Three Men on the Bummel | Page 9

cogwheel things
that--"
The door opened, and Mrs. Harris appeared. She said that Ethelbertha
was putting on her bonnet, and that Muriel, after waiting, had given
"The Mad Hatter's Tea Party" without us.
"Club, to-morrow, at four," whispered Harris to me, as he rose, and I
passed it on to George as we went upstairs
CHAPTER II

A delicate business--What Ethelbertha might have said--What she did
say--What Mrs. Harris said--What we told George--We will start on
Wednesday--George suggests the possibility of improving our minds--
Harris and I are doubtful--Which man on a tandem does the most
work?--The opinion of the man in front--Views of the man behind--
How Harris lost his wife--The luggage question--The wisdom of my
late Uncle Podger--Beginning of story about a man who had a bag.

I opened the ball with Ethelbertha that same evening. I commenced by
being purposely a little irritable. My idea was that Ethelbertha would
remark upon this. I should admit it, and account for it by over brain
pressure. This would naturally lead to talk about my health in general,
and the evident necessity there was for my taking prompt and vigorous
measures. I thought that with a little tact I might even manage so that
the suggestion should come from Ethelbertha herself. I imagined her
saying: "No, dear, it is change you want; complete change. Now be
persuaded by me, and go away for a month. No, do not ask me to come
with you. I know you would rather that I did, but I will not. It is the
society of other men you need. Try and persuade George and Harris to
go with you. Believe me, a highly strung brain such as yours demands
occasional relaxation from the strain of domestic surroundings. Forget
for a little while that children want music lessons, and boots, and
bicycles, with tincture of rhubarb three times a day; forget there are
such things in life as cooks, and house decorators, and next-door dogs,
and butchers' bills. Go away to some green corner of the earth, where
all is new and strange to you, where your over-wrought mind will
gather peace and fresh ideas. Go away for a space and give me time to
miss you, and to reflect upon your goodness and virtue, which,
continually present with me, I may, human-like, be apt to forget, as one,
through use, grows indifferent to the blessing of the sun and the beauty
of the moon. Go away, and come back refreshed in mind and body, a
brighter, better man--if that be possible--than when you went away."
But even when we obtain our desires they never come to us garbed as
we would wish. To begin with, Ethelbertha did not seem to remark that
I was irritable; I had to draw her attention to it. I said:
"You must forgive me, I'm not feeling quite myself to-night."
She said: "Oh! I have not noticed anything different; what's the matter
with you?"
"I can't tell you what it is," I said; "I've felt it coming on for weeks."
"It's that whisky," said Ethelbertha. "You never touch it except when
we go to the Harris's. You know you can't stand it; you have not a

strong head."
"It isn't the whisky," I replied; "it's deeper than that. I fancy it's more
mental than bodily."
"You've been reading those criticisms again," said Ethelbertha, more
sympathetically; "why don't you take my advice and put them on the
fire?"
"And it isn't the criticisms," I answered; "they've been quite flattering
of late--one or two of them."
"Well, what is it?" said Ethelbertha; "there must be something to
account for it."
"No, there isn't," I replied; "that's the remarkable thing about it; I can
only describe it as a strange feeling of unrest that seems to have taken
possession of me."
Ethelbertha glanced across at me with a somewhat curious expression, I
thought; but as she said nothing, I continued the argument myself.
"This aching monotony of life, these days of peaceful, uneventful
felicity, they appal one."
"I should not grumble at them," said Ethelbertha; "we might get some
of the other sort, and like them still less."
"I'm not so sure of that," I replied. "In a life of continuous joy, I can
imagine even pain coming as a welcome variation. I wonder sometimes
whether the saints in heaven do not occasionally feel the continual
serenity a burden. To myself a life of endless bliss, uninterrupted by a
single contrasting note, would, I feel, grow maddening. I suppose," I
continued, "I am a strange sort of man; I can hardly understand myself
at times. There are moments," I added, "when I hate myself."
Often a little speech like this, hinting at hidden depths of indescribable
emotion has touched Ethelbertha, but to-night she