The Twickenham Peerage

'I didn't say it had anything.'

'Then why drag it in?'

'Hadn't you better go on with your story?'

She smiled; and there was something about her smile which seemed to sting him as if she had cut him across the face with a whip. I believe he trembled; though whether it was with rage or not I could not say. When he spoke again all his affability had vanished. His voice was dry and hard.

'We will postpone the continuation of my story, as you call it, to a further occasion. Are there any other questions, Mrs. Merrett, which you would like to ask me? Pray ask them. Whether they do or do not impugn my veracity is not of the slightest consequence. I am in the box. Nor does it matter that I have a rather pressing engagement. That I should suffer for your-may I say, erratic husband? Well, at any rate, his erratic proceeding is, I presume, only poetic justice. Though I don't myself see where the justice quite comes in.'

I could be just as proud as him, in my way; and I let him see it. I tried to make myself as stiff as he was; though I don't suppose I came within a mile of it.

'Thank you, Mr. Howarth, sir, but I've got no more questions just now which I want to put to you. You know what you do know, and perhaps one of these days I'll know it. Until then I can only say that I'm sorry to have troubled you.'

With that I opened the door and went out into the passage, none of them moving from where they were, or speaking a word as I went. When I got into the passage there came a pull at the front door bell, and a rat-tat-tat at the knocker.

'That's Mr. FitzHoward,' I said to myself.

As I felt convinced of it I made no bones about opening the front door, which I did do, and sure enough it was he. There he was, standing on the door-step. When he saw it was me that had opened the door he seemed surprised.

'Hello! Is that you?' he said. 'Well, I've come at last.'

'So I perceive-and as I'm just going, we can go together.'

'Has he answered that question?'

I felt a kind of want on me to keep on being haughty. If I hadn't, I believe I should have broken down. So I put my head up in the air, and I replied:

'You'll excuse me, Mr. FitzHoward, if I remark that whether he has or has not is my affair and not yours.'

He looked at me sharply.

'Oh, that's the time of day, is it? Then if that's the case I've half a mind to go in and put the question on my own account. I'll soon size him up.'

'As to that, you are of course quite at liberty to do exactly what you please; only, if that is what you are going to do I'll wish you good-day.'

I went off down the street. He let me go a little way, and then came hurrying after me.

'What's become of Babbacombe?'

'If you don't mind my saying so, Mr. FitzHoward I don't want to talk to you about nothing whatever till I'm in my own home.'

'Then, if that's how you feel, the sooner we get to your own home the better.'

And he called another hansom cab. I did think of the expense, two hansom cabs in one day, but in the state of mind in which I was I didn't feel as if I could get into an omnibus, and sit straight up in it, with the people staring at me all the way. It only wanted a very little to make me behave like a silly. I don't believe I spoke a dozen words the whole way. Mr. FitzHoward kept trying to make me. He was the most persevering man I ever met. But I wouldn't. So, as soon as we got in he said sarcastically:

'Well, we have had a nice little talk! You're about the most talkative woman I've had the pleasure of knowing. You can be silent in one language, at any rate.'

'Mr. FitzHoward, how much do I owe you for that hansom cab?'

'Owe me? Nothing. The cab was mine.'

'You paid going, and I'll pay coming back. You gave the cabman eighteenpence-because I saw you. There's the money. I'll be beholden to no man except my husband.'

I put a shilling and a sixpence on the table. He looked at the coins, and then he looked at me. Then he took them up.

'Oh, all right. I'm willing. Money's always welcome. It doesn't look as if I was going to make much out of your husband, so I don't see why I should lose on you. Besides, I can buy something with it for those two little kids of yours. I don't suppose you can prevent my doing that. Now, Mrs. Merrett, let's understand each other, you and I. What did Mr. John Smith say when you put that question?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing! You don't mean that! You don't mean that you didn't get an answer out of him after all! Then hang me if I don't go right straight back.'

'I mean that he knows nothing. At least that's what he says.'

'And do you believe him?'

Then I was just the silly I expected. I sat down at the table and cried as if I'd nothing else to do. Presently I felt a hand upon my shoulder. It was Mr. FitzHoward.

'Now then, none of that! Do you hear? Stop it! It's only my nonsense. I exaggerate; it's a professional habit I've got into. It's a kind of second nature; so that people who don't know me think that I mean more than I really do. I believe your husband's as sound and well at this moment as I am.'

'I don't know what to believe.'

'But I do; don't I tell you that he's as sound and well as I am?'

'First you say one thing, and then you say another.'

'That's me; that's my character; you've hit it off exactly; you've got to believe what I say last. That's where I'm truthful; at the end. This is the end; I tell you that there's no more the matter with your husband than there is with me. As for Mr. John Smith, he gave me a touch of the needle yesterday, so I thought I'd let him have a touch of it in his turn; that's the solid fact. As for your husband-if you'll kindly give me your attention when you've finished, Mrs. Merrett-who's the most remarkable man I ever had the pleasure of meeting, the marvel of the age-though I say it to his wife-I have an inner conviction here!'-I could hear him beating his hand against his side-'that he's as sound as a bell, in the enjoyment of perfect health, and that he's simply gone on one of those periodical little jaunts you were telling me of. Now, Mrs. Merrett, where are those kids of yours?'

'They're with Mrs. Ordish-at No. 17.'

'Then I'll go to No. 17, and fetch them from Mrs. Ordish.'

'I should be much obliged to you if you would.'

'I am now going to fetch them. There's only one remark I have to make, and that is that I do hope that you're not going to wring the feelings of those tenderhearted infants by letting them see their mother with a red nose.'

When he went, I hurried upstairs, and I took my hat and jacket off, and washed my face, and made myself stop. Luckily he didn't come back with them directly, so that I had a chance of trying to look decent. And when they did come the children were laden with sweets, and cakes, and toys which he'd been buying them. They came rushing to me with their new belongings, looking that sweet and pretty-the darlings!

'Now, Mrs. Merrett, Miss Merrett and Master Merrett have asked me to come to tea. I don't know if you endorse their invitation, but I appeal to them in your presence. Haven't you asked me to come to tea?'

They burst out both together in a chorus of exclamations.

'Yes! yes! Oh, mother, can't he come to tea?'

So he came to tea. You would never have thought he was the same man, to listen to the jokes he made. He kept them laughing all the time. And sometimes I had to smile. And after tea the games he played with them! I never did meet any one who knew such a number of games. And just the very ones for children.

Of course, I knew what he was doing it for; and when he was going I told him so.

'I thank you very much, Mr. FitzHoward, for being so kind to the children, and to me.'

'Kind!' he said. 'Oh, yes, there's a lot of kindness about a man of my professional experience. Hard as nails that kind of thing makes you; hard as nails. I tell you what it is, Mrs. Merrett; you've the two cleverest and sweetest and prettiest children I've ever come across, bar none. Not that I wonder at it with such a mother as they've got. I envy you; and I envy them. But there-some people have all the luck.'

What he meant I can't say; some nonsense, I've no doubt. But whatever it was it seemed to do me good. As I put the children to bed I felt more cheerful than I had done all day. Until all at once Jimmy asked me when Daddy was coming home. Before I knew it the tears were in my eyes. It's strange how close they sometimes are; and that, in a manner of speaking, without your suspecting they're within a mile. Especially when you're weak and silly. I caught him in my arms, and said:

'Jimmy, you must ask God to send him soon.'

'But, mother, I'm always asking God to send him soon.'

That finished me. I was that stupid. I dare say I should have cried myself ill if it hadn't been that I found that I was frightening the children. They tried to comfort me; and when they found they couldn't, they started crying too. So then, because I couldn't bear to see them crying, I stopped. And we all knelt down by their bedside, and prayed God send home Daddy soon.

When I had put them into bed-and as soon as they were between the sheets they were asleep, the dears! – down I went upon my knees again and prayed God send me James. When I was a girl and went to Sunday-school, I remember hearing teacher talk about wrestling with God in prayer. I never knew what she meant until that night. If ever a poor, ignorant, helpless woman wrestled with her Maker that He might be merciful, and send back to her her man, I was that woman then. I'd been wicked; I knew that I'd been wicked; but it wasn't for want of trying to be good, and oh! I felt if He'd only send me James I would be good.

Cry! It wore me out. I cried till I thought that there wouldn't be anything left of me. I was so tired. And yet when I got into bed it was ever so long before I could sleep. And as soon as I did I started to dream. Oh, dear, such dreams! They came crowding on me, one after another: I couldn't get away from them. And all at once I thought I heard James call to me. It was as clear as clear could be.

I woke with a start, and sat up in bed and listened. Was it in the house, or was it in the street? I was sure it was his voice. I should know it among ten thousand. It came again through the night.

'Mary! Mary!'

Where was he? What did it mean? Where could it be? It seemed to come from afar off. I got from between the sheets, and stood upon the bed, trembling so that I could hardly stand. It came again.

'Mary! Mary!'

What was I to do? I couldn't think. What did he want? I knew he wanted something, but what? I tried to collect my senses. They were all in a whirl. What did he mean by calling me, like that, in the night, from afar? The dreadful part was that I couldn't move; now that I stood there I couldn't move. What did it mean? What was there wrong?

He called again. And this time there was in his voice such fear, such pleading, and such pain, that my heart seemed to turn to ice inside me.

'Mary! Mary!'

'James! James!' I cried. 'I'm coming to you, James? Where are you? Oh, tell me where you are, that I can come.'

CHAPTER XIV

HELPING TO MAKE THE PUDDING

I was lying outside the bed, and it was broad day. I couldn't think what had happened. Then I remembered the voice. Had I heard it? Had James called to me? Or was it a dream? If so it was the strangest dream ever heard of. The door opened and the children came running in. So soon as they were old enough James never would let them sleep in the same room with us. So long as he was there I didn't mind; but when he wasn't I wanted them for company. Yet I felt that I couldn't do what he didn't like. But every morning, as soon as they were awake, they'd come rushing in to me. And that was something. But now that the mornings were getting colder I wasn't sure that it was wise: though I hadn't the heart to stop them, for I did love to have them for a few minutes in my arms with me in bed. And they loved to come. Somehow it seemed to make the day have a better beginning.

It was that day all the strange things began to happen. Though I had no notion of anything of the kind as I listened to the children's chatter. We'd finished breakfast some time. I'd washed the things, and tidied up the place. Indeed I'd been round the corner to get the dinner. Liver and bacon we were going to have-the children are so fond of the gravy-and a baked rice pudding. I had just set Jimmy down to table and he was starting to learn his letters. There are some who say he ought to go to school: but I don't hold with children going to school so young, away from their mother, nor, I am thankful to say, does James either. I can give them all the teaching he wants. I've the time and I've the will; and I'm scholar enough for that. The way that boy picks up things is wonderful. He's a deal quicker than me-which perhaps isn't saying much. But he'll read before some of them who go to school-and so I can tell them. He knows his letters quite well, both large and small, and he can make out little words. And before long I'm going to start him writing.

As I was saying, I'd set him down to table with his book, and Pollie-little pet! – was drawing what she calls 'Injuns,' on her slate. It was Jimmy started her doing that; that boy's full of Indians; where he got them from I can't think. And I was getting out my mending, of which there always does seem plenty, when there came a knock at the door. We were in the parlour-for James never will have us in the kitchen more than can be helped. He says if a parlour's not for living in, what's it for?

'Who's that?' I wondered. 'I do hope it's none of the neighbours come gossiping just as Jimmy's starting reading'-for the neighbours round our part will gossip-'and in particular I do hope it isn't that FitzHoward.'

It wasn't either. When I saw who it was you might, as the saying is, have knocked me down with a feather.

It was the lady who'd asked me all the questions at Mr. Howarth's. Dressed that beautiful she was like a picture. The sight of her made me forget my manners. I stared, feeling as if I could hardly believe my eyes.

'You seem surprised,' she said. Surprise wasn't the word! 'I hope I haven't arrived at an inconvenient hour. May I come in?'

'Of course, miss; and welcome.'

She went into the parlour, making it look like a different room. I was ashamed of myself, but I couldn't take my eyes from off her.

'Have you had any news of your husband?'

'No, miss; that I haven't.'

'Are these your children?'

'Yes, miss, they are.'

'But you're quite a child.'

'I'm twenty-three.'

'Twenty-three! You don't look twenty. How is it that you manage to look so young?' She sat down by the table. 'What is your little boy's name?'

'Jimmy.'

'Jimmy? Why do you call him that?'

'His father's name is James.'

'James? Hasn't he another name?'

'I've never heard him speak of it.'

'What pretty children they are-and how beautifully you keep them!'

Her words made me tingle; because, although I say it, there are no children round these parts who are kept like mine. She sat staring at Jimmy; and he didn't seem a bit afraid.

'Come here,' she said. He went, and she put him on her knee. 'He's like his father.'

'That's what I say, miss.'

'He has his father's eyes.'

Which was a fact. Though how she knew it was is more than I could say. Pollie, who always follows Jimmy, had placed herself beside her brother.

'The girl's like you; though she's not so pretty as her mother.'

'Oh, miss, you shouldn't talk like that; especially before the children. Besides, I'm not pretty now. I know I was once, because they used to tell me so. But now I'm old.'

'Old? Oh, yes, you're very old. I wish I was as young, and half as pretty.'

'Oh, miss.' I stammered-through being that eager to say something I knew I didn't ought to-'if you'll excuse me for making so free, you're the most beautiful lady I ever saw.'

She laughed right out.

'Then you've never seen a looking-glass, because I assure you I was never half so pretty as you are at this minute. It seems odd for two women to be paying each other compliments, but yours is the kind of face which is seen only once in a generation. Tell me-how did you meet your husband?'

I told her the whole story. She listened, as it seemed to me, with wonder.

'How strange! And you married him, knowing nothing about him except what he told you.'

'He told me nothing.'

'But you must have known something of his previous history-what he'd been, and what he'd done.'

'I never thought to ask.'

'But he's told you since.'

'He hasn't; not a word. He never talks of himself at all.'

'But, my child, you must know something of him at this time of day. Where are his parents-his relations?'

'I don't think he has any. I've never met them, and he's never spoken of them to me. I've heard him say that his mother died before his father, and that his father and he didn't get on.'

'They did not.' I wondered how she knew. 'By the way, what is your Christian name?'

'Mary, miss.'

'Mary? A good old-fashioned name. I love it. You look sweet and pure enough even to be a Mary.' I wished she wouldn't talk like that; she made me tingle. 'I am Edith Desmond. Have you ever heard the name?'

'Not that I remember, miss; and I don't think I should have forgotten if I had.'

'I am going to ask you a strange question; especially coming from a stranger. But I want you to tell me; do you love your husband?'

'Love him!' I felt a catching of my breath. The idea of her asking if I loved him! 'There's nothing I wouldn't do for love of him. He's my man.'

'Your man? That's another good old-fashioned word. Your man!' She seemed to hesitate before she spoke again. 'Have you-have you your husband's photograph?'

'Heaps, miss. He's always having them taken. I think it's something to do with his profession.'

I went to the drawer, and took out a pile. The first she looked at she gave a start. She put her lips together, and a hard look came on her face. She looked older, and not so beautiful as she sat staring at my James's portrait, as if she was looking at a ghost. It was quite a minute before she spoke; and then it was to herself rather than to me.

'It's he. I wonder what it all means.'

The way she'd changed made me half-afraid of her; but I plucked up courage to put a question which was slipping, as it were, off the tip of my tongue.

'Begging your pardon, miss, but-do you know my James?'

'Once I knew him very well. He was-he was a friend of my family.'

My heart gave a jump against my ribs.

'Then he was a gentleman? I always knew he was a gentleman! That makes it all the more wonderful that he should ever have married me.'

Her lips twisted themselves up in a way I didn't like.

'There was nothing wonderful in that. You might have married any one you liked, if you had known how to play your cards, my dear.' She kept looking at the likenesses, one after the other. 'He makes a good photograph; he comes out well in all of them. And in appearance, he doesn't seem to have materially changed.'

'He hasn't changed one bit since the day that first I saw him.'

When she'd seen all the likenesses she began to tap against the table with the edge of one, as if she was turning something over in her mind.

'Mary?'

'Yes, miss.'

'Don't call me miss. Call me-well, there'll be time enough for that.' She smiled-though what at I could not say. 'What should you do if you met with a sudden change of fortune?'

'I shouldn't mind being poorer, with James.'

'I don't mean in that direction, but in the other. What should you say at being richer?'

'Thank you, miss.'

She laughed.

'Is that all?'

'Of course, I should say more than that. But I couldn't tell you what I should say till it happens. It depends. And I'm afraid I'm not much good at saying anyhow. Of course, the money would be welcome.'

'For what?'

'All sorts of things. Everything seems to cost more as time goes on. As the children grow up they cost more. Then I want to send them to a proper school-and not to a Board School, where you pay nothing. I want them to be educated like gentlefolk's children-so that they may grow up to be like their father, and not like me.'

'They may grow up to be ashamed of their mother.'

'Never. I love them too much ever to be afraid of that.'

'You're a lucky woman.'

'I know I'm lucky.'

'Which makes your luck still greater. Do you know that since I've been in this room it's grown upon me more and more that you're one of those persons on whom the gods shower fortune.'

'I'm glad to hear it, miss-though I don't know what you mean.'

'You queer child! With how much more money could you do?'

'Well, I can hardly say. You see, James is very generous. He gives me a good three pounds a week, and often more.'

'Three pounds a week! What would you say to three pounds a day?'

'Three pounds a day!' I stared. 'Of course, I know that there are people who have that amount of money, but I don't know what use it would be to me-unless it was for James.'

'I see. Always James?'

'Yes, miss, always James.'

She eyed me sharply, as if she wasn't sure what it was I meant. Though I don't know what I'd said that wasn't plain. All this time she'd had the children on her knee. Now she put them down and began to walk about the room. I thought how tall she was; almost a head above me. I've always wished I wasn't so little. I wished it more than ever when I saw how beautiful she was. The idea of her comparing herself with me was too ridiculous.

After a time she began to talk again; still moving about.

'Mary, I want to ask you something else, and think before you answer. – Did I understand you to say yesterday that your husband enjoys good health?'

'Always, miss. He's never had an hour's illness since I've known him.'

'You're sure of it?'

'Quite sure, miss.'

'He hasn't, for instance, to your knowledge, a weak heart?'

'A weak heart? He's nothing of the kind. He's strong as strong can be. I'm sure of it.'

'Does he look well?'

'The picture of health.'

'On that Sunday morning, when you last saw him, was he looking well when he went out?'

'Perfectly well.'

'And he was well?'

'As well as well could be.'

'And you say he wasn't liable to sudden attacks of illness?'

'Nothing of the kind. Who's been telling you stories about my James?'

'Then the only thing I can say is that I don't understand it in the least.'

She seemed to be speaking to herself rather than to me; and it's not for me to pretend that I know what she meant. The only thing I know is that what I said was clear enough. She went back to the table and began looking through James's photographs again, examining them that closely you'd have thought they were puzzles.

'It's impossible that there can be any mistake; impossible. And yet, how can he have gone out in perfect health upon the Sunday, and-It's beyond my comprehension. There's a knot somewhere which wants unpicking. Do you know I'm inclined to think that you know even less about your husband than you suppose.'

'I know all I want to know.'

'I mean with reference to his health. I fancy that he had not such good health as you seem to imagine.'

'You must excuse me saying, miss, that I can't help what you fancy. May I ask what you know about my husband?'

'I?'

'Yes, miss-you!'

She looked at me as if my question had startled her. Then she laughed; it seemed to me not quite a natural laugh; as if she wanted to appear at her ease when she wasn't.

'Mary, I'll be frank with you. I came this morning because I wanted to find out how much I really do know about him.'

'I don't understand.'

'If I knew him-'

'If? You said just now you did.'

'The only thing which makes me doubt is what you say about his health. The person I knew was an invalid; so great an invalid that his life was despaired of.'

'That's not my James. How long ago is it since you knew him?'

'How long? Oh'-she was tapping the table again with the corner of one of his photographs-'fifteen years.'

'Fifteen years? Why, that's before I knew him-I was only in short frocks. I've come into his life since that. He may have been ill then, and all you say. If he was, then marrying me has done him good. You'd never have thought it if you'd known him as I have these six years. Do those children look as though they had a sick father? No! – they're like him-strong as strong. I tell you, my James is as sound and healthy a man as there is in England; and if you ever see him you won't need for him to tell you so himself to know it.'