by W. W. Jacobs
Where he sat with his Mary they were sheltered from any but chanceobtrusion. She had taken off her gloves, and George gave her hands, asthey lay in her lap, a little confident pat. It was the tap of the batonwith which the conductor calls together his orchestra--for this was asong that George was about to tune, very confident that the chords ofboth instruments that should give the notes were in a harmony complete.
He said: "Mary, do you know what I am going to talk about?"
She had been a little silent that morning, he had thought; did notanswer now, but smiled.
He laid a hand upon both hers. "You must say 'yes.' You've got to say'yes' about twenty times this morning, so start now. Do you know whatI'm going to talk about?"
"Yes."
"No objections this time?"
"Yes."
He laughed; gave her hand a little smack of reproof. (You who have lovedwill excuse these lovers' absurdities.) "No, no; you are only to say'yes' when I tell you. No objections to the subject this morning?"
His Mary told him "No."
"Couldn't have a better morning for it, could we?"
She took a little catch at her breath.
George dropped the banter in his tone. "Nothing wrong to-day, is there,dear? Nothing up?"
How sadly wrong everything in truth was she had determined not totell him until she more certainly knew its extent. She shook her head;reassuringly smiled.
"Well, that's all right--there couldn't be on a morning like this. Nowwe've got to begin at the beginning. Mary, I planned it all out lastnight--all this conversation. We've got to begin at the beginning--Doyou know I've never told you yet that I love you? You knew it, though,didn't you, from the first, the very first? Tell me from when?"
"George, this is awfully foolish, isn't it?"
"Never mind. It's jolly nice. It's necessary, too. I've read about it.It's always done. Tell me from when you knew I loved you."
"After last Saturday."
"Oh, Mary! Much earlier than _that_! You must have!"
"Well, I thought perhaps you--you cared after that first day when youcame here."
"Not before that?"
She laughed. "Come, how _could_ I? Why, I'd hardly seen you."
"Well, I did, anyway," George told her. "I loved you from the veryminute you shot out of the cab that day. There! But even this isn't theproper thing. I've been promising myself all night to say four words toyou--just four. Now I'm going to say them: Mary, I love you."
She looked in his eyes for a moment, answering the signal that shonethence; and then she laughed that clear pipe of mirth which was souniquely her own possession.
"Oh, I say, you mustn't do that," George cried. He was really perturbed.
"I can't help it. You are so utterly foolish."
"I'm not. It's the proper thing. I tell you I've planned it all out. Ilove you. I've never said it to you before. Now it's your turn."
"But what on earth am I to say?"
"You've got to say that you love me."
"You're making a farce of it."
"No, I tell you I've planned it all out. I can't go on till you've saidit."
"You can't expect me to say: 'George, I love you.' It's ridiculous. It'slike a funny story."
"Oh, never mind what it's like. Do be serious, Mary. How can I be sureyou love me if you won't tell me?"
For the first moment since its happening the thought of Bob Chater andof Mrs. Chater passed completely from Mary's mind. She looked around:there was no soul in sight. She listened: there was no sound. Sheclasped her fingers about his; leaned towards him, her face upturned....
He kissed her upon the lips....
"The plans," said George after a moment, "have all gone fut. I neverthought of that way."
"It's much better," Mary said.
"The other's not a patch upon it," said George.
III.
You must conjecture of what lovers think when, following their firstkiss, they sit silent. It is not a state that may be written down insuch poor words as your author commands. For the touch of lips on lipsis the key that turns the lock and gives admission to a world dimlyconceived, yet found to have been wrongly conceived since conceivednever to be so wonderful or so beautiful as it does prove. Nor, everagain, once the silence is broken and speech is found, has that world anaspect quite the same. For the door that divides this new world from thematerial world can never from the inside be closed. It is at first--forthe space of that silence after the first kiss--pushed very close bythose who have entered; but, soon after, the breath of every rushingmoment blows it further and further ajar. Drab objects from the outerworld drift across the threshold and obtrude their presence--vagabondtramps in a rose-garden, unpleasant, marring the surroundings, soilingthe atmosphere. Cares drift in, worldly interests drift in; in driftsmudgy, soiled, unpleasant objects brushing the door yet wider uponits hinges till it stands back to its furthest extent and theinterior becomes at one with the outer world. The process is gradual,indiscernible. When completed the knowledge of what has been done dawnssuddenly. One knocks against an intruder especially drab, starts intowakefulness to rub the bruise, and looking around exclaims, "And this islove!"
Well, it was love. But a rose-garden will not long remain beautiful ifno care is taken of what may intrude.
If we but stand sentinel at the door, exercising a nice discretion, thegarden may likely remain unsoiled, its air uncontaminated.
IV.
George said that though across the first portion of the scheme he had solaboriously planned he had been shot at lightning speed by the vehicleof Mary's action, its latter portion yet remained to be discussed."We've got to marry, dearest--and as quick as quick. We can't go on likethis--seeing each other once a week. No, not even if it were once a day.It's got to be always."
"Always and always, dear," Mary said softly.
Women are more intoxicated than men by the sudden atmosphere of thatnew world. The awe of it was still upon her. The light of love comesstrongly to men, with the sensation of bright sunshine; to women asthrough stained glass windows, softly.
She continued: "Fancy saying 'always' and being glad to say it! I neverthought I could. Do you know--will this frighten you?--I am one of thosepeople who dread the idea of 'always.' I never could bear the idea oflooking far, far ahead and not seeing any end. It frightened me. Eversince father died, I've been like that--even in little things, even intangible things. When we go to the seaside in the summer I nevercan bear to look straight across the sea. That gives me the idea ofalways--of long, long miles and miles without a turn or a stop. Iwant to think every day, every hour, that what I am doing can't goon--mustchange. It suffocates me to think otherwise. I want to jump out,to scream."
Then she gave that laugh that seldom failed to come to her relief,and said: "It's a sort of claustrophobia--isn't that the word?--on auniversal scale. But why is it? And why am I suddenly changed now? Whydoes the thought of always, always, endless always with you, bring asort of--don't laugh, dear--a sort of bliss, peace?"
This poor George of mine, who was no deep thinker, nevertheless had thereason pat. He said:
"I think because the past has all been unhappy and because this, youknow, means happiness."
She gave a little sigh; told him: "Yes, that's it--happiness."
V.
And now they fell to making plans as mating birds build nests. Here abit of straw and there a tuft of moss; here a feather, there a shredof wool--George would do this and George would do that; here thehouse would be and thus would they do in the house. Probabilities wereoutraged, obstacles vaulted.
Castles that are builded in the air spring into being quicker thanAladdin's palace--bricks and mortar, beams and stones are featherweightwhen handled in the clouds; every piece is so dovetailed, marked andnumbered that like magic there springs before the eye the shiningwhole--pinnacled, turreted, embattled.
Disaster arrives when the work is completed. "There!" we say, standingback, a little flushed and out of breath with
the excitement of thething. "There! There's a place in which to live! Could any existence bemore glorious?" And then we advance a step and lean against the wallsto survey the surrounding prospect. It is the fatal action. The materialbody touches the aerial structure and down with a crash the castlecomes--back we pitch into the foundations, and thwack, bump, thwack,comes the masonry tumbling about us, bruising, wounding.
VI.
George had built the castle. Mary had sat by twittering and clapping herhands for glee as higher and higher it rose. He knew for a fact, he toldher, that his uncle had not expended upon his education much more thanhalf the money left him for the purpose. He was convinced that byhook or by crook he could obtain the 400 pounds that would buy him thepractice at Runnygate of which the Dean had told him. They would havea little house there--the town would thrive--the practice wouldnourish--in a year--why, in a year they would likely enough have to bethinking of getting a partner! And it would begin almost immediately!In three weeks the examination would be held. He could not fail topass--then for the 400 pounds and Runnygate!
And then, unhappily, George leaned against this castle wall; provokedthe crash.
"Till then, dear," he said, "you will stay with these Chater people.I know you hate it; but it will be only a short time, a few weeks atmost."
Instantly her gay twittering ceased. Trouble drove glee from her eyes.Memory chased dreams from her brain. Distress tore down the gay coloursfrom her cheeks. She clasped her hands; from her seat half rose.
"Oh!" she cried; and again, "Oh! I had forgotten!"
"Forgotten? Forgotten what?"
"Dearest, I should have told you at the beginning, but I could not. Iwanted to wait until I knew. I have not seen her yet this morning."
My startled George was becoming pale. "Knew what? Seen whom? What do youmean?"
She said, "No, I won't tell you. I won't spoil all this beautifulmorning we have spent. I will wait till next week."
"Mary, what do you mean? Wait till next week? No. You must tell me now.How could I leave you like this, knowing you are in some trouble? Whathas happened? You must tell. You must. I insist."
"Ah, I will." Her agitation, as her mind cast back over the events ofthe previous night, was enhanced by the suddenness of the change fromthe sunshine in which she had been disporting to the darkness that nowswept upon her. She was as a girl who, singing along a country lane, issuddenly confronted from the hedgeside by some ugly tramp.
She said, "You know that young Mr. Chater?"
Dark imaginings clouded upon George's brow. "Yes," he said. "Yes;well--?"
"Last night--" And then she gave him the history of events.
This simple George of mine writhed beneath it.
It was a poison torturing his system, twisting his brow, knotting hishands. Her presence, when she finished, did not stay his cry beneathhis rackings: he was upon his feet. "By Gad," he cried, "I'll thrash thelife out of him! The swine! By Gad, I'll kill him!"
She laid a hand upon his arm. "Georgie, dear," she pleaded. "Don't,don't take it like that. I haven't finished."
Roughly he turned upon her. "Well, what else? What else?"
"I haven't seen him since. He went away early this morning for theweek-end. And I have not seen Mrs. Chater again either. I am to see herthis afternoon. She sent me word to take the children as usual and thatshe would see me at three."
My poor George bitterly broke out: "Oh! Will she? That's kind of her!That's delightful of her! Are you going to see her?"
"Of course I shall see her."
"'Of course'! 'Of course'! I don't know what you mean by talking in thattone. You won't stay there another minute! That's what you'll tell herif you insist upon seeing her. If you had behaved properly you'd havewalked out of the house there and then when it happened last night."
Spite of her trouble Mary could not forbear to laugh. "Dearest, howcould I?"
But this furious young man could not see her point. His fine passionswept him above contingencies.
"Well, then, this morning," he laid down. "The first thing this morningyou should have gone." He supplied detail: "Packed your box, and calleda cab and gone."
His dictatory air drew from her another sad little laugh.
"Oh, George, dear," she cried, "gone where?"
It was a bucket of water dashed upon his flames, and for a moment theyflickered beneath it--then roared again: "_Where? Anywhere!_"
"Oh!" she cried, "you are stupid! You don't see--you don't understand!Easy to say 'anywhere,' but where--_where_? I have no money. I have nofriends--I--"
The knowledge of her plight and her outlook crowded upon her speech;broke her voice.
Her distracted George in a moment had her hands in his. "Oh, my dear,"he cried, "what a fool I am! What a beast to storm like that! I wasso wild. So mad. Of course you had to think before you moved. You wereright, of course you were right. But, my darling, I'm right now. You seethat, don't you? You can't stay a moment longer with those beasts."
And then he laughed grimly. "Especially," he added, "after what I'mgoing to do to Master Bob."
She too laughed. The thought of Bob learning manners beneath the tuitionof those sinewy brown hands that were about hers was very pleasant toher. But it was a pleasure that must be denied--this she saw clearly asthe result of weary tossings throughout the night; and now she set aboutthe task of explaining it to George.
She said: "Oh, my dear, you're not right. Georgie, I can't go--if Mrs.Chater will let me stay I must stay."
He tried to be calm, to understand these women, to understand his Mary."But why?" he asked. "Why?"
"Dearest, because I must bridge over the time until you are ready totake me. You see that?"
"Of course. But why there? You can easily get another place."
"Oh, easily! If you had been through it as I have been! The first thingthey ask you for is a reference from your former situation. Think what areference Mrs. Chater would give me!"
He would not agree. He plunged along in his blundering, man fashion:"In time you could get a place where they would not ask questions--orrather--yes, of course this is it. Tell them frankly all that happened.Who could see you and not believe you? Tell them everything. There mustbe some nice people in the world."
"There may be. But they don't want helps or governesses--in myexperience." The little laugh she gave was sadly doleful.
He was still angry. "You can't generalise like that. There are thousandswho would believe you and be glad to take you. Suppose you have to waita bit--well, you have a little money that she must give you; and I--oh,curse my poverty!--I can borrow, and I can sell things."
The help that a man would give a woman so often has lack of sympathy; heis unkind while meaning to be kind. George's obdurateness, coming whenshe was most in need of kisses, hurt her. Trouble welled in her eyes.
"I wouldn't do that," she said. "For one thing, we want all our money.Why throw it away to get me out of a place in which I shall only befor a few weeks longer? Another thing--another thing--" She draggeda ridiculous handkerchief from her sleeve; dabbed her brimming eyes."Another thing--I'm afraid to risk it. I'm afraid to be alone andlooking for a place again. There--now you know. I'm a coward."
She fell to sniffing and sobbing; and her wretched George, cursinghimself for the grief he had evoked, cursing Bob Chater, cursing Mrs.Chater, cursing his uncle Marrapit, put his arms about her and drew herto him. She quivered hysterically, and he frantically moaned that hewas a beast, a brute, unworthy; implored forgiveness; entreated calm; bysqueezing her with his left arm and with his right hand dabbing her eyeswith her handkerchief, screwed to a pathetic little damp ball, strove tostem the flood that alarmingly welled from them.
VII.
It was an awful position for any young man; and just as my poor George,distinguished in nothing, inept, bewildered, was in a mood murderous tothe whole world save this anguished fairy, a wretched old gentlemanmust needs come sunning himself down the path, making for this seat w
ithhobbling limbs.
He collapsed upon it, and then, glancing to his right, was struck withpalpitations by sight of the heaving back of a young woman over whoseshoulder glared at him with hideous ferocity the face of a young man.
"Dear me, dear me," said he; "nothing wrong, sir, I trust?"
"Go away!" roared my distracted George.
"Eh?" inquired the old gentleman, horribly startled.
"Go away! Go away!"
The fire of those baleful eyes, of that bellowing voice, struck terrorinto the aged heart. He clutched his stick.
"Oh dear, oh dear," said he; hobbled away at a speed dangerous to hislife and limbs to seek protection of a park-keeper.
The sobs grew longer, less hysterical: changed into long "ohs" ofmisery; died away.
"There, there," said George, patting, dabbing. "There, there."
With a final frantic sniff she recovered her self-possession.
"I'm a little f--fool," said she.
"I'm a brute," said George.
The bitter knowledge nerved each to better efforts. Calm reigned.
Mary said, "Now you must listen and believe, dear."
"Let me have your hand, then."
She gave it with a little confiding, snuggling movement, and shecontinued: "You must believe, because I have thought it all out, whereasto you it is new. If I were a proper-spirited girl"--she rebuked hisnegation with a gesture--"if I were a proper-spirited girl I know Ishould leave Mrs. Chater at once--walk out and not care what I mightsuffer rather than stay where I had been insulted. Girls in books woulddo it. Oh, Georgie, this isn't books. This is real. I have been throughit, and I would die sooner than face it again. You know--I have toldyou--what it is like being alone in cheap lodgings in London. Afraid ofpeople, dear. Afraid of men, afraid of women. I couldn't, could not gothrough it again. And after all-don't you see?--if Mrs. Chater willlet me stay, what have I to mind? I shall be better off than before, ifanything. Mrs. Chater has always been--well, sharp. She may be a littleworse--there's nothing in that. But this Bob Chater, since he came, hasbeen the worst part of it. And as things are now, his mother watchfuland he--what shall I say? angry, ashamed--why, he will pay no furtherattention to me. Come, am I not right? Isn't it best?--if only she willlet me stay."