‘What is it?’
‘It’s only the new candle-shades, miss. Shall I bring them in for you to see?’
‘No, thank you….’
Candle-shades!
She put her hands over her eyes and summoned all her pride. Probably the very butler and her maid knew perfectly well she had been waiting at home alone for Mr Reeve. She cared absolutely nothing what they thought; but she felt bitter, revengeful to him. It was cruel.
Why did she care so much? She remembered letters and scenes with other people–people whose sufferings about her she felt always inclined to laugh at. She couldn’t believe in it. Love in books had always seemed to her, although intensely interesting, just a trifle absurd. She couldn’t realise it till now.
Another ring. Perhaps it was he after all! …
The same position. The book, the bright blue eyes….
The door opened; Anne came in. It was striking seven o’clock.
CHAPTER XIX
Eugenia
Meanwhile Cecil had received a note from his uncle, asking him to go and see him. He decided he would do so on his way to see Hyacinth.
For many days now he had not seen Mrs Raymond. She had answered no letters, and been always ‘out’ to him.
As he walked along, he wondered what had become of her, and tried to think he didn’t care.
‘I have news for you, Cecil,’ said his uncle; ‘but, first, you really have made up your mind, haven’t you, to try your luck with Hyacinth? What a pretty perfumed name it is–just like her.’
‘I suppose I shall try.’
‘Good. I’m delighted to hear it. Then in a very short time I shall hear that you’re as happy as I am.’
‘As you, Uncle Ted?’
‘Look at this house, Cecil. It’s full of Things; it wants looking after. I want looking after…. I am sure you wouldn’t mind–wouldn’t be vexed to hear I was going to marry again?’
‘Rather not. I’m glad. It must be awfully lonely here sometimes. But I am surprised, I must say. Everybody looks upon you as a confirmed widower, Uncle Ted.’
‘Well, so I have been a confirmed widower–for eighteen years. I think that’s long enough.’
Cecil waited respectfully.
Then his uncle said abruptly–
‘I saw Mrs Raymond yesterday.’
Cecil started and blushed.
‘Did you? Where did you meet her?’
‘I didn’t meet her. I went to see her. I spent two hours with her.’
Cecil stared in silent amazement.
‘It was my fourth visit,’ said Lord Selsey.
‘You spent all that time talking over my affairs?’
His uncle gave a slight smile. ‘Indeed not, Cecil. After the first few minutes of the first visit, frankly, we said very little about you.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
‘I’ve been all this time trying to persuade her to something–against her judgement. I’ve been trying to persuade her to marry.’
‘To marry me?’
‘No. To marry me. And I’ve succeeded.’
‘I congratulate you,’ said Cecil, in a cold, hard voice.
‘You’re angry, my boy. It’s very natural; but let me explain to you how it happened.’
He paused, and then went on: ‘Of course, for years I’ve wished for the right woman here. But I never saw her. I thought I never should. That day she came here–the musical party–the moment I looked at her, I saw that she was meant for me, not for you.’
‘I call it a beastly shame,’ said Cecil.
‘It isn’t. It’s absolutely right. You know perfectly well she never would have cared for you in the way you wished.’
Cecil could not deny that, but he said sarcastically–
‘So you fell in love with her at first sight?’
‘Oh no, I didn’t. I’m not in love with her now. But I think she’s beautiful. I mean she has a beautiful soul–she has atmosphere, she has something that I need. I could live in the same house with her in perfect harmony for ever. I could teach her to understand my Things. She does already by instinct.’
‘You’re marrying her as a kind of custodian for your collection?’
‘A great deal, of course. And, then, I couldn’t marry a young girl. It would be ridiculous. A society woman–a regular beauty–would jar on me and irritate me. She would think herself more important than my pictures.’
Cecil could hardly help a smile, angry as he was.
‘And Mrs Raymond,’ went on Lord Selsey, ‘is delightfully unworldly–and yet sensible. Of course, she’s not a bit in love with me either. But she likes me awfully, and I persuaded her. It was all done by argument.’
‘I could never persuade her,’ said Cecil bitterly.
‘Of course not. She has such a sense of form. She saw the incongruity…. I needn’t ask you to forgive me, old boy. I know, of course, there’s nothing to forgive. You’ve got over your fancy, or you will very soon. I haven’t injured you in any sort of way, and I didn’t take her away from you. She’s ten years older than you, and nine years younger than me…. You’re still my heir just the same. This will make no difference, and you’ll soon be reconciled. I’m sure of that.’
‘Of course, I’m not such a brute as not to be glad, for her,’ said Cecil slowly, after a slight struggle. ‘It seems a bit rough, though, at first.’ He held out his hand.
‘Thanks, dear old boy. You see I’m right. You can’t be angry with me…. You see it’s a peculiar case. It won’t be like an ordinary marriage, a young married couple and so on, nor a _mariage de convenance_, either, in the ordinary sense. Here are two lonely people intending to live solitary lives. Suddenly, you–_most_ kindly, I must say–introduce us. I, with my great experience and my instinctive _flair_, see immediately that this is the right woman in the right place. I bother her until she consents–and there you are.’
‘I hope you’ll be happy.’
They shook hands in silence, and Cecil got into a hansom and drove straight to Mrs Raymond’s. He was furious.
While Hyacinth, whose very existence he had forgotten in the shock and anger of this news, was feeling, with the agonising clairvoyance of love, that Cecil was with Mrs Raymond, she was perfectly right.
Today Eugenia was at home, and did not refuse to see him.
‘I see you know,’ she remarked coolly as he came in.
Cecil had controlled his emotion when with his uncle, but seeing Mrs Raymond again in the dismal little old drawing-room dealt him a terrible blow. He saw, only too vividly, the picture of his suave, exquisite uncle, standing out against this muddled, confused background, in the midst of decoration which was one long disaster and furniture that was one desperate failure. To think that the owner of Selsey House had spent hours here! The thought was jealous agony.
‘I must congratulate you,’ he said coldly.
‘Thank you, Cecil.’
‘I thought you were never going to marry again?’ he said sarcastically.
‘I never do, as a rule. But this is an exception. And it isn’t going to be like an ordinary marriage. We shall each have complete freedom. He persuaded me–to look after that lovely house. It will give me an object in life. And besides, Cecil,’ she was laughing, ‘think–to be your aunt! The privilege!’
He seized her by the shoulders. She laughed still more, and put one hand on the bell, at which he released her. He walked away so violently that he knocked down a screen.
‘There, that will do,’ said Eugenia, picking it up. ‘You’ve made your little scene, and shown your little temper, and that’s enough. Sit down,’ she commanded.
Cecil sat down, feeling a complete fool.
‘Look here. I daresay that it’s a little annoying for you, at first, especially as you introduced us; but really, when you come to think it over, there’s no law of etiquette, or any other that I know of, which compels me to refuse the uncle of a young man who has done me the honour to like me. Oh, Cecil, don’t be absurd!’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘No. But I think he will be very pleasant–not worrying and fidgeting–so calm and kind. I refused at first, Cecil. People always want what they can’t get, and if it’s any satisfaction to you, I don’t mind confessing that I have had, for years, a perfect mania for somebody else. A hopeless case for at least three reasons: he’s married, he’s in love with someone else (not even counting his wife, who counts a great deal) and, if he hadn’t either of these preoccupations, he would never look at me. So I’ve given it up. I’ve made up my mind to forget it. Your uncle will help me, and give me something else to think about.’
‘Who was the man?’ Cecil asked. It was some slight satisfaction to know that she also had had a wasted affection.
‘Why should I tell you? I shall not tell you. Well, I will tell you. It’s Sir Charles Cannon.’
‘Old Cannon?’
‘Yes; it was a sort of mad hero-worship. I never could account for it. I always thought him the most wonderful person. He hasn’t the faintest idea of it, and never will; and now don’t let’s speak of him again.’
The name reminded Cecil of Hyacinth. He started violently, remembering his appointment. What must she have thought of him?
‘Good-bye, Eugenia,’ he said.
As he held her hand he felt, in a sense, as if it was in some strange way, after all, a sort of triumph for him, a score that Lord Selsey had appreciated her so wonderfully.
As he left the house it struck seven. What was he to do about Hyacinth?
That evening Hyacinth received a large basket of flowers and a letter, in which Cecil threw himself on her mercy, humbling himself to the earth, and imploring her to let him come and explain and apologise next day. He entreated her to be kind enough to let him off waiting till a conventional hour, and to allow him to call in the morning.
He received a kind, forgiving answer, and then spent the most miserable night of his life.
CHAPTER XX
Bruce has Influenza
All women love news of whatever kind; even bad news gives them merely a feeling of pleasurable excitement, unless it is something that affects them or those they love personally.
Edith was no exception to the rule, but she knew that Bruce, on the contrary, disliked it; if it were bad he was angry and said it served the people right, while if it were good he thought they didn’t deserve it and disapproved strongly. Bruce spent a great deal of his time and energy in disapproving; generally of things and people that were no concern of his. As is usually the case, this high moral attitude was caused by envy. Bruce would have been much surprised to hear it, but envy was the keynote of his character, and he saw everything that surrounded him through its vague mist.
All newspapers made him furious. He regarded everything in them as a personal affront; from the fashionable intelligence, describing political dinners in Berkeley Square or dances in Curzon Street, where he thought he should have been present in the important character of host, to notices of plays–plays which he felt he could have written so well. Even sensational thefts irritated him; perhaps he unconsciously fancied that the stolen things (Crown jewels, and so forth) should by rights have been his, and that he would have known how to take care of them. ‘Births, Marriages, and Deaths’ annoyed him intensely. If he read that Lady So-and-So had twin sons, the elder of whom would be heir to the title and estates, he was disgusted to think of the injustice that he hadn’t a title and estates for Archie to inherit, and he mentally held the newly-arrived children very cheap, feeling absolutely certain that they would compare most unfavourably with his boy, excepting, of course, in the accident of their worldly circumstances. Also, although he was proud of having married, and fond of Edith, descriptions of ‘Society Weddings of the Week’ drove him absolutely wild–wild to think that he and Edith, who deserved it, hadn’t had an Archbishop, choirboys, guardsmen with crossed swords to walk under, and an amethyst brooch from a member of the Royal Family at their wedding. New discoveries in science pained him, for he knew that he would have thought of them long before, and carried them out much better, had he only had the time.
Bruce had had influenza, and when Edith came in with her news, she could not at once make up her mind to tell him, fearing his anger.
He was lying on the sofa with the paper, grumbling at the fuss made about the Sicilian players, of whom he was clearly jealous.
She sat down by his side and agreed with him.
‘I’m much worse since you went out. You know the usual results of influenza, don’t you? Heart failure, or nervous depression liable to lead to suicide.’
‘But you’re much better, dear. Dr Braithwaite said it was wonderful how quickly you threw it off.’
‘Threw it off! Yes, but that’s only because I have a marvellous constitution and great will-power. If I happened to have had less strength and vitality, I might easily have been dead by now. I wish you’d go and fetch me some cigarettes, dear. I have none left.’
She got up and went to the door.
‘What are you fidgeting about, Edith?’ said he. ‘_Can’t_ you keep still? It’s not at all good for a convalescent to have a restless person with him.’
‘Why, I was only going to fetch–‘
‘I know you were; but you should learn repose, dear. First you go out all the morning, and when you come home you go rushing about the room.’
She sat down again and decided to tell him.
‘You’ll be glad to hear,’ she said, ‘that Hyacinth and Cecil Reeve are engaged. They are to be married in the autumn.’
Guessing she expected him to display interest, he answered irritably–
‘I don’t care. It has nothing to do with me.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I never heard anything so idiotic as having a wedding in the autumn. A most beastly time, I think–November fogs.’
‘I heard something else,’ said Edith, ‘which surprised me much more. Fancy, Lord Selsey’s going to be married–to Mrs Raymond. Isn’t that extraordinary?’
‘Lord Selsey–a widower! Disgusting! I thought he pretended to be so fond of his first wife.’
‘He was, dear, I believe. But she died eighteen years ago, and–‘
‘Instead of telling me all this tittle-tattle it would be much better if you did as I asked you, Edith, and fetched me the cigarettes. I’ve asked you several times. Of course I don’t want to make a slave of you. I’m not one of those men who want their wives to be a drudge. But, after all, they’re only in the next room. It isn’t a _very_ hard task! And I’m very weak, or I’d go myself.’
She ran out and brought them back before he could stop her again.
‘Who is this Mrs Raymond?’ he then asked.
‘Oh, she’s a very nice woman–a widow. Really quite suitable in age to Lord Selsey. Not young. She’s not a bit pretty and not in his set at all. He took the most violent fancy to her at first sight, it seems. She had vowed never to marry again, but he persuaded her.’
‘Well,’ said Bruce, striking a match, ‘they didn’t consult me! They must go their own way. I’m sorry for them, of course. Lord Selsey always seemed to me a very agreeable chap, so it seems rather a pity. At the same time, I suppose it’s a bad thing–in the worldly sense–for Reeve, and _that’s_ satisfactory.’
‘Oh! I think he’s all right, said Edith, and she smiled thoughtfully.
‘You’re always smiling, Edith,’ he complained. ‘Particularly when I have something to annoy me.’
‘Am I? I believe I read in the “Answers to Correspondents” in _Home Chirps_ that a wife should always have a bright smile if her husband seemed depressed.’
‘Good heavens! How awful! Why, it would be like living with a Cheshire cat!’
Edith warmly began to defend herself from the accusation, when Bruce stopped her by saying that his temperature had gone up, and asking her to fetch the clinical thermometer.
Having snatched it from her and tried it, he turned pale and said in a hollow voice–
‘Telephone to Braithwaite. At once. Say it’s urgent. Poor little Edith!’
‘What is it?’ she cried in a frightened voice.
‘I’d better not tell you,’ he said, trying to hide it.
‘Tell me–oh! tell me!’
‘It’s a hundred and nineteen. Now don’t waste time. You meant no harm, dear, but you worried and excited me. It isn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself. Of course, you _would_ do it.’
‘Oh, I know what it is,’ cried Edith. ‘I dipped it in boiling water before I gave it to you.’
‘Idiot! You might have broken it!’ said Bruce.
The explanation seemed to annoy him very much; nevertheless he often referred afterwards to the extraordinary way his temperature used to jump about, which showed what a peculiarly violent, virulent, dangerous form of influenza he had had, and how wonderful it was he had thrown it off, in spite of Edith’s inexperienced, not to say careless, nursing, entirely by his own powerful will and indomitable courage.
CHAPTER XXI
‘Engaged’
Lady Cannon sat in her massive, florid clothes, that always seemed part of her massive, florid furniture, and to have the same expression of violent, almost ominous conventionality, without the slightest touch of austerity to tone it down. Her throat and figure seemed made solely to show off dog-collars and long necklaces; her head seemed constructed specially for the wearing of a dark red royal fringe and other ornaments. Today she was in her most cheerful and condescending mood, in fact she was what is usually called in a good temper. It was a great satisfaction to her that Hyacinth was at last settled; and she decided to condone the rather wilful way in which the engagement had been finally arranged without reference to her. With the touch of somewhat sickly sentiment common to most hard women, she took great pleasure in a wedding (if it were only moderately a suitable one), and was prepared to be arch and sympathetic with the engaged couple whom she expected today to pay her a formal visit.
She was smiling to herself as she turned a bracelet on her left wrist, and wondered if she and Sir Charles need really run to a tiara, since after all they weren’t Hyacinth’s parents, and was wishing they could get off with giving her a certain piece of old lace that had been in the family for years, and could never be arranged to wear, when Sir Charles came in.
‘Ah, Charles, that’s right. I wish you to be here to welcome Hyacinth and her fiancé. I’m expecting them directly.’
‘I can’t possibly be here,’ he said. ‘I have a most urgent appointment. I’ve done all the right things. I’ve written to them, and gone to see Hyacinth, and we’ve asked them to dinner. No more is necessary. Of course, let them understand that I–I quite approve, and all that. And I really think that’s quite enough.’
He spoke rather irritably.
‘Really, Charles, how morose you’ve grown. One would think you disliked to see young people happy together. I always think it’s such a pretty sight. Especially as it’s a regular love match.’
‘No doubt; no doubt. Charming! But I have an appointment; I must go at once.’
‘With whom, may I ask?’
‘With St Leonards,’ he answered unblushingly.
‘Oh! Oh well, of course, they’ll understand you couldn’t keep the Duke waiting. I’ll mention it; I’ll explain. I shall see a little more of Hyacinth just now, Charles. It’ll be the right thing. An engaged girl ought to be chaperoned by a connection of the family–of some weight. Not a person like that Miss Yeo. I shall arrange to drive out with Hyacinth and advise her about her trousseau, and….’
‘Yes; do as you like, but spare me the details.’
Lady Cannon sighed.
‘Ah, Charles, you have no romance. Doesn’t the sight of these happy young people bring back the old days?’
The door shut. Lady Cannon was alone.
‘He has no soul,’ she said to herself, using a tiny powder-puff.
The young people, as they were now called, had had tea with her in her magnificent drawing-room. She had said and done everything that was obvious, kind, and tedious. She had held Hyacinth’s hand, and shaken a forefinger at Cecil, and then she explained to them that it would be much more the right thing now for them to meet at her house, rather than at Hyacinth’s–a recommendation which they accepted with complete (apparent) gravity, and in fact she seemed most anxious to take entire possession of them–to get the credit of them, as it were, as a social sensation.
‘And now,’ she said, ‘what do you think I’m going to do? If you won’t think me very rude’ (threatening forefinger again), ‘I’m going to leave you alone for a little while. I shan’t be very long; but I have to write a letter, and so on, and when I come back I shall have on my bonnet, and I’ll drive Hyacinth home.’
‘It’s most awfully kind of you, Auntie, but Cecil’s going to drive me back.’
‘No, no, no! I insist, I insist! This dear child has been almost like a daughter to me, you know,’ pressing a lace-edged little handkerchief, scented with Ess Bouquet, to a dry little eye. ‘You mustn’t take her away all at once! Will you be very angry if I leave you?’ and laughing in what she supposed to be an entirely charming manner, she glided, as though on castors, in her fringed, embroidered, brocaded dress from the room.
‘Isn’t she magnificent?’ said Cecil.
‘You know she has a reputation for being remarkable for sound sense,’ said Hyacinth.
‘Well, she’s shown it at last!’
She laughed.
He took a stroll round the room. It was so high, so enormous, with so much satin on the walls, so many looking-glasses, so much white paint, so many cabinets full of Dresden china, that it recalled, by the very extremity of the contrast of its bright hideousness, that other ugly, dismal little room, also filled with false gods, of a cheap and very different kind, in which he had had so much poignant happiness.
‘Hyacinth,’ he said, rather quaintly, ‘do you know what I’m doing? I want to kiss you, and I’m looking for a part of the room in which it wouldn’t be blasphemous!’
‘You can’t find one, Cecil. I couldn’t–here. And her leaving us alone makes it all the more impossible.’
The girl was seated on a stiff, blue silk settee, padded and buttoned, and made in a peculiar form in which three people can sit, turning their backs to one another. She leant her sweet face on her hand, her elbow on the peculiar kind of mammoth pincushion that at once combined and separated the three seats. (It had been known formerly as a ‘lounge’–a peculiarly unsuitable name, as it was practically impossible not to sit in it bolt upright.)
Cecil stood opposite and looked down at her.
Happiness, and the hope of happiness, had given her beauty a different character. There was something touching, troubling about her. It seemed to him that she had everything: beauty, profane and spiritual; deep blue eyes, in which he could read devotion; womanly tenderness, and a flower-like complexion; a perfect figure, and a beautiful soul. He could be proud of her before the world, and he could delight in her in private. She appealed, he thought, to everything in a man–his vanity, his intellect, and his senses. The better he knew her, the more exquisite qualities he found in her. She was sweet, clever, good, and she vibrated to his every look. She was sensitive, and passionate. She was adorable. He was too fortunate! Then why did he think of a pale, tired, laughing face, with the hair dragged off the forehead, and Japanese eyes?… What folly! It was a recurring obsession.
‘Cecil, what are you thinking about?’
‘Of you.’
‘Do you love me? Will you always love me? Are you happy?’
He made no answer, but kissed the questions from her lips, and from his own heart.
So Lady Cannon, after rattling the handle of the door, came in in her bonnet, and found them, as she had expected. Then she sent Cecil away and drove Hyacinth home, talking without ceasing during the drive of bridesmaids, choral services, bishops, travelling-bags, tea-gowns, and pretty little houses in Mayfair.
Hyacinth did not hear a single word she said, so, as Lady Cannon answered all her own questions in the affirmative, and warmly agreed with all her own remarks, she quite enjoyed herself, and decided that Hyacinth had immensely improved, and that Ella was to come back for the wedding.
CHAPTER XXII
The Strange Behaviour of Anne
It was a spring-like, warm-looking, deceptive day, with a bright sun and a cold east wind.
Anne sat, a queer-looking figure, in an unnecessary mackintosh and a golf-cap, on a bench in a large open space in Hyde Park, looking absently at some shabby sheep. She had come here to be alone, to think. Soon she would be alone as much as she liked–much more. She had appeared quite sympathetically cheerful, almost jaunty, since her friend’s engagement. She could not bear anyone to know her real feelings. Hyacinth had been most sweet, warmly affectionate to her; Cecil delightful. They had asked her to go and stay with them. Lady Cannon had graciously said, ‘I suppose you will be looking out for another situation now, Miss Yeo?’ and others had supposed she would go back to her father’s Rectory, for a time, at any rate.
Today the wedding had been definitely fixed, and she had come out to give way to the bitterness of her solitude.
She realised that she had not the slightest affection for anyone in the world except Hyacinth, and that no-one had any for her, on anything like the same scale.
Anne was a curious creature. Her own family had always been absolutely indifferent to her, and from her earliest youth she had hated and despised all men that she had known. Sir Charles Cannon was the only human being for whom she felt a little sympathy, instinctively knowing that under all his amiable congratulations he disliked Hyacinth’s marriage almost as much as she did, and in the same way.
All the strength of her feelings and affections, then, which in the ordinary course would have gone in other channels, Anne had lavished on Hyacinth. She adored her as if she had been her own child. She worshipped her like an idol. As a matter of fact, being quite independent financially, it was not as a paid companion at all that she had lived with her, though she chose to appear in that capacity. And, besides, Hyacinth herself, Anne had, in a most superlative degree, enjoyed the house, her little authority, the way she stood between Hyacinth and all tedious little practical matters. Like many a woman who was a virago at heart, Anne had a perfect passion for domestic matters, for economy, for managing a house. Of course she had always known that the pretty heiress was sure to marry, but she hoped the evil day would be put off, and somehow it annoyed her to such an acute extent because Hyacinth was so particularly pleased with the young man.
As she told Anne every thought, and never dreamt of concealing any nuance or shade of her sentiments, Anne had suffered a good deal.
It vexed her particularly that Hyacinth fancied Cecil so unusual, while she was very certain that there were thousands and thousands of good-looking young men in England in the same position who had the same education, who were precisely like him. There was not a pin to choose between them. How many photographs in groups Cecil had shown them, when she and Hyacinth went to tea at his rooms! Cecil in a group at Oxford, in an eleven, as a boy at school, and so forth! While Hyacinth delightedly recognised Cecil, Anne wondered how on earth she could tell one from the other. Of course, he was not a bad sort. He was rather clever, and not devoid of a sense of humour, but the fault Anne really found with him, besides his taking his privileges so much as a matter of course, was that there was nothing, really, to find fault with. Had he been ugly and stupid, she could have minded it less.
Now what should she do? Of course she must remain with Hyacinth till the marriage, but she was resolved not to go to the wedding, although she had promised to do so. Both Hyacinth and Cecil really detested the vulgarity of a showy fashionable wedding as much as she did, and it was to be moderated, toned down as much as possible. But Anne couldn’t stand it–any of it–and she wasn’t going to try.
As she sat there, wrapped up in her egotistic anguish, two young people, probably a shop-girl and her young man, passed, sauntering along, holding hands, and swinging their arms. Anne thought that they were, if anything, less odious than the others, but the stupidity of their happiness irritated her, and she got up to go back.
She felt tired, and though it was not far, she decided, with her usual unnecessary economy, to go by omnibus down Park Lane.
As she got out and felt for the key in her pocket, she thought how soon she would no longer be able to go into her paradise and find the lovely creature waiting to confide in her, how even now the lovely creature was in such a dream of preoccupied happiness that, quick as she usually was, she was now perfectly blind to her friend’s jealousy. And, indeed, Anne concealed it very well. It was not ordinary jealousy either. She was very far from envying Hyacinth. She only hated parting with her.
As she passed the studio she heard voices, and looked in, just as she was, with a momentary desire to _gêner_ them.
Of course they got up, Hyacinth blushing and laughing, and entreated her to come in.
She sat there a few minutes, hoping to chill their high spirits, then abruptly left them in the middle of a sentence.
At dinner that evening she appeared quite as usual. She had taken a resolution.
CHAPTER XXIII
Bruce Convalescent
‘It’s very important,’ said Bruce, ‘that I don’t see too many people at a time. You must arrange the visitors carefully. Who is coming this afternoon?’
‘I don’t know of anyone, except perhaps your mother, and Mr Raggett.’
‘Ah! Well, I can’t see them both at once.’
‘Really? Why not?’
‘Why not? What a question! Because it would be a terrible fatigue for me. I shouldn’t be able to stand it. In fact I’m not sure that I ought to see Raggett at all.’
‘Don’t, then. Leave a message to say that after all you didn’t feel strong enough.’
‘But, if we do that, won’t he think it rather a shame, poor chap? As I said he could come, doesn’t it seem rather hard lines for him to come all this way–it is a long distance, mind you–and then see nobody?’
‘Well, I can see him.’
Bruce looked up suspiciously.
‘Oh, you want to see him, do you? Alone?’
‘Don’t be silly, Bruce. I would much rather not see him.’
‘Indeed, and why not? I really believe you look down on him because he’s my friend.’
‘Not a bit. Well, he won’t be angry; you can say that you had a relapse, or something, and were not well enough to see him.’
‘Nothing of the sort. It would be very good for me; a splendid change to have a little intellectual talk with a man of the world. I’ve had too much women’s society lately. I’m sick of it. Ring the bell, Edith.’
‘Of course I will, Bruce, but what for? Is it anything I can do?’
‘I want you to ring for Bennett to pass me my tonic.’
‘Really, Bruce, it’s at your elbow.’ She laughed.
‘I suppose I’ve changed a good deal since my illness,’ said he looking in the glass with some complacency.
‘You don’t look at all bad, dear.’
‘I know I’m better; but sometimes, just as people are recovering, they suddenly have a frightful relapse. Braithwaite told me I would have to be careful for some time.’
‘How long do you suppose he meant?’
‘I don’t know–five or six years, I suppose. It’s the heart. That’s what’s so risky in influenza.’
‘But he said your heart was all right.’
‘Ah, so he thinks. Doctors don’t know everything. Or perhaps it’s what he says. It would never do to tell a heart patient he was in immediate danger, Edith; why, he might die on the spot from the shock.’
‘Yes, dear; but, excuse my saying so, would he have taken me aside and told me you were perfectly well, and that he wouldn’t come to see you again, if you were really in a dangerous state?’
‘Very possibly. I don’t know that I’ve so very much confidence in Braithwaite. I practically told him so. At least I suggested to him, when he seemed so confident about my recovery, that he should have a consultation. I thought it only fair to give him every chance.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He didn’t seem to see it. Just go and get the cards, Edith, that have been left during my illness. It’s the right thing for me to write to everyone, and thank them for their kindness.’
‘But there are no cards, dear.’
‘No cards?’
‘You see, people who knew you were ill inquired by telephone, except your mother, and she never leaves a card.’
He seemed very disgusted.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘That’s just like life; “laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone!” Get out of the running, and drop aside, and you’re forgotten. And I’m a fairly popular man, too; yet I might have died like a dog in this wretched little flat, and not a card.–What’s that ring?’
‘It must be your mother.’
Bruce leant back on the sofa in a feeble attitude, gave Edith directions to pull the blinds a little way down, and had a vase of roses placed by his side.
Then his mother was shown in.
‘Well, how is the interesting invalid? Dear boy, how well you look! How perfectly splendid you look!’
‘Hush, Mother,’ said Bruce, with a faint smile, and in a very low voice. ‘Sit down, and be a little quiet. Yes, I’m much better, and getting on well; but I can’t stand much yet.’
‘Dear, dear! And what did the doctor say?’ she asked Edith.
‘He won’t come any more,’ said Edith.
‘Isn’t he afraid you will be rushing out to the office too soon– over-working? Oh well, Edith will see that you take care of yourself. Where’s little Archie?’
‘Go and see him in the nursery,’ said Bruce, almost in a whisper. ‘I can’t stand a lot of people in here.’
‘Archie’s out,’ said Edith.
There was another ring.
‘That’s how it goes on all day long,’ said Bruce. ‘I don’t know how it’s got about, I’m sure. People never cease calling! It’s an infernal nuisance.’
‘Well, it’s nice to know you’re not neglected,’ said his mother.
‘Neglected? Why, it’s been more like a crowded reception than an invalid’s room.’
‘It’s Mr Raggett,’ said Edith; ‘I heard his voice. Will you see him or not, dear?’
‘Yes. Presently. Take him in the other room, and when the mater goes he can come in here.’
‘I’m going now,’ said Mrs Ottley; ‘you mustn’t have a crowd. But really, Bruce, you’re better than you think.’
‘Ah, I’m glad you think so. I should hate you to be anxious.’
‘Your father wanted to know when you would be able to go to the office again.’
‘That entirely depends. I may be strong enough in a week or two, but I promised Braithwaite not to be rash for Edith’s sake. Well, good-bye, Mother, if you must go.’
She kissed him, left a box of soldiers for Archie and murmured to Edith–
‘What an angel Bruce is! So patient and brave. Perfectly well, of course. He has been for a week. He’ll go on thinking himself ill for a year–the dear pet, the image of his father! If I were you, Edith, I think I should get ill too; it will be the only way to get him out. What a perfect wife you are!’
‘I should like to go back with you a little,’ said Edith.
‘Well, can’t you? I’m going to Harrod’s, of course. I’m always going to Harrod’s; it’s the only place I ever do go. As Bruce has a friend he’ll let you go.’
Bruce made no objection. Edith regarded it as a treat to go out with her mother-in-law. The only person who seemed to dislike the arrangement was Mr Raggett. When he found he was to be left alone with Bruce, he seemed on the point of bursting into tears.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Wedding
The wedding was over. Flowers, favours, fuss and fluster, incense, ‘The Voice that breathed o’er Eden,’ suppressed nervous excitement, maddening delay, shuffling and whispers, acute long-drawn-out boredom of the men, sentimental interest of the women, tears of emotion from dressmakers in the background, disgusted resignation on the part of people who wanted to be at Kempton (and couldn’t hear results as soon as they wished), envy and jealousy, admiration for the bride, and uncontrollable smiles of pitying contempt for the bridegroom. How is it that the bridegroom, who is, after all, practically the hero of the scene, should always be on that day, just when he is the man of the moment, so hugely, pitiably ridiculous?
Nevertheless, he was envied. It was said on all sides that Hyacinth looked beautiful, though old-fashioned people thought she was too self-possessed, and her smile too intelligent, and others complained that she was too ideal a bride–too much like a portrait by Reynolds and not enough like a fashion-plate in the _Lady’s Pictorial_.
Sir Charles had given her away with his impassive air of almost absurd distinction. It had been a gathering of quite unusual good looks, for Hyacinth had always chosen her friends almost unconsciously with a view to decorative effect, and there was great variety of attraction. There were bridesmaids in blue, choristers in red, tall women with flowery hats, young men in tight frock-coats and buttonholes, fresh ‘flappers’ in plaits, beauties of the future, and fascinating, battered creatures in Paquin dresses, beauties of the past.
As to Lady Cannon, she had been divided between her desire for the dramatic importance of appearing in the fairly good part of the Mother of the Bride, and a natural, but more frivolous wish to recall to the memory of so distinguished a company her success as a professional beauty of the ‘eighties, a success that clung to her with the faded poetical perfume of pot-pourri, half forgotten.
Old joys, old triumphs (‘Who is she?’ from the then Prince of Wales at the opera, with the royal scrutiny through the opera-glass), and old sentiments awoke in Lady Cannon with Mendelssohn’s wedding March, and, certainly, she was more preoccupied with her mauve toque and her embroidered velvet gown than with the bride, or even with her little Ella, who had specially come back from school at Paris for the occasion, who was childishly delighted with her long crook with the floating blue ribbon, and was probably the only person present whose enjoyment was quite fresh and without a cloud.
Lady Cannon was touched, all the same, and honestly would have cried, but that, simply, her dress was really too tight. It was a pity she had been so obstinate with the dressmaker about her waist for this particular day; an inch more or less would have made so little difference to her appearance before the world, and such an enormous amount to her own comfort. ‘You look lovely, Mamma–as though you couldn’t breathe!’ Ella had said admiringly at the reception.
Indeed, her comparatively quiet and subdued air the whole afternoon, which was put down to the tender affection she felt for her husband’s ward, was caused solely and entirely by the cut of her costume.
Obscure relatives, never seen at other times, who had given glass screens painted with storks and water-lilies, or silver hair-brushes or carriage-clocks, turned up, and were pushing at the church and cynical at the reception. Very smart relatives, who had sent umbrella-handles and photograph-frames, were charming, and very anxious to get away; heavy relatives, who had sent cheques, stayed very late, and took it out of everybody in tediousness; the girls were longing for a chance to flirt, which did not come; young men for an opportunity to smoke, which did. Elderly men, their equilibrium a little upset by champagne in the afternoon, fell quite in love with the bride, were humorous and jovial until the entertainment was over, and very snappish to their wives driving home.
Like all weddings it had left the strange feeling of futility, the slight sense of depression that comes to English people who have tried, from their strong sense of tradition, to be festive and sentimental and in high spirits too early in the day. The frame of mind supposed to be appropriate to an afternoon wedding can only be genuinely experienced by an Englishman at two o’clock in the morning. Hence the dreary failure of these exhibitions.
Lord Selsey was present, very suave and cultivated, and critical, and delighted to see his desire realised. Mrs Raymond was not there. Edith looked very pretty, but rather tired. Bruce had driven her nearly mad with his preparations. He had evidently thought that he would be the observed of all observers and the cynosure of every eye. He was terribly afraid of being too late or too early, and at the last moment, just before starting, thought that he had an Attack of Heart, and nearly decided not to go, but recovered when Archie was found stroking his father’s hat the wrong way, apparently under the impression that it was a pet animal of some kind. Bruce had been trying, as his mother called it, for a week, because he thought the note written to thank them for their present had been too casual. Poor Edith had gone through a great deal on the subject of the present, for Bruce was divided by so many sentiments on the subject. He hated spending much money, which indeed he couldn’t afford, and yet he was most anxious for their gift to stand out among the others and make a sensation.
He was determined above all things to be original in his choice, and after agonies of indecision on the subject of fish-knives and Standard lamps, he suddenly decided on a complete set of Dickens. But as soon as he had ordered it, it seemed to him pitiably flat, and he countermanded it. Then they spent weary hours at Liberty’s, and other places of the kind, when Bruce declared he felt a nervous breakdown coming on, and left it to Edith, who sent a fan.
When Hyacinth was dressed and ready to start she asked for Anne. It was then discovered that Miss Yeo had not been seen at all since early that morning, when she had come to Hyacinth’s room, merely nodded and gone out again. It appeared that she had left the house at nine o’clock in her golf-cap and mackintosh, taking the key and a parcel. This had surprised no-one, as it was thought that she had gone to get some little thing for Hyacinth before dressing. She had not been seen since.
Well, it was no use searching! Everyone knew her odd ways. It was evident that she had chosen not to be present. Hyacinth had to go without saying good-bye to her, but she scribbled a note full of affectionate reproaches. She was sorry, but it could not be helped. She was disappointed, but she would see her when she came back. After all, at such a moment, she really couldn’t worry about Anne.
And so, pursued by rice and rejoicings–and ridicule from the little boys in the street by the awning–the newly-married couple drove to the station, ‘_en route_,’ as the papers said, with delightful vagueness, ‘_for the Continent_.’
What did they usually talk about when alone?
Cecil wondered.
The only thing he felt clearly, vividly, and definitely was a furious resentment against Lord Selsey.
‘Do you love me, Cecil? Will you always love me? Are you happy?’
Ashamed of his strange, horrible mood of black jealousy, Cecil turned to his wife.
CHAPTER XXV
Accounts
‘How about your play, Bruce? Aren’t you going to work at it this evening?’
‘Why no; not just at present. I’m not in the mood. You don’t understand, Edith. The Artist must work when the inspiration seizes him.’
‘Of course, I know all that, Bruce; but it’s six months since you had the inspiration.’
‘Ah, but it isn’t that only; but the trend of public taste is so bad–it gets worse and worse. Good heavens, I can’t write down to the level of the vulgar public!’
‘But can you write at all?’
‘Certainly; certainly I can; but I need encouragement. My kind of talent, Edith, is like a sort of flower–are you listening?–a flower that needs the watering and tending, and that sort of thing, of appreciation. Appreciation! that’s what I need–that’s all I ask for. Besides, I’m a business man, and unless I have a proper contract with one of the Managers–a regular arrangement and agreement about my work being produced at a certain time–and, mind you, with a cast that I select–I just shan’t do it at all.’
‘I see. Have you taken any steps?’
‘Of course I’ve taken steps–at least I’ve taken stalls at most of the theatres, as you know. There isn’t a play going on at this moment that isn’t full of faults–faults of the most blatant kind–mistakes that I myself would never have made. To begin with, for instance, take Shakespeare.’
‘Shakespeare?’
‘Yes. A play like _The Merchant of Venice_, for example. My dear girl, it’s only the glamour of the name, believe me! It’s a wretched play, improbable, badly constructed, full of padding–good gracious! do you suppose that if _I_ had written that play and sent it to Tree, that he would have put it up?’
‘I can’t suppose it, Bruce.’
‘It isn’t sense, Edith; it isn’t true to life. Why, who ever heard of a case being conducted in any Court of Law as that is? Do you suppose all kinds of people are allowed to stand up and talk just when they like, and say just what they choose–in blank verse, too? Do you think now, if someone brought an action against me and you wanted me to win it, that you and Bennett could calmly walk off to the Law Courts disguised as a barrister and his clerk, and that you could get me off? Do you suppose, even, that you would be let in? People don’t walk in calmly saying that they’re barristers and do exactly what they please, and talk any nonsense that comes into their head.
‘I know that; but this is poetry, and years and years ago, in Elizabeth’s time.’
‘Oh, good gracious, Edith, that’s no excuse! It isn’t sense. Then take a play like _The Merry Widow_. What about that? Do you suppose that if I liked I couldn’t do something better than that? Look here, Edith, tell me, what’s the point? Why are you so anxious that I should write this play?’
He looked at her narrowly, in his suspicious way.
‘First of all, because I think it would amuse you.’
‘Amuse me, indeed!’
‘And then, far more, because–Bruce, do you remember assuring me that you were going to make £5,000 a year at least?’
‘Well, so I shall, so I shall. You must give a fellow time. Rome wasn’t built in a day.’
‘I know it wasn’t, and if it had been it would be no help to me. Will you look at the bills?’
‘Oh, confound it!’
‘Bruce dear, if you’re not going to work at your play tonight, won’t you just glance at the accounts?’
‘You know perfectly well, Edith, if there’s one thing I hate more than another it’s glancing at accounts. Besides, what good is it? What earthly use is it?’
‘Of course it would be use if you would kindly explain how I’m going to pay them?’
‘Why, of course, we’ll pay them–gradually.’
‘But they’re getting bigger gradually.’
‘Dear me, Edith, didn’t we a year or two ago make a Budget?
Didn’t we write down exactly how much every single item of our expenditure would be?’
‘Yes; I know we did; but–‘
‘Well, good heavens, what more do you want?’
‘Lots more. You made frightful mistakes in the Budget, Bruce; at any rate, it was extraordinarily under-estimated.’
‘Why, I remember I left a margin for unexpected calls.’
‘I know you left a margin, but you left out coals and clothes altogether.’
‘Oh, did I?’
‘And the margin went in a week, the first week of your holiday. You never counted holidays in the Budget.’
‘Oh! I–I–well, I suppose it escaped my recollection.’
‘Never mind that. It can’t be helped now. You see, Bruce, we simply haven’t enough for our expenses.’
‘Oh, then what’s the use of looking at the accounts?’
‘Why, to see where we are. What we’ve done, and so on. What do you usually do when you receive a bill?’
‘I put it in the fire. I don’t believe in keeping heaps of useless papers; it’s so disorderly. And so I destroy them.’
‘That’s all very well, but you know you really oughtn’t to be in debt. It worries me. All I want you to do,’ she continued, ‘is just to go through the things with me to see how much we owe, how much we can pay, and how we can manage; and just be a little careful for the next few months.’
‘Oh, if that’s all you want–well, perhaps you’re right, and we’ll do it, some time or other; but not tonight.’
‘Why not? You have nothing to do!’
‘Perhaps not; but I can’t be rushed. Of course, I know it’s rather hard for you, old girl, being married to a poor man; but you know you _would_ do it, and you mustn’t reproach me with it now.’
She laughed.
‘We’re not a bit too hard up to have a very pleasant time, if only you weren’t so–,’ then she stopped.
‘Go on; say it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You want to make out I’m extravagant, that’s it! I _have_ large ideas, I own it; it’s difficult for me to be petty about trifles.’
‘But, Bruce, I wasn’t complaining at all of your large ideas. You hardly ever give me a farthing, and expect me to do marvels on next to nothing. Of course, I know you’re not petty about some things.’ She stopped again.
‘All right then; I’ll give up smoking and golfing, and all the little things that make life tolerable to a hard-working man.’
‘Not at all, dear. Of course not. There’s really only one luxury–if you won’t think me unkind–that I think, perhaps, you might try to have less of.’
‘What is that?’
‘Well, dear, couldn’t you manage not to be ill quite so often? You see, almost whenever you’re bored you have a consultation. The doctors always say you’re quite all right; but it does rather–well, run up, and you can’t get much fun out of it. Now, don’t be angry with me.’
‘But, good God, Edith! If I didn’t take it in time, you might be left a young widow, alone in the world, with Archie. Penny-wise and pound-foolish to neglect the health of the breadwinner! Do you reproach me because the doctor said I wasn’t dangerously ill at the time?’
‘Of course not; I’m only too thankful.’
‘I’m sure you are really, dear. Now yesterday I felt very odd, very peculiar indeed.’
‘Oh, what was it?’
‘An indescribable sensation. At first it was a kind of heaviness in my feet, and a light sensation in my head, and a curious kind of emptiness–nervous exhaustion, I suppose.’
‘It was just before lunch, no doubt. I daresay it went off. When I have little headache or don’t feel quite up to the mark, I don’t send for the doctor; I take no notice of it, and it goes away.’
‘But you, my dear–you’re as strong as a horse. That reminds me, will you fetch me my tonic?’
When she came back, he said–
‘Look here, Edith, I’ll tell you what you shall do, if you like. You’re awfully good, dear, really, to worry about the bills and things, though it’s a great nuisance, but I should suggest that you just run through them with my mother. You know how good-natured she is. She’ll be flattered at your consulting her, and she’ll be able to advise you if you _have_ gone too far and got into a little debt. She knows perfectly well it’s not the sort of thing _I_ can stand. And, of course, if she were to offer to help a little, well! she’s my mother; I wouldn’t hurt her feelings by refusing for anything in the world, and the mater’s awfully fond of you.’
‘But, Bruce, I’d much rather–‘
‘Oh, stop, Edith. I’m sorry to have to say it, but you’re becoming shockingly fussy. I never thought you would have grown into a fidgety, worrying person. How bright you used to seem in the old days! And of course the whole thing about the accounts, and so on, _must_ have arisen through your want of management. But I won’t reproach you, for I believe you mean well…. I’ve got one of my headaches coming on; I hope to goodness I’m not going to have an attack.’
He looked in the glass. ‘I’m rather an odd colour, don’t you think so?’
‘No; I don’t think so. It’s the pink-shaded light.’
He sighed.
‘Ah, suppose you had married a chap like Reeve–rolling in gold! Are he and Hyacinth happy, do you think?’
‘I think they seem very happy.’
‘We’re lunching there on Sunday, aren’t we? Don’t forget to order me a buttonhole the day before, Edith.’
‘I’ll remember.’
She looked at her engagement-book.
‘It’s not next Sunday, Bruce. Next Sunday we’re lunching with your people. You’ll be sure to come, won’t you?’
‘Oh, ah, yes! If I’m well enough.’
CHAPTER XXVI
Confidences
‘I know who you are. You’re the pretty lady. Mother won’t be long. Shall I get you my bear?’
Hyacinth had come to see Edith, and was waiting for her in the little drawing-room of the flat. The neat white room with its miniature overmantel, pink walls, and brass fire-irons like toys, resembled more than ever an elaborate doll’s house. The frail white chairs seemed too slender to be sat on. Could one ever write at that diminutive white writing-desk? The flat might have been made, and furnished by Waring, for midgets. Everything was still in fair and dainty repair, except that the ceiling, which was painted in imitation of a blue sky, was beginning to look cloudy. Hyacinth sat on a tiny blue sofa from where she could see her face in the glass. She was even prettier than before her marriage, now three months ago, but when in repose there was a slightly anxious look in her sweet, initiated eyes. She had neither the air of prosaic disillusion nor that of triumphant superiority that one sees in some young brides. She seemed intensely interested in life, but a little less reposeful than formerly.
‘Why, Archie! What a big boy you’ve grown!’
‘Shall I bring you my bear?’
‘Oh, no; never mind the bear. Stay and talk to me.’
‘Yes; but I’d better bring the bear. Mother would want me to amuse you.’
He ran out and returned with his beloved animal, and put it on her lap.
‘Father calls him mangy, but he isn’t, really. I’m going to cut its hair to make it grow thicker. I can say all the alphabet and lots of poetry. Shall I say my piece? No; I know what I’ll do, I’ll get you my cards, with E for ephalunt and X for swordfish on, and see if you can guess the animals.’
‘That would be fun. I wonder if I shall guess?’
‘You mustn’t read the names on them, because that wouldn’t be fair. You may only look at the pictures. Oh, won’t you have tea? Do have tea.’
‘I think I’ll wait for your mother.’
‘Oh, no; have tea now, quick. Then I can take some of your sugar.’
Hyacinth agreed; but scarcely had this point been settled when Edith returned and sent him off.
‘Edith,’ Hyacinth said, ‘do you know I am rather worried about two things? I won’t tell you the worst just yet.’
‘It’s sure to be all your fancy,’ said Edith affectionately.
‘Well, it isn’t my fancy about Anne. Is it not the most extraordinary thing? Since the day of my wedding she’s never been seen or heard of. She walked straight out into the street, and London seems to have swallowed her up. She took nothing with her but a large paper parcel, and left all her luggage, and even her dress that I made her get for the wedding was laid out on the bed. What can have become of her? Of course, I know she has plenty of money, and she could easily have bought an entirely new outfit, and gone away–to America or somewhere, under another name without telling anyone. We’ve inquired of her father, and he knows nothing about her. It really is a mysterious disappearance.’
‘I don’t feel as if anything had happened to her,’ Edith said, after a pause. ‘She’s odd, and I fancy she hated your marrying, and didn’t want to see you again. She’ll get over it and come back. Surely if there had been an accident, we should have heard by now. Do you miss her, Hyacinth?’
‘Of course I do, in a way. But everything’s so different now. It isn’t so much my missing her, if I only knew she was all right. There’s something so sad about disappearing like that.’
‘Well, everything has been done that can be done. It’s not the slightest use worrying. I should try and forget about it, if I were you. What’s the other trouble?’
Hyacinth hesitated.
‘Well, you know how perfect Cecil is to me, and yet there’s one thing I don’t like. The Selseys have come back, and have asked us there, and Cecil won’t go. Isn’t it extraordinary? Can he be afraid of meeting her again?’
‘Really, Hyacinth, you are fanciful! What now, now that she’s his aunt–practically? Can you really still be jealous?’
‘Horribly,’ said Hyacinth frankly. ‘If she married his uncle a hundred times it wouldn’t alter the fact that she’s the only woman he’s ever been madly in love with.’
‘Why, he adores you, Hyacinth!’
‘I am sure he does, in a way, but only as a wife!
‘Well, good heavens! What else do you want? You’re too happy; too lucky; you’re inventing things, searching for troubles. Why make yourself wretched about imaginary anxieties?’
‘Suppose, dear, that though he’s devoted to me, we suit each other perfectly, and so on, yet at the back of his brain there’s always a little niche, a little ideal for that other woman just because she never cared for him? I believe there will always be–always.’
‘Well, suppose there is; what on earth does it matter? What difference does it make? Why be jealous of a shadow?’
‘It’s just because it’s such a shadow that it’s so intangible–so unconquerable. If she had ever returned his affection he might have got tired of her, they might have quarrelled, he might have seen through her–realised her age and all that, and it would have been over–exploded! Instead of this, he became fascinated by her, she refused him; and then, to make it ever so much worse for me, Lord Selsey, whom he’s so fond of and thinks such a lot of, goes and puts her upon a pedestal, constantly in sight, yet completely out of reach.’
‘You are unreasonable, Hyacinth! Would you prefer a rival of flesh and blood. Don’t be so fanciful, dear. It’s too foolish. You’ve got your wish; enjoy it. I consider that you haven’t a trouble in the world.’
‘Dear Edith,’ said Hyacinth, ‘have you troubles?’
‘Why, of course I have–small ones. Bruce has taken to having a different illness every day. His latest is that he _imagines_ he’s a _malade imaginaire_!’
‘Good gracious, how complicated! What makes him think that?’
‘Because he’s been going to specialists for everything he could think of, and they all say he’s specially well. Still, it’s better than if he were really ill, I suppose. Only he’s very tormenting, and hardly ever works, and lately he’s taken to making jealous scenes.’
‘Oh, that must be rather fun. Who is he jealous of?’
‘Why, he thinks he’s jealous of his friend Raggett–the most impossible, harmless creature in the world; and the funny thing is whenever Bruce is jealous of anyone he keeps on inviting them–won’t leave them alone. If I go out when Raggett appears, he says it’s because I’m so deep; and if I stay he finds fault with everything I do. What do you advise me to do, Hyacinth?’
‘Why, give him something more genuine to worry about–flirt with a real person. That would do Bruce good, and be a change for you.’
‘I would–but I haven’t got time! What chance is there for flirting when I have to be always contriving and economising, and every scrap of leisure I must be there or thereabouts in case Bruce has heart disease or some other illness suddenly? When you are living with a strong young man who thinks he’s dangerously ill, flirting is not so easy as it sounds. When he isn’t here I’m only too glad to rest by playing with Archie.’
‘I see. What do you think could cure Bruce of his imaginary maladies?’
‘Oh, not having to work, coming into some money. You see, it fills up the time which he can’t afford to spend on amusements.’
Edith laughed.
‘It’s a bore for you….’
‘Oh, I don’t mind much; but you see we all have our little troubles.’
‘Then, how did you say I ought to behave about the Selseys?’
‘Don’t behave at all. Be perfectly natural, ignore it. By acting as if things were just as you liked, they often become so.’
There was a ring on the telephone.
Edith went into the next room to answer it, and came back to say–
‘Bruce has just rung up. He wants to know if Raggett’s here. He says he’ll be home in half an hour. He doesn’t feel up to the mark, and can’t stay at the office.’
‘Poor little Edith!’
‘And don’t for goodness sake bother yourself about Cecil. As if there was any man in the world who hadn’t liked somebody some time or other!’
Hyacinth laughed, kissed her, and went away.
CHAPTER XXVII
Miss Wrenner
One day Bruce came into the flat much more briskly than usual. There was a certain subdued satisfaction in his air that Edith was glad to see. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and said–
‘Edith, you know how strongly I disapprove of the modern fashion of husbands and wives each going their own way–don’t you?’
‘Where are you thinking of going, dear?’
‘Who said I was thinking of going anywhere?’
‘No-one. But it’s obvious, or you wouldn’t have begun like that.’
‘Why? What did you think I was going to say next?’
‘Of course, you were going to say, after that sentence about “_you know how strongly I disapprove_,” etc., something like, “_But, of course, there are exceptions to every rule, and in this particular instance I really think that I had better_,” and so on. Weren’t you?’
‘Odd. Very odd you should get it into your head that I should have any idea of leaving you. Is that why you’re looking so cheerful–laughing so much?’
‘Am I laughing? I thought I was only smiling.’
‘I don’t think it’s a kind thing to smile at the idea of my going away. However, I’m sorry to disappoint you’–Bruce spoke rather bitterly–‘very sorry indeed, for I see what a blow it will be to you. But, as a matter of fact, I had not intention _whatever_ of leaving you at all, except, perhaps, for a few hours at a time. However, of course, if you wish it very much I might arrange to make it longer. Or even to remain away altogether, if you prefer it.’
‘Oh, Bruce, don’t talk such nonsense! You know I wish nothing of the kind. What’s this about a few hours at a time?’
‘Naturally,’ Bruce said, getting up and looking in the glass; ‘naturally, when one has an invitation like this–oh, I admit it’s a compliment–I quite admit that–one doesn’t want to decline it at once without thinking it over. Think how absurd I should appear to a man like that, writing to say that my wife can’t possibly spare me for a couple of hours two or three times a week!’
‘A man like what? Who is this mysterious man who wants you for two or three hours two or three times a week?’
‘My dear, it can’t be done without it; and though, of course, it is rather a nuisance, I daresay in a way it won’t be bad fun. You shall help me, dear, and I’m sure I shall be able to arrange for you to see the performance. Yes! you’ve guessed it; I thought you would. I’ve been asked to play in some amateur theatricals that are being got up by Mitchell of the F O in aid of the ‘Society for the Suppression of Numismatics’, or something–I can’t think why he chose me, of all people!’
‘I wonder.’
‘I don’t see anything to wonder about. Perhaps he thought I’d do it well. Possibly he supposed I had talent. He may have observed, in the course of our acquaintance, that I was threatened with intelligence! Or again, of course, they want for theatricals a fellow of decent appearance.’
‘Ah, yes; of course they do.’
‘It would be very absurd for the heroine of the play to be madly in love with a chap who turned up looking like, God knows what! Not that I mean for a moment to imply that I’m particularly good-looking, Edith–I’m not such a fool as that. But–well, naturally, it’s always an advantage in playing the part of a _jeune premier_ not to be quite bald and to go in decently at the waist, and to–Fancy, Miss Wrenner didn’t know I was a married man!’
‘Miss Wrenner! Who’s Miss Wrenner?’
‘Why she–Don’t you know who Miss Wrenner is?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, Miss Wrenner’s that girl who–a friend of the Mitchells; you know.’
‘I _don’t_ know. Miss Wrenner is quite new to me. So are the Mitchells. What is she like?’
‘_Like_!’ exclaimed Bruce. ‘You ask me what she’s _like_! Why, she isn’t _like_ anything. She’s just Miss Wrenner–the well-known Miss Wrenner, who’s so celebrated as an amateur actress. Why, she was going to play last Christmas at Raynham, only after all the performance never came off.’
‘Is Miss Wrenner pretty?’
‘Pretty? How do you mean?’
‘What colour is her hair?’
‘Well, I–I–I didn’t notice, particularly.’
‘Is she dark or fair? You must know, Bruce!’
‘Well, I should say she was a little darker than you–not a great deal. But I’m not quite certain. Just fancy her not thinking I was married!’
‘Did you tell her?’
‘Tell her! Of course I didn’t tell her. Do you suppose a girl like Miss Wrenner’s got nothing to do but to listen to my autobiography? Do you imagine she collects marriage certificates? Do you think she makes a hobby of the census?’
‘Oh! then you didn’t tell her?’
‘Yes, I did. Why should I palm myself off as a gay bachelor when I’m nothing of the sort?’
‘When did you tell her, Bruce?’
‘Why, I haven’t told her yet–at least, not personally. What happened really was this: Mitchell said to me, “Miss Wrenner will be surprised to hear you’re a married man,” or something like that.’
‘Where did all this happen?’
‘At the office. Where else do I ever see Mitchell?’
‘Then does Miss Wrenner come to the office?’
Bruce stared at her in silent pity.
‘_Miss Wrenner! At the office!_ Why you must be wool-gathering! Women are not allowed at the F O. Surely you know that, dear?’
‘Well, then, where did you meet Miss Wrenner?’
‘Miss Wrenner? Why do you ask?’
‘Simply because I want to know.’
‘Oh! Good heavens! What does it matter where I met Miss Wrenner?’
‘You’re right, Bruce; it doesn’t really matter a bit. I suppose you’ve forgotten.’
‘No; I haven’t forgotten. I suppose I shall meet Miss Wrenner at the first rehearsal next week–at the Mitchells.’
‘Was it there you met her before?’
‘How could it be? I have never been to the Mitchells.’
‘As a matter of fact, you’ve never seen Miss Wrenner?’
‘Did I say I had? I didn’t mean to. What I intended to convey was, not that I had seen Miss Wrenner, but that _Mitchell_ said Miss Wrenner would be surprised to hear I was married.’
‘Funny he should say that–very curious it should occur to him to picture Miss Wrenner’s astonishment at the marriage of a man she didn’t know, and had never seen.’
‘No–no–no; that wasn’t it, dear; you’ve got the whole thing wrong–you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. He–Mitchell, you know–mentioned to me the names of the people who were going to be asked to act, and among them, Miss Wrenner’s name cropped up–I think he said Miss Wrenner was going to be asked to play the heroine if they could get her–no–I’m wrong, it was that _she_ had _asked_ to play the heroine, and that they meant to get out of it if they could. So, _then_, _I_ said, wouldn’t she be surprised at having to play the principal part with a married man.’
‘I see. _You_ said it, not Mitchell. Then are you playing the hero?’
‘Good gracious! no–of course not. Is it likely that Mitchell, who’s mad on acting and is getting up the whole thing himself, is jolly well going to let me play the principal part? Is it human nature? Of course it isn’t. You can’t expect it. I never said Mitchell was not human–did I?’
‘What is your part, dear?’
‘They’re going to send it to me tomorrow–typewritten. It’s not a long part, and not very important, apparently; but Mitchell says there’s a lot to be got out of it by a good actor; sometimes one of these comparatively small parts will make the hit of the evening.’
‘What sort of part is it?’
‘Oh, no particular _sort_. I don’t come on until the second act. As I told you, one of the chief points is to have a good appearance–look a gentleman; that sort of thing.’
‘Well?’
‘I come on in the second act, dressed as a mandarin.’
‘A mandarin! Then you play the part of a Chinaman?’
‘No, I don’t. It’s at the ball. In the second act, there’s a ball on the stage–for the hero’s coming of age–and I have to be a mandarin.’
‘Is the ball given at the Chinese Embassy?’
‘No; at the hero’s country house. Didn’t I tell you–it’s a fancy ball!’
‘Oh, I see! Then I shouldn’t have thought it would have mattered so very much about whether you’re good-looking or not. And Miss Wrenner–how will she be dressed at the fancy ball?’
‘Miss Wrenner? Oh! Didn’t I tell you–Miss Wrenner isn’t going to act–they’ve got someone else instead.’
CHAPTER XXVIII
Anne Returns
It was about six o’clock, and Hyacinth was sitting in her boudoir alone. It was a lovely room and she herself looked lovely, but, for a bride of four months, a little discontented. She was wondering why she was not happier. What was this unreasonable misery, this constant care, this anxious jealousy that seemed to poison her very existence? It was as intangible as a shadow, but it was always there. Hyacinth constantly felt that there was something in Cecil that escaped her, something that she missed. And yet he was kind, affectionate, even devoted.
Sometimes when they spent evenings at home together, which were calm and peaceful and should have been happy, the girl would know, with the second-sight of love, that he was thinking about Eugenia. And this phantom, of which she never spoke to him and could not have borne him to know of, tormented her indescribably. It seemed like a spell that she knew not how to break. It was only a thought, yet how much it made her suffer! Giving way for the moment to the useless and futile bitterness of her jealousy, she had leant her head on the cushion of the little sofa where she sat, when, with a sudden sensation that she was no longer alone, she raised it again and looked up.
Standing near the door she saw a tall, thin figure with a rather wooden face and no expression–a queer figure, oddly dressed in a mackintosh and a golf-cap.
‘Why do you burn so much electric light?’ Anne said dryly, in a reproachful voice, as she turned a button on the wall.
Hyacinth sprang up with a cry of surprise.
Anne hardly looked at her and walked round the room.
‘Sit down. I want to look at your new room. Silk walls and Dresden china. I suppose this is what is called gilded luxury. Do you ever see that the servants dust it, or do they do as they like?’
‘Anne! How can you? Do you know how anxious we’ve been about you? Do you know we weren’t sure you were not dead?’
‘Weren’t you? I wasn’t very sure myself at one time. I see you took the chances, though, and didn’t go into mourning for me. That was sensible.’
‘Anne, will you have the ordinary decency to tell me where you’ve been, after frightening me out of my life?’
‘Oh, it wouldn’t interest you. I went to several places. I just went away because at the last minute I felt I couldn’t stand the wedding. Besides, you had a honeymoon. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t. And mine was much jollier–freer, because I was alone. Cheaper, too, thank goodness!’
‘What an extraordinary creature you are, Anne! Not caring whether you heard from me, or of me, for four months, and then coolly walking in like this.’
‘It was the only way to walk in. I really had meant never to see you again, Hyacinth. You didn’t want me. I was only in the way. I was no longer needed, now you’ve got that young man you were always worrying about. What’s his name? Reeve. But I missed you too much. I was too bored without you. I made up my mind to take a back seat, if only I could see you sometimes. I had to come and have news of you. Well, and how do you like him now you’ve got him? Hardly worth all that bother–was he?’
‘I’ll tell you, Anne. You are the very person I want. I need you immensely. You’re the only creature in the world that could be the slightest help to me.’
‘Oh, so there is a crumpled rose-leaf! I told you he was exactly like any other young man.’
‘Oh, but he isn’t, Anne. Tell me first about you. Where are you–where are you staying?’
‘That’s my business. I’m staying with some delightful friends. You wouldn’t know them–wouldn’t want to either.’
‘Nonsense! You used to say you had no friends except mine. You must come and stay here. Cecil would be delighted to see you.’
‘I daresay–but I’m not coming. I may be a fool, but I’m not stupid enough for that. I should hate it, besides! No; but I’ll look in and see you from time to time, and give you a word of advice. You doing housekeeping, indeed!’ She laughed as she looked round. ‘Who engaged your servants?’
‘Why, I did.’
‘I suppose you were too sweet and polite to ask for their characters, for fear of hurting their feelings? I suppose you gave them twice as much as they asked? This is the sort of house servants like. Do you allow followers?’
‘How should I know? No; I suppose not. Of course, I let them see their friends when they like. Why shouldn’t they? They let me see mine.’
‘Yes! that’s jolly of them–awfully kind. Of course you wouldn’t know. And I suppose the young man, Cecil, or whatever you call him, is just as ignorant as you are, and thinks you do it beautifully?’
‘My dear Anne, I assure you–‘
‘I know what you are going to say. You order the dinner. That’s nothing; so can anyone. There’s nothing clever in ordering! What are you making yourself miserable about? What’s the matter?’
‘Tell me first where you’re staying and what you’re doing. I insist on being told at once.’
‘I’m staying with charming people. I tell you. At a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. I’m a great favourite there; no–now I come to think of it–I’m hated. But they don’t want me to leave them.’
‘Now, Anne, why live like that? Even if you wouldn’t stay with us, it’s ridiculous of you to live in this wretched, uncomfortable way.’
‘Not at all. It isn’t wretched, and I thoroughly enjoy it. I pay hardly anything, because I help with the housekeeping. Of course it isn’t so much fun as it used to be with you. It’s a little sordid; it isn’t very pretty but it’s interesting. It’s not old-fashioned; there’s no wax fruit, nor round table in the middle of the room. It’s only about twenty-five years out of date. There are Japanese fans and bead curtains. They think the bead curtains–instead of folding-doors–quite smart and Oriental–rather wicked. Oh and we have musical evenings on Sundays; sometimes we play dumb crambo. Now, tell me about the little rift within the lute.’
‘I always told you every little thing, Anne–didn’t I?’
Anne turned away her head.
‘Who arranges your flowers?’
‘I do.’
‘Oh, you _do_ do something! They look all right but I did it much better. Oh–by the way–you mustn’t think these are the only clothes I’ve got. I have a very smart tailor-made coat and skirt which I bought at a sale at a little shop in Brixton. I went to Brixton for the season. There’s nothing like the suburbs for real style–I mean real, thoroughly English style. And the funny part is that the suburban English dresses all come from Vienna. Isn’t it queer?’
‘All right, come to see me next time in your Brixton-Viennese costume, and we’ll have a long talk. I think you’re pleased I’ve got a little trouble. Aren’t you?’
‘Oh, no–I don’t want you to have trouble. But I should like you to own _he_ isn’t so wonderful, after all.’
‘But I don’t own that–not in the least. The thing is, you see’–she waited a minute–‘I believe I’m still jealous of Mrs Raymond.’
‘But she isn’t Mrs Raymond any more. You surely don’t imagine that he flirts with his aunt?’
‘Of course not–how absurd you are! That’s a ridiculous way to put it. No–he won’t even see her.’
‘Is that what you complain of?’
‘His avoiding her shows he still thinks of her. It’s a bad sign–isn’t it? What I feel is, that he still puts her on a pedestal.’
‘Well, that’s all right. Let her stay there. Now, Hyacinth, when people know what they want–really _want_ something acutely and definitely–and don’t get it, I can pity them. They’re frustrated–scored off by fate, as it were; and even if it’s good for them, I’m sorry. But when they _have_ got what they wanted, and then find fault and are not satisfied, I can’t give them any sympathy at all. Who was it said there is no tragedy like not getting your wish–except getting it? You wanted Cecil Reeve. You’ve got him. How would you have felt if the other woman had got him instead?’
‘You’re right, Anne–I suppose. And yet–do you think he’ll ever quite forget her?’
‘Do you think, if you really tried hard, you could manage to find out what your grievance is, Hyacinth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then, try; and when you’ve found it, just keep it. Don’t part with it. A sentimental grievance is a resource–it’s a consolation for all the prosaic miseries of life. Now I must go, or I shall be late for high tea.’
CHAPTER XXIX
The Ingratitude of Mitchell
Since Bruce had had the amateur-theatrical trouble, he had forgotten to have any other illness. But he spent many, many half-hours walking up and down in front of the glass rehearsing his part–which consisted of the words, _’Ah, Miss Vavasour, how charming you look–a true Queen of Night! May a humble mandarin petition for a dance?’_ He tried this in many different tones; sometimes serious and romantic, sometimes humorous, but in every case he was much pleased with his reading of the part and counted on a brilliant success.
One evening he had come home looking perturbed, and said he thought he had caught a chill. Eucalyptus, quinine, sal-volatile, and clinical thermometers were lavishly applied, and after dinner he said he was better, but did not feel sufficiently up to the mark to go through his part with Edith as usual, and was rather silent during the rest of the evening.
When he came down to breakfast the next morning, Edith said–
‘Do you know Anne’s come back?’
‘Who’s Anne?’
‘Anne. Hyacinth’s companion. Miss Yeo, I mean.’
‘Come back from where?’
‘Don’t you remember about her going away–about her mysterious disappearance?’
‘I seem to remember now. I suppose I had more important things to think about.’
‘Well, at any rate, she _has_ come back–I’ve just had a letter–Hyacinth wants me to go out with her this afternoon and hear all about it. At four. I can, of course; it’s the day you rehearse, isn’t it?’
Bruce waited a minute, then said–
‘Curious thing, you _can’t_ get our cook to make a hot omelette! And we’ve tried her again and again.’
‘It _was_ a hot omelette, Bruce–very hot–about three-quarters of an hour ago. Shall I order another?’
‘No–oh, no–pray don’t–not for me. I haven’t the time. I’ve got to work. You have rather a way, Edith, of keeping me talking. You seem to think I’ve nothing else to do, and it’s serious that I should be punctual at the office. By the way–I shouldn’t go out with Hyacinth today, if I were you–I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Why not, Bruce?’
‘Well, I may want you.’
‘Then aren’t you going to the Mitchells’?’
‘The Mitchells’? No–I am certainly _not_ going to the Mitchells’–under the present circumstances.’
He threw down a piece of toast, got up, and stood with his back to the fire.
‘How you can expect me to go to the Mitchells’ again after their conduct is more than I can understand! Have you no pride, Edith?’
Edith looked bewildered.
‘Has anything happened? What have the Mitchells done?’ she asked.
‘What have they done!’ Bruce almost shouted. He then went and shut the door carefully and came back.
‘Done! How do you think I’ve been treated by these Mitchells–by my friend Mitchell–after slaving night and day at their infernal theatricals? I _have_ slaved, haven’t I, Edith? Worked hard at my part?’
‘Indeed you have, dear.’
‘Well, you know the last rehearsal? I had got on particularly well. I told you so, didn’t I? I played the little part with a certain amount of spirit, I think. I certainly threw a good deal of feeling and suppressed emotion, and also a tinge of humorous irony into my speech to Miss Vavasour. Of course, I know quite well it doesn’t seem of any very great importance, but a lot hinges on that speech, and it isn’t everyone who could make the very most of it, as I really believe I did. Well, I happened to be pointing out to Mitchell, yesterday at the office, how much I had done for his play, and how much time and so forth I’d given up towards making the thing a success, then, what do you think he turned round and said? Oh, he is a brute!’
‘I can’t think!’
‘He said, “Oh, by the way, Ottley, old chap, I was going to tell you there’s been a change in the scheme. We’ve altered our plans a little, and I really don’t think we shall need to trouble you after all. The fact is, I’ve decided to cut out the fancy ball altogether.” And then people talk of gratitude!’
‘Oh, dear, Bruce, that does seem a pity!’
‘Seems a pity? Is that all you’ve got to say! It’s an outrage–a slight on _me_. It isn’t treating me with proper deference. But it isn’t that I care personally, except for the principle of the thing. For my own sake I’m only too pleased–delighted, relieved. It’s for _their_ sake I’m so sorry. The whole thing is bound to be a failure now–not a chance of anything else. The fancy ball in the second act and my little scene with Miss Vavasour, especially, was the point of the play. As Mitchell said at first, when he was asking me to play the part, it would have been _the_ attraction.’
‘But why is he taking out the fancy ball?’
‘He says they can’t get enough people. Says they won’t make fools of