Chapter 1: The End of the Honeymoon

Isabel waited till the rat-tat was repeated a second time, then she went down to the front door. Since Mrs. Macconichie and her husband were both out, and she had the house to herself, there was nothing else for her to do, unless she wished the postman to depart with the letters. As it was, when she appeared at the door, he grumbled at being delayed.

“These Scotchmen are all boors,” she told herself, in her bitterness.

She looked at the letter which had been thrust into her hand. It was addressed to “Mr. G. Lamb”. The sight of it reopened the fountains of her scorn.

“They might at least have put G. Lamb, Esq. G. Lamb! What a fool I’ve been!”

Further consideration of the envelope led her to the conclusion that it was the letter they had both been waiting for--the answer to her husband’s plea for help. She pressed it between her fingers to learn, if possible by the sense of touch, what the envelope contained.

“I believe there’s only a letter--no cheque, nor anything. If there isn’t, then we are done.”

She hesitated a moment, then tore it open. It contained merely a sheet of common writing-paper, on the front page of which was this brief note:--

“Dear Gregory,

“I like the idea of your asking me to help you. You’ve had all the help you’ll ever have from me. The shop won’t bear it; business is getting worse. If it weren’t, you’d get no more money out of me.

“You’d better get your wife to keep you.

“Susan Lamb.”

Susan Lamb! That was his mother, the mother of the man she had married. So the truth was out at last. His mother kept a shop; he had been sponging on her for the money he had scattered broadcast. There was neither address nor date upon the letter, but the postmark on the envelope was Islington. Islington! His mother was a small shopkeeper in that haunt of the needy clerk! And she had believed him when he had posed before her as a “swell”--an aristocrat; when he had talked about his “coin” and his “gees”. He had jockeyed her into supposing that money was a matter of complete indifference to him; that, as she boasted to her friends and rivals, “he rolled in it”. So successfully had he hoodwinked her that she married him within a month of their first meeting--she, Belle Burney, the queen of song and dance! Had thrown up all her engagements to do it, too; and she was beginning to get some engagements which were not to be despised.

At the commencement he had done things in style: had taken her up to Edinburgh, leisurely, in a motor. She had imagined that the motor was his own. At Edinburgh it vanished; he told her to receive some trifling repairs. But she, having already discovered he was a liar, suspected him of having sold it. Later she learned that the machine had only been hired for a fortnight.

Already, at Edinburgh, money began to run short. He did his best to conceal from her the state of the case, but the thing was so obvious that his attempts at concealment were vain. He had lied bravely, protesting that, in some inexplicable way, his remittances had gone wrong; that in the course of a post or two he would be in possession of an indefinitely large sum of money. The posts came and went, but they brought no money. So they drifted hither and thither, each time to humbler quarters. Now, within six weeks of marriage, they were stranded at a remote spot in Forfarshire, within a drive of Carnoustie. Isabel had reason to suspect that, at the time of their marriage, her husband had less than two hundred pounds in the world. He had squandered more than that already; the motor had made a hole in it. The pawnbroker had come to the rescue when the coin was gone. They were penniless; owed for a week’s food and lodging; their landlady was already showing signs of anxiety. Now the much-talked-of and long-expected letter had arrived which was to bring the munificent remittance.