A Story Called "Plagiarized" (1895)

1895

Plagiarized

The young couple stood on the bank opposite the Gadfly contemplating that small boathouse with something less than a feeling of ownership than they had hitherto experienced. A fiery little steamer went up the river, and the waves, taking advantage of the confusion, ran and kissed the green bank and were off again before the green bank had time to protest. From the top deck of the Gadfly came a song to the ears of Mr. Stewart of Throgmorton street, and of young Mrs. Stewart, that they were beginning to know quite well, albeit Miss Bagge, the singer, had only been there since the morning. Miss Bagge accompanied herself on the banjo and accompanied herself all wrong:

"I'm a little Alabarmer coon;
A'nt been born very long."

"I wonder," said little Mrs. Stewart — "I wonder, now, how many more times she's going to play that?"

"My dear love," said Mr. Stewart, sitting down on the bank.

"Don't call me your dear love, Henry, until that dreadful girl is gone."

"My dear Mrs. Stewart, what can I do? I can't treat her as we brokers treat a stranger who happens to stroll into the house, can I? You wouldn't care for me to catch hold of her and mash her hat in and hustle her out of the place."

"I shouldn't. All you have to do is to be distant with her."

"One can't be very distant on a small houseboat."

"I believe you like Miss Bagge still," said Mrs. Stewart.

"I don't mind her when she's still," said Mr. Stewart. "It's when she bobs about and plays that da"—

"Henry, dear!"

—"plays that banjo of hers that she makes me hot."

The shrill voice came across the stream:

"Hush-a-by, don't you cry, mammy's little darling.
Papa's gwine to smack you if you do."

"Boat ahoy!" called Stewart.

The boy on the Gadfly came up from somewhere and pulled over to them and conveyed them to the houseboat. Miss Bagge, looking down from between the Chinese lanterns, gave a little shriek of delight as their boat bumped at the side of the Gadfly.

"Oh, you newly married people!" she cried archly as she bunched up her skirts and came skittishly down the steps. "Where have you been? Leaving poor little me alone with my music for such a time!"

"Did you say music, Miss Bagge?"

"Yes, dear Mrs. Stewart. My banjo, you know."

"Oh!" said little Mrs. Stewart.

"Afraid you don't like plantation melodies, Mrs. Stewart."

"I used to think I did, Miss Bagge."

Stewart had gone along to get something iced to drink and something in the shape of cigar to smoke.

"How things change, Mrs. Stewart, don't they? I'm sure it doesn't seem six years ago — hem — Mr. Stewart and I and ma and two or three others came up to Marlow. I think that was long before your day, before you came over from Melbourne, and we did really have the most exquisite time."

"Have you looked through the evening paper, Miss Bagge?" interrupted little Mrs. Stewart hurriedly.

"Oh, yes, dear; I've looked through it twice. One or two most interesting cases."

"Where did you put it? I want to see what O'Brien has done for Middlesex."

"I've dropped it somewhere," said Miss Bagge. "Could the boy go up for my trunk before it gets dark? I left it at the station, and I shall have some more things down next week."

"Next week!"

Miss Bagge put her hand to her brown thin neck and gave a cough of half apology.

"If I stay longer, I shall have to run up to town one day to do some shopping."

There was a pause. The rings of smoke from Stewart's cigar at the other end of the boat floated down by them. The boy below broke a few plates and danced a few steps of a breakdown to cover the noise.

"Dear Henry! How the scent of his cigar does remind me of old times! I remember so well that night at Marlow" —

"Miss Bagge, will you go and play something?"

Miss Bagge went obediently and strummed her banjo and mentioned once more that she was a little Alabama coon, and young Mrs. Stewart ran hurriedly to her husband.

"I'm going to quarrel with her," she said breathlessly.

"That's right," said Henry calmly. "Anything to stop that row."

"I'm going to ask her to go back to town tonight, Henry."

"But, my dear, isn't that rather rude?"

"Of course it is. That's why I am doing it. You'll have to see her to the station."

The private row was quickly and quietly over. When the last word had been spoken, the self invited guest begged ten minutes to write a letter, and then she pronounced herself ready for Stewart's escort to the station. "Sorry you are obliged to go, Miss Bagge," said Stewart politely.

"It's an important engagement," said Miss Bagge, trembling, "or I should have staid. Goodby, dear Mrs. Stewart. I dare say we shall meet again soon."

Now an odd thing happened. As Stewart handed his charge into the boat a letter fell from her pocket on the deck of the Gadfly. Mrs. Stewart, in her usual good temper, now that her husband's old admirer was departing, called to her as soon as she noticed the letter, but Miss Bagge paid no attention. It almost seemed that she did not want to hear. When Mrs. Stewart picked it up and saw that it was addressed to Henry Stewart, Esq., and marked "Private and confidential," she opened it without a moment's hesitation:

MY DEAREST HENRY — It is so sweet to be near you again. Just as the wind sighs for the seashore, so do I sigh for you. Can you imagine what you are and ever have been to me? You are indeed my king, and you know I am your willing slave. Yours faithfully, CONSTANCE BAGGE.

Young Mrs. Stewart sank down on a low deck chair and gasped and looked across at the two.

"Well," she said, "now this is fearful."

There would be a good half hour before Henry returned, and in that good half hour it was necessary to decide what was to be done. What was quite clear was that the creature must have had some encouragement to induce her to write such a letter, and —

"Why, she is taking his arm!" she cried.

Indeed, Miss Constance Bagge was resting her hand on the arm of Mrs. Stewart's husband. Henry was carrying her banjo, and, looking back, laughingly waved it at his wife.

"Does this mean," asked Mrs. Stewart distractedly, "that they will never come back?"

The letter seemed to explain his slight difference in agreeing to the lady's dismissal. It explained also why when Miss Bagge had that morning made her unexpected appearance on the bank, hailing the boy with a shrill "Hi!" Henry had only laughed very much.

Mrs. Stewart summoned the boy.

"Yes, mem, there is a trine up liter than this. It leaves Thames Ditton at 11:15, and you got to good old Waterloo at about ten to 12. And I wish to Gawd," added the boy piously, "that I was there nah. This plice is a lump too quiet for me."

That would give half an hour to speak her mind to Henry (if he did come back) just half an hour to extract from him a confession and then rush for the last train up. At Waterloo she could take a cab to Uncle George's, and if Uncle George couldn't see her through, why, nobody could. Uncle George was an agent general. He was a stern man and treated everybody as severely as though they were his fellow countrymen.

The white flanneled figure came back to the riverside.

"He has managed to say goodby, then," said Mrs. Stewart fiercely. "I should like to have seen the parting."

Henry came on board and went straight to her, and, with the assurance of new husbands, kissed her neck.

"She's an impossible creature," said Stewart. He sat down beside his wife and took an evening paper from his pocket. "I believe she took the extra away with her. I've had to buy another."

There was something in little Mrs. Stewart's throat that prevented her for the moment from starting her lecture.

"She wasn't so bad, you know," he went on, "in the old days. Of course I was a mere youth then. But now she's too terrible for words. I suppose if girls don't get married they get warped and changed."

"I want to speak to you, Henry," she said steadily.

"Oh, bother that boy!" he exclaimed. "We must get rid of him, dear. He's a nuisance."

"It wasn't about the boy."

"Not the boy? Well, then —. Hello! Here's a funny case."

She went on very quietly:

"I want to speak to you seriously, Henry, about a matter that has, by accident, come to my notice. I don't want to seem to bother too much about it, and I suppose if I were as free as some women are I shouldn't mind it in the least. But my mind is quite made up."

He was not listening, but her head was averted, and she went on.

"I have left the keys in the bedroom, and my account book is totaled up to date, with the exception of the bill that came in today. There is no reason why we should have any high words."

"I beg your pardon, dear. I haven't heard a word that you were saying."

He had found the news page in the evening paper and was reading with much interest a diverting breach of promise case.

"I was only saying" — she raised her voice to a pitch of distinctness — "that" —

"Look here; here's an idiotic letter the girl writes to the fellow."

"I don't want to hear it, thank you."

"Yes, you do. Listen, this is how it goes: 'Just as the wind sighs for the seashore, so do I sigh for you.' Why, the wind doesn't sigh for the seashore, does it?"

"Go on, please," she said quickly. "Read the rest of the letter. Is it really in the paper, Henry?"

"Look for yourself, dear. It's too funny for words. 'So do I sigh for you. Can you imagine what you are and over have been to me? You are indeed my king, and you know that I am your willing slave.' "

"Why," cried Mrs. Stewart, "that's word for word the same."

"As what?"

"It doesn't matter, dear."

She took from her blouse the letter that the disappointed Miss Bagge, with deplorable lack of originality, had copied from the evening paper.

"Don't people do some silly things, Winifred, dear, when they are in love?"

She took a marguerite from the bowl on the table and stuck it in her hair. Then she tore up the letter and gave the pieces a little puff to send them out on the stream.

"I b'lieve you," said Mrs. Stewart.

"Shall you want to be rowed across for that last trine, mem?" demanded the boy, putting his head out of a window, "or is the guv'nor going to do it?"

"The last train?" echoed Mrs. Stewart. "Why, of course not, James. Go to bed at once."

"That boy's quite mad," said Stewart, turning over a page of the paper to find the cricket. "We must get rid of him." — St. James Budget.