Turquand did not answer immediately.
"No," he said at last; "I'm not astonished. Nothing could astonish me,
excepting good news. When is the event to take place?"
"That's not settled. Soon.... We shall always be pals, Turk?"
"I'll come and see you sometimes--oh yes. Father consented?"
"Things are quite smooth all round."
"H'mph!"
He looked hard at the wall and pulled his beard.
"You said it would happen, didn't you? I didn't see a glimmer of a
possibility myself."
"Love's blind, you know."
"You said, too, it--er--it wouldn't be altogether a wise step. You'll
change your mind about that one day, Turk."
"Hope so," said Turquand. "Can't to-night."
"You still believe I'm making a mistake?"
"What need is there to discuss it now?"
"Why shouldn't we?"
"Why _should_ we? Why argue with a man whether the ice will bear after
he has made a hole in it?"
"We shan't be extravagant, and I shall work like blazes. I've a plot
simmering already."
"Happy ending this time?"
"I don't quite see it, to be consistent--no."
"You must manage it. They like happy endings, consistent or not."
"Damn it, I mean to be true! I won't sell my birthright for a third
edition! I shall work like blazes, and we shall live quite quietly
somewhere in a little house----"
"That's impossible," said Turquand. "You may live in a little house, or
you may live quietly, but you can't do both things at the same time."
"In the suburbs--in Streatham, probably. Her people live in Streatham,
and of course she would like to be near them."
"And you will have a general servant, eh, with large and fiery
hands--like Cornelia downstairs? Only she'll look worse than Cornelia,
because your wife will dress her up in muslins and streamers, and try
to disguise the _generality_. If you work in the front of your pretty
little house, your nervous system 'll be shattered by the shrieks of
your neighbours' children swinging on the gates--forty-pound-a-year
houses in the suburbs are infested with children; nothing seems
to exterminate them, and the inevitable gates groan like souls in
hell--and if you choose the back, you'll be assisted by the arrival
of the joint, and the vegetables, and the slap of the milk-cans, and
Cornelia the Second's altercations with the errand-boys. A general
servant with a tin pail alone is warranted to make herself heard for
eleven hundred and sixty yards."
"Life hasn't made an optimist of you," observed Kent, less cheerfully,
"that you clack about 'happy endings'!"
"The optimist is like the poet--he's born, he _isn't_ made. Speaking of
life, I suppose you'll assure yours when you marry?"
"Yes," said Kent meditatively; "yes, that's a good idea. I shall....
But your suggestions are none of them too exhilarating," he added;
"let's go to dinner!"
The sub-editor put on his jacket and sought his boots.
"I'm ready," he announced. "By the way, I never thought to inquire:
Mrs. Walford hasn't a large family, has she?"
"A son as well, that's all. Why?"
"I congratulate you," said Turquand; it was the first time the word
had passed his lips. "It's a truism to say that a man should never
marry; anybody; but if he must blunder with someone, let him choose an
only child! Marrying into a large family's more expensive still. His
wife has for ever got a sister having a wedding, or a christening, or
a birthday and wanting a present; or a brother asking for a loan, or
dying and plunging her into costly crape. Yes, I congratulate you."
Humphrey expressed no thanks, and he determined to avoid the subject of
his engagement as much as possible in their conversations hence-forward.
He was due at The Hawthorns the following afternoon at five o'clock,
and his impatience to see the girl again was intensified by the
knowledge that he was about to see her in her home. The day was
tedious. In the morning it was showery, and he was chagrined to think
that he was doomed to enter the drawing-room in muddy shoes; but after
lunch the sky cleared, and when he reached Victoria the pavements were
dry. The train started late, and travelled slowly; but he heard a
porter bawling "Stretta Mill!" on the welcome platform at last, and,
making the station's acquaintance with affectionate eyes, he hastened
up the steps, and in the direction of the house.
He was prepossessed by its exterior, and his anticipations were
confirmed on entering the hall.
Mrs. Walford was in the garden, he was told, and the parlourmaid led
him there. It was an extremely charming garden. It was well designed,
and it had a cedar and a tennis-court, which was pleasant to look at,
though tennis was not an accomplishment that his life had furnished
opportunities for acquiring; and it contained a tea-table under the
cedar's boughs, and Cynthia in a basket-chair and a ravishing frock.
He was welcomed with effusion, and he presented his chocolates.
Mr. Walford, already returned from town, was quite parental in his
greeting. Tea was very nice and English in the cedar's shade and
Cynthia's presence. It was very nice, too, to be made so much of in the
circumstances. Really they were very delightful people!
The son was in Germany, he learnt.
"Or we could have given you a treat, my boy, if you are fond of music!"
exclaimed the stock-jobber. "You will hear a voice when he comes back.
That's luck for a fellow, to be born with an organ like Cæsar's!
He'll be making five hundred a week in twelve months. I tell you it's
wonderful!"
"'Five hundred a week'?" echoed Mrs. Walford.
"He'll be making more than five hundred a week, I hope, before long!
They get two or three hundred a night--_not_ voices as fine as
Cæsar's--and won't go on the stage till they have had their money,
either. You talk such nonsense, Sam ... absurd!"
"I said 'in twelve months,'" murmured her husband deprecatingly.
"I said in 'twelve months,' my dear." He turned to Kent, and added
confidentially, "There isn't a bass in existence to compare with him.
You'll say so when you hear. Ah, let me introduce you to another member
of the family--my wife's sister."
Kent saw that they had been joined by a spare little woman with a thin,
pursed mouth and a nose slightly pink. She was evidently a maiden lady,
and his hostess's senior. Her tones were tart, and when she said that
she was pleased to meet him, he permitted himself no illusion that she
spoke the truth.
Miss Wix, as a matter of fact, was not particularly pleased to meet
anybody. She lived with the Walfords because she had no means of her
own and it was essential for her to live somewhere; but she accepted
her dependence with mental indignation, and fate had soured her. Under
a chilly demeanour she often burned secretly with the consciousness
that she was not wanted, and the knowledge found expression at long
intervals in an emotional outbreak, in which she quarrelled with
Louisa violently, and proclaimed an immediate intention of "taking a
situation." What kind of situation she thought she was competent to
fill nobody inquired; neither did the "threat" ever impose on anyone,
nor did she take more than a preliminary step towards fulfilling it.
She nursed the "Wanted" columns of the _Telegraph_ ostentatiously for
a day or two, and waited for the olive-branch. The household were
aware that she must be persuaded to forgive them, and she was duly
persuaded--relapsing into the acidulated person, in whom hysteria
looked impossible. A year or so later the outbreak would be repeated,
and she would then threaten to "take a situation" quite as vehemently
as before.
"Tea, Aunt Emily?"
"Yes, please, if it hasn't got cold."
Humphrey took it to her. She stirred the cup briskly, and eyed him with
critical disfavour.
"I've read your book, Mr. Kent."
"Oh," he responded, as she did not say any more. "Have you, Miss Wix?"
"Very good, I'm sure," she brought out, after a further silence. He
would not have imagined the simple words capable of conveying so
clearly that she thought it very small beer indeed. "I suppose you're
in the middle of another?"
"No," he replied, "not yet."
"Really?"
She obviously considered that he ought to be.
"You should call her 'aunt,'" exclaimed Sam Walford. "You'll have to
call her 'Aunt Emily.' We don't go in for formality, my boy. Rough
diamonds!"
"Perhaps Mr. Kent thinks it would be rather premature," suggested Miss
Wix.
He talked to Cynthia.
Fruit and fowls might be admired if he liked, and she and papa took
him on a tour of inspection. There were moments when he was alone with
Cynthia, while her father discovered that there weren't any eggs.
"He is very good-looking," said Mrs. Walford; "don't you think so?"
"I can't say he struck me as being remarkable for beauty," said the
spinster.
"I didn't say he was 'remarkable for beauty,' but he
has--er--distinction--decided distinction. I'm surprised you don't see
it. And he has very fine eyes."
"His eyes won't give 'em any carriage-and-pair," replied Miss Wix. "_I_
used to have fine eyes, my dear, but I've stared at hard times so
long."
"I don't know where the 'hard times' come in, I'm sure!" exclaimed Mrs.
Walford sharply. "And he wanted to give her a carriage directly they
marry, but Sam's forbidden it."
The maiden sniffed.
"He is most modest for his position! I tell you, he was chased in
Dieppe; the women ran after him. A baroness in the hotel positively
threw her daughter at his head.... He wouldn't look at anybody but
Cynthia.... The Baroness was _miserable_ the day the engagement was
known."
"Cynthia ought to be very proud," returned her sister dryly.
"Oh, of course the girl is making a wonderful match--no doubt about it!
He sold his novel for an extraordinary sum--quite extraordinary!--and
the publishers have implored him to let them have another at his own
terms; I saw the telegrams.... Astonishing position for such a young
man!"
"She's in luck!"
"She's a very taking girl. Her smile is so sweet, and her teeth are
quite perfect."
"She was in luck to meet such a catch--some I people didn't have the
opportunity.... I once had a beautiful set of teeth," added Miss Wix
morosely; "but you can't pick rich husbands off gooseberry-bushes."
On the white balcony, after dinner, Kent begged Cynthia to fix the
wedding-day. After she had named one in May, it was agreed that,
subject to her parents' approval, they should be married two months
hence. He made his way to the station about eleven o'clock, with a
flower in his coat and rapture in his soul.
The first weeks of the period were interminable.
He went to The Hawthorns daily, and Mrs. Walford was so good as to look
about for a house for them in the neighbourhood. He was in love, but
not a fool; he was determined not to cripple himself at the outset by
a heavy rental. In conference with the fiancée he intimated that it
would be preposterous for them to think of paying a higher rent than
fifty pounds. Cynthia was a little disappointed, for mamma had just
seen a villa at sixty-five that was a "picturesque duck." He strangled
an impulse to say, "We'll take it," and repeated that as soon as their
circumstances brightened they could remove. She did not argue the
point, though the _rara avis_ evidently allured her, and Kent felt her
acquiescence to be very gracious, and wondered if he sounded mean.
The outlay on furniture did not worry him much. As Mrs. Walford pointed
out, the things would "always be there" and "once they were bought,
they were bought!" In her company they proceeded to Tottenham Court
Road every morning for a week, and this one sped more quickly to
him than any yet. It was a foretaste of life with Cynthia to choose
armchairs, and etchings, and ornaments, and the rest, for their home
together. They had found a house at fifty pounds per annum; it was
about ten minutes' walk from The Hawthorns, a semi-detached villa in
red brick, with nice wide windows, and electric bells, and rose-trees
on either side of the tessellated path. They wanted to be able to
drive up to it when they returned from the honeymoon and find it ready
for them. Mrs. Walford was to buy the kitchen utensils, and engage a
servant while they were away. All they had to do now was to buy the
articles of interest, and settle the wall-papers, and have little
intermediate luncheons, and go back to the shop, and sip tea while
rolls of carpet were displayed. It was great fun.
In the shops, though, the things seldom seemed to look so nice as they
had done in the catalogues, and it was generally necessary to pay
more than had been foreseen. But, again, "once they were bought, they
were bought!" The thought was sustaining. If Kent felt blank when he
contemplated the total of what they had spent, and remembered that the
kitchen clamoured still, he reflected that to kiss Cynthia in such a
jolly little menage would certainly be charming, and the girl averred
ecstatically that the dessert service "looked better than mamma's!"
He estimated that they could live in comfort on two hundred and fifty
a year--for the first year, at all events; and by then he would have
finished a novel, which, in view of the Press notices that he had had,
he believed would bring them in as much as that. Even if it did not,
there would be a substantial portion of his capital remaining; and with
the third book----No, he had no cause for dismay, he told himself.
They had decided upon Mentone for the wedding trip--a fortnight. It was
long enough, and they both felt that they would rather go to Mentone
for a fortnight than to Bournemouth or Ventnor for a month. It would
amount to much the same thing financially, and be much more pleasant.
"The morning after we come back, darling," said Kent, "I shall go
straight to my desk after breakfast, and you know you'll see scarcely
more of me till evening than if I were a business man and had to go to
the City."
"Y-e-s," concurred Cynthia meekly. "Of course--I understand."