Chapter 3
"I mean that the fortune may come of itself by luck. Luck is a very curious thing. We cannot understand it. It's of no use to talk about it, because it is quite impossible to understand it."
"Then don't let's talk about it, especially when you've got something else to do."
"Temper, temper, Eliza! You must guard against that. I was not going to talk about luck. I was going to give you an instance of luck, which happened to come within my own personal experience. It is the case of a man of the name of Chumpleigh, in our office, and would probably interest and amuse you. I do not know if I have ever mentioned Chumpleigh to you."
"Yes, you've told me all about him several times."
I might have mentioned Chumpleigh to Eliza, but I am sure that I have never told her all about him. However, I was not going to sulk, and so I told her the story again. The story would not have been so long if she hadn't interrupted me so frequently.
When I had finished, she said that it was time to go to bed, and I had wasted the evening.
I owned that possibly I had been chatting rather longer than I had intended, but I would still get those accounts done, and sit up to do them.
"And that means extra gas," she said. "That's the way money gets wasted."
"There are many men in my place," I said, "who would refuse to sit down to work as late as this. I don't. Why? On principle. Because it's through the cultivation of the sort of thing that I cultivate one arrives at fortune. Think what fortune would mean to us. Big house, large garden, servants, carriages. I should come in from a day with the hounds, and perhaps say I felt rather done up, and would like a glass of champagne. No question of expense--not a word about it--money no object. You'd just get the bottle out of the sideboard, and I should have my glass, and they'd finish it in the kitchen, and----"
"_Are_ you going to begin, or are you not?" asked Eliza.
"This minute," I replied, opening the black bag. I examined the contents carefully.
"Well," I said, "this is a very strange occurrence indeed--most unaccountable! I don't remember ever to have done anything of the kind before, but I seem to have forgotten to bring that work from the city. Dear me! I shall be forgetting my head next."
Eliza's reply that this would be no great loss did not seem to me to be either funny, or polite, or even true. "You strangely forget yourself," I replied, and turned the gas out sharply.
SHAKESPEARE
I led up to it, saying to Eliza, not at all in a complaining way, "Does it not seem to you a pity to let these long winter evenings run to waste?"
"Yes, dear," she replied; "I think you ought to do something."
"And you, too. Is it not so, darling?"
"There's generally some sewing, or the accounts."
"Yes; but these things do not exercise the mind."
"Accounts do."
"Not in the way I mean." I had now reached my point. "How would it be if I were to read aloud to you? I don't think you have ever heard me read aloud. You are fond of the theatre, and we cannot often afford to go. This would make up for it. There are many men who would tell you that they would sooner have a play read aloud to them than see it acted in the finest theatre in the world."
"Would they? Well--perhaps--if I were only sewing it wouldn't interrupt me much."
I said, "That is not very graciously put, Eliza. There is a certain art in reading aloud. Some have it, and some have not. I do not know if I have ever told you, but when I was a boy of twelve I won a prize for recitation, though several older boys were competing against me."
She said that I had told her before several times.
I continued: "And I suppose that I have developed since then. A man in our office once told me that he thought I should have done well on the stage. I don't know whether I ever mentioned it."
She said that I had mentioned it once or twice.
"I should have thought that you would have been glad of a little pleasure--innocent, profitable, and entertaining. However, if you think I am not capable of----"
"What do you want to read?"
"What would you like me to read?"
"Miss Sakers lent me this." She handed me a paper-covered volume, entitled, "The Murglow Mystery; or, The Stain on the Staircase."
"Trash like this is not literature," I said. However, to please her, I glanced at the first page. Half an hour later I said that I should be very sorry to read a book of that stamp out loud.
"Then why do you go on reading it to yourself?"
"Strictly speaking, I am not reading it. I am glancing at it."
When Eliza got up to go to bed, an hour afterward, she asked me if I was still glancing. I kept my temper.
"Try not to be so infernally unreasonable," I said. "If Miss Sakers lends us a book, it is discourteous not to look at it."
On the following night Eliza said that she hoped I was not going to sit up until three in the morning, wasting the gas and ruining my health, over a book that I myself had said--
"And who pays for the gas?"
"Nobody's paid last quarter's yet. Mother can't do everything, and----"
"Well, we can talk about that some other time. To-night I am going to read aloud to you a play of Shakespeare's. I wonder if you even know who Shakespeare was?"
"Of course I do."
"Could you honestly say that you have ever read one--only one--of his tragedies?"
"No. Could you?"
"I am going to read 'Macbeth' to you, trying to indicate by changes in my voice which character is speaking." I opened the book.
Eliza said that she couldn't think who it was took her scissors.
"I can't begin till you keep quiet," I said.
"It's the second pair that's gone this week."
"Very well, then," I said, shutting up the book with a bang, "I will not read aloud to you to-night at all. You may get along as you can without it."
"You're sure you didn't take those scissors for anything?" she replied, meditatively.
* * * * *
"Now then," I said, on the next night, "I am ready to begin. The tragedy is entitled 'Macbeth.' This is the first scene."
"What is the first scene?"
"A blasted heath."
"Well, I think you might give a civil answer to a civil question. There was 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 quoting it. It merely means----"
"Oh, if it's Shakespeare I suppose it's all right. Nobody seems to mind what _he_ says. You can go on."
I read for some time. Eliza, in reply to my question, owned that she had enjoyed it, but she went to bed before her usual time.
* * * * *
When I was preparing to read aloud on the following evening, I was unable to find our copy of Shakespeare. This was very annoying, as it had 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 dare say 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 me than 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 up from the account-book.
"I do think," I said, "that when I speak to you you might have the civility to pay some little attention."
She replied, "One pound fifteen and two, and I hope you know where we are to get it from, for I don't. And don't bang on the table in that silly way, or you'll spill the ink."
"I did not bang. I tapped slightly from a pardonable impatience. I put a plain question to you some time ago, and I should like a plain answer to 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 am fonder of me--no, you are fonder of I--well, I'll begin again. Which of us two would you say was fonder of the other than the other was of the--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 it more 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--of the each?"
"I mean nothing of the kind. Until you muddled it the thing was perfectly 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. Which of those two would you say was fonder of the other than the other was of the other, or would you say that each was as fond of the other as the other one was? Now you see it."
"Almost. Say it again."
"Would you say that in your opinion neither of us were fonder of the other than both were of each, or that one was fonder of the other than the other was of the first, and if so, which?"
"Now you've made it worse than ever. I don't believe you know what you mean yourself. Do come to supper and talk sense."
* * * * *
I smiled cynically as I sat down to supper. "This doesn't surprise me in 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 I ever shall."
"Well," said Eliza, "you can't argue until you know what you are talking about, and I don't know what you're talking about, and you don't seem to know yourself, or, if you do, you're too muddled to tell anybody. 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 you which of us you thought was the fonder of the other, and you couldn't understand 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 of both than each is of either, which of the two would it be?' or something of the kind."
"Now, how could I talk such absolute nonsense?"
"Ah!" she said; "when men lose their temper they never know what they're saying!"
I had a very good answer to that, but just at the moment the girl brought in the last post. There was a letter from Eliza's mother. There was also an enclosure in postal orders quite beyond anything I had expected, and she expressed a hope that they might enable us "to defray some of the expenses incidental to the season." As far as my own personal feeling is concerned, I should have returned them at once. In some ways I daresay that I am a proud man. I have been told so. But the poor old lady takes such pleasure in giving, and she has so little other enjoyment, that I should have been reluctant to check her. In fact, taking the money as evidence of her affection, I was pleased. So was Eliza.
"Pay Griffiths's twopenny-halfpenny account to-morrow," I said, "and tell him that he has lost our patronage for ever."
* * * * *
We did not recur to the original question. Personally, I should say that in the case of two people it might very well happen that, though at one time the affection of one for the other might be greater than the affection which the other had for the one which I originally mentioned at the same time, yet at some other time the affection which the other one had for the other might be just as much greater than the affection which the first one had for the second, as the difference was in the first instance between the two. At least, that is the general drift 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., of Banlingbury, by the Canon of Blockminster, assisted by the Rev. Eugene Hubblestead, cousin of the bride--on this occasion the office was closed for the whole of one day, and the staff had a holiday without deduction of salary.
The staff had presented six silver (hallmarked) nutcrackers, and a handsomely bound volume of Cowper's Poetical Works. The latter was my own suggestion; there was a sum of eight shillings over after the purchase of the nutcrackers, and I have always had a partiality for Cowper. The junior partner thanked us personally, and in very warm terms; at the same time he announced that the following Thursday was to be 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. By half-past six Eliza had cut some mutton sandwiches and placed them in a basket with a bottle of milk--the milkman having obliged with a specially early call by appointment. A brief journey by train, and by a quarter-past seven we were at Danstow for our day off in the country.
Danstow is a picturesque little village, and looked beautiful in the hot sunlight. I was wearing a fairly new summer suit, with brown boots. As I remarked to Eliza, it would probably have created a feeling of surprise among the villagers if they had learned that, as a rule, my professional 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 the village street, and examined that.
"Well," said Eliza, "what next?"
"Now," I replied, "we just stroll about and amuse ourselves. I feel particularly light-hearted."
"That's breakfasting at six, that is," said Eliza. "If you could find a quiet place, we might have a sandwich."
We went a little way along the road, and I espied a field which seemed to me to look likely. I said to a passer-by: "I am a stranger here. Can you tell me whether there would be any objection to our sitting in that field?" He said, in rather an offensive and sarcastic way, that he believed the field was open for sitting in about that hour. I did not give him any reply, but just opened the gate for Eliza.
We sat down under the hedge, and finished our sandwiches and milk. The church 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 to do."
"Except amuse ourselves," I added, as I took off my boots, which had pained me slightly. I then dozed off.
* * * * *
Eliza woke me to say that she had read all the newspaper the sandwiches were wrapped in, and picked some wild flowers, and the flowers had died, and she wanted to know what the time was. It was just past eleven.
She said: "Oh, lor!"
I soon dropped off again.
When I woke, at half-past twelve, Eliza was not there. She returned in a 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 to give us a good long afternoon."
"The afternoon will be long enough," she said. If I had not known that she was having a day's enjoyment, I should have thought that she seemed rather dejected in her manner.
* * * * *
The luncheon at the village inn was not expensive. Eliza said that their idea of chops was not her idea; but all the same she seemed inclined to spin the thing out and make it last as long as possible. I deprecated this, as I felt that I could not very well take my boots off again 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 removed my boots, I said:
"Now, then, I think I've earned a pipe and a short nap. You amuse yourself 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. It turned out afterward that she also did the picturesque old church for the third time, and went over a house which was to let, refusing to take it on the ground that there was no bath-room. This was rather dishonest, as she would not have taken it if there had been a bath-room, or even two bath-rooms. I would not do that kind of thing myself. I awoke about tea-time. The charge for tea at the inn was very moderate, though Eliza said that there was tea which was tea, and tea which was an insult.
Eliza found that there was a train back at half-past six, and said she was going by it, whether I did or not, because it was a pity to have too much of a good thing, and she hadn't the face to ask for the keys of that church again. I accompanied her. I fancy that the brown leather is liable to shrink in the sun, and I was not unwilling to get back to my slippers and stretch myself out on the sofa.
There is nothing like a long day in the country; quite apart from the enjoyment, you feel that it is doing you so much good. I am sorry that Eliza 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 entered rather excitedly and said that to the best of her belief there was a mushroom coming in the little lawn in front of the house. It seemed a most extraordinary thing, and Eliza and I both went out to look at it. There was certainly something white coming through the turf; the only question was, whether or not it was a mushroom. The girl seemed certain about it. "Why," she said, "in my last place mushrooms was frequent. You see, being wealthy, they had anything they fancied. If I didn't know about mushrooms, I ought to!" There is a familiarity in that girl's manner which to my mind is highly objectionable. The establishment where she was formerly employed was apparently on a scale that we do not attempt. That does not justify her, however, in continually drawing comparisons. I shall certainly have something to say to her about it.
* * * * *
However, it was not about Jane that I intended to speak, but about the mushroom.
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 and steal it. But I was too deep for that. "No," I replied, "if you put an inverted plant-pot there everybody will guess that you are hiding a mushroom 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 there is 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 a word with him about the mushroom. He said that he would come round in the evening and have a look at it.
* * * * *
I was pleased to find (on my return) that the mushroom was still in the garden 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," Eliza observed.
There I could not entirely agree with her. I pointed out that in a week's time I should probably be applying to her mother for a small temporary loan. I did not think it an honourable thing to attempt to influence her mind beforehand by sending a present. I wished her to approach the question of the loan purely in a business spirit. I added that 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 to disappoint us in any way, and it was not his fault, but the mushroom was 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 to our head clerk this morning, and he said that he thoroughly understood mushrooms, and had made a small profit by growing them. To-morrow morning 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 somewhat depressed. I asked her what she was thinking about.
"It's like this," she said. "If your head clerk says that our toadstool is a mushroom, while Mr. Bungwall's gardener says that our mushroom is a toadstool, we sha'n't like to eat it because of Mr. Bungwall's gardener, and we sha'n't like to throw it away because of your head clerk, and I don't see what to do with it."
"You forget, my dear. We have a third opinion. Jane says the mushroom is a mushroom."
"Jane will say anything."
"Well, we might put her to the test. We might ask her if she'd like to eat 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 to keep us from picking it, and then stole it himself, because he knew that it was a mushroom.
That may be. I should be sorry to believe it, because I have always found Mr. Bungwall's gardener such a very respectful man. To my mind there 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 came to four pounds altogether. At first I thought I would use it to discharge a part of our debt to Eliza's mother. But it was very possible that she would send it back again, in which case the pence spent on the postal orders would be wasted, and I am not a man that wastes pennies. Also, it was not absolutely certain that she would send it back. I sent her a long letter instead--my long letters are almost her only intellectual pleasure. As for the four pounds, I reserved two for myself, for any incidental expenses, and decided to give two to Eliza. I did not mean simply to hand them to her, but to get up something in the way of a pleasant surprise.
I had tried something of the kind before. Eliza once asked me for six shillings for a new tea-tray that she had seen. I went and stood behind her chair, and said, "No, dear, I couldn't think of it," at the same time dropping the six shillings down the back of her neck. Eliza said it was a pity I couldn't give her six shillings for a tea-tray without compelling her to go up-stairs and undress at nine o'clock in the morning. It was not a success.
However, I had more than one idea in my head. This time I thought I would first find out if there was anything she wanted.
So on Sunday at tea-time I said, not as if I were meaning anything in particular, "Is there anything you want, Eliza?"
"Yes," she said; "I want a general who'll go to bed at half-past nine and get up at half-past five. If they'd only do that, that's all I ask."
"You will pardon me, Eliza," I said, "but you are not speaking correctly. 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 spoken accurately."
But as we went to church I discovered that she wanted a new jacket. Her own was trimmed rabbit, and had been good, but the fur had gone bald in places.
* * * * *