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?
Mrs. Aiken tortured her speculating powers for
awhile with endeavours to put this curious event on
an intelligible footing, and was before long in a
position to "dismiss it from her mind"; or, if not
quite that, to give it a month's notice. It certainly
seemed much less true on the second day after it
happened than on the first; and, at that rate, in a
twelvemonth it would never have happened at all.
But her passive acceptance of a thing intrinsically
impossible and ridiculous--because, of course, we
know, etc., etc.--was destined to undergo a rude
shock. After taking her Aunt's advice about the
duration of the usual pause--not to seem to have too
violent a "_Sehnsucht_" for your card-leavers--the
lady paid her visit to Miss Upwell at her parents'
stuck-up, pretentious abode in Eaton Square. We
do not give the number, as to do so would be to
bring down a storm of inquiries from investigators
of phenomena.
She gave her card to the overfed menial, who
read it--and it was no business of his! He then
put it upside down--_his_ upside down--on a salver,
for easy perusal by bloated oligarchs. The voice of
an oligarch rang out from the room he disappeared
into, quite deliciously, and filled the empty house.
Madeline was delighted to see Mrs. Aiken; had been
going to a Bun-Worry. _Now_ she should do nothing
of the sort; she would much rather have tea at
home, and a long talk with Mrs. Aiken. She
confirmed this by cancelling her out-of-door costume,
possibly to set the visitor at her ease. Anyhow, it
had that effect. In fact, if either showed a trace
of uneasiness, it was Madeline. She more than
once began to say something she did not finish, and
once said "Never mind," to excuse her deficit. Of
course Mrs. Aiken had not the slightest idea of what
was passing in her mind; or rather, imputed it to a
hesitation on the threshold of sympathetic speech
about her own domestic unhappiness.
Now the portion of this conversation that the
story is concerned with came somewhere near the
middle of it, and was as follows:
"I think you said you had met my cousin,
Volumnia Bax?"
"At Lady Presteign's--yes, of course I did!
With a splendid head of auburn hair, and
a--strongly characteristic manner. We had a most
amusing talk."
"She has a red head and freckles, and is
interested in Psych[oe]opathy." An analogue of
hom[oe]opathy, which would have stuck in the
gizzard of the Clarendon Press, and even the Daily
This and the Evening That would have looked at a
dictionary about.
"Oh," said Miss Upwell dubiously. "_I_ thought
her a fine-looking woman--a--a Lifeguardswoman,
don't you know! And her nose carries her _pince-nez_
without her having to _pincer_ her _nez_, which
makes all the difference. She talked about you."
"Oh, did she? I was going to ask if she did.
What did she say about me?"
"You mustn't be angry with her, you know! It
was all very nice."
"Oh yes, of course! It always is very nice.
But--a--what _was_ it? You _will_ tell me, won't you?"
"Certainly--every word! But I may have
mistaken what she said, because there was
music--Katchakoffsky, I think; and the _cello_ only found
he'd got the wrong Op., half-way through."
"I suppose she was telling you all about me and
Reginald. I wish she would mind her own ... well,
I wish she would Psych[oe]opathize and leave
_me_ alone."
"Dear Mrs. Aiken!--you said you wouldn't be
angry. And it was only because _I_ mentioned you
and talked of that delightful visit--of--of ours to
the Studio.... Oh no, no!--there's no more news.
Not a word!" This came in answer to a look.
Madeline went on quickly, glad to say no more of
her own grief. "It was not till I myself mentioned
you that she said, 'I suppose you know they've
split?'"
"That was a nice way to put it. Split!"
"Yes--it looked as if it was sea-anemones, and
each of you had split, making four." Miss Upwell
then gave a very truthful report of what Miss Bax
had told her, neither confounding the persons, nor
dividing the substance of her narrative.
When she had finished, Mrs. Aiken began to say,
"I suppose----" and underwent a restless pause.
Then, as her hostess waited wistfully for more, she
went on, "I suppose she said I ought to go back
and be a dutiful wife. I'm quite sick and tired of
the way people talk."
"She said"--thus Madeline, a little timidly--"that
she thought you had acted under a grievous
misapprehension. That was what she said--'A
grievous misapprehension.'"
"Oh yes!--and I'm to go back and beg pardon.
_I_ know.... But that reminds me...." She
reined up.
"Reminds you...?" Madeline paused, for her to
start again.
"Reminds me that I've never thanked you for
the photograph."
"I thought you might like it. I can't tell you
how fond I am of the picture, myself. I wanted to
get you to be more lenient to the poor girl. It is
the loveliest face!"
"Oh, I dare say. But anyhow, it was most kind
of you to give it me. Let me see!--what _was_ it
reminded me of the photograph? Oh, of
course,--Volumnia Bax."
"I was wondering why you said 'reminded.'"
Now Mrs. Aiken had two or three or four or five
faults, but secretiveness was not among them. In
fact she said of herself that she "always outed with
everything." This time, she outed with, or
externalised--but we much prefer the lady's own
expression--what proved of some importance in
the evolution of events. "Oh, of course, it
was because of the ... but it was such
nonsense!" So she spoke, and was silent. The cat
was still in the bag, but one paw was out, at least.
Miss Upwell had her own share of inquisitiveness,
and a little of someone else's. "Never mind! Do
tell _me_," she said, open-eyed and receptive. The
slight accent on "me" was irresistible.
"It was silliness--sheer silliness!" said
Mrs. Aiken. "An absurd dream I had, which made
Volumnia say it was evident I was only being
obstinate about Reginald, because of Science and
stuff. And so going back and begging pardon
reminded me. That was all."
"But what had the picture to do with the dream?
That's what _I_ want to know," said Madeline.
"The picture was _in_ the dream," said Mrs. Aiken.
"But it was such _frightful_ nonsense."
"Oh, never _mind_ what nonsense it was! Do--do
tell me all about it. I can't tell you what an
intense interest I take in dreams. I do indeed!"
"If I do, you won't repeat it to anybody.
Now will you? Promise!"
"Upon my word, I won't. Honour bright!" Thereon,
as Mrs. Aiken really wanted to tell, but
was dreadfully afraid of being thought credulous,
she told the whole story of the dream, with every
particular, just as she had told it to Miss Volumnia
Bax.
Her hearer contrived to hold in, with a great
effort, until the story reached "Well--that's all!
At least, all I can tell you. Wasn't it absurd?" Then
her pent-up impatience found vent. "_Now_
listen to _my_ story!" she cried, so loud that her
hearer gave a big start, exclaiming, "What--have
_you_ got a story? Oh, do tell it! I've told you mine,
you know!"
Then Madeline made no more ado, but told the
whole story of Mr. Pelly's dream, omitting all but
a bare sketch of the Italian narrative--just enough
to give local truth.
"Then," said Mrs. Aiken, when she had finished,
"I suppose _you_ mean that I ought to go back and
beg Reginald's pardon, too."
"I _do_," said Madeline, with overwhelming
emphasis. "_Now_, directly!"
"But you'll promise not to tell _anyone_ about the
dream--my dream," said Mrs. Aiken.
That same afternoon Mr. Reginald Aiken had been
giving careful consideration to Diana and Actæon,
unfinished; because, you see, he had a few days
before him of peace and quiet, and rest from beastly
restoration and picture-cleaning. One--himself,
for instance--couldn't be expected to slave at that
rot for ever. It was too sickening. But of course
you had to consider the dibs. There was no getting
over that.
However, apart from cash-needs, there were
advantages about these interruptions. You came
with a fresh eye. Mr. Aiken had got Diana and
Actæon back from its retirement into the Studio's
picked light, to do justice to his fresh eye. Two
friends, one of whom we have not before seen in his
company, were with him, to confirm or contradict
its impressions.
This friend, a sound judge you could always
rely upon, but--mind you!--a much better Critic
than an Artist, was seated before the picture with
a short briar-root in his mouth, and his thumbs in
the armholes of a waistcoat with two buttons off.
The other, with a calabash straining his facial
muscles, and his hands--thumbs and all--in his
trouser-pockets, was a bit of a duffer and a stoopid
feller, but not half a bad chap if you came to that.
Mr. Aiken called them respectively Tick and Dobbles.
And they called him Crocky.
So there were five fresh eyes fixed upon the
picture, two in the heads of each of these gentlemen,
and the one Mr. Aiken himself had come with.
Mr. Tick's verdict was being awaited, in considerate
silence. His sense of responsibility for its
soundness was gripping his visage to a scowl; and
a steadfast glare at the picture, helped by glasses,
spoke volumes about the thoroughness of its
source's qualifications as a Critic.
Mr. Aiken became a little impatient. "Wonder
if you think the same as me, Tick?" said he.
"Wonder if you think the same as 'im!" said Dobbles.
But Criticism--of pictorial Art at least--isn't a
thing to hurry over, and Mr. Tick ignored these
attempts at stimulus. However, he spoke with
decision when the time seemed ripe. Only, he first
threw an outstretched palm towards the principal
figure, and turned his glare round to his companions,
fixing them. And they found time, before judgment
came, to murmur, respectively, "Wonder if he'll
say my idea!" and "Wonder if he'll say your idear?"
"Wants puttin' down!" shouted Mr. Tick, leaving
his outstretched fingers between himself and Diana.
And thereupon the Artist turned to Mr. Dobbles
and murmured, "What did I tell you?" And
Mr. Dobbles murmured back, "Ah!--what did you tell
me?" not as a question, but as a confirmation.
"What I've been thinking all along!" said Mr. Aiken.
Then all three gave confirmatory nods, and
said that was it, you might rely on it. Diana was
too forward. Had Actæon been able to talk, he
might have protested against this. For see what a
difference the absence of the opposite characteristic
would have made to Actæon!
Conversation then turned on the steps to be taken
to get this forward Goddess into her place again,
Mr. Tick, who appeared to be an authority, dwelt
almost passionately on the minuteness of the
change required. "When I talk of puttin' down,"
said he, "you mustn't imagine I'm referrin' to any
_perceptible_ alteration. You change the tone of that
flesh, and you'll ruin the picture!"
His hearers chorused their approbation, in such
terms as "Right you are, Tick, my boy!"--"That's
the way to put it!"--"Bully for you, old cocky-wax!"
and so on.
Mr. Tick seemed pleased, and elaborated his
position. "Strictly speakin'," said he, "what is
needed is an absolutely imperceptible lowerin' of
the tone. Don't you run away with the idea that
you can paint on a bit of work like that, to do it
any good. You try it on, and you'll come a cropper." This
was agreed to with acclamations, and a running
commentary of "Caution's the thing!"--"You
stick to Caution!"--and so on. The orator
proceeded, "Now, I never give advice, on principle.
But if I was to do so in this case, and you were to
do as I told you, you would just take the _smallest
possible_ quantity--the least, _least_, LEAST touch--no
more!--of..." But Mr. Tick had all but curled
up over the intensity of his superlatives, and he
had to come uncurled.
"What of?" said Mr. Aiken. And said Mr. Dobbles,
not to be quite out of it, "Ah!--what
of?" Because a good deal turned on that.
Mr. Tick had a paroxysm of decision. He seized
Mr. Aiken's velveteen sleeve, and held him at
arm's length. "Look here, Crocky!" said he.
"Got any Transparent Oxide of Chromium?"
"Yes--somewhere!"
"Well, now--just you do as I tell you. Got a
clean number twelve sable? ... No?--well, number
eleven, then ... That'll do!--dip it in Benzine
Collas and give it a rinse out. See? Then you give
it a rub in your Transparent Oxide, and wipe it
clean with a rag. What's left will go all over Diana,
and a little to spare..."
"Won't she look green?" Mr. Aiken seemed reluctant.
"Rather! But you do as I say, young feller, and
ask no questions.... 'What are you to do next?'--why,
take an absoli-y_oo_tly white bit of old rag
and wipe her quite clean from head to foot." His
audience suggesting here that no change would be
visible, he added, "That's the idear. Don't you
change the colour on any account. But you'll
see! Diana--she'll have gone back!"
"There's somethin' in what old Tick says," said
Mr. Dobbles, trying to come out of the cold. He
nodded mysteriously. Mr. Aiken said he'd think
about it.
Mr. Tick said, "I ain't advisin'. I never advise.
But if I was to--there's the advice I should give!" Then
he and Mr. Dobbles went their ways, leaving
Mr. Aiken searching for his tube of Transparent
Oxide of Chromium.
Now, Mr. Reginald Aiken always knew where
everything was in his Studio, and could lay his hand
on it at once. Provided always that you hadn't
meddled and shifted the things about! And he
knew this tube of colour was in his old japanned
tin box, with the folding palette with the hinge
broke. It might be difficult to get out by now,
because he knew a bottle of Siccatif had broken all
over it. But he was keen to make Diana go back,
and if he went out to get another tube he would
lose all the daylight.
So he sat down to think where the dooce that box
had got put. He lit a cigarette to think with. One
has to do things methodically, or one soon gets into
confusion.
He passed before his mind the epoch-making
_bouleversements_ of the past few years; notably the
regular good clean-up when he married Euphemia
four years since, and took the second floor as well
as the Studio floor he had occupied as a bachelor.
He finished that cigarette gloomily. Presently he
decided that what had happened on that occasion
had probably occurred again. History repeats
itself. That box had got shoved back into the
recess behind the _cassettone_. He would have up
Mrs. Gapp, who came in by the day, in the place of
Mrs. Parples, who had outstayed her welcome, to help
him to shift that great beastly useless piece of
lumber. Mrs. Gapp was, however, easier to call over the
stairs to than to have up. The number of times you
called for Mrs. Gapp was according; it varied with
your own tenacity of purpose and your readiness
to believe that she wasn't there. Mr. Aiken seemed
easily convinced that she was at the William the
Fourth, up the street. That was the substance of
his reason for not shouting himself hoarse; that
is to say, it worked out thus as soliloquy. He went
back and tried for the japanned tin colour-box,
single-handed.
He had much better have gone out to buy a new
tube of this useful colour, as in five minutes he was
one mass of filth. Only getting the things off the
top of that box was enough!--why, you never see
anything to come near the state they was in. And
if he had only rang again, sharp, Mrs. Gapp would
have heard the wire; only, of course, no one could
say the bell wasn't broke, and maintain a reputation
for truthfulness. We are incorporating in our text
some verbal testimony of Mrs. Gapp's, given later.
But Mrs. Gapp could not have testified--for she
was but a recent char, at the best--to the desolation
of her unhappy employer's inner soul when, too
late for the waning light of a London day, he opened
with leverage of a screwdriver the lid of that
japanned tin-box, and excavated from a bed of
thickened resin which he knew could never be
detached from the human hand, or anything else it
touched, an abject half-tube of colour which he had
to treat with a lucifer-match before he could get
its cap off. And then only to find that it had gone
leathery, and wouldn't squeeze out.
If we had to answer an Examination question,
"When is Man at his loneliest? Give instances,"
we should reply--unless we had been otherwise
coached--"When he is striving, companionless, to
get some sort of order into things; working on a
basis of Chaos, feeling that he is the first that ever
burst into a dusty sea, choked with its metaphorical
equivalent of foam. Instance Mr. Reginald Aiken,
at the end of last century, in his Studio at
Chelsea." Anyhow, if this question had been then asked of
anyone and received this answer, and the Examiners
had referred back to Mr. Aiken, before giving a
decision, he would certainly have sanctioned full marks.
But he gave himself unnecessary trouble. One
always does, in contact with disinterred lumber, in
which a special brood of spooks lies hid, tempting
him to the belief that this flower-stand only wants
a leg to be of some use, and that that fashionable
armchair only wants a serpentine segment of an
arm and new straps under the seat to be quite a
handsome piece of furniture. Yes, and new
American leather, of course! Mr. Aiken had not
to deal with these particular articles, but the
principle was the same. He foolishly tampered
with a sketching umbrella, to see if it would open:
it certainly did, under pressure, but it wouldn't keep
up nor come down, and could only be set right at
the shop, and a new one would be cheaper in the
end. Pending decision, a large black beetle, who
had hoped to end his days undisturbed, fell off the
underside as its owner opened it, and very nearly
succeeded in getting down his back.
The things that came out of that cavern behind
the _cassettone_!--you never would have thought it!
A large can of genuine Amber Varnish that had had
its cork left out, and wouldn't pour; the Skeleton's
missing right scapula, only it wouldn't hold now;
and, besides, one never wanted the Skeleton; a
great lump of modelling-wax and apparently
infinite tools--no use to Mr. Aiken now, because he
never did any modelling, but they might be a
godsend to some art-student; folio volumes of
anatomical steel-plates, that the engravers had
hoped would last for ever--a hope the mice may
have shared, but they had done pretty well already;
Mr. Aiken's old ivory foot-rule, which was the only
accurate one in the British Empire, and what the
dooce had become of it he never could tell; plaster
heads without noses, and fingers without hands,
and discarded fig-foliage, like a pawnshop in Eden;
things, too, for which no assignable purpose appeared
on the closest examination--things that must have
been the lifework of insane artisans, skilful and
thorough outside the powers of language to express,
but stark mad beyond a doubt. And a Dutch
clock that must have been saying it was a quarter-past
twelve, unrebuked, for four years or so past.
Mr. Aiken need not have tried to pour out the
Amber Varnish; where was the sense of standing
waiting, hoping against hope for liquidation? He
need not have hunted up a pair of pliers to raise
vain hopes in the scapula's breast--or its
equivalent--of a new lease of life. He need not have
tried to soften the heart of that wax. Nor have
turned over the plates to see if any were left perfect.
Nor need he have reconsidered the Inexplicables, to
find some plausible _raison d'être_ for them, nor tried
to wind up the Dutch clock with sporadic keys,
found among marine stores in a nail-box. But he
was excusable for sitting and gloating over his ivory
foot-rule, his sole prize from a wrestling-match with
intolerable filth--or only tolerable by a Londoner.
He was weary, and the daylight had vanished. And
even if he had got a squeeze out of that tube, he
couldn't have used it. It was much too ticklish
a job to do in the dark.
He sat and brooded over his loneliness in the
twilight. How in Heaven's name had this odious
quarrel come about? Nonsense about Sairah!
That absurd business _began_ it, of course. Serious
quarrels grow out of the most contemptible nonsense,
sometimes. Oh no--there was something behind;
some underlying cause. But he sought in vain to
imagine one. They had always been such capital
friends, he and Euphemia! It was true they
wrangled a great deal, often enough. But come, I
say! If a man wasn't to be at liberty to wrangle
with his own wife, what _were_ we coming to?
He believed it was all the doing of that blessed
old Aunt of hers. If she hadn't had Athabasca Villa
to run away to,--why, she wouldn't have run away
at all! She would have snapped and grizzled at
him for a time, and then made it up. And then
they would have had an outing, to Folkestone or
Littlehampton, and it would all have been jolly.
Instead of which, here they were, living apart
and writing each other letters at intervals--for they
kept to correspondence--and, so far as he could see,
letters only made matters worse. He knew that
the moment he took up his pen to write a regular
sit-down letter he put his foot in it. He had always
done that from a boy.
Probably, throughout all the long summer that
had passed since his quarrel with his wife, he had
not once missed saying, as a morning resolution to
begin the day with, that he wouldn't stand this any
longer. He would go straight away, after breakfast,
to Athabasca Villa, and beard Aunt Priscilla
in her den, his mind seeming satisfied with the
resolution in this form. But every day he put it
off, his real underlying objection to going being that
he would have to confess to having made himself
such an unmitigated and unconscionable Juggins.
His Jugginshood clung to him like that Siccatif to
his fingers. It was too late to mitigate himself now.
And six months of discomfort had contrived to slip
away, of which every day was to be the last. And
here he was still!
If he had understood self-examination--people
don't, mostly--he might have detected in himself
a corner of thought of a Juggins-mitigating
character. However angry he felt with his wife, he
could not, would not, admit the possibility that she
believed real ill of him. His loyalty to her went
further than Geraint's to Enid, for he imputed to
her acquittal of himself, from sheer ignorance of the
sort of thing anybody else's wife might impute to
anybody else's husband. Because, you see, he had
at heart such a very exalted view of her character.
Perhaps she would not have thanked him for fixing
such a standard for her to act up to.
He sat on--on--in the falling darkness; the
little cheerfulness of his friends' visit had quite
vanished. The lumber he had wallowed in had
grimed his heart as well as his garments. He would
have liked Tea--a great stand-by when pain and
anguish wring the brow. But when you are too
proud to admit that your brow is being wrung, and
you know it is no use ringing the bell, because
Mrs. Gapp, or her equivalent, is at the William the
Fourth, why, then you probably collapse and submit
to Fate, as Mr. Reginald Aiken did. It didn't much
matter now if he had no Tea. No ministering Angel
was there to make it.
He sat, collapsed, dirty and defeated, in the
Austrian bent-wood rocking-chair. What was that
irruption of evening newsboys shouting? Repulse
of some General, English or Dutch, at some berg or
drift; surrender of some other, Dutch or English, at
some drift or berg. He was even too collapsed
to go out and buy a halfpenny paper. He didn't
care about anything. Besides, it was the same
every evening. Damn the Boers! Damn Cecil Rhodes!
The shouters had passed--a _prestissimo_ movement
in the Street Symphony--selling rapidly, before he
had changed his mind, and wished he had bought a
_Star_. Never mind!--there would be another edition
out by the time he went to dinner at Machiavelli's.
He sat on meditating in the gloom, and wondering
how long it would be before it was all jolly again.
Of course it _would_ be--but when?
A sound like a nervous burglar making an attempt
on a Chubb lock caught his ear and interested him.
He appeared to identify it as Mrs. Gapp trying to
use a latchkey, but unsuccessfully. He seemed
maliciously amused, but not to have any intention
of helping. Presently the sound abdicated, in
favour of a subterranean bell of a furtive and
irresolute character. Said Mr. Aiken, then, to
Space, "Mrs. Verity won't hear that, you may bet
your Sunday garters," and then went by easy
stages to the front-door, to see--so further soliloquy
declared--how sober his housekeeper was after so
long an absence. A glance at the good woman
convinced him that her register of sobriety would stand
at zero on any maker's sobriometer.
She said that a vaguely defined community, called
The Boys, had been tampering with the lock. Mr. Aiken,
from long experience of her class at this stage,
was able to infer this from what sounded like
"Boysh been 'tlocksh--keylocksh--inchfearunsh." This
pronounced exactly phonetically will be clear
to the student of Alcoholism; be so good as to read
it absolutely literally.
"Lock's all right enough!" said Mr. Aiken, after
turning it freely both ways. "Nobody's been
interfering with it. You're drunk, Mrs. Gapp."
Mrs. Gapp stood steady, visibly. Now, you can't
stand steady, visibly, without a suspicion of a lurch
to show how splendidly you are maintaining your
balance. Without it your immobility might be
mere passionless inertia. Mrs. Gapp's eyes seemed
as little under her control as her voice, and each
had a strange, inherent power of convincing the
observer that the other was looking the wrong way.
"Me?" said Mrs. Gapp.
"Yes--you!" said Mr. Aiken.
Mrs. Gapp collected herself, which--if we include
in it her burden, consisting of some bundles of
firewood and one pound four ounces of beefsteak
wrapped in a serial--seemed in some danger of
redistributing itself when collected. She then spoke,
with a mien as indignant as if she were Boadicea
seeking counsel of her country's gods, and said,
"_Me_ r-r-runk! _Shober!_"--the last word expressing
heartfelt conviction. Some remarks that followed,
scarcely articulate enough to warrant
transcribing, were interpreted by Mr. Aiken to the
effect that he was doing a cruel injustice to a
widow-woman who had had fourteen, and had lived a pure
and blameless life, and had buried three husbands.
Much stress was laid on her own habitual abstention
from stimulants, and the example she had striven
to set in her own humble circle. Her third had
never touched anything but water--a curlew's life,
as it were--owing to the force of this example.
Let persons who accused her of drunkenness look
at home, and first be sure of their own sobriety.
Her conscience acquitted her. For her part she
thought intoxication a beastly, degrading habit--that
is to say, if Mr. Aiken interpreted rightly something
that sounded, phonetically, like "Bishley grey
rabbit." At this point one of the wood-bundles
became undone, owing to the disgraceful quality of
the string now in use. Mrs. Gapp was dissuaded
with difficulty from returning to the shop to
exchange it, but in the end descended the
kitchen-stairs, lamenting commercial dishonesty, and
shedding sticks.
The Artist seemed to regard this as normal
charing, nothing uncommon. He returned to the
Austrian bent-wood chair, and sat down to think
whether he should light the gas. He began to
suspect himself of going imbecile with disheartenment
and depression. He was at his lowest ebb.
"I tell you what," said he--it was Space he was
addressing--"I shall just go straight away
to-morrow after breakfast to Coombe, and tell
Mrs. Hay that if she doesn't come back I shall let the
Studio and go to Japan."
But Space didn't seem interested. It had three
dimensions, and was content.
He might as well light the gas as not; so he did it,
and it sang, and burned blue. Then it stopped
singing, and became _transigeant_, and you could
turn it down or up. Mr. Aiken turned it down, but
not too much, and listened to a cab coming down
the street. "That's not for here," said he. He
had no earthly reason for saying this. He was only
making conversation; or rather, soliloquy. But
he was wrong; at least so far as that the cab was
really stopping, here or next door. And in the
quadrupedations, door-slammings, backings,
reproofs to the horse, interchange of ideas between
the Captain and the passengers of a hansom cab of
spirit, a sound reached Mr. Aiken's ear which
arrested him as he stood, with his finger on the
gas-tap. "Hullo!" said he, and listened as a musical
Critic listens to a new performance.
When towards the end of such a symphony, the
fare seeks the exact sum he is named after, and
weighs nice differences, some bars may elapse
before the conductor--or rather the driver, else we
get mixed with omnibuses--sanctions a start. But
a reckless spendthrift has generally discharged his
liability, and is knocking at the door or using his
latchkey, before his late driver has done pretending
to consider the justice of his award. It happened
so in this case, for before Mr. Aiken saw anything
to confirm or contradict the need for his close
attention, eight demisemiquavers, a pause, and a
concussion, made a good wind-up to the symphony
aforesaid, and the cab was free to begin the next
movement on its own account.
He discarded the gas-tap abruptly, and pounced
upon his velveteen, nearly pulling over the screen
he had hung it on. "That drunken jade must _not_
go to the door," he gasped, as he bolted from the
room and down the stairs. He need not have been
uneasy. The jade was singing in the kitchen--either
the Grandfather's Clock or the Lost Chord--and
was keeping her accompanist waiting, with an
intense feeling of pathos. Mr. Aiken swung down
the stairs, got his collar right in the passage, and
nearly embraced the wrong lady on the doorstep,
so great was his hurry to get at the right one.
"Never mind!" said Madeline; and her laugh
was like nightingales by the Arno in May. "Don't
apologize, Mr. Aiken. Look here!--I've brought
you your wife home. Now kiss _her_!"
"You're not fit to kiss anybody, Reginald; but
I suppose there's soap in the house." So said
Mrs. Aiken. And then, after qualifying for a liberal use
of soap, she added, "What _is_ that hideous noise in
the kitchen?"
"Oh, that?" said her husband. "_That's_ Mrs. Gapp."