A LIKELY STORY
BY
WILLIAM DE MORGAN
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1911
_All rights reserved_
DEDICATED TO
THE SCIENTIFIC ENQUIRER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
A good deal about a box of matches. Concerning a married
couple, whom anyone would have thought quarrelsome, to
listen to them. Of the difficulty with which the lady
housekept, and how her husband was no help at all. But
they went to the Old Water Colour. How Sairah only
just wiped gently over a tacky picture, and Mr. Aiken said
God and Devil. Of the plural number. Of a very pretty
girl, but dressy, and her soldier lover, and how Mrs. Aiken
was proper. Of her mystical utterance about the young
lady. How Mr. Aiken sought for an explanation from
Sairah, and created a situation. How his wife went to her
Aunt Priscilla, at Athabasca Villa, and cried herself to
sleep
CHAPTER II
How a little old gentleman was left alone in a Library, in front
of the picture Sairah had only just wiped gently. How he
woke up from a dream, which went on. The loquacity of
a picture, and how he pointed out to it its unreality. The
Artist's name. There was plenty of time to hear more.
The exact date of Antiquity. The Rational way of
accounting for it
CHAPTER III
The Picture's tale. It was so well painted--that was why it
could hear four hundred years ago. How its painter
hungered and thirsted for its original, and _vice versa_. How
old January hid in a spy-hole, to watch May, and saw it
all. Of Pope Innocent's penetration. Of certain bells,
unwelcome ones. How two _innamorati_ tried to part without
a kiss, and failed. Nevertheless assassins stopped it when
it had only just begun. But Giacinto got at January's
throat. How the picture was framed, and hung where May
could only see it by twisting. Of the dungeon below her,
where Giacinto might be. How January dug at May with
a walking-staff. How the picture was in abeyance, but
loved a firefly; then was interred in furniture, and three
centuries slipped by. How it sold for six fifty, and was
sent to London to a picture-restorer, which is how it comes
into the tale. How Mr. Pelly woke up
CHAPTER IV
A Retrospective Chapter. How Fortune's Toy and the Sport of
Circumstances fell in love with one of his Nurses. Prose
composition. Lady Upwell's majesty, and the Queen's.
No engagement. The African War, and Justifiable
Fratricide. Cain. Madeline's big dog Cæsar. Cats. Ormuzd
and Ahriman. A handy little Veldt. Madeline's Japanese
kimono. A discussion of the nature of Dreams. Never
mind Athenæus. Look at the Prophet Daniel. Sir
Stopleigh's great-aunt Dorothea's twins. The Circulating
Library and the potted shrimps. How Madeline read the
manuscript in bed, and took care not to set fire to the
curtains
CHAPTER V
Mr. Aiken's sequel. Pimlico Studios. Mr. Hughes's Idea.
Aspects of Nature. Mr. Hughes's foot. What had
Mr. Aiken been at. _Not_ Fanny Smith. It was Sairah!!
Who misunderstood and turned vermilion? Her malice.
The Regent's Canal. Mr. Aiken's advice from his friends.
Woman and her sex. How Mr. Hughes visited Mr. Aiken
one evening, and the Post came, with something too big
for the box, while Mrs. Parples slept. Mr. Aiken's very
sincerely Madeline Upwell. Her transparency. How the
picture's photo stood on the table. Interesting lucubrations
of Mr. Hughes. What was that? But it was nothing--only
an effect of something. The Vernacular Mind. Negative
Juries. How Mr. Aiken stopped an echo, so it was
Mr. Hughes's fancy
CHAPTER VI
Follows Mrs. Euphemia Aiken to Coombe and Maiden. Proper
pride. You cannot go back on a railway ticket, however
small its price. One's Aunts. How Miss Priscilla Bax
was not surprised when she heard it was Reginald. Of the
Upas Tree of reputations--the Pure Mind. How Aunt
Prissy worked her niece up. Of the late Prince Regent, and
Tiberius. Never write a letter, if you want the wind to lull.
Ellen Jane Dudbury and her mamma. Of Ju-jutsu as an
antidote to tattle. Of the relative advantages of
Immorality to the two Sexes. Of good souls and busy bodies,
and of the Groobs. How that odious little Dolly was the
Modern Zurbaran. But he had never so much as called.
Colossians three-eighteen. Miss Jessie Bax and her puppy.
Miss Volumnia Bax. The delicacy of the female character.
Of the Radio-Activity of Space and how Mr. Adolphus Groob
sat next to Mrs. Aiken. The Godfrey Pybuses. But they
have nothing to do with the story. How Time slipped by,
and how Mr. Aiken employed him till the year drew to an end
CHAPTER VII
The Upwell family in London. How Madeline promised not to
get mixed up. A nice suburban boy, with a Two-Power
Standard. No Jack now! The silver teapot. Miss
Priscilla's extraction. Imperialism. Horace Walpole and
John Bunyan. The Tapleys. How an item in the
_Telegraph_ upset Madeline. How she failed in her mission,
but left a photograph behind her. The late Lady Betty
Duster's chin. How Mrs. Aiken stayed downstairs and
went to sleep in an arm-chair and of a curious experience
she had. How she related the same to her cousin Volumnia.
Of Icilia Ciaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi, and of The
Dust. The Psychomorphic Report. How Miss Volumnia
did not lose her train
CHAPTER VIII
How Mrs. Euphemia Aiken found Madeline at home, who
consequently did not go to a Bun-Worry. But she had met
Miss Bax. How these ladies each confessed to Bogyism, of
a sort, and Madeline said make it up. How Mr. Aiken took
Mr. Tick's advice about Diana, but could not find his
Transparent Oxide of Chromium. Man at his loneliest.
No Tea. And what a Juggins he had been! Of Mrs.
Gapp's dipsomania. The Boys. How Mr. Aiken lit the
gas, and heard a cab. How he nearly kissed Madeline,
who had brought his wife home, but it was only a mistake,
glory be! _Was_ there soap in the house?
CHAPTER IX
Madeline's report, next morning. Charles Mathews and Madame
Vestris. How well Madeline held her tongue to keep her
promise. An anticipation of post-story time. How a
Deputation waited on Mrs. Aiken from the Psychomorphic.
Mr. MacAnimus and Mr. Vacaw. Gevartius much more
correct for Miss Jessie to listen to than the Laughing
Cavalier. Of Self-hypnosis and Ghosts, their respective
categories. The mad cat's nose outside the blanket. Singular
Autophrenetic experience of Mr. Aiken. Stenography.
A case in point. Not a Phenomenon at all. How Miss
Volumnia's penetration penetrated, and got at something.
Suggestion traced home. Enough to explain any
Phenomenon
CHAPTER X
How Mr. Pelly, subject to interruption, read aloud a translation
from Italian. Who was the Old Devil? Who was the
Duchessa? Of the narrator's incarceration. Of his
incredible escape. Whose horse was that in the Avenue?
How Mr. Pelly read faster. Was Uguccio killed? Sir
Stopleigh scandalised. But then it was the Middle
Ages--one of them, anyhow! How only Duchesses know if Dukes
are asleep. Of the bone Mr. Pelly picked with Madeline.
But what becomes of Unconscious Cerebration? Ambrose
Paré. Marta's little knife. Love was not unknown in the
Middle Ages. The end of the manuscript. But Sir Stopleigh
went out to see a visitor, in the middle. How Madeline
turned white, and went suddenly to bed. What was it all
about? Seventy-seven could wait
CHAPTER XI
How the picture spoke again. Abstract metaphysical questions,
and no answers. How the Picture's memory was sharpened,
and how Mr. Pelly woke up. Mr. Stebbings and Mrs. Buckmaster.
The actule fax. Jack's resurrection, without an
arm. Full particulars. All fair in love. How Mr. Pelly
knew the picture could see all, and how Madeline had not
gone to bed. Captain Maclagan's family. Fuller
particulars. General Fordyce and the Bart. not wanted.
What the picture must have seen and may have thought.
Good-bye to the story. Mere postscript
CHAPTER I
A good deal about a box of matches. Concerning a married
couple, whom anyone would have thought quarrelsome, to
listen to them. Of the difficulty with which the lady
housekept, and how her husband was no help at all. But
they went to the Old Water Colour. How Sairah only
just wiped gently over a tacky picture, and Mr. Aiken said
God and Devil. Of the plural number. Of a very pretty
girl, but dressy, and her soldier lover, and how Mrs. Aiken
was proper. Of her mystical utterance about the young
lady. How Mr. Aiken sought for an explanation from
Sairah, and created a situation. How his wife went to her
Aunt Priscilla, at Athabasca Villa, and cried herself to
sleep.
"You'll have to light the gas, Sairah!" said an
Artist in a fog, one morning in Chelsea. For
although summer was on the horizon, it was cold
and damp; and, as we all know, till fires come to an
end, London is not fogless--if, indeed, it ever is so.
This was a very black fog, of the sort that is sure to
go off presently, because it is only due to
atmospheric conditions. Meanwhile, it was just as well
to light the gas, and not go on pretending you could
see and putting your eyes out.
This Artist, after putting his eyes out, called out,
from a dark corner in his Studio, to something in a
dark corner outside. And that something shuffled
into the room and scratched something else several
times at intervals on something gritty. It was
Sairah, evidently, and Sairah appeared impatient.
"They're damp, Sairah," said the Artist feebly.
"Why do you get that sort? Why can't you get
Bryant and May?"
"These are Bryant and May, Mr. Aching. You
can light 'em yourself if it sootes you better. I know
my place. Only they're Safety, and fly in your
eye. Puttin' of 'em down to dry improves. I'd
screw up a spell, only there's no gettin' inside of the
stove. Nor yet any fire, in the manner of speaking."
The scratching continued. So did Sairah's
impatience. Then the supply of the something
stopped, for Sairah said: "There ain't any more.
That's the hend of the box. And exceptin' I go all
the way to the King's Road there ain't another in
the house--not Bryant and May."
"Oh dear, oh dear!" said the Artist, in the lowest
spirits. But he brightened up. "Perhaps there's
a Vesta," said he.
Sairah threw the thing nearest to her against
the thing nearest to it to indicate her readiness to
search.
"Look in the pocket of my plaid overcoat,
Sairah," he continued. "It was a new box
Tuesday."
Sairah shuffled into another room, and was heard
to turn over garments. The Artist seemed to know
which was which, by the sound. For he called
out: "None of those! On the hook." Sairah
appeared to turn up the soil in a new claim, and
presently announced: "Nothing in neither pocket.
Only coppers and a thrip'ny!"
"Oh dear--I'm certain there was! Are you
sure you've looked? Just look again, Sairah." He
seemed distressed that there should be no Vesta
in his overcoat pocket.
"You can see for yourself--by lookin'," says
Sairah. "And then there won't be any turnin'
round and blamin' me!" Whereupon she appears,
bearing a garment. The reason she shuffles is that
she has to hold the heels of her shoes down on the
floor with her feet.
The owner of the overcoat dived deep into the
pockets, but found nothing. He appeared
dumbfoundered. "Well, now!" he continued.
"Whatever can have become of my Vestas?" And
thereon, as one in panic on emergency, he put down
the sponge and brush he was using and searched
rapidly through all his other pockets. He slapped
himself in such places as might still contain
forgotten pockets; and then stood in thought, as one
to whom a light of memory will come if he thinks
hard enough, but with a certain glare and distortion
of visage to say, in place of speech, how truly active
is his effort of thought. And then of a sudden he
is illuminated, and says of course!--_he_ knows!
But he doesn't know, for, after leaving the room to
seek for his Vestas, and banging some doors, he
comes back, saying he thought they were there
and they aren't. Wherefore, Sairah must run out
and get some more; and look sharp, because they
must have the gas! But Sairah, who has not been
exerting herself, awakes suddenly from something
equivalent to sleep which she can indulge in upright,
without support, and says, nodding towards a thing
she speaks of, "Ain't that them on the stove?" And
the Artist says, "No, it isn't; it's an empty
box. Cut along and look sharp!" Sairah made no
response; and time was lost in conversation, as
follows:
"That ain't an empty box!"
"It _is_ an empty box! Do cut along and look sharp!"
"It ain't my idear of an empty box. But, of
course, it ain't for _me_ to say nothin'!"
"I tell you I'm quite _sure_ it's empty. Perfectly
certain!"
"Well! It ain't for me to say anything. But
if you had a asted me, I should have said there
wouldn't any harm have come of looking inside of
it, to see. Of course I can _go_, if you come to
that! Only there's tandstickers in the kitchen,
and for the matter of that, the fire ain't let
out; nor likely when it's not the sweep till Wednesday."
"Get 'em out of the kitchen, then! Get the
tandstickers or get anything. Anywhere; only
look alive!" He seemed roused to impatience.
"Of course I _can_ get them out of the kitchen.
Or there's missus's bedroom candlestick stood on
the landin', with one in, and guttered." Sairah
enumerated two or three other resources
unexhausted, and left the room.
When she had vanished, the Artist went and
stood with his back to the stove, for it was too dark
to work. Being there, he picked up the empty box
and seemed to examine it. Having done so, he
left the room, and called over the stair-rail, to a
lower region.
"Sair-ah!"
"Did you call, Sir?"
"Yes--you needn't go! There's some here."
"'Arf a minute till I put these back."
And then from underground came the voice of
the young woman saying something enigmatical
about always wishing to give satisfaction, and there
was never any knowing. But she remained below,
because her master said: "You needn't come up
again now. I'll light it myself." In an instant,
however, he called out again that she must bring
the matches, after all, because the Vestas were all
stuck to, through being on the stove.
When she reappeared, after a good deal of shuffling
about below, he asked her why on earth she couldn't
come at once. She explained, with some indignation,
that she had been doing a little dusting in
the parlour; and, of course, the tandstickers, she
put 'em back in the kitchen, not bein' wanted, as
you might say. But all obstacles to lighting the
gas were now removed.
Illumination presented itself first as an
incombustible hiss; but shortly became a flame, and was
bright enough to work by. The Artist did not seem
very contented with it, and said that the pressure
was weak, and it was off at the main, and there
was water in the pipes, and the gas was bad and
very dear. But he worked for half-an-hour or so,
and then a young woman came in, of whom he took
no notice; so she must have been his wife. Of
whom anyone might have thought that she was
stopping away from a funeral against her will, and
resented the restraint. For she bit her lips and
tapped with her feet as she sat in the arm-chair
she dropped into when she entered the room. She
made no remark, but maintained an aggressive
silence. Presently the young man moaned.
"What _is_ the rumpus?" said he plaintively.
"What _is_ the everlasting rumpus?"
"It's very easy for you. Men can! But if you
were a woman, you would feel it like I do. Thank
God, Reginald, you are not a woman!"
"Good job I ain't! We might quarrel, if I was.
You've got something to be thankful for, you see,
Mrs. Hay." This way of addressing her, as Mrs. Hay,
was due to the substitution of the initial for
the whole name, which was Aiken.
"Oh, you _are_ unfeeling," said she reproachfully.
"You know perfectly well what I meant!"
"Meant that you thanked God I wasn't a woman." But
this made the lady evince despair. "Well!--what
_did_ you mean, then? Spit it out."
"You are tired of me, Reginald, and I shall go for
my walk alone. Of course, what I meant was plain
enough, to any but a downright fool. I meant _you_
were to thank God, Reginald--on your knees!--that
_you_ were a man and not a woman. The idea
of my saying anything so silly! Wait till you are
a woman, and _then_ see! But if you're not coming,
I shall go. I don't know why you want the gas.
It all mounts up in the bills. And then _I_ shall be
found fault with, I suppose."
"I want the gas because I can't see without it."
After a phase of despair, followed by resignation,
the lady said, speaking in the effect of the latter:
"I think, Reginald, if you had any regard for the
bills, you would just look out of the window, once in
an hour or so, and not consume all those cubic feet
of gas at three-and-ninepence. The fog's gone!
There's the sun. I knew it would be, and it was
perfectly ridiculous to put off going to the Old
Water Colour."
"Suppose we go, then? Hay, Mrs. Hay? Get
your hat, and we'll go." He turned the gas out.
"Oh no! It's no use going now--it's too late.
And it's all so depressing. And you know it is!
And I shall have to get rid of this new girl, Sairah."
"I thought she looked honest." This was
spoken feebly.
She answered irritably: "You always think they
look honest when they're ugly. This one's no better
than they all are. It's not the honesty, though.
It's she won't do anything."
"Why didn't you have that rather pleasin'-looking
gyairl with a bird's wing on her hat?"
"That conscious minx! I really do sometimes
quite wonder at you, Reginald! Besides, she wanted
a parlourmaid's place, and wouldn't go where there
wasn't a manservant kept. You men are such
fools! And you don't give any help."
Mr. Aiken, observing a disposition to weep in these
last words, seemed embarrassed for a moment; but
after reflection became conciliatory. "Sairah does
seem lazy. But she says she's not been accustomed."
"And then you give way! You might put that
magnifying-glass down just for one moment, and
pay attention! Of course, she says she's not been
accustomed to anything and everything. They all
do! But what can one expect when their master
blacks his own boots?"
"What can _I_ do, when she says she hopes she
knows her place, and she ain't a general, where a
boy comes in to do the rough work?"
"What can you _do_? Why, of course _not_ carry
your dirty boots down into the kitchen and black
them yourself, and have her say, when you ask for
the blacking, do you know where it's kept? I've no
patience! But some men will put up with
anything, except their wives; and then one's head's
snapped off! '_Do you know where it's kept!_' The
idea! ... Well, are you coming, or are you not?
Because, _if_ you're coming, I must put on my grey
tweed. If you're _not_ coming, say so!"
But Mr. Aiken did not say so. So, after a good
deal of time needlessly spent in preparation, the two
asked each other several times if they were ready,
shouting about the house to that effect. And then,
when they reappeared in the Studio, having
succeeded very indifferently in improving their
appearance, the lady asked the gentleman more than once
whether she looked right, and he said in a
debilitated way, Yes!--he thought so. Whereon she
took exception to his want of interest in her
appearance, and he said she needn't catch him up so short.
However, they did get away in the end, and Sairah
came in to do a little tidin' up--not often getting
the opportunity in the Studio--in pursuance of a
programme arranged between herself and her
mistress, in an aside out of hearing of her master,
in order that the latter should not interpose, as he
always did, and he knew it, to prevent anything the
least like cleanness or order. How he could go on
so was a wonder to his wife.
As for Sairah, the image of herself which she
nourished in her own mind was apparently that of
one determined to struggle single-handed to
re-establish system in the midst of a world given over
to Chaos. Whatever state the place would get
into if it wasn't for her, she couldn't tell! The
other inhabitants of the planet would never do a
hand's turn; anyone could see that! In fact, the
greater part of them devoted themselves to leavin'
things about for her to clear up. The remainder,
to gettin' in the way. When you were that werrited,
you might very easy let something drop, and no
great wonder! And things didn't show, not when
riveted, if only done careful enough. Or a little
diamond cement hotted up and the edges brought
to. There was a man they knew his address at
Pibses Dairy, over a hivory-turner's he lived, done
their ornamential pail beautiful, and you never see
a crack!
But Sairah's alacrity, when she found herself
alone in the Studio, fell short of her implied forecast
of it. Instead of taking opportunity by the
forelock, and doing the little bit of tidying up that she
stood pledged to, she gave herself up to the
contemplation of the Fine Arts.
Now, there were two Fine Arts to which this
master, Mr. Reginald Aiken, devoted himself. One,
the production of original compositions; which did
not pay, owing to their date. Some of these days
they would be worth a pot of money--you see if
they wouldn't! The other Fine Art was that of
the picture-restorer, and did pay. At any rate, it
paid enough to keep Mr. Aiken and his wife--and at
this particular moment Sairah--in provisions cooked
and quarrelled over at the street-door by the latter;
leaving Mrs. Aiken's hundred a year, which her
Aunt Priscilla allowed her, to pay the rent and so
on, with a good margin for cabs and such-like.
Anyhow, as the lady of the house helped _with_ the
house, the Aikens managed, somehow. Or perhaps
it should be said that, somehow, the Aikens managed
anyhow. Mrs. Verity, their landlady, had her
opinions about this.
This, however, is by the way; but, arising as it
does from this Artist's twofold mission in life, it
connects itself with a regrettable occurrence which
came about in consequence of Sairah's not
confining herself to tidying up, and getting things a bit
straight, but seizing the opportunity to do a little
dusting also.
Those on whom the guardianship of a picture
recently varnished has fallen know the assiduous
devotion with which it must be watched to protect
it from insect-life and flue. Even the larger
lepidoptera may fail to detach themselves from a fat,
slow-drying varnish, without assistance; and who
does not know how terribly the delicate organization
of beetles' legs may suffer if complicated with
treacle or other glutinous material. But beetles'
legs may be removed with care from varnish, and
leave no trace of their presence, provided the
varnish is not too dry. Flue, on the other hand,
at any stage of desiccation, spells ruin, and is that
nasty and messy there's no doing anything with it;
and you may just worrit yourself mad, and sticky
yourself all over, and only make matters worse than
you began. So you may just as well let be, and not
be took off your work no longer; nursing, however,
an intention of saying well now!--you declare, who
ever could have done that, and not a livin' soul come
anigh the place, you having been close to the whole
time, and never hardly took your eyes off?
That sketches the line of defence Sairah was
constrained to adopt, after what certainly was at least
a culpable error of judgment. She should not have
wiped over any picture at all, not even with the
cleanest of dusters. And though the one she used
was the one she kep' for the Studio, nothing
warranted its application to the Italian half-length that
had been entrusted to Mr. Aiken by Sir Stopleigh
Upwell, to clean and varnish carefully, and touch
up the frame, without destroying the antique feeling
of the latter.
Mr. Aiken was certainly to blame for not locking
the door and taking away the key. So he had no
excuse for using what is called strong language
when he and his wife came back from the Old Water
Colour. She had not been in _ten minutes_--a period
she laid great stress on--when she heard him
shouting inside the Studio. And then he came out
in the passage and shouted down the stairs.
"Good God, Euphemia! where are you? Where
the Devil are you? Do come up here! I'm _ruined_,
I tell you! ... that brute of a girl!..." And he
went stamping about in his uncontrollable temper.
His wife was alarmed, but not to the extent of
forgetting to enter her protest against the strong
language. "Reginald!" she said with dignity,
"have I not often told you that if you say God
and Devil I shall go away and spend the rest of the
day with my Aunt Priscilla, at Coombe? Before
the girl and all!"
But her husband was seriously upset at something.
"Don't go on talking like an idiot," he said
irritably. Then his manner softened, as though
he was himself a little penitent for the strong
language, and he subsided into "Do come up and
see what that confounded girl has done." Those
conversant with the niceties of strong language will
see there was concession in this.
Mrs. Aiken went upstairs, and saw what the
confounded girl had done. But she did not seem
impressed. "It wants a rub," she said. Then her
husband said, "That's just like you, Euphemia.
You're a fool." Whereupon the lady said in a
dignified manner, "Perhaps if I am a fool, I'd
better go." And was, as it were, under compulsion
to do so, seeing that no objection was raised.
But she must have gone slowly, inasmuch as she
presently called back from the landing, "What's
that you said?" not without severity.
"I said 'Call the girl.'"
"You said nothing of the sort. What was it you
said before that?"
Now, what her husband had said was, "The idea
of a _rub_! Idiotic barbarian!" He was unable to
qualify this speech effectually, and his wife went
some more stairs up. Not to disappear finally; a
compromise was possible.
"Did you say 'idiotic barbarian,' or 'idiotic
barbarians'? Because it makes all the difference."
"Barbarians. Plural. Don't be a fool, and
come down."
Thereupon the lady came back as far as the door,
but seemed to waver in concession, for she made
reservations.
"I am not coming down because of anything,"
she said, "but only to remind you that that Miss
Upwell was to come some time to see the picture,
and I think that's her."
"What's her? I don't hear anyone at the door."
"It's no use gaping out of the front-window.
You know quite well what I mean. That's her in
the carriage, gone to the Macnivensons' by mistake
for us, as people always do and always will, Reginald,
until Mrs. Verity gets the Borough Council to change
the numbers. 'Thirty-seven A' is a mere mockery."
Mr. Aiken came out of the Studio, and went up
to the side-window on the landing, commanding a
view of the street in which thirty-seven A stood, his
own tenancy being in the upper half of a corner
house. "That's her," said he. "And a young
swell. Sweetheart, p'raps! Smart set, they look.
But, I say, Mrs. Hay..."
"Do come away from the window. They'll see
you, and it looks so bad. _What_ do you say?"
"What the Devil am I to do? I can't let her see
the picture in that state."
"Nonsense! Just wipe the mess off. You are
such a fidget, Reginald."
But the Artist could not have his work treated
thus lightly. The girl must say he had been called
away on important business. It was absolutely
impossible to let that picture be seen in its present
state. And it would take over an hour to make it
fit to be seen.... Well, of course, it was difficult,
Mr. Aiken admitted, to think what to say, all in a
hurry! He thought very hard, and twice said,
"I've an idea. Look here!" And his wife said,
"Well?" But nothing came of it. Then he said,
"Anyhow, she mustn't come into the Studio.
That's flat!..." But when, in answer to inquiry
as to how the difficulty of the position should be
met, he riposted brusquely, "Who's to see her?
Why, _you_!"--Mrs. Aiken said, in the most
uncompromising way, No--that she wouldn't; the idea!
If there were to be any fibs told, her husband must
tell them himself, and not put them off on her. It
was unmanly cowardice. Let him tell his own fibs.
But the colloquy, which threatened to become
heated, was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Warmth of feeling had to give way before necessity
for action. Broadly speaking, this took the form
of affectation, on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Aiken, of
a remoteness from the Studio not favoured by the
resources of their premises, and, on the part of Sairah,
of a dramatic effort to which she proved altogether
unequal. She was instructed to say that she didn't
know if her master was at home, but would see, if
the lady and gentleman would walk into the Studio.
She was then to convey an impression of passing
through perspectives of corridors, and opening doors
respectfully, and meeting with many failures, but
succeeding in the end in running her quarry down
in some boudoir or private chapel. She failed, and
was audible to the visitors in the Studio, within a
few feet of its door, which didn't 'asp, unless pulled
to sharp. She had not pulled it to sharp. And
her words were not well chosen:--"I said to 'em to
set down till you come, and you wouldn't be a
minute." No more they were; but there are more
ways than one of not being a minute, and they chose
the one most illustrative--to Mrs. Aiken's mind--of
the frequency of unexpected visits from the _élite_.
"Don't go rushing in, as if no one ever came!" said
she to her husband.
The young lady and gentleman did not sit down,
but walked about the room, the former examining
its contents. The gentleman, who was palpably an
officer in a cavalry regiment, neglected the Fine
Arts, in favour of the lady, whom he may be said
to have gloated over at a respectful distance. But
he expressed himself to the effect that this was an
awful lark, straining metaphor severely. The young
lady, whose beauty had made Sairah's head reel,
said, "Yes--it's fun," more temperately. But
both looked blooming and optimistic, and ready to
recognise awful larks and fun in almost any
combination of circumstances.
The first instinct of visitors to a Studio is to find
some way of avoiding looking at the pictures. A
good method towards success in this object is to
lean back and peep over all the canvases with their
faces to the wall, and examine all the sketch-books,
in search of what really interests you so much more
than finished work; to wit, the first ideas of the
Artist, fresh from his brain--incomplete, of course,
but full of an indefinable something. They are
_himself_, you see! But they spoil your new gloves,
and perhaps you are going on to Hurlingham.
These young people were; and that, no doubt, was
why the young lady went no further in her
researches than to discover the rich grimy quality of
the dirt they compelled her to wallow in. It
repulsed her, and she had to fall back on the easels
and their burdens.
They glanced at "Diana and Actæon," unfinished,
the Artist's _capo d'opera_ at this date, and appeared
embarrassed for a moment, but conscious that
something is still due to High Art.
"Why don't you say the drawing's fine, or the
tone, or something? You're not doing your duty,
Jack." Thus spoke the young lady, who presently,
to the relief of both, found an enthusiasm. "She's
perfectly lovely! But is _she_ Mr. Malkin's work?
She isn't--_she's our picture_! She's Early Italian."
She clapped her hands and laughed with delight.
Oh dear!--how pretty she looked, transfixed, as it
were, with her lips apart opposite to the picture
Sairah had been attending to!
The young man took his eyes off her to glance at
the picture, then put them back again. "I don't
dislike 'em Early Italian," he said. But he wasn't
paying proper attention; and, besides, Sairah's little
essay towards picture-restoration had caught his
passing glance. "What's all that woolly mess?" said he.
"Picture-cleaning, of course," said the lady.
"Mr. Malthus knows what he's about--at least, I
suppose so.... Oh, here he is!" Now, this young
lady ought to have made herself mistress of the
Artist's real name before visiting his Studio. Not
having done so, his sudden appearance--he had
taken the bit in his teeth and rushed in as though
at most very few people ever came--was a little
embarrassing to her, especially as he said
correctively, "Aiken." Thereon the young lady said she
meant Aiken, which may have been true, or not.
However, she got the conversation on a sound
footing by a little bit of truthfulness. "I was just
saying to Captain Calverley that the 'woolly mess,'
as he is pleased to call it, is what you are doing to
the picture. Isn't it, now?"
Mr. Aiken satisfied his conscience cleverly. He
smiled in a superior way--as a master smiles at one
that is not of his school--and said merely, "Something
of the kind."
This young lady, Madeline Upwell, had never been
in a real picture-restorer's Studio before, and could
not presume to be questioning anything, or taking
exceptions. So she accepted Sairah's handiwork
as technical skill of a high order. And Mr. Aiken,
his conscience at ease at having avoided fibs, which
so often lead to embarrassments, felt quite in high
spirits, and could give himself airs about his
knowledge of Early Italian Art.
"A fine picture!" said he. "But not a Bronzino."
Miss Upwell looked dejected, and said, "Oh
dear!--isn't it? Ought it to be?" Captain
Calverley said, "P'raps it's by somebody else." But
he was evidently only making conversation.
And Miss Upwell said to him, "Jack, you don't
know anything about it. Be quiet!" Whereupon
Captain Calverley was quiet. He was very good
and docile, and no wonder; for the fact is, his inner
soul purred like a cat whenever this young lady
addressed him by name.
Mr. Aiken went on to declare his own belief about
the authorship in question. His opinion was of
less than no value, but he gave it for what it was
worth. The picture was palpably the work of
Mozzo Vecchio, or his son Cippo--probably the
latter, who was really the finer artist of the two, in
spite of Jupp. As to the identity of the portrait,
he did not agree with any of the theories about it.
He then, receiving well-bred encouragement to
proceed from his hearers, threw himself into a
complete exposition of his views--although he
frequently dwelt upon their insignificance and his
own--with such enthusiasm that it was with a wrench
to his treatment of the subject that he became aware
that his wife had come into the room and was
expecting to be taken notice of, venomously. At the
same time it dawned on him that his visitors had
assumed the appearance of awaiting formal
introduction. The method of indicating this is not
exactly like endeavouring to detect a smell of gas,
nor giving up a conundrum and waiting for the
answer, nor standing quite still to try on, nor any
particular passage in fielding at cricket; but there
may be a little of each in it. Only, you mustn't
speak on any account--mind that! You may say
"er"--if that indicates the smallest speakable
section of a syllable--as a friendly lead to the
introducer. And it is well to indicate, if you can, how
sweet your disposition will be towards the other
party when the introducer has taken action, like
the Treasury. But the magic words must be spoken.
Miss Upwell was beginning to feel a spirit of
Chauvinism rising in her heart, that might in time
have become "Is _this_ Mrs. Aiken?" with a certain
gush of provisional joy, when the gentleman
perceived his neglect, and said, "Ah--oh!--my wife,
of course! Beg pardon!" On which Mrs. Aiken
said, "You must forgive my husband," with an
air of spacious condescension, and the incident
ended curiously by a kind of alliance between the
two ladies against the social blunders of male mankind.
But the Artist's wife declined to fall in with
current opinion about the picture. "I suppose it's
very beautiful, and all that," said she. "Only
don't ask _me_ to admire it! I never _have_ liked
that sort of thing, and I never _shall_ like it." She
went on to say the same thing more frequently
than public interest in her decisions appeared to
warrant.
The young lady said, in a rather plaintive,
disappointed tone, "But _is_ it that sort of thing?" She
had evidently fallen in love with the picture,
and while not prepared to deny that sorts of things
existed which half-length portraits oughtn't to be,
was very reluctant to have a new-found idol
pitchforked into their category.
The Artist said, "What the dooce you mean,
Euphemia, I'm blest if _I_ know!" He looked like
an Artist who wished his wife hadn't come into his
room when visitors were there.
The Captain said, "What sort of thing? I don't
see that she's any sort at all. Thundering pretty
sort, anyhow!"
Thereupon the Artist's wife said, "I suppose
I'm not to speak," and showed symptoms of a
dangerous and threatening self-subordination. The
lady visitor, perceiving danger ahead, with great
tact exclaimed: "Oh, but I do know so _exactly_
what Mrs. Aiken means." She didn't know, the
least in the world. But what did that matter?
She went on to dwell on the beauty of the portrait,
saying that she should persuade Pupsey to have it
over the library chimneypiece and take away that
dreary old Kneller woman. It was the best light
in the whole place.
But her sweetly meant effort to soothe away the
paroxysm of propriety which seemed to have seized
upon the lady of the house was destined to fail, for
the husband of the latter must needs put his word in,
saying, "I don't see any ground for it. Never
shall." This occasioned an intensification of his
wife's attitude, shown by a particular form of silence,
and an underspeech to Miss Upwell, as to one who
would understand, "No ground?--with those arms
and shoulders! And look at her open throat--oh,
the whole thing!" which elicited a sympathetic
sound, meant to mean anything. But the young
lady was only being civil. Because she had really
no sympathy whatever with this Mrs. What's-her-name,
and spoke with severity of her afterwards,
under that designation. At the moment, however,
she made no protest beyond an expression of
rapturous admiration for the portrait, saying it was
the most fascinating head she had ever seen in a
picture. And as for the arms and open throat, they
were simply ducky. The Artist's wife could find
nothing to contradict flatly in this, and had to
content herself with, "Oh yes, the _beauty's_ undeniable.
But that was how they did it."
The young officer appeared to want to say something,
but to be diffident. A nod of encouragement
from Miss Upwell produced, "Why, I was going to
say--wasn't it awfully jolly of 'em to do it that
way?" The speaker coloured slightly, but when
the young lady said, "Bravo, Jack! I'm on your
side," he looked happy and reinstated.
But when could the picture be finished and be
sent to Surley Stakes? The young lady would never
be happy till it was safe there, now she had seen it.
Would Mr. Aiken get it done in a week? ... No?--then
in a fortnight? The Artist smiled in a superior
way, from within the panoply of his mystery, and
intimated that at least a month would be required;
and, indeed, to do justice to so important a job,
he would much rather have said six weeks. He
hoped, however, that Miss Upwell would be content
with his assurance that he would do his best.
Miss Upwell would not be at all content. Still,
she would accept the inevitable. How could she
do otherwise, with Captain Calverley's sisters
waiting for them at Hurlingham?
"Quite up to date!" was the verdict of the
Artist's wife, as soon as her guest was out of
hearing.
"Who?" said the Artist. Then, as one who
steps down from conversation to communication,
he added in business tones: "I say, Euphemia, I
shall have to run this all down with turps before
the copal hardens, and I really must give my mind
to it. You had better hook it."
"I'm going directly. But it's easy to say 'who?'"
"Oh, I say, _do_ hook it! I can't attend to you
and this at the same time."
"I'm going. But it _is_ easy to say 'who?' And
you know it's easy."
The Artist, who was coquetting with one of those
nice little corkscrews that bloom on Artists' bottles,
became impatient. "Wha-a-_awt_ is it you're going
on about?" he exclaimed, exasperated. "Can't you
leave the girl alone, and hook it?"
"I can leave the room," said his wife temperately,
"and am doing so. But you see you knew
perfectly well who, all along!" Even so the Japanese
wrestler, who has got a certainty, is temperance
itself towards his victim, who writhes in vain.
Why on earth could not the gentleman leave the
lady to go her own way, and attend to his work?
He couldn't; and must needs fan the fires of an
incipient wrangle that would have burned down,
left to itself. "Don't be a fool, Euphemia," said
he. "Can't you answer my question? What do
you mean by 'quite up to date'?"
Now, Mrs. Aiken had a much better memory than
her husband. "Because," she replied, dexterously
seizing on his weak point, "you never asked any such
question, Reginald. If you had asked me to tell
you what I meant by 'quite up to date,' I should
have told you what I meant by 'quite up to date.' But
I shall not tell you now, Reginald, because it
is worse than ridiculous for you to pretend you do
not know the meaning of 'quite up to date,' when
it is not only transparently on the surface, but
obvious. Ask anyone. Ask my Aunt Priscilla.
Ask Mrs. Verity." The lady had much better have
stopped here. But she wished to class her
landlady amongst the lower intelligences, so she must
needs add, somewhat in the rear of her enumeration,
in a quick _sotto voce_, "Ask the girl Sairah, for that
matter!"
"What's that?" said her husband curtly.
"You heard what I said."
"Oh yes, I heard what you _said_. Well--suppose
I ask the girl Sairah!"
"Reginald! If you are determined to make
yourself and your wife ridiculous, I shall go. I do
think that, even if you have no common sense, you
might have a little good-feeling. The girl Sairah!
The idea!" She collected herself a little more--some
wandering scraps were out of bounds--and
went almost away, just listening back on the
staircase landing.
Now, although an impish intention may have
flickered in the mind of Mr. Reginald Aiken, he
certainty had no definite idea of catechising the girl
Sairah about the phrase under discussion when he
rang the bell for her and summoned her to the
Studio. But his wife having taken him _au serieux_
instead of laughing at his absurdity, the impish
intention flared up, and had not time to die down
before Sairah answered the bell. Would it have
done so if he had not been conscious that his wife
was still standing at pause on the staircase to keep
an eye on the outcome?
So, when Sairah lurched into his sanctum, asking
whether he rang--not without suggestion that
offence would be given by an affirmative answer--his
real intention in summoning the damsel wavered
at the instigation of the spirit of mischief that had
momentary possession of him; and instead of
blowing her up roundly for damaging his picture, he
actually must needs ask her the very question his
wife had said "The idea!" about. He spoke loud,
that his speech should reach that lady's listening ears.
"Yes Sairah: I rang for _you_. What is the
meaning of...?" He paused a moment, to overhear,
if possible, some result of his words in the
passage.
"It's nothin' along o' me. _I_ ain't done nothin'." A
brief sketch of a blameless life, implied in these
words, seemed to Sairah the safest policy. She
thought she was going to be indicted for the ruin
of the picture.
"Shut up, Sairah!" said the Artist, and listened.
Of course, he was doing this, you see, to plague his
wife. But he heard nothing, being nevertheless
mysteriously aware that Mrs. Aiken was still on the
landing above, taking mental notes of what she
overheard. So he pursued his inquiry, regarding
Sairah as a mere lay-figure of use in practical joking.
"I expect you know the meaning of 'up to date,'
Sairah," said he, and listened. But no sign came
from without. If the ears this pleasantry was
intended to reach were still there, their owner was
storing up retribution for its author in silence.
It was but natural that this young woman Sairah,
having no information on any topic whatever--for
this condition soon asserts itself in young women of
her class after their Board-School erudition has had
time to die a natural death--should be apt to
ascribe sinister meanings to things she did not
understand. And in this case none the less for the air
and aspect of the speaker, which, while it really was
open to the misinterpretation that it was intended
to convey insinuating waggery to the person
addressed, had only reference to the enjoyment
Mr. Aiken had, or was proposing to himself, from a mild
joke perpetrated at his wife's expense. However,
the young woman was not going to fly out--an
action akin to the showing of a proper spirit--without
an absolute certainty of the point to be flown
out about. Therefore Sairah said briefly, "Ask
your parding!" Briefly, but with a slight asperity.
The Artist, though he was in some doubt whether
his jest was worth proceeding with, was too far
committed to retreat. With his wife listening on the
stairs, was he not bound to pursue his inquiry?
Obviously he must do so, or run the risk of being
twitted with his indecision by that lady later on.
So he said, with effrontery, "Your mistress says
you can tell me the meaning of the expression 'up
to date,' Sairah."
Sairah turned purple. "Well, I never!" said she.
"Mrs. Aching to say that of a respectable girl!"
Mr. Aiken became uncomfortable, as Sairah turned
purple. He began to perceive that his jest was a
very stupid one. As Sairah turned purpler, he
became more uncomfortable still. A panic-stricken
review of possible ways out of the difficulty started
in his mind, but soon stopped for want of materials.
Explanation--cajolery--severe transition to another
topic--he thought of all three. The first was simply
impossible to reasoning faculties like Sairah's. The
second was out of Mr. Aiken's line. If the girl had
been a _model_ now! ... And who can say that
then it might not have been ticklish work--yes!--even
with the strong personal vanity of that
inscrutable class to appeal to? There was nothing
for it but the third, and Mr. Aiken's confidence in
it was very weak. Something had to be done,
though, with Sairah's colour _crescendo_, and probably
Mrs. Hay outside the door; that was the image his
mind supplied. He felt like an ill-furnished
storming-party, a forlorn hope in want of a ladder, as he
said, "There--never mind that now! You've been
meddling with this picture. You know you have.
Look here!" Had he been a good tactician, he
would have affected sudden detection of the injury
to the picture. But he lost the opportunity.
Sairah held the strong position of an Injured
Woman. If she was to have the sack, she much
preferred to have it "on her own"--to wrest it, as
it were, from a grasp unwilling to surrender
it--rather than to have it forced upon her unwilling
acceptance, with a month's notice and a character
for Vandalism. So she repeated, as one still rigid
with amazement, "Mrs. Aching to say that of a
respectable girl!" and remained paralysed, in dumb show.
Mr. Aiken perceived with chagrin that he might
have saved the situation by, "What's this horrible
mess on the picture? _You've_ been touching this!"
and a drowning storm of indignation to follow. It
was too late now. He had to accept his task as
Destiny set it, and he cut a very poor figure over
it--was quite outclassed by Sairah. He could
actually manage nothing better than, "Do let that
alone, girl! I tell you it was foolery.... I tell
you it was a joke. Look here at this picture--the
mischief you've done it. You _know_ you did it!"
To which Sairah thus:--"Ho, it's easy gettin'
out of it that way, Mr. Aching. Not but what I
have always known you for the gentleman--I will
say that. But _such_ a thing to say! If I'd a been
Missis, I should have shrank!"
The Artist felt that there was nothing for it but
to grapple with the situation. He shouted at the
indignant young woman, "Don't be such a
confounded idiot, girl! I mean, don't be such an
insufferable goose. I tell you, you're under a
complete misconception. Nobody's ever said anything
against you. Nobody's said a word against your
confounded character, and be hanged to it! Do
have a little common sense! A young woman
of your age ought to be ashamed to be such a fool."
But Sairah's entrenchments were strengthened,
if anything. "It's easy calling fool," said she.
"And as for saying against, who's using expressions,
and passing off remarks now?" Controversial
opponents incapable of understanding anything
whatever are harder to refute than the shrewdest
intellects. Mr. Aiken felt that Sairah was oak and
triple brass against logical conviction. Explanation
only made matters worse.
A vague desperate idea of summoning his wife
and accusing Sairah of intoxication, as a sort of
universal solvent, crossed his mind; and he actually
went so far as to look out into the passage for her,
but only to find that she had vanished for the
moment. Coning back, he assumed a sudden
decisive tone, saying, "There--that'll do, Sairah!
Now go." But Sairah wasn't going to give in,
evidently, and he added, "I mean, that's enough!"
Whether it was or wasn't, Sairah showed no signs
of concession. _She_ was going, no fear! She was
going--ho yes!--she was going. She said she was
going so often that Mr. Aiken said at last, "Well,
go!" But when the young woman began to
go--vengefully, as it were, even as a quadruped
suddenly stung by an ill-deserved whip--he
inconsequently exclaimed, "Stop!" For a fell purpose
had been visible in her manner. What, he asked,
was she going to do?
What was she going to do? Oh yes!--it was
easy asking questions. But the answer would reach
Mr. Aiken in due course. Nevertheless, if he wanted
to know, she would be generous, and tell him. She
wasn't an underhand girl, like the majority of her
sex at her age. Mean concealments were foreign to
her nature. She was going straight to Mrs. Aching
to give a month's warning, and you might summing
in the police to search her box. All should be
aboveboard, as had been the case in her family for
generations past, and she never had experienced such
treatment all the places she'd been in, nor yet
expected to it.
It was then that this Artist made a serious error
of judgment. He would have done much more
wisely to allow this stupid maid-of-all-work to go
away and attend to some of it in the kitchen, while
he looked after his own. Instead of doing so, he,
being seriously alarmed at the possible domestic
consequences of his very imperfectly thought out
joke--for he knew his wife accounted the finding of
a new handmaid life's greatest calamity--must needs
make an ill-advised attempt to calm the troubled
waters on the same line that he would have adopted,
at any rate in his Bohemian days, with Miss de
Lancey or Miss Montmorency--these names are
chosen at random--whose professional beauty as
models did not prevent their suffering, now and
again, from tantrums. And cajolery, of the class
otherwise known as blarney, might have smoothed
over the incident, and the whole thing have been
forgotten, if bad luck had not, just at this moment,
brought back to the Studio the mistress of the
house, who had only been attracted by a noise in
the street to look out at a front-window. She,
coming unheard within hearing, not only was aware
of interchanges of unusual amiability between
Reginald and that horrible girl Sairah, but was just
in time to hear the latter say, "You keep your
'ands off of me now, Mr. Aching!" without any
apparent intention of being taken at her word.
And, further, that the odious minx brazened it out,
leaving the room as if nothing had happened, before
the gentleman's offended wife could find words to
express her indignation. At least, so this lady told
her Aunt Priscilla that evening, in an interview
from which we have just borrowed some telling
phrases.
As for her profligate husband, it came out in the
same interview that he looked "sheepish to a
degree, and well he might." He had tried to cook
up a sort of explanation--"oh yes! a _sort_,"--which
was no doubt an attempt on the misguided man's
part to tell the truth. But we have seen that he
was the last person to succeed in such an enterprise;
and, indeed, self-exculpation is tough work, even
for the guiltless. Fancy the fingers of reproachful
virtue directed at you from all points of the
compass. And suppose, to make matters worse, you
had committed something--not a crime, you would
never do that; but something or other of a
committable nature--what on earth could you do but
look sheepish to some degree or other? Unless,
indeed, you were a minx, and could brazen it out,
like that gurl.
Such a ridiculous and vulgar incident would not
be worth so much description, but that, like other
things of the same sort, it led to serious
consequences. A storm occurred in what had hitherto
been a haven of domestic peace, and the Artist's
wife carried out her threat, this time, of a visit to
her Aunt Priscilla. That good lady, being a spinster
of very limited experience, but anxious to make it
seem a wide one, dwelt upon her knowledge of
mankind and its evil ways, and the hopelessness of
undivided possession thereof by womankind. She had
told her niece "what it was going to be," when she
first learned that Mr. Aiken was an Artist. She
repeated what she had said before, that Artists'
wives had no idea what was going on under their
eyes. If they had, Artists would very soon be
unprovided with the raw material of proper infidelity.
They would have no wives, and would go on like in
Paris. This tale is absolutely irresponsible for Miss
Priscilla's informants; it only reports her words.
Now, Mrs. Euphemia Aiken, in spite of a severe
ruction with her husband, had really not consciously
imputed to him any transgression of a serious nature
when--as that gentleman worded it--she "flounced
away" to her Aunt Priscilla with an angry report
of how Reginald had insulted her. She had much
too high an opinion of him to form, on her own
account, a mental version of his conduct, such as
the one her excellent Aunt jumped at, in pursuance
of the establishment of a vile moral character for
Artists and nephews-in-law generally, with a
concrete foundation in the case of an Artist-nephew--a
Centaur-like combination with a doubt which half
was which. But nothing is easier than to convince
any human creature that any other is twice, thrice,
four times as human as itself, in respect of what is
graceless or disgraceful--spot-stroke barred, of
course; meaning felony. So that after a long
interview with Aunt Priscilla, this foolish woman cried
herself to sleep, having accepted the good lady's
offered hospitality, and was next morning so
vigorously urged to do scriptural things in the way of
forgiveness and submission to her husband--so
Miltonic, in fact, did the prevailing atmosphere
become--that she naturally sat down and wrote a healthily
furious letter to him. The tale may surmise that
she offered him Sairah as a consolation for what it
knows she proposed--her own withdrawal to a
voluntary grass-widowhood. For she flatly refused
to return to her deserted hearth. And, indeed, the
poor lady may have felt that her home had been
soiled and desecrated. But it was not only her
Aunt's impudent claim to superior knowledge--she
was still Miss Priscilla Bax, and of irreproachable
character--that had influenced her, but the
recollection of Sairah. It would not have been half as
bad if it had been a distinguished young lady with
a swoop, like in a shiny journal she subscribed for
quarterly. But Sairah! That gurl! Visions of
Sairah's _coiffure_; of the way Sairah appeared to be
coming through, locally, owing to previousness on
the part of hooks which would not wait for their
own affinities, but annexed the very first eye that
appealed to them; of intolerable stockings she
overlooked large holes in, however careful she see
to 'em when they come from the Wash; of her
chronic pocket-handkerchief--all these kept floating
before her eyes and exasperating her sense of insult
and degradation past endurance. Perhaps the
worst and most irritating thought was the extent to
which she had stooped to supplement this maid's
all-work by efforts of her own, without which their
small household could scarcely have lived within
its limited means. No!--let Reginald grill his own
chops now, or find another Sairah!
It was illustrative of the unreality of this ruction
that the lady took it as a matter of course that
Sairah would accept the sack in the spirit in which
it was given; for official banishment of the culprit
was her last act on leaving the house. No idea
entered her head that her husband had the slightest
personal wish to retain Sairah.
As for him, he judged it best to pay the girl her
month's wages and send her packing. He removed
her deposit of flue from the picture-varnish, and in
due time completed the job and sent it off to its
destination. He fell back provisionally on his old
bachelor ways, making his own bed and slipping
slowly down into Chaos at home, but getting well
fed either by his friends or at an Italian restaurant
near by--others being beyond his means or fraught
with garbage--and writing frequent appeals to his
wife not to be an Ass, but to come back and be jolly.
She opened his letters and read them, and more
than once all but started to return to him--would
have done so, in fact, if her excellent Aunt had not
pointed out, each time, that it was the Woman's
duty to forgive. Which she might have gone the
length of accepting, but for its exasperating sequel,
"and submit herself to her husband."
But neither he nor either of the other actors in
this drama had the slightest idea that it had been
witnessed by any eyes but their own.