Delphi collected works o.., p.914
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 914
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
By this time I was beginning to lose my equanimity.
“Dear me, madam,” I snapped out testily, “you surely don’t suppose it’s the furniture that makes a home, do you! The drawing-room curtains won’t cure me of misery; the Venetian mirror won’t help me out of a difficulty!” My voice rose agitatedly. “I can’t exist on the tables and chairs, can I? I can’t make a friend and confidant of the carpet! I repeat, that when a man marries, he wants a home; and when I married your daughter Honoria, I wanted a home, and I haven’t got it!”
“You haven’t got it, William?” stammered Mrs. Maggs, approaching me, with a cup of that weak, over-sweetened tea she always made in her shaking hand. “You haven’t got it, dear? Why, how is it that Honoria—”
I motioned the tea away with a tragic gesture, and my pent-up passion burst forth.
“Honoria is not a woman!” I exclaimed wildly—” not a whole woman by any means! She is half a man! She is a mistake; she is a freak of nature” — here I broke into a delirious laugh. “She should be exhibited as an eccentricity in some museum!”
This time I had achieved a feat not common to man — I had scared my mother-in-law! The poor feeble thing tottered back to the tea-tray and set down the cup I had just rejected; then nervously drawing her lace scarf round her shoulders, she quavered —
“Don’t, William, don’t. Oh! don’t be so — so dreadful! You frighten me! You don’t know what you say, William, you really don’t. You’ve been taking something in the city, haven’t you? There now, don’t be offended, William! Will you have some soda water?”
I have said there were times when those who knew Mrs. Maggs well, yearned to shake her. One of those times had come now. It was with the greatest difficulty that I refrained from pouncing on her frail form and rendering her suddenly breathless. But I controlled myself; I made a desperate effort to be calm, and succeeded in merely surveying her with a proper manly scorn.
“You are very like your daughter in some respects,” I said. “When you see a fellow as wretched as he can be, suffering mental tortures more acutely than he can describe, you think him drunk! Very sympathetic, I’m sure!”
She smoothed her grey hair tremulously and produced her chronic smile.
“I’m sorry you are suffering, William, very sorry; but you needn’t be so rough, dear! Tell me what’s the matter. Has Honoria been flirting with Bobbie?”
“No,” I answered proudly. “That is one thing I cannot accuse her of; she does not flirt. She has — I will say that for her — too great a sense of honour. She is guiltless of all feminine coquetries and petty vanities. She puts on no airs, and though she’s handsome, she’s not a bit conceited. She’s good and honest — but — but she should never have married; she’s not fit for it!’
“Not fit for it,” whimpered Mrs. Maggs. “Oh, William! how cruel you are! Not fit for it! How can you say so?”
“I can say so because I’ve proved so,” I replied bluntly. “I repeat — she’s not fit for it. She should have lived in the world apart, alone, and worn her no-sex as best she could. She would have no doubt worn it admirably! As a wife she’s out of her element; as a mother she’s still further out of her element. A smoking, betting, crack shot is scarcely the person to undertake the commonplace care of an infant; a notable female deerstalker is not precisely suited to the degradation (and I emphasised the word bitterly) of marriage. In fact, it is because I feel the position of affairs as so extremely serious — serious even to the degree of possible mutual separation — that I have come to you, Mrs. Maggs, to ask you to speak to Honoria quietly, to reason with her, and point out how little her behaviour conduces to my happiness, and also how much she exposes herself to the ridicule and slanderous judgment of those who do not understand her as well as you and I do. A mother’s arguments may win the day where those of a husband fail.”
I had spoken with so much gravity that my mother-in-law’s eyes now watered in real earnest, and she pulled out a filmy bit of a lace handkerchief and wiped away the tears effusively.
“It’s no use, William,” she snivelled weakly; “no use whatever my speaking to Honoria! She wouldn’t listen to me for a minute; she never would when she was a child, and now she is married she’d only tell me I had no business to interfere. I used to say I thought it was very wrong for her to smoke and go shooting with that Mrs. Stirling — really a very vulgar woman — but she only laughed at me. She’s got a great way of laughing at everything, has Honoria. But she’s very clever, William; you know she is! Professor Muddlecums, who was here the other evening, said that she was simply the most wonderful woman he ever met! Such a grasp of things, and such a memory! You mustn’t mind, William, you really mustn’t mind her smoking, and all that. I don’t believe she could do without it; you know some of the papers say it’s very soothing to the nerves. Don’t you like smoking, dear?”
“I used to like it,” I answered gloomily. “I don’t now; Honoria has sickened me of it!”
“Dear, dear, that is a pity,” and Mrs. Maggs’s hovering hands went to work again in the usual style. “But perhaps you’ll take to it again after a bit. Anyway, don’t ask me to speak to Honoria, William! I couldn’t, you know! My heart is very weak, and I should be almost dead with nervousness. You must arrange your little matrimonial differences” — chronic smile once more—” between you; it never does any good to interfere. What! are you going?” For I had risen dispiritedly and was now making my weary way towards the door. “Won’t you see baby before you go? He is such a dear darling, do see him!” I hesitated, but there was a certain parental tugging at my heart-strings. After all, he was my child, and I wanted him to know me a little.
“Yes, I’ll see him,” I said briefly.
Whereupon Mrs. Maggs became mildly fluttered and pleased, and, opening the drawing-room door, she called up the stairs —
“Georgie! Georgie!”
“Yes,” answered a clear girlish voice.
“Bring baby down; William’s here, and wants to see him.”
Another couple of minutes, and Georgie entered, carrying my young hopeful in her arms, clean and fresh as a rose, not screaming, not angry, as was his wont, but with a fat smile puckering up his small features into countless little wrinkles, and a fearless confidence shining in his round, big, honest blue eyes. The child was evidently perfectly happy, and I knew at once who had made him so.
“Thank you, Georgie,” I said simply, as I shook hands with her.
“For what?” she asked, laughing.
“For taking such care of him.”
“Nonsense!” And she set her burden down on the hearth-rug, where he immediately pulled off his woollen shoe and began eating it. “He wants scarcely any care, he’s so good. Do you know I don’t think we need more than one nurse; would you mind if we sent away the other?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Do as you like.”
She seated herself in a chair and looked at her mother, smiling.
“Give me some tea, mammy dear,” she said. “Haven’t you had any, William?”
“No.”
“Have some now, and keep me company,” and, springing up, she peered doubtfully into the fresh cup Mrs. Maggs poured out, then shook her head in playful remonstrance.
“Too weak, mammy; William likes it rather strong. May I put some more tea in the pot?”
“I’m sure Georgie,” began her mother plaintively, “there’s plenty in, only it doesn’t seem to draw properly. I don’t know how it is, the tea isn’t half so good now it gets advertised on the walls so much; in my young days it was a luxury!”
“Yes, mother,” laughed Georgie, who during this feeble chatter had been quietly manipulating the teapot, and now handed me a delicious cup, aromatic in odour and tempting to look at, “and now it’s a positive necessity! All the worse, say the wise men, for us and our poor nerves. Oh, baby!” This as Master Tribkin uttered a sound something between a chuckle and a coo, expressive of his ecstasy at having found on the carpet a large tin-tack which he was laboriously striving to put in his eye. “Oh, what an ugly thing for baby to play with! Auntie doesn’t like it. See!” and she made the most comical little face of disgust and threw the objectionable nail out of the window; whereupon my infant became imitatively disgusted also, and in turn made eloquent signs of deep repulsion for the vanished thing he had lately deemed a treasure; signs which were so excessively flabby and funny that Georgie laughed, and I, catching the infection from her, laughed also, heartily, and a trifle nervously too, for there was something very queer about my feelings just then. I tell you, let the “practical” period say what it will, a man has a heart; he is not a mere machine of wood and iron; and I was conscious of a soft and sudden sense of rest in Georgie’s presence — little Georgie, whom I once had scarcely noticed, the “scrub of a woman” looking just now the very picture of sweet maidenhood and modesty in her pretty white cotton gown, with a “fetching” little bunch of pansies and mignonette carelessly slipped into her waistband. I drank my tea in slow sips and surveyed her, while Mrs. Maggs sank languidly down in an arm-chair and heaved her heart-disease sigh.
“William is vexed,” she began, glancing at me with a gently distrustful melancholy. “Georgie, William is vexed about Honoria.”
“Yes?” and Georgie looked up quickly. “You do not want her to go to Mrs. Stirling’s, I suppose?”
“No, I do not,” I said emphatically. “Georgie, I’m sure you can understand—”
Georgie nodded. “Yes, I understand,” she replied instantly. “But I’m afraid it’s no use arguing about it, William. She will go; nothing will dissuade her. I’ve spoken to her about it.”
“You have? That was kind of you,” I said. Then, after a pause I added, “You always were a kind little soul, Georgie. Richmoor’s a lucky man!”
She smiled, and a warm blush swept over her cheeks.
“I’m lucky too,” she answered softly. “You can’t imagine, William, what a nice fellow he is!”
“I’m sure of that—” I hesitated, then went on desperately, “So you think it’s best to let Honoria have her own way then this time, Georgie?”
“I’m afraid so,” and she looked at me very sympathetically. “You see when she’s away she may take a better view of things — she may even get tired of all those vulgar sporting men and women, and begin to long for home, and — and for you, and the baby — and that would be such a good thing, you know!”
“Yes, it would,” I answered despondently, “if it ever happened; but it won’t happen!”
“Wait and see,” said Georgie confidently. “Honoria’s got a good heart after all; she can be very sweet if she likes, and if you don’t thwart her just now she may completely alter her ideas. I think it’s quite possible — it would be natural — for she’s certain to give up sporting and hunting some day; it can’t last—”
“Can’t last? Of course it can’t last!” declared Mrs. Maggs, unclosing her eyes, which had been shut till now in placid resignation. “No woman can go on shooting for ever, William dear; why, she’ll get old, you know, and she’ll want to be quiet!”
“And I must wait till she gets old, I suppose; that’s what you mean to imply?” I said with a haggard attempt at smiling. “All right; but age will not cure her of smoking, I fear! However, I won’t bore you any more with my worries. Good-bye, Georgie!”
“Good-bye!” and she held out her hand; then, as I took it, she whispered, “I’m so sorry about it all, William — so sorry, I mean, for you!’
“I know you are,” I answered in the same low tone, and I pressed her kindly-clinging little fingers. “Never mind; every one has got troubles; why should I be an exception? Goodbye, youngster!”
This to my small son, who was now busy dragging all the music out of the music-stand in a cheerfully absorbed silence. “I suppose he’d scream if I took him up?”
“Oh, no,” said Georgie; “he’s not a bit shy; try him!”
Whereupon I lifted him gingerly in my arms, and he stared at me with deliberate and inquisitorial sternness. Suddenly, however, he burst into a wild war-whoop of delight, and patted my cheeks violently and condescendingly; and when I set him down again he was convulsed with laughter. I don’t know why, I’m sure. I cannot pretend to enter into an infant’s sense of humour. I only realised that he was a very good-natured baby, and that his good-nature had never been apparent under the maternal roof. Mrs. Maggs bade me farewell very effusively.
“Do come and sit with us, dear William, in the evening whenever you feel lonely,” she entreated mournfully; “and perhaps you can arrange to come down to Cromer with us also. We are going there for a little change of air; it will do baby so much good. We shall be quite pleased to have you, you know. Indeed, it is to be expected you will want to see your own baby sometimes, especially when you cannot see your own wife! You will come, won’t you, William?”
I said I would think of it, and with a few more hurried words I departed. No good had come of my visit there I thought, as I shut the street door behind me; no good whatever, except the sight of Georgie. She was a refreshing glimpse of woman hood at any rate, and I dwelt on her pretty image in my mind with pleasure. I reached my own house and let myself in as usual with the latchkey; the place had a vacant and deserted air; the rooms smelt of stale tobacco, and a sense of despondency, loss, and failure crept over me as I stood for a moment looking in at the semi-darkened library, where I had passed so many solitary evenings. It was no good stopping at home I decided; the very word “home” was a mockery to one in my position. I therefore did what every man does who finds his wife unwifely and his domestic surroundings uncomfortable; went down to my club to dinner, and returned no more till I returned to bed.
CHAPTER VII.
AUGUST was past and gone. September was drawing near its close; my wife had won fresh distinction as a sportswoman of the highest rank down at Glen Ruach, and I had spent a very quiet holiday at Cromer with Mrs. Maggs and all her family (seven boys and girls, without counting Honoria), passing the time in making friends with my own infant son. And now the summer vacation was over; people were returning to town in straggling batches, and I returned amongst others. My wife had written to me now and then, chiefly on post-cards, and I had replied by the same cheap and convenient method of correspondence, which leaves no room for romance. She was not romande, and if I had a vein of sentiment anywhere in my composidon, I was determined not to make a display of it to her again. She was coming home; she had announced her intention of arriving on a particular evening which she named, and she had requested me not to bother about meeting her at the station. So I didn’t bother about it. Georgie had been busy at our house — Mrs. Maggs also; preparing it and putting it in order for the return of its mistress, and all was in readiness — all except the baby, who still remained with his young aunts and uncles and grandmother. The time fixed upon had come, and I sat at the library window looking out on the square and awaiting my wife’s arrival. I had made up my mind to welcome her as an affectionate husband should; I had resolved that we would talk about our differences in a quiet and perfectly amicable manner, and that if she could not or would not resign her mannish habits out of love or respect for me, why, then I would in all gentleness suggest a mutually-agreed-upon separation. I hoped it would not come to this; but I was positively determined I would stand her masculine behaviour no longer. It had sickened me to the soul to read the various accounts of her that appeared from time to time in the “Society” papers. I had longed to thrash the insolent little paragraphists who wrote of her as the “Amazonian Mrs. Hatwell-Tribkin,”
“the stalwart Mrs. Hatwell-Tribkin,” et cetera, especially when they finished off their descriptions with satirical exclamations, such as “Bravo, Honoria!” or “Well done for Mrs. H.-T.!” I had felt every drop of blood in my body tingle with vexation whenever I saw her name bandied about in company with all the theatrical and “fast” notorieties of the day, but how could I complain? She had laid herself open to it; her conduct invited it, and if her gowns were described, and her good looks discussed and her “points” criticised as though she were some fine mare for sale at Tattersall’s, it was her fault — it was certainly not mine. I was tired of the whole business, and I had firmly and finally resolved that I would not consent to be known merely as the matrimonial appendage of Mrs. Hatwell-Tribkin. I would have a distinct personality of my own. There are too many weak, good-natured husbands about in society, who, rather than have continual rows with their wives, consent to be overshadowed and put to shame by their feminine arrogance and assumption of superiority. I tell these wretched beings once for all that they are making a woeful mistake. Let them assert themselves, no matter with how much difficulty and unpleasantness, and it will be better for them in the long run. The world will never blame any fellow for steadily refusing to live with a woman who, in mind and character, is more than half a man.
I waited, as I said, at the library window — waited and watched for Honoria’s return, glancing from time to time at the evening papers and listening intently to every distant sound of cab wheels. At last I saw a hansom (one of those dangerously silent things, with tinkling bells which scarcely suffice to warn aside the unwary foot passenger) whirl round the corner of the square, with the well-known gun-case and portmanteau on top; in one minute it had stopped at the door; in another Honoria was out of it and in the hall.
“How do?” she exclaimed loudly as I went forth to greet her. (Naturally, I made no foolish attempt to kiss her.) “You look fairly fit! Here, Simmons!” — this to the man-servant—” take all my traps out and send them upstairs — half-a-crown fare — here you are!”
And she tossed him the coin and marched into the library with a firm, rather heavy tread, I following her in a deeply hurt and vexed silence, for I noticed at the first glance that she had cut her hair quite short. All those beautiful bright nut-brown tresses I had admired when I courted her were gone, and I had some ado to speak with any sort of gentleness.
