting with that young daughter of
the sovereign people,” remarks Fanshawe. “I wished for a Kodak. The
_Torch_ should have had an illustrated Easter number.”
“You are fifty minutes late,” says Bertram, irritably.
“My dressing-gown and chocolate pot are dear to me.”
“You always turn night into day.”
“Night is day in London, as coal and electricity are its summer. Well,
sha’n’t we take a hansom to Folliott’s?”
“Wait a moment, Fanshawe. Sit down here.”
Fanshawe complies reluctantly. “Why waste time? Let’s go and settle
your inheritance.”
“Please go instead of me and say that I refuse. It is very simple.”
“It is simple indeed! So was the remark of ‘Tom’s a’ cold’; and just
about as reasonable. My dear Bertram! _La nuit porte conseil_, and yet
you still wish to refuse?”
“Yes, I refuse; and----”
He pauses, then swallows the fish bone desperately.
“And--I am going to marry yonder daughter of the people!”
“Ah! Rumour for once is correct, then?” says the gentleman, to whom the
amplification and publication of Rumour brings in £40,000 per annum.
“Yes, I marry the young woman you saw when you wished for a Kodak.”
For once Fanshawe has not a syllable to say: he is dumb.
“You look astonished,” remarks Bertram. “Yet with your principles----”
“Principles be damned!” says Fanshawe. “They must go to the wall when
they trample on common sense.”
“But surely for you no class divisions exist?” says Bertram, with some
maliciousness. “Therefore of course you will congratulate me as warmly
as if my future wife were that abominable thing a duke’s daughter.”
“There ought to be no race-horses, but while there are we put our money
on them,” replied Fanshawe. “We must take the world as it is, or cut
our throats in it. You are cutting yours with a bowie knife. I will
return to my chocolate pot.”
At that instant Mrs. Brown comes down the road out of breath. Annie is
out of sight.
“I am come after my daughter, Mr. Bertram, if you please. Soon as I
told her ye was here I was that mad with myself, for it flashed across
me she’d come and----”
“And why not, madam?” says Fanshawe. “It is, it seems, all _en tout
bien, tout honneur_.”
“I don’t understand gibberish, sir, but girls should be circumspec.”
Fanshawe gazes at her through his eyeglass.
“Your mother-in-law to be?” he murmurs.
Mrs. Brown, not hearing, goes on in a rather shrill tone: “I don’t mean
my daughter to walk along with you, sir, till she’s a right to take
your arm afore everybody.”
Bertram shudders.
Fanshawe lifts his hat to Mrs. Brown approvingly.
“These sentiments, madam, do you the highest honour. The quality, as
you would call them, are not so severe. Their young ladies sit out on
the staircases, and flirt in corners with their young men, and meet
them in these sylvan groves with a groom as chaperon, without any
certainty that matrimony will ever follow. But then the _demi-vierge_
is probably confined to the Upper Ten.”
“I don’t know about the ways o’ the gentry, sir,” says Mrs. Brown; “in
our street we’re respectable though we _are_ back o’ Portman Square.”
“Madam! Juvenal himself never implied anything so crushing! Bertram, I
ask again, is this good lady about to be your mother-in-law?”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“Well, dear madam, it is but right that, standing in this future
relation to my friend, you should know this fact: Mr. Bertram has had a
very large property left him.”
“Lawk a mussy, sir!”
“But he is inclined to refuse it on account of his social principles,
with which, no doubt, you are acquainted. Now, dear madam, tell us
freely your opinion as a person of sound common sense, and one who is
about to be closely allied to him. Should he refuse it, or should he
accept it?”
“Dearie, dearie, sir! How can anybody hev left good money to such a
gawk!”
Fanshawe laughs aloud: “When Truth comes out of her well she is seldom
polite! Never mind, Mrs. Brown, you can make your peace with your
son-in-law some other time. Only tell us now, for we are going to the
lawyers on this momentous errand. Ought he to accept or to refuse?”
Annie’s mother is flattered at the deference to her opinion.
“Well, sir, it ain’t for the like o’ me to judge for the likes o’
you. But, if ye want my plain opinion, it is this ’un: if he take the
proputty he’ll _look_ silly. But if he don’t take it he’ll _be_ silly;
and he’ll be sorry all his life.”
“Mrs. Brown,” says Bertram, “your daughter would not say so.”
“Likely not, sir. She’s a slim snippet of a girl as haven’t felt any
o’ the weight o’ livin’ yet. When she hev she’ll know a full money-box
is the softest pillar one can lay a tired head on any night.”
“Mrs. Brown, the classic form of Socrates dwindles before yours! I
place you immediately upon the staff of the _Torch_.”
Mrs. Brown is puzzled. “I don’t hold with torches, sir. Sam’s link-boy,
last week in the great fog, flourishing one about like a fool, set fire
to all the straw--such a piece o’ work--and Sam warn’t hinsured.”
“I wince under the moral lesson which you convey by your apologue to my
journal, but----”
“How much longer are you going to waste in chaffing this woman?” says
Bertram, very angrily. “There’s an empty hansom passing. Take it.”
“Take it yourself. Mrs. Brown, your lips drop pearls of wisdom. Yet you
are servile, Mrs. Brown. Are we not all equal before the great Bona Dea
of Nature?”
“Equal, sir?” repeats Mrs. Brown, with fine scorn. “That’s _his_ rot;
yet when he come to our place one day, and we was eatin’ good Dutch
cheese and ’errings, he well-nigh fainted at the stink on ’em!”
Fanshawe laughs delightedly.
“He live on peaches and pinehapples, he do,” she continued, with a
snort; “and he’s spoilt a good seasonable chance o’ settlin’ herself as
my daughter had with the young man round the corner----”
“Shut up that jaw, Fanshawe!” cries Bertram, falling into low language
in his wrath.
“Will you go to Folliott and Hake’s or not?” asks his friend.
“I will go to Satan’s self to stop you chaffing this woman. Look how
those people are laughing.”
Bertram calls the passing hansom and gets into it; Fanshawe follows
him, and waves his hand to Mrs. Brown.
“You must come and dine with me at Richmond, Mrs. Socrates!”
Cicely and her cousin are sitting under a tree near the end of the
Ladies’ Mile with some men standing before them and talking to them,
when Marlow again approaches, diffident, but in ill-concealed triumph.
“Oh, Lady Jane,” he says eagerly, not venturing to address Cicely
directly, “I’ve come back ’cos I’ve such a bit of news; am authorised
to tell it; may put it in the _Morning Post_ to-morrow. I’ve seen ‘the
penny bunch of violets,’ and by all that’s awful, she’s a washerwoman’s
daughter, and Bertram’s going to marry her. It’s Annieism you see, not
Altruism.”
Much pleased with his own wit and humour he laughs gleefully, whilst
his eyes are trying to read Cicely’s face; it gives no sign of any
feeling or of having even heard what he has said.
“What nonsense you talk, Lord Marlow!” says Lady Jane. “Bertram may be
silly, but he is not so utterly out of his mind as that.”
“Isn’t he? Why, he’s just told me the news himself! The young woman was
with him down yonder. She sells flowers, and had got two skips full of
primroses; and she’s not a good feature in her face. I’ll offer to be
best man; shall I send ’em a set of saucepans or a sewing-machine?”
Cicely casts a look of supreme contempt upon him.
“The perfection to which you bring your jokes must have cost you a long
apprenticeship on Bank Holidays, Lord Marlow.”
Marlow’s mirth is a little subdued.
“You can’t be speaking seriously,” says one of the men present.
“Bertram is not quite such an ass as that.”
“I am, though,” replies Marlow, sulkily. “I’ve seen the girl, and
Bertram’s just told me to tell everybody.”
“What is her name?”
“She’s Annie Brown; we heard that yesterday. Mother takes in washing.
Oh, Lord, it’ll kill me, the fun of it.”
Doubled up with silent laughter he leans upon his cane and furtively
watches Cicely’s face.
“Why should you be surprised that Mr. Bertram puts his theories
into practice?” she says, coldly. “It is only like Count Tolstoi’s
ploughing.”
“Goodness, Cicely!” says Lady Jane, with much irritation. “You surely
can’t defend such an insanity as this? It is very much worse than any
plough. I thought his manner very odd yesterday about those violets;
for he is not, you know, a man _à bonnes fortunes_.”
“You would approve him more if he were!”
“Well, they are less serious,” answers Lady Jane. “You can get rid of
_them_; but an Annie Brown when you have once married her----”
“At all events,” says Cicely, “whatever it may be, it is certainly
only the business of those concerned in it, and none of ours. Why are
you not already on your way to the newspaper offices, Lord Marlow? I
believe they give a guinea for first news.”
“Bertram may be so happy as to interest you, Miss Seymour,” says
Marlow, sullenly, “but he’s an unknown quantity to the world in
general. Nobody’d give twopence for any news of him.”
“Certainly he is not chronicled as the winner at pigeon-shooting and
polo matches, which is your distinction, Lord Marlow, and I believe
your only one.”
“Why will you be so unkind to Marlow?” asks Lady Jane, as, having
shaken off their admirers, they walk back alone.
“I grant,” she continues, as poor Marlow, mortified, falls behind,
“that he is not an extraordinarily brilliant person; he will not head
the Cabinet or be President of the Royal Society, but his temper is
kind and his character blameless.”
“One would think you were recommending a groom! You may safely add that
his hand is light and his seat is sure, for riding is his solitary
accomplishment!”
“My dear child, how remarkably severe you are! Will you tell me what
use to Wilfrid Bertram are the incontestable talents with which he
was born? What does he do with them? Write in such a manner that if
he were a native of any other country than England he would have been
lodged in prison years ago.”
Cicely Seymour is silent.
She has read some numbers of the _Age to Come_, and she cannot honestly
say that she approves of its subversive tendencies. She looks straight
before her with a heightened colour, and the rose-leaves of her lips
are pressed together in irritation.
“I suppose you will offer to be bridesmaid to Miss Annie Brown,” says
Lady Jane, irritably.
“Why not?” says Cicely, very coldly. “One attends many weddings brought
about by more ignoble motives.”
“You will not see me at the ceremony,” replies Lady Jane, more and more
incensed.
“I know I shall not, nor any of his relatives. But I do not admire the
class prejudice which will keep you all away.”
And she leans over the rail of the Ride and pats the mane of a child’s
pony.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Brown, resting her empty basket and her rheumatic limbs
for a few minutes on a bench, ponders vainly on the name Mr. Fanshawe
gave her. “Mrs. Sockatees,” she repeats to herself. “He can’t think
as I’m one to marry agen at my time o’ life. If it hadn’t bin for the
children there were a tallow chandler, a warm man too, he was, who
would hev bin ready as ready----”
She muses pensively a moment on the charms of the lost tallow chandler
who had been sacrificed to her maternal scruples, whilst Cicely
Seymour and Lady Jane are walking towards her.
“Let’s sit down here a moment, Cicely,” says Lady Jane. “The children
will be back again directly.”
Mrs. Brown rises and curtsies, taking up her basket.
“Don’t get up, my good woman, there’s room enough.”
“Your ’umble servant, ma’am,” says Mrs. Brown, standing erect, her
empty basket held before her like a shield of Boadicea; she does not
know them by name, but they are possible clients for the wash-tub.
“Why should you stand?” says Cicely. “These seats are free to all.”
“Thanks, miss, but I know my duty.” Then she adds, insinuatingly, “If
you should be wanting a laundress, ma’am, you’d be doin’ a charity to
remember me--Eliza Brown, o’ 20, Little Double Street, back o’ Portman
Square; no acids used, miss, and no machine-work.”
Cicely looks at her, and with some hesitation asks:
“Are you--are you--the mother of a young person called Annie Brown? She
has just gone past here with some primroses.”
“Yes, miss, I be.”
“Of Mr. Bertram’s heroine!” adds Lady Jane, with a laugh.
“Please ’m, don’t call her names, ma’am,” says Annie’s mother, quickly.
“She’s a good girl, though I say it as shouldn’t say it, and there’s
nought to laugh at, unless it be the gentleman’s rubbish.”
“You don’t seem to be grateful for the compliment he pays to your
family,” says Lady Jane, much amused.
“Compliment is it, my lady? The gentleman’s a crank, that’s what he is;
he won’t never marry her, and there’s a good young man round the corner
as is left out in the cold. He’s in the greengrocery line, and hev got
a good bit o’ money put by, and the match ’ud be suitable in every way,
for my daughter’s a good judge o’ green stuff.”
“Mrs. Brown,” says Cicely, “I should like to have the pleasure of
knowing your daughter. Will you bring her to see me? I am staying with
Mr. Bertram’s aunt, Lady Southwold.”
Mrs. Brown stares hard.
“You do my girl a great honour, miss, but her head’s turned too crazy
as ’tis. Poor folks, miss, ain’t got no place with rich ’uns.”
“That is a rather narrow feeling, Mrs. Brown,” says Cicely; “and
surely your daughter ought to begin to know Mr. Bertram’s friends and
relatives?”
“She won’t never be nought to Mr. Bertram, miss,” replies Mrs. Brown,
very confidently. “’Tis a pack of stuff their thinkin’ on it. Lord, my
lady, if you only see his shirts, that fine as cobwebs is coarse to
’em!”
Lady Jane is much diverted.
“She evidently does not believe in the seriousness of Bertram’s
intentions, Cicely.”
Mrs. Brown tucks her basket under her arm.
“You’ll excuse me, my ladies, if I don’t stay to prate. Us poor folks
’even’t got time to lose in gossip; and if you can give me work, ’m,
I’ll be truly thankful to you, ma’am--Eliza Brown, 20, Little Double
Street, back o’ Portman Square. Your servant, ladies.”
With that she bobs a curtsey and departs.
“A nice honest woman,” says Cicely.
Lady Jane laughs.
“She doesn’t appreciate Bertram or his shirts. What right has he, with
his principles, to wear lawn shirts? He ought to wear hemp.”
Cicely traces patterns on the gravel with her sunshade.
“I should like to see the girl.”
“Why? You may be sure she is a little horror.”
“I am sure she is a very good girl,” says Cicely. “I am sure she is a
very good girl. A person must be good that lives amongst flowers.”