BEAUTIFUL
The young Kerrs gave themselves a fine time; an amazing time. A dozen
times a day they used to tell each other with a solemn delight how
amazing it all was. When they awoke in the mornings, in a sleeping
apartment far more splendid than any they could ever sanely hope--not
that they were sane--to rent for themselves, when an interested if
_blasée_ chambermaid entered with early tea, finding Marie in one
of the pink caps and a pink matinée over a miraculously frail
nightdress, with Osborn hopelessly surprised and admiring, they used
to say to each other, while the bride dispensed the tea:
"Isn't it all _nice_? Did you ever imagine anything _could_
be so nice?"
When they descended to breakfast, very fresh and spruce, under the
eyes of such servants as they could never expect to hire themselves,
they looked at each other across the table for two, and touched each
other's foot under it and asked: "Doesn't it seem extraordinary to be
breakfasting together like this?"
And when one of the cars from the hotel garage was ordered round to
take them for a run, and they snuggled side by side on well-sprung
cushions such as they would probably never ride upon again, they held
hands and exclaimed under their breath: "This is fine, isn't it? I
wish this could last for ever! Some day, when our ship comes in, we'll
have this make of car."
And when they walked the length of the pier together, two well-clad
and well-looking young people, they would gaze out to sea with the
same vision, see the infinite prospects of the horizon and say
profoundly: "We're out at last on the big voyage. Didn't our
engagement seem endless? But now--we're off!"
For dinner, in the great dining-room, with the orchestra playing dimly
in the adjacent Palm Court, Mrs. Osborn Kerr would put on the
ineffable wedding gown, and all the other guests and the servants,
with experienced eyes, would know it for what it was; and Mr. Osborn
Kerr wore the dinner jacket from the best tailor in town, and after
they had progressed a little with their wine--they had a half-bottle
_every_ night; what would the bill be?--they would look into each
other's eyes of wonder and murmur: "I always knew we'd have a
beautiful honeymoon; but I never imagined it could be so beautiful as
this."
Later, much later, when the evening's delights had gone by in soft
procession, they went to other delights. Osborn brushed Marie's hair
with the tortoise shell-back brushes he had given her for a wedding
gift, and compared it with the Golden Fleece, the wealth of Sheba, the
dust of stars, till she was arrogant with the homage of man and he was
drunk with love of her.
They had their great wild happy moment to which every human being has
the right, and no one and nothing robbed them of it. It flowed to its
close like a summer's day, and the sun set upon it with great promise
of a like to-morrow.
But although the most darling dolly home waited for them in a suburb
of the great city where Osborn was to work away his young life like
other men, although each saw and recognised the promise of the sunset,
they were sad at leaving the palace which, for so short a time, they
had made-believe was theirs. A reason was present in the mind of each,
though, an irrefutable, hard-and-fast reason, why the stay could not
be prolonged, even though Osborn might beg, with success, for another
week's holiday. Each knew what the now mutual purse held; each, day by
day, had privately been adding the price of the half-bottle, and the
hire of the car, to the sum of "everything inclusive." Each had, of
necessity, a hard young head.
So they went home very punctually.
The hall-porter at the flats knew how newly married they were. So
there was a smile upon the face of the tiger and fires burning in
Number Thirty; and he carried up the luggage with a kind alacrity; for
newly married people were his prey. They thanked him profusely,
touched by his native charm, and they gave him five shillings.
They sat down and looked at each other.
"I think it is lovely to be at home," said Marie.
"There's a comfort about one's own place," Osborn answered, "that you
don't get anywhere else."
The hall-porter had even wound up the clocks, which Mrs. Amber and
Julia had brought, among other wedding presents, a day or two before,
and now four strokes sounded from a silvery-voiced pet of a timepiece
on the mantelshelf. The owners looked at it, arrested and pleased.
"It is really the prettiest clock I have ever seen," said Marie.
"I like the tone," said Osborn, "I can't bear a harsh clock. Darling,
that's four. You want tea. I'll get it."
"We'll both get it."
"But you're tired with travelling, pretty cat. You'll just sit there
and I'll take your boots off and unpack your slippers; and I'll make
your tea."
Marie let Osborn do all this, and he enjoyed his activity for her sake
as much as she enjoyed her inactivity. He unpinned her hat, took off
her coat as a nurse removes a child's coat, kneeled down to unlace her
boots, kissed each slim instep, and carried all the things neatly away
to their bedroom. Joyfully he unlocked the suit-case where he knew her
slippers reposed, for had he not packed them himself, for her, that
morning? He returned to the sitting-room and put them on.
"Mrs. Osborn Kerr at home!" he cried, standing to look down upon her.
"I do want my tea!" said Marie.
"I'll get it now, darling. You sit still. I adore waiting upon you,"
said Osborn, hurrying away.
It was fine to be in his own place, with his own wife, with the world
shut out and snubbed. As Osborn strode along the short and narrow
corridor to the kitchen he admired everything he saw. He confirmed his
own good taste and Marie's. The cream walls with black and white
etchings--more wedding presents--upon them, and the strip of plain
rose felt along the floor, could not be bettered. The kitchen was a
spotless little place, up-to-date in the matter of cupboards.
Everything was as up-to-date as he and Marie were. There was nothing
equal to this fresh and modern comfort.
Osborn looked in a cupboard and there he saw foods, enough to begin
on, placed there by the thoughtful Mrs. Amber. Upon the kitchen table
was a furnished tea-tray, the one woman knowing by instinct what the
other woman would first require after her day's journey. Osborn
lighted one of the jets of the gas-stove. What a neat stove! A kettle
was handy. What a 'cute kettle! Aluminium, wasn't it? None of those
common tin things. He filled the kettle from a tap which was a great
improvement on any tap which he had ever seen.
They were all his own.
He cut bread-and-butter.
He lighted the grill of the gas-stove and made toast. They had a
handsome hot-toast dish.
He hunted for sugary dainties such as Marie loved. Mrs. Amber had
provided them in a tin. He arranged them with thought and care.
Wasn't there any cream for his love? There was a tin of it. He emptied
the cream out lavishly.
All the while the petted bride rested by the fire in her little chintz
room. Life had petted her, her employers had wanted to, and her mother
had petted her, but never had she revelled in such supreme petting as
the last fortnight's.
Where did all these fierce, man-hating young women whom one met quite
often get their ideas from? If only they knew, if only they could be
told, could be forced to open their eyes and see, how perfect the
right sort of marriage really was!
Why, a man, poor dear, was abject! A girl had things all her own way.
Secretly and sweetly Marie smiled over Osborn's devotion.
As she smiled, looking tender and lovely, in the firelight, the door
opened, and Osborn came in, perilously balancing his tray on one hand
like a waiter. He meant her to laugh at his dexterity; he felt a
first-class drawing-room comedian with his domestic attainments. Over
one arm he had slung a brand-new teacloth. He intoned unctuously:
"I think I have all you want, madam."
Marie laughed as Osborn wanted her to do.
"Sit still," he urged, "I'll arrange it all. The toast in the fender;
the cloth on the table; the tray on the cloth. I understand
everything. See, Mrs. Kerr? You won't be the only know-all in this
establishment."
Then he waited upon her; but he let her pour out the tea, because he
wanted to see her do it, in her own home, for the first time. The
situation thrilled both, after a fortnight of thrills.
"I wish Desmond could see us now!" said Osborn.
"I wish Julia could."
"I think we should convert 'em."
Osborn sat on the hearthrug with shoulders against Marie's knees. One
of her hands stole round his neck and he held it there; he knew it was
the softest small hand in the world; he had no misgivings about it and
its tasks. The hour seemed ineffably rosy.
"And to-morrow," he stated, "I go back to work."
"My poor boy," said Marie, "and I shan't work any more."
"Thank heaven, no." Osborn kissed the hand he held.
"This must always stay as soft as rose-leaves," he said fondly.
"You may count on my doing my best for it," said Marie laughing, "I
like nice hands. No woman can look well-dressed without nicely-kept
hands. And that reminds me, Osborn, I want some more cream for my
nails--cuticle-cream it's called. Any good cuticle-cream will do."
He hastened to jot it down in a notebook. His first little commission
for his wife! For Miss Amber there had been many, but this was almost
epoch-making as being for Mrs. Osborn Kerr. "I'll get it in the
dinner-hour, or on my way home. Can't you think of anything else you
want?"
"I have everything else."
"You always shall have."
"What was the kitchen like?" Marie asked. "Was it tidy?"
"It's the smartest little place."
"I'll see it presently, when we wash-up."
"_You're_ not going to wash-up."
"But, Osborn, I shall have to, often. Every day, you know."
He looked a trifle unhappy over this, knitting his brows. Of course,
they had both known that the moment would come when Marie would handle
a dishcloth in the best interests of Number Thirty, but it had seemed
somewhat remote in those queer, forgotten unmarried days more than a
fortnight ago; more than ever remote during the stay in an hotel
palace.
"Yes, yes," he said, "I suppose so. I wish you needn't, though."
"I shan't mind. A little housework is very simple; people make such a
fuss about it; mother makes a horrible fuss. I shall always wear
gloves."
"That partly solves it," said Osborn nodding eagerly, "rubber gloves
for wet work, and housemaid's gloves for dry, eh, dearest? You will
always, won't you? You must let me buy you all the gloves you want."
"I have enough to begin with."
"You are a thoughtful little genius."
"We'll have to cook dinner to-night."
"Oh, great work!" cried Osborn.
"I intend to run this flat in a thoroughly up-to-date way," Marie
explained; "that's the secret of a comfortable household without help,
you know--to be entirely up-to-date."
The husband looked immensely impressed.
"I believe you," he said.
The clock struck five, and six, before they rose reluctantly. It would
have been rather nice, of course, just to press a bell and give one's
orders, but....
On her way to the kitchen, Marie peeped into the bedroom. She switched
up the light and looked it over, well pleased. Soon, when she had
unpacked, her dressing-table would be furnished with all her pretty
things, tortoiseshell and silver, big glass powder-puff bowl, big
glass bowl and spoon with scented salts for her bath, and the manicure
set of super-luxury which a girl friend had given her on her marriage.
She was really adorably equipped; she was starting so very, very well.
Her glance fell upon the two beds, side by side, much-pillowed,
pink-quilted.
It would be rather nice if there was a housemaid to whip in every
evening and turn down the sheets and lay out the night wear; but....
One can't have everything.
"I think we're quite all right here?" said Osborn over her shoulder,
with pride in his voice.
"Isn't it all adorable?" she exclaimed.
"You aren't going to put on The Frock, are you, dear girl, to do the
cooking?"
"I'll put it on afterwards, just before we dish up."
"I'll dress, too," said Osborn.
They proceeded to the kitchen and played with all their new toys
there. There was not so much to do, after all, because Mrs. Amber,
wise woman, had provided one of those ready-made but expensive little
meals from the Stores. You just added this to the soup and heated it;
you put that in a casserole dish and shoved it in the oven; you
whipped some cream; and you made a savoury out of tinned things. You
got out the plated vegetable dish which wasn't to be used except on
great occasions--but this was one--and put the potatoes in it. You
laid the table with every blessed silver thing you had, till it looked
like a wedding-present show, as indeed it was. You lighted four
candles and put rose shades over them, almost like those at the hotel
palace. You ranged the dessert on the sideboard, for you must have
dessert, to use those tiptop finger-bowls. In each finger-bowl you
floated a flower to match the table decorations. You placed the coffee
apparatus--quite smart to make your own, you know--on the sideboard,
too.
Thus you had a swagger little dinner; most delectable.
Then you put on the frock of frocks, and cooled your rather sorched
hands with somebody else's gentlest kisses, the healing brand, and
with some pinkish powder as smooth as silk. Then somebody else put on
his dinner-clothes and looked the finest man in the world. Then you
dished up the hot part of the dinner, and the creamy sweet was all
ready at the other end of the table--so easy to arrange these things
gracefully without a parlourmaid, you know--and absolutely
_everything_ was accomplished.
You sat down.
Love was about and around you.
What delicious soup by a clever wee cook!
Was there happiness at table? There was not greater happiness in
heaven.