The Pretenders (Owen Oliver)/Other People

HEN Omi and I came home from our honeymoon to our little house at West Kensington we didn't want other people. Omi had no friends in London, and she was afraid of mine, she said, because they were so clever, and she felt as if she had pins and needles when they talked her.

They were mostly people who were clever at something—writers and artists and singers and actors and actresses—and they were very fond of teasing and chaffing, and doing things differently from ordinary folk; but they were very natural and kind-hearted when you understood them, and I had hoped that she and they would suit one another splendidly; but somehow they seemed to put on plate-armor whenever they met. The fact was I had praised them too much to Omi, and Omi too much to them, and she and they had made up their minds that I must be wrong.

So we didn't have much company after a few formal calls, and we got on very well without. Omi used to come to the station with me in the morning; and sometimes she used to come right up to town; and when I came back she used to meet me. I was afraid at first that she would be dull while I was away all day, but she said she wasn't. Housekeeping was new to her, and she thought it was “such fun”! And when the housekeeping was done she practised songs, or drew things. She is very clever at drawing, and I wrote a few little stories, and she did funny little sketches to illustrate them, and we offered the stories and sketches together, and sold some. And when she “had to talk,” she went into the kitchen and talked to the servants, who idolized her.

“The missus do brighten a body up!” Cook told me.

She brightened my evenings, anyhow. She used to pretend—she loved pretending—that she was “a circle of friends,” and be artist, actress, singer, and half a dozen other things in turn. Sometimes we would do our little stories together, or she would draw caricatures of me while I wrote. Sometimes we played bezique or dominoes or chess (I gave her a queen). Sometimes she would act, or we would go through a scene together. Sometimes we went to a theater or concert. Sometimes we went for a walk—and when we came to a quiet road we held hands and ran. We always had a few songs every night, and a few arguments. At least, we called them arguments; but Omi can't argue. She always changes the subject whenever she is getting the worst of it!

I never had a better “circle of friends” than Omi; and Omi said she didn't want any one but me. So we didn't ask people in, and if we were asked out we made excuses; and if we met any of my friends, Omi whispered, “Don't stop.” I'm not defending us, only stating tacts. We were two young persons, and ridiculously pleased with each other; and I forgot a heavy debt of gratitude that I owed to some dear old friends. They were my friends, not Omi's, and she wasn't to blame.

I didn't quite forget, either. In fact, I felt very ashamed of staying away from the Villierses. He was an artist, and she wrote fashion and society articles. They had been very good to me, and, before I was married, I used to go to their house once a fortnight to a meeting of “The Clan.” All the nicest people I knew were in it, and we had six six rules and one “of course.”

I wanted Omi to join, and explained what a wonderful clan it was; but she shook her head.

“I don't want you to think anybody else wonderful,” she confessed, “only me! Let's be a clan of our own. What shall we call it?”

“The Pretenders?” I suggested; and she clapped her hands

“Yes! We'll meet on Thursday next”—that was when we had been asked to the Villierses—“and make rules of our own!”

We made a lot of rules at that meeting. Some of them have been altered, and one has been broken; but the main one has been kept; will be kept as long is there is breath in the members.

On the Friday, however, I met Ferris—I mean Ferris the great comedian, and  president of The Clan. He stopped and talked to me for a long while: and when he was going he put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, Jimmy,” he said. “It takes two to make a friendship, and one can always back out; but he can't make the other. Little Mrs. Villiers nearly cried when she spoke of you last night. Good-by, dear old Jimmy!”

I went home and told Omi; and she blinked.

“I think I like Mr. Ferris,” she said. “He was very kind when he called. But the rest of them would only laugh at us; like that girl did!”

“That girl” was Elsie Vane, the society entertainer. She was on the stage to keep an invalid mother and an invalid sister; but she was a lady—and a little brick! There was only one man in the world to Elsie—and he wasn't I!—but Omi did not know that; and I believe now that her real objection to the clan was that Elsie called me “Jimmy”!

“You'd like them all when you knew them, Omi,” I declared; “and they were good to me—jolly good! If they thought I'd cut them, and didn't ask us again! You must go next time, Omi; there's a good girl!”

“If you say I'm to go I'll have to go,” said Omi, turning away from me.

I caught hold of her shoulders and turned her back, and laughed at a very mutinous frown.

“Let's pretend that you're going just to please me,” I suggested; and the frown vanished.

“Yes,” she said; “because—we'll pretend you're very good to me! Yes, Jimmy!”

Then she discussed the dress which she was to wear—if you think it takes two to make a discussion you don't know Omi!—and seemed quite pleased at the idea.

On Tuesday evening, however, she caught hold of my arm suddenly; her eyelids began to blink, and the corners of her mouth to go down.

“Oh, Jimmy!” she begged. “I don't want to go. Please don't make me.”

Omi had been in rather delicate health just lately, and was a trifle fanciful. So I kissed her, and said we would stay at home, and have a meeting of “The Pretenders” instead; and she said that she would write the answer to the invitation, and put it very nicely, so that Mrs. Villiers wouldn't be offended; and then we dropped the subject till we were at dinner on Thursday; and I noticed that she was looking at me.

“Well, Pretender?” I said.

“It's serious,” she assured me. “Suppose—suppose they didn't ask you again? Ever?”

“I should feel a wretch,” I owned. “You see, they were exceedingly kind to me, Omi. Villiers helped a lot to give me a start in business; and Ferris got me out of a mess once. If it hadn't been for them I shouldn't have been in a position to marry so soon, and—perhaps you might feel well enough to go next time?”

“But suppose they don't ask us?”

“I'd have to put up with it, I suppose,” I said.

“Couldn't you write and explain?”

“No-o,” I said. “There's only one explanation.”

“Me?”

“You! That would be the only way out—to go unasked; and take my excuse!”

“Would they be nice if we did?”

“They'd be nice enough; but I shouldn't have the nerve to do it. You see, they speak out pretty frankly; and I should feel such a fool, not being invited; and you'd feel frightfully awkward and uncomfortable, because you're not used to the way they speak out. I'd go without being asked myself, and throw myself on their mercy; but I wouldn't take you; and I wouldn't go without you on any account. If they don't ask us next time I shall stay away.”

“Then we won't wait till next time,” said Omi. “We'll go to-night! Come on, Jimmy! Let's run up-stairs and dress!”

“How shall we explain about changing our minds?” I said.

“We won't explain,” said Omi. “And if they're so nice they won't ask us. We'll just go in and be nice. I'll be ever so nice, Jimmy!”

“Of course you will!” I said.

She looked nice enough, anyhow; and when we entered the drawing-room I found that she was quite right about not explaining. For Mrs. Villiers jumped up and ran to us.

How very delightful!” she said. “I'm so pleased to see you. Come and sit here. No, there! In the silly corner!” She meant the half-lit part where the engaged couples sit. “Jimmy, you know everybody. Tell her all about them. I'm not going to frighten her with a heap of introductions all at once. It makes you mix up people ever afterward. You can go and be introduced to Mrs. Grant, one by one, you know.”

We sat in the silly corner; and Omi whispered: “She's nice.” Ferris ran over and shook hands. “He's nice, too,” Omi added. Elsie Vane stretched out her hand from the darkest corner to Omi.

“Oh, you will be teased, Mrs. Grant,” she said, “because the nicest people always get teased the most.”

“She's rather nice, too,” Omi confided to me.

“Yes,” I said. “That's her fiancé in the corner.”

“I think she's very nice!” said Omi.

And then I understood Omi's previous objection to the clan!

“Now we will proceed,” said Mrs. Villiers, from the center of the circle in front of the fire. “This is a 'Confidence Evening,' you know.”

“What is a 'Confidence Evening,' Jimmy?” Omi asked.

“Rule 5,” I answered. 'Members tell The Clan how they are getting on. We like to know. Here's Ted Lanebury going to begin.”

Ted is an actor and engaged to Elsie. He told us how he had just succeeded in getting a good engagement. It was a long one, he explained gleefully.

“Perhaps it will shorten another engagement?” Ferris suggested. “Eh, old man?”

“I hope so,” he said, with a laugh. I saw his hand touch Elsie in the shadow; and Omi squeezed my arm,

“I'm so glad!” she whispered.

“Good luck!” everybody cried.

Then Elsie stood up.

“My nicest news is Ted's engagement,” she said.

“Which engagement?” somebody called.

“I meant the nice new engagement,” she explained smilingly; “not the nice old one.”

“Bravo, Elsie!” said Callers, the artist.

“My other news is that Mr. Ferris has written a dear little sketch, and given it to me. Given it, mind! It is very, very nice; and so is he!”

“Hear, hear!” everybody cried.

“Do it, my dear,” said Mrs. Goodwin. She is Madame de Lisle, the well-known contralto.

“Not to-night, please,” Elsie begged.

“Rule 4,” I claimed; and so did several others; but Elsie shook her head and whispered to Lanebury; and then she sat down and he stood up.

“I appeal to you, on behalf of my” he paused.

“Client?” some one suggested.

“My Elsie,” he said, with the sudden smile that the critics praise. “She would very much like to give you the sketch, because she is exceedingly pleased with it; but she thinks that it would be a breach of Rule 2—that members should be nice to other members. I think so, too.”

“Rule 3 is against you, Ted,” Ferris observed. “'Members must put up with teasing,' you know.”

“Yes,” Lanebury agreed; “but members are not obliged to tease them; and I think that, in the case of a new member”

I whistled softly, and Omi whispered in my ear.

“What does he mean?” she asked.

“It's about us,” I whispered back; “a silly young couple or something; and they don't know how you'd take it.”

“I have a very high opinion of the new member,” Ferris said, at length; “and I believe that she will tease and be teased with the best of us—when she understands our little ways; but considering that this is the first time that we have the pleasure—the very great pleasure—of welcoming her here, the appeal is allowed.”

There was a short silence. Then a small voice came from Omi.

“Mr. Ferris? Do you mean me?”

“Yes, little lady,” Ferris said very kindly.

“Then—I don't mind being teased.”

“Hear, hear!” cried a chorus. “Bravo!”

“But you, might mind your husband being teased, don't you see?” cried Elsie swiftly.

“No, no!”

I said. “That's all right.”

“Oh! You don't matter, you young reprobate!” said Villiers. “It's Mrs. Grant.”

“I am sure that Mr. Ferris would not write anything unkind,” said Omi; “and I—I expect Jimmy deserves it! Please!”

“Rule 1,” cried Mrs. Harraden, the authoress. She meant that Omi was nice; and they all clapped.

So Lanebury stole to the piano and played soft music, and Elsie stood up. She was a coster youth, she explained, and she put an antimacasser round her neck for a muffler, and recited in her earnest, touching way, till you forgot that she was anything but the character—as she forgot!

Omi laughed at the first verse, and put her hands to her face for the second. She clung to my shoulder during the third; and when the fourth came I put my arm round her. (It was lucky that we were in the shady corner.) She looked up at me with a flushed face when Elsie finished; and there were tears in her eyes.

“I'll tell them that you say that my friends are yours,” whispered.

“No, Jimmy,” she pleaded. “No, no! I'll say it. They mean it; that they are fond of you; and want them to like me, too. Mr. Ferris is going to say something nice. You see if he doesn't.”

And Ferris got up.

“I have only one apology to make to our old friend Jimmy,” he said, “and to our new friend, Jimmy's wife. If we had not felt absolute confidence in their good humor and kindliness; if we had not felt that they were friends”

“Hear, hear!” the rest cried. Omi gave an extra little shout after the rest; and Ferris turned toward her and nodded smilingly.

“If we had not felt sure of this the verses would not have been recited; and if I had not felt a great wish for their friendship, and thought a great deal about them, the verses would not have been written. The practical form of the apology is that Mrs. Grant, who comes next in the row, is excused from confession, as this is the first time we have had the extreme pleasure of seeing her here; and we wouldn't frighten her away for anything.”

But Omi jumped up.

“I want to confess!” she cried. “It was my fault, not Jimmy's, and—but that's all forgiven, isn't it?”

“Yes!” they shouted.

“And Jimmy's friends are my friends!”

There was a tremendous roar of “yesses,” and they jumped up and crowded round us, and shook hands several times before they would let her go on.

“That isn't the confession,” she explained, when they had sat down again. “It's—what Mrs. Villiers knows”—Mrs. Villiers laughed suddenly. “We—weren't—asked—to-night! And we came of our own accord!”

There was a peal of laughter, and I rubbed my head and shook it.

“Jimmy, Jimmy!” cried Read, the journalist.

“Jimmy didn't know,” Omi explained delightedly; and there was another peal.

“You see,” she went on, “he's been miserable for weeks, and”

“I don't believe he's been miserable for a second!” cried Mrs. Harraden.

“No,” I said loudly, “he hasn't!”

“Be quiet, Jimmy! He always wanted to come, but I was—silly. I am very silly, you know!” She said it with such conviction that they screamed with laughter. “Then Mr. Ferris talked to him; and he told me; and I thought I would be sensible; and we were coming this week; only we weren't invited.”

“I only meant to wait a little while,” Mrs. Villiers explained. “Till you were—sensible. I should certainly have asked you again.”

“I hoped so,” Omi said; “but I didn't know; and knew Jimmy would be so sorry. So I didn't tell him, but made out that I wasn't well; and he—was good about it.” She smiled at me. “And I said I would write and excuse us very nicely. Then I thought if you were all as nice as Jimmy always said you were—and now I know!—and we came without being asked, you wouldn't mind. But I thought Jimmy wouldn't come if he knew we weren't asked. So I only said I felt better, and wanted to come. So we came, and I am glad; and sometimes, you see, I'm not silly!”

“Mrs. Grant,” cried Villiers, “you are wonderful!”

They have called her “The Wonderful Omi” ever since; and she is!