# McClure's Magazine/Volume 56/Number 2/Molly's Aunt at Angmering

Illustration: Armed with a bunch of flowers that were not in their first youth, Jim advanced toward Marie
Molly's Aunt at Angmering
Jim Maitland Finds the Girl—and Loses His Nerve
By Major H. C. McNeile illustrations by G. W. Gage
THE last of these chronicles of that prince of wanderers, Jim Maitland, as is only meet and proper, caused the cessation of his wanderings and turned him into an orderly member of society. For he found her—did Jim. He found his girl—the girl he had last seen in the hotel at Tampico. The Fate that juggles the pieces gave the wheel another twist—a kindly twist—and the harbor for which old Jim in his heart of hearts had been steering through long years hove in sight. And now there was Molly—bless her—at the helm.
Great happiness is apt to make one a bit selfish, I think, and somehow or other Jim and his quest had slipped a little into the background of my mind. As he had said to me, with a shrug of his shoulders and an apparent indifference which failed to deceive, what chance was there of finding her—that girl who was never absent for long from his mind? And even if he did find her—what then? She hated and despised him. And I had agreed: the odds against finding her were long. Also I had forgotten, for such is the way of a man in love himself.
And then suddenly one afternoon it happened. At first I could hardly believe my eyes; I said to myself that it was merely an astonishing likeness. But after a moment or two I knew that it was no mistake—the girl talking to Molly was Jim's girl.
It was a hat shop—Chez Bernie it was called—and Molly had taken me there for the purpose of disregarding my advice. It appeared that she often came to this shop. It was run by a lady who had built up the business herself. Moreover, she was a dear; had struggled through a bad time and now had made good. Sheila Bernie was her name, and from the corner to which I had retired I saw Sheila Bernie come out from an inner sanctum and greet Molly. And Sheila Bernie was the girl I had known as Sheila Blair—the wife of Raymond Blair, drunken derelict.
Molly called me up to introduce me, and for a moment Jim's girl—in my mind I always called her that—stared at me with a puzzled frown.
“Surely,” she said hesitatingly, “we have met somewhere.”
I bowed and took her hand.
“Tampico,” I said. “In the South Seas.” I heard her catch her breath, and then I went on: “Mr. Maitland and I landed in London about a month ago.”
I knew that Molly was looking from one to the other of us, but she didn't make any fool remark about the world being small, since she is that rare manner of human who knows when to speak and when not to.
“Will you tell Mr. Maitland,” said the girl quietly, “that I made a very grave mistake which I have never ceased regretting. I can quite understand that he will find it impossible to forgive me, but I had no method of communicating with him.”
“I shall certainly tell him,” I assured her. “But is there any reason, Mrs. Blair, why you shouldn't tell him yourself?”
For a moment she hesitated, then: “I am here every day from nine till five.”
She turned to Molly, but for the first and last time in her life Molly's interest in hats seemed to have waned. Tea was her sole thought, and she would come back again tomorrow when she had more time. So tea it was, and at tea came the inquisition.
“TELL me everything, Dick. Why did you call her Mrs. Blair? I've known her now for two years; I've stayed with her sometimes in a little bungalow she's got down in Sussex. And she's never mentioned the fact that she was married.”
“Her husband died some years ago,” I said quietly, and my thoughts went back to that sun-drenched dusty street in Tampico. “It's an amazing, an incredible coincidence—running into her this afternoon. You see, there has never been another woman in Jim's life since he met her. And I think he'd given up all hope of ever seeing her again.”
And then I told her the whole story. I told her of Tampico, of its loneliness and its rottenness; I told her of the human derelicts who died their drink-sodden deaths in it. And I told her of Raymond Blair.
“In your life, Molly,” I said, “you've probably never come across such a case. You've seen men tight, maybe, and on that you've based your ideas of drunkenness. Blair was a crawling, pitiful thing; he wasn't a man at all. When the drink was out of him there was no depth to which he wouldn't sink to get it; when the drink was in him—and this is the point I want to make clear—he was almost normal. In fact, he had got into the last and final stage of the drunkard.”
“And that was Sheila's husband?” said Molly, very low.
“That was her husband,” I answered gravely. “She wasn't out there with him, and she thought he was a trader in a big way. In fact, she used to send out money to him every month to help him expand his business. How she got it I don't know—but it went down his throat, right enough.”
“What a brute!” cried Molly.
“When a man gets to that condition, my dear, he's dead to every sense of decency. And things might have gone on till he died without her ever finding out, but for the fact that she suddenly decided to come out herself to see her husband. She arrived with Jim—he looked after her on the way out. And that was when I met him first.”
“And what was the husband doing?”
“Raymond Blair was in a saloon reciting nursery rhymes for the benefit of a bunch of loafers, and crawling on the floor like a dog to get the nickels they flung at him in their contempt.”
“How awful!” whispered Molly.
“You see the drink was out of him, and that was the problem.”
And then I briefly sketched for her the fight in Dutch Joe's gin hall and the council of war in MacAndrew's house.
“There he was—a jibbering, crawling thing; and waiting for him at the hotel was his wife, utterly unsuspecting—his wife, the woman Jim loved. Don't make any mistake about that point—Jim loved her, and she wasn't far off loving Jim. But she was straight, and she was white, and she had come out to join her husband. It was Jim who decided. He might have taken Blair to the hotel as he was, and then waited for the inevitable end that could not be long delayed. But he didn't; he gave the man a bottle of gin and turned him into something comparatively normal.
“You see, as I've told you before, with Blair the position of things was reversed. Blair drunk was normal; Blair sober was just a dreadful nightmare. And it seemed to Jim that it was the only way of playing the game. But you could hardly expect the girl to understand that. What Blair said to her—I don't know. I suppose she found him peculiar and changed; I suppose he tried to make some pitiful excuse. At any rate, she found out that he had just drunk a complete bottle of gin. He'd gone to the hotel with Jim, and it was Jim she blamed. She thought he'd deliberately gone out of his way to make her husband drunk. Which was no more than the truth, but not for the reason which she imagined.
“I suppose she knew Jim was in love with her and thought he hoped by this method to blacken her husband in her eyes. So she called Jim a cur, and told him she never wished to see him again. And Jim never said a word, nor would he let MacAndrew or me explain. He just stood there until she'd finished—and at the top of the stairs stood her husband with his hands shaking and his lips trembling and a look of pitiable entreaty in his eyes. One could almost hear him saying, 'Don't give me away.' And Jim didn't. He turned on his heel and went out into the night, and he's never seen her since that day. We went off together next morning on the boat.”
“But it was big, Dick—big,” said Molly, and her eyes were shining. “And she knows now, anyway.”
“Yes—she knows now,” I answered. “During the remaining six months of Blair's life she must have seen him sober fairly often. And maybe MacAndrew put her wise later.”
“So it's all come right, after all!” cried Molly. “You'll tell Jim, and he'll go around and they'll meet again.”
“I shall tell Jim, right enough,” I answered. “But he's a queer, proud sort of blighter, you know, and——”
“You don't mean to say,” interrupted Molly, “that you think he'll be such an ass as to stick in his toes and jib!”
“Dash it all,” I said rather feebly, “you must admit that it's a bit galling to a fellow to be abused like a pickpocket for doing one of the whitest things he could possibly have done.”
“That was years ago!” cried Molly scornfully. “He ought to have forgotten all about it by this time.”
“Well, he hasn't,” I said. “Besides, how do you know that she is in love with him?”
“Because I saw her face when you mentioned his name.”
“You weren't looking at her; you were looking at me.”
“MY dear boy,” said Molly kindly, “don't expose your limitations too much. These things are a little beyond you. I have definitely decided that Jim and Sheila Bernie—or Blair, whichever you prefer—are to be married on the same day we are. You will therefore tell him where she is to be found, and if necessary conduct him to her shop tomorrow morning personally. You will then leave them alone, and engage a table for four at the Ritz for lunch.”
“Everything shall be as you say,” I murmured, and consumed a cup of cold tea.
And up to a point it was. I dined with Jim that night, and over the port I told him.
“I've some wonderful news for you, old man. Whom do you think I saw this afternoon?”
He sat very still, staring at me.
“She's running a hat shop down in Sloane Street. I was in there with Molly today. And she wants to see you—to apologize for the mistake she made in Tampico.”
“You've seen her, Dick?” he said at length. “Tell me—how does she look?”
“Prettier than ever, as you'll see for youself tomorrow morning.” For the life of me I couldn't keep my voice quite steady, there was such a wonderful look in old Jim's eyes, “You're to go around,” I went on gruffly, “and you are to bring her to lunch with Molly and me at the Ritz. It's all fixed up.”
He gave a little whimsical smile and laid his hand on mv shoulder as we strolled out of the dining room.
“Methinks I see the work of one Molly in that arrangement, Dick, my boy. Bless both your hearts.”
At the door instinctively our eyes went up to the star-studded sky of the soft May night.
“Fine weather, old Dick; fine weather in front—and happy days behind,” he said. “Surely the world is good.”
And with the grip of his hand still on mine, we separated.
NOW what on earth more could I have done than that? I'd given him the address of the hat shop; I'd told him she wanted to see him, and, short of taking him there in a taxi and pushing him through the door, I fail to see that I deserved the withering contempt poured on me next day by Molly at the Ritz.
“I've got a table for four——” I began brightly, as I saw her.
“Then you can countermand it,” she remarked, "and order one for two.”
“Good heavens!” I cried. “You don't mean to say that they've gone and messed it up.”
Molly gurgled suddenly.
“When you see him you ask him why he doesn't buy his matches wholesale in future. It would save such a lot of time.”
“When you've quite finished talking in riddles,” I murmured, “perhaps you'll condescend to explain.”
Once again she gurgled.
“Oh, Dick—what an angel he is! We were both up in the workroom,” she continued gleefully, “watching——”
“What on earth were you doing there?”
“Buying hats, Silly, and other things—and talking generally. Suddenly we saw him getting out of a taxi about fifty yards away. Dick, he had on a top hat and he looked too beautiful. He looked at the numbers of the houses, and then very slowly he started to walk toward the shop. He got slower and slower, and finally he stopped altogether. And that was when he bought his first box of matches, I presume, because he went into a tobacconist's.
“However, after about five minutes he emerged rapidly crossed the road, strode furiously down the other side as if no such place as Bernie's existed, and bought another box of matches from an old man selling them in the gutter. Then he crossed to our side of the street again, and went to ground in another tobacconist's—more matches.
“And then the poor old thing lost his head completely. He rushed straight past the door of the shop, and vanished into the blue. It was a full quarter of an hour before he appeared again, looking thoroughly grim and determined. In one hand he held a large bunch of flowers that were not in their first youth and, armed with them, he advanced to the door. Marie was below—she's the assistant—and she greeted him with her best shop manner.
“Poor lamb! It was too pathetic. We were both just out of sight, listening hard. Was Miss Bernie in? Marie believed so, but she would see. Did monsieur wish to see her particularly, for at this hour Mademoiselle Bernie was generally busy? My dear! He clutched at it. Horrible coward! It didn't matter at all; he wouldn't dream of worrying mademoiselle if she was busy. Another time would do just as well. Perhaps Marie would give her these flowers. Then he took out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead; boxes of matches flew in all directions, and he bolted like a maniac—to return no more.”
“But why didn't Mrs. Blair go out and speak to him?” I demanded indignantly.
Illustration: I had one fleeting glimpse of her adjusting the ear trumpet and Jim's look of fixed horror
“Why didn't she?” said Molly. “Because, my dear, she loves him. And no woman wants the man she loves to see her for the first time when her eyes are wet.”
“Oh!” I grunted foolishly. “I see.”
“Just tears of joy, Dick. But they're quite as bad for the complexion as the ordinary brand. So when she was sure he wasn't coming back, she just picked up the boxes of matches slowly and kissed the flowers and put them in water, and then shut up the shop for the day.”
“And what happens now?” I asked.
“I shall take the matter in hand myself,” she remarked casually. “Though if it wasn't for the fact that I have decided on a double wedding, I would let things take their natural course. He richly deserves to be kept on tenterhooks for at least six months after his revolting display of cowardice this morning. But since time is getting short, something has got to be done at once. I think—yes, I think you had: better take a little motor trip in Sussex, Dick, and bring Jim with you. Take enough clothes for the week-end, and bathing suits.”
“And to which portion of Sussex am I to go?”
“IT'S close to a little place called Angmering,” she said. “A charming bungalow with a strip of garden running down to the sea. I shall be there, and——”
“Mrs. Blair's bungalow,” I announced brightly.
“What wonderful brain power!” remarked Molly. “But you're not to tell Jim that, or he'll funk it again. Just bring him down and arrive tomorrow afternoon. Say I'm stopping with my aunt. Now, pay the bill and buzz off. You're to keep the patient amused today, but don't let him get feverish.”
So I buzzed off to find Jim at his club, displaying every symptom of profound melancholia.
“Well,” I said, affecting not to notice his anguished expression, “how did you find Mrs. Blair?”
“She was too busy to see me, old boy,” he said sheepishly. “She's always busy in the morning, I was told.”
“You confounded old liar!” I cried. “*You know perfectly well that you ratted horribly. You were in a pea-green funk and all the traces still remain.”
“It seemed so different this morning, somehow,” he said in an abashed voice. “Do you think I ought to try again this afternoon, Dick?”
“She's gone out of London for the week-end,” I remarked at once, and the look of the reprieved prisoner appeared on his face. “So you can't do anything till Tuesday. And in the meantime Molly wants to know if you will motor down with me tomorrow to her aunt's bungalow for the week-end.”
“Aunt?” cried Jim suspiciously.
“Yes—aunt. Either mother's sister or father's. I didn't ask which.”
“Is anybody else going to be there?” he demanded.
“Not that I'm aware of,” I answered. “They particularly want you to make a four at bridge or ludo or something, and a quiet week-end by the sea may make your nerves a bit stronger.”
Suddenly he grinned like a schoolboy.
“You're right, old Dick. I did rat this morning, I've never been in such a funk in my life. For all I know she may be engaged to some one else or even married again. Anyway, she's probably forgotten all about me by now.”
“More than likely,” I agreed brutally. “But you'd better talk things over with Molly—or with her aunt.”
And so the following afternoon we arrived at the bungalow where the garden ran down to the sea. Molly was there, and her aunt, and I heard Jim give an audible gasp as he saw his portion for the week-end. His job was the aunt, as I told him on the way down in the car, and she was some portion. Gray hair that hung in wisps appeared below a cotton sunbonnet; a pair of large yellow spectacles concealed her eyes, and one dreadful black tooth caught one's gaze whenever she smiled. But her particular charm lay in her voice, which was a cracked falsetto.
“I'm a little hard of hearing, Mr. Maitland,” she said, producing an ear trumpet. “But if you speak into this all the time I expect I shall hear you. You must tell me all your adventures in those heathenish parts while the two young people enjoy themselves.”
“Delighted!” boomed Jim, but his face looked a little strained.
“Now, my dears,” she went on, “you two run away and have a little talk while Mr.Maitland amuses me.”
I had one fleeting glimpse of her adjusting the ear trumpet, and Jim's look of fixed horror; I just heard her first remark—”Now tell me all about pirates and sharks and things,” and then Molly and I collapsed into each other's arms.
“She's wonderful!” I murmured weakly. “How long is the punishment to last?”
“It depends,” said Molly. “We'll give 'em half an hour, anyway.”
We did, and when we got back Jim was a wreck.
“I can't stand it any more.” He had seized my arm and pulled me to one side. “Much will I do for you, Dick—but not that. I don't want to be rude about Molly's relative, but the woman should be put under restraint. Are you aware that she's just asked me if I've ever eaten anybody? Said Molly had told her I had become a cannibal.”
“Courage, mon brave!” I muttered in a shaking voice. “I'll do the same for you some day. Think how you're amusing the old pet! And after tea we're going to bathe.”
“Not the elderly trout!” he gasped. “Great heavens, my dear fellow, you can't mean she's going to bathe!”
“Auntie swims very well,” said Molly, who had joined us unperceived. “But sometimes she gets cramp, Jim, and if she does you must be at hand to help her.”
“Merciful Allah!' said Jim under his breath, and Molly turned away with suspicious abruptness.
AND, sure enough, auntie appeared after tea completely enveloped in a bath robe. We were waiting for her in the garden and as she passed us only her shrill falsetto, summoning Jim, proclaimed who she was.
“You and I will swim together, Mr. Maitland,” she announced. “There's a lovely pool here with a diving board, and then we'll swim out to sea.”
“For heaven's sake, get a boat and follow!” croaked Jim to me. “If the old woman gets cramp we're lost. And surely she's not going to dive——”
The words died away on his lips, and of a sudden he stood very still. Silhouetted on the end of the diving board was the lovely figure of a girl. Gone were the spectacles and the gray hair—gone was the ear trumpet. And for one second she looked back at him as he stood there speechless.
“Come with me, won't you? In case I get cramp.”
Then she was gone, and only a little swirling eddy marked the perfect dive. And Molly, being a girl, slipped her hand through my arm and cried a little and laughed a little as we watched Jim's dark head pursuing the elusive scarlet cap.
“The dear fool!” she whispered. “But he deserved it, didn't he?”
It seemed to me that just at that moment dark head caught scarlet cap, and whether it was cramp or not I don't know, but I saw her arms go around his neck. For you may kiss in the water just as you may kiss on land, and both methods were in use at that moment.
Copyright, 1924, H. C. McNeile