by Barry Pain
"What is the first scene?"
"A blasted heath."
"Well, I think you might give a civil answer to a civil question. Therewas no occasion to use that word."
"I didn't."
"You did. I heard it distinctly."
"Do let me explain. It's Shakespeare uses the word. I was only quotingit. It merely means----"
"Oh, if it's Shakespeare I suppose it's all right. Nobody seems to mindwhat _he_ says. You can go on."
I read for some time. Eliza, in reply to my question, owned that shehad enjoyed it, but she went to bed before her usual time.
* * * * *
When I was preparing to read aloud on the following evening, I wasunable to find our copy of Shakespeare. This was very annoying, as ithad been a wedding-present. Eliza said that she had found her scissors,and very likely I should find the Shakespeare some other night.
But I never did. I have half thought of buying another copy, or I daresay Eliza's mother would like to give us it. Eliza thinks not.
THE UNSOLVED PROBLEM
"Eliza," I said one evening, "do you think that you are fonder of methan I am of you, or that I am fonder of you than you are of me?"
She answered, "What is thirteen from twenty-eight?" without looking upfrom the account-book.
"I do think," I said, "that when I speak to you you might have thecivility to pay some little attention."
She replied, "One pound fifteen and two, and I hope you know where weare to get it from, for I don't. And don't bang on the table in thatsilly way, or you'll spill the ink."
"I did not bang. I tapped slightly from a pardonable impatience. I puta plain question to you some time ago, and I should like a plain answerto it."
"Well, what do you want to talk for when you see I am counting? Now,what is it?"
"What I asked was this. Do I think--I mean, do you think--that I amfonder of me--no, you are fonder of I--well, I'll begin again. Which ofus two would you say was fonder of the other than the other was ofthe--dash it all, you know what I mean!"
"No, I don't, but it's nothing to swear about."
"I was not swearing. If you don't know what I mean, I'll try to put itmore simply. Are you fonder than I am? There."
"Fonder of what?"
"Fonder of each other."
"You mean is each of us fonder of the other than the other is of--ofthe each?"
"I mean nothing of the kind. Until you muddled it the thing wasperfectly clear. Well, we two are two, are we not?"
"Of course I know that, but----"
"Wait a minute. I intend that you shall understand me this time. Whichof those two would you say was fonder of the other than the other wasof the other, or would you say that each was as fond of the other asthe other one was? Now you see it."
"Almost. Say it again."
"Would you say that in your opinion neither of us were fonder of theother than both were of each, or that one was fonder of the other thanthe other was of the first, and if so, which?"
"Now you've made it worse than ever. I don't believe you know what youmean yourself. Do come to supper and talk sense."
* * * * *
I smiled cynically as I sat down to supper. "This doesn't surprise mein the least," I remarked. "I never yet knew a woman who could argue,or even understand the first step in an argument, and I don't suppose Iever shall."
"Well," said Eliza, "you can't argue until you know what you aretalking about, and I don't know what you're talking about, and youdon't seem to know yourself, or, if you do, you're too muddled to tellanybody. If you want to argue, argue about one pound fifteen and two.It's Griffiths, and been sent in three times already."
"Don't shirk it, Eliza. Don't try to get away from it. I asked youwhich of us you thought was the fonder of the other, and you couldn'tunderstand it."
"Why, of course, I understand _that_. Why didn't you say so before?"
"As far as I remember, those were my precise words."
"But they weren't! What you said was, 'If neither of us was fonder ofboth than each is of either, which of the two would it be?' orsomething of the kind."
"Now, how could I talk such absolute nonsense?"
"Ah!" she said; "when men lose their temper they never know whatthey're saying!"
I had a very good answer to that, but just at the moment the girlbrought in the last post. There was a letter from Eliza's mother. Therewas also an enclosure in postal orders quite beyond anything I hadexpected, and she expressed a hope that they might enable us "to defraysome of the expenses incidental to the season." As far as my ownpersonal feeling is concerned, I should have returned them at once. Insome ways I daresay that I am a proud man. I have been told so. But thepoor old lady takes such pleasure in giving, and she has so littleother enjoyment, that I should have been reluctant to check her. Infact, taking the money as evidence of her affection, I was pleased. Sowas Eliza.
"Pay Griffiths's twopenny-halfpenny account to-morrow," I said, "andtell him that he has lost our patronage for ever."
* * * * *
We did not recur to the original question. Personally, I should saythat in the case of two people it might very well happen that, thoughat one time the affection of one for the other might be greater thanthe affection which the other had for the one which I originallymentioned at the same time, yet at some other time the affection whichthe other one had for the other might be just as much greater than theaffection which the first one had for the second, as the difference wasin the first instance between the two. At least, that is the generaldrift of what I mean. Eliza would never see it, of course.
THE DAY OFF
On the occasion of the marriage of our junior partner to Ethel Mary,only surviving daughter of William Hubblestead, Esq., J.P., ofBanlingbury, by the Canon of Blockminster, assisted by the Rev. EugeneHubblestead, cousin of the bride--on this occasion the office wasclosed for the whole of one day, and the staff had a holiday withoutdeduction of salary.
The staff had presented six silver (hallmarked) nutcrackers, and ahandsomely bound volume of Cowper's Poetical Works. The latter was myown suggestion; there was a sum of eight shillings over after thepurchase of the nutcrackers, and I have always had a partiality forCowper. The junior partner thanked us personally, and in very warmterms; at the same time he announced that the following Thursday was tobe treated as a holiday.
* * * * *
The weather was glorious, and I have never had a more enjoyable day.The girl laid breakfast overnight, and we rose at half-past five. Byhalf-past six Eliza had cut some mutton sandwiches and placed them in abasket with a bottle of milk--the milkman having obliged with aspecially early call by appointment. A brief journey by train, and by aquarter-past seven we were at Danstow for our day off in the country.
Danstow is a picturesque little village, and looked beautiful in thehot sunlight. I was wearing a fairly new summer suit, with brown boots.As I remarked to Eliza, it would probably have created a feeling ofsurprise among the villagers if they had learned that, as a rule, myprofessional duties took me to the city in the morning.
Eliza said: "All right. What do we do here?"
"Why," I said, "there's the old church. We mustn't miss that."
We went and examined the old church. Then we went twice up and down thevillage street, and examined that.
"Well," said Eliza, "what next?"
"Now," I replied, "we just stroll about and amuse ourselves. I feelparticularly light-hearted."
"That's breakfasting at six, that is," said Eliza. "If you could find aquiet place, we might have a sandwich."
We went a little way along the road, and I espied a field which seemedto me to look likely. I said to a passer-by: "I am a stranger here. Canyou tell me whether there would be any objection to our sitting in thatfield?" He said, in rather an offensive and sarcastic way, that hebelieved
the field was open for sitting in about that hour. I did notgive him any reply, but just opened the gate for Eliza.
We sat down under the hedge, and finished our sandwiches and milk. Thechurch clock struck nine.
"What train do we go back by?" asked Eliza.
"Not until half-past nine to-night. There's a day for you!"
"Twelve hours and a half," said Eliza. "And we've done the sandwiches,and done the milk, and done the church, and there's nothing else todo."
"Except amuse ourselves," I added, as I took off my boots, which hadpained me slightly. I then dozed off.
* * * * *
Eliza woke me to say that she had read all the newspaper the sandwicheswere wrapped in, and picked some wild flowers, and the flowers haddied, and she wanted to know what the time was. It was just pasteleven.
She said: "Oh, lor!"
I soon dropped off again.
When I woke, at half-past twelve, Eliza was not there. She returned ina few minutes, and said that she had been doing the church over again.
"That was hardly necessary," I observed.
"Oh, one must do something, and there's nothing else to do."
"On the contrary, there's luncheon. We'll have that at once, so as togive us a good long afternoon."
"The afternoon will be long enough," she said. If I had not known thatshe was having a day's enjoyment, I should have thought that she seemedrather dejected in her manner.
* * * * *
The luncheon at the village inn was not expensive. Eliza said thattheir idea of chops was not her idea; but all the same she seemedinclined to spin the thing out and make it last as long as possible. Ideprecated this, as I felt that I could not very well take my boots offagain until I had returned to the field.
"Very well, then," she said. "Only let's go back slowly."
"As slowly as you like," I replied. "It's the right boot principally;but I prefer to walk slowly."
When we had resumed our old position under the hedge, and I had removedmy boots, I said:
"Now, then, I think I've earned a pipe and a short nap. You amuseyourself in any way you like."
"Do _what_ with myself?" she asked, rather sharply.
She walked twice round the field, and then I fell off to sleep. Itturned out afterward that she also did the picturesque old church forthe third time, and went over a house which was to let, refusing totake it on the ground that there was no bath-room. This was ratherdishonest, as she would not have taken it if there had been abath-room, or even two bath-rooms. I would not do that kind of thingmyself. I awoke about tea-time. The charge for tea at the inn was verymoderate, though Eliza said that there was tea which was tea, and teawhich was an insult.
Eliza found that there was a train back at half-past six, and said shewas going by it, whether I did or not, because it was a pity to havetoo much of a good thing, and she hadn't the face to ask for the keysof that church again. I accompanied her. I fancy that the brown leatheris liable to shrink in the sun, and I was not unwilling to get back tomy slippers and stretch myself out on the sofa.
There is nothing like a long day in the country; quite apart from theenjoyment, you feel that it is doing you so much good. I am sorry thatEliza did not seem to enter into the spirit of the thing more.
THE MUSHROOM
We were at breakfast one morning in the summer when the girl enteredrather excitedly and said that to the best of her belief there was amushroom coming in the little lawn in front of the house. It seemed amost extraordinary thing, and Eliza and I both went out to look at it.There was certainly something white coming through the turf; the onlyquestion was, whether or not it was a mushroom. The girl seemed certainabout it. "Why," she said, "in my last place mushrooms was frequent.You see, being wealthy, they had anything they fancied. If I didn'tknow about mushrooms, I ought to!" There is a familiarity in thatgirl's manner which to my mind is highly objectionable. Theestablishment where she was formerly employed was apparently on a scalethat we do not attempt. That does not justify her, however, incontinually drawing comparisons. I shall certainly have something tosay to her about it.
* * * * *
However, it was not about Jane that I intended to speak, but about themushroom.
Eliza said that I ought to put a flowerpot over the mushroom, because,being visible from the road, some one might be tempted to come in andsteal it. But I was too deep for that. "No," I replied, "if you put aninverted plant-pot there everybody will guess that you are hiding amushroom underneath it. Just put a scrap of newspaper over it."
"But that might get blown away!"
"Fasten down one corner of it with a hairpin."
Eliza said that I was certainly one to think of things. I believe thereis truth in that. On my way to the station I happened to meet Mr.Bungwall's gardener (a most obliging and respectful man), and had aword with him about the mushroom. He said that he would come round inthe evening and have a look at it.
* * * * *
I was pleased to find (on my return) that the mushroom was still in thegarden under the newspaper, and had increased slightly in size.
"This," I said to Eliza, "is very satisfactory."
"It would make a nice little present to send to mother," Elizaobserved.
There I could not entirely agree with her. I pointed out that in aweek's time I should probably be applying to her mother for a smalltemporary loan. I did not think it an honourable thing to attempt toinfluence her mind beforehand by sending a present. I wished her toapproach the question of the loan purely in a business spirit. I addedthat I thought we would leave the mushroom to grow for one more day,and then have it for breakfast. That ultimately was decided upon.
Then Mr. Bungwall's gardener arrived, and said that he was sorry todisappoint us in any way, and it was not his fault, but the mushroomwas a toadstool.
"This," I said to Eliza, "is something of a blow."
"Perhaps," she said, "Mr. Bungwall's gardener is mistaken."
"I fear not. But, however, I happened to mention about that mushroom toour head clerk this morning, and he said that he thoroughly understoodmushrooms, and had made a small profit by growing them. To-morrowmorning I will pick that toadstool or mushroom, as the case may be,take it up to the city, and ask him about it."
Eliza agreed that this would be the best way.
* * * * *
But at breakfast next morning she seemed thoughtful and somewhatdepressed. I asked her what she was thinking about.
"It's like this," she said. "If your head clerk says that our toadstoolis a mushroom, while Mr. Bungwall's gardener says that our mushroom isa toadstool, we sha'n't like to eat it because of Mr. Bungwall'sgardener, and we sha'n't like to throw it away because of your headclerk, and I don't see what to do with it."
"You forget, my dear. We have a third opinion. Jane says the mushroomis a mushroom."
"Jane will say anything."
"Well, we might put her to the test. We might ask her if she'd like toeat the mushroom herself, and then if she says yes and seems pleased,why, of course we'd eat it. I'll go and pick it now."
And when I went to do so I found that the mushroom had gone.
* * * * *
Eliza says that Mr. Bungwall's gardener told us it was a toadstool tokeep us from picking it, and then stole it himself, because he knewthat it was a mushroom.
That may be. I should be sorry to believe it, because I have alwaysfound Mr. Bungwall's gardener such a very respectful man. To my mindthere is an air of mystery over the whole affair.
THE PLEASANT SURPRISE
I had got the money by work done at home, out of office hours. It cameto four pounds altogether. At first I thought I would use it todischarge a part of our debt to Eliza's mother. But it was verypossible that she would send it back
again, in which case the pencespent on the postal orders would be wasted, and I am not a man thatwastes pennies. Also, it was not absolutely certain that she would sendit back. I sent her a long letter instead--my long letters are almosther only intellectual pleasure. As for the four pounds, I reserved twofor myself, for any incidental expenses, and decided to give two toEliza. I did not mean simply to hand them to her, but to get upsomething in the way of a pleasant surprise.
I had tried something of the kind before. Eliza once asked me for sixshillings for a new tea-tray that she had seen. I went and stood behindher chair, and said, "No, dear, I couldn't think of it," at the sametime dropping the six shillings down the back of her neck. Eliza saidit was a pity I couldn't give her six shillings for a tea-tray withoutcompelling her to go up-stairs and undress at nine o'clock in themorning. It was not a success.
However, I had more than one idea in my head. This time I thought Iwould first find out if there was anything she wanted.
So on Sunday at tea-time I said, not as if I were meaning anything inparticular, "Is there anything you want, Eliza?"
"Yes," she said; "I want a general who'll go to bed at half-past nineand get up at half-past five. If they'd only do that, that's all Iask."
"You will pardon me, Eliza," I said, "but you are not speakingcorrectly. You said that was all that you asked. What you meant----"
"Do you know what I meant?"
"I flatter myself that I know precisely----"
"Then if you know precisely what I meant, I must have spokenaccurately."
