by E. F. Benson
Mrs. Fanshawe put her head a little on one side wistfully.
“Elizabeth can hardly talk of the happy weeks she spent here,” she said, “and I’m sure I don’t wonder at her enjoyment of them. My dear, how happy it must make you to make everybody around you so happy. I don’t believe you ever think of yourself.”
Mrs. Hancock smiled; a long-wanted red queen had appeared.
“It does make one happy not to think of oneself,” she said, “and how the time goes when you are thinking of other people. I am often astounded when Sunday comes round again, for the weeks go by in a flash. I take my dear Edith out for her drives — it is so good to her to have plenty of fresh air — and she comes to lunch with me every day almost, so that she shall not be alone in her house, with her husband away all day, and it is Sunday again, and I get what I call my weekly refresher from our dear Mr. Martin. Such a beautiful sermon he gave us last Sunday — ah, there is the ten I wanted — on the subject of his sad bereavement. His wife, you know. I took her out to Egypt with me; it was most important that she should get out of the winter fogs and damp of England, and she died at Luxor after three days’ illness. How glad I was she had a friend with her — my dear, forgive me, how thoughtless I am.”
“No, not thoughtless, my dear,” said Mrs. Fanshawe. “Not thoughtless. And Mr. Martin. Tell me about Mr. Martin. I feel sure I should like Mr. Martin.”
Mrs. Hancock bundled her patience cards together. She had not left a patience unfinished, except when the patience had finished her, for years. Perfectly as she could attend when she was playing it, she prepared now to be absolutely undistracted.
“Indeed, no one could help liking Mr. Martin,” she said. “He has the noblest of characters, and with it all not a touch of priggishness. To see him play golf, or to hear him laugh, talk, you would never think he was a clergyman, but to hear him preach you would think he was a bishop at least. I know of nobody whom I admire more. Listen. Was not that the front-door bell? How tiresome if we are interrupted in our talk. Yes; I hear Lind going to open it. Now he has shut it again. Ah, it is only a note. Will you excuse me? Yes, from Edward. Just to say he and Edith will come to lunch to-morrow, as he is not going up to the City. No answer, Lind.”
Now Mrs. Fanshawe had not failed to mark the expression of her sister-in-law’s face when she spoke of Mr. Martin. If she had worn it herself she would have called it a “rapt expression,” but it was not so admirable on the features of a woman who, to adopt Mrs. Fanshawe’s point of view, was already aground, so to speak, on the shallows of advanced middle-age, where there is not sufficient youth to carry you over those emotional banks. Still, on a younger and perhaps a more spiritual face, it would have been rapt, and it occurred to her that in mind perhaps her sister-in-law was not as old as she looked or as she was. It would be very ridiculous if at that age a woman was the prey of sentimental notions — but then she had a very comfortable house, a delightful retreat from the stuffy little kennel in Oakley Street.
Mrs. Hancock waited till Lind had quite shut the drawing-room door, and then turned to her sister-in-law again.
“My dear, I want your advice,” she said, “for you are a woman of the world and I am sure are wise. You see this spring, after poor Mrs. Martin’s death, I saw a great deal of the vicar, and I think I was able to comfort and uphold him, so that he leans a good deal on me now, though of course we have been very great friends for years. Could you give that footstool just a little kick this way? He feels his loneliness very much; he wants some one whom he knows and trusts and, shall I say, admires?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Fanshawe. “Admires, I am sure.”
“How kind of you! Well, admires, to take the place of her whom he has lost, and who was a very good, sweet sort of woman indeed.”
Mrs. Hancock leaned forward.
“He has told all this to me,” she said, putting her hand on Mrs. Fanshawe’s arm. “Now you know what I think of him. Do advise me — what am I to say to him? Edith and Edward, you see, are both so young. It would be a wonderful thing for them to have a father to go to in those difficulties in which a man is so much more competent to advise them than a woman. Lind and Denton, too, there is a great deal that a master of a house can do to influence men-servants. What shall I say to him?”
Probably no more wholly original reason for matrimony had ever been put forward than that it would provide a man to look after the butler, but one of the stories about the Colonel’s early life had shown that he had the highest opinion of his sister’s originality. To-day if never before that opinion was justified. Mrs. Fanshawe did not remember the story, nor did the delirious originality strike her now. But she saw quite clearly what Mrs. Hancock, the owner of this comfortable house, wanted her to say. She got up from her chair and knelt on the footstool which she had kicked a little.
“My dear, I envy you your beautiful, unselfish nature,” she said. “And let me be the first to congratulate Mr. Martin.”
“You shall be,” said Mrs. Hancock, kissing her.
CHAPTER XIV
HEART’S DESIRE
Mrs. Hancock had made so touching a tale of the help she had been to Mr. Martin, and of Mr. Martin’s devotion to her, and how the chief reason for her contemplated marriage was that he might exercise a wise and fatherly care over Edward and Edith and Denton and Lind, that Mrs. Fanshawe lay awake for quite a considerable time that night in spite of the extreme comfort of her bed, vividly exercising her imagination to see how she might paint with an even nobler brush the loves of Henry and Birdie. She flattered herself that she had far more promising material to work with, for what in point of romance was a middle-aged country vicar to compare with the Commander-in-Chief in India, or what was the elderly Mrs. Hancock in comparison with her young and graceful sister-in-law? She was slightly chagrined that Mrs. Hancock had already “bagged” as a motive for matrimony the care of a fatherless daughter, but she had rendered it ridiculous when it was thought over by the addition of a butler and a chauffeur. Besides, Edith was already married, and no longer in the touching desolation of a newly orphaned girl just growing up. However, she found she had many very beautiful things to say, and only hoped that Mrs. Hancock would prove as zealous and absorbed a listener as she herself had been. She had an opportunity of testing this when they started on their drive next morning. Mrs. Fanshawe was not quite ready when the motor came round, but after a prolonged debate it was decided to go round by the Old Mill just the same, and put off lunch for five minutes. Her unpunctuality, however, was quite forgiven her when she explained that she and Elizabeth had been “so wrapped up” in the tulips that she had no idea how late it was.
Mrs. Fanshawe began preparing for her exquisite revelation without loss of time.
“You’ve no idea how thrilled I was, dear, by what you told me last night,” she said. “I lay awake so long thinking about it. And it is such a treat, oh such a treat to be confided in. I feel we are quite old friends already.”
Mrs. Hancock beamed approval.
“We had a nice talk,” she said, “and I should not wonder if we saw Mr. Martin playing golf. In any case you will see him — oh, what a jolt! That must have been something big on the road. Do you think we might have your window a little more down, dear? I want you to profit by this lovely air. Yes, just like that. I wonder how I shall tell Mrs. Williams and Edith and them all about it. I shall feel so nervous. Perhaps I had better leave it to Mr. Martin. What do you think? Yes, if you look out of this window you will see him there. That is he hitting away with his golf-stick at that furze-bush. How vigorous, is he not? Oh, did you see his ball fly away then? He plays so beautifully! Indeed, dear, I feel such old friends with you, too, and to think that — there, he is talking to his partner. Now they are quite out of sight.”
Mrs. Fanshawe could not at once decline from the high standard of sympathy and comprehension she had set last night.
“And I only just caught a glimpse of him!” she said. “I shall have to curb my imp
atience till I meet him at your house. But I warn you, my dear, I shall be very critical of the man who is going to take care of you. He will have to think about you much more than you ever think about yourself.”
Mrs. Hancock shook her head.
“No, quite the other way round, dear,” she said. “I shall have to take care of him. He wears himself out with work. I have no doubt that after his game to-day — he plays golf really entirely for the sake of the influence it gives him over the young men here, and he introduces a spirit of earnestness among the caddies — are they not called, who carry the sticks? — after his game, I dare say he will go straight to his study and finish up his sermon. There is the Great Western Railway. Look! What a long luggage-train! I wonder what it contains. Perhaps the new lawn-tennis net which I ordered from the stores yesterday. I know that when I have charge of Mr. Martin I shall not let him wear himself out so. He ought to have a curate, for instance. I wonder how much a good curate costs.”
Mrs. Fanshawe had no data on which to base this calculation, and Mrs. Hancock allowed the conversation to veer a little in her direction.
“You are getting quite a colour in your cheeks, dear, already,” she said, “with our good air. You must come here often and have plenty of it. I can’t tell you how often I have meant to ask you here with dear Elizabeth, but I was determined to get everything straight first after my long absence so that you would be quite comfortable. And how often my heart has bled for you in your loneliness! I remember so well after my dear husband died I thought I should never enjoy anything any more. Even now sometimes I should feel dreadfully depressed if I allowed myself to. But I have always told myself what great causes I have for thankfulness. Mr. Martin — —”
Mrs. Fanshawe broke in, feeling that there was a limit at which sympathy passes into drivel and comprehension into idiotic acquiescence. Besides, it was only fair that she should have some sort of an innings.
“I feel so much all that you say, dear,” she said, “especially about causes for thankfulness. I am sure they are showered on me. And Bob was always so anxious and thoughtful for my happiness that I should feel that I should be failing in my duty to him if I lost any opportunity of securing it.”
This sentence did not seem to come out exactly as she had meant; it sounded as if the imputation of selfishness might possibly be applied to it, which she did not at all wish to incur. She continued hastily —
“And happiness only lies, as you, dear, show so well, in the making of others happy. I wish I had more people to take care of and think about. At present there has been only Elizabeth who has needed me. I think I may say I have given myself to Elizabeth, for I am sure I have thought of little else but her and the Memoir since August last. I have brought down the Memoir, as far as I have got. You will like to see it. I might leave it with you when I go away on Monday after my happy visit.”
Mrs. Hancock rapidly considered whether she wanted her new friend to stop till Tuesday. She felt she could not make up her mind on the spur of the moment.
“That will be a great treat!” she said. “Or perhaps you would read some of it aloud to me. I am sure you have written it beautifully, and I so much like being read aloud to. The chapter on his early life will bring back old times. Look, there are the towers of Windsor Castle. We can only see them on a very clear day. Mr. Martin has wonderfully long sight.”
Mrs. Fanshawe wrenched the conversation back again. She was going to set up another standard for their joint admiration.
“But I want more to look after, more to take care of,” she said. “And would you think it very weak of me if I said I wanted also to be a little taken care of myself? I am so inexperienced, and I am afraid Bob spoiled me and made me used to being so lovingly looked after. And there is somebody, dear, who wants, oh so much, to be allowed to look after me.”
Mrs. Hancock was just about to remark that the towers of Windsor Castle were no longer visible, but this completely arrested her. She had a momentary sense that Mrs. Fanshawe had taken a mean advantage of her in allowing anything to interfere with the unique interest of her own situation. It came into her mind also that any one who had married her brother ought not to think of re-marriage for years and years, if ever. But both these impressions were overscored by curiosity. She gave a little excited scream.
“My dear, how you surprise me!” she said. “Yes, pray tell me more. Who is it?”
Mrs. Fanshawe pulled out this ace of trumps.
“Sir Henry Meyrick,” she said. “Commander-in-Chief, you know, in India. Such devotion! I am sure that if I had the hardest heart in the world, instead of a very soft one, I should not be able to let such devotion go unrewarded. And Elizabeth — think how he will look after Elizabeth! He is so devoted to her, I declare I should be quite jealous if I did not know that it was just a fatherly affection.”
This allusion to the daughter-motif seemed to Mrs. Hancock rank plagiarism, and spoiled in the stealing. Elizabeth was not Mrs. Fanshawe’s daughter; she had no right at all to use that as a reason. She made up her mind (if that dim mirror which reflected fleeting emotions can be called a mind) that Mrs. Fanshawe should go away on Monday. Then immediately the mirror reflected another image — it would be rather interesting to speak about “my sister-in-law, Lady Meyrick.” To be sure it was a very short time since Colonel Fanshawe’s death ... but then it was a much shorter time since Mrs. Martin’s.
Rapidly these evanescent images chased each other over the field. And before the pause grew uncordial she fixed on one of them, namely, “my sister-in-law, Lady Meyrick.”
“My dear, I am quite overcome with your news,” she said. “It is most interesting, and I am sure I wish you happiness with all my heart. I have often seen Sir Henry’s name in the newspapers and wondered what he was like. And now to think that he is to become so near a relation!”
By an effort of great magnanimity she decided to pass over the plagiarism altogether.
“And what good fortune for Elizabeth,” she said, “whose welfare was always such a source of thought and contriving to me. And what does she think of it all? Why, we are at the Old Mill already! If you could just reach that speaking-tube, dear, and call to Denton to stop, so that we may enjoy looking at it. Mr. Martin always calls it the most picturesque corner in Middlesex. How swiftly the water runs, does it not? Of course, you will not think of being married for a long time to come. Is it not a coincidence that our dear Bob should have married twice, and now you are going to do the same, and Mr. Martin, too, and me? I declare I never heard of such coincidences! You must be sure and tell Sir Henry to come down to see me. Mr. Martin and he must make friends. And who knows that I shall not flap my wings a little further yet and come out to see you in India? Where does the Commander-in-Chief live? Look, there is the miller fishing! I wonder if he has caught anything. I am afraid we must turn, or we shall be late for lunch, which would never do, as we have postponed it in order to be in time. And I hope you won’t dream of going away on Monday. You must stop till Tuesday at the very least.”
Mi’s. Fanshawe was not perfectly satisfied, though she felt she was being envied. She determined not to be so easy of access.
“You must get Henry’s leave for that,” she said, “for I promised him I would be back on Monday. I don’t know what he would do if I broke my promise to him. And such a business as I had to allow him to let me go away at all.”
For the first time for many years Mrs. Hancock found herself in the position of one who asked instead of granted favours.
“Ah! I wonder if you could induce him to come down here on Monday to take you back the next day or the day after?” she said.
Mrs. Fanshawe greedily pursued her advantage and assumed an air of odious superiority.
“But, dear, we should be taxing the capabilities of your charming little house too much,” she said, feeling certain of her ground. “I should not wonder if Henry was unable to go anywhere without his secretary, as well as a servant. He must have to keep
in constant touch with the India Office. But it is delightful of you to suggest it, only we must not trespass on your good-nature.”
“No difficulty at all!” cried Mrs. Hancock. “There is the pink room and the best blue bedroom and the lilac dressing-room next mine, into which Elizabeth can go. The thing is done, dear, if you will only say the word. And if Sir Henry plays golf, there will be Mr. Martin delighted to lend him some golf-sticks and go round with him, do they not call it? It will be a pleasure to him; he has always had such an admiration for soldiers, for, to be sure, as he says sometimes, he is a soldier himself, fighting battles continually. I will get up a little dinner-party for Monday night, and Edward and Elizabeth shall play afterwards, if Sir Henry likes music.”
While this kittenish comedy was going on something younger and more tragical was in progress in the two adjacent houses. Edward had been sitting in his smoking-room after breakfast, with eyes that wandered over his uncomprehended newspaper, conscious of an overmastering desire to slip across to the house next door merely to see Elizabeth, to satisfy the eyes that ached for her and, as he knew well, but to render the more acute the aching of his heart. His wife, as was often her custom, had come in after she had attended to her household duties, and sat in her usual seat by the window, speaking occasionally to him, or replying in perfectly commonplace fashion, to his dropped observations. They had spoken of their plans for the day, of the arrival of Mrs. Fanshawe and Elizabeth, and now and then, focusing his eyes but not his mind, he had mentioned some newspaper topic. Such half-hours they had spent a hundred times before, but to-day each was intensely conscious of something that, always lying behind their intercourse and never spoken of between them, had suddenly enveloped and enshadowed, like the gathering of a tropical storm, the foreground of their life as well. He tried to imagine himself putting down his newspaper in a leisurely way, and forming his voice to say, lightly and casually, that he would stroll across to Mrs. Hancock’s. But he felt that, as if intoxicated, his tongue would stammer and stumble on the words. Once he laid his paper down, and saw that on the instant she had started into attentive expectation, had fixed her eyes on him ready for what she knew would come from his lips, for she read, so he felt, his unspoken sentence, knowing what filled his mind. But still he sat there, unable to tell her what he ached to do, while she waited. In all the months of their marriage Elizabeth’s name had been mentioned only as the name of some indifferent cousin might have been; never as one who held Edward’s heart in the hollow of her hands.
