Eliza

by Barry Pain

  Produced by Malcolm Farmer and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

  Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been correctedwithout note. Dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies havebeen retained.

  ELIZA

  _Says_ ROBERT BARR _in_ THE IDLER:--

  "... and as for Barry Pain's 'Eliza' I question if anything mored e l i c i o u s l y humourous, and of a humour so restrained, hasbeen written since the time of Lamb."

  "_It was true I ran into the horse._"(_See page_ 24.)]

  ELIZA

  By

  BARRY PAIN

  ILLUSTRATED BY

  WALLACE GOLDSMITH

  BOSTONDANA ESTES & COMPANYPUBLISHERS

  _Copyright, 1904_BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY

  _COLONIAL PRESS_

  _Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.Boston, Mass., U.S.A._

  CONTENTS

  PAGEELIZA'S HUSBAND 3THE CARDS 13ELIZA'S MOTHER 23MISS SAKERS 33THE ORCHESTROME 41THE TONIC PORT 49THE GENTLEMAN OF TITLE 59THE HAT 67MY FORTUNE 73SHAKESPEARE 81THE UNSOLVED PROBLEM 89THE DAY OFF 97THE MUSHROOM 107THE PLEASANT SURPRISE 115THE MOPWORTHS 123THE PEN-WIPER 135THE 9.43 143THE CONUNDRUMS 151THE INK 159THE PUBLIC SCANDAL 167THE "CHRISTIAN MARTYR" 175THE PAGRAMS 183PROMOTION 191

  ELIZA'S HUSBAND

  "Suppose," I said to one of the junior clerks at our office the otherday, "you were asked to describe yourself in a few words, could you doit?"

  His answer that he could describe me in two was no answer at all. Alsothe two words were not a description, and were so offensive that I didnot continue the conversation.

  I believe there are but few people who could give you an accuratedescription of themselves. Often in the train to and from the city, orwhile walking in the street, I think over myself--what I have been,what I am, what I might be if, financially speaking, it would run toit. I imagine how I should act under different circumstances--on thereceipt of a large legacy, or if for some specially clever action Iwere taken into partnership, or if a mad bull came down the street. Imay say that I make a regular study of myself. I have from time to timerecorded on paper some of the more important incidents of our marriedlife, affecting Eliza and myself, and I present them to you, gentlereader, in this little volume. I think they show how with a verylimited income--and but for occasional assistance from Eliza's mother Ido not know how we should have got along--a man may to a great extentpreserve respectability, show taste and judgment, and manage his wifeand home.

  The more I think about myself, the more--I say it in all modesty--thesubject seems to grow. I should call myself many-sided, and in manyrespects unlike ordinary men. Take, for instance, the question oftaste. Some people would hardly think it worth while to mention alittle thing like taste; but I do. I am not rich, but what I have Ilike to have ornamental, though not loud. Only the other day thequestion of glass-cloths for the kitchen turned up, and though thosewith the red border were threepence a dozen dearer than the plain, Iordered them without hesitation. Eliza changed them next day, contraryto my wishes, and we had a few words about it, but that is not thepoint. The real point is that if your taste comes out in a matter ofglass-cloths for the kitchen, it will also come out in antimacassarsfor the drawing-room and higher things.

  Again, ordinary men--men that might possibly call themselves myequals--are not careful enough about respectability. Everywhere aroundme I see betting on horse-races, check trousers on Sunday, the washhung out in the front garden, whiskey and soda, front steps notproperly whitened, and the door-handle not up to the mark. I couldpoint to houses where late hours on Sunday are so much the rule thatthe lady of the house comes down in her dressing-gown to take in themilk--which, I am sure, Eliza would sooner die than do. There arefamilies--in my own neighbourhood, I am sorry to say--where thechimneys are not swept regularly, beer is fetched in broad daylight,and attendance at a place of worship on Sunday is rather the exceptionthan the rule. Then, again, language is an important point; to my mindnothing marks a respectable man more than the use of genteel language.There may have been occasions when excessive provocation has led me tothe use of regrettable expressions, but they have been few. As a rule Iavoid not only what is profane, but also anything that is slangy. Ifail to understand this habit which the present generation has formedof picking up some meaningless phrase and using it in season and out ofseason. For some weeks I have been greatly annoyed by the way some ofthe clerks use the phrase "What, ho, she bumps!" If you ask them whobumps, or how, or why, they have no answer but fits of silly laughter.Probably, before these words appear in print that phrase will have beenforgotten and another equally ridiculous will have taken its place. Itis not sensible; what is worse, it is not to my mind respectable. Donot imagine that I object to humour in conversation. That is a verydifferent thing. I have made humourous remarks myself before now,mostly of rather a cynical and sarcastic kind.

  I am fond of my home, and any little addition to its furniture ordecorations gives me sincere pleasure. Both in the home and in ourmanner of life there are many improvements which I am prevented byfinancial considerations from carrying out. If I were a rich man Iwould have the drawing-room walls a perfect mass of pictures. If I hadmoney I could spend it judiciously and without absurdity. I should havethe address stamped in gold on the note-paper, and use boot-trees, andnever be without a cake in the house in case a friend dropped in totea. Nor should I think twice about putting on an extra clean pair ofcuffs in the week if wanted. We should keep two servants. I aminterested in the drama, if serious, and two or three times every monthI should take Eliza to the dress-circle. Our suburb has a train servicewhich is particularly convenient for the theatres. Eliza would wear adressy blouse,--she shares my objections to anything cut out at theneck,--a mackintosh, and a sailor hat, the two latter to be removedbefore entering. I should carry her evening shoes in a prettycrewel-worked bag. We have often discussed it. Curiously enough, shealready has the bag, though we seldom have an opportunity to use it inthis way. Doubtless there are many other innovations which, withappropriate means, I could suggest. But I have said enough to show thatthey would all be in the direction of refinement and elegance, and themoney would not be spent in foolishness or vice.

  As Eliza's husband, I should perhaps say a word or two about her. Sheis a lady of high principles and great activity. Owing to my absenceevery day in the exercise of my profession, she is called upon tosettle many questions,--as, for instance, the other day the question ofwhat contribution, if any, should be given to the local FireBrigade,--where a word of advice from me would have been useful. If notactually independent, she is certainly not what would be described as aclinging woman. Indeed, she does occasionally take upon herself toenter on a line of action without consulting me, when my advice isperfectly at
her disposal, and would perhaps save her from blunders.Last year she filled the coal-cellar (unusually large for the type ofhouse) right up at summer prices. Undoubtedly, she thought that she waspractising an economy. But she was dealing with a coal-merchant whodoes not give credit--a man who requires cash down and sees that hegets it. And--well, I need not go into details here, but it proved tobe excessively inconvenient for me. She has lost the silly playfulnesswhich was rather a mark of her character during the period of ourengagement, and if this is due to the sobering effects of associationwith a steady and thoughtful character, I am not displeased. Sheherself says it's the work, but the women do not always know. Possibly,too, her temper is more easily ruffled now than then when I point outthings to her. I should say that she was less ambitious than myself. Ido not mention these little matters at all by way of finding fault. Onthe contrary, I have a very high opinion of Eliza.

  "_Filled the coal-cellar right up at summer prices._"]

  We have no children living.

  With these few prefatory words, gentle reader, I fling open the frontdoor--to use a metaphorical expression--and invite you to witness a fewscenes of our domestic life that I have from time to time recorded.

  THE CARDS

  About a year ago Eliza and myself had a little difference of opinion. Imentioned to her that we had no visiting-cards.

  "Of course not," she said. "The idea of such a thing!" She spoke ratherhastily.

  "Why do you say 'of course not'?" I replied, quietly. "Visiting-cardsare, I believe, in common use among ladies and gentlemen."

  She said she did not see what that had to do with it.

  "It has just this much to do with it," I answered: "that I do notintend to go without visiting-cards another day!"

  "What's the use?" she asked. "We never call on anybody, and nobody evercalls on us."

  "Is Miss Sakers nobody?"

  "Well, she's never left a card here, and she really is a lady by birth,and can prove it. She just asks the girl to say she's been, and it'snothing of importance, when she doesn't find me in. If she can dowithout cards, we can. You'd much better go by her."

  "Thank you, I have my own ideas of propriety, and I do not take themfrom Miss Sakers. I shall order fifty of each sort from Amrod's thismorning."

  "Then that makes a hundred cards wasted."

  "Either you cannot count," I said, "or you have yet to learn that thereare three sorts of cards used by married people--the husband's cards,the wife's cards, and the card with both names on it."

  "Go it!" said Eliza. "Get a card for the cat as well. She knows a lotmore cats than we know people!"

  I could have given a fairly sharp retort to that, but I preferred toremain absolutely silent. I thought it might show Eliza that she wasbecoming rather vulgar. Silence is often the best rebuke. However,Eliza went on:

  "Mother would hate it, I know that. To talk about cards, with the lastlot of coals not paid for--I call it wickedness."

  I simply walked out of the house, went straight down to Amrod's, andordered those cards. When the time comes for me to put my foot down, Ican generally put it down as well as most people. No one could beeasier to live with than I am, and I am sure Eliza has found it so; butwhat I say is, if a man is not master in his own house, then where ishe?

  * * * * *

  Amrod printed the cards while I waited. I had them done in the OldEnglish character. I suggested some little decoration to give them atone,--an ivy leaf in the corner, or a little flourish under thename,--but Amrod was opposed to this. He seemed to think it was notessential, and it would have been charged extra, and also he hadnothing of the kind in stock. So I let that pass. The cards looked verywell as they were, a little plain and formal, perhaps, but very clean(except in the case of a few where the ink had rubbed), and verygratifying to one's natural self-respect.

  "_He seemed to think it was not essential._"]

  That evening I took a small cardboard box that had contained candles,and packed in it a few carefully selected flowers from the garden, andone of our cards. On the card I wrote "With kindest love from" justabove the names, and posted it to Eliza's mother.

  So far was Eliza's mother from being offended that she sent Eliza apresent of a postal-order for five shillings, three pounds of pressedbeef, and a nicely worked apron.

  On glancing over that sentence, I see that it is, perhaps, a littleambiguous. The postal order was for the shillings alone--not for thebeef or the apron.

  I only mention the incident to show whether, in this case, Eliza or Iwas right.

  * * * * *

  I put a few of my own cards in my letter-case, and the rest were packedaway in a drawer. A few weeks afterward I was annoyed to find Elizausing some of her cards for winding silks. She said that it did notprevent them from being used again, if they were ever wanted.

  "Pardon me," I said, "but cards for social purposes should not be bentor frayed at the edge, and can hardly be too clean. Oblige me by notdoing that again!"

  That evening Eliza told me that No. 14 in the Crescent had been takenby some people called Popworth.

  "That must be young Popworth who used to be in our office," I said. "Iheard that he was going to be married this year. You must certainlycall and leave cards."

  "Which sort, and how many?"

  "Without referring to a book, I can hardly say precisely. These thingsare very much a matter of taste. Leave enough--say one of each sort foreach person in the house. There should be no stint."

  "How am I to know how many persons there are?"

  "Ask the butcher with whom they deal."

  On the following day I remarked that Popworth must have come in formoney, to be taking so large a house, and I hoped she had left thecards.

  "I asked the butcher, and he said there was Popworth, his wife, twosisters, a German friend, and eleven children. That was sixteenpersons, and made forty-eight cards altogether. You see, I rememberedyour rule."

  "My dear Eliza," I said, "I told you as plainly as possible that it wasa matter of taste. You ought not to have left forty-eight at once."

  "Oh, I couldn't keep running backwards and forwards leaving a few at atime. I've got something else to do. There's three pair of your socksin the basket waiting to be darned, as it is."

  "And, good heavens! That Popworth can't be my Popworth. If he's onlymarried this year, he can't, in the nature of things, have got elevenchildren. And a house like this can't call on a house like that withouta something to justify it."

  "That's what I thought."

  "Then what on earth did you call for?"

  "I didn't. Who said I did?"

  * * * * *

  I gave a sigh of relief. Later in the evening, when Eliza took a card,notched a bit out of each side, and began winding silk on it, I thoughtit wiser to say nothing. It is better sometimes to pretend not to seethings.

  ELIZA'S MOTHER

  I generally send Eliza to spend a day with her mother early inDecember, and try to cheer her up a little. I daresay the old lady isvery lonely, and appreciates the kindly thought. The return ticket isfour-and-two, and Eliza generally buys a few flowers to take with her.That does not leave much change out of five shillings when the day isover, but I don't grudge the money. Eliza's mother generally tries tofind out, without precisely asking, what we should like for a Christmaspresent. Eliza does not actually tell her, or even hint it--she wouldnot care to do anything of that sort. But she manages, in a tactfulsort of way, to let her know.

  For instance, the year before last Eliza's mother happened to say, "Iwonder if you know what I am going to give you this Christmas."

  Eliza said, "I can see in your eye, mother, and you sha'n't do it. It'smuch too expensive. If other people can do without silver salt-cellars,I suppose we can."

  Well, we got them; so that was all right. But last year it was moredifficult.

 
* * * * *

  You see, early in last December I went over my accounts, and I couldsee that I was short. For one thing, Eliza had had the measles. Then Ihad bought a bicycle, and though I sold it again, it did not, in thatbroken state, bring in enough to pay the compensation to the cabman. Iwas much annoyed about that. It was true I ran into the horse, but itwas not my fault that it bolted and went into the lamp-post. As I said,rather sharply, to the man when I paid him, if his horse had beensteady the thing would never have happened. He did not know what toanswer, and made some silly remark about my not being fit to ride amangle. Both then and at the time of the accident his language wasdisrespectful and profane.

  However, I need not go further into that. It is enough to say that wehad some unusual expenses, and were distinctly short.

  "I don't blame you, Eliza," I said. "Anything you have had you are verywelcome to."

  "I haven't had anything, except the measles," she said; "and I don'tsee how you can blame me for that."

  "But," I said, "I think it's high time you paid a visit to your mother,and showed her that we have not forgotten her. Take some Swissroll--about sixpennyworth. Try to make things seem a little brighter toher. If she says anything about Christmas, and you saw your way togetting a cheque from her this year instead of her usual present, youmight do that. But show her that we are really fond of her--remembershe is your mother, and has few pleasures. A fiver just now would makea good deal of difference to me, and even a couple of sovereigns wouldbe very handy."

  * * * * *

  When Eliza came back, I saw by her face that it was all right.