Below the Salt

Front matter

BY THE SAME AUTHOR Price 3s. net, in cloth ; or, in ornamental wrapper, 2s. 6d. net (Pioneer Series) George Mandeville's Husband The Athenæum.— "The chief merit ofthe book lies in the portrait of the husband. . . . There is very great dramatic propriety in many of the little touches which indicate his nature, and contrast it with his wife's. ... A most excellent and powerful piece of work." The Pall Mall Gazette. — " This novel is a good novel, and it is to be sincerely hoped will not occasion a storm of blasts and counterblasts, ns we fear it may. ... Its author is a very able writer, and a keen, if rather brutal, satirist." The Literary World.— " Mr. Heinemann has certainly 'struck oil' in 'George Mandeville's Husband.' . . . This story of paternal love will stick in the memory of every one who reads it."

The World. — " Mingled humour, pathos, just protest, and unanswer able, straightforward, strong common-sense, in a style refreshingly vivid, realistic, and effective." The Guardian. — "A novel of rare concentration, combined with powerful delineation of character, English." and told in the most admirable The New Moon The Daily Chronicle. — "It is a simple, poignant soul-drama, worked out entirely by three characters, a man and two women, one of whom remains to the last ignorant of the part she is playing. . . . A story that moves us ", and we must own to having read the last pages of ' Ihe New Moun' with breathless interest and emotion." The World. — " The plot of this story of a great friendship between a man and a woman is original and uncomplicated ; the narration of it is simple, eloquent, and artistic ; the tone is pure and poetical.

There is a problem in it, but it is none the worse for that — no faint praise, surely." The Daily News. — " It is a moving story, and in the supreme crisis it vibrates v\ ith restrained passion. The crisis is all the more im pressive that the note of triumph and purity rings through its anguish." The Saturday Review.— "The emotional phases are drawn with amazing force and sympathy. The book is a profoundly moving one, seizing hold of the reader from the very outset, and it makes a worthy member of what promises to be a very brilliant company of story-books indeed." LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN 21 Bedford Street, W.C. By . i. C. E. Raimond London William Heinemann . \.t • (ghti K&savett CONTENTS Pnc-c A lucky Sixpence '. i Confessions of a Cruel Mistress . 41 The Portman Memoirs — Only Mati is Vile . . -75 AJy Secon' 'Usban . .

Part I

We all know people who get through life credit ably enough on the strength of some preposterous illusion. It may be there is no one engaged in the business of living who succeeds on any other terms. Whether it be an undefined suspicion that the illusory is the essential, or a pardonable craving for a little amusement by the way, certain it is that many of us are constrained to minister to the favourite fancy of our brethren when once we have tracked the shy secret home. In this wise is the miracle wrought that the inmost desire of the heart, the airy nothing of a dream, becomes the most practical factor in existence, wearing without a blush or a misgiving the face of fact triumphant. Who on first seeing Mrs. Julia Toms could be expected to know that her blameless and toilsome existence was illuminated by the conviction that she was a disturber of men's souls — a new Helen of Troy ?

Mrs. Toms is a lady of forty-six summers, of shy demeanour and uncertain aspirates. She wends her way proudly through the humbler walks of life, conscious of superiority, and bearing meekly the burden of her fatal fascination. She is considerably below average height, has a bright, rather veiny complexion, and a nice face in spite of a round and somewhat shapeless nose. She has small bright dark eyes, and astonishingly little hair, her hands big and red, her feet of wandering and eccentric outlines; yet I would not suggest that they were prone to stray. "Thro' hall I have kept my h-honour," she will say — and one quite believes her. To a comparatively slight acquaintance she is apt to speak with devotion and with tears of her dead husband. You will hear that her heart is nailed down in his coffin.

Certainly Mr. Henry Toms was an excellent creature, who made much of his amiable wife, bought her pretty clothes, and called her his " Princess." What can a man do more ? Verily such an one has his reward. " I can never forget my noble 'usband," says Mrs. Toms, with the ready tear. "The bare idea of marrying again would be a sacrifice," and the awestruck tone betrays that she thinks she is saying " sacrilege." She has views upon jealousy too, as the necessary concomitant of love. " People used to say Mr. Toms was a perfect Othella. I never dared look at a man while he was alive. But I don't blame him for that. It's wot a woman must expect w'en a man worships 'er like my 'usband did me. ' My darling Princess,' 'e used to say, ' I can't 'ave you walking out unless I go to look after you.' " " ' W'y, dear 'Enry ? ' I'd say.

" ' Don't you notice 'ow all the men turns round as you pass ? ' " ' Do they ? ' I'd ask quite innocent. " 'Wait till I can come and protect you,' 'e'd say. "'There is wicked people in the world that you don't suspect, my Juliet;' and that was 'ow 'e took care o' me. If anybody 'ad 'ave come between 'im and me, my 'usband " (a step forward and an abortive thrust of the red right hand), " my 'usband would 'ave stabbed 'im. Oh yes, 'Enry couldn't 'ave bore that." " I suppose not." " Not to 'ave anybody interlope. Oh never ! " At Mr. Toms' death, his Princess was flung from the lap of luxury to the low estate of lodging-house keeper. " It was an awfil change for me. My 'usband would never 'ave let me so demean myself if 'e'd been alive. But bein' dead, w'at was I to do ? I moved into a most fashionable street and took a large splendid 'ouse — I should say a mansion, and I let rooms to single gentlemen.

You see I 'ad no knowledge o' the world and no idea o' wickedness." 129 She groaned gently. "W'en my friends remon sterated I said, 'Don't be afraid. I 'ave engaged good servants, and I myself shall never be visible.'" (This condition she pronounced not in the common way, but, with characteristic elegance, ' visibil '). " That's wot I promised, and I never was visibil. Old Victoria used to show the apartments and answer the bells. I did the cooking. I used to wear a black silk with a big apron over it and a w'ite Eton collar and cuffs. My 'usband used to say, ' Black looks so 'andsome on my darling.' Though I'd always a liking for colours myself." " But if no one ever saw you — ? " "No, never — that was my rule. Of course sometimes the gentlemen would ask w'ere the lady o' the 'ouse was, but old Victoria would say, ' My mistress isn't visibil, sir.' I'm not saying there wasn't people like Major Grelling. 'E come one evening after dinner an' 'e says very masterful to old Victoria, ' I don't make arrangements with no body but the landlady.

I must see 'er.' " So I 'ad to go up, just as I was, in my simpil black silk with my Eton collar and wide cuffs. W'en 'e seen me, 'e sits down straddle-legged on one o' my brocade chairs and 'e says, ' By God ! you're not the landlady o' this great 'andsome 'ouse ? ' "'Yes,' I says" (she crosses her hands and minces her words delicately), "'Wot do you re quire ? ' " ' My ' 'e says with a big oath (it's the way with militry gentlemen you know). ' W'y, by — you're a mere child.' " ' I'm older than you think,' I says. " ' I think you're devilish good-looking. " 'Don't insult me, sir. I'm a widow.' Well, 'e engaged the first floor front and back." "That was satisfactory." " Ah ! so I thought. You see, my 'usband always shielded me so. I didn't understand the craft of men." " Oh, the Major was crafty ?

" " Well, now, wasn't 'e ? 'E'd seen me out in my widow's weeds taking the air on the parade, and that was why 'e took the drawing-room suite. Oh, the wickedness of this world ! I 'ad to turn 'im out the second day." " A paying lodger like that ? " "You don't know what the militry's like. 'E tried to kiss me in the 'all. So I 'ad to write 'im a dignified note, and I let the drawing-room suite to Captain O'Bally. 'E 'ad a fair beard, ' the Torpedo clip ' the militry called it — 'e was a lo-o-vely fellow ! Ah ! ! ! " she smiles with a far-away look. "And you never heard any more of poor Major Grelling ?" " Yes, oh yes. One night old Victoria came down into the kitchen and says, ' There's a lady, ma'am, wishes to see you most pertickeller.' " So I went up jest as I was in my simpil black with my 'air dressed pompydore.

" 'Are you Mrs. Toms ? ' says the lady. The Fatal Gift os Beauty " 'I am,' says I. " ' Do you know Major Grelling ? ' "'Yes.' "'Well, 'e's dead,' says she, and I caught 'old o' one o' the 'andsome carved chairs I 'ad in the 'all. "'Yes, dead,' says she, 'and the last word on 'is dyin' lips was your name. 'E was delirious for two days — clean out of his 'ead about you — callin' for Mrs. Toms, Mrs. Toms.' " ' 'Ush,' says I; ' the 'ouse is full of militry; speak lower.' " ' I didn't know then oo Mrs. Toms was,' says she, ' so I couldn't come for you.' " ' It's as well you didn't,' I says. "'Why,' says she, "e worshipped you.' " ' That may be,' says I. " ' Do ye know oo I am ? ' says she. "'No.' " ' I'm 'is 'ousekeeper, and I've a son ten year old that 'e's the father of.' "'I wouldn't mention it,' I says; 'I'm a respectable woman.' "Then to change the conversation I asked 'er wot Major Grelling died of.

"She looked at me quite terribil, and said 'The doctors didn't name it.' " " What did she mean ? " " Can't you see ? When I sent 'im off like that, 'e went away and took poison or something. Ah-h ! they're so 'igh-spirited, the militry. Captain O'Bally was nearly as bad, and the vegetarians — well, the vegetarians was worse." " I never heard of a military vegetarian." "They wasn't militry. They was only Indians — spoke a kind of English, but quite black, you know, and ate rice and slops. They'd come to the Vegetarian Conference. I only took them in as a special favour to Captain O'Bally — three of them. Mr. Gumbi was the best looking, and not so deep black as the rest. And his eyes ! They went through you like a knife. Lovely great black startlers ! And I 7iever saw such beautiful teeth. They were so white they fairly took your breath away.

Oh, the time I 'ad with them vegetarians ! " " Really ? I thought vegetarians were such mild people." " Don't you make any mistake. If they say so, that's their craftiness. Being a vegetarian doesn't interfere with powers and passions." " You surprise me." "Oh, you should just 'ave seen Mr. Gumbi. The very first day 'e comes thro' the 'all towards me like a lean black vulture. 'E flies up and lays 'is thin brown 'and on mine, and says 'e, 'What a fine colour you 'ave, my dear.' " ' Go away, Mr. Gumbi,' says I. "'Why, I've just come,' says 'e, and 'e squeezes my 'ands something dreadfil. Then I pull my self away and run upstairs as if the devil was after me. I only looked round once, and I see 'is teeth shining 'orrible. Ha ! no more vegetarians for me ! " " Was that the last of Mr. Gumbi ?

" "No; the next morning, w'en all the gentlemen 'ad gone out, I sent old Victoria to market, and I went upstairs to 'ave a look round. When I got to the second flight, I 'eard footsteps, quiet and stealing. I looked up, and there was Mr. Gumbi comin' down very soft and 'olding something shining against 'is chest (like this). My legs shook so, I couldn't run away. 'E came on down and took my 'ands. " " How could he do that when he was holding something ? " "'Aven't you never 'eard o' the jugglery they 'ave out in India ? Of course e'd swallowed it or put it up 'is sleeve. I don't know 'ow they do it. But I saw something shining when I first looked up — plain as day." " Perhaps he was only smiling." "No, no; you may depend upon it 'e was comin' downstairs with 'is dagger. Wen 'e takes 'old o' my 'ands — " 'You're warm,' says 'e. " ' Don't touch me with your cold 'ands, Mr. Gumbi,' says I, and I try to withdraw.

"'Ush!' says 'e, and 'is eyes makes me shake. ' Do you know what cold 'ands means ? ' " "He must have heard the English saying, 'Cold hands are a sign of a warm heart.' " "No, no; not 'e; an 'eathen like that, and a vegetarian too! 'Is eyes was like balls of fire, and 'e — 'e tried to kiss me. " ' Wait, Mr. Gumbi,' says I. ' I 'ear my friend callin'. Wait jest a moment, Mr. Gumbi,' and I got away and ran downstairs and out o' the 'ouse, and didn't come back all day." " Where did you go ? " " To my lady friend Miss Young'usband. Per'aps you think 'er name's queer, but she was an old maid and very partickeller. " ' What's 'appened ? ' says she. " ' Oh, it's Mr. Gumbi,' says I. ' It's them 'eathen vegetarians. After this I'll never believe in a man that can't eat a good honest plate of beef,' and I fell down on the carpet and swooned.

So Miss Young'usband 'ad to go in the evening and send Mr. Gumbi away. She said she wasn't afraid of all the vegetarians in England and India. Ah ! well, you see, she was fifty-eight ! " I came to see my friends were right. Such an 'ouseful of single gentlemen was no place for me. I 'ad to give it up, 'as you know, and come to London to Mrs. Elling'am as under-'ousekeeper. She's a New York lady, but she gets on very well with Mr. Elling'am. 'E seems rather fond of 'er, though to my taste she 'as a pale, faded kind o' face. "It was very 'ard for me to be in a position like that after 'aving my own 'ouse. W'en I went back 'ome on a visit, I used to put on my deep mourning again, though my dear 'Enry 'ad been gone seven years. I used to 'ave a thick veil over my face, and I'd 'old my parasol low so no one could reconise me and ask wot I was doin' in London.

One day I met my old clergyman. I tried to 'urry by, but 'e steps up an' says — " ' Are you not Mrs. Toms ? ' " ' Yes, sir,' I says low under my veil so no one else should 'ear. 'E'd always noticed me a great deal. "E'll think I'm changed,' I said to myself. " ' Excuse me,' I says, and I try to pass. " But 'e wouldn't let me. " ' We're going the same way,' says 'e, and I 'ad to walk beside 'im. 'E did nothing but ask me questions. I could see 'e'd never lost interest. But it was painfil — very painfil. You can't evoid a clergyman. " At my brother's gate 'e stopped. "'There's nothing to be ashamed of in h-honest work,' 'e says. ' I only 'ope you're living with a good Christian lady.' " I didn't quite know what to answer to that, so I says — "'Well, sir, she's an American " 'E said 'e'd pray for me.

" Mrs. Elling'am 'as treated me very considerate. She knows I've seen better days. Still I don't think she liked it when Mr. Elling'am remarked on my colour. She asked me 'ow I'd like to go next The Fatal Gift os Beauty winter and look after her bachelor brother's 'ouse in New York. " ' I don't see why I shouldn't,' I says. ' I've got nothing to keep me in England except a grave, that I've spent £200 on. People said I oughtn't 'ave ; but there ! I'm like that.' "

Part II

Mrs. Toms' friends may have pardoned their sur prise if, after the seven years' mourning for 'Enry, they are suddenly confronted with the true story of Mr. Algernon Charles Cooper. " Wot would you think," Mrs. Toms burst out one day with shy suddenness, " wot would you say if, instead of me going to America next winter, I was to get married 'ere ? " The " 'ere " flashed an in genuous light. " Married ! to whom ? " " You see this photo in my broach ? " " Your husband, isn't it ? " " Not yet," she said, casting down her little dark eyes shyly with a maid-of-sixteen air. " He's nice-looking ! " said the interlocutor en couragingly. " Ah ! the photo's faded — but the man ! Nowoman can resist 'im." " Except you, I suppose ? " "The way I stood out ngainst 'im was something The Fatal Gift os Beauty h'unnatural, 'e used to say.

I says, 'No, it's my mother's prayers.' " " Where is he now ? What's his name ? " " I can't tell you. I promised faithfil I'd never divulge." " But if you marry him, won't you have to divulge ? " "Not w'ile 'is mother's alive. It's only that as keeps us apart. 'E's got a big 'ouse in Berwick Terrace, w'ere they live — at least, they used to." " How long since you've seen him ? " " Three years. But if it was thirty it wouldn't change 'im nor me. I've 'ad it in my 'ead lately 'e must be dying or something. I dream about 'im every night. I think I must go to Berwick Terrace and ask 'ow 'e is, in spite of 'is mother." " Does he write to you ? " " Not just lately. It's three years since I 'ad the last. Oh, 'e was right — I treated 'im very 'ard. 'E was my first lodger. 'E was with me over two years, and led me such a life."

" How was that ? " " Well, you see, I was new at letting. 'Enry 'adn't been gone but a few months, and I didn't know a thing about wickedness." " Was the first lodger wicked ? " " 'Im ! Oh no ! 'e was a perfect gentleman." "Ah!" " And very rich and generous. Well, 'e used to 'ave 'is money lying about 'is room in 'caps. When I'd send up my bill, 'e used to call me in and point to the money on the table and say, ' 'Elp yourself! ' (just like that), and then 'e'd turn 'is back." "That was a little odd. Why didn't he pay his bill?" " That was 'is craft, you see. 'E wanted to get me in 'is power." " I thought you said he wasn't wicked.' " 'E wasn't wicked ! 'e was in love." "Oh!" "Something terribil ! 'Aven't I told you ? Be sides this 'andsome private gentleman, my 'ouse was full of young officers, lovely fellows ! and, well — they were all like that."

" All in love and all crafty ? " " Yes, different ways. Some 'ad more power to conceal. There was Colonel Chalk. 'E wasn't young, but 'eaven forgive 'im the life 'e led me. 'E " " But about the man in the brooch ? " "Ah ! 'e used to say 'e couldn't live without me. 'E got so 'e'd ring 'is bell a dozen times a day." "What for?" " Oh, for me ! 'e didn't want nothing else." " I thought you said you were never visible." " Never — as a rule. Only 'e'd say to the servant w'ile she'd be clearing away 'is dinner things, ' My compliments to Mrs. Toms, and say I didn't ring for you. It's the mistress o' the 'ouse I want.' Of course, then I 'ad to go up and see 'im. 'E was very sensitive if I didn't come. I never used to go in farther than this" (illustrating how half a human body may be in a room and the other half left out side in the passage).

" I would be in my simpil black silk and Eton collar. 'E said to me once, w'en 'e was in one of 'is fits, ' You drive me out of my mind with your black silks and your white collars.' Well, they are becoming to one of my style, as poor dear 'Enry always said. 'E would look at me o' Sundays, 'Enry would, and say, ' My Princess.' " " But about the man in the brooch ? " " Oh, well, I'd stand like this, and 'e'd say — " ' Come in and sit down and be sociabil.' " 'No,' I'd say; 'this is as far as I'd better ad venture.' " ' Oh, don't say that ! Come in and 'ave a glass of wine." " ' I'll 'ave all the wine I want downstairs,' I'd say, ' and I must go and 'elp with the other dinners.' " ' 'Elp with the dinners ! ' 'E was very angry always at my naming anything like that. Oh, 'e was a proud man ! " ' 'Elp with the dinners !

Let the 'irelings get the other dinners. I can't stand you slaving away at menial work. A woman like you ! W'y, if you was my wife, you shouldn't lift a finger. Do come in and 'ave a glass o' wine.' " You see 'e meant it all very kind. But you can't think the things I went thro' with that man. Others too, of course. But this one used to watch me like of Beauty a cat watches a mouse. I couldn't stir a step, couldn't speak to a soul, without 'is knowing and making the greatest alarm. Just to keep peace (with all those militry in the 'ouse), I used to take off my shoes when I 'ad to go up and down stairs, so 'e wouldn't 'ear me goin' by. Oh, the things that 'ave 'appened to me ! I come in one night from church. I 'ad on a w'ite cashmere trimmed with crepe and a black butterfly bonnet. The minute I came in the door, I seen 'im waitin' for me in the beautiful wide 'all with a carved table, and two chairs fit for bishops ! — the entrance was a noble entrance, as my sister Mrs. Lynch always said."

"Well, this man was waiting?" " Yes ; I was all of a shake, and I says — " 'You'll 'ave the goodness to let me pass.' With that 'e caught 'old o' me. I tried to get away, but 'e 'ad a man's strent-th, and a poor little creature like me, wot was I to do ? " ' I can't stand it,' 'e says. ' You go and get your self up in w'ite just to tantalise me.' ""Ush! I 'ear the militry listening over the bannisters,' says I. " 'Wot do I care for the militry ? It's you I care for, and 'ere you are in w'ite with a butterfly bonnet. You must take the consequences.' " ' Oh ! ' I says, ' don't pull me 'air down.' "'It's more than flesh and blood can stand,' 'e says, and 'e throws my butterfly bonnet in the corner. " ' Don't, don't ! ' I says ; ' it's only 'alf mourning ; ' but 'e was fair crazy, an' 'e tore that w'ite cashmere dress to bits.

Ah ! love is a terribil thing. "Well, just after that 'is mother and an old aunt came to the 'ouse. I didn't take ladies — that was my rule. But I thought — with a mother and an old aunt, per'aps 'e'll be'ave. " But 'is mother insulted me the very first day. She rang the bell twice very 'ard, and sent for me. The servant, old Victoria, said, 'The mistress is not visibil.' 'Tell 'er to come this instant,' says the old lady. Well, bein' 'is mother, I thought I'd go. I 'ad on a black brocade with accordean pleated skirt. I entered over the threshold and " (she folds her hands and tilts her head stiffly) " I says — " ' You wish to see the mistress o' the 'ouse ? ' " ' I want the landlady,' says 'is mother, quite 'arsh and very loud. " ' I'm the landlady ' (she speaks with a mincing elegance). " ' You ! don't talk nonsense.' " ' It's not nonsense,' I says. ' Per'aps you think I'm too young.

I'm thirty-nine, but I can't expect you to believe it.' " ' Are you goin' to a party ? ' says she. " ' No,' says I — ' I'm always like this.' " ' Well,' says she, 'it isn't what I was told ' (you see 'is craft ?) ' And you oughtn't to look like that ■keeping a lodging-'ouse for single gentlemen.' " ' Can I 'elp my looks ? ' I says. os Beauty " ' Yes, you can,' says she, quite out of 'er mind. ' It isn't proper.' " ' Don't insult me, madam,' I says. ' Maybe I'll be as old and ugly some day — as other people.' She was took down a little by that. " ' It isn't the 'ouse I expected,' says she. " ' Wot's the matter with the 'ouse ? There isn't a finer in the place.' " ' No,' says she, ' it's very 'andsome, but not like a lodging-'ouse." " ' Everybody 'as to say so,' I told 'er. ' It's more of a mansion than anything else, and you can go from top to bottom and find taste and good furniture everyw'ere.

Will you come into the drawing-room ? ' says I. " ' No,' says she ; ' I can imagine wot it's like.' ""Ardly!" says I. 'It's all in red plush, with Indian things scattered careless. Nobody ever takes it for a lodging-'ouse. I've got a window filled with religious glass, and a stuffed bird nearly as big as me. You should see 'ow surprised strangers is always at the taste of that room.' " ' We shall keep to our own rooms,' says she. I could see 'ow select 'is family was. " ' I'm sure you'll like these apartments,' I says. ' You'll find everything 'andsome in your bedrooms. The gentlemen 'ere all says there's no 'ouse w'ere they get such beautifil spring mattrasses and every compliance.' " ' Wot ? ' says she, still very peppery. " ' Everything is comfortable and 'andsome,' I says, ' patent blinds and gas all thro' — every compliance.

You noticed per'aps the stairs is so wide, four people could come up abreast.' " ' Will you take them ornaments off the mantelpiece ? ' says she. ' I'm afraid I'll break them. That's all I want at present.' " Well, after 'is mother and 'is aunt went away (they got to be very fond of me, and were always ringing for me) — after that 'e got worse and worse. Oh, you may think some of the things in novels doesn't 'appen ! You'd believe anything if you knew wot I'd been through. "W'y, I was coming along one night after dinner with a cup of coffee for Captain O'Bally. 'E 'ad the sitting-room just be'ind Mr. Co — the gentle man in my broach. Captain O'Bally was a lovely fellow. Ah ! 'e used to send his coffee down with out tasting it if I didn't bring it up to 'im. So this night, as usual, I was comin ' along with the coffee-cup in me 'and, and me shoes in the other, so that Mr. — the other one — shouldn't 'ear, w'en out 'e bursts and seizes 'old o' me.