by A. A. Milne
He was a child now, asking for help from its mother; she so wise, so understanding, she will tell him. ‘It is wrong, isn’t it?’ he pleaded.
She did not take her eyes off him. He could not escape her eyes. He might look down, or look away, but he had to come back to them.
‘And supposing he doesn’t divorce you,’ he went on, ‘are we to go on living together, unmarried, for ever?’
Her eyes were still there. He saw reflected in them the accusation in his own soul.
‘Olivia,’ he protested, ‘you seem to think that I’m just thinking of the publicity; of what people will say. I’m not! I’m not! That comes in anyway, now. But I want to do what’s right, what’s best. I don’t mean what’s best for us, what makes us happiest; I mean what’s really best, what’s—what’s Tightest.’
He stopped and mumbled, ‘What anybody else would do in my place.’
Her eyes were still there.
‘Oh, Olivia,’ he burst out, ‘it’s so unfair! I don’t know. You’re not my wife at all, but I want to do what’s right.’ And then, desperate, he met her eyes, and, holding out his hands to her, cried, ‘Oh, Olivia, Olivia, you do understand, don’t you?’
Without moving, without taking her eyes from his, she answered tenderly, gently, as if breathing her thoughts aloud:
‘So very, very well, my dear. I understand just what you are feeling. And oh, I do so wish that you could——’ She broke off, leaving the wish unexpressed, and added with a little sigh: ‘But then, that wouldn’t be George. Not the George I married.’ With a rueful little laugh she corrected herself, ‘Or didn’t quite marry.’
They had forgotten Lady Marden. She existed for them no longer. She tried to recall them to their surroundings by saying that they were both talking a little wildly, but she said it half-heartedly, as if she knew that she counted for nothing now. They did not hear her.
‘Or—didn’t—quite—marry,’ whispered Olivia again, so tenderly, so pathetically, so beseechingly, all her soul in her dear eyes, calling to him to come to her, to make her with one kiss his wife again. Or didn’t quite marry? There was a question in it for him, to which, now for ever, he must give the answer. She was there, to take or to refuse. . . .
Which would he have done? He tried to look away from her, but she held his eyes. This was his last chance. Desperately he wrestled with himself. Was anything right, was anything wrong, when she looked at him like that. Olivia, I can’t let you go—he was saying it at last. Olivia, I must let you go—ah, but would he now? His hands begin to go out to her. Olivia! Slowly she begins to stand up, calling him, calling him still. Will he take her?
But at that moment Anne came in.
‘Mr. Pim is here, sir,’ she announced.
Chapter Eleven
A Dispensation of Providence
I
MR. PIM had left Marden House with the pleasant feeling that his story had gone well. What a charming and successful morning it had been! The Mar dens, so kind, so hospitable; the girl—what was her name?—Diana—so young, so fresh; and then that handsome boy, so easy, so well-mannered. There were no people like the English. And the atmosphere of the country-house, quiet, sunny, well-ordered, where else but in England could you find it? It was good to be home again.
He made his way happily to the Trevors’, humming to himself. In his pocket was the letter of introduction to Fanshawe; that was good. He had telegraphed to dear Prudence; that was good also. He must try not to forget the flowers for her. She was so fond of flowers. He stopped for a moment, taking off his hat to let the kindly summer morning play round his bare head. Was there ever a more perfect day? Warm, yet not too warm. He looked up to the sky, thanking whatever gods there be for the happiness which they had given him in this world. ‘And quite frankly,’ he added aloud, ‘I do not see how the next world, if indeed there is a next world, can be more beautiful than this morning, though it may be we shall be better able to appreciate it.’
At lunch he told his story again, seated between Trevor and his wife. They listened with smiles on their faces for each other and for him. ‘What a dear old man he is,’ said her eyes.
‘A bad fellow he had been, Mrs. Trevor, I’m afraid. But no worse than many of us, I dare say. Now, what was his name? Dear me, I ought to remember it. Rather a peculiar one.’
They waited for him to remember it. Then, seeing his difficulty, Mrs. Trevor pressed some more coffee on him, and in his courteous refusal of it the story drifted away. Resting in the garden afterwards, Mrs. Pim thought again with pleasure of his visit to the Mardens. How interested they had been in his adventures! The Trevors, too. A pity he had forgotten the name. Now, what was it?
He was roused from his thoughts by George’s messenger. Mrs. Trevor’s permission granted, he opened the letter and read it twice; first to himself, and then with a preliminary, ‘Now this is very curious,’ to his hostess.
‘Very curious,’ he repeated. ‘But, of course, I will go.’
‘Perhaps your Mr. Fanshawe is out of England, and George has just remembered it, and wants to give you a letter to somebody else,’ suggested Mrs. Trevor.
Mr. Pim nodded gently at her.
‘No doubt that will be it.’ He turned out his pockets, came across the unposted letter to his sister again, looked at it reproachfully, smiled as he remembered that he had already dealt with it, picked out George’s letter to Fanshawe, and said again as he contemplated it: ‘Yes, no doubt that will be the case.’ He stood up and held out his hand to her. ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Trevor. Let me thank you for your hospitality to an old man, and Mr. Trevor also. I shall take back to London with me very pleasant memories of my little visit to your corner of the world where you have all been so kind to me.’
‘You must come down again, Mr. Pim,’ said Trevor heartily. ‘We shall look forward to seeing you when you are next this way.’
‘Thank you, thank you!’
‘Good-bye, Mr. Pim,’ said his hostess, smiling affectionately at him, ‘it has been so nice to have you.’
Trevor saw him safely into George’s trap and came back to his wife. They looked at each other without speaking for a moment.
Then Trevor said, a little shame-faced:
‘He’s like a summer Sunday evening with church bells in the distance.’
Which may not have been an exact description of Mr. Pim, but was certainly not bad for Jack Trevor.
II
The announcement that Mr. Pim was here brought George and Olivia slowly back to their surroundings.
‘Mr. Pim?’ said George, blankly at first, and he stared at Anne, wondering how she had come there.
‘Mr. Pim, dear. Show Mr. Pim in here, please, Anne.’
‘Yes, madam.’
She went out, modest, quiet, correct, but with a ‘Well, I never did!’ stowed away in the back of her mind until such moment as she was off duty again, and could communicate freely with her equals. Olivia, who was in control of herself again, had a moment in which to wonder how much Anne had seen, but George neither wondered nor, wondering, would have minded. Anne, he would have told himself, was the last person to discuss him with her fellow-servants. Even if he had heard her doing so, he would not have recognized it, for he did not know that there were two Annes, each with an appropriate voice.
Lady Marden recalled herself again to their attention.
‘Who on earth is Mr. Pim?’ she demanded of her nephew.
He had dropped into a chair, out of breath with his emotion, and was blowing his nose loudly in the search for calm. Olivia, herself busy with a handkerchief, explained the approaching visitor to Lady Marden.
‘I see.’ Then reluctantly she asked: ‘Shall I be in the way?’
Olivia looked across at George. He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
‘Please stay,’ said Olivia, and Aunt Julia stayed firmly.
Mr. Pim was announced. He came in, smiles ready for his old friends the Mardens, apologies on his lips for the trouble he was giving them in this matter of the letter of introduction.
‘Ah, Mr. Pim!’ said George, ‘Very good of you to come. The fact is—er——’
It was too difficult for him. He turned to Olivia for help.
‘The fact is, Mr. Pim,’ said Olivia, with a friendly smile, ‘that we are very glad to see you, and that you must forgive us for troubling you like this. By the way, do you know Lady Marden?’
Mr. Pim didn’t. They bowed to each other.
‘Now come and sit here next to me.’ The bewildered Mr. Pim followed her to the sofa and sat down. ‘That’s right.’
Perhaps, thought Mr. Pim, Lady Marden was to give him a letter of introduction.
‘Well, now,’ Olivia went on, ‘what has happened is this. You gave us rather a surprise this morning, and before we had time to realize what it all meant, you had gone.’
‘A surprise, Mrs. Marden? Dear me, not an unpleasant one, I hope?’
‘Well, rather a surprising one.’
Mr. Pim’s apologies were cut short by George.
‘Olivia, allow me a moment,’ He drew a chair up on the other side of Mr. Pim, and began. ‘Mr. Pim. You mentioned a man called Telworthy this morning. Now, my wife used to—well, no, not my wife. That is, I used to—well, anyhow, there are reasons——’
‘I think we had better be perfectly frank, George.’
Mr. Pim, entirely out of his depth, gazed helplessly from one to the other. Before he could say anything, while his mouth was yet open to begin, an unexpected wave from Lady Marden entirely submerged him.
‘I am sixty-five years of age, Mr. Pim,’ said Lady Marden threateningly, ‘and I can assure you that I have never had a moment’s uneasiness from telling the truth.’
Mr. Pim floated to the surface, came round slowly and gasped ‘Oh!’ Then, having got his breath again, he said:
‘I’m afraid that I am rather at sea. Did I leave anything unsaid in presenting my credentials to you this morning?’
‘Oh, no, no,’ they assured him hastily.
He looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his chin in the effort to collect his memories.
‘This man Telworthy whom you mention,’ he said slowly; ‘I seem to remember the name.’
Olivia came to his rescue.
‘Mr. Pim, you told us this morning of a man whom you had met on the boat, a man who had come down in the world, whom you had known in Sydney. A man called Telworthy.’
‘Ah, yes, yes.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Of course. I did say Telworthy, didn’t I?’ At ease on this point again, he turned with his kindly smile to Lady Marden. ‘A most curious coincidence, Lady Marden. Poor man, poor man! Let me see, it must have been nearly eight years ago, when I was staying in Sydney, that I——’
‘Just a moment,’ said George, controlling his impatience with difficulty. ‘The point is, are you quite sure his name was Telworthy?’
‘Telworthy? Telworthy?’ He looked from one to the other in bewilderment. ‘Didn’t I say Telworthy?’ Again he gazed at the ceiling for help, and then, completely reassured, came back to them once more. ‘Yes, that was it,’ he announced with absolute conviction. ‘Telworthy.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘Poor fellow!’
‘I’m going to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Pim,’ said Olivia, taking up the tale. ‘I feel sure that I can trust you.’
‘My dear!’ from the alarmed George.
She waved aside his protest and went on: ‘This man Telworthy whom you met is my husband.’
‘Your husband?’ Mr. Pim looked at George reproachfully for having so deceived him.
‘My first husband. His death was announced six years ago; I had left him some time before that. Now there seems to be no doubt from your story that he was still alive. His record—the country he was living in—above all, the very unusual name, Telworthy.’
Mr. Pim beamed at Olivia as another memory came back to him.
‘Telworthy, yes. Certainly a most peculiar name. I remember saying so at the time. But your first husband! Dear me! Dear me!’
‘You understand, Mr. Pim,’ put in George anxiously, ‘that all this is in absolute confidence?’
‘Of course, of course—Telworthy, yes, a most peculiar name.’
‘Well, since he is my husband,’ resumed Olivia, ‘we naturally want to know something more about him.’ She leant forward anxiously. ‘Where is he now, for instance?’
Mr. Pim looked at her in astonishment. ‘Where is he now?’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘Where is he now? But I told you. Surely I told you.’
Olivia shook her head.
‘I told you what happened at Marseilles?’
‘At Marseilles?’ frowned George.
‘Yes, yes, poor fellow, it was most unfortunate.’ He turned towards Lady Marden. He was nearly forgetting that she had not heard the story yet. How stupid of him!’
You must understand, Lady Marden,’ he began, ‘that although I had met the poor fellow before in Australia—in Sydney, to be precise—I was never in any way intimate——’
George could control himself no longer. Thumping the table in front of him, he shouted: ‘Where is he now, that’s what we want to know.’
Mr. Pim stopped with a jerk, and looked at the ferocious man in alarm.
‘Please, Mr. Pim!’ implored Olivia.
Mr. Pim was still mystified. He had told them this morning. An hour later he had told the Trevors.
‘But, surely, you remember the curious fatality at Marseilles?’
‘Marseilles?’ echoed George and his Aunt Julia.
But now Olivia knew. She stood up and looked at Mr. Pim, and it was evident that she was struggling with some emotion.
‘Yes, yes,’ he went on, ‘the fish bone.’
‘Fish bone?’ they echoed again.
‘A herring, I understand,’ explained Mr. Pim sadly.
Olivia kept trying to speak, but the words would not come. At last she got out, ‘You mean he’s dead?’
‘Dead? Of course, he is dead. Didn’t I tell you?’
Hysterically her laughter pealed out. The more reproachfully Mr. Pim looked at her, the more she laughed.
‘Oh, Mr. Pim!’ she said, shaking her head weakly at him. ‘Oh, you——’ But she could not finish that sentence. After another spasm she gasped, ‘Oh, what a husband to have!’
Lady Marden could not abide weakness; particularly weakness in her own sex, the stronger sex.
‘Pull yourself together, Olivia,’ she commanded sternly. ‘This is so unhealthy for you.’
But Olivia still rocked.
‘So he really is dead this time?’ said Lady Marden.
‘Oh, undoubtedly. A fish bone lodged in his throat.’
‘Dead!’ said George dramatically. He raised his eyes to Heaven.
There was no hope of Olivia recovering in that room. George’s face, Aunt Julia’s face, Mr. Pim’s face, they all made it impossible. Weakly she held out her hand to the visitor.
‘I think you must excuse me, Mr. Pim,’ she stammered. ‘I can never thank you enough.’ She caught back a spasm and hurried on, ‘A herring. . . . There’s something about a herring. . . . Morality depends on such little things, doesn’t it?’ Then she caught sight of George’s face again, shook her head weakly, gasped, ‘Oh, George! You——’ and with another peal of laughter felt her way out of the room.
Lady Marden sniffed contemptuously.
III
So Telworthy was dead after all! He had died at Marseilles, and Olivia had gone into hysterics over it, and George was raising his eyes to Heaven and returning thanks for the great happiness which had come to him.
Was
this the way to receive so solemn a matter?
Well, let us be frank about it. Every second (we are told) a man dies. If the man is nothing to us, can we grieve; or, grieving, have any time for laughter? But, in any case, can we grieve for the man himself, when we are so assured that he has left this world for a better? Our grief can only be for those whose happiness on earth has been blighted by his departure. In Telworthy’s case, whose happiness was that? None whom George knew; none whom Olivia knew. Why should they pay the tribute to Propriety of a momentarily solemn face? George, being a vassal in that court, will pay directly, we may be sure, but Olivia had more sense, more candour. She laughed hysterically at the comedy of it. Whom was she outraging?
Dead! George’s first feeling was one of triumph that his faith in the Providence which was looking after his affairs was justified. Over and over again he had said to himself in dazed bewilderment, ‘That this should be happening to us!’ How right he had been! Such things did not happen ‘to us.’ All along he had felt the unreality of it. It was only a nightmare; it must be only a nightmare, else his faith was shattered. Now the nightmare was over. Nothing had happened to disturb his faith. Indeed, it stood the stronger now, so brilliantly had Providence come out of the ordeal.
But there were moments when George felt that he was a man of affairs, one of those cool, level-headed Englishmen who had carved for us our tribute of ‘a nation of shopkeepers.’ What would such a man do now? It was obvious. With a sigh of relief at his escape from all this orgy of emotions, he turned to Mr. Pim and said firmly, master in his house once more:
‘Now, Mr. Pim, let us have this quite clear. You tell us definitely that the man Telworthy, Jacob Telworthy, is dead?’
Mr. Pim blinked his eyes, and focused them with a little trouble on his host.
