A Forgotten Incident

Observer, Volume XXXV, Issue 50, 21 August 1915, Page 20

A Forgotten Incident

HE has a charming wife, and a charming home, and heaps of charming friends; he is a Member of Parliament (a future Cabinet Minister, some say) and Lord-Lieu-tenant of his county, and- Lord knows what besides. In fact, he has succeeded ;heis a Somebody.. But how near he was once to becoming a failure—to joining the ranks of the "gone-unders," only he, and 1, and a woman know. _ Somehow or other we have drifted apart of late, and I seldom see him now But I ran, across him yesterday, and I oould not help wondering then whether it had become, tor him, a forgotten incident. As likely as not. Here it is. He had just left college, and we Avere living together in chambers bard by Regent Street He was playing at reading for the Bar. 1 had not long been "called." Though very good friends, w© each went our owni way, and, as a rule, our evenings were spent apart. One night, more for the sake of saying something than out of curiosity, as he Avas lighting his cigar, preparatory to going out, I asked bim where he was bound for. "Oh, I'm going to meet Julie," he saidi. "What, again,? You seem wonderfully partial to that young lady. She must be very fascinating. . . - Mind you don't get too fond ot her." "Well, you are not far wrong," he answered, sitting down and looking at me defiantly, "I am getting very fond of her. In fact I'm more than getting—l've got." "Well, take care she does not drag you into some entanglement. You had better keep all your eyes open. You ( are younger than you think, you know, and her sort are very crafty." Julie Avas a shop-girl, I should mention. "Noav look here, old man," he answered' to this; "we two have never had a serious row yet, and I don't want to have one, but I'll thank you to be careful as to what you say about Julie." "Why, pray?" "Because 1 am going to marry her, that's Avhy." My cigarette dropped from my lirpis. "What d'you mean?" "Mean? What I say—that I'm going to make Julie my Avife." "What —your Japanese Avife, of course?" 'No; my Avife, simply—l hadn't intended' to tell you just yet—l quite knew how you, with your conventional 'society' ideas, Avould rant— but, there, you've dragged it from me." "Yoii really mean to say that you have been fool enough to get engaged to a woman like that?" "I'm not engaged yet: I am going to ask her this evening. And as to being a fool, that is a matter of opinion. You don't happen to know the girl." "That-particular, Julie, no. But I have met plenty of other Julies." "She's not like any girl you have ever met." "No, they never are, of course. "The poor little girl has had a terrible hard time of it. It's through no fault of her oAvn that she has come down to Avhat she has." "No, it never is/of course." "She's a lady, I would have you know, and Avorth a thousand of your fashionable grandees. She speaks perfectly, and. " "Is, in fact, a clergyman's daughter." "Oh, shut up, you sarcastic brute!" he groAvled; "you seem to think that just because you are a year or tAVO older than lam you have the right to be for ever preaching to me. I don't know why I was such an ass as to tell you anything about it. AnyhoAV, the long and the short of the matter is that I am going to marry this poor though it should prove displeasing to you—and the rest of the old women."

i Having delivered himself of which f pretty speech, he rose to go. I rose, too, and placed' a liandl on ; his shoulder. "Tell me you don't - mean it," I entreated. "Tell me it 5 is all a joke." "I was never more serious in my r life, and I have thought it well ■ over." > "Good God! A man with your [ prospects! But you mustn't do it. You,—you don't know what it means. [ Think of your people. You will lose L all your friends. EA r ery decent person will cut you. Even I Avill—and . you know I am no prude. You ruin ' yourself: your career is finished even '. before* it is begun. You might just as well go and! commit suicide at once. For remember this: She will drag you down to her level, there will be no question of raising her to yours. For Heaven's sake " "Thanks," he said quietly, "I'll imagine the rest. And now let go of my arm, please—l am late as it is." A scuffle would have been absurd. "Go, you d d fool," I cried. After he had gone I enjoyed some pleasant reflections, you may be sure. For I had promised Sir George more than once that I would keep an eye on his boy—and now I had let him do this. I ought to have knocked him down,, or had him shut up in a mad-house—anything rather than this. I pictured the old baronet.— an aristocrat of aristocratj&—on hearing the news that he Avas the father-in-IaAV of a shop-girl. It would kill him. Was,it too late now, I wondered, ...:'to, follow on in a cab ? Alas! I did nibt know the rendezvous. There »AvaiS, nothing to do but to' await his :retu,rn —if, indeed, he came back at all. At the bottom of my heart I really pitied the boy, for at his age, when first one meets women, one is so apt to be quixotic—so prone to' confuse pity and love. I myself might have done the same thing once—or worse, even—bad I had' the money. At the outset all Avomen are angels to us. Later, we laugh at this period of our life., and' wonder how we could have been, so simple. But, for all that, I suspect we were better fellows then— before we became cynics. However, at a little after two in the morning, to my immense relief, I heard a key turn in the door, and he came back. He found me still sitting up, smoking, and pretending to read 1 . He scowled on seeing me. Then he flung his hat into a corner of the room, and flopped himself down into an armchair. "You are a cheerful-looking bridegroom," I remarked. , "I'll thank you to holdi your jaw, Cicero," be answered. I was so delighted at seeing him back again—for, after all, on thinking it over, a sum of money would, no doubt, square the AVoman—that I pocketed the insult. I resolved, too, to sit him out, for I was curious to hear what had taken place. He was loquacious by nature, and I knew that he would be bound to, speak soon. I Avaitedl a quarter of an hour, puffing away at my pipe; then said, "Well, how was your fiancee?" "She's not my fiancee," he anSAvered curtly. On hearing that, I felt sorry that my religious education had been neglected, for I would have liked to offer up a hymn of thanks. "What:—you have thought better of it, then?" "No." "She did not turn, up, perhaps?" "She turned up." "Well, then, what the devil happened?" "She would not have me; that is all" "Wha-at!" I cried, hardly believing my ears. "She refused you ?" I should! have laughed' had I not seen his face. As it was, I said, "I'm sorry, old fellow"—which Avas a lie. He was silent for a minute, then repeated it. "She would not have me. ... At first she treated it as a joke. Then, "when she saw it was

meant seriously, she said" —and here his voice trembled, and he nearly blubbered—"she said, 'Thanks, very much, but I like you too well to let you marry me. . .' .' And that's the girl you said was not a lady." "I am sorry," I said; "I was wrong. I apologise to you—and to her." Well, that is the incident, and, as I said before, I wonder whether he ever thinks of that woman, surely the best friend he ever had. I am afraid that the hurry-skurry life of to-day is apt to ruin memories. The late Walter Emanuel in "Only My Fun."