Chapter VI: Part 6

‘That is because you did not know where to look,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘If you have a copy in the house, Mrs. Beecher, I will undertake to make it abundantly clear to you that he is to be eschewed by those who wish to keep their thoughts unsullied. Not? I fancy that even quoting from memory I could convince you that it is better to avoid him.’

‘Pass Byron,’ said Mrs. Beecher, who was a very pretty little kittenish person, with no apparent need of any cosmetics, literary or otherwise. ‘How about Shelley?’

‘Frank raves about Shelley,’ observed Maude.

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer shook her head.

‘His work has some dreadful tendencies. He was, I am informed, either a theist or an atheist, I cannot for the moment recall which—I think that we should make our little course as improving as possible.’

‘Tennyson,’ Maude suggested.

‘I have been told that his meaning is too clear to entitle him to rank among the great thinkers of our race. The lofty thought is necessarily obscure. There is no merit in following a poem which is perfectly intelligible. Which leads us to—’

‘Browning!’ cried the other ladies.

‘Exactly. We might form a little Browning Society of our own.’

‘Charming! Charming!’

And so it was agreed.

There was only one other point to be settled at this their inaugural meeting, which was, to choose the other ladies who should be admitted into their literary circle. There were to be no men.

‘They do distract one so,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.

The great thing was to admit no one save those earnest spirits who would aspire to get the full benefit from their studies. Mrs. Fortescue could not be thought of, she was much too talkative. And Mrs. Jones had such a frivolous mind. Mrs. Charles could think and talk of nothing but her servants. And Mrs. Patt-Beatson always wanted to lay down the law. Perhaps on the whole it would be better to start the society quietly among themselves, and then gradually to increase it. The first meeting should be next Wednesday, at Mrs. Crosse’s house, and Mrs. Hunt Mortimer would bring her complete two-volume edition with her. Mrs. Beecher thought that one volume would be enough just at first, but Mrs. Hunt Mortimer said that it was better to have a wide choice. Maude went home and told Frank in the evening. He was pleased, but rather sceptical.

‘You must begin with the simpler things first,’ said he. ‘I should recommend _Hervé Riel_ and _Gold Hair_.’

But Maude put on the charming air of displeasure which became her so well.

‘We are serious students, sir,’ said she. ‘We want the very hardest poem in the book. I assure you, Frank, that one of your little faults is that you always underrate a woman’s intelligence. Mrs. Hunt Mortimer says that though we may be less original than men, we are more assim— more assmun—’

‘Assimulative.’

‘That’s what I say—assimulative. Now, you always talk as if—oh yes, you do! No, you mustn’t! How absurd you are, Frank! Whenever I try to speak seriously to you, you always do that and spoil everything. How would you like to discuss Browning if at the end of every sentence somebody came and kissed you? You wouldn’t mind! No, I dare say not. But you would feel that you were not being taken seriously. Wait till the next time _you_ are in earnest about anything—you’ll see!’

* * * * *

The meeting was to be at three o’clock, and at ten minutes to the hour Mrs. Hunt Mortimer arrived with two large brown volumes under her arm. She had come early, she said, because there was to be a rehearsal of the amateur theatricals at the Dixons’ at a quarter-past four. Mrs. Beecher did not appear until five minutes after the hour. Her cook had quarrelled with the housemaid, and given instantaneous notice, with five people coming to dinner on Saturday. It had upset the lady very much, and she explained that she would not have come if she had not promised. It was so difficult to follow poetry when you were thinking about the entrée all the time.

‘Why the entrée?’ asked Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, looking up from the book which she held open in front of her.

‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Beecher, who had the art of saying the most simple things as if they were profoundly confidential secrets,—‘My dear, my parlourmaid is really an excellent cook, and I shall rely upon her if Martha really goes. But she is limited, very limited, and entrées and savouries are the two things in which I cannot entirely trust her. I must, therefore, find some dish which is well within her capacity.’

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer prided herself upon her housekeeping, so the problem interested her. Maude also began to feel the meeting less dull than she had expected.

‘Of course there are many things to be considered,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, with the air of a Q.C. giving an opinion. ‘Oyster patties or oyster vol-au-vents—’

‘Oysters are out of season,’ said Maude.

‘I was about to say,’ Mrs. Hunt Mortimer continued, with admirable presence of mind, ‘that these entrées of oysters are inadmissible because they are out of season. Now curried prawns—’

‘My husband loathes them.’

‘Well, well! What do you say to sweetbreads en caisse? All you want are chopped mushrooms, shalots, parsley, nutmeg, pepper, salt, breadcrumb, bacon fat—’

‘No, no,’ cried Mrs. Beecher despairingly. ‘Anne would never remember all that.’

‘Cutlets à la Constance,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘I am sure that they are simple enough. Cutlets, butter, fowls’ livers, cocks’ combs, mushrooms—’

‘My dear, my dear, remember that she is only a parlourmaid. It is unreasonable.’

‘Ragout of fowl, chicken patties, croquettes of veal with a little browning—’

‘We’ve got back to Browning after all,’ cried Maude.

‘Dear me,’ said Mrs. Beecher, ‘it is all my fault, and I am so sorry. Now, Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, do please read us a little of that delightful poetry.’

‘You can always get small entrées sent down from the Stores,’ cried Maude, as a happy thought.

‘You dear, good girl, how sweet of you to think of it. Of course one can. That is really an admirable idea. There now, we may consider the entrée as being removed, so we proceed to—’

‘The _pièce de résistance_,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer solemnly, glancing down the index of the first volume. ‘I confess that my acquaintance with the poet has up to now been rather superficial. Our ambition must be to so master him that he becomes from this time forward part and parcel of ourselves. I fancy that the difficulties in understanding him have been very much exaggerated, and that with goodwill and perseverance we shall manage to overcome them.’

It was a relief to Mrs. Beecher and to Maude to realise that Mrs. Hunt Mortimer knew no more about the matter than themselves. They both ventured upon a less diffident air now that it was clear that it might be done in safety. Maude frowned thoughtfully, and Mrs. Beecher cast up her pretty brown eyes at the curtain-rod, as if she were running over in her memory the whole long catalogue of the poet’s works.

‘I will tell you what we should do,’ said she. ‘We must make a vow that we shall never pass a line until we understand it. We will go over it again and again until we grasp its meaning.’

‘What an excellent idea!’ cried Maude, with one of her little bursts of enthusiasm. ‘Now that is really splendid, Mrs. Beecher.’

‘My friends always call me Nellie,’ said the little brunette.

‘How nice of you to say so! I should love to call you so, if you don’t mind. It is such a pretty name too. Only you must call me Maude.’

‘You look like a Maude,’ said Mrs. Beecher. ‘I always picture a Maude as bright and pretty and blonde. Isn’t it strange how names associate themselves with characters. Mary is always domestic, and Rose is a flirt, and Elizabeth is dutiful, and Evelyn is dashing, and Alice is colourless, and Helen is masterful—’

‘And Matilda is impatient,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, laughing. ‘Matilda has reason to be, seated here with an index in front of her while you two are exchanging compliments.’

‘Why, we were waiting for you to begin,’ said Mrs. Beecher reproachfully. ‘Do let us have something, for really the time is slipping away.’

‘It would be a pity to begin at the beginning, because that represents his immature genius,’ remarked Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘I think that on this the opening day of the Society, we should have the poet at his best.’

‘How are we to know which _is_ his best?’ Maude asked.

‘I should be inclined to choose something with a title which suggests profundity—“A Pretty Woman,” “Love in a Life,” “Any Wife to any Husband”—’

‘Oh, what _did_ she say to him?’ cried Maude.

‘Well, I was about to say that all these subjects rather suggested frivolity.’

‘Besides, it really is a very absurd title,’ remarked Mrs. Beecher, who was fond of generalising from her six months’ experience of matrimony. ‘_A_ husband to _a_ wife’ would be intelligible, but how can you know what _any_ husband would say to _any_ wife? No one can really foretell what a man will do. They really are such extraordinary creatures.’

But Mrs. Hunt Mortimer had been married for five years, and felt as competent to lay down the law about husbands as about entrées.

‘When you have had a larger experience of them, dear, you will find that there is usually a reason, or at least a primitive instinct of some sort, at the root of their actions. But, seriously, we must really concentrate our attention upon the poet, for my other engagement will call me away at four, which only leaves me ten minutes to reach Maybury.’

Mrs. Beecher and Maude settled down with anxious attention upon their faces.

‘Do please go on!’ they cried.

‘Here is “The Pied Piper of Hamelin.”’

‘Now that interests me more than I can tell,’ cried Maude, with her eyes shining with pleasure. ‘Do please read us everything there is about that dear piper.’

‘Why so?’ asked her two companions.

‘Well, the fact is,’ said Maude, ‘Frank—my husband, you know—came to a fancy-dress at St. Albans as the Pied Piper. I had no idea that it came from Browning.’

‘How did he dress for it?’ asked Mrs. Beecher. ‘We are invited to the Aston’s dress ball, and I want something suitable for George.’

‘It was a most charming dress. Red and black all over, something like Mephistopheles, you know, and a peaked hat with a bell at the top. Then he had a flute, of course, and a thin wire from his waist with a stuffed rat at the end of it.’

‘A rat! How horrid!’

‘Well, that was the story, you know. The rats all followed the Pied Piper, and so this rat followed Frank. He put it in his pocket when he danced, but once he forgot, and so it got stood upon, and the sawdust came out all over the floor.’

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer was also invited to the dress ball, and her thoughts flew away from the book in front of her.

‘How did you go, Mrs. Crosse?’ she asked.

‘I went as “Night.”’

‘What! you with your brown hair!’

‘Well, father said that I was not a very dark night. I was in black, you know, just my ordinary black silk dinner-dress. Then I had a silver half-moon over my head, and black veils round my hair, and stars all over my bodice and skirt, with a long comet right across the front. Father upset a cup of milk over me at supper, and said afterwards that it was the milky way.’

‘It is simply maddening how men _will_ make jokes about the most important subjects,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘But I have no doubt, dear, that your dress was an exceedingly effective one. Now, for my own part, I had some idea of going as the “Duchess of Devonshire.”’

‘Charming!’ cried Mrs. Beecher and Maude.

‘It is not a very difficult costume, you know. I have some old Point d’Alençon lace which has been in the family for a century. I make it the starting-point of my costume. The gown need not be very elaborate—’

‘Silk?’ asked Mrs. Beecher.

‘Well, I thought that perhaps a white-flowered brocade—’

‘Oh yes, with pearl trimming.’

‘No, no, dear, with my lace for trimming.’

‘Of course. You said so.’

‘And then a muslin fichu coming over here.’

‘How perfectly sweet!’ cried Maude.

‘And the waist cut high, and ruffles at the sleeves. And, of course, a picture hat—you know what I mean—with a curling ostrich feather.’

‘Powdered hair, of course?’ said Mrs. Beecher.

‘Powdered in ringlets.’

‘It will suit you admirably—beautifully. You are tall enough to carry it off, and you have the figure also. How I wish I was equally certain about my own!’

‘What had you thought of, dear?’

‘Well, I had some idea about “Ophelia.” Do you think that it would do?’

‘Certainly. Had you worked it out at all?’

‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Beecher, relapsing into her pleasant confidential manner. ‘I had some views, but, of course, I should be so glad to have your opinion about it. I only saw _Hamlet_ once, and the lady was dressed in white, with a gauzy light nun’s-veiling over it. I thought that with white pongee silk as an under-dress, and then some sort of delicate—’

‘Crepe de Chine,’ Maude suggested.

‘But in Ophelia’s day such a thing had never been heard of,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘A net of silver thread—’

‘Exactly,’ cried Mrs. Beecher, ‘with some sort of jewelling upon it. That was just what I had imagined. Of course it should be cut classically and draped—my dressmaker is such a treasure—and I should have a gold embroidery upon the white silk.’

‘Crewel work,’ said Maude.

‘Or a plain cross-stitch pattern. Then a tiara of pearls on the head. Shakespeare—’

At the name of the poet their three consciences pricked simultaneously. They looked at each other and then at the clock with dismay.

‘We must—we really _must_ go on with our reading,’ cried Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘How did we get talking about these dresses?’

‘It was my fault,’ said Mrs. Beecher, looking contrite.

‘No, dear, it was mine,’ said Maude. ‘You remember it all came from my saying that Frank had gone to the ball as the Pied Piper.’

‘I am going to read the very first poem that I open,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer remorselessly. ‘I am afraid that it is almost time that I started, but we may still be able to skim over a few pages. Now then! There! _Setebos_! What a funny name!’

‘What _does_ it mean?’ asked Maude.

‘We shall find out, no doubt, as we proceed,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘We shall take it line by line and draw the full meaning from it. The first line is—

‘Will sprawl now that the heat of day is best—’

‘Who will?’ asked Mrs. Beecher.

‘I don’t know. That’s what it says.’

‘The next line will explain, no doubt.’

‘Flat on his—’

‘Dear me, I had no idea that Browning was like this!’

‘Do read it, dear.’

‘I couldn’t possibly think of doing so. With your permission we will pass on to the next paragraph.’

‘But we vowed not to skip.’

‘But why read what cannot instruct or elevate us. Let us begin this next stanza, and hope for something better. The first line is—I wonder if it really can be as it is written.’

‘Do please read it!’

‘Setebos and Setebos and Setebos.’

The three students looked sadly at each other. ‘This is worse than anything I could have imagined,’ said the reader.

‘We mast skip that line.’

‘But we are skipping everything.’

‘It’s a person’s name,’ said Mrs. Beecher.

‘Or three persons.’

‘No, only one, I think.’

‘But why should he repeat it three times?’

‘For emphasis!’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Beecher, ‘it was Mr. Setebos, and Mrs. Setebos, and a little Setebos.’

‘Now, if you are going to make fun, I won’t read. But I think we were wrong to say that we would take it line by line. It would be easier sentence by sentence.’

‘Quite so.’

‘Then we will include the next line, which finishes the sentence. It is, “thinketh he dwelleth in the cold of the moon.”’

‘Then it _was_ only one Setebos!’ cried Maude.

‘So it appears. It is easy to understand if one will only put it into ordinary language. This person Setebos was under the impression that his life was spent in the moonlight.’

‘But what nonsense it is!’ cried Mrs. Beecher. Mrs. Hunt Mortimer looked at her reproachfully. ‘It is very easy to call everything which we do not understand “nonsense,”’ said she. ‘I have no doubt that Browning had a profound meaning in this.’

‘What was it, then?’

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer looked at the clock.

‘I am very sorry to have to go,’ said she, ‘but really I have no choice in the matter. Just as we were getting on so nicely—it is really most vexatious. You’ll come to my house next Wednesday, Mrs. Crosse, won’t you? And you also, Mrs. Beecher. Good-bye, and thanks for _such_ a pleasant afternoon!’

But her skirts had hardly ceased to rustle in the passage before the Browning Society had been dissolved by a two-thirds’ vote of the total membership.

‘What is the use?’ cried Mrs. Beecher. ‘Two lines have positively made my head ache, and there are two volumes.’

‘We must change our poet.’

‘His verbosity!’ cried Mrs. Beecher.

‘His Setebosity!’ cried Maude.

‘And dear Mrs. Hunt Mortimer pretending to like him! Shall we propose Tennyson next week?’

‘It would be far better.’

‘But Tennyson is quite simple, is he not?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Then why should we meet to discuss him if there is nothing to discuss?’

‘You mean that we might as well each read him for herself.’

‘I think it would be easier.’

‘Why, of course it would.’

And so after one hour of precarious life, Mrs. Hunt Mortimer’s Mutual Improvement Society for the elucidation of Browning came to an untimely end.

AN INVESTMENT

‘I WANT your advice, Maude.’

She was looking very sweet and fresh in the morning sunlight. She wore a flowered, French print blouse—little sprigs of roses on a white background—and a lace frill round her pretty, white, smooth throat. The buckle of her brown leather belt just gleamed over the edge of the table-cloth. In front of her were a litter of correspondence, a white cup of coffee, and two empty eggshells—for she was a perfectly healthy young animal with an excellent appetite.

‘Well, dear, what is it?’

‘I shall take the later train. Then I need not hurry, and can walk down at my ease.’

‘How nice of you!’

‘I am not sure that Dinton will think so.’

‘Only one little hour of difference—what can it matter?’

‘They don’t run offices on those lines. An hour means a good deal in the City of London.’

‘Oh, I do hate the City of London! It is the only thing which ever comes between us.’

‘I suppose that it separates a good many loving couples every morning.’

He had come across and an egg-cup had been upset. Then he had been scolded, and they sat together laughing upon the sofa. When he had finished admiring her little, shining, patent-leather, Louis shoes and the two charming curves of open-work black stocking, she reminded him that he had asked for her advice.

‘Yes, dear, what was it?’ She knitted her brows and tried to look as her father did when he considered a matter of business. But then her father was not hampered by having a young man’s arm round his neck. It is so hard to be business-like when any one is curling one’s hair round his finger.

‘I have some money to invest.’

‘O Frank, how clever of you!’

‘It is only fifty pounds.’

‘Never mind, dear, it is a beginning.’

‘That is what I feel. It is the foundation-stone of our fortunes. And so I want Her Majesty to lay it—mustn’t wrinkle your brow though—that is not allowed.’

‘But it is a great responsibility, Frank.’

‘Yes, we must not lose it.’

‘No, dear, we must not lose it. Suppose we invest it in one of those modern fifty-guinea pianos. Our dear old Broadwood was an excellent piano when I was a girl, but it is getting so squeaky in the upper notes. Perhaps they would allow us something for it.’

He shook his head.

‘I know that we want one very badly, dear. And such a musician as you are should have the best instrument that money can buy. I promise you that when we have a little to turn round on, you shall have a beauty. But in the meantime we must not buy anything with this money—I mean nothing for ourselves—we must invest it. We cannot tell what might happen. I might fall ill. I might die.’

‘O Frank, how horrid you are this morning!’

‘Well, we have to be ready for anything. So I want to put this where we can get it on an emergency, and where in the meantime it will bring us some interest. Now what shall we buy?’

‘Papa always bought a house.’

‘But we have not enough.’

‘Not a little house?’

‘No, not the smallest.’

‘A mortgage, then?’

‘The sum is too small.’

‘Government stock, Frank—if you think it is safe.’

‘Oh, it is safe enough. But the interest is so low.’

‘How much should we get?’

‘Well, I suppose the fifty pounds would bring us in about thirty shillings a year.’

‘Thirty shillings! O Frank!’

‘Rather less than more.’

‘Fancy a great rich nation like ours taking our fifty pounds and treating us like that. How _mean_ of them! Don’t let them have it, Frank.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘If they want it, they can make us a fair offer for it.’

‘I think we’ll try something else.’

‘Well, they have only themselves to thank. But you have some plan in your head, Frank. What is it?’

He brought the morning paper over from the table. Then he folded it so as to bring the financial columns to the top.

‘I saw a fellow in the City yesterday who knows a great deal about gold-mining. I only had a few minutes’ talk, but he strongly advised me to have some shares in the El Dorado Proprietary Gold Mine.’

‘What a nice name! I wonder if they would let us have any?’

‘Oh yes, they are to be bought in the open market. It is like this, Maude. The mine was a very good one, and paid handsome dividends. Then it had some misfortunes. First, there was no water, and then there was too much water, and the workings were flooded. So, of course, the price of the shares fell. Now they are getting the mine all right again, but the shares are still low. It certainly seems a very good chance to pick a few of them up.’

‘Are they very dear, Frank?’

‘I looked them up in the _Mining Register_ before I came home yesterday. The original price of each share was ten shillings, but as they have had these misfortunes, one would expect to find them rather lower.’

‘Ten shillings! It does not seem much to pay for a share in a thing with a name like that.’

‘Here it is,’ said he, pointing with a pencil to one name in a long printed list. ‘This one, between the Royal Bonanza and the Alabaster Consols. You see—El Dorado Proprietary! Then after it you have printed, 4¾—4⅞. I don’t profess to know much about these things, but that of course means the price.’

‘Yes, dear, it is printed at the top of the column—“Yesterday’s prices.”’

‘Quito so. Well, we know that the original price of each share was ten shillings, and of course they must have dropped with a flood in the mine, so that these figures must mean that the price yesterday was four shillings and nine-pence, or thereabouts.’

‘What a clear head for business you have, dear!’

‘I think we can’t do wrong in buying at that price. You see, with our fifty pounds we could buy two hundred of them, and then if they went up again we could sell, and take our profit.’

‘How delightful! But suppose they don’t go up.’

‘Well, they can’t go down. I should not think that a share at four shillings and ninepence _could_ go down very much. There is no room. But it may go up to any extent.’

‘Besides, your friend said that they would go up.’

‘Yes, he seemed quite confident about it. Well, what do you think, Maude? Is it good enough or not?’

‘O Frank, I hardly dare advise you. Just imagine if we were to lose it all. Do you think it would be wiser to get a hundred shares, and then we could buy twenty-five pounds’ worth of Royal Bonanza as well. It would be impossible for them both to go wrong.’

‘The Royal Bonanza shares are dear, and then we have had no information about it. I think we had better back our own opinion.’

‘All right, Frank.’

‘Then that is settled. I have a telegraph-form here.’

‘Could you not buy them yourself when you are in town?’

‘No, you can’t buy things yourself. You have to do it through a broker.’

‘I always thought a broker was a horrid man, who came and took your furniture away.’

‘Ah, that’s another kind of broker. He comes afterwards. I promised Harrison that he should have any business which I could put in his way, so here goes. How is that?’—

‘Harrison, 13a Throgmorton Street, E.C.—Buy two hundred El Dorado
Proprietaries.

‘CROSSE, Woking.’

‘Doesn’t it sound rather peremptory, Frank?’

‘No, no, that is mere business.’

‘I hope he won’t be offended.’

‘I think I can answer for that.’

‘You have not said the price.’

‘One cannot say the price because one does not know it. You see, it is always going up and down. By this time it may be a little higher or a little lower than yesterday. There cannot be much change, that is certain. Great Scot, Maude, it is ten-fifteen. Three and a half minutes for a quarter of a mile. Good-bye, darling! I just love you in that bodice. O Lord—good-bye!’

* * * * *

‘Well, has anything happened?’

‘Yes, you have come back. Oh I am so glad to see you, you dear old boy!’

‘Take care of that window, darling!’

‘Oh, my goodness, I hope he didn’t see. No, it’s all right. He was looking the other way. We have the gold shares all right.’

‘Harrison has telegraphed?’

‘Yes, here it is.’—

‘Crosse, The Lindens, Woking.—Bought two hundred El Dorados at 4¾.

HARRISON.’

‘That is capital. I rather expected to see Harrison in the train. I shouldn’t be surprised if he calls on his way from the station. He has to pass our door, you know, on his way to Maybury.’

‘He is sure to call.’

‘What are you holding there?’

‘It’s a paper.’

‘What paper?’

‘Who is it who talks about woman’s curiosity?’

‘Let me see it.’

‘Well, sir, if you must know, it is the _Financial Whisper_.’

‘Where in the world did you get it?’

‘I knew that the Montresors took a financial paper. I remember Mrs. Montresor saying once how dreadfully dry it was. So when you were gone I sent Jemima round and borrowed it, and I have read it right through to see if there was anything about our mine in it—_our_ mine, Frank; does it not sound splendid?’

‘Well, is there anything?’

She clapped her hands with delight.

‘Yes, there is. “This prosperous mine—” that is what it says. Look here, it is under the heading of Australian Notes,’ she held out the paper and pointed, but his face fell as he looked.

‘O Maude, it’s preposterous.’

‘What is preposterous?’

‘The word is preposterous and not prosperous—“this preposterous mine.”’

‘Frank!’ She turned her face away.

‘Never mind, dear! What’s the odds?’

‘O Frank, our first investment—our fifty pounds! And to think that I should have kept the paper as a surprise for you!’

‘Well, the print is a little slurred, and it was a very natural mistake. After all, the paper may be wrong. Oh don’t, Maude, please don’t! It’s not worth it—all the gold on the earth is not worth it. There’s a sweet girlie! Now, are you better? Oh, damn those open curtains!’

A tall and brisk young man with a glossy hat was coming through the garden. An instant later Jemima had ushered him in.

‘Hullo, Harrison!’

‘How do you do, Crosse? How are you, Mrs. Crosse?’

‘How do you do? I’ll just order tea if you will excuse me.’

Ordering tea seemed to involve a good deal of splashing water. Maude came back with a merrier face.

‘Is this a good paper, Mr. Harrison?’

‘What is it? _Financial Whisper_! No, the most venal rag in the city.’

‘Oh, I am so glad!’

‘Why?’

‘Well, you know, we bought some shares to-day, and it calls our mine a preposterous one.’

‘Oh, is that all. Who cares what the _Financial Whisper_ says! It would call the Bank of England a preposterous institution if it thought it could bear Consols by doing so. Its opinion is not worth a halfpenny. By the way, Crosse, it was about those shares that I called.’

‘I thought you might. I have only just got back myself, and I saw by your wire that you had bought them all right.’

‘Yes, I thought I had better let you have your contract at once. Settling day is on Monday, you know.’

‘All right. Thank you. I will let you have a cheque. What—what’s this?’

The contract had been laid face upwards upon the table. Frank Crosse’s face grew whiter and his eyes larger as he stared at it. It ran in this way—

13a THROGMORTON STREET.

Bought for Francis Crosse, Esq.

(Subject to the Specific Rules and Regulations of the Stock
Exchange.)

200 El Dorado Proprietaries at 4¾ £950 0 0 Stamps and Fees 4 17 6 Commission 7 10 0 £962 7 6

For the 7th inst.

‘I fancy there is some mistake here, Harrison,’ said he, speaking with a very dry pair of lips.

‘A mistake!’

‘Yes, this is not at all what I expected.’

‘O Frank! Nearly a thousand pounds!’ gasped Maude.

Harrison glanced from one of them to the other. He saw that the matter was serious.

‘I am very sorry if there has been any mistake. I tried to obey your instructions. You wanted two hundred El Dorados, did you not?’

‘Yes, at four and ninepence.’

‘Four and ninepence! They are four pound fifteen each.’

‘But I read that they were only ten shillings originally, and that they had been falling.’

‘Yes, they have been falling for months. But they were as high as ten pounds once. They are down at four pound fifteen now.’

‘Why on earth could the paper not say so?’

‘When a fraction is used, it always means a fraction of a pound.’

‘Good heavens! And I have to find this sum before Monday.’

‘Monday is settling day.’

‘I can’t do it, Harrison. It is impossible.’

‘Then there is the obvious alternative.’

‘No, I had rather die. I will never go bankrupt—never!’

Harrison began to laugh, and then turned stonily solemn as he met a pair of reproachful grey eyes.

‘It strikes me that you have not done much at this game, Crosse.’

‘Never before—and by Heaven, never again!’

‘You take it much too hard. When I spoke of an alternative, I never dreamed of bankruptcy. All you have to do is to sell your stock to-morrow morning, and pay the difference.’

‘Can I do that?’

‘Rather. Why not?’

‘What would the difference be?’

Harrison took an evening paper from his pocket. ‘We deal in rails chiefly, and I don’t profess to keep in touch with the mining market. We’ll find the quotation here. By Jove!’ He whistled between his teeth.

‘Well!’ said Frank, and felt his wife’s little warm palm fall upon his hand under the table.

‘The difference is in your favour.’

‘In my favour?’

‘Yes, listen to this. “The mining markets, both the South African and the Australian, opened dull, but grew more animated as the day proceeded, prices closing at the best. Out crops upon the Rand mark a general advance of one-sixteenth to one-eighth. The chief feature in the Australian section was a sharp advance of five-eighths in El Dorados, upon a telegram that the workings had been pumped dry.” Crosse, I congratulate you.’

‘I can really sell them for more than I gave?’

‘I should think so. You have two hundred of them, and a profit of ten shillings on each.’

‘Maude, we’ll have the whisky and the soda. Harrison, you must have a drink. Why, that’s a hundred pounds.’

‘More than a hundred.’

‘Without my paying anything?’

‘Not a penny.’

‘When does the Exchange open to-morrow?’

‘The rattle goes at eleven.’

‘Well, be there at eleven, Harrison. Sell them at once.’

‘You won’t hold on and watch the market?’

‘No, no—I won’t have an easy moment until they are sold.’

‘All right, my boy. You can rely upon me. You will get a cheque for your balance on Tuesday or Wednesday. Good evening! I am so glad that it has all ended well.’

‘And the joke of it is, Maude,’ said her husband, after they had talked over the whole adventure from the beginning. ‘The joke of it is that we have still to find an investment for our original fifty pounds. I am inclined to put it into Consols after all.’

‘Well,’ said Maude, ‘perhaps it would be the patriotic thing to do.’

* * * * *

Two days later the poor old Broadwood with the squeaky treble and the wheezy bass was banished for ever from The Lindens, and there arrived in its place a ninety-five-guinea cottage grand, all dark walnut and gilding, with notes in it so deep and rich and resonant that Maude could sit before it by the hour and find music enough in simply touching one here and one there, and listening to the soft, sweet, reverberant tones which came swelling from its depths. Her El Dorado piano, she called it, and tried to explain to lady visitors how her husband had been so clever at business that he had earned it in a single day. As she was never very clear in her own mind how the thing had occurred, she never succeeded in explaining it to any one else, but a vague and solemn impression became gradually diffused abroad that young Mr. Frank Crosse was a very remarkable man, and that he had done something exceedingly clever in the matter of an Australian mine.

A THUNDERCLOUD

BLUE skies and shining sun, but far down on the horizon one dark cloud gathers and drifts slowly upwards unobserved. Frank Crosse was aware of its shadow when coming down to breakfast he saw an envelope with a well-remembered handwriting beside his plate. How he had loved that writing once, how his heart had warmed and quickened at the sight of it, how eagerly he had read it—and now a viper coiled upon the white table-cloth would hardly have given him a greater shock. Contradictory, incalculable, whimsical life! A year ago how scornfully he would have laughed, what contemptuous unbelief would have filled his soul, if he had been told that any letter of hers could have struck him cold with the vague apprehension of coming misfortune. He tore off the envelope and threw it into the fire. But before he could glance at the letter there was the quick patter of his wife’s feet upon the stair, and she burst, full of girlish health and high spirits, into the little room. She wore a pink crepon dressing-gown, with cream guipure lace at the neck and wrists. Pink ribbon outlined her trim waist. The morning sun shone upon her, and she seemed to him to be the daintiest, sweetest tiling upon earth. He had thrust his letter into his pocket as she entered.

‘You will excuse the dressing-gown, Frank.’

‘I just love you in it. No, you mustn’t pass. Now you can go.’

‘I was so afraid that you would breakfast without me that I had no time to dress. I shall have the whole day to finish in when you are gone. There now—Jemima has forgotten to warm the plates again! And your coffee is cold. I wish you had not waited.’

‘Better cold coffee with Maude’s society.’

‘I always thought men gave up complimenting their wives after they married them. I am so glad you don’t. I think on the whole that women’s ideas of men are unfair and severe. The reason is that the women who have met unpleasant men run about and make a noise, but the women who are happy just keep quiet and enjoy themselves. For example, I have not time to write a book explaining to every one how nice Frank Crosse is; but if he were nasty my life would be empty, and so of course I should write my book.’

‘I feel such a fraud when you talk like that.’

‘That is part of your niceness.’

‘Oh don’t, Maude! It really hurts me.’

‘Why, Frank, what is the matter with you to-day?’

‘Nothing, dear.’

‘Oh yes, there is. I can tell easily.’

‘Perhaps I am not quite myself.’

‘No, I am sure that you are not. I believe that you have a cold coming on. O Frank, do take some ammoniated quinine.’

‘Good heavens, no!’

‘Please! Please!’

‘My dear girlie, there is nothing the matter with me.’

‘But it is such splendid stuff.’

‘Yes, I know. But really I don’t want it.’

‘Have you had any letters, Frank?’

‘Yes, one.’

‘Anything important?’

‘I have hardly glanced at it yet.’

‘Glance at it now.’

‘Oh, I will keep it for the train. Good-bye, dearest. It is time that I was off.’

‘If you would only take the ammoniated quinine. You men are so proud and obstinate. Good-bye, darling. Eight hours, and then I shall begin to live again.’

He had a quiet corner of a carriage to himself, so he unfolded his letter and read it. Then he read it again with frowning brows and compressed lips. It ran in this way—

MY DEAREST FRANKIE,—I suppose that I should not address you like this
now that you are a good little married man, but the force of custom
is strong, and, after all, I knew you long before she did. I don’t
suppose you were aware of it, but there was a time when I could very
easily have made you marry me, in spite of all you may know about my
trivial life and adventures, but I thought it all over very
carefully, and I came to the conclusion that it was not good enough.
You were always a dear good chap yourself, but your prospects were
not quite dashing enough for your festive Violet. I believe in a
merry time even if it is a short one. But if I had really wanted to
settle down in a humdrum sort of way, you are the man whom I should
have chosen out of the whole batch of them. I hope what I say won’t
make you conceited, for one of your best points used to be your
modesty.

But for all that, my dear Frankie, I by no means give you up
altogether, and don’t you make any mistake about that. It was only
yesterday that I saw Charlie Scott, and he told me all about you, and
gave me your address. Don’t you bless him? And yet I don’t know.
Perhaps you have still a kindly thought of your old friend, and would
like to see her.

But you are going to see her whether you like or not, my dear boy, so
make up your mind to that. You know how you used to chaff me about
my whims. Well, I’ve got a whim now, and I’ll have my way as usual.
I am going to see you to-morrow, and if you won’t see me under my
conditions in London, I shall call at Woking in the evening. Oh my
goodness, what a bombshell! But you know that I am always as good as
my word. So look out!

Now I’ll give you your orders for the day, and don’t you forget them.
To-morrow (Thursday, 14th, no excuses about the date) you will leave
your office at 3.30. I know that you can when you like. You will
drive to Mariani’s, and you will find me at the door. We shall go up
to our old private room, and we shall have tea together, and a dear
old chat about all sorts of things. So come! But if you don’t,
there is a train which leaves Waterloo at 6.10 and reaches Woking at
7. I will come by it and be just in time for dinner. What a joke it
will be!

Good-bye, old boy! I hope your wife does not read your letters, or
this will rather give her fits.—Yours as ever,

VIOLET WRIGHT.

At the first reading this letter filled him with anger. To be wooed by a very pretty woman is pleasant even to the most austere of married men (and never again trust the one who denies it), but to be wooed with a very dangerous threat mixed up with the wooing is no such pleasant experience. And it was no empty threat. Violet was a woman who prided herself upon being as good as her word. She had laughingly said with her accustomed frankness upon one occasion that it was her sole remaining virtue. If he did not go to Mariani’s, she would certainly come to Woking. He shuddered to think of Maude being annoyed by her. It was one thing to speak in a general way to his wife of prematrimonial experiences, and it was another to have this woman forcing herself upon her and making a scene. The idea was so vulgar. The sweet, pure atmosphere of The Lindens would never be the same again.

No, there was no getting out of it. He must go to Mariani’s. He was sufficiently master of himself to know that no harm could come of that. His absolute love for his wife shielded him from all danger. The very thought of infidelity nauseated him. And then, as the idea became more familiar to him, other emotions succeeded that of anger. There was an audacity about his old flame, a spirit and devilment, which appealed to his sporting instincts. Besides, it was complimentary to him, and flattering to his masculine vanity, that she should not give him up without a struggle. Merely as a friend it would not be disagreeable to see her again. Before he had reached Clapham Junction his anger had departed, and by the time that he arrived at Waterloo he was surprised to find himself looking forward to the interview.

Mariani’s is a quiet restaurant, famous for its _lachryma christi spumante_, and situated in the network of sombre streets between Drury Lane and Covent Garden. The fact of its being in a by-street was not unfavourable to its particular class of business. Its customers were very free from the modern vice of self-advertisement, and would even take some trouble to avoid publicity. Nor were they gregarious or luxurious in their tastes. A small, simple apartment was usually more to their taste than a crowded salon, and they were even prepared to pay a higher sum for it.

It was five minutes to four when Frank arrived, and the lady had not yet appeared. He stood near the door and waited. Presently a hansom rattled into the narrow street, and there she sat framed in its concavity. A pretty woman never looks prettier than in a hansom, with the shadows behind to give their Rembrandt effect to the face in front. She raised a yellow kid hand, and flashed a smile at him.

‘Just the same as ever,’ said she, as he handed her down.

‘So are you.’

‘So glad you think so. I am afraid I can’t quite agree with you. Thirty-four yesterday. It’s simply awful. Thank you, I have some change. All right, cabby. Well, have you got a room?’

‘No.’

‘But you’ll come?’

‘Oh yes, I should like to have a chat.’

The clean-shaven, round-faced manager, a man of suave voice and diplomatic manner, was standing in the passage. His strange life was spent in standing in the passage. He remembered the pair at once, and smiled paternally.

‘Not seen you for some time, sir!’

‘No, I have been engaged.’

‘Married,’ said the lady.

‘Dear me!’ said the proprietor. ‘Tea, sir?’

‘And muffins. You used to like the muffins.’

‘Oh yes, muffins by all means.’

‘Number ten,’ said the proprietor, and a waiter showed them upstairs. ‘All meals nine shillings each,’ he whispered, as Frank passed him at the door. He was a new waiter, and so mistook every one for a new customer, which is an error which runs through life.

It was a dingy little room with a round table covered by a soiled cloth in the middle. Two windows, discreetly blinded, let in a dim London light. An armchair stood at each side of the empty fireplace, and an uncomfortable, old-fashioned, horsehair sofa lined the opposite wall. There were pink vases upon the mantelpiece, and a portrait of Garibaldi above it.

The lady sat down and took off her gloves. Frank stood by the window and smoked a cigarette. The waiter rattled and banged and jingled with the final effect of producing a tea-tray and a hot-water dish. ‘You’ll ring if you want me, sir,’ said he, and shut the door with ostentatious completeness.

‘Now we can talk,’ said Frank, throwing his cigarette into the fireplace. ‘That waiter was getting on my nerves.’

‘I say, I hope you’re not angry.’

‘What at?’

‘Well, my saying I should come down to Woking, and all that.’

‘I should have been angry if I thought you had meant it.’

‘Oh, I meant it right enough.’

‘But with what object?’

‘Just to get level with you, Frankie, if you threw me over too completely. Hang it all, she has three hundred and sixty-five days in the year! Am I to be grudged a single hour?’

‘Well, Violet, we won’t quarrel about it. You see I came all right. Pull up your chair and have some tea.’

‘You haven’t even looked at me yet. I won’t take any tea until you do.’

She stood up in front of him, and pushed up her veil. It was a face and a figure worth looking at. Hazel eyes, dark chestnut hair, a warm flush of pink in her cheeks, the features and outline of an old Grecian goddess, but with more of Juno than of Venus, for she might perhaps err a little upon the side of opulence. There was a challenge and defiance dancing in those dark devil-may-care eyes of hers which might have roused a more cold-blooded man than her companion. Her dress was simple and dark, but admirably cut. She was clever enough to know that a pretty woman should concentrate attention upon herself, and a plain one divert it to her adornments.

‘Well?’

‘By Jove, Violet, you look splendid.’

‘Well?’

‘The muffins are getting cold.’

‘Frankie, what _is_ the matter with you?’

‘Nothing is the matter.’

‘Well?’

She put out her two hands and took hold of his. That well-remembered sweet, subtle scent of hers rose to his nostrils. There is nothing more insidious than a scent which carries suggestions and associations. ‘Frankie, you have not kissed me yet.’

She turned her smiling face upwards and sideways, and for an instant he leaned forward towards it. But he had himself in hand again in a moment. It gave him confidence to find how quickly and completely he could do it. With a laugh, still holding her two hands, he pushed her back into the chair by the table.

‘There’s a good girl!’ said he. ‘Now we’ll have some tea, and I’ll give you a small lecture while we do so.’

‘You are a nice one to give lectures.’

‘Oh, there’s no such preacher as a converted sinner.’

‘You really are converted then?’

‘Rather. Two lumps, if I remember right. You ought to do this, not I. No milk, and very strong—how you keep your complexion I can’t imagine. But you do keep it; my word, you do! Now please don’t look so crossly at me.’

Her flushed cheeks and resentful eyes had drawn forth the remonstrance.

‘You _are_ changed,’ she said, with surprise as well as anger in her voice.

‘Why, of course I am. I am married.’

‘For that matter Charlie Scott is married.’

‘Don’t give Charlie Scott away.’

‘I think I give myself away. So you have lost all your love for me. I thought it was to last for ever.’

‘Now, do be sensible, Violet.’

‘Sensible! How I loathe that word! A man only uses it when he is going to do something cold-blooded and mean. It is always the beginning of the end.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to be my own Frankie—just the same as before. Ah do, Franck—don’t leave me! You know I would give any of them up for you. And you have a good influence over me—you have really! You call’t think how hard I am with other people. Ask Charlie Scott. He will tell you. I’ve been so different since I have lost sight of you. Now, Frankie, don’t be horrid to me! Kiss and be nice!’ Again her soft warm hand was upon his, and the faint sweet smell of violets went to his blood like wine. He jumped up, lit another cigarette, and paced about the room.

‘You shan’t have a cigarette, Frankie.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you said once it helped you to control yourself. I don’t want you to control yourself. I want you to feel as I feel.’

‘Do sit down, like a good girl!’

‘Cigarette out!’

‘Don’t be absurd, Violet!’

‘Come, out with it, sir.’

‘No, no, leave it alone!’

She had snatched it from his lips and thrown it into the grate.

‘What is the use of that? I have a case full.’

‘They shall all follow the first.’

‘Well, then, I won’t smoke.’

‘I’ll see that you don’t.’

‘Well, what the better are you for that?’

‘Now, be nice.’

‘Go back to your chair and have some more tea.’

‘Oh, bother the tea!’

‘Well, I won’t speak to you unless you sit down and behave yourself.’

‘There now! Speak away.’

‘Look here, dear Violet, you must not talk about this any more. Some things are possible and some are impossible. This is absolutely, finally impossible. We can never go back upon the past. It is finished and done with.’

‘Then what did you come here for?’

‘To bid you good-bye.’

‘A Platonic good-bye.’

‘Of course.’

‘In a private room at Mariani’s.’

‘Why not?’

She laughed bitterly.

‘You were always a little mad, Frankie.’

He leaned earnestly over the table.

‘Look here, Violet, the chances are that we shall never meet again.’

‘It takes two to say that.’

‘Well, I mean that after to-day I should not meet you again. If you were not quite what you are it would be easier. But as it is I find it a little too much of a test. No, don’t mistake me or think that I am weakening. That is impossible. But all the same I don’t want to go through it again.’

‘So sorry if I have upset you.’

He disregarded her irony.

‘We have been very good friends, Violet. Why should we part as enemies?’

‘Why should we part at all?’

‘We won’t go back over that. Now do please look facts in the face and help me to do the right thing, for it would be so much easier if you would help me. If you were a very good and kind girl you would shake my hand, like any other old pal, and wish me joy of my marriage. You know that I should do so if I knew that you were going to be married.’

But the lady was not to be so easily appeased. She took her tea in silence or answered his remarks with monosyllables, while the occasional flash of her dark eyes as she raised them was like the distant lightning which heralds the storm. Suddenly, with a swift rustle of skirts, she was between the door and his chair.

‘Now, Frankie, we have had about enough of this nonsense,’ said she. ‘Don’t imagine that you are going to get out of this thing so easily. I’ve got you, and I’ll keep you.’

He faced round in his chair and looked helplessly at her with a hand upon each knee.

‘O Lord! Don’t begin it all over again,’ said he.