by W. W. Jacobs
For Mr. Bob Chater was a loud young man, emanating a swaggering airthat the term "side" well fitted. To have some conceit of oneself isan excellent affair. The possession is a keel that gives to the craft adignified balance upon the stream of life--prevents it from being sailedtoo close to mud; helps maintain stability in sudden gale. Other craftare keelless--they are canoes; bobbing, unsteady, likely to capsize insudden emergency; prone to drift into muddy waters; liable to be sweptanywhither by any current. Others, again--and Mr. Bob Chater was ofthese--are over-freighted upon one quarter or another: they sail with alist. Amongst well-trimmed boats these learn in time not to adventure,since here they are greeted with ridicule or with contempt; yet amongthe keelless fleets they have a position of some authority; holdingit on the same principle as that by which among beggars he who has acoin--even though base--is accounted king.
Bob Chater's list was ego-wards. His mighty "I"--I am, I do, I say, Iknow, I think--bulged from him, hanging from his voice, his glance, hisgesture, his walk. In it Mrs. Chater bathed; to be carried along in thetrain of his mighty "I" was delectable to her. But to-night she couldnot effect the passage.
A final effort she made to get aboard. "And in St. Petersburg!" shetempted. "I wonder if you ever saw the _Tsar_ when you were in St.Petersburg?"
Bob drove her back: "St. Petersburg's a loathsome place."
Mrs. Chater tried to squeeze through. "So _gay_, they say."
Bob slammed the gate. "I wish you'd _tell_ me something instead ofexpecting _me_ to do all the talking. I want to hear all that's beengoing on here while I've been away, but I'm hanged if I can find out."
A little mortified, Mrs. Chater said: "I've hardly seen you, dear,except at meals"--then threw the onus for her son's lack of localgossip upon her husband. Addressing him, "You've been with Bob all themorning," she told him. "I wonder you haven't given him all the news.But, there! I suppose you've done nothing but question him about whatbusiness he's done!"
Mr. Chater, startled at the novelty of being drawn into tableconversation while his son and his wife were present, dropped hisspoon with a splash into his soup, wiped his coat, frowned at theparlour-maid, cleared his throat, and, to gain time to determine whetherhe had courage to say that which was burning within him, threw out an"Eh?" for his pursuing wife to Worry.
Mrs. Chater pounced upon it; shook it. "What I said was that I supposeyou've been doing nothing but question poor Bob about what he has donefor the firm while he's been away."
Mr. Chater nerved himself to declare his mind. "There wasn't very muchto question him about," he said.
His words--outcome of views forcibly expressed by his partners inMincing Lane that morning--were the foolhardy action of one who pokes atigress with a stick.
The tigress shook herself. "Now, I wonder what you mean by _that_?" shechallenged.
Mr. Chater dropped the stick; precipitantly fled. "Of course it was allnew to Bob," he granted, throwing a bone.
Very much to his alarm the tigress ignored the bone; rushed after him."All you seem to think about," cried she, "is making the boy slave. He'snever had a proper holiday since he left school, and yet the very firsttime he goes off to see the world you must be fidgeting yourself todeath all the time that he's not pushing the firm sufficiently; andimmediately he comes back you must start cross-examining just as if hewas an office-boy--not a word about his health or his pleasure. Oh, no!of course not!"
Squirming in misery, Mr. Chater remarked that he had his partners toconsider. "I'm only too glad that Bob should enjoy himself--only tooglad. But you must remember, my dear, that part of his expenses for thistrip was paid for by the firm--the _firm_. He was to call on foreignhouses--"
The tigress opened her mouth for fresh assault. Mr. Chater hurriedlythrust in a bone. "I don't say he hasn't done a great deal for us--notat all; I'd be the last to say that. What I say is that in duty to mypartners I must take the first opportunity to ask him a few questionsabout it. Bob sees that himself; don't you, Bob?"
"Oh, do let's keep shop off the table," Bob snarled. "Fair sickens methis never getting away from the office."
"There you are!" Mrs. Chater cried. "There you are! Always business,business, business--that's what _I_ complain of."
With astounding recklessness Mr. Chater mildly said: "My dear, youstarted it."
Mrs. Chater quivered: "Ah, put it on me! Put it on me! Somehow youalways manage to do that. Miss Humfray, when you've _quite_ finishedyour soup _then_ perhaps Clarence can take the plates."
Mary's thoughts, to the neglect of her duty, had crept away beneathcover of these exchanges. Now she endured the disaster of amid silenceclearing her plate with four pairs of eyes fixed upon her. Clarenceremoved the course; Mr. Chater, leaping as far as possible from thescene of his ordeal, broke a new topic.
He enticed tentatively: "I saw a funny bit in the paper this morning."
The tigress paused in the projection of another spring; sniffedsuspiciously. "Oh!"
"About that young Lord Comeragh," Mr. Chater hurried on, delightedwith his success. "He was up at Marlborough Street police-court thismorning--at least his butler was; of course his lordship wouldn't gohimself--charged with furiously driving his motorcar; and who do youthink was in the car with him at the time? Ah!"
Mrs. Chater, naming a young lady who nightly advertised a pretty legfrom the chorus of a musical comedy, announced that she would not besurprised if that was the person. Being told that it was none other, andthat Mr. Chater had heard in the City that morning that Lady Comeraghwas taking proceedings and had named the nicely-legged young lady thecause of infidelity, became highly astonished and supremely diverted.
Conversation of a most delectable nature was by this means supplied. Apot of savoury gossip, flavoured with scandal, was upon the table; andMary, lost to sight behind the cloud of steam that uprose as the threeleaped about it, finished her dinner undisturbed.
A nod bade her leave before dessert. As she passed out the signallerspoke. "I want to see you," Mrs. Chater said. "Wait for me in thedrawing-room."
The command was unusual, and Mary, waiting as bid, worried herself withsurmises upon it. She prayed it did not mean she was to soothe Mr.Bob Chater's digestion with lullabies upon the piano; that it boded anunpleasant affair she was assured.
She did not err. Mrs. Chater came to her, dyspeptic-flushed, sternlybrowed.
"Miss Humfray, I have one thing to say to you, no more. No explanations,no excuses, please. I hear you have been trying to entertain my sonin the nursery this evening. If that, or anything like it, occursagain--You understand?"
"Mrs. Chater--"
A massive hand signalled Stop. "I said 'not a word.' That is all. Goodnight."
And Mary, crimson, to her room.
BOOK III.
Of Glimpses at a Period of this History: of Love and of War.
CHAPTER I.
Notes On The Building Of Bridges.
Within the limits of this short section of our story we shall cram twomonths of history, taking but a furtive peep or two at our personages asthey plod through it.
This is well within our power, since the position of the novelist inregard to his characters may be compared with that of the destiny whichin the largest comedy moves to and fro mankind its actors. As destinymoves its puppets, so the novelist moves his--upraising, debasing;favouring, tormenting; creating, wiping from the page.
And of the pair the novelist is the more just. Has villainy in anovel ever gone unpunished? Has virtue ever failed of its reward?Your novelist is of all autocrats the most zealous of right and wrong.Villain may through two-thirds of his career enjoy his wicked pleasures,exceedingly prosper despite his baseness; but ever above him the coldeye of his judge keeps watch, and in the end he is apportioned the mosthorrible deserts that any could wish. Virtue may by the gods be houndedand harried till the reader's heart is wrung. But spare your tears;before Finis is written, down swoops the judge; the dogs are whippedoff; Virtue is led to fair pastures and t
here left smiling.
Contrasted with this autocrat of the printed page, the destiny whosecomedy began with the world and is indefinitely continued makes sorryshow. Here the wicked exceedingly flourish and keep at it to the end oftheir chapter; here virtue, battling with tremendous waves of adversity,is at last engulfed and miserably drowned. Truly, their fit rewards areapportioned, we are instructed, after death. But there is something of adoubt; the novelist, in regard to his characters, takes no risks.
Upon another head, moreover, the novelist shows himself the more kindlyautocrat. There is his power, so freely exercised, to bridge time.Whereas destiny makes us to watch those in whom we are interested plodevery inch and step of their lives-over each rut, through each swamp,up each hill,-the novelist, upon his characters coming to places dull ortoo difficult, immediately veils from us their weary struggles. Destinywill never grant such a boon: we must watch our friends even when theybore us, even when they cause us pain. Yet this boon is the commonestindulgence of the novelist-as it now (to become personal) is mine.
I bridge two months.
And you must imagine this bridge as indeed a short and airy passageacross a valley, down into which the persons of our story must carefullyclimb, across which they must plod, and up whose far side they mustlaboriously scramble to meet us upon the level ground. For we aremuch in the position, we novel readers, of village children curiouslywatching a caravan of gipsies passing through their district. Thegipsies (who stand for our characters) plod wearily away along a bendof dusty road. The children cease following, play awhile; then by ashort-cut through the fields overtake the travellers as again they comeinto the straight.
So now with you and me. We have no need to follow our gipsies downthe valley that takes two months in the traversing: we skip across thebridge.
But, leaning over, we may take a shot or two at them as here and therethey come into view.
CHAPTER II.
Excursions Beneath The Bridge.
I.
Thus we see the meeting again of George and Mary.
When the agitated young man on the day following the cab accidenthad alighted from the omnibus at the bottom of Palace Gardens he wasopposite No. 14 by half-past ten; waiting till eleven; going, convincedshe did not live there; returning, upon the desperate hope that indeedshe did; waiting till twelve--and being most handsomely rewarded.
Her face signalled that she saw him, but her eyes gave norecognition--quickly were averted from him; the windows behind her hadeyes, she knew.
My agitated George, who had made a hasty step at the red flag thatfluttered on her cheeks, as hastily stepped away beneath the chill ofher glance; in tremendous perturbation turned and fled; in tremendousperturbation turned and pursued. In Regent's Park he saw her produce abrilliant pair of scarlet worsted reins, gay with bells; heard her hisslike any proper groom as tandemwise she harnessed David and Angela,those restive steeds.
The equipage was about to start--she had cracked her whip, clicked hertongue--when with thumping heart, with face that matched the flamingreins, hat in hand he approached; spoke the driver.
Her steeds turned about; with wide, unblinking eyes, searched his faceand hers.
"Your faces are very red," Angela said. "Are you angry?"
"You have got very red faces," David echoed. "Are you in a temper?"
Mary told them No; George said they were fine horses; felt legs; offeredto buy them.
His words purchased their hearts, which were more valuable.
After the drive they would return to the stable, which was this seat,Mary told him; she could not stay to speak to him any longer. Georgedeclared he was the stable groom and would wait.
Away they dashed at handsome speed, right round the inner circle;returned more sedately, a little out of breath. There had been,moreover, an accident: leader, it appeared, had fallen and cut hisknees.
"I shied at a motor," David explained, proud of the red blood now thatthe agony was past.
George unharnessed them; dressed the wounds; scolded the coachmanbecause no feed had been brought for the horses; promised that to-morrowhe would bring some corn--bun corn.
"Will you come to-morrow?" Angela asked.
George glanced at Mary. "Yes," he told them.
"Every to-morrow?"
"Every to-morrow."
Tremendous joy. Well delighted, they ran to a new game.
Every to-morrow ran but to three: George and Mary had by then exchangedtheir histories. The pending examination was discussed, and Mary simplywould not speak to him if, wasting his time, he came daily to idle withthe children (so she expressed it). She would abandon the Park, she toldhim--would take her charges to a Square gardens of which they had theentry, where George might not follow.
George did not press the point. As he wrestled out the matter in thehours between their meetings she was a fresh incentive to work. But oncea week he must be allowed to come: here he was adamant, and she gladlyagreeable. Saturday mornings was the time arranged.
Mary had been fearful at this first re-encounter that it would be thelast. The children would certainly tell their mother; Mrs. Chater wouldcertainly make an end to the acquaintance.
"Ask them not to tell," George had suggested.
Impossible to think of such a thing: it would be to teach them deceit.
"Well, I'll ask them."
"But that would be just as bad. No--if they tell, it cannot be helped.And after all--"
"Well, after all...?"
"After all--what would it matter?"
George said: "It would matter to me--a lot."
He glanced at her, but she was looking after Angela and David. He asked:"Wouldn't it matter to you?"
She flushed a little; answered, with her eyes still averted towards thechildren, "Why--why, of course I should mind. I mean--"
But there are meanings for which it is difficult to find clothes inwhich they may decently take the air; and here the wardrobe of Mary'smind stood wanting.
George enticed. "Do you mean you would be sorry not to--not to--"
He also found his wardrobe deficient.
Then Mary sent out her meaning, risking its decency. "Why, yes, I wouldbe sorry not to see you again; why should I mind saying so? I have likedmeeting you." And, becoming timid at its appearance, she hurried afterit a cloak that would utterly disguise it. "I meet so few people," shesaid.
But George was satisfied; she had said she would mind--nay, even thoughshe had not spoken it, her manner assured him that indeed she wouldregret not again meeting him. It was a thought to hug, a memory to spurhis energies when they flagged over his studies; it was a brush to painthis world in lively colours.
Nor, as the future occurred, need either have had apprehension that thechildren would tell their mother and so set up an insurmountable barrierbetween them. A previous experience had warned Angela that it werewise to keep from her mother joys that were out of the ordinary run ofevents.
Returning homeward that day, a little in advance of Mary, she thereforeaddressed her brother upon the matter.
"Davie, I hope that man will come to-morrow."
"I hope it, too."
"We won't tell mother, Davie."
"Why?"
"Because mother'll say No."
"Why?"
"Because she _always_ says No, stupid."
"Why?"
"Oh, Davie, you _are_ stupid! I don't know why; I only _know_. Don't youremember that lady that used to talk to Miss Humf'ay and play with us?Well, when we told mother, mother said No, didn't she? and the ladyplayed with those abom'able red-dress children that make faces instead."
"Will he play with the abom'able red-dress children that make faces ifwe tell mother?"
"Of _course_ he will."
"Why?"
"They always _do_, stupid."
"Why?"
Angela ran back. "Oh, Miss Humf'ay, Davie is so _irrating!_ He will say_Why_ ...."
There is a lesson for parents in that conversatio
n, I suspect.
II.
Leaning from our bridge we may content ourselves with a hurried shotat George, laboriously toiling at his books, sedulously attending hisclasses, with his Mary spending glorious Saturday mornings that, asthey brought him nearer to knowledge of her, sent him from her yet morefevered; and, straining towards another point, we will focus for aninstant upon Margaret his cousin, and Bill Wyvern, her adored.
Mr. William Wyvern had most vigorously whacked about among events sincethat evening when his Margaret had composed her verses for George. Atthat time a fellow-student with George at St. Peter's Hospital, he hadnow abandoned the profession and was started upon the literary career(as he named it) that long he had wished to follow. The change had beencome by with little difficulty. Professor Wyvern--that eminent biologistwhose fame was so tremendous that even now a normally forgetful Pressyet continued to paragraph him while he spent in absent-minded seclusionthe ebb of that life which at the flood had so mightily advancedknowledge--Professor Wyvern was too much attached to his son, too docilein the hands of his loving wife, to gainsay any wish that Bill mighturge and that Mrs. Wyvern might support.
Bill achieved his end: the stories he had had printed in magazines,secretly shown to his proud mother, were now brought forth and chuckledover with glee by the Professor. The famous biologist struggled throughone of the stories, vowed he had read them all, cheerily patted Bill'sarm with his shaky old hand, and cheerfully abandoned the hope he hadheld of seeing his son a great surgeon.