Chapter XIII: The Feast of St John Baptist (6)

“No, no, sir; not a hint--not an idea. You’ll see later on that she couldn’t have had the least idea. But there it was--tailors! And what the dickens was poor George Langhorn to do? He took one view, I urged the other. His was the high-flying line. He must tell her the whole truth before he breathed as much as a word of love to her! Fatal, of course, but he said it was the only line an honourable man could take. I denied that. I said: ‘Tell her you love her first. Get her consent--because you will get it. Let the matter rest for a week or two--let her love grow, let the thing become fully settled and accepted, so that to break it off would cause talk and so on. Then, when it’s all settled, just casually observe, in a laughing kind of way, that you’re sorry she has a prejudice against a certain estimable occupation, because you happen to be indirectly connected with it.’ Machiavellian, you’ll say, no doubt; but effective, very effective! ‘Indirectly connected’ I consider was justifiable. Yes, I do. I am, as I said a little while ago, a director of a grocery business, but I don’t consider myself directly--not directly--connected with lard and sugar. No, I didn’t go beyond the limits of honour, though possibly I skirted them. In helping one’s friends, one does. However, George wouldn’t have it, and at last I had to be content with a compromise. He wasn’t to speak of the business before he spoke of love, nor to speak of love before he spoke of the business. He was to speak of them both at once. That was what we decided.”

“Rather difficult,” commented the new member, with that reflective smile which I began to recognise as habitual.

“Pray, sir, would you expect such a thing to be easy?” demanded the Colonel, with an approach to warmth. “We did the best we could, sir, under exceptionally awkward and delicate circumstances.” The Colonel leant back again and took a sip of barley-water. That is his tipple.

We all waited in silence for the Colonel to resume his narrative. I remember that, owing perhaps to the associations of the subject, my regard was fixed on the new member’s grey trousers, to which he himself continued to pay a thoughtful attention. The Colonel took up the tale again in impressive tones.

“It has been my lot,” he said, “to witness many instances of the perverse working of what we call fate or destiny, and of the cruel freaks which it plays with us poor human creatures. I may mention, just in passing, the case of my old friend Major Vincent, who, himself a vegetarian, married a woman whom he subsequently discovered to be constitutionally unable so much as to sit in the same room with a cabbage. But neither that case nor any other within my experience equals the story which I am now telling you. You will agree with me when you hear the _dénoûement_, which is of a nature impossible for any of you to anticipate.”

“I think I know it,” observed the new member.

“It’s impossible that you should, sir,” said the Colonel firmly, though courteously: “and when you have heard me out, you yourself will be the first to admit as much. Where was I? Ah, I remember. Well, George Langhorn left me in the condition which I have attempted to describe, and with the understanding which I have mentioned. How, precisely, he carried out that understanding, I am, of course, unable to say, as his interview with Miss Welford was naturally a private one, and he never volunteered any detailed account of it, while it would have been absolute cruelty to press him on the subject; for if his state of mind was lamentable when he left me, it was as nothing to the dismay and horror which held possession of him on his return some two hours later. He rushed into my room really like a man distraught--I am in the habit of measuring my words, and I don’t use that one unadvisedly--plumped himself down on my sofa, and ejaculated: ‘Merciful heavens, she owns half the Sky-high!’”

At this climax--for such his manner obviously indicated it to be--the Colonel looked round on us in sombre triumph. We were all gravely attentive (except the new member, who still smiled), and the Colonel continued, well satisfied with the effect which he had produced.

“There’s fate for you, if you like!” he exclaimed, with uplifted forefinger. “There’s the impossibility of evading destiny or escaping from a foreordained environment! Out of all the girls in the world, George had fixed his affections on that particular one; he had gone straight to her, as it were; and, for my part, I can’t doubt that the very thing he hated, and she hated too, had, all the same, served in some mysterious way to bring them together. And there was the situation! Not only was George, as a man, forbidden the escape which he had prayed for, but Stretchley’s was brought into contact with the ‘Sky-high Tailoring Company’! No doubt you are all familiar with its advertisements--chubby boys in sailor suits, square-legged little girls in velveteen, dress-suits at thirty-seven and sixpence! I need not enlarge on the subject; it’s distasteful. It is enough to say that any connection between Stretchley’s and the Sky-high was to George’s mind almost unthinkable. Observe, then, the curious and distressing psychological situation. As a man, he hated Stretchley’s; as Stretchley’s, he loathed and despised the Sky-high. His love--his most unfortunate love--was in conflict at once with his personal feelings and with his professional pride. And what of her? When he grew calmer, George entered on that subject with some fulness. She had suffered, exactly as he had, from the obsession of the family business, in the shadow of which she had been bred, to a half-share in which she had succeeded on her father’s death. In early days, before fortune came, she had even been dressed from the stock! Like George, she had looked to marriage for a complete change of life and associations. It was not to be. And, more than that, she was acutely conscious of what George must feel. Her training and the family atmosphere had not failed to teach her that. She knew only too well how Stretchley’s would feel towards the Sky-high. And George was Stretchley’s, and she was the Sky-high! One sometimes reads of _mésalliances_ in the papers or meets them among one’s acquaintance. Never have I met one like this. The very fact of the occupation being in essence the same intensified the discrepancy and the contrast. Which, gentlemen, would surprise and, I may say, shock you more--that a duke should marry oil or soap, or that a really first-class purveyor should take his bride from a fried fish shop? No man of perception can hesitate. It is within the bounds of the same occupation that the greatest contrasts, the greatest distance, the greatest gulfs of feeling are to be found. I value an otherwise painful experience because it exhibited that philosophic truth in so vivid and striking a manner. You would sooner ask the Commander-in-Chief to lend a hand with a wheelbarrow than propose to him to take command of a corporal’s guard. Your _chef_ would no doubt put on the coals to oblige a lady, but not to oblige a thousand ladies would he wash the dishes!”

“I daresay that’s all true,” I made bold to observe, “but, nevertheless, your pair of lovers seem to me rather ridiculous.”

“Exactly, sir,” said the Colonel--and I was relieved that he took my interruption so well. “They would seem to you ridiculous. Probably the _chef_ seems ridiculous too? A man of another profession can’t have the feeling in its full intensity. It seems ridiculous! But think--doesn’t that very fact increase the tragedy? To suffer from a feeling deep and painful, and to be aware that it is in the eyes of the world at large ridiculous--can you imagine anything more distressing?”

“Your story illustrates more than one great truth, I perceive, Colonel.”

“If it did not, sir, I should never have troubled you with it,” he answered with lofty courtesy.

“And what happened? Did love triumph over all?”

“I hesitate to describe the issue in those terms,” said he, with a slight frown. “They are conventional--designedly, no doubt--and I don’t think that they fit this particular case. George and Miss Welford were, beyond question, deeply attached to one another, and they got married in due course--nor am I aware that the marriage has turned out otherwise than well in the ordinary sense. Mrs Langhorn is a very charming woman. But was it a triumph of love? I look deeper, gentlemen. In my view love was but an instrument in the hands of Fate. The triumph was the triumph of Fate, and I am persuaded that, when they went to the altar, resignation to destiny was the most prominent feeling in the minds of both of them. That is why I said at the beginning that the story was rather a sad one. The very night before the wedding I found George poring over the Sky-high’s illustrated catalogue! What does that fact carry to your minds?”

“It looks bad,” I admitted, with a sigh.

“It speaks volumes,” said the Colonel briefly, and he finished his barley-water.

The new member flung the end of his cigar into the grate and rose to his feet. His face still wore the reflective smile which had decorated it throughout the Colonel’s story.

“And what,” I asked the Colonel, “are the present relations between Stretchley’s and the Sky-high?”

“It would be curious to know,” he answered; “but as to that I have no information. I’ve never ventured to interrogate George Langhorn on the point.”

“I think I can answer the question,” said the new member, flicking an ash off his trousers. “The two companies were privately amalgamated last week. I drew the articles of association myself. Mr Langhorn is to be chairman of the joint concern.”

The Colonel might plausibly have resented a silence so long maintained as to border on deceit. He showed no anger. He nodded his head gravely, as though to say: “Here is the Epilogue! Here is the Catastrophe complete!”

“Stretchley’s and the Sky-high!” he murmured. “Poor George Langhorn! Poor George!”

I went home to dinner really quite depressed.

PRUDENCE AND THE BISHOP

Miss Prudence was astonishingly pretty; it was far from tedious to lie on the bank of the stream and watch her, while her second brother--a lanky youth of fifteen--fished for non-existent trout with an entirely unplausible fly.

“So Clara Jenkins said that about me?”

I nodded. “Just let it fall, you know, Miss Prudence, in the give-and-take of conversation.”

“If you weren’t a stranger in our neighbourhood, you wouldn’t pay any attention to what a girl like that says.”

“Oh, but it was about you,” I protested.

Prudence looked at me as if she were thinking that I might have been amusing when I was young.

“What was the word Clara used?” she asked.

“There were two words. ‘Calculating’ was one.”

“Oh, was it?”

“Yes. The other was ‘heartless.’”

“I like that! It’s only what mamma tells me.”

“Your mother tells you?” My tone indicated great surprise: her mother is the vicar’s wife, and the alleged counsel seemed unpastoral.

“Yes--and it’s quite right too,” Prudence maintained. “You know how poor we are. And there are eight of us!”

“Five and three?”

“Yes: Johnny at Oxford, Dick at school, and Clarence to go soon! And the girls--you know what girls cost, anyhow!”

“They vary, I suppose?”

“Just you talk to mamma about that!”

That didn’t seem urgent. “Another time,” I murmured, “I shall be pleased to exchange impressions.”

I don’t think Prudence heard. She was looking very thoughtful, a minute wrinkle ornamenting her brow.

“The boys must have their education; the girls must have justice done to them.”

“To be sure! And so----?”

“And why shouldn’t one fall in love with a man who--who----”

“Would be delighted to do all that?”

“Of course he’d be delighted. I mean a man who--who _could_ do it.”

“Rich?”

“Papa says differences in worldly position are rightly ordained.”

“No doubt he’s correct. Your man would have to be quite rich, wouldn’t he? Seven besides you!”

“Oh, we aren’t accustomed to much,” said Prudence, with a smile at me which somehow made me wish for a cheque-book and an immense amount of tact; a balance at the bank we will presuppose.

“And may I ask,” I resumed, “why you are selected out of all the family for this--er--sacrifice?”

She blushed, but she was wary. “I’m the eldest girl, you see,” she said.

“Just so,” I agreed. “I was very stupid not to think of that.”

“The others are so young.”

“Of course. It would be waiting till it was too late?”

“Yes, Mr Wynne.”

I interpolate here a plain statement of fact. The other girls resemble their mother, and the vicar’s type, reproduced in Miss Prudence, is immeasurably the more refined--not to say picturesque.

“Oh, if you won’t be serious!” sighed Prudence--though, as has been seen, I had said nothing.

“It certainly is not a laughing matter,” I admitted.

“How difficult the world is! Was Sir John at the Jenkins’s?”

“Sir John?”

“Sir John Ffolliot--of Ascombe, you know.”

“Tall red-faced young man?”

“Yes, very--I mean, rather. Rather tall, anyhow.”

“Oh yes, he was there.”

“When Clara talked about me?”

“So far as I recollect, he was not in earshot at that moment, Miss Prudence. But then I wasn’t in earshot while she talked to him. So possibly----”

“Now she really is a cat, isn’t she?”

“I haven’t the smallest doubt of it. But you must make allowances.”

“I do. Still I can’t see why plain people are to say just what they like!”

“Nobody minds them,” I observed consolingly.

The conversation flagged for a moment or two. That didn’t matter; one can always look at the view.

“Is my hat crooked?” asked Miss Prudence with affected anxiety.

“I should say you’d get him, if you really want him,” I remarked.

My thoughts were switched off in another direction by Miss Prudence’s next utterance. I don’t complain of that; it was probably rightly ordained, as the vicar would have said; there’s something in a meadow and a river that resists middle age--and I don’t know that a blue frock, with eyes to match, and hair that----

“Do you happen to know how much a bishop gets?” asked Prudence.

“Not precisely, Miss Prudence. It varies, I believe--like what girls cost. All I know is that it’s never enough for the needs of his diocese.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” She looked rather troubled over this information.

“So the papers say--and the bishops too sometimes.”

“Still you wouldn’t call them exactly poor, would you?”

“_I_ call them poor! Good Lord!” was my observation.

“You know our bishop’s Palace?”

“A charming residence, Miss Prudence--even stately.”

“And Sir John says he drives awfully good horses.”

“Let us rely on Sir John where we can.”

“And Mr Davenport says he gives away a lot.”

“Mr Davenport?”

“So he can’t be poor, can he?”

“Mr Davenport?”

“Oh, I beg pardon! But you’ve met him. How forgetful you are! Papa’s curate!”

“Dear me, dear me! Of course! You mean Frank?”

“Papa calls him Frank.”

“You all call him Frank.”

“I suppose we do--yes.”

“So I forgot his surname just for the minute. Does he call you Prudence?”

“What has that got to do with it?”

“Roughly speaking, it ranges from three to seven thousand a year. More for archbishops, according to scale, of course.”

“Well, that sounds plenty,” said Prudence.

(I have ascertained from _Crockford’s Directory_ that the value of the vicar’s living is three hundred and twenty five pounds per annum.)

“Don’t be calculating, Miss Prudence!”

“And heartless?” The little wrinkle was on her brow again.

“That remark of Miss Jenkins’ seems to rankle!”

“I wasn’t thinking--altogether--of Clara.”

It seemed hard if somebody else had been calling her heartless too--or even thinking it. And all for listening to her mother! I tried to administer consolation.

“The thing is,” I observed, “a judicious balancing of considerations. Here, on the one hand, is justice to be done to the girls--in the way of accomplishments and appearance, I may presume?--and education to be given to the boys--it would be no bad thing if someone taught Dick how to make a fly, for example; on the other hand lie what I may broadly term your inclinations and----”

I awoke to the fact that Miss Prudence had not been listening to the latter portion of my remark. She was rubbing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other, and frowning now quite heavily. Then she twisted one little hand round the other; and almost inaudibly she said: “How can one balance considerations”--(She infused a pleasant scorn into her intonation of these respectable words)--“How can one balance considerations when----?”

_Primâ facie_ that “when----” admitted of various interpretations. But I chose one without hesitation.

“Then why this talk about how much a bishop gets, you calculating heartless girl?”

She darted at me a look of fearful merriment.

“And they make them quite young sometimes in these days,” I added. And I rounded off my period by remarking that Sir John Ffolliot seemed a stupid sort of dog.

“Yes, isn’t he?”

“Might do for Clara Jenkins?”

“If I thought that----” Miss Prudence began hotly.

“But the idea is preposterous,” I added hastily. “One of your sisters now?”

“That’s really not a bad idea,” she conceded graciously.

In fact, she had suddenly grown altogether very gracious--and I do not refer merely to the marked civility of her manner towards myself. The frown had vanished, the wrinkle was not: the hands were clasped in a comfortable repose. She looked across to me with a ridiculously contented smile.

“It’s such a good thing to have a talk with a really sensible man,” she said.

I took off my hat--but I also rose to my feet. To present me as a future bishop was asking too much of the whirligig of time. Not a kaleidoscope could do it! Besides, I wasn’t serious about it; it was just the meadow, the river--and the rest. In order to prove this to myself beyond dispute, I said that I had to go to the post office and despatch an important letter.

“To the post office?” said Prudence, displaying some confusion at the mention of that institution. “Oh, then, would you mind--it would be so kind--would you really mind----?”

“Calling in at the parlour window and telling Mr Davenport that you’re going to have some tennis after tea? With pleasure, of course.”

“I didn’t know you knew he lodged there!” she cried.

“Pending promotion to the Palace, yes.”

I made that last remark after I had turned my back, and I didn’t look round to see whether Miss Prudence had heard it; it was, in fact, in the nature of an “aside”--a thing which may be heard or not at pleasure.

“Won’t you come too?” she called.

“Certainly not. I propose to meditate.” On these words I did turn round, and waved her farewell. I think she was indulging in a most proper forgetfulness of her brothers and sisters--and, incidentally, of myself. So I proceeded to the post office, although of course I had no letter at all to send.

I found Mr Davenport in flannels, sitting with his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a pipe and reading. He was an engaging six-feet of vigour, and I delivered my message with as little rancour as could be expected under the circumstances.

“I think I’ll go,” he said, briskly knocking out his pipe.

It was some satisfaction to me to remind him that it was only half-past three, and that tennis didn’t begin till after tea. He put his pipe back between his teeth with a disappointed jerk.

“What are you reading?” I inquired affably. I must be pictured as standing outside the post office parlour window while conducting this colloquy.

He looked a trifle ashamed. “The fact is, I sometimes try to keep up my Latin a bit,” he explained, conscious of the eccentricity of this proceeding. “It’s Juvenal.”

“Not so very clerical,” I ventured to observe.

“A great moralist,” he maintained--yet with an eye distantly twinkling with the light of unregenerate days.

“I suppose so. That bit about prudence now----?”

“About who?” cried he, springing to his feet and dropping his poet on the floor.

“Evidently you recollect! _Nullum numen abest si sit Prudentia_----”

“Curiously enough, I’ve just been having a shot at a rendering of that couplet,” said Mr Davenport. As he spoke he approached the window: I sat down on the sill outside and lit a cigar.

“Curiously enough indeed!” said I. “May I be privileged to hear it?”

He threw out one arm and recited--

“‘All Heaven’s with us, so we Prudence win:
If Fortune’s hailed a goddess, ours the sin!’”

“Pretty well for the spirit, but none too faithful to the letter,” I remarked critically. “However, Dr Johnson is open to the same objection. You remember--

“‘Celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.’”

“I call that pretty bad.”

“Not much to the present point, anyhow,” I agreed.

“I had another rhyme--and after all the rhyme’s the difficulty. How about this?--

“‘All Heaven’s ours if Prudence we can gain,
Our silly hands build Fortune’s empty fane!’”

“Really you fire me to emulation,” I said. “I think I’ll try my own hand at it--

“‘If Prudence loves, what other boon need I?’”

“Splendid!” he cried, puffing at his empty pipe.

“‘Unless a bishop’s palace by-and-by?’”

This audacious departure from the original affected him powerfully. He laid a hand like a pair of tweezers on my wrist and cried excitedly--

“You’ve been talking to her!”

“So have you,” said I, “and to better purpose.”

By a subtle and rapid movement he was, in a moment, outside the door and stood facing me in the little front garden of the post office.

“I shouldn’t wonder if they began tennis before tea,” he remarked.

“You’ll find somebody to play a single. Good-bye!” He was turning away eagerly when something occurred to me. “Oh, by the way, Mr Davenport----”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you’ll ever be a bishop really?”

“Only when I talk to her,” he said, with a confused yet candid modesty which I found agreeable.

“Go and do homage for your temporalities,” I said.

“I say--her mother!” whispered Mr Davenport.

“She probably thought the same when she married the vicar.”

He smiled. “That’s rather funny!” he cried back to me, as he started off along the road.

“So your son-in-law may think some day, my boy,” said I with a touch of ill-humour. No matter, he was out of hearing. Besides I was not, I repeat, really serious about it--not half so serious, I venture to conjecture, as the vicar’s wife!

To her, perhaps, Dr Johnson’s paraphrase may be recommended.

THE OPENED DOOR

“We may float for ten minutes,” said the Second Officer.

After a pause the passenger remarked:

“I’m glad of it, upon my word I am.”

“You’re thankful for small mercies,” was the retort.

The passenger did not explain. He could not expect the Second Officer, or the rest of them, to sympathise with his point of view, or share the feelings which made him rejoice, not at the respite, but at the doom itself. Those who were not busy getting the women and children into the boats, and keeping the ship above water, were cursing the other vessel for steaming away without offering aid, or clutching in bewildered terror at anyone who could tell them how the collision had happened and what hope there was of salvation. The boats were got safely off, laden to their utmost capacity; lifebuoys were handed round, and, when they ran short, men tossed up for them, and the losers ransacked the deck for some makeshift substitute. The passenger took no part in the competition or the search. He stood with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his lips, waiting for the ten minutes to wear themselves away. His only grudge against fate lay in those superfluous ten minutes.

Left to himself, he began to think, lighting a cigarette. He had to use a fusee, which was a pity, especially for his last cigarette, but the wind blew fiercely. It was strange how much harm a man could do without being a particularly bad fellow, and what an _impasse_ he could get himself into. He had drifted on, and things had fallen out so maliciously that, because of him who hated hurting anybody, women were weeping and children smirched, and an old man hiding an honoured head in shame. He had even been required to be grateful to the man he hated most in the world, because he had not been put in the dock. That stuck in his throat more than all the rest. He had been ready to pay his shot and go to gaol--he would rather have done five years than owed the thanks for escaping them--but in very decency he couldn’t insist on going; the trial would have killed the old man. So they had concocted a plan--a chance of a new life, they called it--and shipped him off to the other side of the world with fifty pounds in his pocket--the gift of that enemy. At least he could get rid of the money now; and, still smiling, he dropped his pocket-book over the side into the great heaving waves. He had always meant it to go there--God forbid he should use it--but he had hardly hoped to go with it. He would follow it soon now. The door whose handle he had shrunk from turning had opened of its own accord in a most marvellously convenient way. To throw oneself overboard is a cold-blooded impossible sort of proceeding; the old man and the women would have heard of it, and he really didn’t want to give them any more pain. But this catastrophe was--from a selfish point of view--incredibly opportune. Such an exit had the dignity of the inevitable, and left the “new life” an agreeable hypothesis from which he doubted not that much comfort would be sucked by those dear, loving, foolish folk at home. Much “new life” he would have led! But let them think he would. And hurrah for a collision in deep water!

Five minutes gone--and they were deep in the water. The skipper was on the bridge; the engineers had come up and, together with the crew and such of the passengers as had not got away in the boats, were standing ready to jump at the word. Some were praying, some swearing, most discussing the matter in very much the same tones as they used in speculating about the weather on deck after dinner; but they all kept their eyes on the skipper.

“I shall just,” said the passenger, peering over the side, “go straight down. It oughtn’t to take long,” and he shivered a little. It had just struck him that the process might be very unpleasant, however satisfactory the result.

There was a sudden movement of the deck under him. The skipper seemed to shout, and, waving his arms, began to run down from the bridge. Then everybody jumped. The passenger dropped his finished cigarette, kicked off his deck shoes--a purely instinctive action--and jumped too. “Here goes!” he said.

When he came up again, he found himself swimming strongly. His arms and legs were not asking his leave about it; they were fighting the water as they had been taught, and they promised to make a long bout of it. He had never felt so vigorous. It was great nonsense, prolonging the thing like this. If he had thought of it, he wouldn’t have jumped so clear, then he would have been sucked down. He saw heads bobbing here and there about him; one man shrieked aloud and disappeared. It was--less the shrieking--just what he wanted to do. But he couldn’t. It was all very well to want to die, but this strong body of his had a word to say to that. Its business was to live, and it meant to live if it could. Well, it had always been a rebellious carcass--that was the cause of a great deal of the trouble--and it evidently meant to have its own way for this last time.

And it began to infect him. For the life of him, he couldn’t give in now. It was a fight between him and the water. He might have been a brute, and a rogue, and all the other pretty names that had come as sauce to that wretched fifty pounds, but he had never been a coward or shirked a fight. It was all right--he must be drowned in the end. But he would keep it up as long as he could; he would see it through; and with strong strokes he met and mastered and beat down wave after wave, outlived head after head that sank round him, and saw the old ship herself go under with a mighty pother.

All at once he found himself within reach of a spar. He was getting tired, though full of fight still, and he clutched at it for all the world as though he were in love with life. Hallo! There was a boy clinging to it--one of the ship’s boys, whom he knew well.

“Get off!” shrieked the boy. “Get off! It’s mine.”

“All right, Johnny, we’ll share it.”

“It won’t take us. Get off. It’s not fair. Oh, it’s going under!”

It was. The passenger let go, but kept close to it. It wouldn’t bear Johnny and him, but it would bear Johnny alone; it would also, probably, bear him alone. And he was getting very tired. Johnny saw his face and, clinging tight, began to cry. The passenger laid hold again. How jolly it was to have something under one’s chest! Johnny had had it for a long while. And what’s a ship’s boy? Besides, it’s every man for himself at such a time.

Johnny’s end ducked and Johnny’s head dipped with it. Johnny came up whimpering piteously, and swore in childish rage at the intruder. He was not a pretty boy, and he looked very ugly when he swore.

“You’ll drown us both, you----!” he gasped.

“It would bear me,” replied the passenger, “and you shouldn’t swear, Johnny.”

Johnny blubbered and swore again.

For an instant the passenger, resting as lightly as he could on the spar, watched Johnny’s face.

“You’ve kept afloat some time,” he observed, with an approving air. He liked pluck in boys--even ugly whimpering boys. His end went under, and he came up gurgling and spitting. He felt now as if he had no legs at all.

Johnny had stopped swearing, but was blubbering worse than ever.

“Damn it,” said the passenger, “haven’t I made enough people do that?” And he added, “Ta-ta, Johnny,” and let go the spar.

His legs were there, after all, and they let him know it. For time unmeasured he battled for the life he was weary of, and would not let himself be pushed through the open door. But at last he crossed its threshold.

Johnny was drowned too. But then the passenger had always protested against his acts being judged by their consequences; and it doesn’t seem fair to take it against him both ways.

LOVE’S LOGIC[1]

_The Scene is a hall or corridor, lying between two conservatories,
one on the right, the other on the left. Besides plants and other
ornaments, the corridor is furnished with a couch and a small round
table with an arm-chair by it. The time is between eleven and
twelve in the evening._

_Mr Marchesson’s back is visible in the doorway leading to the
conservatory on the right._

Mr M. (_Speaking to unseen person in the conservatory._) So awfully sorry, but I absolutely promised to meet a man at the club. (_Pause._) Beg pardon? Oh, a fellow named Smith--you don’t know him. (_Pause._) Yes, I hope we shall meet soon, but I’m rather afraid I may have to go out of town. (_Pause._) Good-night. (_Backs a little further into the corridor._) Phew!

_Miss Grainger’s back appears in the doorway leading to the conservatory on the left._

Miss G. (_Speaking to unseen person in the conservatory._) Yes, of course we shall be friends. What? (_Pause._) Oh yes, _great_ friends, What? (_Pause._) I don’t know--I may be going out of town. Good-night. (_She backs into the corridor, throws her eyes upwards, and draws in her breath with a long sigh._)

_Mr M. meanwhile has taken out a cigarette, and is just about to
light it when they turn and see one another. Both start, smile, and
then become grave and rather formal in manner._

Mr M. (_Putting his hands--with the cigarette and the match-box--behind him._) Oh, I beg pardon! I didn’t think anybody--(_He turns as if to retreat into the conservatory._)

Miss G. Please don’t go--and please do smoke. It’s so nice and cool here, isn’t it? (_She sits down on the couch and fans herself gently._)

Mr M. May I really? (_He comes forward a little, holding up his cigarette._) You’re sure you don’t mind?

(_She nods. He lights the cigarette._)

Miss G. It’s so warm in that conservatory. (_Pointing to the left._)

Mr M. (_With feeling._) So it was in that one. (_Pointing to the right. He wipes his brow, she fans herself assiduously._) Ouf!

Miss G. You _do_ look rather--flustered.

Mr M. Well--in fact--so do you.

(_They look at one another, trying to remain grave, but presently
both give a short embarrassed laugh. Mr M. comes a step nearer,
placing his hand on the back of the chair._)

I’ve got it! I know the signs!

(_She looks at him inquiringly and with amusement. He nods towards the conservatory on the left._) You’ve been refusing some fellow in there.

Miss G. Have I? (_Pointing to the conservatory on the right._) And what have you been doing in there?

Mr M. (_After a careful glance over his shoulder_.) As you didn’t see the lady, I don’t mind admitting that I’ve been doing the same thing.

Miss G. (_Raising her brows._) Refusing?

Mr M. Refusing--to ask.

Miss G. Oh!

Mr M. (_He smokes vigorously, then throws his cigarette into a receptacle._) It’s a precious lot easier for you than for us, though. I say, I must sound like a conceited idiot, I know, but--well, you see, the fact is----

Miss G. That you’re Mr Marchesson----?

Mr M. (_Pleased._) You know my name?

Miss G. Oh yes. Mine’s Grainger.

Mr M. Yes. I--I know your name, Miss Grainger.

Miss G. You’re diamonds? (_She touches some that she is wearing as she speaks. He nods gloomily._)

I’m soap. (_He glances for a brief instant at his hand._) So, of course----! (_She shrugs her shoulders and closes her fan. A moment’s pause._)

Mr M. Beastly, isn’t it?

Miss G. Well, it’s--monotonous.

Mr M. It’s worse than that. It’s degrading, it’s heart-breaking, it’s ruin to the character. It saps my faith in humanity, it trammels my actions, it confines my affections, it cuts me off from friendship, from the pleasant and innocent companionships which my nature longs for. I alone mayn’t look with the eye of honest admiration on a pretty girl, I alone mayn’t----

Miss G. Sit in a conservatory?

Mr M. (_With a shudder._) Above all--not that! I tell you it’s kept me single for years! And you for----

Miss G. Years?

Mr M. (_Smiling._) Months! All last season and most of this! Take your case now----

Miss G. (_Eagerly leaning forward._) Oh yes, let’s!

Mr M. You’d naturally enjoy men’s society, you’d like their friendship, their company, their admiration. You’d enjoy an innocent but piquant flirtation.

Miss G. Should I?

Mr M. (_Looking at her._) Well, yes, I think you would. You daren’t venture on it!

Miss G. It is generally fatal, I admit.

Mr M. The plain truth is that the thing’s intolerable. I shall stick a placard on my waistcoat--“Not for sale.”

Miss G. And I’d better become a hospital nurse!

Mr M. That’s rather an odd remedy, Miss Grainger. But, in some form or other, celibacy--public and avowed celibacy--is our only chance. (_He throws himself down in the chair._)

Miss G. (_Low._) Unless there was somebody who----

Mr M. Didn’t know who you were? Not to be done in these days, with the illustrated press! And--you’ll excuse my referring to it?--but your fond father put _you_ on the wrappings of the soap. And owing to the large sale of the article----

Miss G. Yes, I know. But I meant--if there was somebody who didn’t--didn’t care about the money?

Mr M. (_Half under his breath._) _Said_ he didn’t!

Miss G. And who--who really did care just for--for oneself alone? Oh, I must sound romantic and absurd; but you--you know what I mean, Mr Marchesson? There _are_ such men, aren’t there?

Mr M. Well, admitting there was one--and it’s a handsome admission, which I limit entirely to the male sex--in the first place you wouldn’t believe in him half the time, and in the second he wouldn’t believe in himself half the time, and in the third none of your friends would believe in him any of the time.

Miss G. That would be horrid--especially the friends, I mean.

Mr M. Female friends!

Miss G. Of course.

Mr M. Another disgusting aspect of the business! Do you--do I--ever get legitimate credit for our personal attractions? Never! Never!

Miss G. (_With conviction._) That’s awfully true.

Mr M. So even your paragon, if you found him, wouldn’t meet the case. And as for _my_ paragon, nobody but Diogenes would take on the job of finding her.

Miss G. (_Musing._) Is _nobody_ indifferent to money?

Mr M. Only if they’ve got more than they want. (_He gives a glance at her, unperceived by her, rises, puts his hands in his pockets, and looks at her._) Only the unhappy rich.

Miss G. (_Roused from abstraction._) I beg pardon, what?

Mr M. Imagine a man surfeited, cloyed, smothered in it; a man who has to pay six other men to look after it; a man who can’t live because of the income-tax, and daren’t die because of the death duties; a man overwhelmed with houses he can’t live in, yachts he can’t sail, horses he can’t ride; a man in whom the milk of human kindness is soured by impostors, and for whom even “deserving cases” have lost their charm; a man who’s been round the d----d world--I beg your pardon, really I beg your pardon--who’s been round the wretched world twice, and shot every beast on it at least once; who is sick of playing, and daren’t work for fear of making a profit----

Miss G. It almost sounds as if you were describing yourself.

Mr M. Oh no, no! No! At least--er--if at all, quite accidentally. I’ll describe _you_ now, if you like.

Miss G. I get absolutely no thrill out of a new frock!

Mr M. There it is--in a nutshell, by Jingo! Miss Grainger, we have found the people we want, the people who are indifferent to money, and would--that is, might--marry us for love alone.

Miss G. (_Laughing._) You mean--one another? That’s really rather an amusing end to our philosophising, isn’t it? (_She rises, laughing still, and holds out her hand._) Good-night.

Mr M. (_Indignantly._) Good-night be----! Why, our talk’s just got to the most interesting point!

Miss G. Well, you ought to know--you’ve been doing most of it yourself.

Mr M. Oh, but don’t go! I--I’ll do it better--and perhaps quicker too--if you’ll stay a bit.

Miss G. (_Sitting again, with a laugh._) I’ll give you just five minutes to wind up the argument.

Mr M. The conclusion’s obvious in logic. I ought to offer you my hand in marriage, and you ought to accept.

Miss G. (_Laughing._) Logic is logic, of course, Mr Marchesson--but we’ve never even been introduced! I don’t think you need feel absolutely compelled to go through the ceremony you suggest. We’ll be illogical, and say good-night.

Mr M. You admit the logic? You see the force of it?

Miss G. Women don’t act by logic, though.

Mr M. It’s always at least a good excuse.

Miss G. If you want one, yes. (_She is about to rise again._)

Mr M. I do want one.

(_She shakes her head, laughing._)

I’m serious.

Miss G. You don’t really want me to think that? The very first time we meet? The lady in there (_pointing to the conservatory on the right_) must have frightened you terribly indeed!

Mr M. Until the logic of the thing struck me--which happened only to-night--I thought it no good to try to know you.

Miss G. I don’t suppose you ever thought about it at all.

Mr M. I had nothing to give you--and you had nothing to give me! So it seemed in the days of illogicality. Now it’s all different. So I insist on--the ceremony.

Miss G. (_Laughing, but a little agitated._) Go on, then. But your logic doesn’t bind me, you know.

(_He comes and sits on the couch by her._)

Yes, that’s quite right--but don’t put too much feeling into it. It--it’s only logic! No, I--I don’t think I want you to go on. I--I don’t think it’s a good joke.

Mr M. It’s not a joke. I’ve never been introduced to you, you say. I’ve never spoken to you before to-night, I know. But you’re not a stranger to me. There have been very few days in the last three months when I haven’t managed to see you----

Miss G. (_Low._) Managed to see me--_managed_?

Mr M. Yes--though I must say you go to some places which but for your presence would be very dull. I stuck at none of them, Miss Grainger. I swallowed every one! Did you ever notice me?

Miss G. Of course not.

(_He looks at her._)

Of course I’ve _seen_ you, but I never _noticed_ you.

(_He continues to look at her._)

Not specially, at anyrate.

Mr M. I suppose I must have been there a hundred times. How often did you notice me?

Miss G. How absurd! I’m sure I don’t remember. Very seldom.

Mr M. Don’t you remember even the first time?

Miss G. Oh yes, that was at the---- No, certainly I don’t.

Mr M. Yes, it _was_ at the Phillips’s!

(_She smiles against her will. He also smiles._)

I’m glad you remember.

Miss G. You stared so--as _you_ may perhaps remember.

Mr M. Have I stared every time?

Miss G. Very often, anyhow.

Mr M. You noticed that?

Miss G. Every time I noticed you, I noticed that.

Mr M. And you noticed that very often! Therefore you noticed me----

Miss G. Please, no more logic!

Mr M. And yet you try to treat me as a stranger!

Miss G. It is rather a matter of _trying_ with you, isn’t it? You’re not very susceptible to the treatment.

Mr M. And pretend to be surprised at my wanting to marry you! If the logic of it still leaves you doubtful----

Miss G. Doubtful! I never said I was doubtful!

Mr M. Look at the romantic side! How romantic it would be to throw yourself away on riches! Did you never think about that? Not when I--stared?

Miss G. I didn’t exactly mean that you exactly stared. You--you--you---- Oh, you really might help me out! What did you do?

Mr M. I’d so much rather hear you say it.

Miss G. Well, right from the beginning there was something in your look--I mean the way you looked at me--I can’t describe it, but it got more and more like that.

Mr M. Yes, I believe I meant it to.

Miss G. Never forward or--or impertinent. Just nice, Mr Marchesson.

Mr M. I say, was that a good chap you refused in there (_indicating the conservatory to the left_) a thousand years ago?

Miss G. Very--so handsome! I liked him awfully. And the girl you refused----

Mr M. To ask----

Miss G. In there? (_Indicating the conservatory to the right._)

Mr M. Really, you know--impartially speaking--a ripper! Why did we?

Miss G. What?

Mr M. I said, “Why did we?”

Miss G. Was it--a thousand years ago? Yes?

Mr M. Which certainly makes it absurd to call us strangers.

Miss G. I wasn’t thinking any more about that. Oh, you do----?

Mr M. I do--mean it.

Miss G. (_Rising._) I think that--after all--it wouldn’t be so bad in--in----

Mr M. The conservatory?

(_They look at one another and laugh._)

Miss G. It’s terribly absurd even to think about it.

Mr M. It’s absolutely logical! And, by the way, it’s time I put my question.

Miss G. Haven’t you?

Mr M. Then it’s time you gave your answer.

Miss G. (_Putting her hands in his._) Haven’t I?

Mr M. There’ll be a great deal of talk about this to-morrow! (_He offers her his arm, and they go towards the conservatory on the left._) Oh, your conservatory? No!

Miss G. Yours would be just as bad.

Mr M. Then stay here.

Miss G. Take me to my carriage. And--and come and see if I’m not perfectly logical to-morrow.

(_He releases her arm and kisses her hand. She adds in a low voice:_) And--somehow--it _is_ absurd--so wonderfully happy to-night! Will you come with me?

Mr M. Will I live? Come! Quick--through your conservatory! (_He puts his arm round her waist._) Come!

(_They disappear into the conservatory on the left._)

CURTAIN

LA MORT À LA MODE[2]

MONSIEUR LE DUC--MADAME LA MARQUISE

(_The tumbril is the last of a row of several, some of which have
left, some of which stand at, the gates of the Conciergerie. The
others are full, in this the_ DUC _is alone. At the beginning of
the conversation the tumbril stands still, later it is moving
slowly, escorted through a turbulent crowd by National Guards to
its destination in the Place Louis Quinze (Place de la Revolution.)
The time is noon of a fine day during the Reign of Terror._)

Duc. Alone! My luck holds to the last. They’re close as fish in a tub in the others--and by strange chance every man next to his worst enemy--or at least his best friend’s husband! These rascals have no consideration. Ah, somebody coming here! I’ve to have company after all. A woman too--deuce take it! (_A lady is assisted into the tumbril. The_ DUC _rises, bows, and starts._) Marquise! (_The lady sinks on the bench across the tumbril._) You here! (_He takes snuff and murmurs:_) Awkward! (_Pauses and murmurs again:_) Even her! Curse the hounds!

Marquise. I--I heard you had escaped.

Due. Ah, madame, I can no longer expect justice from you--only mercy. And--excuse me--M. le Marquis?

Marquise. He--he has gone--

Duc. Ah yes, yes. He went before us? I remember now. Er--my condolences, Marquise. But on what pretext are you----?

Marquise. They say that, as his wife, I shared his designs and was in his confidence.

Duc. How little they know of the world! (_Smiling._) As his wife--in his confidence! How simple the blackguards are! (_Looks at her._) I protest I feel my presence inopportune.

Marquise. No. (_She holds out a little silver box._) Will you hold this for me? (_He takes it._) You may look. (_Opening it he finds rouge and a powder-puff. The_ MARQUISE _smiles faintly_.)

Duc. (_Shutting box._) On my honour you’ve no need of it this morning. Your cheeks display the most charming flush. Ah, we move. (_She starts._) Yes, yes, it jolts horribly. But I won’t drop the rouge.

Marquise. Will it take long?

Duc. It? (_Shrugs his shoulders._) Oh, before you know--before you know!

Marquise. No, no--I mean the journey.

Duc. Ah, the journey! It will seem short now. Before you came, I feared the tedium--though the crowd’s amusing enough. Look at that fellow! Why in heaven’s name does he shake his fist at me? He’s not one of my people, not even from my province. (_Smiles at the crowd and seats himself by the_ MARQUISE.) You’re silent. Ah, I remember, now I remember! When we parted last, you vowed you’d never speak to me again.

Marquise. I thought I never should.

Duc. The things we think we never shall do include all the most delightful things we do.

Marquise. You seem to flatter yourself, monsieur. I meant what I said then: but times are changed.

Duc. Faith, yes! The times more than I.

Marquise. More than you? Ah, changeful times!

Duc. And their changes bring more grief than any of mine could.

Marquise. Oh, as for grief--! It was your rudeness I deplored, more than my loss.

Duc. I am never rude, madame. I may have been----

Marquise. (_Low._) Unfaithful?

Duc. (_Low._) Unworthy, madame. (_She looks at him for a moment and sighs. He smiles and is about to speak when a great shout is heard from the direction of the Place Louis Quinze. She starts, turns a little pale, and involuntarily stretches out a hand to him._)

Marquise. What’s that? What’s happening?

Duc. Oh, they’re excited! In truth, my dear Marquise, I have long wished----

Marquise. No, no--what was the shouting?

Duc. Well--er--in fact, I imagine that the first of our friends must have arrived.

Marquise. (_Low._) Arrived! (_He smiles, takes her hand and kisses it, then holds out the rouge-box with an air of mockery._) No, no--I won’t.

Duc. Why, no! We’ve no need of it. Let me bring the colour to your cheeks. Once on a time I--well, at least I have been there when it came. Ah, it comes now! Listen to me. I have long wished to----

Marquise. To explain?

Duc. (_Smiling._) Ah, you were always a little--a little--exacting. No, no; nobody can explain these things. I wished only to----

Marquise. You daren’t apologise!

Duc. Ah, and you never were quite just to my good breeding. No again! I wished to tell you frankly that I made a very great mistake. (_A voice from the crowd shouts “To Hell with them!” The_ DUC _laughs_.) The Church’s prerogatives follow the King’s! Ah well! A terrible mistake, Marquise.

Marquise. (_Low, but eagerly._) You suspected me of----? Was that why you----?

Duc. No. I suspected her.

Marquise. Her? But of what?

Duc. Of wit, madame, and of charm. I was most unjust.

Marquise. (_Smiling._) And not perhaps of one other thing--in which respect you were unjust too?

Duc. (_Looking at her a moment and then smiling._) No, no--on my honour I was not refused.

Marquise. Oh, not refused! (_She turns away._)

Duc. Shall I tell you the reason of that?

Marquise. Can’t I--I at least--guess the reason?

Duc. You least of all can guess it. I did not ask, Marquise.

Marquise. (_Turning quickly to him._) You didn’t----?

Duc. On my word, no. You’ll ask me why not?

Marquise. Why not, indeed? It was unlike you, monsieur.

Duc. I thought of you--and behold, it became impossible. At the moment your image---- (_Another great shout is heard._) Hum, they never get tired of the sight, it seems. (_He glances at the_ MARQUISE, _but she has not noticed the shout. He takes her hand and presses it gently._)

Marquise. Is it true? You ought to tell the truth now.

Duc. Now? (_Laughs._) Ah, yes!

Marquise. Really true? (_She draws her hand away sharply._)

Duc. You don’t believe me?

Marquise. Yes, I believe you. But--but how stupid you were, monsieur!

Duc. Eh?

Marquise. How stupid you were, monsieur.

Duc. True. (_Takes snuff._) True, by heaven! I was--monstrous stupid.

Marquise. To think that you could----

Duc. Love her?

Marquise. Forget me, monsieur. Alas, I lose all my pride in---- (_Pauses._)

Duc. In----? (_Pauses. They smile and she blushes._)

Marquise. In any compliments you may have paid me.

Duc. (_Softly._) You won’t forgive me? Well, it’s the fashion now! I must die twice to-day?

Marquise. Twice--die twice! (_Looks at him and trembles a little._) I--I had almost forgotten what--where we were. (_A fierce shout is heard, sounding nearer now._) Louis, they’ll--they’ll do nothing worse than--kill me? You don’t answer, Louis!

Duc. Yes, yes. There’s no fear--no fear of that.

Marquise. But you hesitated.

Duc. (_Low._) If we must talk of death, pray let it be of mine. (_She glances at him and lays her hand on his for a moment._) Yours seems too--too---- (_Smiles._) I want a word. Well, too incongruous, dear Marquise.

Marquise. I have confessed--and forgiven all my enemies.

Duc. Am I your enemy? Have you no forgiveness left for friends? (_She looks at him gravely for a moment, then smiles reluctantly._) Why, we were growing grave! That would be a bad ending.

Marquise. The most seemly ending!

Duc. For me? Oh, oh, Marquise! They’d think they’d got hold of the wrong man. Your hand’s a trifle cold.

Marquise. (_Laughing nervously._) Well, if it is? We’ve stopped again! Are we near now?

Duc. At the entrance of the _Place_, I believe. (_Looks at her and goes on quickly._) You and I have walked here together before now. You remember? Alone together--so often. (_Rises._) Forgive me--as you face towards the _Place_ the sun is in your eyes. Pray sit the other way. It’s pleasanter to look towards the river--cooler to the eye. You remember our walks, dear Marquise?

Marquise. You still look towards the _Place_, though.

Duc. (_Laughing._) Why yes! I can’t have the dogs saying I daren’t----