by E. F. Benson
“You do not particularly care for them,” said he.
“No, but they are better than nobody. All day at Harrogate I have nobody. It is not companionship to sit in the room with you and Elsie playing chess. Besides, the Westbournes will be at home. I shall go over there a great deal, I dare say. Also I shall be in my own house, which is comfortable, and which I am fond of. Our lodgings at Harrogate disgust me. They are all oilcloth and plush; there is nowhere to sit when they are clearing away.”
His face was still clouded.
“But it is so odd for a married woman to stop alone like that,” he said.
“I think it is far odder for her husband to want her to spend a month of loneliness and boredom in lodgings,” she said. “Because I have never complained, Wilfred, you think I haven’t detested it. But on thinking it over it seems to me more sensible to tell you how I detest it, and ask you that I shouldn’t go.”
He was silent a moment.
“Very well, little woman,” he said at length. “You shall do as you please.”
Instantly the cold precision of her speech changed. She gave that little sigh of conscious content with which she often woke in the morning, and linked her arm into his again.
“Ah, that is dear of you,” she said. “You are always such a darling to me.”
He was not a man to give grudging consents, or spoil a gift by offering it except with the utmost cordiality.
“I only hope you’ll make a great success of it, little woman,” he said. “And it must be dull for you at Harrogate. So that’s settled, and we’re all satisfied. Let us see if Elsie has come in yet.”
She laughed softly.
“You are a dear,” she said again.
Wilfred Evans was neither analytical regarding himself nor curious about analysis that might account for the action of others. Just as in his professional work he was rather old-fashioned, but eminently safe and sensible, so in the ordinary conduct of his life he did not seek for abstruse causes and subtle motives. It was quite enough for him that his wife felt that she would be excruciatingly bored at Harrogate, and less acutely desolate here. On the other hand, it implied violation of one of the simplest customs of life that a wife should be in one place and her husband in another. That was vaguely disquieting to him. Disquieting also was the cold, precise manner with which she had conducted her case. A dozen times only, perhaps, in all their married life had she assumed this frozen rigidity of demeanour; each time he had succumbed before it. In the ordinary way, if their inclinations were at variance, she would coax and wheedle him into yielding or, though quietly adhering to her own opinion, she would let him have his way. But with her calm rigidity, rarely assumed, he had never successfully combated; there was a steeliness about it that he knew to be stronger than any opposition he could bring to it. Nothing seemed to affect it, neither argument nor conjugal command. She would go on saying “I do not agree with you,” in the manner of cool water dripping on a stone. Or with the same inexorable quietness she would repeat, “I feel very strongly about it: I think it very unkind of you.” And a sufficiency of that always had rendered his opposition impotent: her will, when once really aroused, seemed to paralyse his. Once or twice her line had turned out conspicuously ill. That seemed to make no difference: the cold, precise manner was on higher plane than the material failure which had resulted therefrom. She would merely repeat, “But it was the best thing to do under the circumstances.”
In this instance he wondered a little that she had used this manner over a matter that seemed so little vital as the question of Harrogate, but by next morning he had ceased to concern himself further with it. She was completely her usual self again, and soon after breakfast set off to accomplish some little errands in the town, looking in on him in his laboratory to know if there were any commissions she could do for him. His eye at the moment was glued to his microscope: a culture of staphylococcus absorbed him, and without looking up, he said —
“Nothing, thanks, little woman.”
He heard her pause: then she came across the room to him, and laid her cool hand on his shoulder.
“Wilfred, you are such a dear to me,” she said. “You’re not vexed with me?”
He interrupted his observations, and put his arm round her.
“Vexed?” he said. “I’ll tell you when I’m vexed.”
She smiled at him, dewily, timidly.
“That’s all right, then,” she said.
So her plan was accomplished.
The affair of the staphylococcus did not long detain the doctor, and presently after Major Ames was announced. He had come to consult Dr. Evans with regard to certain gouty symptoms into which the doctor inquired and examined.
“There’s nothing whatever to worry about,” he said, after a very short investigation. “I should recommend you to cut off alcohol entirely, and not eat meat more than once a day. A fortnight’s dieting will probably cure you. And take plenty of exercise. I won’t give you any medicine. There is no use in taking drugs when you can produce the same effect by not taking other things.”
Major Ames fidgeted and frowned a little.
“I was thinking,” he said at length, “of taking myself more thoroughly in hand than that. I’ve never approved of half-measures, and I can’t begin now. If a tooth aches have it out, and be done with it. No fiddling about for me. Now my wife does not want to go away this August, and it seemed to me that it would be a very good opportunity for me to go, as you do, I think, and take a course of waters. Get rid of the tendency, don’t you know, eradicate it. What do you say to that? Harrogate now; I was thinking of Harrogate, if you approved. Harrogate does wonders for gout, does it not?”
The doctor laughed.
“I am certainly hoping that Harrogate will do wonders for me,” he said. “I go there every year. And no doubt many of us who are getting on in years would be benefited by it. But your symptoms are very slight. I think you will soon get rid of them if you follow the course I suggest.”
But Major Ames showed a strange desire for Harrogate.
“Well, I like to do things thoroughly,” he said. “I like getting rid of a thing root and branch, you know. You see I may not get another opportunity. Amy likes me to go with her on her holiday in August, but there is no reason why I should stop in Riseborough. I haven’t spoken to her yet, but if I could say that you recommended Harrogate, I’m sure she would wish me to go. Indeed, she would insist on my going. She is often anxious about my gouty tendencies, more anxious, as I often tell her, than she has any need to be. But an aunt of hers had an attack which went to her heart quite unexpectedly, and killed her, poor thing. I think, indeed, it would be a weight off Amy’s mind if she knew I was going to take myself thoroughly in hand, not tinker and peddle about with diet only. So would you be able to recommend me to go to Harrogate?”
“A course of Harrogate wouldn’t be bad for any of us who eat a good dinner every night,” said Dr. Evans. “But I think that if you tried—”
Major Ames got up, waving all further discussion aside.
“That’s enough, doctor,” he said. “If it would do me good, I know Amy would wish me to go; you know what wives are. Now I’m pressed for time this morning, and so I am sure are you. By the way, you needn’t mention my plan till I’ve talked it over with Amy. But about lodgings, now. Do you recommend lodgings or an hotel?”
Dr. Evans did not mention that his wife was not going to be with him this year, for, having obtained permission to say that Harrogate would do him good, Major Ames had developed a prodigious hurry, and a few moments after was going jauntily home, with the address of Dr. Evans’ lodgings in his pocket. He trusted to his own powers of exaggeration to remove all possible opposition on his wife’s part, and felt himself the devil of a diplomatist.
So his plan was arranged.
The third factor in this network of misconceived plots occurred the same morning. Mrs. Ames, visiting the High Street on account of an advanced melon, met Cousin Mil
lie on some similar errand to the butcher’s on account of advanced cutlets, for the weather was trying. It was natural that she announced her intention of remaining in Riseborough with her family during August: it was natural also that Cousin Millie signified the remission from Harrogate. Cousin Amy was cordial on the subject, and returned home. Probably she would have mentioned this fact to her husband, if he had given her time to do it. But he was bursting with a more immediate communication.
“I didn’t like to tell you before, Amy,” he said, “because I didn’t want to make you unnecessarily anxious. And there’s no need for anxiety now.”
Mrs. Ames was not very imaginative, but it occurred to her that the newly-planted magnolia had not been prospering.
“No real cause for anxiety,” he said. “But the fact is that I went to see Dr. Evans this morning — don’t be frightened, my dear — and got thoroughly overhauled by him, thoroughly overhauled. He said there was no reason for anxiety, assured me of it. But I’m gouty, my dear, there’s no doubt of it, and of course you remember about your poor Aunt Harriet. Well, there it is. And he says Harrogate. A bore, of course, but Harrogate. But no cause for anxiety: he told me so twice.”
Mrs. Ames gave one moment to calm, clear, oysterlike reflection, unhurried, unalarmed. There was no shadow of reason why she should tell him what Mrs. Evans’ plans were. But it was odd that she should suddenly decide to stop in Riseborough, instead of going to Harrogate, having heard from Harry that the Ames’ were to remain at home, and Lyndhurst as suddenly be impelled to go to Harrogate, instead of stopping in Riseborough. A curious coincidence. Everybody seemed to be making plans. At any rate she would not add to their number, but only acquiesce in those which were made.
“My dear Lyndhurst, what an upset!” she said. “Of course, if you tell me there is no cause for anxiety, I will not be anxious. Does Dr. Evans recommend you to go to Harrogate now? You must tell me all he said. They always go in August, do they not? That will be pleasant for you. But I am afraid you will find the waters far from palatable.”
Major Ames felt that he had not made a sufficiently important impression.
“Of course, I told Dr. Evans I could decide nothing till I had consulted you,” he said. “It seems a great break-up to leave you and Harry here and go away like this. It was that I was thinking of, not whether waters are palatable or not. I have more than half a mind not to go. I daresay I shall worry through all right without.”
Again Mrs. Ames made a little pause.
“You must do as Dr. Evans tells you to do,” she said. “I am sure he is not faddy or fussy.”
Major Ames’ experience of him this morning fully endorsed this. Certainly he had been neither, whatever the difference between the two might be.
“Well, my dear, if both you and Dr. Evans are agreed,” he said, “I mustn’t set myself up against you.”
“Now did he tell you where to go?”
“He gave me the address of his own lodgings.”
“What a convenient arrangement! Now, my dear, I beg you to waste no time. Send off a telegram, and pay the reply, and we’ll pack you off to-morrow. I am sure it is the right thing to do.”
A sudden conviction, painfully real, that he was behaving currishly, descended on Major Ames. The feeling was so entirely new to him that he would have liked to put it down to an obsession of gout in a new place — the conscience, for instance, for he could hardly believe that he should be self-accused of paltry conduct. He felt as if there must be some mistake about it. He almost wished that Amy had made difficulties; then there would have been the compensatory idea that she was behaving badly too. But she could not have conducted herself in a more guilelessly sympathetic manner; she seemed to find no inherent improbability in Dr. Evans having counselled Harrogate, no question as to the advisability of following his advice. It was almost unpleasant to him to have things made so pleasant.
But then this salutary impression was effaced, for anything that savoured of self-reproach could not long find harbourage in his mind. Instead, he pictured himself at Harrogate station, welcoming the Evans’. She would probably be looking rather tired and fragile after the journey, but he would have a cab ready for her, and tea would be awaiting them when they reached the lodgings. . . .
CHAPTER IX
A week later Mrs. Ames was sitting at breakfast, with Harry opposite her, expecting the early post, and among the gifts of the early post a letter from her husband. He had written one very soon after his arrival at Harrogate, saying that he felt better already. The waters, as Amy had conjectured, could not be described as agreeable, since their composition chiefly consisted of those particular ingredients which gave to rotten eggs their characteristic savour, but what, so said the valiant, did a bad taste in the mouth matter, if you knew it was doing you good? An excellent band encouraged the swallowing of this disagreeable fluid, and by lunch-time baths and drinking were over for the day. He was looking forward to the Evans’ arrival; it would be pleasant to see somebody he knew. He would write again before many days.
The post arrived; there was a letter for her in the Major’s large sprawling handwriting, and she opened it. But it was scarcely a letter: a blister of expletives covered the smoking pages . . . and the Evans’ — two of them — had arrived.
Mrs. Ames’ little toadlike face seldom expressed much more than a ladylike composure, but had Harry been watching his mother he might have thought that a shade of amusement hovered there.
“A letter from your father,” she said. “Rather a worried letter. The cure is lowering, I believe, and makes you feel out of sorts.”
Harry was looking rather yellow and dishevelled. He had sat up very late the night before, and the chase for rhymes had been peculiarly fatiguing and ineffectual.
“I don’t feel at all well, either,” he said. “And I don’t think Cousin Millie is well.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Ames composedly.
“I went to see her yesterday and she didn’t attend. She seemed frightfully surprised to hear that father had gone to Harrogate.”
“I suppose Dr. Evans had not told her,” remarked Mrs. Ames. “Please telephone to her after breakfast, Harry, and ask her to dine with us this evening.”
“Yes. How curious women are! One day they seem so glad to see you, another you are no more to them than foam on a broken wave.”
This was one of the fragments of last night.
“On a broken what?” asked Mrs. Ames. The rustling of the turning leaf of the Morning Post had caused her not to hear. There was no sarcastic intention in her inquiry.
“It does not matter,” said Harry.
His mother looked up at him.
“I should take a little dose, dear,” she said, “if you feel like that. The heat upsets us all at times. Will you please telephone now, Harry? Then I shall know what to order for dinner.”
Mrs. Ames’ nature was undeniably a simple one; she had no misty profundities or curious dim-lit clefts on the round, smooth surface of her life, but on occasion simple natures are capable of curious complexities of feeling, the more elusive because they themselves are unable to register exactly what they do feel. Certainly she saw a connection between the non-arrival of dear Millie at Harrogate and the inflamed letter from her husband. She had suspected also a connection between dear Millie’s decision to spend August at Riseborough and her belief that Major Ames was going to do so too. But the completeness of the fiasco sucked the sting out of the resentment she might otherwise have felt: it was impossible to be angry with such sorry conspirators. At the same time, with regard to her husband, she felt the liveliest internal satisfaction at his blistering communication, and read it through again. The thought of her own slighted or rather unperceived rejuvenescence added point to this; she felt that he had been “served out.” Not for a moment did she suspect him of anything but the most innocent of flirtations, and she was disposed to credit dear Millie with having provoked such flirtation as there was. By this time also it mus
t have been quite clear to both the thwarted parties that she was in full cognizance of their futile designs; clearly, therefore, her own beau rôle was to appear utterly unconscious of it all, and, unconsciously, to administer nasty little jabs to each of them with a smiling face. “They have been making sillies of themselves,” expressed her indulgent verdict on the whole affair. Then in some strange feminine way she felt a sort of secret pride in her husband for having had the manhood to flirt, however mildly, with somebody else’s wife; but immediately there followed the resentment that he had not shown any tendency to flirt with his own, when she had encouraged him. But, anyhow, he had chosen the prettiest woman in Riseborough, and he was the handsomest man.
But her mood changed; the thought at any rate of administering some nasty little jabs presented itself in a growingly attractive light. The two sillies had been wanting to dance to their own tune; they should dance to hers instead, and by way of striking up her own tune at once she wrote as follows, to her husband.
“MY DEAREST LYNDHURST,
“I can’t tell you how glad I was to get your two letters, and to know how much good Harrogate is doing you. What an excellent thing that you went to Dr. Evans (please remember me to him), and that he insisted so strongly on your taking yourself thoroughly in hand.”
She paused a moment, wondering exactly how strong this insistence had been. It was possible that it was not very strong. So much the more reason for letting the sentence stand. She now underlined the words “so strongly.”
“Of course the waters are disgusting to take, and I declare I can almost smell them when I read your vivid description, but, as you said in your first letter, what is a bad taste in the mouth when you know it is doing you good? And your second letter convinces me how right you were to go, and when things like gout begin to come out, it naturally makes you feel a little low and worried. I want you to stop there the whole of August, and get thoroughly rid of it.