Philip with mock humility.
‘Better let Philip do what’s wanted,’ said the dame, as she rose to
leave the room; ‘Madge is not well to-night.’
Uncle Dick grumbled at the absence of his secretary, but good-naturedly
resigned himself to the services of her substitute. Presently, he found
that Philip was so apt in taking up his suggestions that he almost
forgot Madge.
ERRATIC PENS.
The journalist has no time to pick his words or sort his sentences
with care. Once he has parted company with his MS., or as it is
technically termed ‘copy,’ it is, as a rule, a case of ‘what I have
written, I have written;’ so that, given an easy-going ‘press-reader,’
the supplier of news is likely enough to have reason to fret and fume
when he sees himself in print; deriving little consolation from knowing
that slipshod writing oftentimes makes very funny reading. Assuredly
it is amusing to read one morning that the authorities of Alexandria
are busily engaged disaffecting that, by all accounts, already
sufficiently disaffected city; and the next, to learn our Canadian
cousins are discussing the possibility of the abduction of Her Most
Gracious Majesty. For these items of news we may be indebted to the
compositor’s maladroit intervention; but that convenient scapegoat is
hardly answerable for the statement that an opera by Signor Riaci, ‘the
son and nephew of the composer of that name,’ had been well received
at Vienna; nor can he be held responsible for the information that a
town in America rejoices in a Society ‘for the prevention of cruelty
to animals with upwards of a hundred dollars in the bank;’ and that
a certain event occurred on the night of the twenty-fifth of May, at
about two o’clock in the morning.
It may be taken for granted that the rising School of Art is in the
ascendant; it is easy to believe in an overcome toper being found
‘with a pint-pot in his hand, which he could not drink;’ but some of
the statements made in the newspapers tax one’s credulity overmuch.
Lenient as magistrates are towards feminine offenders, they would
scarcely content themselves with fining a virago for ‘breaking her
mother-in-law’s arm by weekly instalments.’ Good bats as there are in
the Surrey Eleven, we must take leave to doubt that one of them scored
seven hundred and twelve runs in an innings. And clever as French
doctors may be, they are not so clever as a Paris correspondent makes
out, when, relating the discovery of a murder in that city, he tells us
that ‘the only portion of the body not entirely destroyed was the left
foot; and a medical examination of the remains proved that the man had
been killed by blows on the head.’
Shakspeare was wrong in supposing there was any bourne from which no
traveller could return. Glorifying the doings of Nares’s band of Arctic
explorers, a leader-writer said: ‘From the leader of the expedition,
who occupied the crow’s-nest until he was overcome by exhaustion, to
the humblest seaman who died from fatigue and cold, all have earned the
rewards of heroes, and have come back laden with stores of knowledge.’
An unlucky workman overbalancing himself and tumbling from his airy
perch into the street, we read: ‘The deceased was seen to pitch head
foremost from the scaffold, and little hopes are entertained of his
recovery.’ Perhaps the deceased might have got over it, had his doctor
been as devoted as the gentleman called in to do his best for a poor
hurt lad, who ‘was in frequent attendance upon him after the inquest.’
Not, it may be hoped, from the remorseful feeling actuating his
professional brother into writing: ‘This is to certify that I attended
Mrs S. during her last illness, and that she died in consequence
thereof.’
Here is a nut for lovers of arithmetical riddles to crack at their
leisure; we give it up: ‘The diamond wedding of Major-general Lennox
and his wife was celebrated on Saturday, at their house in Kelvinside.
The General was born in Scotland in the year 1727, and was married on
the 2d of December 1882, in the city of Cawnpore, to Mademoiselle de
Laval, born in 1806, who had arrived at the French settlements in India
with her parents from Mauritius, when that island passed in 1810 from
the hands of the French into the possession of the English. General
Lennox served in India for forty-three years. He went through the Cabul
wars of 1839-43; assisted at the capture of Ghuznee, Khelat, Kandahar,
Cabul, Gwalior, and was present at the battle of Sobraon. With his wife
and youngest daughter, he was miraculously preserved during the Indian
Mutiny of 1857. General Lennox retired from the service in 1860.’ After
that, there is nothing surprising in a certain baronet being ‘born in
Paris in 1844, and married in 1827.’
Reporting the death of a cricketer from taking carbolic acid in mistake
for black draught, an Irish newspaper said: ‘The shopman filled the
draught bottle out of a carbolic acid jar, instead of that marked
“Senna Mixture,” though his orders were never to do so unless under
supervision.’ Anticipating the death of a whale exhibited at the
inaptly named Royal Aquarium at Westminster, a London paper observed:
‘It will make excellent porpoise-skin boots.’ Relating a chase after
a native robber, an Indian paper said: ‘A Bheel outlaw, fleeing for
the jungle, saw his comrades captured one by one, then followed his
horse and his wife, and the wretched man at last found that his only
companion was his mother-in-law. He thereupon gave way to despair, and
was taken by the police without further trouble.’ Noticing the meeting
of a new organisation called the Grand State Defenders, a New York
journal said the members were bound by a solemn oath ‘never to leave
the state, except in the case of an invasion by a foreign foe.’ In each
case the satiric insinuation is plain enough. Whether it is intentional
or not, would require some skill at thought-reading to decide.
It is well for an English soldier to be equal to a sea-voyage;
but it is not generally known that it is requisite he should be
familiar with life on the ocean wave. Such is the case, however, or
a journalist protesting against the Duke of Connaught’s promotion to
a major-generalship, on the ground that ‘he never went to sea unless
it was absolutely necessary,’ is as much out of his reckoning as the
correspondent representing M. Paul Bert as telling the people of
Grenoble: ‘We have enemies whom their triumph has not satiated. Their
appetites command us to be watchful; and once our military education is
made, and our army thoroughly organised, we shall be able to say to our
foes: “Take care! _twelve hundred_ citizens are arrayed in arms before
you. They are all ready; they are all united. Do not touch France!”’
The London shopkeeper’s ‘Boots sold and healed while you wait,’ is not
so likely to attract customers as the more pronounced orthographical
eccentricities of the Gloucestershire gardener, having ‘sallery plants
for zale,’ and ready to supply all comers with kalleflour, brokaler,
weentur greens, raggit jak, rottigurs cale, and sprouiting brokla. But
it would be hard to resist the temptation of assisting at a dramatic
entertainment lightened by the musical performances of ‘a band of
amateur gentlemen;’ and still harder to refuse to take a ticket for
a cricket-match, knowing ‘the entire proceeds are for the benefit of
the late Isaac Johnson, who is totally unprovided for;’ but the loyal
natives of the Principality were not to be persuaded into joining a
proposed Welsh Land League by the suggestion that they might ‘send in
their names anonymously.’
When the inhabitants of a French town complained of being disturbed
by the explosion of shells, the discharge of cannon, and the rattle
of small-arms at a mimic presentment of the bombardment of Plevna,
the authorities sent a written notice to those concerned, informing
them that for the future, Plevna must be bombarded at the point of the
bayonet. The guardians of public property at Concord, Massachusetts,
posted up placards offering a reward for the apprehension and
conviction of persons guilty of ‘girdling’ the trees in the
school-house yard, and promising the payment of a suitable reward ‘for
anything of the kind that may hereafter be done to any of the trees in
the streets.’ Of course, they no more meant what they said, than did
the Commissioners of National Education in Ireland, when, in a Report,
signed by four professors, they stated that the female teachers ‘were
instructed in plain cooking, had, in fact, to go through the process
of cooking themselves in their turn;’ a specimen of official English
upon a par with the inscription telling visitors to Kew: ‘This Gallery,
containing studies from Nature, painted by her in various lands, was
given in 1882 to these Gardens by Marianne Hope.’
A scientific writer asks us to believe that on placing a decapitated
frog at the bottom of a vessel filled with water, the animal rises
to the surface, and keeps itself there, with its head in the air; or
if the frog be placed in the same vessel, under an inverted glass,
filled with water, it behaves in the same manner. Some folks hold
novel-reading in contempt, but it is astonishing what a deal of
information may be gathered from novels. For instance, we have learned
that Scylla was a dandy; that Miss Hardcastle was the heroine of
Sheridan’s best comedy; that a haggis is a dish peculiar to Ireland;
that it usually snows upon the Derby Day; that lilacs and violets
bloom amid the hues of ripening fruit; that heather blooms on the
Scottish hills in the month of May; that the drones of the hive are
given to toiling overmuch; that ibis-shooting is the favourite pastime
of Tyrolese sportsmen; that rising barristers shrug their shoulders
under rustling silk gowns; that the Victoria Cross is won by a hundred
deeds of disciplined valour; that an officer can draw half-pay after
selling out; and that our best bred Englishwomen are very rarely of
the same name as the men they have married. One would not care to
make the acquaintance of an Olympian girl with pagan eyes full of
nocturnal mysteries; or desire the company of a lady ‘only a simulacrum
of femininity,’ or of a gentleman deserving to be described as a
small Vesuvius tabernacling in corporalities; while a lip that owes
no man anything and only bows to its maker, and a castle in the air
overstepping all difficulties and all rancour, are altogether beyond
appreciation or comprehension. Perhaps the ladies and gentlemen who
delight in mystifying such readers as they may have, are urged to it as
Balzac was. Asked to explain an abstruse passage in one of his books,
he frankly owned it had no meaning at all. ‘You see,’ said he, ‘for the
average reader all that is clear seems easy; and if I did not sometimes
give him a complicated and meaningless sentence, he would think he
knew as much as myself. But when he comes upon something he cannot
comprehend, he re-reads it, puzzles over it, takes his head between
his hands, and glares at it; and finding it impossible to make head or
tail of it, says—“Great man, Balzac; he knows more than I do!”’
CHEWTON-ABBOT.
IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.
Frank laughed at the idea of Mrs Abbot kneeling at his feet; and had
not the least intention of sending Millicent’s address.
He saw little of any one for the next few days except Millicent. His
poor friend Mr John Jones called several times, but each time found him
absent.
‘Your master is neglecting his business,’ he said sternly to Frank’s
small clerk.
‘Got something pleasanter to attend to,’ said the youth with a wink. He
was a sharp lad, and able to form his own opinions.
One day towards the end of the week, Mr Jones did succeed in catching
his young friend, and, moreover, in smoking the whole of a long cigar
in his society. ‘Look here, Abbot,’ he said, ‘what’s up with you? Are
you going to be married?’
‘Yes,’ said Frank; ‘I am.’
‘Thought so,’ said Mr Jones. ‘When?’
‘Next Tuesday,’ answered Frank as laconically as his strange friend.
‘Girl got money?’
‘No; poorer than I am.’
‘That’s bad. Tell me all about it.’
Every man in Frank’s plight likes a friend to unburden his heart to;
so Mr Jones had the whole history of his love affair, from the moment
his mother intervened down to the present happy time. Frank waxed so
eloquent, that his friend’s eyes glistened, and when the history was
finished, he grasped the young man’s hand, and wished him good wishes
which were certainly heartfelt.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said, in a very humble way, quite
different from his usual energetic style of talking. ‘I haven’t known
you long, so it’s presumption on my part. But I’ve grown very fond of
you. May I come to the church and see you married?’
‘You may be best-man, if you like; or you can give the bride away. It
will save us having recourse to the sexton.—Only on one condition,
though,’ continued Frank, struck by a sudden thought; ‘that is, you
don’t go making absurd presents.’
‘I must give you something.’
‘Give me a box of cigars, then.’
‘Very well,’ said Mr Jones. ‘But you’re disgustingly proud.’
So it was settled. To Frank’s great relief—for he disliked paining the
man by refusing anything—Mr Jones brought him a box of his big cigars,
and on the Tuesday morning accompanied him to the quiet town church,
where in due time Millicent appeared, accompanied by her distant
relative. Mr John Jones acted in his twofold capacity with great
decorum. Frank had laughingly told Millicent of the strange arrangement
he had made. She raised no objection. ‘What does it matter,’ she said,
‘so long as we are really married?’ So, when the clergyman asked
who gave this woman, &c., Mr Jones stepped forward and performed the
office. When the ceremony was over, and the happy pair stepping into
the carriage, thinking, no doubt, his services entitled him to some
reward, he kissed the bride on her forehead—a proceeding which rather
staggered Frank, although, as Millicent did not seem annoyed, he said
nothing.
‘That old Jones is a strange fellow,’ he said, as Millicent and he were
safely ensconced in the brougham.
‘Yes. How long have you known him?’
‘Only a week or two—quite a chance acquaintance.’
‘Chance acquaintances are not to be depended upon,’ said Mrs Frank
Abbot sententiously.
Then, as was but natural, they talked of other things, and dismissed Mr
John Jones from their happy minds.
During the last week, they had held many debates as to where they
should spend the honeymoon. As yet, they had only partially settled the
important point. By Millicent’s express wish, the first week was to be
passed at Clifton. ‘Dear old Clifton!’ she said. ‘We met there first;
remember that, sir!’ Frank did not particularly want to go to Clifton,
but he yielded without a murmur. Whether it should be Switzerland,
Italy, France, Scotland, or Ireland afterwards, was to be decided at
their leisure. So the brougham drove to Paddington, and Mr and Mrs
Frank Abbot took the train for the west.
They spent five happy days at Clifton; although they knew the scenery
by heart, it looked more beautiful than ever under the present
auspices. Then Frank began to talk about going elsewhere; but Millicent
seemed in no hurry to make a move. ‘I wonder, Frank,’ she said one
evening, ‘you don’t go over and have a look at your old home.’
‘I haven’t the heart to go,’ sighed Frank. ‘I might have gone by
myself; but I can’t stand it with you. I shall be thinking all the
while how you would have graced it.’
‘Who lives there now?’
‘A Mr Tompkinson—a London merchant.’
‘I should so like to see the place, Frank! Do take me to-morrow.’
Frank, who, in truth, was longing to have a look at the old place,
consented. They decided to go the next day. ‘We will have a carriage,
and drive,’ said Frank.
‘What extravagance!’ said Millicent.
‘Never mind. I shall only be married once. When our honeymoon is over,
we will go in for strict economy.’
Millicent agreed to this. So a carriage was hired the next morning, and
they started for Frank’s ancestral home.
It was a lovely September morning; the air was fresh and exhilarating.
As soon as the dark dusty city was left behind, Millicent’s spirits
rose to a mad pitch, which Frank, with all his newly married adoration,
fancied was not quite in keeping with what was to him at least a sort
of solemn pilgrimage. She caught hold of his hands and squeezed them,
she laughed and talked; in fact, generally misconducted herself. Frank
had never seen her in such a mood before. He was fain to believe that
she was forcing her merriment, to show him how little she cared for
the loss of the wealth she would have shared. Nevertheless, as each
landmark came in sight, and at last he knew that he was passing through
lands which one day should have been his, he grew gloomy, moody, and
miserable. Millicent saw what passed through his mind; she sank into
silence; an occasional pressure of the hand only reminding him that at
least he had her.
Presently he stopped the carriage. ‘You can get the best view of the
dear old house from here,’ he said.
‘Let us get out,’ said his wife.
They alighted, and for some minutes stood looking at the long gray
house. Frank’s eyes were full of tears.
‘Can’t we go over the house?’ asked Millicent.
‘By permission of Mr Tompkinson, no doubt; but he is a stranger to me,
so I don’t care to ask it.’
‘But I want to see the inside so much, Frank; you have described it to
me so often. Let us go up and ask if we can go over it.’
The idea of asking leave to go over Chewton Hall was more than Frank
could bear. ‘I would much rather not,’ he said.
‘But I want to go, Frank,’ said Millicent, pouting. ‘No one will know
us, so what does it matter?’
Frank still shook his head and raised objections. If there was one
thing above another he hated, it was asking favours of strangers.
Chewton Hall was not a show-place. It boasted no specimens of
interesting architecture; it possessed no gallery of paintings.
As likely as not, when they reached the door and preferred their
request, some flunky of this fellow Tompkinson’s would order them off
the grounds. In short, sorry as he was to disappoint his wife, Mr
Abbot firmly refused to ask leave to go over the Hall. Thereupon he
discovered that he had married a young woman who had no intention of
giving him abject obedience.
‘It’s very unkind of you,’ she said. ‘I _will_ go over the place.
If you won’t come, I shall go alone.’ She turned away, pushed the
lodge-gate open in a most unceremonious way, and was twenty yards up
the drive before her husband had recovered from his surprise. At first,
he resolved to leave her to her fate; but that seemed an unkind thing
to do. After all, she wanted to look over his old home solely for love
of him. He could not let her go alone; besides, as he was hesitating,
she turned and beckoned to him. So he walked after her.
As soon as Millicent had satisfied herself that her husband was
following her, she quickened her pace to such an extent, that without
actually running, he could not overtake her. Arguing that a man’s
running after a woman up a stranger’s carriage-drive was not a
dignified preparation to asking a favour, Frank followed his wife at
a reasonable pace; and when he came up to her, found her standing at
the door of the Hall in conversation with an elderly woman, who was
evidently a housekeeper. Frank thought this good woman eyed him very
curiously and suspiciously.
‘It’s all right, Frank,’ said Millicent, turning her smiling face to
him. ‘We may go over the Hall. Mr Tompkinson is not here at present.’
‘Please, walk in,’ said the housekeeper, dropping a courtesy.
Millicent did so; and Frank followed her, sulkily. He did not approve
of the proceedings. As his wife had forced him to the house, he had
determined to send his card up to Mr Tompkinson, trusting that his
former connection with the place would excuse the liberty he was
taking. But he did not like this going behind the man’s back, and felt
sure that Millicent had been smoothing the way with a bribe.
‘That’s the drawing-room—the dining-room—library—billiard-room,’
said the housekeeper, jerking her finger at the doors in succession.
‘Please, walk through them; and ring when you’d like to go up-stairs
and see the view.’
Therewith the woman vanished, after giving Millicent a knowing look,
which Frank felt sure spoke of wholesale bribery.
‘I say, Millicent,’ said Frank, ‘we can’t go walking about a man’s
house alone, in this fashion.’
‘My dear,’ said Millicent very seriously, ‘I pledged my honour we would
pocket nothing.’ Then she broke into an hysterical little laugh; and
Frank wondered what had come to his wife.
‘Let us go to the drawing-room first,’ she said, recovering her
gravity, and opening the door pointed out by the housekeeper.
Frank passed through the doorway, and for a moment could think of
nothing but how he should keep himself from quite breaking down. The
room looked almost the same as when he last entered it—the same as he
had known it from his earliest days. Every chair and table the same,
or apparently so. Then he remembered that the purchaser of the house
had also bought nearly all the household furniture. At the time, he was
glad to think the old place would not be dismantled; now he regretted
it had not been. The presence of the well-remembered Lares and Penates
left the old home unchanged in all—save that it was no longer his
home. There was the very stool on which as a boy he used to sit at his
mother’s feet; there was the wonderful Japanese cabinet, with dozens
of little lackered drawers, which used to be opened now and again as a
great treat to him. And here was he standing in the middle of these old
household gods, by permission of another man’s servant. He wished he
had been firm, and not yielded to Millicent’s whim.
His heart was too full for words. He turned away from his wife, who
was watching him earnestly, turned away, not willing she should see
how much he was affected. He opened the door of the conservatory and
passed out among the flowers. Even the flowers looked the same. The
red stars of taxonia shone from the green clouds above as of old. The
large heliotrope against the wall was in full blossom. The great centre
tree-palm was still there. The fountain played as of old, and splashed
down on the goldfish swimming in the basin. How well he remembered when
his great delight was to be lifted up to look at those red and white
carp! He could stand these memories no longer. Let him go away—out of
the house—never to come near it again. He went back to the room to
find Millicent. The room was untenanted. He supposed his wife, taking
advantage of the accorded permission, had extended her researches. He
looked in the dining-room. As the old family portraits had been bought
by his own people, this room did not appeal to him so much. He glanced
round; Millicent was not there. He walked across the hall and opened
the library door. He did not notice whether this room was changed or
not. He had eyes for one thing only, and, perhaps, a more astonishing
sight was never seen by a six days’ bridegroom. Here was Millicent—his
wife, her hat and mantle thrown off, absolutely sitting on the knee of
a gentleman; moreover, with her arms twined round his neck, her cheek
resting against his, and so concealing his features from her outraged
husband, who no doubt would have rushed to immolate his supposed rival,
had not Millicent, without changing her position, looked at him with
eyes so full of love, tenderness, and triumph, that Frank Abbot stood
rooted to the ground, and wondered why he should be dreaming in broad
daylight. Then he grew very pale, all sorts of wild things rushing
into his head. He managed to take a step or two forward; and Millicent
jumping off her human perch, rushed to meet him, threw her arms round
his neck, sobbed and laughed, and all the while ejaculated: ‘My
darling—my darling! My own love! To think it should be through me! My
own dear husband!’
She kissed him and embraced him in so fervent a manner, that his
attention could scarcely be given elsewhere; but the impression grew
upon him that over her shoulder, sitting in the chair from which she
had sprung, was his chance acquaintance, Mr John Jones.