The Wooing of Tom Sleight's Wife

by Jerome K. Jerome

"It's competition," replied Henry, "that makes the world go round. Younever want a thing particularly until you see another fellow trying toget it; then it strikes you all of a sudden that you've a better right toit than he has. Take barmaids: what's the attraction about 'em? Inlooks they're no better than the average girl in the street; while as fortheir temper, well that's a bit above the average--leastways, so far asmy experience goes. Yet the thinnest of 'em has her dozen, makingsheep's-eyes at her across the counter. I've known girls that on thelevel couldn't have got a policeman to look at 'em. Put 'em behind a rowof tumblers and a shilling's-worth of stale pastry, and nothing outside aLincoln and Bennett is good enough for 'em. It's the competition that'sthe making of 'em."Now, I'll tell you a story," continued Henry, "that bears upon thesubject. It's a pretty story, if you look at it from one point of view;though my wife maintains--and she's a bit of a judge, mind you--that it'snot yet finished, she arguing that there's a difference between marryingand being married. You can have a fancy for the one, without caring muchabout the other. What I tell her is that a boy isn't a man, and a manisn't a boy. Besides, it's five years ago now, and nothing has happenedsince: though of course one can never say.""I would like to hear the story," I ventured to suggest; "I'll be able tojudge better afterwards.""It's not a long one," replied Henry, "though as a matter of fact itbegan seventeen years ago in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He was a wildyoung fellow, and always had been.""Who was?" I interrupted."Tom Sleight," answered Henry, "the chap I'm telling you about. Hebelonged to a good family, his father being a Magistrate forMonmouthshire; but there had been no doing anything with young Tom fromthe very first. At fifteen he ran away from school at Clifton, and witheverything belonging to him tied up in a pocket-handkerchief made his wayto Bristol Docks. There he shipped as boy on board an American schooner,the Cap'n not pressing for any particulars, being short-handed, and theboy himself not volunteering much. Whether his folks made much of aneffort to get him back, or whether they didn't, I can't tell you. Maybe,they thought a little roughing it would knock some sense into him.Anyhow, the fact remains that for the next seven or eight years, untilthe sudden death of his father made him a country gentleman, a more orless jolly sailor-man he continued to be. And it was during thatperiod--to be exact, three years after he ran away and four years beforehe returned--that, as I have said, at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, hemarried, after ten days' courtship, Mary Godselle, only daughter of JeanGodselle, saloon keeper of that town.""That makes him just eighteen," I remarked; "somewhat young for abridegroom.""But a good deal older than the bride," was Henry's comment, "she beingat the time a few months over fourteen.""Was it legal?" I enquired."Quite legal," answered Henry. "In New Hampshire, it would seem, theyencourage early marriages. 'Can't begin a good thing too soon,' is, Isuppose, their motto.""How did the marriage turn out?" was my next question. The married lifeof a lady and gentleman, the united ages of whom amounted to thirty-two,promised interesting developments."Practically speaking," replied Henry, "it wasn't a marriage at all. Ithad been a secret affair from the beginning, as perhaps you can imagine.The old man had other ideas for his daughter, and wasn't the sort offather to be played with. They separated at the church door, intendingto meet again in the evening. Two hours later Master Tom Sleight gotknocked on the head in a street brawl. If a row was to be had anywherewithin walking distance he was the sort of fellow to be in it. When hecame to his senses he found himself lying in his bunk, and the 'SusanPride'--if that was the name of the ship; I think it was--ten miles outto sea. The Captain declined to put the vessel about to please either aloving seaman or a loving seaman's wife; and to come to the point, thenext time Mr. Tom Sleight saw Mrs. Tom Sleight was seven years later atthe American bar of the Grand Central in Paris; and then he didn't knowher.""But what had she been doing all the time?" I queried. "Do you mean totell me that she, a married woman, had been content to let her husbanddisappear without making any attempt to trace him?""I was making it short," retorted Henry, in an injured tone, "for yourbenefit; if you want to have the whole of it, of course you can. Hewasn't a scamp; he was just a scatterbrain--that was the worst you couldsay against him. He tried to communicate with her, but never got ananswer. Then he wrote to the father, and told him frankly the wholestory. The letter came back six months later, marked--'Gone away; leftno address.' You see, what had happened was this: the old man diedsuddenly a month or two after the marriage, without ever having heard aword about it. The girl hadn't a relative or friend in the town, all herfolks being French Canadians. She'd got her pride, and she'd got a senseof humour not common in a woman. I was with her at the Grand Central forover a year, and came to know her pretty well. She didn't choose toadvertise the fact that her husband had run away from her, as shethought, an hour after he had married her. She knew he was a gentlemanwith rich relatives somewhere in England; and as the months went bywithout bringing word or sign of him, she concluded he'd thought thematter over and was ashamed of her. You must remember she was merely achild at the time, and hardly understood her position. Maybe later onshe would have seen the necessity of doing something. But Chance, as itwere, saved her the trouble; for she had not been serving in the Cafemore than a month when, early one afternoon, in walked her Lord andMaster. 'Mam'sell Marie,' as of course we called her over there, was atthat moment busy talking to two customers, while smiling at a third; andour hero, he gave a start the moment he set eyes on her.""You told me that when he saw her there he didn't know her," I remindedHenry."Quite right, sir," replied Henry, "so I did; but he knew a pretty girlwhen he saw one anywhere at any time--he was that sort, and a prettier,saucier looking young personage than Marie, in spite of her misfortunes,as I suppose you'd call 'em, you wouldn't have found had you searchedParis from the Place de la Bastille to the Arc de Triomphe.""Did she," I asked, "know him, or was the forgetfulness mutual?""She recognised him," returned Henry, "before he entered the Cafe, owingto catching sight of his face through the glass door while he was tryingto find the handle. Women on some points have better memories than men.Added to which, when you come to think of it, the game was a bitone-sided. Except that his moustache, maybe, was a little more imposing,and that he wore the clothes of a gentleman in place of those of an able-bodied seaman before the mast, he was to all intents and purposes thesame as when they parted six years ago outside the church door; while shehad changed from a child in a short muslin frock and a 'flapper,' as Ibelieve they call it, tied up in blue ribbon, to a self-possessed youngwoman in a frock that might have come out of a Bond Street show window,and a Japanese coiffure, that being then the fashion."She finished with her French customers, not hurrying herself in theleast--that wasn't her way; and then strolling over to her husband, askedhim in French what she could have the pleasure of doing for him. Hiseducation on board the 'Susan Pride' and others had, I take it, gone backrather than forward. He couldn't understand her, so she translated itfor him into broken English, with an accent. He asked her how she knewhe was English. She told him it was because Englishmen had such prettymoustaches, and came back with his order, which was rum punch. She kepthim waiting about a quarter of an hour before she returned with it. Hefilled up the time looking into the glass behind him when he thoughtnobody was observing him."One American drink, as they used to concoct it in that bar, wasgenerally enough for most of our customers, but he, before he left,contrived to put away three; also contriving, during the same short spaceof time, to inform 'Mam'sel Marie' that Paris, since he had looked intoher eyes, had become the only town worth living in, so far as he wasconcerned, throughout the whole universe. He had his failings, hadMaster Tom Sleight, but shyness wasn't one of them. She gave him a smilewhen he left that would have brought a less impressionable young man thanhe back again to that Cafe; but for the rest of the day I noticed'Mam'sel Marie' frowned to herself a good deal, and was quite unusuallycynical in her view of things in general."Next afternoon he found his way to us again, and much the same sort ofthing went on, only a little more of it. A sailor-man, so I am told,makes love with his hour of departure always before his mind, and so getsinto the habit of not wasting time. He gave her short lessons inEnglish, for which she appeared to be grateful, and she at his requesttaught him the French for 'You are just charming! I love you!' withwhich, so he explained, it was his intention, on his return to England,to surprise his mother. He turned up again after dinner, and the nextday before lunch, when after that I looked up and missed him at his usualtable, the feeling would come to me that business was going down. Mariealways appeared delighted to see him, and pouted when he left; but whatpuzzled me at the time was, that though she fooled him to the top of hisbent, she flirted every bit as much, if not more, with her othercustomers--leastways with the nicer ones among them. There was one youngFrenchman in particular--a good-looking chap, a Monsieur Flammard, son ofthe painter. Up till then he'd been making love pretty steadily to MissMarie, as, indeed, had most of 'em, without ever getting much forrarder;for hitherto a chat about the weather, and a smile that might have meantshe was in love with you or might have meant she was laughing at you--noman could ever tell which,--was all the most persistent had got out ofher. Now, however, and evidently to his own surprise, young MonsieurFlammard found himself in clover. Provided his English rival happened tobe present and not too far removed, he could have as much flirtation ashe wanted, which, you may take it, worked out at a very tolerable amount.Master Tom could sit and scowl, and for the matter of that did; but asMarie would explain to him, always with the sweetest of smiles, herbusiness was to be nice to all her customers, and to this, of course, hehad nothing to reply: that he couldn't understand a word of what she andFlammard talked and laughed about didn't seem to make him any thehappier."Well, this sort of thing went on for perhaps a fortnight, and then onemorning over our dejeune, when she and I had the Cafe entirely toourselves, I took the opportunity of talking to Mam'sel Marie like afather."She heard me out without a murmur, which showed her sense; for likingthe girl sincerely, I didn't mince matters with her, but spoke plainlyfor her good. The result was, she told me her story much as I have toldit to you."'It's a funny tale,' says I when she'd finished, 'though maybe youyourself don't see the humour of it.'"'Yes, I do,' was her answer. 'But there's a serious side to it also,'says she, 'and that interests me more.'"'You're sure you're not making a mistake?' I suggested."'He's been in my thoughts too much for me to forget him,' she replied.'Besides, he's told me his name and all about himself.'"'Not quite all,' says I."'No, and that's why I feel hard toward him,' answers she."'Now you listen to me,' says I. 'This is a very pretty comedy, and theway you've played it does you credit up till now. Don't you run it ontoo long, and turn it into a problem play.'"'How d'ye mean?' says she."'A man's a man,' says I; 'anyhow he's one. He fell in love with you sixyears ago when you were only a child, and now you're a woman he's fallenin love with you again. If that don't convince you of his constancy,nothing will. You stop there. Don't you try to find out any more.'"'I mean to find out one thing, answers she: 'whether he's a man--or acad.'"'That's a severe remark,' says I, 'to make about your own husband.'"'What am I to think?' says she. 'He fooled me into loving him when, asyou say, I was only a child. Do you think I haven't suffered all theseyears? It's the girl that cries her eyes out for her lover; we learn totake 'em for what they're worth later on.'"'But he's in love with you still,' I says. I knew what was in her mind,but I wanted to lead her away from it if I could."'That's a lie,' says she, 'and you know it.' She wasn't choosing herwords; she was feeling, if you understand. 'He's in love with a prettywaitress that he met for the first time a fortnight ago.'"'That's because she reminds him of you,' I replied, 'or because youremind him of her, whichever you prefer. It shows you're the sort ofwoman he'll always be falling in love with.'"She laughed at that, but the next moment she was serious again. 'Aman's got to fall out of love before he falls into it again,' shereplied. 'I want a man that'll stop there. Besides,' she goes on, 'awoman isn't always young and pretty: we've got to remember that. We wantsomething else in a husband besides eyes.'"'You seem to know a lot about it,' says I."'I've thought a lot about it,' says she."'What sort of husband do you want?' says I."'I want a man of honour,' says she."That was sense. One don't often find a girl her age talking it, but herlife had made her older than she looked. All I could find to say wasthat he appeared to be an honest chap, and maybe was one."'Maybe,' says she; 'that's what I mean to find out. And if you'll do mea kindness,' she adds, 'you won't mind calling me Marie Luthier for thefuture, instead of Godselle. It was my mother's name, and I've a fancyfor it.'"Well, there I left her to work out the thing for herself, having come tothe conclusion she was capable of doing it; and so for another couple ofweeks I merely watched. There was no doubt about his being in love withher. He had entered that Cafe at the beginning of the month with as goodan opinion of himself as a man can conveniently carry without tumblingdown and falling over it. Before the month was out he would sit with hishead between his hands, evidently wondering why he had been born. I'veseen the game played before, and I've seen it played since. A waiter hasplenty of opportunities if he only makes use of them; for if it comes toa matter of figures, I suppose there's more love-making done in a monthunder the electric light of the restaurant than the moon sees in ayear--leastways, so far as concerns what we call the civilised world.I've seen men fooled, from boys without hair on their faces, to old menwithout much on their heads. I've seen it done in a way that was prettyto watch, and I've seen it done in a manner that has made me feel thatgiven a wig and a petticoat I could do it better myself. But never haveI seen it neater played than Marie played it on that young man of hers.One day she would greet him for all the world like a tired child that atlast has found its mother, and the next day respond to him in a stylecalculated to give you the idea of a small-sized empress in misfortunecompelled to tolerate the familiarities of an anarchist. One moment shewould throw him a pout that said as clearly as words: 'What a fool youare not to put your arms round me and kiss me'; and five minutes laterchill him with a laugh that as good as told him he must be blind not tosee that she was merely playing with him. What happened outside theCafe--for now and then she would let him meet her of a morning in theTuileries and walk down to the Cafe with her, and once or twice hadallowed him to see her part of the way home--I cannot tell you: I onlyknow that before strangers it was her instinct to be reserved. I take itthat on such occasions his experiences were interesting; but whether theyleft him elated or depressed I doubt if he could have told you himself."But all the time Marie herself was just going from bad to worse. Shehad come to the Cafe a light-hearted, sweet-tempered girl; now, when shewasn't engaged in her play-acting--for that's all it was, I could seeplainly enough--she would go about her work silent and miserable-looking,or if she spoke at all it would be to say something bitter. Then onemorning after a holiday she had asked for, and which I had given herwithout any questions, she came to business more like her old self than Ihad seen her since the afternoon Master Tom Sleight had appeared upon thescene. All that day she went about smiling to herself; and youngFlammard, presuming a bit too far maybe upon past favours, found himselfsharply snubbed: it was a bit rough on him, the whole thing."'It's come to a head,' says I to myself; 'he has explained everything,and has managed to satisfy her. He's a cleverer chap than I took himfor.'"He didn't turn up at the Cafe that day, however, at all, and she neversaid a word until closing time, when she asked me to walk part of the wayhome with her."'Well,' I says, so soon as we had reached a quieter street, 'is thecomedy over?'"'No,' says she, 'so far as I'm concerned it's commenced. To tell youthe truth, it's been a bit too serious up to now to please me. I'm onlyjust beginning to enjoy myself,' and she laughed, quite her old light-hearted laugh."'You seem to be a bit more cheerful,' I says."'I'm feeling it,' says she; 'he's not as bad as I thought. We went toVersailles yesterday.'"'Pretty place, Versailles,' says I; 'paths a bit complicated if youdon't know your way among 'em.'"'They do wind,' says she."'And there he told you that he loved you, and explained everything?'"'You're quite right,' says she, 'that's just what happened. And then hekissed me for the first and last time, and now he's on his way toAmerica.'"'On his way to America?' says I, stopping still in the middle of thestreet."'To find his wife,' she says. 'He's pretty well ashamed of himself fornot having tried to do it before. I gave him one or two hints how to setabout it--he's not over smart--and I've got an idea he will discoverher.' She dropped her joking manner, and gave my arm a little squeeze.She'd have flirted with her own grandfather--that's my opinion of her."'He was really nice,' she continues. 'I had to keep lecturing myself,or I'd have been sorry for him. He told me it was his love for me thathad shown him what a wretch he had been. He said he knew I didn't carefor him two straws--and there I didn't contradict him--and that herespected me all the more for it. I can't explain to you how he workedit out, but what he meant was that I was so good myself that no one but athoroughly good fellow could possibly have any chance with me, and thatany other sort of fellow ought to be ashamed of himself for daring evento be in love with me, and that he couldn't rest until he had proved tohimself that he was worthy to have loved me, and then he wasn't going tolove me any more.'"'It's a bit complicated,' says I. 'I suppose you understood it?'"'It was perfectly plain,' says she, somewhat shortly, 'and, as I toldhim, made me really like him for the first time.'"'It didn't occur to him to ask you why you had been flirting like avolcano with a chap you didn't like,' says I."'He didn't refer to it as flirtation,' says she. 'He regarded it askindness to a lonely man in a strange land.'"'I think you'll be all right,' says I. 'There's all the makings of agood husband in him--seems to be simple-minded enough, anyhow.'"'He has a very lovable personality when you once know him,' says she.'All sailors are apt to be thoughtless.'"'I should try and break him of it later on,' says I."'Besides, she was a bit of a fool herself, going away and leaving noaddress,' adds she; and having reached her turning, we said good-night toone another."About a month passed after that without anything happening. For thefirst week Marie was as merry as a kitten, but as the days went by, andno sign came, she grew restless and excited. Then one morning she cameinto the Cafe twice as important as she had gone out the night before,and I could see by her face that her little venture was panning outsuccessfully. She waited till we had the Cafe to ourselves, whichusually happened about mid-day, and then she took a letter out of herpocket and showed it me. It was a nice respectful letter containingsentiments that would have done honour to a churchwarden. Thanks toMarie's suggestions, for which he could never be sufficiently grateful,and which proved her to be as wise as she was good and beautiful, he hadtraced Mrs. Sleight, nee Mary Godselle, to Quebec. From Quebec, on thedeath of her uncle, she had left to take a situation as waitress in a NewYork hotel, and he was now on his way there to continue his search. Theresult he would, with Miss Marie's permission, write and inform her. Ifhe obtained happiness he would owe it all to her. She it was who hadshown him his duty; there was a good deal of it, but that's what itmeant."A week later came another letter, dated from New York this time. Marycould not be discovered anywhere; her situation she had left just twoyears ago, but for what or for where nobody seemed to know. What was tobe done?"Mam'sel Marie sat down and wrote him by return of post, and wrote himsomewhat sharply--in broken English. It seemed to her he must bestrangely lacking in intelligence. Mary, as he knew, spoke French aswell as she did English. Such girls--especially such waitresses--hemight know, were sought after on the Continent. Very possibly there wereagencies in New York whose business it was to offer good Continentalengagements to such young ladies. Even she herself had heard of onesuch--Brathwaite, in West Twenty-third Street, or maybe Twenty-fourth.She signed her new name, Marie Luthier, and added a P.S. to the effectthat a right-feeling husband who couldn't find his wife would havewritten in a tone less suggestive of resignation."That helped him considerably, that suggestion of Marie's about the agentBrathwaite. A fortnight later came a third letter. Wonderful to relate,his wife was actually in Paris, of all places in the world! She hadtaken a situation in the Hotel du Louvre. Master Tom expected to be inParis almost as soon as his letter."'I think I'll go round to the Louvre if you can spare me for quarter ofan hour,' said Marie, 'and see the manager.'"Two days after, at one o'clock precisely, Mr. Tom Sleight walked intothe Cafe. He didn't look cheerful and he didn't look sad. He had beento the 'Louvre'; Mary Godselle had left there about a year ago; but hehad obtained her address in Paris, and had received a letter from herthat very morning. He showed it to Marie. It was short, and not wellwritten. She would meet him in the Tuileries that evening at seven, bythe Diana and the Nymph; he would know her by her wearing the onyx broochhe had given her the day before their wedding. She mentioned it wasonyx, in case he had forgotten. He only stopped a few minutes, and bothhe and Marie spoke gravely and in low tones. He left a small case in herhands at parting; he said he hoped she would wear it in remembrance ofone in whose thoughts she would always remain enshrined. I can't tellyou what he meant; I only tell you what he said. He also gave me a veryhandsome walking-stick with a gold handle--what for, I don't know; I takeit he felt like that."Marie asked to leave that evening at half-past six. I never saw herlooking prettier. She called me into the office before she went. Shewanted my advice. She had in one hand a beautiful opal brooch set indiamonds--it was what he had given her that morning--and in her otherhand the one of onyx."'Shall I wear them both?' asked she, 'or only the one?' She was halflaughing, half crying, already."I thought for a bit. 'I should wear the onyx to-night,' I said, 'byitself.'"

Previous Authors：The Woman of the Sæter Next Authors：Variety Patter