“There is a difference, my dear Eleanor, between liberty and licence,” said Mr St Clair, smiling a little in order not to make his reproof offensive, but with a certain gravity.
I do not know if in recounting this conversation I have managed to convey the impression it gave me of a charming and old-fashioned air. I could have listened all night to them discussing the depravity of an age that was young in the eighteen-eighties. I would have given a good deal for a glimpse of their large and roomy house in Leinster Square. I should have recognized the suite covered in red brocade that stood stiffly about the drawing-room, each piece in its appointed place; and the cabinets filled with Dresden china would have brought me back my childhood. In the dining-room, where they habitually sat, for the drawing-room was used only for parties, was a Turkey carpet and a vast mahogany sideboard “groaning’ with silver. On the walls were the pictures that had excited the admiration of Mrs Humphrey Ward and her uncle Matthew in the Academy of eighteen-eighty.
Next morning, strolling through a pretty lane at the back of Elsom, I met Miss Porchester, who was taking “her walk’. I should have liked to go a little way with her, but felt certain that it would embarrass this maiden of fifty to saunter alone with a man even of my respectable years. She bowed as I passed her and blushed. Oddly enough, a few yards behind her I came upon the funny shabby little man in black gloves with whom I had spoken for a few minutes on the front. He touched his old bowler hat.
“Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with a match?” he said.
“Certainly,” I retorted, “but I’m afraid I have no cigarettes on me.”
“Allow me to offer you one of mine,” he said, taking out the paper case. It was empty. “Dear, dear, I haven’t got one either. What a curious coincidence!”
He went on and I had a notion that he a little hastened his steps. I was beginning to have my doubts about him. I hoped he was not going to bother Miss Porchester. For a moment I thought of walking back, but I did not. He was a civil little man and I did not believe he would make a nuisance of himself to a single lady.
I saw him again that very afternoon. I was sitting on the front. He walked towards me with little, halting steps. There was something of a wind and he looked like a dried leaf being driven before it. This time he did not hesitate, but sat down beside me.
“We meet again, sir. The world is a small place. If it will not inconvenience you perhaps you will allow me to rest a few minutes. I am a wee bit tired.”
“This is a public bench, and you have just as much right to sit on it as I.”
I did not wait for him to ask me for a match, but at once offered him a cigarette.
“How very kind of you, sir! I have to limit myself to so many cigarettes a day, but I enjoy those I smoke. As one grows older the pleasures of life diminish, but my experience is that one enjoys more those that remain.”
“That is a very consoling thought.”
“Excuse me, sir, but am I right in thinking that you are the well-known author?”
“I am an author,” I replied. “But what made you think it?”
“I have seen your portrait in the illustrated papers. I suppose you don’t recognize me?”
I looked at him again, a weedy little man in neat but shabby black clothes, with a long nose and watery blue eyes.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I dare say I’ve changed,” he sighed. “There was a time when my photograph was in every paper in the United Kingdom. Of course, those press photographers never do you justice. I give you my word, sir, that if I hadn’t seen my name underneath I should never have guessed that some of them were meant for me.”
He was silent for a while. The tide was out and beyond the shingle of the beach was a strip of yellow mud. The breakwaters were half buried in it like the backbones of prehistoric beasts.
“It must be a wonderfully interesting thing to be an author, sir. I’ve often thought I had quite a turn for writing myself. At one time and another I’ve done a rare lot of reading. I haven’t kept up with it much lately. For one thing my eyes are not so good as they used to be. I believe I could write a book if I tried.”
“They say anybody can write one,” I answered.
“Not a novel, you know. I’m not much of a one for novels; I prefer histories and that-like. But memoirs. If anybody was to make it worth my while I wouldn’t mind writing my memoirs.”
“It’s very fashionable just now.”
“There are not many people who’ve had the experiences I’ve had in one way and another. I did write to one of the Sunday papers about it some little while back, but they never answered my letter.”
He gave me a long, appraising look. He had too respectable an air to be about to ask me for half a crown.
“Of course you don’t know who I am, sir, do you?”
“I honestly don’t.”
He seemed to ponder for a moment, then he smoothed down his black gloves on his fingers, looked for a moment at a hole in one of them, and then turned to me not without self-consciousness.
“I am the celebrated Mortimer Ellis,” he said.
“Oh?”
I did not know what other ejaculation to make, for to the best of my belief I had never heard the name before. I saw a look of disappointment come over his face, and I was a trifle embarrassed.
“Mortimer Ellis,” he repeated. “You’re not going to tell me you don’t know.”
“I’m afraid I must. I’m very often out of England.”
I wondered to what he owed his celebrity. I passed over in my mind various possibilities. He could never have been an athlete, which alone in England gives a man real fame, but he might have been a faith-healer or a champion billiard-player. There is of course no one so obscure as a Cabinet Minister out of office and he might have been the President of the Board of Trade in a defunct administration. But he had none of the look of a politician.
“That’s fame for you,” he said bitterly. “Why, for weeks I was the most talked-about man in England. Look at me. You must have seen my photograph in the papers. Mortimer Ellis.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head.
He paused a moment to give his disclosure effectiveness.
“I am the well-known bigamist.”
Now what are you to reply when a person who is practically a stranger to you informs you that he is a well-known bigamist? I will confess that I have sometimes had the vanity to think that I am not as a rule at a loss for a retort, but here I found myself speechless.
“I’ve had eleven wives, sir,” he went on.
“Most people find one about as much as they can manage.”
“Ah, that’s want of practice. When you’ve had eleven there’s very little you don’t know about women.”
“But why did you stop at eleven?”
“There now, I knew you’d say that. The moment I set eyes on you I said to myself, he’s got a clever face. You know, sir, that’s the thing that always grizzles me. Eleven does seem a funny number, doesn’t it? There’s something unfinished about it. Now three anyone might have, and seven’s all right, they say nine’s lucky, and there’s nothing wrong with ten. But eleven! That’s the one thing I regret. I shouldn’t have minded anything if I could have brought it up to the Round Dozen.”
He unbuttoned his coat and from an inside pocket produced a bulging and very greasy pocket-book. From this he took a large bundle of newspaper cuttings; they were worn and creased and dirty. But he spread out two or three.
“Now just you look at those photographs. I ask you, are they like me? It’s an outrage. Why, you’d think I was a criminal to look at them.”
The cuttings were of imposing length. In the opinion of sub-editors Mortimer Ellis had obviously been a news item of value. One was headed, A Much Married Man; another, Heartless Ruffian Brought to Book; a third, Contemptible Scoundrel Meets his Waterloo.
“Not what you would call a good press,” I murmured.
“I nev
er pay any attention to what the newspapers say,” he answered, with a shrug of his thin shoulders. “I’ve known too many journals myself for that. No, it’s the judge I blame. He treated me shocking and it did him no good, mind you; he died within the year.”
I ran my eyes down the report I held.
“I see he gave you five years.”
“Disgraceful, I call it, and see what it says.” He pointed to a place with his forefinger.
“‘Three of his victims pleaded for mercy to be shown to him.’ That shows what they thought of me. And after that he gave me five years. And just look what he called me, a heartless scoundrel-me, the best-hearted man that ever lived-a pest of society and a danger to the public. Said he wished he had the power to give me the cat. I don’t so much mind his giving me five years, though you’ll never get me to say it wasn’t excessive, but I ask you, had he the right to talk to me like that? No, he hadn’t, and I’ll never forgive him, not if I live to be a hundred.”
The bigamist’s cheeks flushed and his watery eyes were filled for a moment with fire. It was a sore subject with him.
“May I read them?” I asked him.
“That’s what I gave them you for. I want you to read them, sir. And if you can read them without saying that I’m a much wronged man, well, you’re not the man I took you for.”
As I glanced through one cutting after another I saw why Mortimer Ellis had so wide an acquaintance with the seaside resorts of England. They were his hunting-ground. His method was to go to some place when the season was over and take apartments in one of the empty lodging-houses. Apparently it did not take him long to make acquaintance with some woman or other, widow or spinster, and I noticed that their ages at the time were between thirty-five and fifty. They stated in the witness-box that they had met him first on the sea-front. He generally proposed marriage to them within a fortnight of this and they were married shortly after. He induced them in one way or another to entrust him with their savings and in a few months, on the pretext that he had to go to London on business, he left them never to return. Only one had ever seen him again till, obliged to give evidence, they saw him in the dock. They were women of a certain respectability; one was the daughter of a doctor and another of a clergyman; there was a lodging-house keeper, there was the widow of a commercial traveller, and there was a retired dressmaker. For the most part, their fortunes ranged from five hundred to a thousand pounds, but whatever the sum the misguided women were stripped of every penny. Some of them told really pitiful stories of the destitution to which they had been reduced. But they all acknowledged that he had been a good husband to them. Not only had three actually pleaded for mercy to be shown him, but one said in the witness-box that, if he was willing to come, she was ready to take him back. He noticed that I was reading this.
“And she’d have worked for me,” he said, “there’s no doubt about that. But I said, better let bygones be bygones. No one likes a cut off the best end of the neck better than I do, but I’m not much of a one for cold roast mutton, I will confess.”
It was only by an accident that Mortimer Ellis did not marry his twelfth wife and so achieve the Round Dozen which I understand appealed to his love of symmetry. For he was engaged to be married to a Miss Hubbard-“two thousand pounds she had, if she had a penny, in war-loan,” he confided to me-and the banns had been read, when one of his former wives saw him, made inquiries, and communicated with the police. He was arrested on the very day before his twelfth wedding.
“She was a bad one, she was,” he told me. “She deceived me something cruel.”
“How did she do that?”
“Well, I met her at Eastbourne, one December it was, on the pier, and she told me in course of conversation that she’d been in the millinery business and had retired. She said she’d made a tidy bit of money. She wouldn’t say exactly how much it was, but she gave me to understand it was something like fifteen hundred pounds. And when I married her, would you believe it, she hadn’t got three hundred. And that’s the one who gave me away. And mind you, I’d never blamed her. Many a man would have cut up rough when he found out he’d been made a fool of. I never showed her that I was disappointed even, I just went away without a word.”
“But not without the three hundred pounds, I take it.”
“Oh come, sir, you must be reasonable,” he returned in an injured tone. “You can’t expect three hundred pounds to last for ever and I’d been married to her for months before she confessed the truth.”
“Forgive my asking,” I said, “and pray don’t think my question suggests a disparaging view of your personal attractions, but-why did they marry you?”
“Because I asked them,” he answered, evidently very much surprised at my inquiry.
“But did you never have any refusals?”
“Very seldom. Not more than four or five in the whole course of my career. Of course I didn’t propose till I was pretty sure of my ground and I don’t say I didn’t draw a blank sometimes. You can’t expect to click every time, if you know what I mean, and I’ve often wasted several weeks making up to a woman before I saw there was nothing doing.”
I surrendered myself for a time to my reflections. But I noticed presently that a broad smile spread over the mobile features of my friend.
“I understand what you mean,” he said. “It’s my appearance that puzzles you. You don’t know what it is they see in me. That’s what comes of reading novels and going to the pictures. You think what women want is the cowboy type, or the romance of old Spain touch, flashing eyes, an olive skin, and a beautiful dancer. You make me laugh.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
“Are you a married man, sir?”
“I am. But I only have one wife.”
“You can’t judge by that. You can’t generalize from a single instance, if you know what I mean. Now, I ask you, what would you know about dogs if you’d never had anything but one bull-terrier?”
The question was rhetorical and I felt sure did not require an answer. He paused for an effective moment and went on.
“You’re wrong, sir. You’re quite wrong. They may take a fancy to a good-looking young fellow, but they don’t want to marry him. They don’t really care about looks.”
“Douglas Jerrold, who was as ugly as he was witty, used to say that if he was given ten minutes’ start with a woman he could cut out the handsomest man in the room.”
“They don’t want wit. They don’t want a man to be funny; they think he’s not serious. They don’t want a man who’s too handsome; they think he’s not serious either. That’s what they want, they want a man who’s serious. Safety first. And then-attention. I may not be handsome and I may not be amusing, but believe me, I’ve got what every woman wants. Poise. And the proof is, I’ve made every one of my wives happy.”
“It certainly is much to your credit that three of them pleaded for mercy to be shown to you and that one was willing to take you back.”
“You don’t know what an anxiety that was to me all the time I was in prison. I thought she’d be waiting for me at the gate when I was released and I said to the Governor: ‘For God’s sake, sir, smuggle me out so as no one can see me.’”
He smoothed his gloves again over his hands and his eye once more fell upon the hole in the first finger.
“That’s what comes of living in lodgings, sir. How’s a man to keep himself neat and tidy without a woman to look after him? I’ve been married too often to be able to get along without a wife. There are men who don’t like being married. I can’t understand them. The fact is, you can’t do a thing really well unless you’ve got your heart in it, and I like being a married man. It’s no difficulty to me to do the little things that women like and that some men can’t be bothered with. As I was saying just now, it’s attention a woman wants. I never went out of the house without giving my wife a kiss and I never came in without giving her another. And it was very seldom I came in without bringing her some chocolates or a few flowers
. I never grudged the expense.”
“After all, it was her money you were spending,” I interposed.
“And what if it was? It’s not the money that you’ve paid for a present that signifies, it’s the spirit you give it in. That’s what counts with women. No, I’m not one to boast, but I will say this of myself, I am a good husband.”
I looked desultorily at the reports of the trial which I still held.
“I’ll tell you what surprises me,” I said. “All these women were very respectable, of a certain age, quiet, decent persons. And yet they married you without any inquiry after the shortest possible acquaintance.”
He put his hand impressively on my arm.
“Ah, that’s what you don’t understand, sir. Women have got a craving to be married. It doesn’t matter how young they are or how old they are, if they’re short or tall, dark or fair, they’ve all got one thing in common: they want to be married. And mind you, I married them in church. No woman feels really safe unless she’s married in church. You say I’m no beauty, well, I never thought I was, but if I had one leg and a hump on my back I could find any number of women who’d jump at the chance of marrying me. It’s a mania with them. It’s a disease. Why, there’s hardly one of them who wouldn’t have accepted me the second time I saw her only I like to make sure of my ground before I commit myself. When it all came out there was a rare to-do because I’d married eleven times. Eleven times? Why, it’s nothing, it’s not even a Round Dozen. I could have married thirty times if I’d wanted to. I give you my word, sir, when I consider my opportunities, I’m astounded at my moderation.”
“You told me you were very fond of reading history.”
“Yes, Warren Hastings said that, didn’t he? It struck me at the time I read it. It seemed to fit me like a glove.”
“And you never found these constant courtships a trifle monotonous?”
“Well, sir, I think I’ve got a logical mind, and it always gave me a rare lot of pleasure to see how the same effects followed on the same causes, if you know what I mean. Now, for instance, with a woman who’d never been married before I always passed myself off as a widower. It worked like a charm. You see, a spinster likes a man who knows a thing or two. But with a widow I always said I was a bachelor: a widow’s afraid a man who’s been married before knows too much.”