‘With a besom!’ murmured Maud, pained and forgetting to cry. ‘Harold’s grandfather, not mine?’
‘Wi’ a besom,’ Dan repeated, nodding. ‘They never quarrelled again—ne’er again. Th’ old woman allus said after that as quarrels were for fools. And her was right.’
‘I don’t see Harold chasing me across Bursley with a besom,’ said Maud primly. ‘But what you say is quite right, you dear old uncle. Men are queer—I mean husbands. You can’t argue with them. You’d much better give in—’
‘And have your own way after all.’
‘And perhaps Harold was—’
Harold’s step could be heard in the hall.
‘Oh, dear!’ cried Maud. ‘What shall I do?’
‘I’m not feeling very well,’ whispered Uncle Dan weakly. ‘I have these ‘ere attacks sometimes. There’s only one thing as’ll do me any good—brandy.’
And his head fell over one side of the chair, and he looked precisely like a corpse.
‘Maud, what are you doing?’ almost shouted Harold, when he came into the room.
She was putting a liqueur-glass to Uncle Dan’s lips.
‘Oh, Harold,’ she cried, ‘uncle’s had an attack of some sort. I’m giving him some brandy.’
‘But you mustn’t give him brandy,’ said Harold authoritatively to her.
‘But I MUST give him brandy,’ said Maud. ‘He told me that brandy was the only thing to save him.’
‘Nonsense, child!’ Harold persisted. ‘Uncle told ME all about these attacks. They’re perfectly harmless so long as he doesn’t have brandy. The doctors have warned him that brandy will be fatal.’
‘Harold, you are absolutely mistaken. Don’t you understand that uncle has only this minute told me that he MUST have brandy?’
And she again approached the glass to the pale lips of the old man. His tasselled Turkish smoking-cap had fallen to the floor, and the hemisphere of his bald head glittered under the gas.
‘Maud, I forbid you!’ And Harold put a hand on the glass. ‘It’s a matter of life and death. You must have misunderstood uncle.’
‘It was you who misunderstood uncle,’ said Maud. ‘Of course, if you mean to prevent me by brute force—’
They both paused and glanced at Daniel, and then at each other.
‘Perhaps you are right, dearest,’ said Harold, in a new tone.
‘No, dearest,’ said Maud, also in a new tone. ‘I expect you are right. I must have misunderstood.’
‘No, no, Maud. Give him the brandy by all means. I’ve no doubt you’re right.’
‘But if you think I’d better not give it him—’
‘But I would prefer you to give it him, dearest. It isn’t likely you would be mistaken in a thing like that.’
‘I would prefer to be guided by you, dearest,’ said Maud.
So they went on for several minutes, each giving way to the other in the most angelic manner.
‘AND MEANTIME I’M SUPPOSED TO BE DYING, AM I?’ roared Uncle Dan, suddenly sitting up. ‘You’d let th’ old uncle peg out while you practise his precepts! A nice pair you make! I thought for see which on ye’ ud’ give way to th’ other, but I didna’ anticipate as both on ye ‘ud be ready to sacrifice my life for th’ sake o’ domestic peace.’
‘But, uncle,’ they both said later, amid the universal and yet rather shamefaced peace rejoicings, ‘you said nothing was worth a quarrel.’
‘And I was right,’ answered Dan; ‘I was right. Th’ Divorce Court is full o’ fools as have begun married life by trying to convince the other fool, instead o’ humouring him—or her. Kiss us, Maud.’
THE DEATH OF SIMON FUGE
I
It was in the train that I learnt of his death. Although a very greedy eater of literature, I can only enjoy reading when I have little time for reading. Give me three hours of absolute leisure, with nothing to do but read, and I instantly become almost incapable of the act. So it is always on railway journeys, and so it was that evening. I was in the middle of Wordsworth’s Excursion; I positively gloated over it, wondering why I should have allowed a mere rumour that it was dull to prevent me from consuming it earlier in my life. But do you suppose I could continue with Wordsworth in the train? I could not. I stared out of the windows; I calculated the speed of the train by my watch; I thought of my future and my past; I drew forth my hopes, examined them, polished them, and put them back again; I forgave myself for my sins; and I dreamed of the exciting conquest of a beautiful and brilliant woman that I should one day achieve. In short, I did everything that men habitually do under such circumstances. The Gazette was lying folded on the seat beside me: one of the two London evening papers that a man of taste may peruse without humiliating himself. How appetizing a morsel, this sheet new and smooth from the press, this sheet written by an ironic, understanding, small band of men for just a few thousand persons like me, ruthlessly scornful of the big circulations and the idols of the people! If the Gazette and its sole rival ceased to appear, I do believe that my existence and many similar existences would wear a different colour. Could one dine alone in Jermyn Street or Panton Street without this fine piquant evening commentary on the gross newspapers of the morning? (Now you perceive what sort of a man I am, and you guess, rightly, that my age is between thirty and forty.) But the train had stopped at Rugby and started again, and more than half of my journey was accomplished, ere at length I picked up the Gazette, and opened it with the false calm of a drunkard who has sworn that he will not wet his lips before a certain hour. For, well knowing from experience that I should suffer acute ennui in the train, I had, when buying the Gazette at Euston, taken oath that I would not even glance at it till after Rugby; it is always the final hour of these railway journeys that is the nethermost hell.
The second thing that I saw in the Gazette (the first was of course the ‘Entremets’ column of wit, humour, and
