THE CHINA MAIL, DECEMBER 1, 1939
WE
THANK GOODNESS
CAN STILL GRUMBLE!
Many years ago I found myself in a German train with two American ladies whose personal luggage had unfortunately gone astray. I had never before realised that grumbling could be so bitter or so sustained.
The lamentations of these two ladies filled the air and they refused to be comforted. All Europeans, especially railway officials, were flayed
us in-
FOOL-PROOF
competent and slow-witted. The new world angrily told the old world pre- cisely where to get off. The wailing ended, however, when one of them remarked to the other, "Sadie, if I live to get back home in little old New York, I'll never grumble any more."
I have often wondered why so de- voted and accomplished a grumbler should so hastily have condemned herself to a life of misery; for it was clear that she loved her grievances and that the sound of her own com- (Continued from Page 16).
plaining voice was as music in her Charles Beeston; it was the feeling of
ears. If she faithfully kept her word dull horror that grew in his heart. In-self of one of the greatest pleasures she without any doubt deprived her- stead of getting easier it became more
of her life. pronounced, and it broke into his sleep. He was a murderer. 'There
was no fear of detection; he was as safe as if Laura had died quite natur- ally,
but-but-he was a murderer. feeling tempted to fly even when there was no terror of pursuit.
But, he consoled himself, Betty would solace this fret of spirit. Hc tried to work up an enthusiasm for the coming meeting. He had taken the precaution of sending no message to her, either directly or indirectly, in case it was revealed to arouse suspi- cion. But Betty would understand.
He tried to get her by 'phone on his arrival in London; but was told she was out of town; her maid thought she was making holiday in Wales. Charles. .went to see his dead wife's solicitor at the earliest opportunity. He went into minute particulars of the tragedy, to which the lawyer listened with pursed lips and brooding eyes.
"Well, it's a pity; it's a great pity," he said when the story was told.
"And-er-her will?" asked Charles. "Yes, yes-there's her will. Of course, she explained to you how she was situated?"
"Very comfortably, very comfort- ably indeed," said the widower, with a slight purr in his voice. One thing was certain: there would be no hitch In the will which Laura had made soon after their marriage and certain- ly had not altered since. As a prospec- tor, after endless years of futile seek- ing, at last strikes pay-ore and draws in a deep breath of contentment, so did Charles Beeston draw in a deep breath.
means were
"Eh?" he presently gasped. "Your wife's entire comprised in an annuity which died with her, of course. Didn't you know? And she overdrew on the strength of this annuity for the holiday which ended so tragically," the lawyer said. "As a matter of fact, her estate is in debt to us; we felt she would live for some time yet. No, beyond oddments, there is actually nothing.”
home,
Charles went to his lonely where every room seemed haunted by Laura's presence-disconcertingly so. He was a pauper, and he was a mur- derer. But he wrote to Betty and told her that she owed him the solace of her present companionship. Betty wrote back to say she was marrying Soames Bayliss quietly on the day he would receive the letter, and she blamed Charles for annoying her. Some little while later a Harley-street specialist rang him up.
He had, it appeared, heard from the lawyer, of Laura's death. He wished to condole with Charles,
"Though I'd expected her to last an- other year at least," he said.
"How do you mean-another year?” asked Charles, his voice somewhat out of control. The Harley-street man ex- plained. Laura had seen him some six months before her death.
She was suffering from a complaint that must inevitably prove fatal; no human pow- er could save her.
"She was, a brave woman if she never told you," said the specialist,
"No," said Charles weakly, "she never so much as 'hinted at it." The hand with which he hung up the re- ceiver was cold and clammy. He had just fancied he heard Laura's step in the passage outside the room.
Why is the world grumblers?
SO full of
broad-
British
BY LORD SNELL,
formerly farm labourer, groom, ferryman, potman, clerk; Labour M. P. for East Woolwich, 1922-31, Parliamentary Under-Secretary
of State, India Office, 1931; Chair- man of the L. C. C., 1934-8; now leader of the Labour Party in the House of Lords.
do not stint themselves. Their un- deniable competence at it has acquir- ed an international reputation.
"John Bull," said Washington Irving, "is the most punctual and dis- Lord Halifax in his recent
contented paymaster in the world; cast said that "the right to grumble is drawing his coln from his breeches almost traditional with the
pocket with infinite reluctance, pay- people, who do it supremely well."ing to the utmost farthing, but accom- Of course they do. Grumbling is one of their cheapest luxuries, and they, This, of
panying every guinea with a curse.
course, referred to aur
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mouths. them
Half of the joy of our lives would disappear if we could not grumble.' I know people to whom it is as butter and honey' in their Quite a number of appear to have no other occupation, and their lives are neatly divided between abuse of the Labour Party and a painful struggle with cross-word puzzles.
I am myself a practised grumbler, but there is never any puzzle about my cross-words. They are, on
the contrary, as obvious and as unpleas- sant as a black-out, and I believe that a prolonged and honest-to-God grum- ble does me more good sweetest. music. Cheaper medicine, it is also more Was it not W. S. Gilbert who said:
"Oh don't the days seem lank and long.
than the than effective.
(Continued on Page 20)
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