Our Elizabeth by Florence A. Kilpatrick - HTML preview

CHAPTER XX

I had not seen Marion and William since their marriage as they had gone on a six-months' tour of the Italian lakes, but I was haunted with the foreboding that the match was not, after all, turning out a success.

For one thing, Marion's silence regarding her marriage was unusual. She wrote only brief notes that made no reference to William. As for William, he did not write at all.

Now Marion is what you would call an ardent correspondent, as well as being a communicative person. If she were happy she would be likely to write no less than eight pages three times a week breathing praise of William-I mean that would be the general tone of her letters. But now she devoted herself exclusively to descriptions of scenery and relating episodes regarding the constant losing and regaining of their baggage on their journeys, which though in its way instructive, struck me as lacking vital interest.

The affair troubled me, because I knew that I was, in a measure, responsible for the match. William had left the decision in my hands, and, on thinking it over, it struck me as a rather cowardly thing to do. What right had he to put it on to me? I knew that if they were not happy I should be haunted by remorse to the end of my days. It was an annoying situation.

When they arrived home and wired from an hotel in London that they were coming up to see me the next day my trepidation increased. Supposing they came to me with reproaches, even recriminations? I awaited their visit in a subdued frame of mind.

Not so Elizabeth. Her jubilant air, her triumphant expression when she spoke of the newly wedded pair, ended by irritating me.

'Getting married isn't the only thing in life; as you seem to think,' I said rather severely, after a remark of hers that she was glad to think Marion was so happily settled.

'Maybe not, but it's the best,' she commented, 'an' as I always sed about Miss Marryun--'

'Mrs. Rawlings,' I corrected.

'Lor', I'll never get used to the name. Mrs. Roarings, then, 'as only got me to thank for the present 'appy state o' things.'

'What do you mean?' I asked, only half interested.

'Well, it's like this yeer,' answered Elizabeth, 'I see from the very first that Mr. Roarings an' Miss Marryun were just suited to each other. The trouble was they didn't see it theirselves, an' so I 'elped to open their eyes like.'

'Explain,' I commanded.

Elizabeth did so. She unfolded a tale that, as she proceeded step by step, left me speechless with horror. That she should have so basely conspired to throw William and Marion at each other and, by misrepresentations, lies and every kind of deception, brought about the match, utterly appalled me. Everything suddenly became clear. William had married through a misplaced sense of chivalry-offered himself up as a sacrifice as it were. I understood then why Marion had written so much about luggage and nothing about connubial bliss-the union was bound to turn out a ghastly failure under such circumstances. Worst of all, I, quite unconsciously, had aided and abetted the whole disgraceful scheme.

'Elizabeth!' I exclaimed at last in dismay, 'you shameless, intriguing creature, I will never forgive you for this. You have ruined two lives, and I am involved in it as well. The only thing to do is to explain the whole situation to Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings when they come to-day.'

She changed colour. 'You'd never do that, 'm.'

'I shall tell them everything. It will, at any rate, help them to begin life on a different understanding.'

'But what good will that do, 'm? It'll upset everything an' lead to goodness knows wot.'

'It may lead to a judicial separation, of course,' I replied, 'but my duty in this case is perfectly clear. There is only one thing to be done.'

I have never seen the girl so genuinely distressed. 'I wouldn't do it, if I wos you, I wouldn't indeed. If you must tell 'em, wait a year or two, till they've settled down--'

A loud knock on the door interrupted her. 'There they are now,' I remarked. 'And no matter what you say I shall explain everything before they leave to-day. They shall know how they've been hoodwinked.'

'Orl right, then,' said Elizabeth, 'an' let the consingquences be on your own head. You'll see 'ow they'll take it.' And darting defiant looks, she went to open the door.

The next moment Marion was enfolded in my arms. Then I turned to greet William. As I did so the words of welcome died on my lips and I stood staring at him in puzzled wonder.

'Why, what has happened to you?' I asked.

He grinned. 'Don't you like me as I am at present?'

I did not, but thought it polite to refrain from saying so. He had gone back to his former state of fuzziness, and looked more like Rip van Winkle than ever. Indeed, his beard seemed even more fierce and bristly than in the old days-probably shaving had tended to strengthen the roots.

'How do you do, William?' I said, extending my hand, deciding as I did so that I would not give him any other kind of salute after all. Yet it was with a tinge of regret I thought of that nice mouth of his hidden under such a rank undergrowth of whisker.

Marion looked on complacently as I greeted him. I remembered then that she had rather seemed to resent the sisterly salute I thought necessary to bestow on him after the wedding, and the brotherly salutes (repeated four times in succession) he had given me in return. I decided at that moment I would respect her objections and only shake hands with William in future. I am sure she preferred it, and I should hate to displease her.

Besides, beards do rasp one so.

Henry now emerged from the study full of hearty greeting and bonhomie. He seemed less surprised at William's altered appearance than I did, and was certainly more pleased about it.

'What made you let him do it?' I said reproachfully to Marion when we were alone, 'he was a really handsome man before, and now--'

'That's just it,' she interrupted, 'he was too handsome, and it wasn't safe for him.'

'Not safe, Marion?'

'Women wouldn't leave him alone-they all flirted with him. It would have been all right if he'd been used to it before, but getting good-looking so suddenly unbalanced him. From a kind of puzzled wonder that he should thus attract the opposite sex, he began to develop an interest in what he termed "their bewildering number of types." He said he used to think they were all exactly alike. It was when he declared his intention of writing a eulogy on woman that I stepped in and insisted on his letting his beard grow again. Don't you think I acted for the best?'

'No doubt you did,' I said pensively, 'but he had such an attractive mouth.'

Marion regarded me severely. 'That's what all the other women seemed to think. I feel I was justified in protecting him.'

'No doubt you were, dear,' I murmured, with meekly lowered eyes. 'Don't you ever regret him as he was before?'

She sighed a little. 'Sometimes-particularly when dear William was just beginning to grow again-did I have my qualms of discouragement. A beard in its incipient stages is an unbecoming, almost startling affair, Netta. Then of course, I find solace by looking at this,' and she held out a small locket containing a portrait of William in his glorified state. 'Also I always keep his white spats and lavender gloves as a remembrance.'

There was a hint of sadness in the idea. It seemed almost as if William was dead-one phase of him was, at all events.

'Then you do regret--' I began.

'I regret nothing, Netta,' she broke in very decidedly. 'I am now getting quite reconciled to dear William's present appearance, and I know he's happier in his natural state.'

This was obviously true. William, his feet once more installed on the mantelpiece, pulling hard at his pipe (filled for him by Marion's loving hands) was a picture of perfect contentment.

But it was some time before I ventured to put the question to him that was uppermost in my thoughts.

'Are you happy, William?' I asked tensely when, for a moment, we were alone. 'Was my advice for better or for worse?'

He took my hand and wrung it warmly. 'My dear Netta!' he exclaimed, 'what a fool I was to hesitate even for a moment. Had it not been for you-and, I think I ought to add, Elizabeth-I might never have won such a treasure as my dear Marion. "Marriage," as Dr. Johnson has said, "is the best state for man in general," and although he added that it is more necessary to a man than a woman as he is less able to supply himself with domestic comforts, I think in that case it is put too crudely. I look upon it as something higher and nobler.'

'That's all right, then,' I said, relieved. 'Dr. Johnson seems to have as sound a philosophy as Elizabeth.'

As I sat meditating before the fire that evening, after the departure of the happy couple, Elizabeth entered. Her face betokened anxiety. 'You-you-didn't tell 'em anything, I 'ope?' she demanded.

'Under the circumstances I did not, Elizabeth. They seemed quite happy and so--'

'"Let sleepin' dogs lie,"' she supplemented.

'You seem able to lie a great deal more than sleeping dogs,' I said severely. 'In future, remember to stick to the truth or you may get yourself-and other people-into serious trouble.'

'Right-o, 'm. But Mr. Roarings seemed satisfied enough. Look wot 'e gave me to-day?'-she held out two crisp banknotes. ''E sed they were for my own troosoo,' she added gleefully.

'What, Elizabeth, are you going to be married next?' asked Henry, as he strolled into the room at that moment.

'Well, I ain't got a party in view as yet, sir. But as I always ses, you never know wot a day may bring forth. The Signs 'ave been good for me lately. Isn't there a sayin' somewhere about not knowing the day nor the 'our when the young man may come along? Well, I always think it's best to be prepared, like.'

She went out, but returned a moment later bearing a tray in her hand.

'What is this?' I inquired.

'I thort p'raps you'd like to drink to the occashun of the 'appy 'ome-coming in a nice glarss o' stout,' she explained.

I noted that there were three glasses. 'Elizabeth,' I said coldly, 'you are unduly familiar. I protest--'

'Oh, hang it all, let's be democratic,' put in Henry, grinning. 'It's only your joie de vivre and natural bonhomie, isn't it, Elizabeth?'

'Not 'arf,' replied Elizabeth. 'Well,' she added a moment later as she raised her glass, ''ere's to us, all of us, an' may we never want nothin', none of us-nor me neither.'

[Illustration: 'Ere's to us, all of us!']

I saw that Henry was grappling with the construction of the sentence, and it was a full minute and a half before he gave it up. Then he lifted his glass. 'Thank you, Elizabeth,' he said, 'and the same to you.'