Part 1

THE

COMPLEAT BACHELOR

'_When the Rain raineth and the Goose winketh,_ _Little wots the Gosling what the Goose thinketh._’

THE COMPLEAT BACHELOR

BY Oliver Onions

NEW YORK

Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers

_Copyright, 1900_ _by Harper & Brothers_

_Copyright, 1901_ _by Frederick A. Stokes Co._

TO

FRANK GELETT BURGESS

THESE UNPREMEDITATIONS WERE AND ARE INSCRIBED

EPISODES.

PAGE I. SUGAR AND LEMON 1 II. A HYPOTHETICAL CASE 10 III. A MILITARY MANŒUVRE 21 IV. A CHILDREN’S PARTY 32 V. THE IDEAL IN PERIL 47 VI. A CORNER IN TREACLE 58 VII. THREE’S COMPANY 69 VIII. A VETERAN RECRUIT 81 IX. THE ETHICS OF ANGLING 97 X. AN UNDRESS REHEARSAL 109 XI. QUEEN OF LOVE AND BEAUTY 122 XII. A MODERN SABINE 137 XIII. POT LUCK 150 XIV. THE THINGS THAT ARE CÆSAR’S 165 XV. SETTLING DAY 179

THE COMPLEAT BACHELOR

I

SUGAR AND LEMON

“Perhaps, Rollo,” said my sister (Caroline Butterfield, spinster), “you would like to go on to your club, and call for me in an hour or so. There will only be women, I expect.”

“Carrie,” I replied, “your consideration does you credit; but no company that you may enter is too bad for me. I insist on accompanying you. It is my first duty as a brother.”

Carrie laughed.

“I believe you like it, Rol,” she said. “Molly Chatterton says Loring says you never go to a club if you can have tea with a married woman.”

“It is the one reward of a blameless reputation,” I replied; “but that Loring Chatterton should say so is rank ingratitude, considering his own ante-nuptial record. Rank ingratitude.”

We dismounted together at Millicent Dixon’s door, and were admitted to the hall. Carrie gave my necktie an attentive little tug, slapped my cheek (Carrie is justly proud of her middle-aged brother, and likes to show him off to advantage), and preceded me into Millie Dixon’s drawing-room. Some half-dozen ladies were engaged in the usual five-o’clock flirtation with tea and cake, and contributing to the feminine hum which didn’t subside in the least as we entered.

“He _would_ come, Millie,” said Caroline, after a cross-over kiss on both cheeks, “but you can lean him up in a corner and give him some tea to keep him quiet.”

This from my own flesh and blood!

Millie Dixon gave me a laughing nod over her shoulder, and busied herself preparing the cup that should have the effect Carrie suggested. I sat down, and composed myself to listen to the restful chatter that was supposed not to interest me. Mrs. Loring Chatterton, at my side, was rippling gently on the subject of a School of Art Needlework Exhibition, while Carrie and Mrs. Carmichael talked Marshall and Snelgrove to Cicely Vicars and Mrs. Julian Joyce. I have no disdain for ladies’ babble--it is quite as entertaining as starting-price and stock-exchange gossip, and much prettier. But I couldn’t get Chatterton’s remark out of my mind.

“Cream or lemon, Mr. Butterfield?” called Miss Dixon from the other side of the room.

“Yes, if you please,” I answered absently, while Miss Dixon looked a deprecating query as to when I _should_ be sensible. I roused, and turned to Mrs. Loring Chatterton.

“Where is Loring to-day?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied. “I told him I shouldn’t want him this afternoon, so he said he would count the dreary hours till joy returned. I expect he went to count them at some club.”

“Loring always was ardent,” I remarked, looking meditatively into my cup. “I seem to remember that kind of thing from Loring before. Long before you knew him, Mrs. Chatterton.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Butterfield?”

“Nothing, my dear Mrs. Chatterton,” I replied. “Nothing out of the way. But you don’t suppose that Loring had the good fortune to happen on the perfect gem without--what shall I say?--preliminary prospecting?”

Mrs. Chatterton and I are old friends. She laughed.

“Do you think you can make me inquisitive, Mr. Butterfield? I know all about that. Why, I made Loring tell me every----”

It was my turn to laugh.

“Then there is nothing more to say,” I answered. “Loring is my friend--he has claims upon me. He has, doubtless, given himself quite away, and half his bachelor friends into the bargain. I think I see him doing it. Isn’t that a pretty gown Carrie is wearing? I chose it for her.”

“Loring told me a great deal,” said Mrs. Chatterton musingly.

“The buttons are from her grandmother’s wedding-gown.”

“And he was so clumsy and boyish,” she continued.

Words were superfluous. I smiled.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Loring went on, “I don’t think it fair. Men have half a dozen flirtations before they are married their wives know nothing about.”

“And women, Mrs. Chatterton?” I asked.

“_Some_ women, Mr. Butterfield, may not be scrupulous. But----”

The unfinished sentence was a _résume_ of female virtue since the days of Penelope.

“What are you two so interested in?” cried Mrs. Carmichael from a remote sofa. I had just caught her eye.

Mrs. Loring placed her hand beseechingly on my sleeve, but I hardened my heart.

“We were recalling the time, Mrs. Kit,” I replied, “before your several husbands were enticed from the liberty of bachelor life; we were commenting on the change in them.”

“_You_ should be able to appreciate the difference, Mr. Butterfield,” returned Mrs. Carmichael. “You are just where they left you years and years ago.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, “I have not been able to bury my memory in the wedding-service, nor forget my past in a honeymoon. I am still as unregenerate as, say, Kit Carmichael was before he met you.”

“You are a great deal worse,” returned Mrs. Kit.

“You refuse a very pretty compliment, Mrs. Carmichael,” I replied.

“Yes, at Kit’s expense. It was you who made Kit as bad as he was. He told me so.”

The perfidy of these married friends! Rol Butterfield, you have no use for them when they sacrifice you on their nuptial altars. Their eyes lost their singleness with their hearts, and your reputation has gone for a kiss. Well, you have your revenge on their wives, if you care to use it.

The spark of righteous war was kindled within me. I leaned forward, and spoke my speech with icy distinctness.

“So I am responsible for Carmichael’s past, am I, Mrs. Kit? Listen to me. There was not a more abandoned and desperately wicked trio in London than Kit Carmichael--your meek brother, Miss Dixon--and Loring----”

Mrs. Chatterton endeavoured to stop me with a hot teaspoon laid on my hand, but I still testified.

“And Loring Chatterton. Not content with steeping their own souls in infamy, they must needs go afield, and corrupt the spotless name of one--oh, Carrie, Carrie, what your poor brother has suffered! And now to be told in his old--his middle--age that he did it all!”

Mrs. Kit and Cicely Vicars had put their heads together, and were endeavouring to put aside the damning testimony in mock admiration of the dramatic skill with which it was uttered. Cicely Vicars had best be very careful. I was to be leaned up in a corner and given tea, was I?

“Doesn’t Mr. Butterfield look well with the light behind him?” said Mrs. Vicars with a pretty gesture of her hand. Mrs. Vicars paints flowers, and asks her friends what they would really like for wedding presents.

“Mr. Butterfield may have the Light behind him, Mrs. Vicars,” I replied, “but he has no regrets for a misspent youth. Charlie Vicars wasted his youth most shamefully. Mornings in the park, with a young lady in a pink frock--is that not so, Mrs. Loring?”

I turned to her suddenly.

“It was a green frock,” said Mrs. Loring thoughtlessly; then turned quite pink. It was a pretty situation. Loring might have treasured that blush. I was avenged.

Millicent Dixon came to the rescue.

“Carrie, dear,” she said, “you are the only one who has any influence over that irrepressible man. Do gag him for a few minutes;” and passed over a plate of gaufrettes, which Carrie brought to me.

I held the plate to Mrs. Loring Chatterton, who, a reminiscence of fun still in her eyes, accepted the peace-offering with a warning shake of her head.

“Mr. Butterfield,” she said, “you never were anything but mischievous, and it’s my opinion you never will be. Oh, I wish I could get you off my hands. There are plenty of nice girls. Look at Millie there,” she whispered.

“Mrs. Loring,” I replied, “once upon a time there was a fox, who was caught in a trap, and had his tail cut off. After that----”

“Ah well, I suppose you know your own mind. But, Mr. Butterfield”--she leaned over, and spoke quite low--“I believe you make out your young days--and Loring’s--to have been much worse than they were. Do you not, now?”

Mrs. Loring had a little beauty-spot on her conscience which she thought was a stain.

II

A HYPOTHETICAL CASE

Carrie and I were placidly surveying, from either end of my little dining-table, the creditable wreck we had made of a rather neat little dinner. Carrie never disdains this hour of the animal, at whatever table fortune shall place her; and when she does me the honour to dine with me, she generally pays me the compliment of evident enjoyment. It is a feature I admire in her.

I was making leisurely coffee arrangements with my latest bachelor acquisition, a pretty little silver and spirit affair, that did not necessitate rising from a comfortable seat; while my sister purred in soft content. I moved the shaded lamp aside to see her better--Carrie is a very presentable young woman; I thought her arms decidedly pretty.

“I think, Rol,” she said, as I looked carefully to the coffee, “I think--we will not grace the theatre this evening. It’s such a wet night, and I’m so comfy here.”

I could hear the rain without getting up. It was a wet night; and she did look comfy.

“Very well, my dear sister,” I replied. “As you please. It will save me a sovereign, unless you succeed in coaxing it out of me during the evening, which I have no doubt is your real motive.”

“No, Rol, really I don’t want----”

“Not enough, eh? Haven’t got it, my dear--this is good coffee, Caroline,--I’m really as poor as Hooley. There, that’s right. _Kümmel avec, n’est ce pas_, my dear?”

“Please. No, Rol, we’ll sit here and be nice all the evening. I’ll bring my writing in--may I?”

I was only half convinced it wasn’t money; she was after something. Carrie’s writing is her one affectation, with which exception she is as sane as would be expected of my sister.

I believe it was a modern comedy which was then occupying the years of her youth, and whose production was to be the crown of her old age. She worked at it intermittently, that is to say, when there were no calls to receive or to be made, when she could find nobody to take her to a theatre or a garden-party, when there were no women to gossip with, or men to fascinate--whenever, in short, she felt dull. But of late she had seemed to recover interest in it--had recast it, she said.

“Bring it in, by all means,” I replied, “but bring a dictionary as well; I’m not absolute in spelling.”

“Thank you, Rollo.”

Why the deuce was she so uncommonly polite? She usually announced that she was going to spend the evening with me in much less considerate terms. I shook my head apprehensively.

When dinner was removed Carrie disappeared, and presently re-entered with an armful of comedy and a mouthful of quill pens. She made a clean sweep of my desk and settled herself with many quirks and little graces before the recast masterpiece. I gravely asked her permission to smoke, and she, smiling at the superfluity of the question, bowed a ceremonious assent; then got down to business, and chewed a pink knuckle in the stress of composition.

I put my feet upon a chair, lighted a cigar, and looked alternately at the fire and at Caroline. She made my room appear very comfortable, with her evening frock and pretty airs. She was an excellent housekeeper, and kept my half of our little flat almost as dainty as her own. We got along very cosily, Carrie and I--for a sister, she behaved very well indeed. She could have the sovereign if she wanted it; I only hoped it was no worse.

By and by Carrie looked up meditatively, started on a fresh knuckle, and then turned to me.

“What do men talk about after dinner, Rol, when the women have left?” she asked.

I looked at her curiously and smiled.

“No, Rollo,” she said, “I don’t mean--I mean, what do they talk about?”

“Oh!” I replied, “what do they _really_ talk about, eh?”

“Yes. I want to put it in the play.”

“You want to put it in the play? Let me see.” I considered a moment. “Well, after the first grief at the loss of the ladies, their hands go instinctively to their hair, to feel how they have looked. If there is a mirror handy they flock to it. They then sit down, look wistfully at the empty chairs, and fold their hands patiently, to await the earliest moment that they may rejoin their bereft partners.”

“Don’t be absurd, Rol,” answered Carrie. “I want to know. I’ve got a man here, who is to talk after dinner. He’s in love with a girl he’s been sitting next, and I want him to say pretty things about her.”

Happy, happy innocence! dear simple Carrie! Should I be the one to destroy so sweet an illusion? Never!

I was intensely amused, but I replied thoughtfully:

“I should think in the first place it would depend a good deal on the man--and the girl. What are they like?”

“He’s a soldier,” said Carrie, looking timidly down at her manuscript. “That is, he has not seen any active service, but he’s simply thirsting to do some brave deed that shall show her how he loves her.”

“Yes,” I said, much interested. “A carpet knight; how old?”

“He’s about four-and-twenty, I believe; and he’s not a carpet knight. He’s very good, and clever, and noble. He’s supposed to be dining at his married sister’s, and has to entertain the men with brilliant talk.”

If I didn’t know that noble young soldier, I would never look on daylight again!

“Black hair?” I said.

“Yes,” replied Carrie promptly. “That is--I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

I leaned back in my chair to recover from the shock. This, then, was what made her so loving to her brother. This was the “nice evening” we were to have. She had a secret which pricked her conscience. She was going to be nice to me for the time remaining. I might have known she didn’t visit Mrs. Loring Chatterton for nothing. A soldier to run off with my housekeeper! She had recast the play with a vengeance; I was to play the good brother’s part.

I shut my eyes.

“Well, Rol?” said Carrie. She had evidently not noticed my state. She didn’t know I knew.

“Let me think,” I replied, “let me think.”

I was not allowed to think; a tap at the door roused me, and two visitors were announced. In came Loring Chatterton, and the young brother-in-law himself. I had to admit he was a not unprepossessing young warrior.

“How do you do, Miss Butterfield?” came simultaneously from my two guests, while Carrie rose, putting aside her manuscript. I greeted them from my chair.

“I am afraid we interrupt your writing, Miss Butterfield,” said Loring, sitting down.

“Oh no, Mr. Chatterton,” Caroline replied. “As a matter of fact I was rather stuck when you came in.”

“Yes, Loring,” I interposed, “Carrie was rather stuck when you came in. Perhaps we shall be able to help her, eh, Bassishaw?”

“Delighted,” replied Bassishaw; “but I’m afraid, do you know, that I haven’t much of a head on me for that sort of thing, Miss Butterfield.”

“Rollo----” began Carrie.

“Oh, he’ll do, Carrie,” I replied. “Caroline wants to know, Bassishaw, what a young man, good, clever, and--let me see--was he noble, Carrie? Yes, I believe he was noble, and--a brilliant talker”--(I had him there)--“a brilliant talker, would say after dinner about the girl he thought he loved.”

Carrie was helpless. I had not given her away, and she did not dare to protest for fear of doing so herself. She had a secret--I also had a secret. I would keep the case strictly hypothetical.

“Well, Miss Butterfield,” began the hero who was thirsting to do some brave deed, “I’m hanged, do you know, if I know what he’d say. He’d talk a lot of piffle, wouldn’t he--oh, but he’s a brilliant sort of chap. He’d--oh, hang it, Loring, what would he say? I don’t know.”

I chuckled softly. I didn’t want to hear Loring; I wanted to hear the brilliant talker. It was for Carrie’s benefit.

“But if he really loved her,” I said, “and his eloquence came out in a torrent?”

“Oh, I see. Well, I expect he’d say she was a confounded nice girl--or something--pretty and all that, you know--and he’d row any chap who said she wasn’t; don’t you think, eh? But why the deuce should he say anything?”

Bassishaw was coming out of it with more credit than I thought. I laughed, and even Carrie had to laugh too.

“I think,” said Chatterton, “that’s about as much as he could say, unless he were an ass. I can’t imagine his saying much if you were there, Rollo.”

“No,” said Bassishaw. “You _are_ a mischievous sort of Johnny, you know, Butterfield. You’re deuced hard on young chaps; you guy them awfully, you know. I expect you’ve forgotten all that.”

Thus unconsciously, was Bassishaw revenged. I was hard on young chaps. I had forgotten, you know. I was an old fossil, or something. But I had a sister, deuced nice girl, pretty, and all that. You have to keep in with Johnnies like that, you know.

One thing I must know. Did this plain-spoken young man of the sword care for Carrie? This was soon evident from his conciliatory manner toward me. No one ever goes out of the way to consider me unless he wants something. Bassishaw was most attentive.

“By the way, Butterfield,” he said after a while, “are you engaged for Tuesday afternoon? Because if you’re not, do you know, my folks are giving a sort of garden-party, or something. There’ll be lots of people of your sort”--(my sort!)--“coming--clever, and all that, you know; I thought you might care to come. I’ll get them to ask you, if you like. And Miss Butterfield, too; Chatterton here is coming, and he’ll look after you, you know, Butterfield. What do you say?”

I turned to Carrie.

“I think we might go, Rol,” she said. “I like to meet clever people.”

I thought a moment.

“I don’t know, Bassishaw,” I replied--“that I care to meet people of--er--my sort, much. But if Carrie cares to go, I’ll look after her. It may be of use to her--in a literary way. Thank you.”

I wouldn’t have missed that garden-party for a good deal.

III

A MILITARY MANŒUVRE

I had feigned to change my mind several times with regard to Bassishaw’s garden-party, but Carrie had suddenly developed accentuated ideas on the subject of engagement-keeping.

“We promised, you know, Rol,” she said, “and it would look so bad to run off. I don’t suppose it will be much fun,” she added candidly.

She was mistaken. It would be great fun.

On the way thither I entertained her blandly on the subject of unmarried life. I pointed out to her the advantages of a brother and sister living happily together, as, say, in our own case. I argued on the holy bonds of kinship, and congratulated her on having a brother who would devote the whole of his life to making her comfortable. How happy we were!

Carrie moved uneasily in her seat. She endeavoured to change the subject. Her conscience wrought within her--she was a guilty traitor, and deceiving the kindest of brothers. Had she been less in love, she might have suspected something, as I continued in the same strain; but such is not the way of youth. Her arts might have been transparent to me for months and months, yet she would at last break the great secret with most delicious gentleness, in stammers and blushes, and I would show a dramatic surprise and shock. We see other people’s progress, but our own love affairs are always unguessed.

It was a great relief to Carrie when we arrived at the Bassishaws’. The strain was getting embarrassing. A straight military young figure had evidently been on the look-out for our conveyance, for he made several false starts, and almost supplanted the more ceremonious reception due from his mother. This little formality through, he pounced on us at once.

“How d’ye do, Miss Butterfield? Do, Butterfield?” he said warmly. “So glad you’ve come.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I was rather afraid I’d have to let Carrie come alone, but I managed to arrange it.”

A shade of regret was visible in his eyes, but he bore it nicely. He is “white,” as Carmichael would have said.

“Of course,” he said, “Miss Butterfield would have been all right, you know, but I’m glad you came too.”

I believe he was. Saying so seemed to make him so.

We walked up the garden, I in the middle. Carrie received an occasional bow, but we didn’t know many people there. This was young Bassishaw’s excuse for conducting us personally, and he pointed out various people as “men you ought to know, you know, Butterfield.” I betrayed no great desire for the acquaintanceship. I was not to be shaken off.

Bassishaw was piloting us into the most frequented parts. This young man was manœuvring, with more skill than I had given him credit for, to drop me. Carrie had my arm, and as Bassishaw stopped at the various groups I made surer of it by a little closing in of my elbow. He had the advantage of a tactician’s knowledge, but I had the larger experience. He led us towards the base of operations, the refreshment tent, where he calculated to play on the natural interest I should take in the commissariat department. He gave me a hint of a private canteen--it was good strategy, I was very thirsty--but I held out. He showed a great desire to introduce me to personages, but I replied to his big guns with a harassing fire of conversational small-arms. He really did very well, and my respect for him increased. Personal strategy was his line, but I held him in the field of mental manœuvres.

He had pointed out some snowy-whiskered old general, and had held forth in his redundant way on the fascinating personality of the man. I made him a text for an army discourse.

“Do you know, Bassishaw,” I said, “I cannot sufficiently admire you military men. You are the outposts of a nation, who make all that is happy and peaceful at home possible. You sacrifice yourselves on inaccessible Indian hills, you scorch under African suns, while all you love is left behind you in England. You do not marry--that is, the true soldier thinks it inconsistent with his duty,--and you leave all you care for to fight the battles of a less devoted society. It is self-sacrificing; and when you return, it is to a bachelor’s old age, like the general there.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Butterfield,” he replied. “Lots of our soldiers marry, you know.”

I could feel Carrie’s arm trembling on mine. I continued:

“That is another instance of their nobility. It makes their duty all the harder. They have to leave their wives, and worship them only in the ideal sense. They see them, perhaps, only once in ten years, unless they have risen to responsible posts. It is a great devotion.”

“But, Rol,” said Carrie timidly, “lots of women are glad to go abroad with their husbands, and--and nurse, and that kind of thing.”