by W. W. Jacobs
She gasped: "Mr. Marrapit's face--!"
He gasped: "Mrs. Major's--!"
The exhaustion of their mirth gave them pause at last. George wiped hisrunning eyes; Mary tremendously blew her little nose, patted her goldhair where it eagerly straggled.
"I feel better after that," George said.
She told him, "So do I--heaps. It's no good being miserable over what ispast, is it, dear?"
"Not a bit; not the slightest. Come and sit on the sofa and let's seewhere we are." She put that golden head upon his manly shoulder; hefetched his right arm about her; she nursed her hands upon the brownfist that came into her lap; that other brown hand he set upon thethree.
Together they viewed their prospects--gloomy pictures.
"But we're fairly in the cart," George summed up. "We are, you know."
His ridiculous Mary gave him that lovers' ridiculous specific. "We'vegot each other," she told him, snuggling to him.
George kissed her. He fumbled in his pockets. "I've got just about threepounds--over from what Marrapit gave me for the clue-hunting. I say,Mary, it's pretty awful."
She snuggled the closer.
Early evening, tip-toeing through the window, was drawing her duskyhangings about the room when at length George withdrew the brown hands;stirred.
II.
Upon a little sigh Mary let go the string that held the dreams she hadbeen dreaming. Like a great gay bundle of many-coloured toy balloonssuddenly released, they soared away. She came to the desperate present;noted her George filling his pipe.
He got upon his legs; paced the floor, puffing.
It was his characteristic pose when he was most tremendous. She watchedthis tremendous fellow adoringly.
He told her: "I've settled it all, Marykins. I've fixed it all up. We'llpull through right as rain." He caught the admiring glance in his Mary'seye; inhaled and gusted forth a huge breath of smoke; repeated the finesentence. "We'll pull through right as rain."
"Dear George!" she softly applauded.
He pushed ahead. "There's this locum tenens I was going to take up inthe North. I haven't offed that yet--haven't refused it, I mean. Well,I shall take it. The screw's pretty rotten, but up in the North--in theNorth, you know--well, it's not like London. It's cheap--frightfullycheap. You can live on next to nothing--"
She pushed out the irritating, practical, womanish side of her. "_Can_you? How do you _know_, Georgie?"
We men hate these pokes at our knowledge; women will not understandgeneralisations. George jerked back: "How do I _know_? Oh, don'tinterrupt like that, Mary. Everybody knows that living is cheap in theNorth--in the _North_."
"Of course," she excused herself. "Of course, dear, I see."
"Well, where was I? Frightfully cheap, so the screw won't matter. I'lltake the job, dearest. I'll take it for next month. And--listen--we'llmarry and go up there together and live in some ripping little rooms.There!"
She was flaming pink; could only breathe: "Georgie, _dear!_"
He stopped his pacing to give her a squeezing hug, a kiss upon thetop of the gold hair. Then he went through the steps of a wild dance."Marry!" he cried. "Marry, old girl, and let everybody go hang! We'llhave to work it through a registrar. I'm not quite sure how it's done,but I'll find out tomorrow. I know you both have to have been residentin the place for a week or so--I'll fix all that. Then we'll peg alongup in the North; and we'll look out for whatever turns up, and we'llsave, and in time we'll buy a practice just like Runnygate."
Now he sat beside his Mary again; with a tremendous brush painted inmore details of this entrancing picture. Every doubt, every difficultyhe threw to tomorrow--that glad sea in which youth casts its everytrouble. Was he sure he still had the refusal of this locum?--rather!but he would make certain, tomorrow. Was he sure they both could liveupon the salary?-rather! he would prove it to-morrow. Could they reallyget married at a registrar's within a few days?-rather! he'd fix that upto-morrow. As to the money necessary for the marriage, necessary to tideover the days till the locum was taken up, why, he knew he could borrowthat--from the Dean or from Professor Wyvern--to-morrow.
They were upon the very crest and flood of their delight when Georgenoted the gathering dusk.
"I say, it's getting late!" he exclaimed. "I must fix it up with Mrs.Pinking. We've made no arrangement with her yet."
Mary agreed: "Yes, dear." She went on, pretty eyes shining, face aglow:"Oh, Georgie, think of the last time you brought me here! I had nothingto expect but going out to work again; and you weren't qualified. Andnow--now, although we've lost our little Runnygate home" (she could notstop a tiny sigh), "we're actually going to be married in a few days!Georgie, I shan't sleep for hoping everything will turn out all rightto-morrow."
"It will," George told her. "It will. Right as rain, old girl."
Her great sigh of contentment advertised the drink she took of thatsparkling future. "Think of us being together always in a week orso--belonging! Where will you stay till then? Quite close. Get a roomquite close, Georgie?"
He stared at her. "Why, you old goose, I'm not going."
She echoed him: "Not going?"
"Of course not. I'm going to get a bedroom here, and we'll have all ourmeals and everything in here. We're not going to part again, Marykins.Not much!"
That maddening handicap beneath which the sweetest women trudge shackledMary, deluged this joy.
"Oh, Georgie!" she said; and again trembled, "Oh, Georgie!"
My impulsive George scented the damp. "Well?" he asked. "Well?Whatever's--?"
"Oh, Georgie, you can't have a room here. We can't have all our mealstogether here?"
He realised the trouble. He broke out: "Why ever not? Why ever--?"
"It wouldn't be _right_! Georgie, it _wouldn't_ be right!"
Her impulsive George choked for words. "Not right! 'Pon my soul, Mary, Isimply don't understand you sometimes. Not _right! Why_ isn't it right?"
It was so difficult to tell. "You don't understand, dear--"
"No, I'm damned if I do. I'm sorry, Mary, but you are so funny, youwomen. It's so exasperating after the--the devil of a day I've had. Justwhen I've fixed up everything you turn round and"--he threw out an angryhand--"_Why_ isn't it right?"
This poor little Mary clung to her little principles. "Don't you see?we're engaged, dear; and being engaged, we oughtn't to live alone likethis. People would--"
He began to rave. Certainly he had had a devil of a day; and this was amaddening buffet.
"People!" he cried. "People! People! You're always thinking of people,you women! Who's to know? Who on earth's to know?"
The instinct of generations of training gave her the instinctive replyin the instinctive sweet little tone: "We should know, Georgie," shesaid.
He flung up his arms: "Oh, good God!"
He swallowed his boiling irritation; laughed 'spite himself; went tohis Mary. "Mary, don't be such an utter, utter goose. It's too, tooridiculous."
She took his kiss; but she held her stupid little ground.
"It wouldn't be right, Georgie, _really_!"
Her George clanged the bell with a furious stroke that brought Mrs.Pinking in panic up the stairs. Holding himself very straight, speakingin sentences short and hard, paying to his Mary no smallest attention,he made the arrangements. Miss Humfray would take on her bedroom again.By the week. If Mrs. Pinking would be so kind as to allow them the sameterms. He thanked her. That was settled, then. He would look in in themorning. He would say good night, Mrs. Pinking.
Mrs. Pinking gave him good night; busied herself with the tea-things.
Her presence enabled this brutal George to preserve his stony bearing;denied his pretty Mary opportunity to melt him with her tears.
Hard as flint, "Well, good night," he said to her. "I'll look into-morrow morning."
Upon a little sniff, "Good night," she whispered; strangled an "Oh,George! George!"
She followed him to the door. He was down the stairs before she couldcom
mand her voice for: "Where shall you go, George?"
With the reckless fury of one who sets forth to plunge into the river,he called back, "I? I? Oh, _anywhere--anywhere_. Who cares where _I_go?"
The hall door slammed.
* * * * *
Late into that night while a young woman sobbed her pretty eyes out upona pillow in a back room of Meath Street, Battersea, a young man, whofuriously had been pacing London, paced and repaced the street from endto end, gazing the windows of the house where she lay. This young manmuttered, gesticulated, groaned. "Oh, damn!" was his song. "Oh, Mary!Oh, what a cursed brute I am!"
It was a bitter ending to a fearful day.
CHAPTER VII.
Mr. William Wyvern In Meath Street.
I.
George spent the night--such of it as remained after his bitter moaningsoutside his Mary's lodging--with the Mr. Franklyn who had accompaniedhim on that little "stroll up west" that had terminated in the cabadventure nearly three months before. Of all his student friends whowould give him a bed, Mr. Franklyn, because in a way associated withhis Mary, had come most prominently into his mind. That same associationgave him a lead from which to pour out his reply to Mr. Franklyn'srallying, as they sat at supper, upon his gloom.
"You remember that day after the July exam, when we went up westtogether?" he began.
Mr. Franklyn remembered; in some gloom shook his head over therecollection. "That waitress you left me with in the shop," said Mr.Franklyn sadly, "she--"
"Oh, hang the waitress! Listen, Franklyn, After I left you I turnedup past the Marble Arch--" He proceeded with some account of the lovebetween him and his Mary; skipped all details relating to the cat; cameto the impending marriage; sought advice upon the prospects of a manmarrying on a locum's earnings.
Mr. Franklyn listened with great sympathy. "It's a rum thing you shouldbe placed like that, George," he said. "I'm in just the same position."
George exclaimed eagerly--in love, youth warms to a companion--"Youare!"
"Well, not exactly," Mr. Franklyn admitted. "Very nearly. I've gotmyself into a brute of a fix over a girl in the lager-beer garden atEarl's Court. She--"
George bounced from the table, seized his hat. "Who cares a damn aboutyour lager-beer girls?" he shouted; slammed from the house.
It was then, while Mr. Franklyn laboriously indited a letter in reply toone received from the lager-beer girl's mother, that George paced MeathStreet.
II.
At breakfast with Mr. Franklyn upon the following morning, he was inbrighter trim--apologised for his over-night abruptness; apologised forthe hasty meal he was making; announced that he was off to see his Mary.
As he lit his pipe, "I'll see you at hospital this morning some time,old chap," he said. "I shall dash in to fix up with the Dean abouttaking Bingham's place in that practice up in Yorkshire."
Mr. Franklyn prodded for another slice of bacon. "You can't, old chap,"he remarked. "That's filled."
George shouted: "Filled! What do you mean?"
"Why, taken--gone. Simpson's got it--ten days ago."
An icy chill smote my poor George. After the dreadful loss ofRunnygate everything had depended upon this appointment with its salaryconsiderably above the average.
"Simpson! Simmy got it!" he shouted. "What the blazes does Simmy mean bytaking it? He knew I was after it."
"My good lad, you never came near the place after you'd qualified. IfSimmy hadn't taken it someone else would. Bingham was in a hurry."
Blankly George stared before him. At length, "I suppose there areseveral other jobs going?" he asked.
"None on the Dean's list," said Mr. Franklyn. "I was looking at it lastnight."
Beneath this new distress George postponed the burning desire to clasphis Mary in his arms and beg forgiveness. He hurried to hospital; madefor the Dean's office. Here disaster was confirmed. Simpson had alreadytaken the Yorkshire place; the Dean had no other posts on his lists."Only this Runnygate practice," he said. "I haven't seen you since youqualified. Can you raise the price?"
George, rising and making for the door, could only shake his head. Therewas something at his throat that forbade speech. Runnygate and all thatRunnygate meant--the dear little home, the tight little practice, thetremendous future--was a bitter picture now that it was so utterly lost;now that even this place in Yorkshire was also gone.
He shook his head.
"Great pity!" the Dean told him. "I've kept it for you. Lawrence, theman who's leaving it, is coming to see me at five this evening. I shallhave to help him find another purchaser."
III.
The infernal something in George's throat gripped the harder as he tookhis way to his Mary. He cursed himself for that hideous cat enterprise.Had he never undertaken it, had he continued instead to entreat andimplore, there was always the chance that his uncle would have relentedand advanced the money sufficient for Runnygate.
As things were, he stood for ever damned in his uncle's eyes; further,by his folly he had encompassed his darling Mary's ejection from a homewhere she might comfortably have stayed till he was in position to marryher; further, he had just missed the assistantship which, to his presentframe of mind, seemed the sole post in the world that would give himsufficient upon which to call his Mary wife.
The desperate thoughts augmented his fearful remorse at his treatmentof her overnight. Arrived at Meath Street, admitted by Mrs. Pinking, hebounded up the stairs, tremendous in his agony of love.
His Mary had her pretty nose pressed flat against the window. With dimeyes she had been gazing for her George in the opposite direction fromthat he had approached.
He closed the door behind him.
"Mary!" he called, arms outstretched.
Into them she flung herself.
They locked in a hug so desperate as only love itself could have borne.
He poured out his remorse; beside him on the sofa she patted those brownhands. He told his gloomy tale; she patted the more lovingly--assuredhim that, if the Yorkshire place had failed, something equally goodwould turn up.
But he was in desperate despondency. "It's all that infernal cat, Mary,"he groaned; she kissed that knotted forehead.
He asked her: "By the way, where's that other brute?--the beast webrought here with us?"
She peered low. "I've just fed the poor thing."
Attracted by her movement, that orange cat which had wrought the fearfuldisaster came forth from beneath the table.
"G-r-r-r!" George growled; stamped his foot.
The orange cat again took shelter.
"Ah, don't frighten it, dear," Mary told him. "It's done no harm."
George rose. He was too tremendously moved to contain himself whileseated. "Done no harm!" he cried. He took a step to the window. "Doneno--" He stopped short. "Oh, Lord! I say, Mary! Oh, Lord! here's Bill!"
Mary fluttered to his side; saw Bill Wyvern disappear beneath the porchof the door.
A knock; shuffling in the passage; footsteps up the stairs.
"By Gad! I'd forgotten all about old Bill," George said.
Then Bill entered.
CHAPTER VIII.
Abishag The Shunamite In Meath Street.
I.
The most tremendous crises between man and man commonly begin withexchange of the customary banalities. Charlotte Corday gave Marat_"Bonsoir, citoyen,"_ ere she drove her knife. This was no cloak to hideher purpose. We are so much creatures of convention that the man whosets out, hell in breast, to avenge himself upon another, cannot forbearto give him greeting before ever he comes upon the matter between them.
George, involuntarily straightening his back as he remembered howdesperately he had hoodwinked this Bill, had upon a fool's errand packedhim to that inn, as involuntarily passed him the customary words.
"Hullo, Bill!" he said. "How on earth did you know I was here?"
He awaited the burst of reproach; the torrent of fury.
These did not come. A
bout Bill's mouth, as from George to Mary heglanced, there were the lines of amusement; no menace lay in his clearblue eyes.
"Went to look for you at the hospital," Bill replied. "Met that manFranklyn, and he told me you very probably were here."
George pushed ahead with the banalities. "Surprised to see MissHumfray here?" he asked. "You met her, of course, at my uncle'swhile--while"--this was dangerous ground, and he hurried over it--"whileI was away," he said quickly; blew his nose.
Bill told him: "Yes. Not a bit surprised." The creases of amusementbecame more evident. He shook Mary's hand.
"Ah!" George said. "Um! Quite so. Sit down, Bill."
They took seats. Constraint was upon these people; each sat upon theextreme edge of the chair selected.
After a pause, "You've been to Herons' Holt, then?" George remarked.
"Yesterday. Yesterday night."
"Ah! Yesterday. Thursday, so to speak. Um! Margaret quite well?"
"Quite."
The deadly pause came on again. Mary looked appealing to her George.George, his right boot in a patch of sunlight, earnestly was watching itas, twisting it this way and that, the polish caught the rays.
It lay with herself to make a thrust through this fearful silence. Upona timid little squeak she shot out: "Mr. Marrapit quite well?"
"Quite," Bill told her. "Quite. A little bit--" He checked; again thesilence fell.