Our Elizabeth Part 15

I smiled rather sadly, and mentally decided that I must cure William of his infatuation for me without delay.

CHAPTER XIV

It is not easy to write--even on such a simple topic as 'How to Retain a Husband's Love'--if your attention is being distracted by a conscientious rendering of Czerny's 101 Exercises in an adjoining room.

I could get no further with my article than the opening lines (they like an introductory couplet on the Woman's Page):--

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute!

whereas The Kid, having disposed of all the major and minor scales and a goodly slice of Czerny, had now started her 'piece,' 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.' It was too much. I flung down my pencil and strode to the door. 'Moira,' I shrieked, 'stop that practising instantly.'

'Yes, Mama, dear.'

'Don't you understand I'm writing and want to be quiet?'

'Yes, Mama, dear. May I go on when you've finished writing?'

'I suppose so; but when I've quite finished it will be about your bedtime,' I said, trying not to feel exasperated.

'Then, may I get up an hour earlier in the morning to practise, Mama, dear?'

There is something almost unnatural in the way that child fights her way through all obstacles to the piano and the monotony of Czerny. All the other parents in the world seem to be bewailing the fact that they can't get their children to practise. I know I ought to be proud and glad that The Kid is so bent upon a musical career, but even as the lion and the lamb cannot lie down together, neither can a writer and an incipient musician dwell in the same house in amity.

Through almost illimitable difficulties (for when at work Henry can no more stand piano practice than I can) The Kid has got to the Variations of 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.' Nevertheless she is yearning for the day when she will arrive at the part where she crosses hands (Var.

8)--a tremendous achievement in her eyes, but viewed with cold aloofness by Henry and me.

As I returned to my writing Henry entered the room.

'Will you as a Scotsman tell me,' I inquired before he could speak, 'what English people have done that they should be so unduly annoyed by the bells of Scotland, why those bells should be blue, and who was responsible for bringing the said blue bells (with variations) across the Border?'

'I see The Kid's been annoying you again,' he commented. 'It's a pity she gets no chance of practising.'

I looked at him sternly. 'No chance! On the contrary, she never lets a chance escape her. I think it's the fierce Northern strain she inherits from you, Henry, that makes her so persistent. She reminds me of Bannockburn----'

'Bannockburn!' e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Henry.

'King Bruce and the Spider and all that, you know. Didn't he go on trying and trying until he succeeded? That's what The Kid does with her scales. I think I understand why in 1603 we put a Scotch King on the English throne--you wouldn't have given us any peace if we hadn't.'

'Well, don't blame me for it, my dear,' replied Henry. 'I dropped in to tell you that William has just 'phoned up to say he accepts our invitation to dinner this evening, but he is most anxious to know who else is coming.'

I stared. 'This is most unusual. What should it matter to him who is coming?'

'I told him, of course, that there was only Marion and ourselves, and then he asked if he should get into evening dress. What do you think of that?' We looked at each other in silent amazement.

'William--in--evening--dress,' I echoed blankly. 'What can it mean?'

'Frankly, I think the poor old chap's brain is getting a little unhinged,' hazarded Henry. 'Do you remember the episode with the white spats and gloves the other day? I think you ought to persuade him to see a specialist, my dear.'

Suddenly I remembered the apparent reason for poor William's altered manner and smiled. 'I don't think we need call in medical aid just yet,' I replied.

Nevertheless, I felt that he must be cured of this foolishness as soon as possible, for, as I had already hinted to him, any attempt at embellis.h.i.+ng his person would only make him appear more grotesque. How little did I then dream of the amazing surprise that was in store for me!

I was sitting alone in the drawing-room that same evening awaiting my two guests, Marion and William (Henry was upstairs dressing), when Elizabeth burst into the room.

'Oh, 'm, 'e's come!' she exclaimed, 'an' you never did see anything in your life 'arf so funny. I've been larfin' fit to split my sides.'

'Elizabeth,' I said coldly, 'what is wrong? Of whom are you speaking?'

For answer she threw her ap.r.o.n over her head and went off into an almost hysterical fit of laughing.

''Oo'd have thort it,' she said when she had slightly recovered. 'That there grizzly bear of a Mr. Roarings, too!'

'So you are referring to one of my guests,' I interrupted sternly.

'I'm ashamed of you, Elizabeth.'

'Well, you only ort ter see 'im now! Talk about grubs turnin' into b.u.t.terflies----'

'I'm not talking about anything of the sort,' I interposed with extreme asperity of manner. 'Am I to understand that Mr. Rawlings has arrived?'

'Not 'arf, 'e 'asn't. Wait till you see Mamma's boy. 'E's a fair razzle-dazzle from top to toe. Oh, my G.o.dmother!' And being seized with another burst of hysterical laughter she dashed from the room.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'A fair razzle-dazzle.']

I sighed as I put aside the French novel I had been reading when I was so rudely disturbed. I could not help wis.h.i.+ng just then that Elizabeth had a little less character and a little more deference, and I decided that I must rebuke her for her familiarity. Then, remembering her supreme art in grilling a steak, I decided that rebukes--practised on domestics--are rather risky things in these days.

'Good evening,' said the deep voice of William behind me.

'Good evening,' I said casually, turning round and holding out my hand.

Then I started back, my hand falling limply to my side. It was William who stood before me, because I recognized his voice--but that was all I recognized at the moment. Not a shred of his former self seemed to have remained.

I think I have, from time to time, represented William as shabby, bulky, shapeless, hairy, and altogether impossible as far as appearance goes. Can any words depict my astonishment at seeing him so suddenly transformed, glorified, redeemed and clean-shaven? His figure, which once appeared so stodgy, now looked merely strong and athletic encased in a well-fitting morning coat, a waistcoat of a discreet shade of smoke grey, with a hint of starched pique slip at the opening. His irreproachable trousers were correctly creased--not too marked to be ostentatious, but just a graceful fold emerging, as it were, out of the texture, even as the faint line of dawn strikes across the darkened sky.

But it was his head that attracted me most. There was no denying it--shorn of his overgrowth of whiskers and put into a correct setting, William was handsome; even more than that, he was interesting. He had that firm, chiselled kind of mouth which women and artists find so attractive, and a delightful cleft in his chin; his hair, which had hitherto always struck me as being so unkempt and disordered, now that it was brushed smoothly back from his brow and curled into the nape of his neck gave him a distinguished appearance. I directed one long look at him and then instinctively dived to the mirror.

'Oh, William,' I gasped, 'is it possible?'

'Is what possible?' he inquired.

'Why just think of it,' I replied, groping in my pocket for my powder puff. '_You're a man!_'

'What else should I be?' he asked, apparently mystified.

'You used to be--just William. But now,' I sidled up to him, 'you've changed amazingly.'

'Yes, I know that,' he growled with some of his former gruffness of manner. 'Can you imagine what a tremendous amount of determination and will power I required to get myself up like this?'