Marlow's tone being apologetic and our new acquaintance having again
turned to the window I took it upon myself to say:
"You are justified. There is very little intelligent design in the
majority of marriages; but they are none the worse for that. Intelligence
leads people astray as far as passion sometimes. I know you are not a
cynic."
Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he bore no
grudge against people he used to know.
"Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There was no design at all
in it. Fyne, you must know, was an enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent
his holidays tramping all over our native land. His tastes were simple.
He put infinite conviction and perseverance into his holidays. At the
proper season you would meet in the fields, Fyne, a serious-faced, broad-
chested, little man, with a shabby knap-sack on his back, making for some
church steeple. He had a horror of roads. He wrote once a little book
called the 'Tramp's Itinerary,' and was recognised as an authority on the
footpaths of England. So one year, in his favourite over-the-fields,
back-way fashion he entered a pretty Surrey village where he met Miss
Anthony. Pure accident, you see. They came to an understanding, across
some stile, most likely. Little Fyne held very solemn views as to the
destiny of women on this earth, the nature of our sublunary love, the
obligations of this transient life and so on. He probably disclosed them
to his future wife. Miss Anthony's views of life were very decided too
but in a different way. I don't know the story of their wooing. I
imagine it was carried on clandestinely and, I am certain, with
portentous gravity, at the back of copses, behind hedges . . .
"Why was it carried on clandestinely?" I inquired.
"Because of the lady's father. He was a savage sentimentalist who had
his own decided views of his paternal prerogatives. He was a terror; but
the only evidence of imaginative faculty about Fyne was his pride in his
wife's parentage. It stimulated his ingenuity too. Difficult--is it
not?--to introduce one's wife's maiden name into general conversation.
But my simple Fyne made use of Captain Anthony for that purpose, or else
I would never even have heard of the man. "My wife's sailor-brother" was
the phrase. He trotted out the sailor-brother in a pretty wide range of
subjects: Indian and colonial affairs, matters of trade, talk of travels,
of seaside holidays and so on. Once I remember "My wife's sailor-brother
Captain Anthony" being produced in connection with nothing less recondite
than a sunset. And little Fyne never failed to add "The son of Carleon
Anthony, the poet--you know." He used to lower his voice for that
statement, and people were impressed or pretended to be."