by A. A. Milne
Lucky Dinah; for what do these girls know of the men they are to marry? How blind George was, not to see that Brian was the one good man in a thousand!
She looked at him as he sat there, pretending to consult his diary. Blind, but also ‘good.’ Narrow, yes; but after the broad-minded men of the world she had known, how safe, how comforting his narrowness! And yet—once——
‘You are a curious mixture, George,’ she said thoughtfully, hardly realizing that she was speaking aloud.
He liked that. Who would not? He looked up at her with a pleased smile.
‘George Marden to marry the widow of a convict.’
He did not like that nearly so much. He dropped his diary and started up.
‘Convict! What do you mean?’
‘Jacob Telworthy. Convict Two Hundred and—, no, I forget his number. Surely I told you all this, dear, when we got engaged?’
Yes, she had told him, but he had refused to listen. ‘What does it matter?’ he had said. ‘I want you! You!’ Had she told him? He had told himself afterwards that she had not. Telworthy was dead; he had died in Australia conveniently enough. Never mind what he had been in his life-time. He did not want to ask Olivia, and there was no need for Olivia to tell him. If she did not tell him, then there was no need for him to bear the reproachful looks of those Mardens on his walls, because a Marden of Marden House had married the widow of a ——No, she had not told him.
‘I told you,’ went on Olivia innocently, ‘how he carelessly put the wrong signature to a cheque for a thousand pounds in England, and how he made a little mistake about two or three companies he promoted in Australia, and how——’
‘I didn’t realize he had actually been convicted,’ mumbled George.
‘But what difference does it make?’
Eagerly he seized the chance of escaping from the dishonest confusion of his own mind, and held up his hands in amazement at the stupidity of his wife’s.
‘My dear Olivia!’ he said ‘If you can’t see that!’
‘So you see,’ she went on inconsequently, ‘we need not be too particular about our niece, need we?’
George pulled himself together.
‘I think,’ he said coldly, ‘we had better leave your first husband out of the conversation altogether. I never wished to refer to him; I never wish to hear about him again. As for this other matter, I don’t for a moment take it seriously. Dinah is an exceptionally pretty girl, and Strange is a good-looking boy. If they are attracted by each other, it is a mere outward attraction, which, I am convinced, will not lead to any lasting happiness.’ He raised his hand as she seemed about to say something, and went on firmly: ‘Now, Olivia, that must be regarded as my last word on the subject. If this Mr.—er—what’s his name?—comes back, I shall be down at the farm.’ He picked up his cap and went out.
Olivia looked after him as he strode across the terrace, shaking her head tenderly at him. Then, with a smile, she went back to her curtains.
Chapter Six
Two Children
I
IF Roger Marden had lived, George would have been an Under-Secretary by this time, for it was a tradition of Marden House that the younger sons went into politics. John Marden, George’s uncle, had gone into them so successfully that he left the Local Government Board with a baronetcy; indeed, had he been only a trifle more incompetent, he might have been assisted out of the House of Commons altogether with a peerage. But a peerage could not be wasted on a man who had been as little attacked by the venal Press as John. True, the more vulgar papers asserted that he was stupid, as if that were anything against a man, but even his political enemies admitted that he possessed that bull-dog British obstinacy which, from the beginning of history, has pulled the country through her difficulties. Moreover, Julia, his wife, had a frank way of speaking her mind at Dog Shows about her friends and acquaintances, which, taken in conjunction with John’s red face, gout, and love of horses, created a strong impression that the Local Government Board was, at any rate, in honest hands. And that was something.
It fell to George to continue the political tradition. As quite a young man he had fought his first election, but, owing to the lies of the other side, was defeated. Roger’s early death prevented him from carrying on the unequal fight. He returned to Marden House with a small service of plate, and settled down as heir; to the relief of numerous Mardens, particularly Aunt Julia, who saw in him a more suitable Head of the House than Roger could ever have been. For Roger, by the publication of a small book of verse in his Oxford days, had won for himself the undesirable appellation of ‘the clever Marden’; his wife, who survived him three years, had a reputation for gaiety and skirt-dancing which fitted ill the Marden manner; and nobody, least of all Aunt Julia, could doubt that Providence, which saw best in these matters, never really intended either of them to reign at Marden House. In due time, then, George succeeded: owner of Heaven knows how many acres, and guardian of the plumpest, bluest-eyed, yellowest-haired four-year old in the county. This was Dinah.
No doubt there was a time when Dinah held out uncertain hands from her cradle to the rather wistful Roger who pondered her; no doubt she learnt, a year or two later, to distinguish between the gay young woman who showed her off and the gay young women who admired her; but she had no sad memories for her parents. Life was great fun with Uncle George as father. Nor were Aunt Julia’s occasional interventions as mother unappreciated. Lady Marden preached one gospel only—Fresh Air and Exercise; and if she strode over from the Warren once a week, simply to interrupt a French lesson with the command, ‘Get that girl out more,’ how could Dinah not be grateful? Later, perhaps, Aunt Julia would not be so welcome, but by that time there was to be a new mother—the adorable Olivia.
In the early days George and Dinah were great friends. George was her king; he could do no wrong. All that she wanted, when they took their walks together—she skipping by his side, leaving him for a solitary adventure and then hurrying back to his comforting hand, making with much laughter from both of them her short fat legs do the stride of his—all that she wanted was facts. Why did this do that, who made the little pigs, what were trees for? George gave her facts, such facts as seemed good for her, and if sometimes his opinions crept into them—as when she asked him why Lumsden didn’t live in a big house, too—they were accepted as facts just as confidently. Uncle George knew everything and he didn’t tell little girls not to ask questions.
But that blessed age (to Authority) when one is accepted as all-wise cannot go on for ever. By the time when Olivia came to Marden House, Dinah was not so sure of George, nor George of Dinah. They were still great friends, but George was no longer king. Besides, there was a queen now. It was Olivia and Dinah who had the ‘lovely times’ together; possibly Olivia and George, too—Dinah did not bother her head about that; but the George-Dinah affair was over.
‘And to think,’ said Dinah to Brian, ‘that there was once a time when I thought he knew everything!’
‘I don’t want to say anything against your uncle——’
‘I do,’ said Dinah frankly.
‘But there are moments when he seems to me—correct me if I’m wrong—a trifle lacking in enthusiasm about my pictures.’
‘Y-yes. I think that is so.’
‘And there is also something about my personality which fails to fascinate him. Is it not so?’
‘It is,’ gurgled Dinah.
‘It’s very odd. You know, when I first came here, I thought I was having a success with George. I said to myself, “I’ve got this man George in my pocket. I can do anything with him.” But I was wrong.’
‘I’m afraid you were, darling.’
They were silent for a little. Dinah was thinking that, after all, it was rather fun being forbidden by a stern guardian to marry the man you loved. Because it made it all rather exciting, and it wasn’t as if he could
really do anything. She was nineteen. What can you do to nineteen when it defies you? She smiled to herself as she thought what fun it was.
‘Do you mind not doing that?’ said Brian.
‘Not doing what?’
‘Looking so adorable . . . No, now you’re doing it again. Stop it! Remember what George said: “No love-making.”’
Dinah laughed and jumped up.
‘Come on. Let’s go back and see what’s happened.’
‘Do you think there’s any chance?’ said Brian, getting up slowly. ‘You know, I doubt, if even Olivia could persuade George to love me in twenty minutes.’
‘You don’t know Olivia. She’s wonderful.’
‘Well, if she can do that, I shall take off my hat to her.’
They found Olivia in the morning-room, busy with the curtains.
‘Finished?’ asked Dinah, as they came in.
‘Oh, no, I’ve got all these rings to put on.’
‘I meant talking to George.’
‘We walked about outside,’ said Brian proudly, ‘and we didn’t kiss each other once.’
But, of course, Olivia didn’t understand what an amazing amount of self-control this implied.
‘Brian was very George-like,’ complained Dinah. ‘He wouldn’t even let me tickle the back of his neck.’ She realized suddenly that this was not a very pretty thing to say to George’s wife, and she flung her arms round Olivia’s neck, and added hastily, ‘Darling, being George-like is a very nice thing to be——’ No, that wasn’t quite right somehow—‘I mean a very nice thing for other people to be——’.Nor was that. She tried again. ‘I mean—oh, well, you know what I mean. But do say he’s going to be decent about it.’
‘Of course he is, Dinah.’
‘You mean,’ said Brian eagerly, ‘he’ll let me come here as—as——’
‘As my young man?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ said Olivia.
‘Brian!’ She flung herself at him, and then broke away to clasp Olivia. ‘Olivia, you’re a wonder! Have you really talked him round?’
‘Well, I haven’t said anything yet.’
‘O Lord!’ groaned Brian.
‘But I dare say I shall think of something.’ Dinah’s mouth dropped. Her eyes were tragic.
‘After all, Dinah,’ said her lover bravely, ‘I’m going back to London to-morrow, anyhow, so——’
‘You can be good for one more day,’ Olivia comforted her, ‘and then when Brian isn’t here, we’ll see what we can do.’
‘I’m more lovable when I’m away,’ explained Brian.
‘Yes, but I didn’t want him to go back to-morrow.’
‘Must,’ said Brian sternly. ‘Hard work before me.’ He expanded himself. ‘Paint the Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey, life-size, including chains of office. Paint slice of lemon on plate. Copy Landseer for old gentleman in Bayswater. Design antimacassars for middle-aged sofa in Streatham. Earn thousands a year for you, Dinah.’
She broke into her sudden surprising laugh, and all was summer again.
‘Oh, Brian, you’re heavenly! What fun we shall have when we’re married!’
‘Sir Brian Strange, R.A., if you please,’ he corrected her with dignity. He lay back in a chair and gazed into the future. ‘Sir Brian Strange, R.A., writes, “Your Sanogene has proved a most excellent tonic. After completing the third acre of my academy picture, ‘The Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey,’ I was completely exhausted. But one bottle of Sanogene revived me, and I finished the remaining seven acres at a single sitting.”’
Olivia smiled and looked into her work-basket, where her scissors always should be but never were.
‘Brian, find my scissors for me.’
‘Scissors!’ said Brian pompously. ‘Sir Brian Strange, R.A., looks for scissors.’ He hobbled round the room as well as the gouty leg of Sir Brian would let him, and looked for scissors. Lady Strange, also rather gouty, hobbled after him. ‘Scissors . . . scissors . . . Aha!’ He wheeled round dramatically upon Lady Strange and brandished the scissors.
‘Once more we must record an unqualified success for the eminent academician.’ He bowed low to the laughing Olivia. ‘Your scissors, madam.’
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, looking at him fondly, and hoping that he might ever keep as young.
‘Come on, Brian, let’s go out,’ said the now quite happy Dinah. ‘I feel open-airy.’
‘Don’t be late for lunch, there’s good peoples. Lady Marden is coming.’
‘Aunt Juli-ah! Help!’ cried Dinah and fainted in Brian’s arms. ‘That means a clean pinafore,’ she said, on recovering. ‘Brian, you’ll jolly well have to brush your hair.’
He felt it a little anxiously.
‘I wonder if there would be time to go up to London and get it cut,’ he murmured.
But before he was able to do anything about it Anne was at the door.
‘Mr. Pim,’ she announced.
II
Mr. Pim’s telegram, phrased as courteously as might be for the money, told his sister Prudence that he would be with her on the morrow in time for lunch. His letter had added that he was bringing her some fresh flowers from the country, but such an announcement could hardly bear the emphasis of the telegraphed word, so that the flowers would now be a surprise to her. It was Brymer’s idea, naturally—the flowers being his in the first place—and he would explain this to her when he saw her. Prudence was very fond of flowers; she felt that they made the house look cheerful.
He came out from the cool shade of the post office (or grocer’s, if you were buying groceries), and blinked for a moment in the sunlight, wondering where he was going next. Brymer, coming round the corner quickly, pulled Polly up in time, and hailed him.
‘Hallo! Well met. I’ll drive you to the Trevors. Save you a walk.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Mr. Pim, preparing to climb up.
‘Whoa, Polly! . . . Can you manage it?’
‘I think so, thank you.’
‘Allow me, sir,’ said the grocer’s young man, hurrying out.
‘Please don’t trouble,’ said Mr. Pim, and was explaining that he had done it before, indeed only that morning, when a heave from the grocer’s young man, and a hand from Brymer, left him a trifle breathless in his place, and Polly was off again.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Mr. Pim, and raised his hat to the grocer’s young man, who grinned, ‘Not at all, sir,’ and went back to his biscuits.
‘George give you that letter all right?’ said Brymer.
The world was going a little too quickly for Mr. Pim. George? George? He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his letter to Prudence. Yes, that was the letter which he ought to have posted yesterday. But he had seen about that. He had just sent a telegram.
‘Roger knew Fanshawe well. He was the clever one, you know . . . Steady, old girl.’
Mr. Pim realized where he was suddenly.
‘I am going back now to get the letter,’ he explained. ‘Mr. Marden was out when I called, so I just sent off an important telegram, and now I am going back.’
‘Whoa, Polly!’ Brymer pulled up. ‘You want to go back to George’s?’
‘Please, yes.’
Brymer gave a little laugh, half of annoyance, half of amusement. ‘Well, we’re going the wrong way,’ he said. And he turned the mare round. ‘Come on, Polly.’
So in a little while Mr. Pim was giving his name again (quite unnecessarily) to Anne, and for the second time that day was shown into the morning-room of Marden House.
‘Mr. Pim!’ said Dinah eagerly, seizing his hand. ‘Here we are again! You can’t get rid of us so easily as you think.’
‘My dear Miss Marden, I have no wish——I have just been into the village to send a telegram——’
‘How do you do,
Mr. Pim?’ said Olivia, coming with a smile to his rescue. ‘Do sit down, won’t you? My husband will be here directly. Anne, send somebody down to the farm——’
‘I think I heard Mr. Marden in the library, madam.’
‘Oh, then tell him, will you?’
‘Yes, madam,’ said Anne, and went out.
Mr. Pim sat down nervously on the sofa next to Olivia. What was it that the girl had been telling him about her? Something about Australia, wasn’t it, or was he thinking of somebody else? How interesting if she knew Australia, too!
‘You’ll stay to lunch, of course, Mr. Pim?’
‘Oh, do!’ put in Dinah eagerly, and Brian also smiled at him in an encouraging way, feeling that his presence at lunch would ease Lady Marden a little.
‘It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Marden, but——’
‘Oh, you simply must, Mr. Pim,’ said the ridiculous Dinah. ‘You haven’t told us half enough about yourself yet. I want to know all about your early life, and where you went to school, and if you were——’
‘Dinah!’ This from Olivia, shaking her head at her niece, and pretending to be shocked.
‘Oh, but we are almost, I might say, old friends, Mrs. Marden,’ explained Mr. Pim. How young, how fresh, the girl was! But also how alarming.
