The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

"It was only because I thought you were so clever," I sobbed out like a baby; "and I thought you weren't—weren't getting your reward."

"Oh, child, you don't know what rich rewards there are," he said dreamily; "what rich rewards—if men only knew where to look for them."

I lay a long time in his arms, the imposing invitation unheeded on the floor. And I longed—I believe I prayed in a faint kind of way—that I might yet know something of the secret joy that made up my husband's hire. Yet I was almost in despair; for the image of all that others did, and all they had, and the vision of what might also have been ours, kept recurring to my mind. I thought our life was pretty gray, its limits hard and stern, and I may as well be candid enough to say so. But I think I would have followed Gordon anywhere—if I could only have found the way. My gropings for it must have been pathetic.

"I'll give up the Ashtons' dinner," I said heroically at last, looking up at Gordon through my tears. I knew he would kiss me—and he did.

"But you shan't," he said firmly. "You'll go—and so will I. That's the one little triumph I'll never give up; I'm always so proud of my wife at times like that—we can beat them on their own ground." Then he stooped down and recovered the gleaming-edged cardboard from the floor.

This invitation was our passport to what was evidently to be a very swell dinner at the Ashtons'. They had a lion in the house—a mighty guest, I mean by that. He was a Sir; not only a Sir, but a Baronet; which, it seems, is a loftier brand, a repeating kind of Sir. His full name was Sir Austin Beachcroft, and he was a British brewer. His appearance gave abundant indication that he was one of his own best customers. Mr. Ashton, it seems, had met him while crossing the Atlantic, and the Baronet was graciously stopping off for a visit of a day or two on his way to the Rockies to hunt grizzlies. He arrived on a Saturday night; and it was impressive to see the solemn hush that came over the congregation in St. Andrew's when the Ashtons led their Baronet down the aisle the next morning. Mr. Ashton came first, and there was a look on his face that showed his doubt as to whether or not he was a mortal man. They came late, of course, but I attribute that to Mrs. Ashton—for that is a womanly wile. I caught a glimpse of her face as she passed—it bore a look of thankfulness, almost of heavenly bliss, as if she were now ready to depart in peace. In an adjoining pew I could see Harriet's cousin; vainly she strove to join the swelling psalm, gazing at the procession as though she considered the ways of Providence unjust.

The Baronet, throughout the service, bore himself as piously as though he had never heard of beer. Yet it was evident enough that he never for one moment forgot that he was a creation of his Sovereign. When the hymns were being sung, he looked abstractedly in front of him, as though they were addressed to him; at sudden intervals he would break in and sing about half a line, just to show that he was human like ourselves. Every now and then, while the sermon was in progress, he would cast a swift glance around to make sure that everybody was looking at him; finding that they were, a little jerk and a stare heavenward evinced the slight irritation that rank or genius is supposed to feel in being thus remarked. Once or twice he snapped his watch when Gordon didn't stop just when he might have done. This set me against him at once, for the sermon was a beautiful one; besides, I knew what ailed the Baronet—he wasn't accustomed to go so long without a sample of his wares. When the collection was taken up, he was human enough; even Mr. Ashton started a little at the size of his deposit; for he gave after the fashion of his fathers, which, as Gordon afterwards told me, was formed in the copper age.

Well, the very next night came the dinner; to which Gordon and I sallied forth. It does make a woman wince a little when she finds herself coming on foot to a gate quite surrounded by the carriages of her fellow guests. Harriet's cousin, I remember, alighted from her equipage just as I arrived, and we went in together; it was but poor comfort to reflect that my servant called her Mary Ann.

"You're the belle of the ball," Gordon whispered to me as we came down the stairs a few minutes later; "I'll bet a sovereign the Baronet will write home about you before he goes to bed."

"Don't be surprised," I answered gaily, "if I take to the woods as soon as I meet him—you know, I never saw a real two-legged lordling before."