'Henry, do you think William has been looking particularly unhappy lately?' I inquired.
Henry grunted. Converted for the moment into 'A Well-known Actor,' he was digging amongst his theatrical cuttings for reminiscent purposes, and was, therefore, somewhat abstracted.
I, too, was supposed to be working, but try as I would I could not help thinking of William. I felt sorry for him-he looked so distrait. When, as he vaguely hinted, he had conceived an attachment for me I did not think it was likely to cause him any unhappiness. Indeed, I never imagined him capable of feeling any emotions but those of a purely physical character-such as the effects of cold, heat, hunger or bodily pain. And here he was, sighing and looking so dejected it was depressing even to see him about the place. I had just been re-reading Cyrano de Bergerac, whose case seemed rather applicable to William. Could it be possible that under his rough exterior the poor fellow had all the sentiment and fiery imagination of Cyrano, and suffered the same sensitive torment about his appearance. Did William, like Cyrano, shudder when his eye rested even on his own shadow? Did he feel that because of his physical failings the love of woman must be for ever denied him?
I must admit that William was a trifle more interesting to me now than he had previously been. Every woman finds something rather gratifying in being worshipped from afar, even if it is by an 'impossible.' Yet the idea of making him unhappy was distasteful to me. I repeated my question to Henry.
'Never seen William unhappy yet,' replied Henry, looking up, 'he's one of those few chaps who seem contented with life-only wish I was the same.'
Something in his tone made me promptly forget William and concentrate on Henry. 'Aren't you contented?' I asked.
He paused a moment before replying, and then rather wearily indicated the article he was writing. 'It's this kind of thing, you know-where does it all lead to? At times I think journalism is the most exacting profession in the world.'
'What do you mean?' I asked, puzzled at his tone.
'It is exacting because it seems to lead to nothing,' he continued. 'For instance, just think of all the energy, brains and effort involved in the bringing out of a newspaper. Yet it is only read casually, skimmed over by most people, then tossed on one side and instantly forgotten. It is conceived, born, and it dies all in one day. Do you ever see any one reading a morning paper at, say, four o'clock in the afternoon? It is hopelessly out of date by that time.'
'I hadn't thought of it like that,' I pondered. 'Of course, journalism isn't like a business that you can build up and constantly improve; but you can at least establish a reputation amongst newspaper readers.'
'You can't do that so well nowadays,' returned Henry, who seemed in pessimistic vein, 'owing to the present demand for getting well-known names attached to articles. We write them all the same, of course, but it's the people with the well-known names that get the credit for having a good literary style. Well, I always put the best of myself into my work-I can't write anything in a hasty, slovenly manner-but where does it lead to? Some day, perhaps, my ideas will give out and then--' he made a little hopeless gesture.
He was silent a moment, staring out of the window. 'Then there's another thing,' he went on, 'this constant grind leaves me no time to get on with my play. If I could only get it finished it might bring me success-even fame. But how shall I ever get the leisure to complete it?'
A feeling of compunction swept over me. I went up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. 'Henry, dear old chap, I never thought you felt like this about things.' Certainly he was writing a play, but as he had been engaged on it now for over ten years (Henry is a conscientious writer), my interest in it was not so keen as it had been when he first told me of the idea a decade previously.
'Couldn't you do a little of your play every evening after dinner?' I suggested.
'I'm too brain weary by that time-my ideas seem to have given out. Sometimes I think I must renounce the notion of going on with it-and it's been one of my greatest ambitions.'
I smoothed his hair tenderly, noticing how heavily flecked it was with grey and how it silvered at the temples. Poor Henry, he reminded me just then of L'homme à la cervelle d'or, a fantastic story of Daudet's, where he tells of a man possessed of a brain of gold which he tore out, atom by atom, to buy gifts for the woman he loved until, in the end (she being an extravagant type), he was left without a scrap of brain to call his own and so expired. The man was, of course, supposed to be a writer, and the brain of gold his ideas. It made me feel quite uneasy to think that Henry, too, might be, metaphorically speaking, steadily divesting himself of brain day by day in order to support The Kid and me in comfort.
'I ought not to grumble,' he said at last. 'Very few people can do what they want to in this world. Take you, my dear, for instance. You are not following your natural bent when you write those articles for the Woman's Page.'
'I should hope not-I loathe 'em,' I said viciously.
'There's one thing about it,' he went on musingly, 'we'll see that The Kid has every chance when she grows up.'
We are looking forward very much to the time when The Kid will be grown up. Henry says he pictures her moving silently about the house, tall, graceful, helpful, smoothing his brow when he is wearied, keeping his papers in order, correcting his proofs and doing all his typing for him. I, too, for my part, have visions of her taking all household cares off my shoulders, mending, cooking, making my blouses and her own clothes, and playing Beethoven to us in the evenings when our work is done. In her spare time we anticipate that she will write books and plays that will make her famous.
We have visions of these things, I repeat-generally when The Kid is in bed asleep with her hands folded on her breast in a devotional attitude, a cherubic smile on her lips. There are, however, other times when I hope for nothing more exacting than the day to come when she will keep herself clean.
I often wonder where all the stickiness comes from that she manages to communicate from her person to the handles of doors, backs of chairs and other such places where you are most likely to set your hand unconsciously. Henry has a theory about it oozing from the pores of her skin, and says she conceals some inexhaustible sources of grime which is constantly rising to the surface. In which case you can't entirely blame The Kid.
Under the circumstances, however, we feel that she ought to practise more restraint. Always when she is most thickly coated in dirt and varnished with the glutinous substance already referred to, does she most strongly feel the calls of affection. Then is the moment when she flings her arms about Henry and presses long kisses on his clean collar, or gently caresses the entire surface of my new blouse. Nothing, I have remarked, can stir her demonstrative nature so much as the sight of Henry and me arrayed in all the glory of evening attire. The merest glimpse of my georgette theatre gown, or the chaste folds of Henry's tie, scintillating collar and shirt front send her flying to us with hands that fondle and lips that cling. If we repel her and compromise by kissing the middle of her head, she has a way of giving us haunting looks that, after we have sallied forth to the halls of pleasure, can make us feel uncomfortable for the entire evening.
'Yes, when The Kid is grown up,' Henry went on, 'perhaps she'll have the success that has been denied to us, old girl.'
I was about to reply when my attention was arrested by a confused murmur of voices in the hall. I distinguished Elizabeth's, and as the other was a man's tones, I supposed she was having a little badinage at the side door with one of the tradesmen, as is her wont. As in time it did not die away, but began to get a little more heated (one voice appearing to be raised in entreaty and the other, Elizabeth's, in protest), I thought I had better saunter out and interrupt the causerie. Elizabeth has occasionally to be reminded of her work in this manner. She is too fond of gossiping.
I opened the door ostentatiously and sallied out-just in time to see Elizabeth playfully pulling William by the beard. 'You get them whiskers orf-narsty, rarspin' things,' she was saying.
It was an awful moment. Elizabeth had the grace to look ashamed of herself for once, and drifted back to her sink without a word. As for William, he appeared thoroughly unnerved. He tottered towards me. 'Let me explain,' he began.
'William!' I said in stern tones. Then again, 'William!' He wilted under my gaze. 'I should never have thought such a thing of you,' I continued.
He pointed with a finger that trembled in the direction of the kitchen. 'That girl has no respect for any one or anything in the world. Traditions, class distinctions are as nothing to her. She would put out her tongue at Homer.'
'Or pull the beard of William,' I added sarcastically.
'Until I met her,' he went on fiercely, 'I was entirely a democrat. But now I see that once power gets into the hands of the common people we are damned!'
'But what has all this to do with your flirting with Elizabeth?' I demanded.
He seemed so overcome at this very natural comment on my part that for a moment I thought he was going to have a seizure of some sort. 'I-I-flirt, and with Elizabeth?' he repeated when he had slightly recovered himself. 'Madame, what do you mean to insinuate?'
He drew himself up to his full height of six feet three, and, looking at him as he towered above me with his mane of disordered hair and flowing beard, I could not help thinking he rather resembled Samson in one of his peevish moods. The indignation that possessed him seemed sincere enough, but the circumstances of the case utterly bewildered me. I was gazing at him in perplexity when Henry came out of the study.
'What's all this parleying in the hall, noise without, voices heard "off," and so forth?' he demanded.
William gave me such an agonized look of entreaty I decided I would say nothing about what had just occurred. 'It is only I endeavouring to get our friend William to rub his feet on the mat,' I retorted cheerfully. 'But let us go into the consulting chamber.’
William followed me into the study and took his usual seat at the fireside in a dejected manner. Then went through a strange gymnastic.
He had just started to swing his feet up to the mantelpiece when he paused with them in mid-air and brought them down again. The arrested action had a droll effect.
'Have a smoke,' said Henry, pretending not to notice this peculiar conduct and pushing the tobacco jar towards him.
'No thanks, old man,' he replied. 'I'm giving up smoking-for a time.'
It was now Henry's turn to look surprised. 'Giving up smoking,' he ejaculated. 'What's wrong-is it your liver?'
'No, no, my liver's all right.'
'Your lungs, then?'
'Of course, not.'
'It surely can't be your heart?'
William began to look annoyed. 'Look here, can't I go without a smoke for once without my entire anatomy being held up for discussion?' He then produced a cigarette and proceeded to light it.
'I thought you'd given up smoking,' commented the puzzled Henry.
'Do you call this smoking?' he replied in disgust. 'You might as well give lemonade to a man who asks for a brandy and soda and tell him it's just as good.'
'Then why renounce your pipe at all?' asked Henry, still mystified.
'I've decided to go through a sort of mental training,' replied William, speaking rather quickly and avoiding my eye. 'I think a man has no right to become the slave of habit. Directly he feels he is dropping into a groove he ought to face about and go in exactly the opposite direction.'
'Is that what you're doing just now?' I asked, wondering if this was an explanation of the Elizabeth episode.
'Exactly. It is the only way to build up one's character. Now, some people might think me a little careless regarding dress.'
'The ultra-fastidious might consider you a trifle insouciant, William.'
'That is one of the points in my character I intend to correct.' He dived into his pocket as he spoke and produced a brown paper parcel. William can carry any number of things in his pockets without making his figure look any bulgier or more unsymmetrical than usual. He boasts that he has at times gone on a three weeks' walking tour with all the luggage he required for that period disposed about his person, his damp sponge (concealed in the crown of his hat) keeping his head delightfully cool in the heat of the day.
'What have you got there, William?' I inquired as he unfolded the parcel.
'My first step in the evolution of character,' he replied solemnly, and took out a pair of white spats, and some fawn-coloured gloves.
'You don't mean you're going to wear those?' gasped Henry.
'I am-abhorrent as they are to me,' rejoined William mournfully.
'You may call it building up character if you like,' said Henry shortly, 'but I call it a lot of damned rot.' He pulled hard at his cigar, and then added, 'You're suffering from softening of the brain, my boy, or something of the sort.'
William looked at me in questioning despair, and in that moment my heart softened towards him. In a flash I understood. He had so often heard me urge Henry to wear white spats and light-coloured gloves, though all my coercion and entreaty had been in vain. William had thought by donning these things-which on him would have a grotesque effect-he would win my favour. Poor fellow! I was quite touched by his devotion, his absolutely hopeless passion.
'These things wouldn't be in keeping with the rest of you,' I said gently; 'they require to be accompanied by all the-er-appurtenances of the smart man.'
'Is-is-a beard an appurtenance?' he asked in a hollow voice.
'Not an appurtenance, William-perhaps a detriment would be the better word.'
He emitted a sound that was half a groan. 'I knew it,' he said. 'Well, what must be, must be, I suppose.'
'You're getting profound,' snorted Henry, who apparently objected to William in his present mood; and he proceeded to distract his attention by touching on a recent stirring debate in the House. William allowed Henry to talk on unchecked-your man who indulges in argument abhors that-and left unusually early for him.
'That fellow is undoubtedly going off his head,' commented Henry after his departure. 'I wonder what's wrong with him.'
I smiled rather sadly, and mentally decided that I must cure William of his infatuation for me without delay.