MARRYING FOR MONEY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3755, 2 March 1926, Page 86

MARRYING FOR MONEY.

By Jerome K. Jerome. (Copyright.—For the Witness.) It’s a fool’s game, observed the Churchwarden. That is, of course, for a man. To a -woman it’s natural. Money, now, takes the place of the strong arm. In her case, - it is just prudence. They have their fancies and, all else being equal, prefer him young and good-looking. But marriage don’t mean the same to a woman as it does to us, and when a youngster is pouring out his tale of love into a maiden’s ear, and taking it for granted that she’s listening to every word and is all in a flutter, it’s ten to one she’s turning over in her mind whether he will be able to keep her and the children in comfort. Speaking within r eason, there’s no cause why woman shouldn’t marry for money and yet make a good wife and be happy herself. But the other way round —being, as it is, against the laws of nature—doesn’t work. Maybe, there never was such a case in the days when men were guided by their proper instincts; but if it ever did occur that some young prehistoric chap, thinking of safety first, ever did marry a cave lady of superior weight and muscle to himself, the chances are he came to wish he hadn’t. She may have saved him the trouble of fighting for himself outside, but inside the cave, I guess, he had a pretty rotten time. Woman was never intended to be the stronger of the twain and. when she is, she don’t show at her best, she not having the gift of tempering justice with merev, so to speak. Take the case of Joe Addy, by way of example. He thought he had done a fine thing for himself when he married old man Pickerin’s widow, and was under the impression that, for the rest of his life, he was going to be the landlord of “The Beetle and Wedge.” A picturesque little place it was then, just off the Beading road, doing good business; and she not a bad-looking woman, with only one child, a red-headed girl of about 16, though a bit too hi.gli-spirited for everybody’s taste. But all poor Joe got out of the deal was the position of barman without any wages. She fed him well, being fond of her vicutals herself; and dressed him decently, especially on Sundays. But so far as hard cash was concerned, a shilling a week for tobacco wns all he ever saw ; and as for sneaking a bit from the till, there wasn’t much chance of .hat with one of them ahvAys about to look after him. He grumbled and cursed, but her answer was always the same that if he thought he could better himself she wouldn’t stand in his way ; and when she died she left the inn to the "’rl; and Joe found out that he wasn’t as well off under the daughter as he had been under the mother. Getting •n for a middle-aged woman, she was

then, and still unmarried, owing to having too sharp a tongue. But Joe was too. broken in by that time, either to tight or to run away. There may have been something in it before the Married Woman’s Property Act became the law of the land; and where a man has enough of his own to enable him to hold up his end of the plank, it may be of help. Otherwise, it’s a fool’s game, as I’ve said. Not that there’s any use talking, continued the- churchwarden. There’s something about the mere 9mell oi money that muddles the senses of most humans. Once let it be known that a woman’s got money, and all the unmarried males will be round her like mice round a cheese trap, each one convinced that he at all events will be able to bring off the trick, and that all that she’ll ask for herself will be the pleasure of watching him spend it There were two unmarried females—if you haven’t heard the story —who came to reside in this neighbourhood, five and twenty years ago it must be now. They took over Drayton Manor, just as it stood, a fine old place the other side of the river. Lord Olley had died, leaving nothing but debts behind him, and glad enough her ladyship was to let it, and get away to the Continent. Nice young women they were, each in her own way—though as different as chalk from cheese. One was an heiress, having inherited a fortune from an uncle in South America—millions some put it at; while the other one, her cousin, wasn’t worth a penny. But the awkward thing was that nobody knew which was which; and we never did find out, until it was too late, though it wasn’t for want of trying. Letitia Fisk and Helen Grass were their names, and both were about the same age. Miss Fisk was the beauty, creamy, and dimpled with golden hair; and amiable, up to a point. Her cousin, Miss Grass, was what we should call a highbrow to-day. She wasn’t exactly plain; it was more the stern way she dressed and wore her hair straight back from her forehead. It was her cleverness that frightened the men. She didn’t seem to have any use for a fool, and whether she thought you one or not, was difficult sometimes to tell. But so far as they themselves were concerned, David and Jonathan could not have been closer. They had a joint account at the local bank, and one week it would be Helen Grass who signed the cheques and paid the wages, and another time it vould be Letitia Fisk. There seemed to be no rule or custom ; and all Jack Haze could tell us was that once a quarter lie received a substantial draft, endorsed to their credit, from a solicitor in Leeds, and that an easier and more satisfactory aocount no bank oould wish for. Business-like young women they were in all things, both of them. But at first the general idea in the neighbourhood was that pretty soon the truth would be bound to leak out, and the only question was how to be prepared. In taste, as regard the males, they hadn’t much in common. Miss Fisk favoured the sporting type of man, while Miss Grass made no bones about letting it be known that what she herself would most value in a husband would be intellectuality. Well that, so far as it went, looked hopeful. Most of the young men round about —and the old ones, too, for the matter of that—regarded themselves as sportsmen, and, the wish being father to the thought, were sure that Miss Fisk would turn out to be the heiress. They argued—and the women folk were with them—that the one with the money, needing a companion, would naturally select a girl less attractive, to say the least of it, than herself. While had Miss Grass been the boss, she would never have chosen so lovely a creature as Letitia Fisk to be always beside her, making her seem plainer than she even was, by contrast. That she was reserving herself for a suitor with brains was regarded as an intimation that, very sensibly, she wished to be considered as out'of the running; especially having regard to the fact that, in any case, he would have to be imported. Young Harry Rodwell was the first to enter. His father ran the mills at Abingdon. He was our local lady-killer back in those days. He’s a married man now with five children, and a better w’ife than he deserved, seeing the way he used to play fast and loose with them all. But there could he no question that his handsome face had made an impression upon her, and it looked as if he was going to pull it off; until the Hon. Tom Hesselton came unexpectedly upon the scene. You see, they weren’t exactly ladies, as the term is understood among the gentry. Colonial born and bred they were. Until she came into her money I don’t suppose she ever met a real swell, and the possibility of marrying into the peerage must have come to her as a new thought. Miss Fisk I’m talking of now. A cool-headed little party, she gave you the idea being; but it was plain she liked being courted, and rather favoured a crowd, for she didn’t close the door even with those two inside. General Sir Arthur was considered by many to have a fair chance in spite of his being a widower with four children. One of the old school lie was, and had a way of treating a woman as if she had been Queen Victoria, which carried the most of them off their feet. And Barnwell, of Barnwell’s Bank, who saved her from Joe Chesnv’s bull, according to her account, though according to Joe Chesny, he hadn’t got a bull. Altogether, there must have been a round dozen of them entitled to regard themselves ns in the running. Some of them may have been honestly in love with her fo- her own sake. But if so, it was a funny thing that none of them seemed in a hurry to propose. And then came the night of the hunt ball. There had been a good deal of speculation as to how she would come dressed.

Mi 93 Fibk lam still talking of. We were not worrying ourselves, just then, alxmt the other one. Hitherto there had been no opportunity for her to show what she eould really do. At dinner parties and small kick-ups she had worn a string of smallish pearls and nothing else. In the jewellery line, I mean. But at the hunt ball it had always been the tradition for every woman to put on everything that she possessed, and the gossips no doubt had dropped both the girls a hint of what would be expected of them. We were not disappointed. They were among the last comers, and when they entered it was as if a flash of lightning had suddenly illuminated the room. One almost listened for the thunder. Such a blaze of diamonds had never been seen at the hunt ball before, though every family heirloom for 10 miles round had been hunted out, I take it, for that night. But it was Misa Grass who was wearing them. They glittered on her neck and arms, and made a halo round her hair. The severity of her plain black dress was just the background that they wanted. Miss Fisk, who followed her, was dressed in a pretty white frock with sequins, jjnd wore her usual string of pearls. Not that it mattered; little else was looked at, that evening, but her cousin’s diamonds. Old Mr Vanstettin, who had made his money m Hatton Garden, and had lately taken “ The Beeches,” on the Didcot road, pronounced them real and worth, at a rough guess, some £20,000. Well, that was a facer. Of course, there were those who had guessed it all along, if you chose to believe them; but they were not popular, and those who had been wasting their time upon Miss Fisk hadn’t the gumption to hide their feelings, and went about cursing the cat, as we say. The Hon. Tom Ilesselton suddenly discovered that a mare he had promised Miss Fisk wasn’t safe, and might let her down; and was never seen again in these parts; and the General, forgetting his old school, denounced both the girls as a couple of minxes. A few, who hadn’t committed themselves, began to take an interest in literature and the fine arts. Young men of intellect, it transpired, had been hiding themselves, unsuspected. The curate, the Rev. O’Neale, launched a volume of poems; and an“ Oxford don took lodgings over Mrs Larter’s in the High street, explaining that he was interested in Roman remains. Miss Fisk, to do the girl justice, bore her change of fortune with remarkable cheerfulness. She may have overdone it. Anyhow, the idea got into the air that, after all, it might turn out that she really was the heirness, and that the matter of the diamonds had been a putup job. Wishing to be sure of being loved for herself alone, she might have put them on her cousin instead of on herself, guessing that by this means she would be able to tell the goats from the sheep. As General Sir Arthur said more than once, it would have been, if true, a heartless trick; but then the modern girl is heartless. It was the falling in of the lease of the Home Farm that gave Ui> a chance, as we thought, of putting all doubts to rest. Jack Matthews wasn’t eager to renew, and the girls thought it would be fun to run the farm themselves. They applied to me to find them a bailiff. It was Miss Grass who was the keen one. It came to me as an inspiration that they were putting themselves in my hands. “He’ll have to be a good man,” I said, “if he isn’t going to lose your money f or you, and let the place down.” "We want a good man,” said Miss Grass. “That’s why weve come to you.” “We feel we can rely on you,” added Miss Fisk, with one of her delightful smiles. They were nice girls, both of them. “Well, I’ve got the right man in mind,” I said. “He’s been farming ‘Upton Heights’ for the past three years, and has done wonders with it. But if he gives that up, as he’ll have to, and puts his heart and soul into your land, he’ll naturally want a contract, all signed and sealed, and in due order.” I watched the effect of my words. I guessed they knew enough of business to understand what I was driving at. But it didn’t seem to trouble them, they drew aside and talked for some minutes together; an then they came back and sat down again. “We think that is only fair,” said Miss Grass. “If, after seeing him, you will write us the terms that Mr ” “Mr Harry Brightmore is the chap I’m thinking of,” I told them. “A better farmer you won’t find in the country; and if I can persuade him—- “ The terms Mr ITarrv Brightmore will accept,’ she interrupts me. “We will send them on to our solicitor, with instructions to prepare a contract. We know that whatever vou advise us will be. fair to both sides.” “I'll see him this afternoon,” I said, “and write you this evening. By the way, to which of you ladies do I write?” “It doesn’t matter,” answered Miss Grass. “It was really my cousins suggestion. So perhaps ” “Oh, address it to Miss Grass,” cut in the other one. “I’d rather, dear,” she said, turning to her cousin. And with that they shook bands and went out I saw young llarry Brightmore that same afternoon. Ho jumped at the idea. “The Heights” was only a one horse sort of place. It would be a big lift for him, and he thanked me. “And, incidentally,” I whispered to him —though, seeing we had the bar of the “Red Lion” entirely to ourselves, there really wasn’t any need—“we will know which is Her Heireeship and which is her

Heiresship’s companion. They can't both sign the contract.” The contract arrived in due course: 1 didn’t take much time tearing open the envelope, and the first thing I looked for was the signature. It was signed William Ebenezer Catchpenny. The covering letter from the solicitor, in Leeds, explained that. Mr Catchpenny, being the guardian of the “beneficiary” (it didn’t mention the name of the beneficiary) and sole surviving executor of the estate (it did not mention the name of the estate), was, of course, the party responsible; and would I obtain Mr Briglitmore’a signature to the duplicate contract, and return same at convenience. Well, to young Harry Brightmore it did not matter. He had got his contract, and that was all he wanted. It would enable him to marry his young woman with whom he had bem in love ever since he was a boy. But I confess that, myself, I was pretty mad. I had dropped hints, here and there, of how clever I had been; and when the truth came out—as, sooner or later I knew it would, young Brightmore no being a man who could ever keep a secret—l guessed I’d come in for a good bit of chaff. As a matter of fact, that’s what happened, though not before I had taken a journey to Leeds, and dropped in at tlie office of Cutts and Dare, the solicitors in question. It was an ancient firm, ana he had but one clerk (Dare was dead), a rheumaticky old chap with a face like a wooden image. I handed him my card, and lie didn’t wait for me to tell him my business. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can only tell you what I’ve told the other thirteen from your neighbourhood, who have been here within the last months. We don’t know ourselves. Tlie only person, resident in England, who does know—other than the ladies themselves—is our client, Mr Catchpenny. You have his address. Ourselves, we are not interfering in y e matter.” Upon which I took the next train back. It lopked to me as if that was the end. But it wasn’t. A new junior master came to the Grammar School. Peter Summer was his name. He wasn’t exactly intellectual, and he wasn’t much of a sportsman, but a nicer all-round lad would have taken a bit of finding. He was fond of long country walks, and so, as it happened, was Miss Fisk, and they seem to have met and walked together, more or less aecidenally, for half the winter before they knew each other’s names. Not that it told him anything, even when he learnt it. He may have heard of an heiress having taken Drayton Manor or lie mayn’t. But ' e wasn’t the sort to be interested if he had; and certainly he never connected her with'the little maiden in thick boots and short skirts (they were not fashionable then) who had informed him, on their second meeting, that he could call her Miss Letitia, and she would call him Mr Peter, but he wasn’t to forget the “Miss.” She always left him at the corner of the lane leading to the Manor Farm, and he naturally assumed that she lived there. The affair got about. Of course, they had been seen holding each other’s hands, and he carrying her over muddy places, and all that; and the whole countryside was on the tiptoe of expectation, looking to him to solve the problem. There were signs, according to the women, proving that she was only waiting to be asked, and wouldn’t say no. If she was the one, Peter would be in luck, and anyhow there., would be an end to the suspense. While if she wasn’t, he would marry her just the same—one felt sure of that—and still think himself lucky, leaving Miss Grass the 'ne and onh bone to be contented for. And all might have gone according to -irogramme, if young Peter hadn’t been so high-minded. How he found out I can’t say, but one Wednesday afternoon, instead of going out for his usual walk, he shut himself up in his room; and wlien Mrs Bargus. ois landlady, went up with his tea, she found him with his head between his bands, locking as if he had seen a ghost. She asked him what was the trouble. She was a motherly soul and. the tears in his eyes, he told her. “I love her,” he said. “I never knew how much I loved her. And now I dare not ask her.” “But perhaps she’s the poor one,” suggested Mrs Bargus. “Yes, but if she isn’t, and accepts,” he answers with a groan. “You don’t thing you could get used to it?” asked Mrs Bargus. “The money I mean.” (' “They say it’s over a million,” he answers. “I’d never be able to look myself in the face again.” “Well, put it to her plainly,” urged Mrs Bargus. “Tell her that if she’s the poor one you love her. But that if she’s the heiress you can’t. Give the girl a chance.” “But I do,” he answers. “I shall never love anyone else.” And then he jumps up and curses all the money in the world, together with her uncle who left it to her—if he was her uncle, and it was to her he left it—and himself and everybody else, and ends by throwing the teapot out of the window, for whatever good that could have done; and the very next morning goes off with his bag by the six-fifteen train. And he never came back. But he married her, after all, so we learnt eventually. I expect she saw to that. They were both of them girls that know their own mind. They got quit of the place soon after, to an old gent frorr South Africa—who died there three >wara later—and went off abroad saying a word to anyone. But we never learnt which was which. Sometimes I have thought it must have been Miss Fisk she lieing the more larky of the two, and ju9t the one to whom the

idea of playing such a trick would have occurred, and, unless she was the heiress, she could hardly have suggested it. While at other times I’ve argued to myself that it must have been Miss Grass, owing to her always putting her cousin forward and then watching with a curious little smile about the corners of her mouth. But I’d ’ike to have known for certaiu.