XVII FREDERIC SNARED

          There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.         
          HAMLET             

THE snaring of men is the tamest sport in the world. It is so ridiculously easy. Let but the female cast a favourable eye upon the male and he is hers—for as long as she is clever enough to keep him. Whether a prize so easily won is worth the keeping is a matter for every woman to decide for herself. Generally the matter is settled by the advent of children, or by economic complications, or by fear of public opinion. Desire waits upon vanity and vanity is the destroyer of love. Unhappily passion is so exceedingly rare that there would be neither marriage nor giving in marriage if men and women did not hoodwink themselves and each other. Quite clearly the world would be the better without the hoodwinking and the marriages resulting from it, but, these being in the majority, and the ignoble art of hoodwinking being passed on from generation to generation, and commended by eminent divines and popular writers, and since women insist on getting married in all circumstances and at whatever cost of degradation and disappointment, there is nothing to be done but to grin and bear it and applaud every active protest that is made against it.

These were the sentiments roused in Serge Folyat when it was announced that Frederic had entered upon an indefinite engagement to marry Jessie Clibran-Bell.

Quite other and not at all philosophical were the sentiments of Frederic’s father when the announcement was made to him exactly a week after his visit to Miller Street, to the house of Mrs. Lipsett. He was shocked and [Pg 178]outraged, but as the announcement was made to him by his wife—in their bedroom—and she seemed to take an extraordinary pleasure in it, he was silent. Mrs. Folyat declared herself entirely taken by surprise. She had made Frederic take her and Jessie to the pantomime, and on the way home Jessie had stolen her hand into hers and said:

“I am so happy.”

And Frederic had added:

“Yes. Isn’t she?”

And then she knew! And Frederic was so proud and happy too. And so brave and manly! He could not think of marrying Jessie until he was making three hundred a year. And didn’t Francis think it was time they set Frederic up in a practice by himself?

Francis groaned inwardly.

It would be delightful (continued Mrs. Folyat) to have Frederic settled. Of course he would only have a small establishment to begin with, but when he had made his position, he would be able to live in the best suburbs on the south of the town and his sons would go to public schools. Jessie was such a dear girl, as Francis would find when he knew her better, and she was so devotedly attached to Frederic, and Frederic was so very much in love, so chivalrous and attentive. Nothing better could be wished for. Francis must really consider the possibility of providing Frederic with an office of his own.

“I’ll think it over,” said Francis. “If you don’t mind, I would like to sleep.”

Mrs. Folyat continued her monologue for a quarter of an hour and lulled herself to sleep with the sound of her own voice.

Francis lay on his back staring into the darkness. His first impulse was to go up to Frederic’s room and have it out with him there and then, but he could hardly do that without waking the woman sleeping at his side. Also he had made it a rule never to act in any difficulty without sleeping on it, or, at any rate, if sleep visited him not, without a night’s cogitation. The trouble was that this new complication seemed to him so hideous that he hated [Pg 179]to think of it. In the cause of morality, also for the sake of Jessie Clibran-Bell, he ought to denounce Frederic and fling him out neck and crop. But common sense bade him pause. What would be the result? A great deal of wretchedness and misery in two houses, and in all probability Frederic’s utter ruin.

Already he was an accessory after the fact of Frederic’s first dishonour. Could he become an aider and abettor of the second? Or, rather, having swallowed the first could he reasonably strain at the second? . . . He condemned himself for his weakness in palliating such an offence for the sake of peace. Then, rebounding from self-condemnation—(no man can keep it up for very long)—he told himself that it was not for the sake of peace but to save that poor girl from a drudging life with a man out of her own class. Then, in justice, he was forced to admit that the truth lay between the two.

His final conclusion, just as dawn began to outline the window, was that the world must be much less or more simple than he had thought. The effort of deciding which the world was entirely exhausted him, and sleep came at last.

In the morning he had a letter from his brother William, the first for fifteen years, announcing his return from India and settlement at Sydenham, near the Crystal Palace, where he would be glad to see Francis, his wife, or any of his children. How many were there? He, William, had two.

Francis handed it over to his wife just as Frederic came down.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate Frederic, my dear?” asked Mrs. Folyat.

Frederic looked across at his father with malicious defiance in his eyes. Francis opened another letter and ignored the question. Mrs. Folyat returned to the charge.

“My dear, Frederic is to be congratulated.”

“I am as delighted,” replied Francis, “as Frederic is himself.”

Frederic viciously sliced off the top of an egg. Mrs. Folyat seemed to be satisfied. She read William’s letter.

[Pg 180]

“That will be very nice,” she said. “Gertrude could stay with them on her way back from the Folkestone Folyats.”

Frederic went to the door and bawled peevishly to Annette to bring his coffee.

“Annette,” observed Francis, “is not a servant.”

“I know,” returned Frederic, “but I can’t be late.”

Annette appeared with Frederic’s coffee. He gave her no thanks, and she returned to cook breakfast for Serge, Minna, and Gertrude. (Mary was away on a visit.)

“I think,” said Francis, “I think Annette might be the first to stay with William.”

“Annette!” Mrs. Folyat swept her out of consideration. “Annette! She has no clothes.”

Frederic gulped down his coffee and hurried away.

“It will be time,” said Mrs. Folyat, “it will be time to think of Annette when Gertrude and Mary and Minna are married.”

“And suppose they never marry?”

“Of course they will marry.”

Serge came down in Frederic’s dressing-gown, and shortly afterwards Minna and Gertrude followed him.

“Any news?” asked Minna.

“My dear . . .”

Mrs. Folyat wriggled with excitement.

“My dear. What do you think? Frederic took me and Jessie to the pantomime last night; I thought it vulgar and most unsuitable for children. And what do you think? Frederic and Jessie are engaged.”

“How clever of you, ma,” said Minna.

“I! I was entirely taken by surprise.”

Minna grinned:

“So was Wellington when he found he had won the battle of Waterloo.”

Francis gathered up his letters and the daily paper, a Conservative organ, together with the Church Times, and turned to Serge.

“If you can give me a moment or two,” he said, “I should like your opinion on a matter of some importance.”

“Delighted,” answered Serge.

[Pg 181]

Five minutes later Serge knocked at the study door, went in, and found his father at his desk writing a letter. Francis laid down his pen and turned.

“I want your opinion as a man of the world. I find myself in a situation with which I am not competent to deal, and yet I must deal with it.”

“My experience is,” said Serge, “that most problems solve themselves.”

“This is a moral problem.”

“Moral problems crumble away under the pressure of time more easily than any others.”

Francis was not encouraged. However, he went on:

“Frederic . . .”

“Ah! I thought it must be about Frederic.”

“Frederic has proposed to and been accepted by Jessie Clibran-Bell.”

“A very estimable young woman, though she has no sense of humour.”

“Frederic is also entangled . . .”

“With the daughter of a lodging-house keeper.”

“You knew that?”

“Yes. I knew that.”

“You can imagine then what pain and sorrow this must have caused me.”

“Yes. It is always distressing to find fiction overturned by facts.”

“You do not condemn Frederic?”

“It is surely one of the first principles of religion to condemn nobody.”

“True. True. But one must not encourage immorality.”

“Nothing encourages immorality so much as condemnation and prohibition.”

“Is that how men of the world think of it?”

“I don’t know. It is how I think of it.”

Francis combed his fingers through his beard.

“Then . . . Then, what am I to do?”

“It seems to me that the difficulty has already solved itself. Miss Clibran-Bell is in love with Frederic. She will probably make him a good wife. Frederic could not [Pg 182]possibly marry the other girl. It would destroy all her chances of marrying a man whom she could love, honour and respect . . .”

“But he has destroyed her chances.”

“Not at all. She will be a soberer, a better and a more sympathetic woman after this experience, if she is helped through it and treated with decent human feeling . . . Frederic is finished as far as she is concerned.”

“I told Frederic he must leave my house. I went back on it.”

“That was just as well. It would have made my mother very unhappy and caused a bitter scandal in your parish. These things are nobody’s affair until they are everybody’s affair. The only sane course to pursue is to see that they do not become everybody’s affair!”

“What do you suggest?”

“Do what you can for the girl and leave Frederic alone. No man can trifle with his emotions with impunity. That is natural law, Divine law if you like, infinitely more searching than your law of crime and punishment. The trouble with you people is that you think moral laws are a human invention. They’re not. They are an inherent principle of the universe, and we are as subject to them as we are to the weather. This thing is Frederic’s affair and his only. You and I know perfectly well that he won’t look after the girl if he is left to himself, therefore you and I must interfere, for purely humane reasons, as you do with your parishioners, and as I do with any human trouble that I happen to come across. You can give the girl a few pounds to take her down into the country. She’ll be much better there, and you can allow her, say, ten shillings a week until she gets work or marries.”

“I was just writing to her,” said Francis. “I wasn’t sure whether it’s right.”

“Perhaps it isn’t,” replied Serge. “But at least it is practical.”

“I am glad to have talked it over with you. Should I say anything to Frederic?”

“No. If you want to hurt him—though I don’t see why you should—you will do so far more by [Pg 183]simply ignoring him and taking the affair out of his hands.”

“Thank you. I’ll write to the young woman.”

“If you like I’ll find a place in the country for her.”

“That will be good of you. Thank you.”

This conversation with Serge relieved Francis enormously. He was like a man who, after long hesitation at a cross-road had followed one way for a mile or two, and then needed reassuring. He had already written half his letter to Annie Lipsett. He thoroughly enjoyed completing it.

Serge left him at it and found his mother waiting for him by the dining-room door. She said she wanted to speak to him, drew him into the room, and began to cross-examine him as to what his business might have been with Francis. He told her it was nothing of any importance, and then with a great deal of hesitation she came to her business.

“Don’t you think Jessie is just the very wife for Frederic, Serge?”

“The usual remark that she is far too good for him seems to be peculiarly appropriate.”

“Serge, does Frederic ever talk to you about himself?”

“Only in his more light-hearted moments.”

There was a moment’s hesitation on Mrs. Folyat’s part. Then:

“Serge, there is an odious woman pursuing Frederic. She is threatening him. Has he told you?”

“No. But I know.”

“Oh! Serge, please, please, can’t you save him from her clutches? I have been so wretched about it. Don’t let him marry her!”

“That,” said Serge with gusto, “that he shall not do if I can help it.”

“Oh! Serge, thank you. . . . Don’t let Frederic know I told you, and don’t say anything to your father. It would upset him so dreadfully.”

“No. I won’t say anything to either.”

“Oh! Serge. I shall be grateful to you as long as I live. Why does Heaven allow such creatures . . . . ?”

[Pg 184]

“I must get to my work,” said Serge. He kissed his mother and patted her shoulder, and stayed with her until she had dried her eyes and looked up at him with a watery smile.

Later in the morning, hearing Annette in the next room, he called to her, and when she came he asked her:

“Does mother read father’s letters?”

“She reads any letters she can find. I don’t think she can help it,” said Annette, blushing for her own lapse.

“Wicked old woman,” chuckled Serge. “Would you like a day in the country, one Saturday, Annette?”

“I should love it more than anything.”

“You shall have it. You’re the only person in this house who deserves well of the world, and to taste the sweetness of things. Possibly you’re the only person who can.”

“I would like,” said Annette, “I would like to go to a river.”

“So you shall, the very best river we can find.”

“You’re very good to me, Serge.”

Annette was too busy to stay talking. Serge turned to his work and she strode away.

 

As Francis had promised, so it was done. Serge found rooms for Annie Lipsett in a not too dull village. Her mother’s lodgers were told that she was run down and going away for a change, and would be away for three months. They received the intelligence with about as much interest as though they had been told that the ceilings needed whitewashing—as they did—and Annie went away. The only condition that had been made was that she should not write to Frederic. Her mother shed a great many tears, but promised to come and see her once a week and to be near her when her time came.

Frederic was received with open arms by his prospective father, mother and sisters-in-law. The Clibran-Bells and the Folyats joined in rejoicing over him, and he found himself doomed to slavery. He affected the attitude of the devoted swain, and every minute of his day, outside his working hours, was given to Jessie, her mother, her [Pg 185]sisters, her father, her brother, her cat. He went nowhere alone with her. He went nowhere without her. . . . They were to be married as soon as he was earning three hundred a year. He looked ahead and saw no prospect of it. He became very envious of people who were happy.