# The Rain-Girl/Chapter 10

CHAPTER X
LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE
WHILST Beresford was on the way to Folkestone with such expedition as the South-Eastern and Chatham Railway could muster, Lady Drewitt was driving back to Curzon Street with Lord Drewitt seated beside her. On his face was the look of deep depression of a man who has been torn from his bed some six hours before his normal hour for rising. Arrived at Curzon Street, Lady Drewitt marched straight to the morning-room and seated herself in her customary chair, whilst her nephew wearily dropped his unhappy body upon one opposite.
"Well!" She folded her hands in her lap with an air of grim expectancy.
"My dear aunt," he said wearily; "it can never be well with a man who has two thousand a year and expensive tastes."
"If you depended upon yourself, you would have only your expensive tastes without the two thousand a year," was the retort.
Drewitt glanced at her with interest.
"You are becoming almost epigrammatical," he said with a lazy smile, the first that had broken through his mask of suffering that morning.
​"Well!" repeated Lady Drewitt.
"You drag a man from his early and innocent slumbers long before the streets are fit to receive him, precipitate him into taking an unaccustomed meal, hurl at him an heiress and a man of voracious appetite, dubious linen and psychic proclivities, and then you say, 'Well.'" Drewitt shuddered.
"I am quite prepared to wait," announced Lady Drewitt with resignation.
"So am I, so why precipitate me into breakfast-parties and marriage," protested Drewitt. "Deacon Quelch, what a horrible name!" he murmured. "It sounds like treading on an egg."
"I want to know what you think of Lola Craven?" Lady Drewitt was not to be diverted from her object.
"I never think of any women I have not met at least half a dozen times, and most women bore me at the third encounter. May I smoke?" he enquired plaintively.
"No, you may not," was the uncompromising reply.
Drewitt smiled a smile of weary resignation.
"I want to speak to you seriously," said Lady Drewitt, with a slight indrawing of her lips.
"My dear aunt, you are always speaking to me seriously," replied Drewitt easily. "You do nothing else, and your unvarying theme is marriage. It gets a little monotonous, I confess," he added with a sigh.
​"I have my duty to consider," announced Lady Drewitt. "You must marry."
"Marriage, my dear aunt, is like the tint of one's pyjamas, an intensely personal affair. One person's happiness is achieved by spots, another's by a monotone, suggestive of dungaree overalls; personally my taste runs to stripes of delicate tints. You, on your part, may prefer——"
"Don't be indelicate, Drewitt. I was talking about Miss Craven, not—not night-wear. There is the title——"
"There is, indeed," agreed Drewitt mournfully. "I am never permitted to forget it. If I go to a hotel it means a hundred per cent. on the bill, and if I dine at a restaurant, it means half-a-crown instead of a shilling to the man who takes my hat, with at least five shillings to the waiter. No wonder democracy is abroad."
"You cannot complain of her appearance," announced Lady Drewitt.
"I never have," was the reply. "Democracy is the only hope of the House of Lords. It——"
"I was referring to Miss Craven," said Lady Drewitt severely. "Are you going to marry her?"
"Was I expected to propose at breakfast?" he asked innocently.
"Do you like her?" Lady Drewitt had a habit of ignoring her nephew's flippancy. At first she had endeavoured to combat it; but the discovery that she was invariably discomfited had caused her to change her tactics.
​"Money inverts the natural order of things. It is the woman who selects, just as with the birds of the air," he sighed dolefully; "besides, Miss Craven, seemed far more interested in Mr. Quelch than in me. You see I am not psychic, merely rheumatic, probably the legacy of the early Drewitts, who gloried and drank deep of their own productions."
"Interested in that man!" Lady Drewitt seemed to sit a little more upright in her chair. There was surprise in her tone.
"That was the impression I received."
For a few minutes Lady Drewitt seemed to ponder.
"It's your air of indifference," she announced at length.
"My dear aunt, can you imagine me making love? Can you see me spreading my handkerchief upon the carpet, going down on one knee, striking an attitude, and at the same time the left portion of my upper anatomy, and declaring that life holds nothing for me if the beloved does not vouchsafe to me the honey of her lips and the balance at her bank?"
"Don't be a fool, Drewitt."
"No, it's not that," said Drewitt, "the fault lies elsewhere. I'm afraid I could never seriously contemplate marrying Miss Craven for her money," he continued gravely. "She has personality and charm; they always command my respect."
"Then marry her for her personality and charm," said Lady Drewitt sarcastically.
"There is of course that," he said rising; "but ​somehow I think that when Lola Craven marries, it will be for love."
"Fiddlesticks," snapped Lady Drewitt.
"I quite agree, my dear aunt, the terms are synonymous; but young women are extremely self-willed in these matters. I'm inclined to attribute it to beauty-competitions and insufficient clothing."
"Then what are you going to do?" demanded Lady Drewitt, rising with a rustle of silk and a ruffled temper.
"I scarcely know," was the reply. "You see, aunt," this with an engaging smile, "you have a tendency to be precipitate. I am not Dante, nor is Miss Craven Beatrice," and with this Drewitt took his departure, leaving Lady Drewitt puzzled as to his meaning.
Half an hour later he was seated in his favourite chair, smoking a cigarette. When Lord Drewitt found that the burden of life oppressed him, he invariably returned to his flat and ordered Hoskins to make coffee.
"Hoskins," he remarked, as his man placed the coffee before him, "I often wonder why you don't demand half my income."
"Half your income, my lord!" exclaimed Hoskins, in surprise, looking too cherubic and beneficent to demand anything. He was a round-faced, fresh-coloured, chubby little man, with the expression of a happy boy.
"Because you know that I should have to give it to you. Without your coffee, Hoskins, I could ​never continue the unequal struggle with existence."
"I'm quite satisfied, my lord, thank you," said Hoskins, with customary literalness.
Lord Drewitt replaced his cup and, turning, surveyed his servant with deliberation.
"With everything, Hoskins?" he enquired incredulously.
"Yes, my lord, I think so."
"How weird," exclaimed Lord Drewitt. "You had better join a trade-union as a corrective. It's not natural. It's infernally unnatural, and it may lead to—to anything. From wife-murder to—to——"
"But I'm not married, my lord," said Hoskins hurriedly.
"I didn't say whose wife," said Lord Drewitt irritably. "God knows there are enough wives about."
"Yes, my lord."
"Suppose I were to get married," Lord Drewitt helped himself to another cigarette, which he lighted with great deliberation.
"Yes, my lord."
"Don't say 'Yes, my lord' in that colourless sort of voice, man, as if you didn't care."
"I beg pardon, my lord," said Hoskins contritely.
"Suppose I were to get married, what would you do?" Lord Drewitt leaned back with the air of a man who has given utterance to the worst that can befall him.
"If your lordship had no further need for my ​services," he began, "I suppose I should have to——"
"Need for your services, I should want coffee every fifteen minutes of the day and night. No, by Jove! like the Emperor Charles and his chickens, I'd have it prepared every five minutes. You regard marriage far too lightly, Hoskins."
"I hope not, my lord," this with something approaching feeling in his voice.
"That's better, that sounds more human. Now, suppose there were a Lady Drewitt in this flat. She would be sure to want you to do her hair or something at the very moment I required you."
"Do her hair, my lord!" he exclaimed anxiously.
"Yes, thin ginger hair, it would be, or else manicure her spatulated finger nails, or lace her stays, or clean her shoes. You don't seem to understand. There's a terrible destiny brooding over this flat."
Instinctively Hoskins looked up at the ceiling.
"You and I rub along very well together, Hoskins, thanks to your coffee and my equable temper; but a Lady Drewitt would play the very devil with us. Don't you realise that?"
"Now that you come to mention it, my lord, I'm afraid that it might be—might be a little difficult."
"A little difficult," Lord Drewitt sighed. "It's a deadly menace. Now I want you to do something for me."
"Yes, my lord."
"If at any time you hear that I have become engaged to be married," Lord Drewitt spoke slowly ​and impressively, "I want you to poison my coffee."
"Poison your coffee, my lord!" he cried, startled out of his habitual calm.
"Not at once," Lord Drewitt hastened to add. "Not immediately you hear the news, because better councils might subsequently prevail; but say on the wedding-morning, just as you are handing me my lavender trousers. It would be so effective in the newspapers. 'The third Lord Drewitt dies just as he is about to assume his wedding-trousers. 'Assume' would sound better than 'put on.' One puts on ordinary bags, Hoskins; but one 'assumes' wedding-garments."
"But lavender trousers are not—not worn now, my lord."
Lord Drewitt looked up reproachfully.
"Lavender trousers are always worn. They are Victorian, and appear in every novel and play that ever was written, or ever will be written. Good heavens! how are you to know that it's a man's wedding-day unless he indicates it by his extremities? No really nice girl would feel that she was married without lavender trousers. They are conventional, imperative, de rigueur. Women have protested against various parts of the marriage service; but never against lavender trousers. I'm quite convinced that this convention is responsible for the limited number of full-dress Scottish marriages. There is not the same glamour about lavender kilts. Why, I cannot conceive."
Lord Drewitt handed his cup to Hoskins.
​"You promise to poison me then," he said, looking up appealingly, "you promise on—on your hope of an allotment?"
"I'll think it over, my lord."
"A broken reed," cried Lord Drewitt, as he sank back in his chair. "Just like the rest, you are a broken reed." He paused to light a cigarette. "Have you ever thought of marriage, Hoskins?" he inquired.
"No, my lord," was the hesitating reply, "that is, not seriously."
"Ah! you are the child of your generation. Your tendency is to think lightly of serious things. Do you know the meaning of love, honour and obey?"
"I—er—think——"
"Showing conclusively that you don't," continued Lord Drewitt. "A wife loves her freedom; her husband honours her cheques; and she obeys the dictates of fashion. Hoskins, I warn you against marrying."
"Thank you, my lord."
Lord Drewitt looked at him sharply; but his cherubic expression was devoid of any suggestion of guile.
"There is no necessity for you to marry," Lord Drewitt continued. "There is no title, the world will go round just as well without any little Hoskinses, and you have enough for your immediate needs."
"Thanks to you, my lord, I have," he said gratefully.
​"Then avoid women, at least avoid marrying them," he added as an afterthought.
Hoskins looked uncomfortable and fidgeted with his feet.
"I recognise the signs, Hoskins. You are keeping company with some young female. Now, don't deny it."
He did not deny it; but his fresh-coloured face took on a deeper hue.
"I can see," remarked Lord Drewitt with a sigh, "that my coffee is threatened from two different angles: your weakness about women, and Lady Drewitt's determination about the title. Tell me about it, Hoskins. I can bear it," he said wearily.
"It was only in case—in case—— Well, my lord, you have so often talked about getting married that I thought——"
Drewitt looked at him pityingly. "So that if I do a thing that all the great minds of the world are agreed is damn silly, you must go and do the same thing."
"Well, my lord, it would make—it would make a considerable difference," pleaded Hoskins.
"It would," agreed Lord Drewitt, "a considerable difference. Now, leave me. I'm not at home to anybody. No, I shall not require lunch. Say that I am in a mood of Socratic contemplation."
"Yes, my lord," said the man obediently as he left the room.
When some hours later Beresford entered, ​Drewitt was still seated in his chair, idly turning the leaves of a book.
"Behold, my dear Richard," he said, gazing up lazily, "the two most unfortunate men in London. You faced by poverty, I by marriage. The great Negative and Affirmative of contemporary existence."
Beresford dropped into a chair and helped himself to a cigarette from the box on the table, which he proceeded to light.
"I'm just off to Folkestone," he said casually, as he blew out the match and placed it on the ash-tray beside him.
Drewitt screwed his glass into his eye, and examined his cousin's morning clothes and silk hat with deliberate intentness.
"Sartorial originality, Richard, is bound to win in the end," he remarked. "I would suggest the addition of dust-coat and race-glasses."
Beresford laughed. "Oh," he said casually, "of course, I shall run in and change first."
"It must be delightful to be a creature of impulse," said Drewitt; "and how did you find out that she was staying at Folkestone?"
Beresford stared at him blankly. "Who?" he cried.
"What is the present state of your finances, Richard?" enquired Drewitt, ignoring the question.
"Oh, about a hundred pounds."
Drewitt nodded meditatively.
"I should propose whilst you still have some ​worldly goods with which to endow her," he remarked casually.
"You are almost as bad as Aunt Caroline," said Beresford. "You're always thinking of the morrow. For my part I'm going to have a good time so long as the funds last, and after that——" he shrugged his shoulders.
"It's always a mistake to live to the extent of our resources," remarked Drewitt casually.
"I've never regarded you as an economist."
"That, my dear Richard, is because you always take everything so literally. To you economy means the saving of money."
"And to you?"
"It might mean anything, from early morning tea to treasure in heaven."
"What the deuce are you driving at?"
"If a man takes everything the world has to offer," continued Drewitt evenly, "he will sooner or later find himself morally bankrupt, with nothing to look forward to as a comfort for his old age. Now I have reserved two things for my euthanasia, early morning tea and marriage."
"Marriage?" exclaimed Beresford.
"I was about to add, Richard, when you rudely interrupted me, thus I have before me a comfort and an experience. I have forgone early morning tea all my life, taking coffee instead, which I prefer. I would have done the same with turtle soup, only I thought of it too late; personally I regard turtle soup as much over-rated."
​"And marriage?" queried Beresford.
"Most men marry for a woman to live with, I shall marry for a woman to die with. That reminds me, this morning I met Lola Craven."
"I wanted to know how you got on."
"You come then to gloat over a fellow-creature's misery," said Drewitt reproachfully.
Beresford laughed, he was in a mood to laugh at anything.
"To tear a man from his natural environment, Richard, shows both brutality and a sad lack of half-tones. I am at my best when taking coffee from the hand of the admirable Hoskins; but to tear me from my proper setting six hours before what our cousins would call 'the scheduled time,' and plunge me into the unaccustomed experience of breakfast is an outrage, nothing less."
"Poor old Drew," laughed Beresford.
"Add to it Mr. Deacon Quelch, and you reach a degree of frightfulness, Richard, that would terrify the most hardened Hun. I wonder why I was given Aunt Caroline?" he mused.
"What was she like?" enquired Beresford.
"The same as always, wise and worldly."
"I mean the girl."
"Lola Craven," said Drewitt deliberately, "is a girl that no man with any self-respect would ever marry for her money."
"Is she——?" began Beresford.
"Freckles, physical inequalities and general lumpiness," continued Drewitt, ignoring the ​half-uttered question, "a man may marry because of what is behind them; but not a girl like Lola Craven. You must meet her, Richard, also Mr. Deacon Quelch. He is unique, from the dubiety of his linen to the voracity of his appetite."
"I must push off," said Beresford, rising. "By the way, don't tell Aunt Caroline my address."
"Better not give it to me," said Drewltt lazily, extending a hand. "But knowing your ingenuous character as I do, Richard, I assume that it will be the most expensive hotel in the place."