The Book of the Ass

by Owen Oliver

THE BOOK OF THE ASS

By OWEN OLIVER

I.—From His Book.

I HAVE gleaned an ear from the field of wisdom to-night.

Old Ditmas let it fall from his sheaf. A party of mixed sexes had gathered in front of the wind-screen, facing a full sea and the Southern Cross. He was telling stories with a wholesome laugh in them.

"How do you collect them?" someone asked in the lull after a laugh.

"I note them at the end of my diary," he confessed.

There was a chorus of incredulous raillery at the idea of such a notoriously wise man keeping a diary, and Mrs. Royd remarked that she had always understood that it was a feminine weakness.

"It is a weakness when it is feminine," he retorted.

"Go on," she encouraged him. "'I remember a story about a diary——'"

"I decline to jest about my diary," he stated. "It is the rudder that steers me."

"That sounds like a jest," Carruthers commented.

"Or a riddle," Alice Benson suggested. "Why is a diary like a rudder? We give it up, Mr. Ditmas."

He laughed and finished his whisky and soda.

"When it is kept as I keep mine," he explained. "You see, ordinary diary-keepers put down the things that they like to remember. I put down those that I don't."

"It must be a painful document," I observed.

"But useful," he claimed. "When you read that, two days running, you lost your temper at bridge, or sat up late boring people with your stories, you give up bridge and go early to bed. Good night!"

He rolled off, amid a chorus of protest, cracking his fingers and swaying his huge body. He turned to us before passing the screen.

"I call it 'The Book of the Ass'!" he stated. "Try one, some of you. The chief steward has a lot of nice little note-books with black shiny covers."

I was carrying Miss Benson's rugs downstairs for her, and we encountered the chief steward.

"Now you can buy your book," she suggested, with that queer little tilt of the head which first made me notice her.

I bought two of his note-books, and presented her with one.

"You might have a folly to record," I remarked.

"But I don't understand why you bought two," she rejoined. "You, of course, have no follies to put down."

If I haven't before the end of the voyage, it won't be your fault, Miss Alice!

My asininity of the moment is flirtation with Alice Benson, a pretty, pert, penniless governess, on the look-out for a good match. Well, I've come within hailing distance of forty, and I think I can risk it. One must do something on board ship, and she is good company.

II.—From Her Book.

This is the Book of the Ass—me—Alice Benson.

I propose to enter herein my follies—as many as I find time to write about.

My folly of the moment is attempting to be wise—matrimonially wise. I am not sure that my folly is not wisdom. Let me put the case to you, book.

Suppose that a girl is three-and-twenty, passably good-looking, reasonably intelligent, and horribly poor, a governess to brats—little wretches!

Suppose that she is sick to death of being a dependent, even though her present employers make dependence tolerable. Suppose that she sees no way out of it except marriage.

Suppose that she doesn't want to marry anyone in particular.

Suppose that there is a well-to-do and clever lawyer, getting on toward forty, not bad-looking, very self-sure and superior.

Suppose that he has deliberately set out to flirt with her, without any "intentions," that he isn't in love with her, but merely likes light brown hair and big eyes and a pinky complexion and a tart tongue.

Suppose he felt quite safe in his wisdom.

Suppose she thought she'd show him that he wasn't.

Suppose in an unguarded moment he should propose.

Suppose she should say "Yes"—or "No."

Would she be an ass?

In plain English, shall I lay myself out to catch a rich husband, or shan't I?

You horrid book!

III.—From His Book.

A rudder is no use unless you hold the tiller. At present I am leaving it free.

Why shouldn't I? I am not falling in love with the merry Alice, and she is not falling in love with me.

One doesn't fall in love very easily at eight-and-thirty, and one doesn't fall in love very easily with eight-and-thirty. If I saw a risk of either, I'd get off at the next port. She is a delightful 'board-ship comrade, but she wouldn't do for a companion on the long journey. Too young, too frivolous, too fond of pleasure. Not enough heart, I think; anyhow, no heart for me. Doubtless she pronounces me too old, too sensible, too fond of work. Probably she considers it a merit that I haven't enough heart to bore her. Possibly she would endure the drawbacks for the sake of my money. Certainly she wouldn't be surprised if I made her the offer. It is a deliberate flirtation on both sides, so neither can complain.

The difference is that I am flirting for amusement and she for business. No doubt she enjoys the sport, too. Well, catch me if you can, my pretty fisherwoman.

I take warning, however, from the Book of the Ass, Angling is a risky sport for the fish!

IV.—From Her Book.

Will he, or won't he? Shall I, or shan't I?

It would be the sensible thing to marry him, if I have the chance; and somehow I fancy that I shall. I can't go on governessing all my life, and the poor old mother can't go on with the little I send her; and that's every penny I can spare.

I don't care for anybody else, and it would be such fun to catch him. He nibbles at the hook, and thinks himself so safe! I must make him propose. But when he does——

What's the use of equivocating to a diary? I'll set down in the Book of the Ass

What I would not tell
For hope of Heaven or fear of hell

I mean to accept him. If I can't put up with him, I can easily break it off.

I don't know that I could put up with him. He is so superior. That is the word for him. If we get married, we shall live cat and dog.

If he weren't so sure about everything, I could like him just tolerably, and then I shouldn't hesitate. I could easily make him like me, and it would be a fair bargain. I should get his money, and he would get a nice wife. I can be nice, wretch as I am.

What I don't like—besides his "superiority"—is catching him when he doesn't even want to be caught. I don't see that I need mind that. He is fifteen years older, and he deliberately set out to flirt with me. I shall catch him if I can. Won't he be surprised, poor man!

Do you know, book, I am not quite so horrid as you'd think from what I've written down. If the right man came along, I'd marry him, and be poor with him, and starve with him—somebody who wasn't "superior." I wouldn't care what he was, so long as he wasn't that!

V.—From His Book.

I must begin to grip the tiller. I detected a distinct feeling of regard for her to-day. She was such a little brick.

It was rough, and most of the people were knocked over. Alice's "tiresome brats," as she calls them, were very queer. Their mother and nurse stayed below. So both the youngsters dumped on poor Alice, who was lying in a deck-chair and looking a trifle greenish. She tried to bear up, and petted the poor little beggars, till I went and took the boy away from her. She managed a smile.

"Good Samaritan!" she said. Then she hugged the little girl to her, and they both went to sleep.

Her hair had fallen out, and she looked almost childish. I am fifteen years the older, and if the flirtation went to the point of her really liking me—— No, it would not do even then; we should be extremely ill-matched.

As a matter of fact, she doesn't care for me. She might try to persuade herself that she did; but it would be my money. Still, you're a nicer woman than I thought, naughty Miss Alice.

VI.—From Her Book.

The superior person was really nice to-day. My dear, tiresome brats were very sick. I think I should have been if he hadn't hauled Desmond off me, and nursed him himself. I was so done up that I went off to sleep cuddling Gracie. When I woke, Desmond was asleep. The hardened man was reading a law book and smoking an enormous cigar. He is superior to sea-sickness.

He got up and carried the youngsters down to their berths without waking them. Then he came back and tucked me up, and put another rug over me, and sat and talked.

"Do you know what I have been thinking?" he asked.

"That I looked green and ugly?" I suggested.

He laughed.

"If I thought it would cure your vanity, I'd say 'Yes,' he told me. "But, as a matter of fact, you only look green. I have been thinking that you are very fond of your 'tiresome brats,' as you call them."

"You evidently thought very badly of me before," I told him.

I thought that would have fetched a compliment; but he only stared, as if he were trying to realise what he did think of me. I fancy he also began to realise that I am dangerous. I might have been; but while he was staring, I went off to sleep again. I must have looked a fright. My hair had fallen out. I wish I were too superior to mind the ship waggling about.

If it keeps fine, like it is this evening, I shall put on my pink blouse to-morrow. I meant to keep it in reserve, but something must be done to wipe out the memory of my awful looks of to-day.

VII.—-From His Book.

Old Ditmas was right. A man needs a frank record of his follies to warn him. I felt the fascination of the fair Alice to-day. She wore a wonderful pale pink blouse and a wonderful pale pink smile. She certainly is a very pretty woman.

"I want people to forget how horrid I looked yesterday," she told me. "Please stare at me! As if you were taking a photograph to blot out yesterday's green one!"

She posed with her head a-tilt—the lure that first interested me in her. I did look hard at her, so hard that Mrs. Luttrell smiled.

"I think I could guess the photo of yesterday," she said in her gentle way—she is a very delicate woman. "It isn't a green one, is it? It's a pale, heroic little person struggling to bear with two sick babies?"

"It is that," I assented; and Mrs. Luttrell nodded.

"That is the real Alice—well, one of them I The other is this vain little person."

She put her hand on Alice's arm for a moment. She is distinctly fond of her, so are the children. The other day I told Desmond that his Miss Benson was naughty. He glared at me. "You's a 'tory-teller," he said. "An' that's rude! An' I mean to be rude!"

If the green Alice and the pink Alice were all of her! But there's a black Alice who is looking for a well-to-do husband. Perhaps there's a white Alice for somebody. Not for me. The next time I feel a trace of susceptibility I take warning, and the flirtation stops. Note that, Book of the Ass.

VIII.—From Her Book.

The superior man sees the bait at last.

Ah, my friend, you've nibbled! The fisherwoman will have you. I had a letter this morning when we were in port. Mummy isn't well, Mrs. Nugent says, and she ought to go away for a change. Where's the money to come from?

I am sorry for you, poor superior man, but it's your own fault. You most deliberately set out to flirt with me. Now you mean to stop. I saw it in your eyes. You shan't stop!

IX.—From His Book.

Ass!

Ass!

I've proposed to her. Heaven forgive me, if I misjudge her, but I believe she deliberately lured me on!

I hadn't the remotest intention of doing it—quite the reverse, in fact. I was walking round with her after dinner. We were passing the wind-screen, and the ship rolled heavily just as we went from the electric lights into the starlight. I caught hold of her as we staggered. Her hair blew against my face. She turned toward me with that tilt of the head and her eyes laughing. … The pink blouse seemed to set her off like the velvet back of a jewel case. … She's pretty. … I didn't know I was going to kiss her till I'd done it.

She gave a queer little cry. I think that was genuine. The kiss had to be a proposal or an insult. I proposed, of course.

She said "Yes."

"I don't think you meant to," she told me the moment after, and then she began to cry. I fancied for a moment that she really liked me, and for the moment I was completely under the spell of her prettiness. I repeated the proposal—irretrievably.

She won't make a bad wife, I think. She's very, very pretty, and, if she chooses, she can be very nice, but—she lured me on to it!

Ass!

X.—From Her Book.

I've done it, and I hope I'm ashamed of myself.

I'll set down the bare, horrid fact. I tempted him to kiss me, and he did.

He took the consequences like a man, and proposed to me. I accepted him.

I'm sure he was sorry, and I'm aware that I am.

Hair, eyes, and a saucy tongue—a pretty pink blouse to help! They've fetched—a "superior" slave-owner!

It serves him right! It does serve him right- I don't pity him. I pity myself.

It isn't just selling myself. It's selling myself to a man who doesn't want me. That is the humiliation.

I'd tell him the truth and set him free if it wasn't for mother. I must have money for her.

If he is nice about helping her when we are married, I will be nice to him. Perhaps he will like me then. I could like him very well if he liked me, and if he wouldn't he superior.

Isn't it clever of me to catch such a clever and superior husband?

The ass who was wise!

XI.—From His Book.

She has told Mrs. Luttrell, and Mrs. Luttrell has told half the ship. My arm aches with handshaking.

The curious thing is that everyone seems to think it a very suitable match. Even old Ditmas evidently thought so, though he pretended to chaff me.

"You should have kept a diary!" he declared.

Confound his diary!

It isn't that I don't like the girl. If she liked me, and were marrying me for myself, candidly I believe I should be rather glad. But I can't get rid of the conviction that she is marrying me for my money, and laid herself out to do it. She is obviously not easy in her mind. She tries so laboriously to be nice to me.

Mrs. Luttrell minded the children all the afternoon to give the "lovers" a chance. Gracie escaped and ran to Alice. She picked the child up and hugged her frantically. It was as if she said: "Here's someone I do love."

XII.—From Her Book.

To-day has been unbearable.

Everyone has been congratulating me.

"He is such a clever man," they say. Why don't they say "superior"?

I won't call him that any more. He has been painfully anxious to be kind to me. He braces himself up and calls me "dear." Three times this evening he braced himself up and kissed me. The last time he told me to kiss him. The slave obeyed.

If he wanted me, I shouldn't mind so much. I should try hard to care for him, and I expect I should succeed. I really do think quite well of him, and I know that, even though he doesn't care for me, he means to l good to me.

If only——

Oh, book, I don't want to write. I want to cry!

Poor slave-girl! Slave-girl who sold herself!

XIII.—From His Book.

The storm has come. I must take the tiller now, and steer for poor, pretty Alice as well as for myself.

I had my diary on deck. Alice had hers. They are two identical little black-covered books. They got mixed up when I carried our things downstairs last night.

I opened the one that I had taken, to record that I had spent a more pleasant day—unsentimental but friendly—and perhaps I should have added that, when I kissed her good night, she kissed me unasked.

I read "The Book of the Ass—me—Alice Benson." Then I closed it, of course.

I handed it back to her this morning, and told her that I had read no more than that.

She looked at me and shivered.

"I have read every word of yours," she said. "Any woman would."

"Yes," I admitted. "Yes, I am more sorry than I can say. If I had had it last night, there would have been something more pleasant added."

She drew a deep breath.

"I tried to be nice yesterday," she said; "but—your book was very—very hurting. It was true what you thought. Our engagement is ended, obviously, but I would rather part friends. Read my book, and be kind and manly about it. You are that. I don't ask you to read the nasty things I have written just from spitefulness. It seems fair. You will find that you need not offer any self-sacrifice. I see"—she smiled faintly—"I see that you are contemplating that—I shall tell Mrs. Luttrell that our engagement is at an end."

"I will read the book, Alice," I said. "I think a clear understanding is best. As for the engagement—— There are only two more days of the voyage. We need not have the unpleasantness of announcing a breach on the ship, I think, if you will endure two more days of my society. I shall be considerate."

"Thank you," she said. "You are always that."

I've had a bad quarter of an hour with her book. It has made me feel very sorry for the hurt that mine must have inflicted on her. It has also brought home to me that I am very responsible in the matter, and that, having read two Books of Asses, I have two tillers in my hand and two lives to steer. Two courses or one course?

We shall see to-night.

XIV.—From Her Book.

This is the last entry in you, Book of the Ass. To-morrow you drop overboard. I have read his diary, and he has read you. Drowning is our sentence on both of you.

"We will assume," he said, "that there is a nice woman and a tolerable man beneath the naughtiness and the superiority. Let us make up our minds to find them."

He was very, very nice. He gave you back to me after dinner, when we had walked up beyond the wind-screen, and said just that.

I said, "Thank you. Yes, we will try."

We stood looking over at the water for some time. Then he touched my blouse.

It was the pink one.

"The cause of my undoing," he said. "You looked so pretty."

"Don't!" I begged. I was crying.

"You look so pretty now," he said. "Don't you think—don't you think I have found the little white Alice? I love you, little girl! Can't you love me too?"

I turned to him and put my hands on his shoulders, and looked right up in his eyes.

"We have tried deceiving each other," I said. "Let us try being honest and true. I shall forget what you said just now; but if you ever say it again, I shall believe you. Do not say it again unless it ever becomes quite, quite true—unless you haven't a shadow of a doubt. I trust to your honour."

"On my honour, Alice," he said at once. "I love you very much, and I wish to marry you."

"1 love you too!" I cried. "Oh, I do!"

It is true.

Now, little book, you must go. You are not mine any more, because I am not the girl who wrote in you. He has found the other Alice—the little whit« Alice who wants to be his wife.

Good-bye, Book of the Ass!