Chapter VIII Marie Rogers
Heaven knows that I do not wish to show up grandpapa in this narrative, or make the unhappy old sufferer appear worse than he was. Indeed, my desire is to write with a dispassionate pen, to state facts, and leave scientists, legal experts, and students of ethics to draw their own conclusions. But I do not intend that anything shall blind me to what I owe my grandpapa; and I will say that in the matter of Marie Rogers he was not entirely to blame. The girl set her cap at him, haunted him in the tap-room at her father’s place of entertainment, sent him flowers, gushed about him to me, and did everything she could to flatter his vanity. This had always been extremely easy. He was still old enough to feel tickled by the attention of a woman of thirty. Miss Rogers had a childish prettiness of manner, which might have been effective when she was younger, but struck me as rather ridiculous now. She talked young and dressed young, and pretended a general ignorance of the seamy side of the world which took in my grandpapa completely. No doubt it had similarly deceived the life insurance agent. That young man lost his temper with Miss Rogers over the matter of my grandpapa, and received short notice in consequence.
“Gad!” said grandfather, “it’s very gratifying—an old buffer of a hundred and six to cut out this youngster. What d’ ye think of her, Martha? Not a day older than thirty—eh?”
“I think you are on the verge of a volcano, grandpapa. You are doing a most dangerous thing by stopping here. Already people laugh at your new piebald wig, as they call it. You ought to have left Chislehurst three months ago, as I urged you at the time.”
“Well, well, let ’em laugh. Who cares? I’m sure I don’t. This girl takes my fancy, and that’s a fact. She’s in love with me, and can’t hide it, and Rogers hasn’t any objection.”
“Of course not; he knows what you’re worth.”
“I’ve been wondering if I could run away with her and marry her somewhere in Scotland,” said grandpapa, winking at me. I did not understand the wink, and asked him what he meant.
“It doesn’t matter,” he answered, “only she might get tired of me when I grow younger; and I myself might fancy something a little fresher later on.”
“Once and for all,” I said, “this inclination towards matrimony is reprehensible and must be crushed, dear grandpapa. I implore of you to fight against it. Don’t let every woman you meet fool you into a declaration. Do be circumspect; for Heaven’s sake, look on ahead.”
“It’s brutal always asking me to do that,” he answered, shedding tears, for it was one of his maudlin days; “I don’t want to look ahead. The future can take care of itself. I’m spoiling for somebody who would be a comfort to me at home—somebody who would take a bright view of things and not always be ramming the future down my throat, like you do. I see no reason why I should not marry.”
“Then let me give you some,” I answered desperately. “You must remember what lies in store. No woman shall suffer as I have suffered and am suffering. This girl, Marie Rogers, is thirty or more; you are—say, five-and-fifty. In four years’ time you will be fifteen! You cannot get away from that. The horrible fact is reached by simple arithmetic. Imagine yourself at that age saddled with a wife, and perhaps a family! If you can face such a prospect with a good conscience, I cannot. I’d rather die than see you in such a position.”
He laughed bitterly.
“What relation would you be to them, I wonder? The brats would be your uncles and aunts, and my wife your grandmother! What a fool you’d look!”
I couldn’t see it, and for the first time since the commencement of the New Scheme, I lost my temper with grandpapa.
“Oh, you horrid, depraved old man!” I cried, “will no words, or tears, or prayers, make you pause and reflect? Cannot your only surviving relation, your own son’s child, carry any weight with you? Would you rather have this flighty female at your side than me? Cannot you realise what I am doing for you, what you would be without me? I blush for you; I blush for your disgraceful tastes and wicked ambitions. You, who ought to spend all your time on your knees and in church, calling on Providence to avert this doom! You shall not marry. Hear me, I say, once and for all, you shall not. If you dare to get engaged again, I’ll tell the woman’s people. I’ll make a clean breast of it to Mr. Rogers. Then you’ll have to leave this place whether you like it or not. I’ve done a great deal for you, but I’m only human, and you’ve stung me beyond endurance to-day. Let us have no repetition of this terrible conversation. Make your choice once for all. Take Marie Rogers, or let me stay with you, and fight for you. But you cannot have both of us.”
He was rather cowed by my vehemence.
“Of course, if you’re going to make such a a fuss, I must debate with myself,” he said. “Only it’s rather awkward now. Why didn’t you speak sooner? You must have seen the woman adoring me for the last six weeks.”
“I gave you credit for a certain amount of proper feeling,” I answered.
“That was weak,” he said. “I’ve made a law unto myself lately. As a matter of fact we are engaged. I popped the question yesterday in the bar-parlour, and she cried and asked me to see the old man. He was delighted. I didn’t explain things to him, but it’s a very good bargain—for Marie. She’ll have a rum time of it certainly for five years and six months; then I shall fade away, or be carried off in a fiery chariot or something, and she can take the money. Still, I may be doing a foolish thing. My tastes are changing so readily. I’m certain to drop my eye on something more up-to-date as soon as I’m booked to her.”
“I implore you, grandpapa, to throw her over. She doesn’t love you. She is marrying you for your money. Her regard will never stand against the shock of finding out the New Scheme. She will confide in others and ruin your peace of mind. Possibly she will run away altogether when you begin to—to shrink, as you must. I, on the contrary, am prepared to face everything. Tear her image from your heart! Fight the passion and conquer it. Rest on me!”
My grandpapa smoked and drank whisky, while I sat up into the small hours and argued with him.
“I believe you’re right,” he said at last. “I can’t face the girl, nor yet her father now; but I really think we’d better drop the connection. Socially, of course, it’s not satisfactory at all. No doubt young Widdicombe, the life insurance agent, will come back when I’m gone. Yes, we’d better make tracks, perhaps. She hasn’t got anything in writing. Besides, I’m sick of this place. I’ve quarrelled with pretty nearly everybody in it, and I’m owing some money too—some debts of honour—that I think I can wriggle out of paying. I’ll try and forget Marie. We’ll ’shoot the moon’ before quarter-day.”
By “shooting the moon,” my grandpapa explained that he employed a well-known technicality which meant leaving Chislehurst at night, in an abrupt manner, without letting our departure be known beforehand or advertising our new address in the local newspapers, or even mentioning it at the post-office.