THE first fortnight of the honeymoon was spent in Paris. They looked at pictures and saw new plays, and went racing on Sunday, and walked in the gardens of Versailles, and did a hundred other cheerful things, and were most marvelously happy. And Mary, who hardly cared a bit about such matters, bought herself a new hat.
They were tempted to go on to the Riviera, but duty prevailed and they went to Brighton on the fourteenth day. Grandmamma had gone to that famous physician on her twenty-sixth annual excursion; and Mary felt she must keep her eye upon her, for all that she was such a hale and vigorous old thing.
Grandmamma was discovered in very nice lodgings along the sea-front, in the care of a landlady, very civil and voluble, and a mistress of the art of plain cooking. Everything very pleasant and comfortable, and a sitting-room with a balcony overlooking the King’s Parade. It really seemed that the young couple might put in a fortnight very profitably here, while their chosen residence in the metropolis was being painted throughout.
They had their little adventures, of course, this happy pair, because Brighthelmstone is the home of so many romances. For one thing, they attracted attention when they walked abroad. Philip was sure that it was the hat from Paris; Mary was absolutely convinced that it was the coat with the astrachan collar and the spats by Grant and Cockburn. But what really impressed the floating population of Brighthelmstone was the comeliness of both; the simple pleasure they derived from the society of each other; their abounding joy in being allowed to walk about this underrated planet.
Had this natural history of nothing in particular the least pretensions to cynicism, which the world looks for in a modern romance, the happy pair would be disillusioned already. They should have been profoundly weary of one another by the fourth day in Paris, according to all the rules of the game. He should have discovered that she was shallow and half-educated, and consequently a bit of a bore when she brought the same face downstairs three mornings consecutively for café au lait. She should have discovered that he was selfish and vain, and that in his heart he didn’t think that Her belongings were equal to His, and that he saw already what a fool he had made of himself. And that being the case, she should have grown conscious of her own inferiority, and begun to hate him because she had done so, and wish herself back again on the boards.
Moreover, had the Author really known his business, they should have quarrelled bitterly on the subject of Grandmamma. Who has heard of a newly-married pair giving up the Riviera and going to Brighton to look after an old lady of eighty-four with all her faculties? He should have been obdurate, and she should have shed tears of bitterness. He should have secretly cursed his gods for the blindness that had shackled him for the rest of his days; she should have had thoughts of the Seine, and have given them expression. He should have yielded when he should have stood firm; she should have despised him for his weakness. They should have snarled at one another all the way to Brighton, and Grandmamma should have been very disagreeable when they got there, and not in the least need of their presence. But candor forces us to make full confession of our incompetence. Because none of these things came to pass.
Very much the contrary, let us assure you. Their good looks and their air of general happiness were the envy of all people of observation along the sea-front. Still they had their adventures, and some at least will have to be recorded.
One morning, as they proceeded almost arm-in-arm, but not quite, looking as though they had just bought the cosmos at five per cent. discount for cash, and were completely satisfied with the transaction, they walked right into a bath chair which was accompanied by a Sealskin Coat and a Himalayan Dust Spaniel.
Salutations necessary, being right up against each other, so to speak.
“How d’ye do, Adela,” said the Culprit, who in his happiness seemed to have nothing to conceal and nothing to defend. “You know my wife, don’t you?”
The wind was certainly blowing very chilly from the northern heights this morning. ’Tis a little way it has in March at Brighthelmstone.
Pa was not so bad as he might have been.
“Introdooce me,” said His Britannic Majesty’s former Ambassador to Persia.
So Pa was introduced to the Bride; and she afterwards told Hubby that he was like any other Pa, only a little more so. And, she being a girl of sense as well as of spirit, Pa didn’t seem to mind talking to her a little, particularly as she knew so much about rheumatism, because it was Granny’s complaint.
Had Lord Warlock tried the new treatment?
No; what was that?
The new treatment called for explanation. Duly forthcoming with minuteness and lucidity. No; not a designing minx, mesdames, altogether. Tact, certainly; but it had its roots, remember, in a heart as sound as a bell, overflowing with practical sympathy for all the world and his wife.
“Grandmamma has a book about it, and a special apparatus. It has done her a power of good—a power of good. She will be delighted to lend them, I’m sure—that’s if you care, Lord Warlock. It’s a wonderful invention, and I’ll bring it round this afternoon, and show you how it works.”
“Thank yah,” said the Ex-Ambassador to Persia. “And I’ll be devilish obliged.”
Hubby, though, was not doing quite so well with the Sealskin Coat. Brighthelmstone so dull and tiresome, so cold, and hotels so unpleasant; and all the time the fair speaker announced these drawbacks she looked not so much at the young man who ought to have married her, but out of the corner of a cold blue eye at the person who was talking to Pa as though she knew all about his complaint.
“Thank yah,” said Pa, touching his hat, one of those hard, square felt ones whose ugliness nought can surpass, as the procession passed on. “The Suffolk. Don’t forget.”
A designing minx—madam, we do not agree. Mere tact, you know. And it was perfectly clear that her quick, spontaneous, practical sympathy had left its mark even on that unpromising subject.
Not such a fool as I thought he was not to have taken this gal off my hands, reflected the Uncompromising Subject within the precincts of his bath chair. And then, with the air of one who nurses an injury, he proceeded to inquire of the Seventh Unmarried Daughter—
“Well, Addie my gal, what do you think of the Mésalliance?”
“One doesn’t profess to be a judge of chorus girls,” said the rude girl, jerking the unfortunate Himalayan Dust Spaniel right off his feet.
Actually rude to her Pa, you see. Really, miss! But are you quite doing her Justice, young friend? says Mr. G-ls-w-thy. Do you think the girl has had fair play? because, frankly, I don’t. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth; every whim gratified; never had a soul to cross or deny her; always able to go to the Stores and order what she wanted within reason; never rubbed her shoulders against life in its sterner aspects like your more fortunate heroine; never changed an iota since she used to bully her nurse. Fact is, young friend, says Mr. G-lsw-thy, you can’t expect people who have had a plumb wicket to bat on all their born days to play as well as those who have been well schooled on more difficult pitches. Mind, I don’t say that Adela would ever have been as nice as your Mary, but I feel very strongly that under fairer conditions there is a great deal of good in the girl that must have reached the surface.
Her manner would always have been a bit against her, of course, Pa not being over-rich for his position; the eye would always have been a little contemptuous, since it was its nature to; but there were certain things in the girl that a hard, uphill, unprotected life in the great textile towns of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, a trip to Australia and South Africa, and a six months’ tour in the United States and Canada might have developed considerably. But, concludes the Sage, it would have remained a nice question whether she would have been as well fitted to be a Mayfair hostess, or to arrange a shooting party, or to ride in Leicestershire, or to attend the gracious Consort of our Sovereign, as she is at present.
These alternatives are of a character that we are not competent to express an opinion upon; but, at present, Mr. Philip seemed to be in no doubt as to the wisdom of his choice; and really that seems rather important, particularly as the young fellow overflowed with happiness as he walked along the King’s Parade, longing to take the arm of the nicest girl in Brighthelmstone into his keeping, and yet fearing to do so since it was rather advertising the fact that they had only been married a fortnight.
“I say, kidlet”—overpass the epithet, you Old Married People; you know you have once been as guilty yourselves—“you talked like a book to the Belted One, didn’t you, what?”
“Yes, Phil-ipp, the poor old dear. The same complaint as Granny. I’m going to take him her apparatus and show him how to work it, and I’ve guaranteed that he will be able to walk upstairs after he has used it a week.”
“Have you, though? But how you dared, I’m blest if I know.”
“Cow-yard, Phil-ipp. He’s rather a dear, really.”
“A most disagreeable old gentleman, and the worst manners of any Privy Councillor in London.”
“A libel, Phil-ipp. I’m sure he’s not so bad as all that. Anyhow, if he is, I shall try and reform him.”