Mary of Marion Isle

CHAPTER XIII

THE HOLY ESTATE

Andrew’s engagement followed a perfectly normal course. When once she had seen to its accurate publication in the proper quarters, and had supplied the society papers with a few paragraphs suitable to the social importance of the persons concerned, Clara, dreading more Socialistic lectures, also the return of Mrs. Black who was, she had ascertained, on a holiday, remarked that town was hot, and that she could no longer repress her longings for sylvan shades.

«Literally», she said, «I dream of the country and green leaves and dew upon the grass and the gold of the ripening crops. You see, I was born there».

«Yes», answered Andrew, «but I didn’t know you had ever lived there since. Where are you going to?»

Clara, who had not made up her mind on this point, reflected for a moment and then suggested Scarborough.

«Scarborough! You don’t call that country, do you, dear? Why, it is a fashionable watering-place with miles of sea front».

«I remember a green hill and some gardens, Andrew. But if you don’t like Scarborough, what other place would you prefer? I am quite willing to fall in with your tastes».

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«My tastes, dear! Why, I’m not going to the country. I’ve just come back from it. I’m going to do some work at my hospital, where, as the big men are away, they are quite willing to take me on for a bit – you see, I was one of their house surgeons for a few weeks. But why don’t you try Atterton itself? The north of Yorkshire is rural enough for anybody».

«Really, Andrew, you are foolish. How can I possibly go to Atterton, which is your place, without you, or with you either, for the matter of that, before we are married? And as for working at a hospital, I hoped that you would accompany me somewhere, living in a different part of the town or village, so that I might be able to see something of you, as is usual in our circumstances».

«Oh!» answered Andrew, without any particular enthusiasm, for he had set his heart upon that hospital work. «I had forgotten the engagement business, and I suppose you can’t go to Atterton alone. Also, as the nearest neighbour is five miles off, you might be rather dull. It almost seems as though the best thing to do would be for us to get married first. Then I suppose we could go together».

Upon hearing this, Clara’s first impulse was to exclaim «Absurd!» Quickly, however, she reflected that Andrew’s idea, or rather random suggestion, had points. To begin with, it would finally rule out Mrs. Black, of whom she lived in some dread. Also so hurried a marriage would have a romantic air. A few hints in suitable directions would suffice to circulate an attractive story of a lifelong attachment that had begun when first their cradles were set side by side, now made possible of fulfilment by the death of an obstructive relative. Of this op-

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portunity, naturally enough, immediate advantage had been taken by two ardent lovers. Then the whole thing would be so unusual; a quiet but carefully advertised autumn marriage when people were out of town (for, after all, reporters never went out of town). No lists of wedding presents (because probably these would not be forthcoming in sufficient numbers at such short notice) – altogether something quite new for people in their position.

«Of course, love», she said, looking down shyly, «that would be delightful, and though I see great inconveniences and it is usual to wait longer, as you are set on it and I know that men hate being engaged, well, dearest, I should like to give you your wish and myself with it, because, as you know, it is you I think of in everything».

«That’s awfully good of you. Really, Clara, you are a perfect angel to sacrifice yourself on the altar in this way, or rather at it», replied Andrew with high-sounding, if hollow enthusiasm. «Well, if you will arrange the business and tell me what day you fix, I’ll be ready».

«To share in the sacrifice at the altar», suggested Clara with gentle sarcasm, for after all she was a woman and felt in her heart that something was lacking. Indeed, although her imagination was not active, at the moment she did wonder whether, if the second-rate Rose Black had been concerned and it were a question of his sudden marriage to her, Andrew might not have been more demonstrative in language, or otherwise. However, having made up her mind to this step, she must take him as he was and make the best of things. After all, as a woman of the world she was well aware that the holy state of

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matrimony was one that has imperfections, since if marriages are made in heaven, they have to be carried through on earth.

After a brief interchange of modified endearments, Andrew departed to attend some particular operation at the hospital, to which the great surgeon Clinton, who it may be remembered had approved of an heroic effort of his own in the same line, had especially invited his attendance.

«Very well, dear», he said, as he vanished, «I leave everything to you, as you are so much more competent than I am, and I’ll order a new frock-coat to-morrow, for that is the thing to be married in, isn’t it? And now I must be off to see that poor woman operated on. I expect to learn a great deal from her case».

If Andrew would attend a little more to women’s hearts and a little less to the rest of their interior economy, it might be better for us both in the long run, reflected Clara rather bitterly as the door closed behind him. Really, if he had been hiring a new housemaid, he could not take things more coolly.

Still, being a lady of determination, having once, after ample thought, put her hand to the plough, any such deficiencies on the part of the steed she had to steer did not give her pause. After all, she remembered, they were more apparent than real, and once she had him in the traces she would know how to drive a straight furrow.

So it came about that in due course this wealthy and distinguished pair were united in the bond that is so easy to tie and so extremely difficult to loose. After all, although town was rather empty, the event proved fashionable and as there was little else at the moment with which to fill them, the no-

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tices in the papers were full and long. Also, quite a number of presents arrived, most of them sent by people of whom Andrew had never even heard, an the church was filled with sightseers, while Clara’s bridesmaids were young ladies of the most aristocratic birth. (Andrew’s best man, it may be remarked, was a fellow-student from the hospital, whose birth was not aristocratic.)

As they were walking down the aisle after the conclusion of the ceremony, Andrew’s glance, wandering vaguely over the sea of unfamiliar faces, suddenly fell upon one that was familiar enough, namely, that of Rose. She smiled and nodded to him as though to convey good wishes, but he noted that she was white and that her features were drawn as though with pain; also that she looked as though she had been crying. This fleeting vision upset him very much; indeed, he closed his eyes to be rid of the sight of it, with the result that he blundered into his bride and trod upon her lovely dress which was torn, much to her annoyance.

Such was his last meeting with Rose. That chapter in his life was closed. It seemed an empty, aimless chapter; yet it was not so, because of its effects on him, to whom it gave so much pain and was the cause of such bitter disillusionment.

Here it may be added that immediately after Andrew’s return to London, subsequent to their honeymoon in the north, on the placard of an evening paper he saw printed as a minor item of news, «Sudden death of well-known physician». Something made him buy the paper and search until he found a paragraph headed: «Inquest on Dr. Somerville Black. Verdict of death by misadventure from overdose of veronal».

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The paragraph told the rest of the story. According to the evidence of Mrs. Black, her husband slept very badly and, as she believed, took narcotics. One morning she was called to his room, which was in a different part of the house to her own, and found him dead with a bottle of veronal tablets beside him. That was all she had to say about the occurrence, except that they lived on affectionate terms and that under his will she was left joint heiress with his daughter, Mrs. Watson, to his large estate. Then came the verdict, and so this «fashionable consultant» vanished from the world and was forgotten.

Andrew was staggered both by the death of Black, to whom he was attached, and at the thought that if he had waited a little he might after all have married Rose. And yet, did he wish to marry Rose? He could not tell; all he knew was that if they had both been free he would have married her, because, well, just because she was Rose, that Rose whom he had trusted and who had wrecked his life for money. For after all, what creature is there quite so forgiving as a man, especially if the first affections of his youth are involved?

For the rest, to finish the tale of Rose, within a year she married again, choosing as her second husband a large, freshfaced and peculiarly bucolic person of almost inconceivable stupidity, a baronet who shot two days a week and hunted three, and possessed great estates in the south of England. By this excellent man she became the mother of a considerable family, and so ends the Book of Rose.

If either of them could have been induced to tell the truth upon the matter, both Andrew and Clara would have confessed that the honeymoon at Atterton did not attain even to

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their separate modest expectations. To begin with, the house was huge and gorgeous, at least £100,000 of the profits of West’s whisky had been spent upon its evolution from a quiet country gentleman’s residence into a palace not in the best of taste. Then there were few neighbours, and Clara, always anxious to do the right thing, felt that she ought not to ask a party to assist at the first flowering of her nuptial joys. Therefore she preferred that these should blush unseen. Also, it rained persistently for a whole month, which made the river unfishable and for shooting Andrew did not care.

So he wandered about through those gilded chambers, which included a great library almost without books, reflecting that if he could, he would burn the place down, and at any rate that he never wanted to see it again. Also he purchased a pair of tame rabbits and some pigeons, but just as these became interesting it was time to return to town and he had to give them away to an under-gardener. In fact, there was nothing left to do except converse with Clara, which soon proved a somewhat unexhilirating employment, since her enthusiasm for those subjects that attracted him, first lessened, and then evaporated. Now it is difficult to sit opposite to a lady whom you are expected to call «dearest» at every third sentence, and talk mostly of the weather, especially when this remains of a continual badness, in the intervals of pretending to consume elaborate and wonderfully cooked meals which you do not want.

Somehow he never seemed to get any nearer to Clara, and after her first efforts, which involved the study of Socialistic works which she had now burned because she hated them

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so much, she never tried to get any nearer to him. Andrew was Andrew and she was Clara, just as the North Pole and the Equator are different places, and there was an end of it, though on the whole she was glad that she had made the marriage, since he was quite an amenable person, always willing to let her do what she wanted, so long as he was not bothered.

So it came about that though Andrew lamented the rabbits, which he had named Dr. Watson and Arabella, neither of them wept when the time came to depart from those stately halls in the company of twelve servants. The only trouble was that Andrew hated the mausoleum in Cavendish Square even more than he did Atterton, where at least there were trees and flowers and all the other sights and sounds of Nature. Still, with some astuteness he managed to mitigate the terrors of the former establishment by keeping on his rooms in Justice Street upon the plea that they were handy to his hospital, where he had arranged to work upon bacteriological research. At Justice Street accordingly he lunched, or at any rate took tea most days in the congenial company of Mrs. Josky, and sometimes of certain medical friends.

Once Clara, who had conceived doubts about this arrangement, descended upon one of these tea-parties, but when she found three earnest young men engaged in examining a particularly unpleasant-looking preparation from the human body and all talking at the same time, with Mrs. Josky and Laurie playing the part of admiring audience in the background, she retreated in haste and never repeated the experiment. Andrew, she reflected, was mad and there was an end of it, since his insanity took a harmless form. Even after she discov-

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ered that on certain occasions, when she was on visits to fashionable friends whither he excused himself from accompanying her, he was in the habit of sleeping at Justice Street, she did not remonstrate. If he liked to spend his week-ends in that fashion, what was there to say?

Soon after their marriage a great opportunity arose for the betterment of the Whitechapel slum population, by the building of an enormous block of up-to-date workmen’s dwellings upon an excellent site of which an option had been secured. Needless to say this scheme was introduced to Andrew’s notice by his old friends, Dr. Watson and Arabella, the latter having become even more enthusiastic on such matters than her husband. Indeed, her enthusiasm had a very practical side, since she proposed to subscribe £20,000 towards its expense out of the private fortune which she had just inherited from her father.

Andrew was much interested for here seemed a chance of doing some real good, only unfortunately he was not in a position to find the £100,000 which was absolutely necessary to set the enterprise upon its feet. He bethought him of Clara and of their pre-nuptial conversations on such matters. Now she had an opportunity of putting her views into practice, which doubtless she would be glad to take. That very night he expounded the business to her with an animation that had become unusual in him, keeping her up, to her great annoyance, for an hour after her usual bedtime in order that she might listen to him and examine the plans. Also he pointed out to her that really it would not matter to her if she had £100,000 more or less, a statement at which she opened her

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eyes very wide indeed. In the end she rose, saying that she was tired but would make inquiries and tell him what she thought.

Clara did make inquiries through her lawyers and houseagent, and two days later informed Andrew very plainly that nothing would induce her to touch the business.

«I am advised», she said, «that the whole affair is visionary and totally uneconomic. The £100,000 you wish me to invest would probably be lost, or at the least would earn no income. Further, the people who have conceived the idea are Socialistic cranks with whom no sensible person would have dealings».

There was something in her tone that annoyed Andrew, who in his open fashion did not attempt to conceal his irritation.

«You disappoint me, Clara», he said. «I had hoped that you would not look at the thing from the point of pounds, shillings and pence, but rather from that of raising and bettering your fellow-creatures, as with your great resources it is a duty to do. West’s whisky has done them so much harm, that some reparation seems to be owing to them», he added sarcastically.

Now Clara grew cross in her turn, for if there was one thing that angered her, it was Andrew’s constant allusions to the fiery source of the family fortunes.

«Then, my dear Andrew», she said bitterly, «may I suggest that you should make what contribution you like to this wildcat venture out of your private resources, which, I may add, you also owe to West’s whisky, as indirectly you do your rank».

He was deeply hurt and left the room, but the nett result of the affair was that never again did he ask Clara to subscribe a single farthing to any philanthropic object. He gave what he

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