Professor Julian Serle never intended to marry, and up to the age of
forty-five clung bravely to this resolve. He was a well-known authority
on Assyria, had written successful books, read impressive papers,
and was precisely at that point in his career when much was expected
of him. His mode of life fluctuated between periods of incessant and
engrossing labour, and spells of “butterflying” in smart society.
The Professor was well off, and a world-wide traveller. When in London
he occupied comfortable chambers in Whitehall Court, and was a member
of the Athenæum and other clubs. Returning from Egypt, where he had
spent the winter--working on an important book--he, so to speak,
fell! Among the crowd of Anglo-Indians on board the steamer which he
joined at Port Said, was Miss Helen Thursby, a popular girl among her
fellow-passengers, handsome, lively, good-natured, and accomplished.
She played accompaniments, amused children, interested their mothers,
and fascinated men, both young and old.
Their charming new acquaintance made no secret of the fact that for the
last two years she had been a governess in Simla, and was now returning
to England, before joining her only near relative, a married brother in
Canada.
The Professor, although hardened by many London seasons, was immensely
attracted by the young lady’s bright eyes, her sympathetic manner
and light-hearted gaiety. Together they played chess and bridge, and
together they promenaded the decks, whilst complacent matrons looked on
and approved. Julian Serle was a celebrity, a well-bred, good-looking
little man, with, it was said, considerable private means.
“It would be a capital match for the girl. Much better for her to marry
and settle in London than to rough it on a ranch in Canada.”
Ultimately, a moonlit Mediterranean night proved to be the undoing of
Julian. As he smoked, and paced the deck alone, he had been meditating
on Miss Thursby. What an agreeable companion Helen would be! So
intelligent, sensible, charming. He had no near relations, merely a
hungry, extravagant nephew, his heir. Why not marry and make himself a
home, before he fell into the sere and yellow? Miss Thursby was clever;
she would be a stimulating helpmate--one who could type and copy, and
was interested in Assyria. Yes! Helen would be his Egeria, and his
inspiration.
That same lovely night, leaning over the bulwarks, he spoke; deplored
his lonely life, his lack of belongings, and figuratively laid himself
and his fortune at his lady’s remarkably neat feet.
“I am not,” he pleaded, “the usual style of musty fossilised old
professor; we will enjoy life together, and when I am working you can
still have your own friends and amusements. And I think I can promise
that you shall never be bored.”
His lady-love listened to him with shining eyes, and accepted his
proposal with joy. Perhaps the little man beside her was not precisely
her ideal. Her ideal had been someone in India, who was too poor to
marry a penniless girl, and had subsequently taken a well-dowered wife.
However, she had completely recovered from that heart attack, and
honestly liked her present suitor.
Six weeks after the steamer had docked at Tilbury, the pair were
married in London, and subsequently established themselves in a nice
roomy flat in South Kensington.
All their friends crowded to call. The bride, though poor, was well
connected, the bridegroom a popular celebrity, and the newly-married
couple lived in a perpetual round of dinners and social entertainment.
Serle had a large circle of distinguished contemporaries: philosophers,
men of letters, and men of affairs.
This agreeable condition continued for months. Helen Serle was so
hospitable and attractive that visitors invaded the flat from morning
to night. She was invited to theatres, concerts, lectures, and
dances, yet never neglected her home or husband, but wrote and typed
industriously--that is to say, when Julian had a working fit--and found
ample leisure for music, theatres, and other pleasures.
The Professor had at first joined _con amore_ in the social whirl--he
was a man who did nothing by halves. Lately he had been seized by
a feverish inspiration, and was engrossed in a book, “The Life of
Semiramis,” on which he had worked fitfully for years, in the hope that
it would be his _magnum opus_. Resolved to secure leisure, he turned
his back upon London, let the flat for six months, and retired to
Brighton. But here his fate was no better! Helen had such a faculty for
picking up acquaintances and coming across friends, that his precious
time was broken into for hours and days and weeks!
From Brighton he fled to the Athens of the North. Here, alas, matters
were worse, for literary society fell upon the author, so to speak, as
one man! Dinners, from which he could not absent himself, were given in
his honour. He was invited to read papers, and to lecture on his most
notable subjects--“Sardinapolis,” and “Alexander the Great in Assyria.”
In short, his work was absolutely at a standstill. Summer was coming,
but “The Life of Semiramis,” and her reign of forty-two years, was not
advancing to any appreciable degree. Strong measures were his only
resource. And in response to an advertisement, he secured a temporary
home in a far-distant village in the south of England. It was off a
main line, and buried in the country. Servants, dog, poultry, and pony
were included with a most delightful furnished cottage. Helen Serle was
enchanted. Edinburgh was a little bit too literary for her; she enjoyed
the change from the thunder of trams in Princes Street to the cooing of
pigeons in the woods, and fell in love at first sight with the cottage,
the garden, and the village. Alas, in a place whose name he had never
heard till he had rented “Meadow-sweet,” the Professor encountered an
acquaintance--Canon Simpson, an old college friend, who happened to be
staying at the Rectory.
“I say, fancy seeing _you_ here, Serle!” he exclaimed, as he held out
an eager hand. “I caught sight of you in church; and when I told the
Rector who you were, he was most frightfully excited. He and his wife
hope to see a lot of you. You know he has been to the Holy Land, and
to Nineveh. Everyone for miles round is coming to call on Mrs. Serle.”
For the moment Mrs. Serle’s husband felt paralysed and speechless. Like
the dove from the ark, would he never find a place for the sole of his
foot? When he thought of his book, his notes, his elaborate bits of
description, all clamouring to be copied out, and polished up, he was
struck with a brain storm. “Desperate ills require desperate remedies.”
If the whole country was threatening to call, and the cottage was to be
overrun with visitors, there were precisely two alternatives: one to
return to Meadow-sweet, and begin to pack--the other ... and the other
he seized on. Clenching his hand on his stick, with his guilty eyes
fastened on the ground, he jerked out:
“Er--ah! Strictly between ourselves, my dear old fellow, we don’t want
any visitors; or rather visitors--er--are not likely to want _us_! The
lady who is staying with me is----” Here the colour mounted to his
hair. “Well, I need say no more.” And with a shrug of his shoulders,
the celebrity turned away.
To do his conscience justice, Julian Serle felt miserably hot and
uncomfortable, as he faced towards home; he had insinuated a most
terrible lie--but there was nothing else for it! He would allow the
neighbours to suppose that Helen was his mistress--since no other
defence would secure complete privacy and isolation. After all, what
did it matter in this God-forsaken part of the world, where they did
not know a soul? And it was only for three months. Then Helen could
return home, meet all her old friends, and as many new ones as she
liked!
At first Mrs. Serle was supremely indifferent to the lack of callers.
In fact, she never gave them a thought. The pony and trap, the dog,
the garden and the poultry, kept her delightfully engaged. She had
a weekly box from Mudie’s, some interesting embroidery, plenty of
correspondence, and half a dozen new songs. After two or three weeks
these pleasures began to pall, and she realised the want of a companion
of her own sex, with whom to discuss new stitches, new novels, and new
songs. Julian, plunged in the records of Semiramis and her times, and
surrounded by stacks of musty old books, had no thought for anything
but his absorbing work, and--as an occasional relaxation--a little
trout-fishing.
But, once Helen had seen to the housekeeping, the flowers, and
accomplished a certain amount of typing, her hours were her own, and
proved both empty and solitary. As she walked out with the dog, or
drove “Fat Tom,” the bay pony, she noticed that the neighbourhood
was well populated. Within half a mile were two large places, whose
gates delivered and received motors. There were also various country
houses, where she caught sight of green lawns, and gatherings of active
white-clad figures, playing tennis. Helen Serle loved tennis, and was
quite a notable performer.
Strange that not a soul had come to look them up. And yet they had
been at Beckwell a whole month. The villagers, too, seemed funny
people. Their manners were surly, their answers brief to rudeness.
And how they stared! (Perhaps her rather daring French hats and very
smart high-heeled shoes lent some colour to her husband’s lie.) Mrs.
Serle was not unaccustomed to being looked at, nor did she disdain
a certain amount of respectful admiration, but in the expression of
these people’s eyes lay curiosity, aversion, and contempt. The servants
of the cottage--two well-trained maids and a gardener-groom--had, at
first, been civil and satisfactory. Now they were off-hand and almost
insolent; and yet she treated them well, and gave little trouble.
Indeed, she dusted the drawing-room and did the lamps herself, partly
to fill up her time. Nevertheless, the cook scowled, Annie flounced and
slammed doors, and once she had been overpowered by a suspicion that
the groom-gardener had winked at her! She turned and confronted him
with a flaming face--and he had never repeated this enormity.
Latterly Annie had been openly impertinent, and one day when her
mistress asked her what she meant by saying, “Good enough for _you_!”
with arms akimbo, she replied, “Oh, you know what I mean well enough,
and only for Miss Mills and me bein’ with her so long, and my promisin’
I’d do my best, I’d have been out of this the very day you come in. Up
to now I’ve always lived with respectable people, and I’ve got my own
character to think of. And Jim--that’s my young man--says he don’t half
like it!”
“What do you mean?” cried Helen, white with anger. “I insist on
knowing!”
But Annie merely turned her back, and began to arrange the ornaments on
the chimney-piece.
“Answer me, Annie.”
“What’s the good of telling you what you _know_?” said Annie over her
shoulder.
“You cannot remain here!” said her mistress breathlessly. “You must
leave at once. Go now and pack your things.”
“Only too glad to be out of it,” was Annie’s retort, as with a toss of
her head she tramped from the room.
Julian Serle was deep in meditation over the particular neat insertion
of a “purple patch,” when his wife burst in upon him in a condition of
extraordinary excitement.
“Oh, Julian, what do you think! That girl Ann has been most
outrageously insolent. I found her just now trying on my best hat; and
when I remonstrated, she said the most awful things--insinuating--I
can’t tell you what. I think she must be crazy, for I’m sure she
doesn’t drink. Anyhow, she shall depart within the hour. So please give
me one pound, thirteen shillings, and four pence.”
“Oh, nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Why mind her, Nell? It’s only her
ignorance. The mental calibre of these rustics is abnormally low.”
“No, no, it’s _not_ her ignorance!” retorted his wife. “On the
contrary, Annie implies that she knows a great deal on some subject
about _us_--but what it is she refuses to divulge.”
“But, my dear, how will you manage without her?”
“Oh, I’ll get in the laundress’s sister. I hear she’s been in service.
Sooner than keep Annie, I would do the work myself.”
That afternoon Annie departed. As she bounced into the room to receive
her wages, she said with a touch of sarcasm:
“I’ll not trouble you for a character. A character from this house
would be no use to me--and only stand in my way. I hear you are getting
Maggie King as parlourmaid--and when she comes there will be a pair of
you!”
Then, seizing the one pound, thirteen shillings, and four pence, she
swept out, to where a ruddy-faced young man was waiting to carry her
box. He accorded Mrs. Serle a sort of up-and-down glare, and was
presumably the “Jim, who didn’t half like it!”
After this little domestic storm, things subsided at the cottage.
Maggie King proved humble and amenable, but her mistress noticed that
she and the cook were barely on speaking terms--and that Maggie took
her meals alone in the pantry.
One evening, as they sat in the garden after dinner, Helen said to her
husband:
“Julian, don’t you think it very odd that not a soul has called?”
“Well, no, my dear; the fact is--they know who I am, and that I’m
desperately busy, and only here for absolute peace and seclusion. They
understand how hard I am working.”
“Yes, of course, that’s all right. But what about _me_? I’m not
clamouring for a rush of callers, or chatterers; but tea in the garden,
and a game of tennis, or even a walk with another woman would not
disturb you. Do you know that I’ve not spoken to one of my sex for
eight weeks? I really don’t want to grumble, dear--but it’s rather
dreary for me. And I cannot understand why not even the parson’s wife
has called--though I’m a regular attendant at church. I expect they’ve
had an infectious disease in this house--and that not very long ago.
The neighbours are afraid to come near us. What is your idea?”
“Um! Um!”--taking his cheroot out of his mouth and looking at it
thoughtfully. “Maybe so. There may be something in what you say.”
Then he suddenly picked up the _Spectator_, and she resumed her
embroidery with a sigh. After a few moments’ dead silence the author
raised his eyes cautiously over the paper, and gravely surveyed his
wife. The expression on his face was rather anxious and doubtful. As
Helen caught his eye, she said:
“How soon do you think the book will be finished?” She had actually
come to hate the great work! Solitude, silence, and loneliness had
quenched her earlier enthusiasm.
“I am just commencing the last chapter but one.”
“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed with heartfelt satisfaction.
“I’m hoping that this work will definitely decide my position as an
authority on Assyrian matters, and rank me with Blair, Usher, and
Clinton. If so, my labours will not have been in vain”; and he smiled
with easy assurance.
“But, Julian dear, do you think that it was worth it?”
“Worth what?”
“I mean sacrificing hours, days, and months, to a dusty, sandy old
subject--that can only interest a comparatively small public?”
He put down his paper and stared as if he could not believe his ears.
“You miss so much,” she continued boldly. “Think of the beautiful
summer you have wasted, stuffing indoors, from morning till night; only
creeping out now and then to do a little fishing. Think of our friends,
that we have scarcely seen for six months. You are sacrificing your
best hours and days to the memory of a dead woman--a woman who has been
dead nearly four thousand years! Even so, I am most frightfully jealous
of her!”
“My dear girl, you’re talking the greatest nonsense! I thoroughly
appreciate the beauty of the world. As for society, I have you--a host
in yourself. If I had not taken determined measures, and buried myself
here, this book of mine would _never_ have been finished.”
“But I thought you were almost at the last chapter?” she protested,
with tears in her voice.
“That’s true. But the complete work has to be carefully revised--rather
a big job! However, when it is ready for the printers, you and I will
go off, and have a couple of gay weeks in Paris.”
The long, empty days lagged on. Mrs. Serle, as she walked or gardened,
felt more and more solitary and depressed. Alas, for the time when she
rode high on the crest of popularity! She could not have believed it
possible that she would have pined so incessantly for the society of
one of her own sex. Was there something strange about the house they
lived in? Was there anything peculiar about herself? Why did people
cross the road when they saw her? Why had she a whole pew to herself
in church? The situation presented was an extraordinary puzzle! Yet
she dared not seek further enlightenment from Julian, for just now he
was so immersed in his book that he scarcely snatched his meals. Her
enlightenment came from another quarter.
For lack of amusement, it was her custom to drive far afield, the dog
seated beside her as sole companion. In a remote country road she
happened upon a lady resting on a bank with a bicycle beside her. She
was evidently in distress, as she looked ghastly pale, and had taken
off a boot.
“Can I help you in any way?” inquired Mrs. Serle, as she pulled up.
For a moment the stranger did not reply. Her pale face became crimson.
At last she said:
“I’ve had a tumble off my bicycle. We went over a loose stone, and
I’m afraid I’ve sprained my ankle. If you can give me a lift back to
Beckwell I shall be awfully obliged.”
“Yes, with pleasure,” said Mrs. Serle. “The pony will stand, and I will
get out and help you.”
Within five minutes the stranger, her bicycle, and the deposed dog were
packed into the cart, and the Good Samaritan drove off.
For a long time her companion confined her conversation to
monosyllables. Miss Piggott, the rector’s sister-in-law, had no
desire to talk to the pretty young woman who shared the Professor’s
address--but not his name. Strange to say, she was _not_ “made up”!
“I suppose you live at Beckwell?” enquired Mrs. Serle.
“Yes, in the red house just as you come into the village.”
“It’s a pretty place, but extraordinarily dull. Do you know, I have
been here three months, and have not spoken to a soul? I hope you won’t
mind my saying that the residents of Beckwell are not very sociable to
strangers.”
“No, I suppose we’re not,” murmured the other, who looked
self-conscious, and uncomfortable.
“I can’t tell you how I am longing to depart, for I feel as if I should
soon grow into a potato! You see, my husband is completely engrossed
in his book--working alone all day. As it’s rather an important piece
of literature, I never disturb him, and have rather a lonely time. I
cannot understand what I have done to be ostracised!”
Mrs. Serle was allowing weeks of accumulated bitterness to find an
outlet at last!
“We have come to the conclusion that there must have been smallpox or
something in the house, and that is the reason that no one has ever
come near us. Perhaps you can tell me if this is the case?”
“No,” replied Miss Piggott, “there has never been a case of smallpox in
the village--as far as I know. But I think if you ask Mr. Serle, _he_
will explain the reason why you have no visitors.”
“I have asked my husband.”
“Your _husband_!” interrupted the other, “your _husband_!”
“Certainly my husband. What else did you think he was?” And she pulled
up the pony, and surveyed her companion with blazing eyes.
“Oh, this is most embarrassing!” bleated Miss Piggott. “That _I_ should
be called upon to explain matters is too--too--bad!” and her face
exhibited bright red patches on its high cheek-bones. Never in a life
of fifty years had she found herself in such a desperate situation.
“But please do enlighten me,” urged Mrs. Serle. “I shall be so grateful
to you if you will.”
“Well then--I suppose--I _must_! A few days after you arrived here,
Canon Simpson met Mr. Serle in the village. It seems they were old
college friends, and when the Canon told your--er--husband, that
we were all so pleased to have him amongst us, and were hoping to
make your acquaintance, he gave the Canon to understand that--you
were--er--not his _wife_!”
“What?” cried Mrs. Serle, and her voice was so loud and shrill that it
startled the dog and pony.
“At any rate, that is what he _implied_, and wished to imply!”
“But I am his wife! We were married at St. Mary Abbotts, Kensington, a
year ago; and there were nearly three hundred people at our wedding.”
“Then what did he _mean_?”
“I think I can explain,” she said, suddenly whipping up Fat Tom. “He
wanted absolute solitude and leisure in order to finish his book. We
left our flat in London for Brighton; but there we seemed to have as
many friends as ever--people, especially my women pals, running in
and out all day. We went to Edinburgh, and there the literary world
lionised him. At last, when in despair, he saw an advertisement of
Beckwell, and we moved here. When Canon Simpson accosted him, and told
him that all the neighbourhood was coming to call, I expect he felt
desperate, and just closed the door with my good name! Oh yes, I see
everything so plainly now. Why people look over my head, and cross the
street! Why Annie was insolent. Why I was not invited to help at the
bazaar; and why young men kiss their hands to me! I understand why
my husband was anxious to turn the conversation when I complained of
being dull; and was so full of excuses for the neighbours. He holds
my reputation at a lower price than his book. Well--we shall see about
that!”
“I think he has behaved disgracefully, in a most shocking manner,”
burst out her companion, “and I’m not at all surprised that you are
upset.”
“Upset!” repeated the other, with an hysterical laugh. “I shall not be
as much ‘upset’ as Julian, when we have squared up accounts.
“Well, here we are. I think this is your house.” She drew up as she
spoke, helped the lady to descend, and lifted out the bicycle. “I am
immensely obliged to you,” she said, cutting short the other’s voluble
thanks; “if _I_ have given you a lift--_you_ have opened my eyes.”
Then, without another word, she got into the cart and drove away.
All that evening Helen was strangely white and silent; she complained
of having a violent headache, and soon retired.
The Professor, unaware of the Sword of Damocles that was suspended
above his head, started early next morning for London, in order to have
an interview with his publisher. When he returned it was nine o’clock
at night, and an appetising little supper awaited him. As soon as it
was concluded he withdrew as usual into the study. The fire was out.
The grate was full of ashes and scraps of paper--it looked as if a
large bundle of manuscripts had recently been burnt!
“Hullo, Nellie,” he called to her. “Someone has been having a bonfire
in here!”
She entered, closed the door carefully behind her, and set her back
against it. “_Who_ do you think? What do you suppose it is that has
been burnt?” she asked. Her face looked rigid and strained as she
confronted him. “Yesterday I discovered why no one came near me.
Julian, you have been guilty of the basest and most dishonourable
conduct. In order to enjoy complete isolation, I have been humiliated
before the world, my reputation has been sacrificed to the book. My
good name has counted as nothing, in comparison with Semiramis!” She
put her hand to her throat, and swallowed. “I shall send a copy of our
marriage certificate to the parson, and request him to publish the
truth.”
“So this is your revenge!” cried the Professor, who was trembling
from head to foot. “For what was a mere ruse, to keep people at bay,
and prevent tribes of women swarming in and out all day long, and
disturbing me with their damned giggling, and shrill, high voices.
Another wife would have thrown herself heart and soul into her
husband’s task--instead of being _jealous_ of his labour. This book,
which you have burnt, meant everything to me. I have had the subject
in my mind ever since I was a lad at Oxford. Now it is all gone,” and
his face quivered with emotion, “my toil, my notes, that I have been
collecting for years!” He completely broke down as he added, “It is as
if you had murdered my child.”
“You should never have married me,” she answered, wholly unmoved; “and
I will now leave you to replace Semiramis with some other monumental
work. I have cabled to my brother, and taken my passage in the Empress
line for Quebec. This is good-bye.”
“So be it,” he groaned, as he sank into a chair, and bowed his head in
his hands. “So be it--so be it!”
But matters were not altogether as desperate as the Professor had been
led to believe. The day before she left England Mrs. Serle posted to
her husband the priceless manuscript that she had merely pretended to
destroy, and his relief and joy were naturally beyond description.
Before Julian Serle abandoned Beckwell--which he did almost
immediately--in figurative sackcloth and ashes, he went and confessed
himself to the parson, and received the severe admonition which he
most undoubtedly deserved. Subsequently the guilty man returned to his
flat in London--to a home which was empty, not to say desolate. He was
miserably unhappy, and missed his wife at every turn; her friends, yes,
and his own, were full of insistent and embarrassing enquiries, to
which he replied with a very halting tale about Helen having received
a sudden and imperative summons to Montreal. Her absence weighed upon
him heavily; after all, a live Helen was ten times more to him than
a long-defunct Semiramis! So leaving his precious book to see itself
through the press, he took ship for Canada, where he sought out his
outraged consort, abased himself appropriately--and received a full
pardon.