Works of Grant Allen

by Grant Allen

‘And leave you here alone! Never, Harold; never!’

  ‘Then what can we do?’

  I reflected a moment. ‘Lend me your pencil,’ I said. He pulled it out — his arms were almost unhurt, fortunately. I scribbled a line to Elsie. ‘Tie my plaid to the rope and let it down.’ Then I waved to her to pull up again.

  I was half surprised to find she obeyed the signal, for she crouched there, white-faced and open-mouthed, watching; but I have often observed that women are almost always brave in the great emergencies. She pinned on the plaid and let it down with commendable quickness. I doubled it, and tied firm knots in the four corners, so as to make it into a sort of basket; then I fastened it at each corner with a piece of the rope, crossed in the middle, till it looked like one of the cages they use in mills for letting down sacks with. As soon as it was finished, I said, ‘Now, just try to crawl into it.’

  He raised himself on his arms and crawled in with difficulty. His legs dragged after him. I could see he was in great pain. But still, he managed it.

  I planted my foot in the first noose. ‘You must sit still,’ I said, breathless. ‘I am going back to haul you up.’

  ‘Are you strong enough, Lois?’

  ‘With Elsie to help me, yes. I often stroked a four at Girton.’

  ‘I can trust you,’ he answered. It thrilled me that he said so.

  I began my hazardous journey; I mounted the rope by the nooses — one, two, three, four, counting them as I mounted. I did not dare to look up or down as I did so, lest I should grow giddy and fall, but kept my eyes fixed firmly always on the one noose in front of me. My brain swam: the rope swayed and creaked. Twenty, thirty, forty! Foot after foot, I slipped them in mechanically, taking up with me the longer coil whose ends were attached to the cage and Harold. My hands trembled; it was ghastly, swinging there between earth and heaven. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven — I knew there were forty-eight of them. At last, after some weeks, as it seemed, I reached the summit. Tremulous and half dead, I prised myself over the edge with my hands, and knelt once more on the hill beside Elsie.

  She was white, but attentive. ‘What next, Brownie?’ Her voice quivered.

  I looked about me. I was too faint and shaky after my perilous ascent to be fit for work, but there was no help for it. What could I use as a pulley? Not a tree grew near; but the stone jammed in the fissure might once more serve my purpose. I tried it again. It had borne my weight; was it strong enough to bear the precious weight of Harold? I tugged at it, and thought so. I passed the rope round it like a pulley, and then tied it about my own waist. I had a happy thought: I could use myself as a windlass. I turned on my feet for a pivot. Elsie helped me to pull. ‘Up you go!’ I cried, cheerily. We wound slowly, for fear of shaking him. Bit by bit, I could feel the cage rise gradually from the ground; its weight, taken so, with living capstan and stone axle, was less than I should have expected. But the pulley helped us, and Elsie, spurred by need, put forth more reserve of nervous strength than I could easily have believed lay in that tiny body. I twisted myself round and round, close to the edge, so as to look over from time to time, but not at all quickly, for fear of dizziness. The rope strained and gave. It was a deadly ten minutes of suspense and anxiety. Twice or thrice as I looked down I saw a spasm of pain break over Harold’s face; but when I paused and glanced inquiringly, he motioned me to go on with my venturesome task. There was no turning back now. We had almost got him up when the rope at the edge began to creak ominously.

  It was straining at the point where it grated against the brink of the precipice. My heart gave a leap. If the rope broke, all was over.

  With a sudden dart forward, I seized it with my hands, below the part that gave; then — one fierce little run back — and I brought him level with the edge. He clutched at Elsie’s hand. I turned thrice round, to wind the slack about my body. The taut rope cut deep into my flesh; but nothing mattered now, except to save him. ‘Catch the cloak, Elsie!’ I cried; ‘catch it: pull him gently in!’ Elsie caught it and pulled him in, with wonderful pluck and calmness. We hauled him over the edge. He lay safe on the bank. Then we all three broke down and cried like children together. I took his hand in mine and held it in silence.

  When we found words again I drew a deep breath, and said, simply, ‘How did you manage to do it?’

  I ROLLED AND SLID DOWN.

  ‘I tried to clamber past the wall that barred the way there by sheer force of stride — you know, my legs are long — and I somehow overbalanced myself. But I didn’t exactly fall — if I had fallen, I must have been killed; I rolled and slid down, clutching at the weeds in the crannies as I slipped, and stumbling over the projections, without quite losing my foothold on the ledges, till I found myself brought up short with a bump at the end of it.’

  ‘And you think no bones are broken?’

  ‘I can’t feel sure. It hurts me horribly to move. I fancy just at first I must have fainted. But I’m inclined to guess I’m only sprained and bruised and sore all over. Why, you’re as bad as me, I believe. See, your dear hands are all torn and bleeding!’

  ‘How are we ever to get him back again, Brownie?’ Elsie put in. She was paler than ever now, and prostrate with the after-effects of her unwonted effort.

  ‘You are a practical woman, Elsie,’ I answered. ‘Stop with him here a minute or two. I’ll climb up the hillside and halloo for Ursula and the men from Lungern.’

  I climbed and hallooed. In a few minutes, worn out as I was, I had reached the path above and attracted their attention. They hurried down to where Harold lay, and, using my cage for a litter, slung on a young fir-trunk, carried him back between them across their shoulders to the village. He pleaded hard to be allowed to remain at the chalet, and Elsie joined her prayers to his; but, there, I was adamant. It was not so much what people might say that I minded, but a deeper difficulty. For if once I nursed him through this trouble, how could I or any woman in my place any longer refuse him? So I passed him ruthlessly on to Lungern (though my heart ached for it), and telegraphed at once to his nearest relative, Lady Georgina, to come up and take care of him.

  He recovered rapidly. Though sore and shaken, his worst hurts, it turned out, were sprains; and in three or four days he was ready to go on again. I called to see him before he left. I dreaded the interview; for one’s own heart is a hard enemy to fight so long: but how could I let him go without one word of farewell to him?

  ‘After this, Lois,’ he said, taking my hand in his — and I was weak enough, for a moment, to let it lie there— ‘you cannot say No to me!’

  Oh, how I longed to fling myself upon him and cry out, ‘No, Harold, I cannot! I love you too dearly!’ But his future and Marmaduke Ashurst’s half million restrained me: for his sake and for my own I held myself in courageously. Though, indeed, it needed some courage and self-control. I withdrew my hand slowly. ‘Do you remember,’ I said, ‘you asked me that first day at Schlangenbad’ — it was an epoch to me now, that first day— ‘whether I was mediæval or modern? And I answered, “Modern, I hope.” And you said, “That’s well!” — You see, I don’t forget the least things you say to me. Well, because I am modern— ‘my lips trembled and belied me— ‘I can answer you No. I can even now refuse you. The old-fashioned girl, the mediæval girl, would have held that because she saved your life (if I did save your life, which is a matter of opinion) she was bound to marry you. But I am modern, and I see things differently. If there were reasons at Schlangenbad which made it impracticable for me to accept you — though my heart pleaded hard — I do not deny it — those reasons cannot have disappeared merely because you have chosen to fall over a precipice, and I have pulled you up again. My decision was founded, you see, not on passing accidents of situation, but on permanent considerations. Nothing has happened in the last three days to affect those considerations. We are still ourselves: you, rich; I, a penniless adventuress. I could not accept you when you asked me at Schlangenbad. On just the same grounds, I cannot accept you now.
I do not see how the unessential fact that I made myself into a winch to pull you up the cliff, and that I am still smarting for it — —’

  He looked me all over comically. ‘How severe we are!’ he cried, in a bantering tone. ‘And how extremely Girtony! A System of Logic, Ratiocinative and Inductive, by Lois Cayley! What a pity we didn’t take a professor’s chair. My child that isn’t you! It’s not yourself at all! It’s an attempt to be unnaturally and unfemininely reasonable.’

  Logic fled. I broke down utterly. ‘Harold,’ I cried, rising, ‘I love you! I admit I love you! But I will never marry you — while you have those thousands.’

  ‘I haven’t got them yet!’

  ‘Or the chance of inheriting them.’

  He smothered my hand with kisses — for I withdrew my face. ‘If you admit you love me,’ he cried, quite joyously, ‘then all is well. When once a woman admits that, the rest is but a matter of time — and, Lois, I can wait a thousand years for you.’

  ‘Not in my case,’ I answered through my tears. ‘Not in my case, Harold! I am a modern woman, and what I say I mean. I will renew my promise. If ever you are poor and friendless, come to me; I am yours. Till then, don’t harrow me by asking me the impossible!’

  I tore myself away. At the hall door, Lady Georgina intercepted me. She glanced at my red eyes. ‘Then you have taken him?’ she cried, seizing my hand.

  I shook my head firmly. I could hardly speak. ‘No, Lady Georgina,’ I answered, in a choking voice. ‘I have refused him again. I will not stand in his way. I will not ruin his prospects.’

  She drew back and let her chin drop. ‘Well, of all the hard-hearted, cruel, obdurate young women I ever saw in my born days, if you’re not the very hardest — —’

  I half ran from the house. I hurried home to the chalet. There, I dashed into my own room, locked the door behind me, flung myself wildly on my bed, and, burying my face in my hands, had a good, long, hard-hearted, cruel, obdurate cry — exactly like any other mediæval woman. It’s all very well being modern; but my experience is that, when it comes to a man one loves — well, the Middle Ages are still horribly strong within us.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE URBANE OLD GENTLEMAN

  When Elsie’s holidays — I beg pardon, vacation — came to an end, she proposed to return to her High School in London. Zeal for the higher mathematics devoured her. But she still looked so frail, and coughed so often — a perfect Campo Santo of a cough — in spite of her summer of open-air exercise, that I positively worried her into consulting a doctor — not one of the Fortescue-Langley order. The report he gave was mildly unfavourable. He spoke disrespectfully of the apex of her right lung. It was not exactly tubercular, he remarked, but he ‘feared tuberculosis’ — excuse the long words; the phrase was his, not mine; I repeat verbatim. He vetoed her exposing herself to a winter in London in her present unstable condition. Davos? Well, no. Not Davos: with deliberative thumb and finger on close-shaven chin. He judged her too delicate for such drastic remedies. Those high mountain stations suited best the robust invalid, who had dropped by accident into casual phthisis. For Miss Petheridge’s case — looking wise — he would not recommend the Riviera, either: too stimulating, too exciting. What this young lady needed most was rest: rest in some agreeable southern town, some city of the soul — say Rome or Florence — where she might find much to interest her, and might forget the apex of her right lung in the new world of art that opened around her.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, promptly; ‘that’s settled, Elsie. The apex and you shall winter in Florence.’

  ‘But, Brownie, can we afford it?’

  ‘Afford it?’ I echoed. ‘Goodness gracious, my dear child, what a bourgeois sentiment! Your medical attendant says to you, “Go to Florence”: and to Florence you must go; there’s no getting out of it. Why, even the swallows fly south when their medical attendant tells them England is turning a trifle too cold for them.’

  ‘But what will Miss Latimer say? She depends upon me to come back at the beginning of term. She must have somebody to undertake the higher mathematics.’

  ‘And she will get somebody, dear,’ I answered, calmly. ‘Don’t trouble your sweet little head about that. An eminent statistician has calculated that five hundred and thirty duly qualified young women are now standing four-square in a solid phalanx in the streets of London, all agog to teach the higher mathematics to anyone who wants them at a moment’s notice. Let Miss Latimer take her pick of the five hundred and thirty. I’ll wire to her at once: “Elsie Petheridge unable through ill health to resume her duties. Ordered to Florence. Resigns post. Engage substitute.” That’s the way to do it.’

  Elsie clasped her small white hands in the despair of the woman who considers herself indispensable — as if we were any of us indispensable! ‘But, dearest, the girls! They’ll be so disappointed!’

  ‘They’ll get over it,’ I answered, grimly. ‘There are worse disappointments in store for them in life — Which is a fine old crusted platitude worthy of Aunt Susan. Anyhow, I’ve decided. Look here, Elsie: I stand to you in loco parentis.’ I have already remarked, I think, that she was three years my senior; but I was so pleased with this phrase that I repeated it lovingly. ‘I stand to you, dear, in loco parentis. Now, I can’t let you endanger your precious health by returning to town and Miss Latimer this winter. Let us be categorical. I go to Florence; you go with me.’

  ‘What shall we live upon?’ Elsie suggested, piteously.

  ‘Our fellow-creatures, as usual,’ I answered, with prompt callousness. ‘I object to these base utilitarian considerations being imported into the discussion of a serious question. Florence is the city of art; as a woman of culture, it behoves you to revel in it. Your medical attendant sends you there; as a patient and an invalid, you can revel with a clear conscience. Money? Well, money is a secondary matter. All philosophies and all religions agree that money is mere dross, filthy lucre. Rise superior to it. We have a fair sum in hand to the credit of the firm; we can pick up some more, I suppose, in Florence.’

  ‘How?’

  I reflected. ‘Elsie,’ I said, ‘you are deficient in Faith — which is one of the leading Christian graces. My mission in life is to correct that want in your spiritual nature. Now, observe how beautifully all these events work in together! The winter comes, when no man can bicycle, especially in Switzerland. Therefore, what is the use of my stopping on here after October? Again, in pursuance of my general plan of going round the world, I must get forward to Italy. Your medical attendant considerately orders you at the same time to Florence. In Florence we shall still have chances of selling Manitous, though possibly, I admit, in diminished numbers. I confess at once that people come to Switzerland to tour, and are therefore liable to need our machines; while they go to Florence to look at pictures, and a bicycle would doubtless prove inconvenient in the Uffizi or the Pitti. Still, we may sell a few. But I descry another opening. You write shorthand, don’t you?’

  ‘A little, dear; only ninety words a minute.’

  ‘That’s not business. Advertise yourself, à la Cyrus Hitchcock! Say boldly, “I write shorthand.” Leave the world to ask, “How fast?” It will ask it quick enough without your suggesting it. Well, my idea is this. Florence is a town teeming with English tourists of the cultivated classes — men of letters, painters, antiquaries, art-critics. I suppose even art-critics may be classed as cultivated. Such people are sure to need literary aid. We exist, to supply it. We will set up the Florentine School of Stenography and Typewriting. We’ll buy a couple of typewriters.’

  ‘How can we pay for them, Brownie?’

  THERE’S ENTERPRISE FOR YOU!

  I gazed at her in despair. ‘Elsie,’ I cried, clapping my hand to my head, ‘you are not practical. Did I ever suggest we should pay for them? I said merely, buy them. Base is the slave that pays. That’s Shakespeare. And we all know Shakespeare is the mirror of nature. Argal, it would be unnatural to pay for a typewriter. We will hire a room in Florenc
e (on tick, of course), and begin operations. Clients will flock in; and we tide over the winter. There’s enterprise for you!’ And I struck an attitude.

  Elsie’s face looked her doubts. I walked across to Mrs. Evelegh’s desk, and began writing a letter. It occurred to me that Mr. Hitchcock, who was a man of business, might be able to help a woman of business in this delicate matter. I put the point to him fairly and squarely, without circumlocution; we were going to start an English typewriting office in Florence; what was the ordinary way for people to become possessed of a typewriting machine, without the odious and mercenary preliminary of paying for it? The answer came back with commendable promptitude.

  Dear Miss, — Your spirit of enterprise is really remarkable! I have forwarded your letter to my friends of the Spread Eagle Typewriting and Phonograph Company, Limited, of New York City, informing them of your desire to open an agency for the sale of their machines in Florence, Italy, and giving them my estimate of your business capacities. I have advised their London house to present you with two complimentary machines for your own use and your partner’s, and also to supply a number of others for disposal in the city of Florence. If you would further like to undertake an agency for the development of the trade in salt codfish (large quantities of which are, of course, consumed in Catholic Europe), I could put you into communication with my respected friends, Messrs. Abel Woodward and Co., exporters of preserved provisions, St John, Newfoundland. But, perhaps in this suggestion I am not sufficiently high-toned. — Respectfully, Cyrus W. Hitchcock.

  The moment had arrived for Elsie to be firm. ‘I have no prejudice against trade, Brownie,’ she observed emphatically; ‘but I do draw the line at salt fish.’

  ‘So do I, dear,’ I answered.

  She sighed her relief. I really believe she half expected to find me trotting about Florence with miscellaneous samples of Messrs. Abel Woodward’s esteemed productions protruding from my pocket.