George Early travelled a few miles up the line, then made up his mind
to cut across country. Changing his plans, he took to the railway again
as far as New Cross, and thought the matter out over a good breakfast.
Finally he decided to return to Brunswick Terrace and make his home a
stronghold until he could defy his enemies. Having thus wasted several
hours, he went forward for the third time.
At Cannon Street a surprise awaited him. Hastily correcting himself as
he was about to enter the buffet, he turned to the station exit, and in
passing through ran against a lady.
"I beg your pardon," said the lady.
"Beg your--what, Ellen? Why, how did you know I was coming here?" cried
George.
"Really, I--" the lady gasped, hesitating.
"Who told you I was coming to Cannon Street?"
"What do you mean? I don't know you!" The lady stared at him, and
uttered these words with a look of astonishment on her face.
George laughed in spite of his mood. "Well, you've been getting
yourself up in some new clothes; but I suppose you're my lawful wife
just the same," he said. "Anyway, this is no time for acting, Ellen."
"I beg your pardon," said the lady, quietly. "You've evidently made a
mistake. You certainly know my Christian name, but you don't know me;
I've never set eyes on you in my life before."
George found refuge in sarcasm. "Go on," he said; "don't mind me.
You'll say I'm not your husband presently."
"You're certainly not," said the lady, firmly, preparing to continue on
her way.
"Go on," said George, exasperated; "say you're not Mrs. Early; say you
were never Miss Fairbrother; say you----"
"How do you know my name is Fairbrother?"
"Was--not is."
"I say _is_," said the lady, severely. "Do you know anybody named
Fairbrother?"
"I once knew a girl named Fairbrother," said George, in a playful
spirit. "She was a very adorable creature, so I married her. The first
time I met her was in Upper Thames Street, the last in Cannon----"
"Ah!" The lady gasped and held out her hand. "You don't mean to tell me
she's married? Then you must be her husband?"
"No, I'm her grandfather," said George. "Look here, Ellen, stop this
rot and talk sense. I can't stand here talking----"
"I'm not your wife," said the lady, sharply. "I've just arrived from
Australia, and I'm going to visit Miss Fairbrother. We're cousins."
George opened his mouth, shut it again, and looked frightfully
sheepish. Ellen's cousin! Of course, his wife had got a cousin in
Australia. He had heard of her; Tops she was called--evidently a pet
name. But what in the world was she doing wandering about Cannon Street
alone? and what did she mean by looking so tremendously like his own
wife? It was obvious, though, now that she was a young person with much
more confidence than his own Ellen. But, after all, why was she here at
all? What was the matter with Australia?
"I've come over post-haste," said the lady in a business-like manner.
"Got a cable, and went on board next day; not even time to write."
"Anybody ill?" asked George.
His cousin-in-law laughed. "No, not so bad as that; I've had a little
property left me. We soon leave Australia when there's property here,
don't we?"
With an effort George joined in the laugh. Girls from Australia
inheriting property was not a favourite topic with him at the moment.
Miss Fairbrother's modest boxes were placed on a four-wheeler, and the
two drove off to Brunswick Terrace. On the way George heard a good deal
of the childhood of his wife and of the great fun the two cousins used
to have together. No doubt these anecdotes were highly humorous, but
George was not in the mood for them.
Mrs. Early was just starting for Upper Thames Street when they arrived
at Brunswick Terrace, and she rushed to the hall on hearing her
husband's voice. As soon as she and her cousin set eyes on one another
there was a double shriek.
"Babs!"
"Tops!"
Kisses, endearing epithets, squeezes, playful pats; more kisses,
questions--numberless questions. George looked on in gloomy silence.
"You darling scrumptious old Tops!"
"You precious pet! you old Babs!"
More embraces, kisses, and squeezes.
"Keep it up," said George, in a bitter aside to the hatstand; "never
mind the husband. What does it matter if I've been harried about the
country by a lot of low ruffians, chased from one place to another,
bandaged and made a madman? What does it matter, eh?" he repeated,
looking hard at a barometer that pointed to "very dry."
"Very dry," said George, noticing it; "suppose I'm very dry, what of
that? What of it? What does it matter?" raising his voice.
Mrs. Early suddenly tore herself from the embrace of her cousin, and
threw her arms about her husband's neck.
"Oh, you dear old Georgy-Porgy! What a shame to leave him all alone!
What a naughty bad old girl!"
Somewhat mollified by this display of affection, George at last was
prevailed upon to smile, and to give a brief account of his adventures,
without moving from the spot. His wife assured him that everything
would come right, and declared that his pursuers were the worst and
horridest men in the world. She then gave him three special kisses for
finding Tops, and bade him take a good look at that young lady from a
distance of six feet, and say if she wasn't the dearest, sweetest, and
prettiest girl in the world.
George did so, and diplomatically gave it as his opinion that she was
the "second prettiest."
Mrs. Early dimpled, and, after vowing that her husband was a dear old
stupid, warned him to prepare for a special favour.
"What is it?" asked the young man.
Mrs. Early looked first at her husband, then at her cousin, and then
placing her hands behind her, and looking as regal and magnanimous as
possible, she said--
"George, you may kiss Tops."
Like a dutiful husband, George obeyed, but not before Mrs. Early had
received a scolding from her cousin, who received the salute under
protest.
At dinner that evening George almost forgot his woes in the unceasing
flow of conversation. Miss Fairbrother's legacy was the chief topic. In
spite of the urgent cable presaging "a valuable property," this
appeared to be nothing more than "a freehold house at Brixton with a
long garden."
"It'll be nice to live in without rent," said Miss Fairbrother; "but of
course I shall have to work for my bread-and-butter. Anyhow, I shall be
near Babs, so it's worth having on that account."
Aunt Phoebe gave her reminiscences of the sailing of the two cousins
for Australia at the age of two years each, with a graphic description
of the scene at the docks.
"Your papa was in the height of his success then," she said to Mrs.
Early, "and his brother was doing well. The strangest thing was that
they both married when nearly fifty, and both were left widowers within
three years with a baby-girl each. I offered to take care of the two of
you, but as your Aunt Mary was going a voyage to Australia, and the
change was thought good for you, away you both went with her. Of course
we never dreamt of her staying there and you two staying with her."
"If papa was doing well when I went away, what became of his fortune?"
asked Miss Fairbrother.
"He married again," said Aunt Phoebe, "and lost the greater part of
it through the extravagance of his wife. I'm glad he managed to keep a
house out of it for you; it was little enough to do."
"Poor papa!"
"Yes, I suppose he deserves to be pitied," said Aunt Phoebe. "But
John never had the good sense of Joseph. They were both J.
Fairbrother's, but the one J. was very different from the other in
business ability. I always thought it absurd that John should imitate
Joseph in calling his baby-girl by the same name. You were born within
a week of each other, and both named Ellen."
"What a funny thing," said Mrs. Early, laughing, "that we never got
mixed up!"
"Yes, indeed," said Aunt Phoebe. "I remember your poor father telling
your Aunt Mary, with a smile, to be sure to keep you separate."
"'They're separate enough!' said John, laughing. 'One's got a
strawberry mark, Mary, and remember the strawberry mark's mine.' Then
your father----"
"Aunt," said Miss Fairbrother, in a queer voice, "did you say the
strawberry mark was on John's baby or on----"
"John Fairbrother's baby-girl had a strawberry mark," said Aunt
Phoebe; "that's how we knew the difference, you were so much alike."
Mrs. Early and her cousin looked at each other. George put down the
glass he was raising to his lips and looked at them both. Aunt Phoebe
rose from her seat suddenly and said--
"What is it? You don't mean to say----"
Mrs. Early drew up the sleeve of her gown and exposed the bare, pretty
arm, with its significant birth-mark.
"John's girl!" gasped her aunt.
There was a deathly silence. The clock on the mantelshelf ticked away
in regular monotonous beats, every sound in the street could be heard
distinctly, and of the four people at the table three were looking in
wonderment at the birthmark on Mrs. Early's arm.
George, on whom the significance of the whole thing had dawned with
great rapidity, sat with his mouth open until he had thoroughly grasped
the situation. Then he said in a feeble whisper--
"Would somebody mind passing the brandy?"