‘No?’
‘No. It would have been rather a delicate subject, you see, with them. And I’m sure they’ll be staggered when they know that we got engaged last night. They’ll certainly say I’ve—er—been after you for the—No, they won’t. They’re decent chaps, really; very decent.’
‘Anyhow, you may be sure, dear,’ said Annie stiffly, ‘that I shan’t rob them of their vile money! Nothing would induce me to touch it!’
‘Of course not, dearest!’ said Liversage—or, rather the finer part of him said it; the baser part somewhat regretted that vile twelve thousand or so. (I must be truthful.)
He took her hand again.
At the same moment old Mrs Liversage came hastening down the garden, and Liversage dropped the hand.
‘Powell,’ she said. ‘Here’s John Hessian, and he wants to see you!’
‘The dickens!’ exclaimed Liversage, glancing at Annie.
‘I must go,’ said Annie. ‘I shall go by the fields. Good night, dear Mrs Liversage.’
‘Wait ten seconds,’ Liversage pleaded, ‘and I’ll be with you.’ And he ran off.
John, haggard and undone, was awaiting him in the drawing-room.
‘Pow,’ said he, ‘I’ve had a fearful row with Bob, and I can’t possibly sleep in our house tonight. Don’t talk to me. But let me have one of the beds in your spare room, will you? There’s a good chap.’
‘Why, of course, Johnnie,’ said Liversage. ‘Of course.’
‘And I’ll go right to bed now,’ said John.
An hour later, after Powell Liversage had seen his affianced to her abode and returned home, and after his mother had gone to bed, there was a knock at the front door, and Liversage opened to Robert Hessian.
‘Look here, Pow,’ said Robert, whose condition was deplorable, ‘I want to sleep here tonight. Do you mind? Fact is, I’ve had a devil of a shindy with Jack, and Maggie’s run off, and, anyhow, I couldn’t possibly stop in the same house with Jack tonight.’
‘But what—?’
‘See here,’ said Robert. ‘I can’t talk. Just let me have a bed in your spare room. I’m sure you mother won’t mind.’
‘Why, certainly,’ said Liversage.
He lit a candle, escorted Robert upstairs, opened the door of the spare room, gave the candle to Robert, pushed him in, said ‘Good night,’ and shut the door.
What a night!
THE NINETEENTH HAT
A dramatic moment was about to arrive in the joint career of Stephen Cheswardine and Vera his wife. The motor-car stood by the side of the pavement of the Strand, Torquay, that resort of southern wealth and fashion. The chauffeur, Felix, had gone into the automobile shop to procure petrol. Mr Cheswardine looking longer than ever in his long coat, was pacing the busy footpath. Mrs Cheswardine, her beauty obscured behind a flowing brown veil, was lolling in the tonneau, very pleased to be in the tonneau, very pleased to be observed by all Torquay in the tonneau, very satisfied with her husband, and with the Napier car, and especially with Felix, now buying petrol. Suddenly Mrs Cheswardine perceived that next door but one to the automobile shop was a milliner’s. She sat up and gazed. According to a card in the window an ‘after-season sale’ was in progress that June day at the milliner’s. There were two rows of hats in the window, each hat plainly ticketed. Mrs Cheswardine descended from the car, crossed the pavement, and gave to the window the whole of her attention.
She sniffed at most of the hats. But one of them, of green straw, with a large curving green wing on either side of the crown, and a few odd bits of fluffiness here and there, pleased her. It was Parisian. She had been to Paris—once. An ‘after-season’ sale at a little shop in Torquay would not, perhaps, seem the most likely place in the world to obtain a chic hat; it is, moreover, a notorious fact that really chic hats cannot be got for less than three pounds, and this hat was marked ten shillings. Nevertheless, hats are most mysterious things. Their quality of being chic is more often the fruit of chance than of design, particularly in England. You never know when nor where you may light on a good hat. Vera considered that she had lighted on one.
‘They’re probably duck’s feathers dyed,’ she said to herself. ‘But it’s a darling of a hat and it will suit me to a T.’
As for the price, when once you have taken the ticket off a hat the secret of its price is gone forever. Many a hat less smart than this hat has been marked in Bond Street at ten guineas instead of ten shillings. Hats are like oil-paintings—they are worth what people will give for them.
So Vera approached her husband, and said, with an enchanting, innocent smile—
‘Lend me half-a-sovereign, will you, doggie?’
She called him doggie in those days because he was a sort of dog-man, a sort of St Bernard, shaggy and big, with faithful eyes; and he enjoyed being called doggie.
But on this occasion he was not to be bewitched by the enchanting innocence of the smile nor by the endearing epithet. He refused to relax his features.
‘You aren’t going to buy another hat, are you?’ he asked sternly, challengingly.
The smile disappeared from her face, and she pulled her slim young self together.
‘Yes,’ she replied harshly.
The battle was definitely engaged. You may inquire why a man financially capable of hiring a 20-24 h.p. Napier car, with a French chauffeur named Felix, for a week or more, should grudge his wife ten shillings for a hat. Well, you are to comprehend that it was not a question of ten shillings, it was a question of principle. Vera already had eighteen hats, and it had been clearly understood between them that no more money should be spent on attire for quite a long time. Vera was entirely in the wrong. She knew it, and he knew it. But she wanted just that hat.
And they were on their honeymoon, you know: which enormously intensified the poignancy of the drama. They had been married only six days; in three days more they were to return to the Five Towns, where Stephen was solidly established as an earthenware manufacturer. You who have been through them are aware what ticklish things honeymoons are, and how much depends on the tactfulness of the more tactful of the two parties. Stephen, thirteen years older than Vera, was the more tactful of the two parties. He had married a beautiful and elegant woman, with vast unexploited capacities for love in her heart. But he had married a capricious woman, and he knew it. So far he had yielded to her caprices, as well became him; but in the depths of his masculine mind he had his own private notion as to the identity of the person who should ultimately be master in their house, and he had decided only the previous night that when the next moment for being firm arrived, firm he would be.
And now the moment was upon him. It was their eyes that fought, silently, bitterly. There is a great deal of bitterness in true love.
Stephen perceived the affair broadly, in all its aspects. He was older and much more experienced than Vera, and therefore he was responsible for the domestic peace, and for her happiness, and for his own, and for appearances, and for various other things. He perceived the moral degradation which would be involved in an open quarrel during the honeymoon. He perceived the difficulties of a battle in the street, in such a select and prim street as the Strand, Torquay, where the very backbone of England’s respectability goes shopping. He perceived Vera’s vast ignorance of life. He perceived her charm, and her naughtiness, and all her defects. And he perceived, further, that, this being the first conflict of their married existence, it was of the highest importance that he should emerge from it the victor. To allow Vera to triumph would gravely menace their future tranquillity and multiply the difficulties which her adorable capriciousness would surely cause. He could not afford to let her win. It was his duty, not merely to himself but to her, to conquer. But, on the other hand, he had never fully tested her powers of sheer obstinacy, her willingness to sacrifice everything for the satisfaction of a whim; and he feared these powers. He had a dim suspicion that Vera was one of that innumerable class of charming persons who are perfectly delicious and perfectly sweet so long as they have precisely their own way—and no longer.