She had been at all times since her marriage a frequent visitor enough at Athabasca Villa for the inquisitiveness of her Aunt's circle of friends to remain unexcited; for a week or so, at any rate. But that good lady's unholy alacrity in disclaiming all knowledge of her niece's domestic affairs stimulated a premature curiosity. When the Peter Dudburys called, Aunt Priscilla might quite easily have said, in reply to Mrs. Peter Dudbury's "And how is the Artist?" that she believed the said Artist was enjoying good health. Instead of which she was seized with a sort of paroxysm, exclaiming very often: "Don't ask me! I know nothing whatever about it. Nuth, thing-what, ever!" and shaking her head with her eyes tight shut. Whereupon Ellen Jane Dudbury said, "Shishmar!" and stamped cruelly on her mother's foot. Now really that amiable woman had only expanded into her gushy inquiry after Mr. Aiken because she knew that she and her three daughters had asked more than once after everyone else. She felt hurt, and resolved to have it out with Ellen Jane, and indeed began to do so as soon as they were out of hearing.
"Wellmar," said Ellen Jane, "what is one to do when you won't take the slightest notice?" She went on to explain that any person of normal shrewdness would have seen, the moment Mrs. Aiken made excuses and went upstairs, that there was something. You could always see when there was anything if you chose to use your eyes. It was no use telling her—Ellen Jane, that is—that there was nothing. She knew better. It was complimentary to Ellen Jane's penetration that her mother and sisters hoped aloud at the next house where they called, and captured the tenants to inquire after them, that there really was nothing between young Mrs. Aiken and her husband, and most likely it was all fancy, because there was nothing whatever to go upon, and such absurd stories did get about.
To our thinking it is clear that the receptivity of the Peter Dudburys was caused by that paroxysm of Aunt Priscilla's. An adoption of a like attitude with other visitors tended to enrich the gossip of Coombe and Maiden at the expense of Mrs. Euphemia Aiken.
Miss Priscilla did not have paroxysms of this class in her niece's presence, so of course the latter had the less chance of guessing that the cause of her visit to Athabasca Villa had become common property. She did, however, wake up to the fact that Coombe and Maiden were commiserating her. The impertinence of those neighbourhoods! She would have liked to knock their heads together. The worst of it was that no one put commiseration into a concrete form, such as "How is dear Mr. Aiken's infidelity going on?" or "We are so shocked to think how your most sacred affections are being lacerated." Then she might have flown at such like sympathizers with a poker, or got them down and cricked their joints by Ju-jutsu. This practice of talking about everyone else's private affairs to every-other else, never to their proprietor, is good for our father the Devil, but bad for his sons and daughters. Amen.
The truth is that, for some unexplained reason, a lady who runs away from her husband gets no sort of credit or glory by doing so, but only puts herself in an uncomfortable position; unless, indeed, she takes up with some other male, preferably a reprobate. Then an unhallowed splendour envelops her, and protects her from the cards of respectability, which has misgivings about her possible effect on its sons and husbands. We wonder, is this what is meant when one hears that some lady is living under the protection of Duke Baily or Duke Humphy? Are those—is one of them, we mean—protecting her from Mrs. Peter Dudbury? Honour to his Grace, whichever he is, if he acts up to his description!
With the nobler sex the reverse is the case. Whether deserting or deserted, he is rather looked up to by his more securely anchored male friends as the subject of a wider and more illuminating experience than their own. Of course, the forsaken example does not shine with the radiance of a self-supporting inconstancy. It may be that he comes off best in the end, if he is a man of spirit, and finds consolation elsewhere. For then he can not only crow, farmyard-wise, but he has the heartfelt satisfaction of being an ill-used man into the bargain. If he cottons to someone else's ill-used wife, he has nothing left to wish for.
Nothing of all this has any application in this story, unless it attaches to the fact that Mr. Aiken found some consolation in the company of his friends, while his wife found none in that of her acquaintances. As both parties were perfectly blameless in the ordinary sense of the word—geese are most blameless birds—none of the numerous advantages of wickedness were secured by either. Their interests in Belial never vested. Mrs. Aiken never meant not to go back in the end, as soon as she had made her husband knuckle down, and confess up. And he was consciously keeping his home unsullied by anything too Bohemian, in order that when Euphemia came back—as of course she would—no memory of the interregnum should clash with the Restoration.
Euphemia had the worst of it; but then she was the weaker party. If weaker parties take to expecting the emoluments of stronger parties, what shall we come to next? This feeling of the unfairness of things in general and Destiny in particular, tended towards exasperation and intensification; and the South Cone—metaphors may be fetched from any distance—remained up in the districts of Coombe and Maiden. Time passed and Mrs. Euphemia had perforce to endure the commiseration of those districts.
The neighbourhood of Athabasca Villa might be classed as a congested district, and its population as consisting, broadly speaking, of good souls and busy bodies. Every resident was both, be it understood.
"Oh yes!" said Euphemia to her aunt, one breakfast-time. "Of course the Groobs are goodness itself. But why can't they mind their own business?" For although it may appear incredible, a family residing in the neighbourhood was actually named Groob.
"My dear," said Miss Priscilla, "do not be unreasonable and violent. Mr. Latimer Groob is, I understand, a wine-importer in quite a large way of business, with more than one retail establishment; and his son, Mr. Adolphus Groob, has, I am told, talent. He has had several pictures on the line, somewhere, and comes down to see his family on Saturdays, and to stop till Monday."
"Well, then!" said Euphemia. "It wasn't the Peter Dudburys this time. At least, it needn't have been, for anything I can see."
"Why not? ... Do take care of the tablecloth! Anne has put one of the best out by mistake. I must speak to her.... Why not the Peter Dudburys this time?"
"I am not cutting the cloth. The knife is miles off. Why not the Peter Dudburys? Why, because I know that odious little Dolly Groob. He's a friend of Reginald's, and comes to the Studio. I cansee. I'm not a baby. Of course, Reginald has been talking to him." Mrs. Euphemia bit her lips, and was under the impression that her eyes flashed. But they didn't really—eyes never do; it's afaçon de parler.
Miss Priscilla ignored this petulance. "You had better let me pour you out some fresh coffee," she said. "Yours is getting cold. I cannot say, my dear, that I think 'that odious little Dolly Groob' is at all the way to speak of an artist who has had pictures on the line. And his father, now I think of it, is in Paris also. Besides, I see he is distinguishing himself by his connexion with something."
"With what?"
"It was in yesterday evening's paper. Perhaps Anne hasn't burned it. Anyhow, I do not think the expression 'odious little' well chosen.... Oh yes—that's it! Give it to Miss Euphemia." That is to say, Anne the parlourmaid, not having burned yesterday's evening paper, had produced it as by necromancy, in response. The way Aunt Priscilla spoke of her niece was an accident, not a suggestion that Mr. Aiken was cancelled. It caused "Miss Euphemia," however, a slight twinge of an indescribable discomfort. Possibly, if this is ever read by any lady who has ever been in exactly the same position, she will understand why.
The story knows of it because, when Anne had left the room, Mrs. Aiken looked up from the newspaper, where she had found what she was looking for, to say: "I think, Aunt Prissy, you might be more careful before the servants."
Her aunt replied with dignity: "What you are referring to, my dear Euphemia, I cannot profess to understand." Of course shedid, perfectly well. What she meant was, "I know you cannot get a conviction, so I can tell a fib." Mankind, securely entrenched, fibs freely.
"Why—'Miss Euphemia,' of course!" said the niece, quoting incisively. "But I know it's no use my asking you to pay the slightest attention." She became absorbed in her paper.
"I think you are nonsensical, my dear," said the aunt. She retired behind something morally equivalent to the lines of Torres Vedras; but was still audible outside, saying: "I think you might say whether you have, or have not, found about Mr. Adolphus Groob."
The niece made no response for a moment, but continued reading; then said, as one who, coming up from diving, speaks without quite locating his audience: "Oh yes—there's about Mr. Groob here. I can't read it all, there's such a lot. Is there some coffee left? ... Three-quarters of a cup, please!"
Please observe that, although this aunt and niece always conversed more or less as if each was straining the patience of the other past endurance, no sort of ill-will was thereby implied on either part. It may be that it was only that they emphasized the ordinary intercourse of British families. Perhaps you know how much the average foreign family nags,en famille. We do not.
Mrs. Aiken read the newspaper paragraph aloud, skipping portions. What she read described the formation of the New Modernism, the Artistic Society about which so much was being said among well-informed circles of the Art World, with the reservation that nothing must be accepted as official. The Editor was breaking confidence in telling so much; but then he really was unable, with that pitiful heart of his, to bear the yearning faces and heartrending cries for information of his reading public. The only course open to him was to put aside all conscientious scruples, and divulge what had reached him, as it were, under the seal of confession. Such a thirst must be satiated, or worse might come of it. The object of this Society was to develope its promoters' ideas, and exhibit their works in Bond Street. The underlying theory of their new Gospel of Art appeared to be—only the writer did not express it so coarsely—that success in pictorial effort, in the future, must turn on the artist never having learned to draw, and not knowing how to paint. What was wanted was clearly his unimpaired Self, unsoiled by the instruction of the Schools. The near future was entitled to liberation from the stilted traditions of the remote past, not only in Painting, but in Sculpture, Music, Poetry, the Drama—what not? Here was an opportunity to make a beginning, seized by a brilliant coterie of talented young men, whom a rare chance had brought together under one roof. If the writer was not much mistaken, Pimlico Studios stood a fair chance of becoming the Mecca of the Art World.
"I can't read all this," said the niece. "I don't see where Mr. Groob comes in. Oh yes—it's here! 'The Modern Zurbaran.'..." This gentleman was, of course, the Artist familiarly spoken of as "Dolly" at the Pimlico Studios. Mrs. Aiken went on reading to herself, and then said suddenly: "I do hope Reginald won't be a fool, and make himself responsible for anything."
"Mr. Adolphus Groob would be able to tell us all about it," said Miss Priscilla. "His sister Arethusa is almost sure to call this afternoon, and you can ask her to find out."
"I shall do nothing of the sort, and I beg you won't say anything to her. I particularly dislike Mr. Groob, and just now nothing could be more unpleasant to me. Please no Mr. Groob on any account!"
"You need not be so testy, Euphemia. Nothing is easier than for me to make no reference to Mr. Groob, who has never so much as called. His sister Arethusa is, of course, not the same thing as he is himself, but no doubt she may know something about this Society."
"I thought her an odious girl. Anyhow, I don't want to know anything at all about the Society, and it's no concern of mine. Reginald must go his own way now, and put his name down for subscriptions just as he likes.... Oh yes, I shall answer his last letter, but only to say that, if he wants me to read his next one, thetonemust be very different."
Her aunt said, as one with whom patience is habitual, and tolerance a foregone conclusion: "It is perfectly useless for me to repeat, Euphemia, what I believe to be your duty as a Christian towards your lawful husband, which Reginald is and continues to be, however disgracefully he may have behaved; and you acted with your eyes open in the face of warnings of his lawless Bohemian habits.He—is—your—HUSBAND, and your obvious duty is..."
"Oh, do shut up with Corinthians!" was the rude, impatient, and indeed irreligious interruption. "If you mean that a woman is bound to put up with anything and everything, no matter what her husband says or does ... What?"
"My dear Euphemia, if I have told you once, I have told you fifty times, that it isnotCorinthians, but Colossians—Colossians three eighteen. Besides, I'm sure there was a ring at the bell."
There was, and therefore the chronic guerilla warfare—for this sort of thing always went on until visitors stopped it—was suspended until the next opportunity.
The ring at the gate-bell was—or was caused by—Miss Jessie Bax, another niece, who was shy and seventeen. She began everything she said with "Oh!" The first words she uttered were, "Oh, I mustn't stop!" But she had previously said to Anne, at the gate, "Oh, I mustn't come in!" and when overcome on this point by Euphemia, who came out and kissed her, not without satisfaction—because she was that sort—she only just contrived to say, "Oh, I only came to bring these from Volumnia. It's to-morrow night at the Suburbiton Athenæum, where the Psychomorphic meets till the new rooms are ready, and she hopes you'll come."
Miss Jessie explained that she was, strictly speaking, an emanation from her sister Volumnia. That young lady was thirteen years her senior, and was a powerful individuality. She entered into inquiries, and advocated causes. Miss Jessica, on the contrary, flirted.
Was it, this time, advocating causes, or entering into inquiries? Mrs. Aiken, fearing the former, was consoled when she found it was the latter. She would look at the Syllabus tendered, whatever it was, and wouldn't detain Miss Jessie, whose anxiety not to come in need not have been laid so much stress on. It presently appeared that this wish to stop out was not unconnected with Charley Somebody, who was playing with a puppy on the other side of the road. A suggestion that Charley Somebody should come in too was met with so earnest a disclaimer of intention to disturb any fellow-creature anywhere, at any time, that it would have been sheer downright cruelty to press the point. So the young lady and Master Charley, whoever he was, escaped, and were heard whistling for the puppy, who was getting quite good, and learning to follow beautifully.
"What is it?" said Aunt Priscilla.
"Oh, some reading papers and nonsense," said her niece. "I never have any patience with that sort of twaddle. It only irritates me."
It suited Miss Priscilla to take up a tone of superiority to such childish petulance, combined with an enlightened attitude of open-mindedness, and a suggestion of being better informed than most people about what is doing. To this end she picked up the prospectus her niece was ostentatiously neglecting, and read it aloud in an atmosphere above human prejudices, specially designed for her own personal use. It related to a lecture "On the Attitude of Investigation towards the Unknowable," with magic-lantern slides, and a discussion to follow. "It does not say," said Aunt Priscilla, "who is the Medium." It is possible that the good lady had in her own mind confused something with something else. One does sometimes.
"I'm not sure that I shan't go, if it isn't the Suffrage," said Euphemia. She took the prospectus, and seemed reassured on re-reading it. Yes, she might go if there were pictures on a sheet. But not if it was to be Women's Rights.
"With your peculiar, new, advanced views, my dear," said her aunt, "it certainly seems to me that you ought to sympathize with your cousin."
This, however, was because of Miss Priscilla's exceptional way of looking at Social and Political subjects. She divided all the world—the thoughtful world, that is—into two classes, the one that went in for Movements and things, and the one that consisted of Sensible Persons. The latter stayed at home and minded their own business, sometimes going for a drive when it held up, and, of course, to Church on Sundays, and having hot crossed buns on Good Friday, and so on. She made no distinction between Agitators on the score of the diversity of their respective objects. Could she be expected to differentiate between shades of opinion that would now be indicated by the terms—then uninvented—of Suffragettes and Anti-Suffragettes?
Volumnia Bax would have belonged to the latter denomination. Women, that young lady said, were not intended by an All-wise Providence to mix in public life. Their sphere was the Home. She belonged to a League whose chief object was to prevent women becoming unfeminine. If it was not Woman's own duty to make a stand against these new-fangled American notions, which could only end in her being completely unsexed, whose was it? If she did not exert herself to avert this calamity, who would? So this League consisted entirely of women, pledged to resist, by violence if necessary, but in any case by speaking out at meetings, and getting up petitions, and so on, these insidious attempts to destroy the delicacy of the female character, which from time immemorial had been its principal charm. This was the point on which Aunt Priscilla certainly failed in discrimination, for she drew no distinction between the various shades of political impulse. She objected to anyone leaving the groove, even with the motive of pushing others back into it. Her niece Euphemia shared her views to a great extent, and when she used the expression "Women's Rights," it was probably in a sense much less circumscribed than its usual one. "But," said she to Miss Priscilla, justifying her determination to go on Saturday evening to this lecture, or whatever it was, "it can't be minutes and resolutions and jaw, jaw, jaw, if there's a magic-lantern. So do come, Aunty dear!"
Miss Priscilla gave way, and consented to accompany her niece, but not without a misgiving that she might be compelled to come away in the middle of the entertainment. A re-perusal of the Syllabus had engendered in her mind a doubt whether it was quite. That is how she worded it. The story only chronicles; it takes no responsibilities. Euphemia assured her that it could not be otherwise than quite, seeing that so respectable an Athenæum as the Suburbiton would be sure to be most careful. Besides, it was Metaphysical.
So they had the fly from Dulgrove's—as it appears, and we think we know what is meant—and Dulgrove's representative touched one of its hats, which was on his own head, and promised upon the honour of both to return at half-past ten to reimpatriate the two ladies at Athabasca Villa, which is two miles from Coombe proper.
Though Mr. Groob's sister Arethusa did not happen to call, as Miss Priscilla anticipated, Mrs. Reginald Aiken was destined to be brought in contact with her odious brother, the Artist, who was acquainted with her husband. It happened that Miss Bax was desirous that another brother of Arethusa's should come to the lecture. This gentleman, Mr. Duodecimus Groob, had a clear head, and a cool judgment, and belonged, moreover, to a class which is frequently referred to, but whose members cannot always be differentiated with certainty, the class of persons who are not to be sneezed at. Others may be, without offence or injustice.
Now, it chanced that Miss Jessica Bax had been employed by her sister as a species of bait to induce this gentleman to accompany his sister Arethusa—who, of course, was coming to the lecture—by sending her to be driven over in the Groob brougham, she herself accepting a lift from the Peter Dudburys, who had no room for more than one. Miss Volumnia, you see, intended to speak at the discussion, and was naturally anxious that Mr. Groob should bring his clear head and cool judgment to hear and appreciate the powerful analysis she intended to make of the lecturer's first exposition of the subject.
It is impossible in this story to enter at length into the intricate and difficult questions touched upon; but it may be noted that Miss Volumnia, who had read the typed manuscript of this lecture, was prepared to combat its main argument, to take exception to its author's fundamental standpoint, to scrutinise fearlessly his pretensions to Scientific accuracy, and to lay bare its fallacies with a merciless scalpel. She was naturally anxious that a B.Sc., London—for Mr. Duodecimus Groob was so designate—should hear her do it, being so close at hand; and when she said to Jessica, "Tell Arethusa I expect her to bring a brother," she did so with a shrewd insight into the souls of brothers whose sisters very pretty girls accompany to even the humblest entertainments—penny readings and what not. This Mr. Groob came, and what was more, Mr. Adolphus, whom we sawen passantat Pimlico Studios, accompanied him. Both had come to stay till Monday at their father's residence—where there were bronzes and Dresden china in the drawing-room, and ruins by Panini all round the dining-room, and a Wolf Hunt, Snyders, in the entrance-hall. We repeat thatbothcame, although there was hardly room in the small brougham, and Mr. Adolphus had to go on the box and wrap up. And our belief is that if it had been an omnibus, and there had been young men enough to fill it, they would all have gone to that lecture.
Insignificant as this visit to the Suburbiton Athenæum may seem, it has its place in this story, and that place is given to it by its most unimportant details. As you can scarcely be expected to turn back to it, please note now what it was that really happened.
In the lobby, when Mrs. Aiken and her Aunt arrived, Miss Volumnia Bax was, as it were, marshalling Europe. She was a leading mind, overlooking gregariousness through a pince-nez. Gregariousness was shedding its fleeces and taking little cardboard tickets in exchange.
"You know Mr. Adolphus Groob," said Miss Volumnia to her cousin, sternly, almost reproachfully.
"Yes—you know my brother," said Miss Arethusa Groob confirmatorily. And Miss Priscilla—oh dear! one's unmanageable Aunts!—must needs, as it were, go over to the enemy, saying in honeyed tones, with a little powdered sugar over them:
"Youknow Mr. Adolphus Groob, Euphemia."
It was quite the most dastardly desertion on record. There was nothing for it before such an accumulation of testimony but to plead guilty. What can, anybody do with such treachery in the camp? Euphemia admitted grudgingly that she knew Mr. Adolphus, who had long hair and was like our idea of a German Student. He, for his part, was horribly frightened and got away. For, you see, he knew all about the row between Aiken and his wife; and although in the absence of that unearthly sex, the female one, he was ready to lay claim to a deep and subtle knowledge of its ways, he was an arrant coward in the presence of a sample.
"I say, Bob," said he aside to his brother Duodecimus, using a convenient, if arbitrary, abbreviation of that name.
"What's the fun, Dolly?" said Bob, who was a chap who always made game of everything.
"Why, look here! When a customer you know quarrels with his wife, and she does a bunk..."
"Shewhat's?"
"Hooks it, don't you know! Well, when she runs away, and you come across her, and you know all the story about the shindy, being in the beggar's confidence, don't you see?—and she knows you know it, only, mind you, there's nothing exactly to swear by, and you know she knows you know it, and she knows you know she knows—up and down and in and out—intersectitiously, don't you see...?" But the heroic effort to express a situation we have all had a try at and failed over was too much for Mr. Adolphus, and his sentence remained unfinished. Consider that he had supplied an entirely new word, and be lenient!
"Want'n'er for yourself, Dolly?" said that frivolous, superficial beast, Bob. "Don't you, that's my advice! She's a head and shoulders taller than you. You'll look such an ass!" Whereupon Mr. Adolphus, not without dignity, checked his brother's ill-timed humour, pointing out that he had done nothing to deserve the imputation of personal motives, and hinting that his well-known monastic bias should have saved him from it.
"Very well, then!—let her alone!" said Bob.
"But it's very embarrassing, you must admit," said Dolly.
"H'm!—don't see why."
"The position is a delicate one."
"Can't see where the delicacy comes in. You keep out of her way.Shewon't tackleyou."
This was just about the time when the disengagement of their fleeces had enabled a congestion of the flock to pass on towards the lecture-hall, leaving access clear to Miss Priscilla, her niece, and others. Euphemia's fleece was one that gave trouble; she said it always got hooked. It certainly did so this time, and Mr. Adolphus, passing on after his colloquy with his brother, was able to render squire's service, unhooking it as bold as brass. Whereupon the lady and her aunt gushed gratefully, as in return for life saved. Their rescuer passed on, feeling internally gratified, and that he had shown presence of mind at a crisis—was, in short, a Man of the World. But he did not know that from thenceforward he was entangled in a certain perverse enchantment—a sort of spell that constantly impelled him to dally with the delicate position he was so conscious about. He must needs go and stick himself four seats off Mrs. Aiken, in the two-shilling places, the intervening three seats being vacant.
Now, if only lean men, operating edgewise, had attempted to pass into these seats, things might have gone otherwise. Fate sent a lady over three feet thick all the way down, and apparently quite solid, to wedge her way into one or more of these seats. Mr. Adolphus shrank, for all he was worth, but it was a trying moment. The lady was just that sort the Inquisition once employed so successfully; one with spikes, that drew blood from anyone that got agglutinated with her costume. She might, however, have got through without accident—you never can tell!—if the trial had been carried out. It was suspended by a suggestion from Mrs. Aiken that Mr. Adolphus Groob should come a little farther along and make room; and when he complied, to the extent of going one seat nearer to her, a second suggestion that he should come nearer still, to which he assented with trepidation. Resistance was useless. A galaxy of daughters had already filled in the whole row behind the stout lady, and were forcing her on like the air-tight piece of potato in a quill popgun, only larger. So in the end Mr. Adolphus Groob found himself wedged securely between the stout lady and Mrs. Euphemia Aiken, quite unable to speak to the former, for though they had certainly met—with a vengeance—they had never been introduced. This reallywasa very delicate position. Mrs. Aiken might at least have said, "You know Mrs. Godfrey Pybus, I think?" That was the stout lady's name. Then he could have avoided talking with Mrs. Aiken, by becoming absorbed in Mrs. Pybus, and shouting round her to her nearest daughters beyond. As it was, he was fairly forced to make careful remarks to his other neighbour, scrupulously avoiding allusion to husbands, wives, quarrels, Studios, Chelsea, London, servant-girls, picture-cleaning ... this is only a handful at random of the things it would never do to mention in such delicate circumstances. He held his tongue discreetly about every one of these in turn, and talked of little but the weather.
Do not run away with the idea that anything interesting or exciting grew out of this chance meeting, in the story. The introduction of it, at such length, is only warranted by the fact that, without its details, it would have absolutely no relevance at all. Whatever it has will, we hope, be made clear later.
A little conversation passed between the two, but it was of no more importance than the sample which follows.
"Do you know what the lecture is about?" said Mrs. Aiken.
"Couldn't say," was the reply. "Never know what lectures are about! I'm an Artist, don't you know! My brother Bob could tell you. He's a scientific chap—knows about Telephones and things that go round and burst."
"Is there anything that goes round and bursts in the lecture, I wonder?"
"Shouldn't be much surprised. Here's the Syllabub—I mean Syllabus." Mr. Adolphus handed his information to his neighbour. Caution made him uncommunicative. Naturally, he was of a more talkative disposition.
Mrs. Aiken studied the heads of the lecture. "What is meant, I wonder, by the Radio-Activity of Space?" said she. Now in asking this question she was deferring to the widespread idea that Man understands Science, and can tell Woman all about it. He doesn't, and can't.
Observe, please, that Mr. Groob was under a mixed influence. He happened to have been rather disgusted because Miss Jessica Bax, instead of appreciating his self-sacrifice in riding outside and wrapping up, had shown a marked preference for a flirtation with his brother. Slightly miffed by this, he had become the victim of a mysterious spell or fascination connected with that hook-and-eye accident, which had caused him—not to sit down beside its victim; he never would have presumed to do that—but to hover near her, and in doing this to be remorselessly forced into her pocket by the dead weight of Mrs. Godfrey Pybus. Things being so, what could he do but rejoice at the Radio-Activity of Space, as a topic surely removed from any wives that had bolted from any husbands? What could be safer as a resource against embarrassing reference to the painfulstatus quo?
He accepted the position of instructor his sex conferred on him. "It's got somethin' to do with Four Dimensions," he said. "Can't say I've gone much into the subject myself, but I've talked to a very intelligent feller about it. Did you ever see any Radium?"
"Me? No. My husband saw some, though. He looked through a hole."
"That's it. It destroys your eyesight, I believe, and loses decimal point something of its volume in a hundred thousand years. There is no doubt we are on the brink of great discoveries."
"How very interesting! I wish the lecturer would begin. Oh—here he is!"
"Very bald feller! He ought to use petrol. You have to rub it in and keep out of the way of artificial light. This chap's first cousin lost the use of both legs through investigatin'. It was X-rays, I believe. You may depend on it we've got a deal to learn." And so on.
Upon the honour of the narrative this sample is a fair one of what passed between this lady and gentleman on this occasion. There was more, but it was exactly the same sort.
In due course the lecture was begun and ended; then the discussion followed, and Mrs. Godfrey Pybus and her six daughters didn't stop to hear Miss Volumnia Bax's analysis and refutation, but went away in the middle and made a noise on purpose. It was just like them, and they were perfectly odious people.
It is most extraordinary how Time will slip away when the catching hold of his forelock depends on ourselves. Each morning may bring that forelock again within reach, and each morning the same apathy that made us yesterday too languid to stretch out a hand and grip the old scamp and employ him for our own advantage keeps us in the same stupid abeyance, and we lose the chance for another twenty-four hours. Every postponement makes a new precedent, and every new precedent stiffens the back of inaction.
It was so with Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Aiken. Not a morning passed without an unfulfilled impulse on either part to cross the gulf between them, and terminate their idiotic separation, bridged by correspondence which really did more harm than good. There is one precept which it is quite impossible for the human race to observe too closely—Never write letters! If only those words could replace Little Liver Pills and so forth on those atrocities that flank the railways and hide the planet, its inhabitants would be the gainers. Mr. Reginald had an extraordinary faculty for undoing in a postscript any little concession he had made at the outset, and Mrs. Euphemia, for her part, was becoming quite a proficient in sarcasm—three-line whips of scorpions describes her style, or the style she aimed at. For a superficial literary education did not help her up to its perfection.
"Very good, Mrs. Hay!"—thus, on receipt of a letter, would run her husband's commentary, embodying transposed quotation in its text, "'Pray go my own way'—that's it, is it?—'On no account give the slightest consideration underlined to the wishes of your underlined wife.' Oh, very well—I won't. 'If my Conscience with a big C didn't turn a deaf ear to the pleadings of my Better Self with a big B and a big S'—what's all this? can't read it—oh! I see—yes, at least I see what it comes to!—I should come to my sences—spelt wrong—and overcome the ridiculous false pride that stands between me and something or other underlined—h'm! h'm!—'consult my own dignity'—h'm, h'm—something's something else I can't make out in the truest sence of the word, underlined. I dare say. I know what all this rot comes to in the end. I'm to go and ask forgiveness and show contrition, and I shouldn't wonder if I was expected to beg Aunt Priscilla's pardon. And be taken to Church, as like as not! I say, Stumpy, that would be rather jolly, wouldn't it? Fancy the Wicked Man turnething away from his Wickedness and Aunt Priscilla taking care visibly not to look at your humble servant, so as not to hurt his feelings!"
"I tell you what, Crocky,"—thus Mr. Hughes, on the occasion the above is chosen from, some time in November—"I tell you what: if I was you, I shouldn't be an Ass. Just you mozey off to Athabasca Villa and make it up. I believe Mrs. Gapp's right."
"That old sot been talking? Parples was the best of the two. I'll have Parples back." For Mrs. Gapp had taken Mrs. Parples' place, under pretence of greater accomplishments and better training.
"At my invitation, Mr. Aiken," said Mr. Hughes with some show of dignity—"at my invitation, observe!—Mrs. Gapp, who has buried three husbands and really ought to know a good deal about connubiosity—conjugosity—what the dooce is the word?..."
"Well—married life, anyhow! What did old boozey say?"
"She had great faith in a spirit of mutual conciliation. That is not precisely the way she put it. Her exact expression was 'A good 'ug's the thing, Mr. Stumpy' .... Yes—that is what Mrs. Gapp calls me, misled by your example.... I must say I think the course she indicated has much to recommend it."
Mr. Aiken looked moody, and did not reply at once. Then he said: "That's all very fine, Stump, my boy. But—Sairah! Sairah's the point. Now, mind you, I'm not suggestin' anythin'. But just you look at it this way. There was a rather nice lookin' gyairl, with a bird's wing in her hat, came for the place, and Euphemia wouldn't hear of her, don't you know! Suppose it had been her!—puts the matter on a more human footin', shouldn't you say?"
Mr. Hughes reflected, and spoke as one whose reflections had borne fruit. "Not being a married beggar myself, I can't say. Speaking as a single cuss, my recommendation to you would be—speaking broadly—not to make an Ass of yourself. See what I'm driving at?"
"That means," said Mr. Aiken, "that you consider I ought to go and beg Euphemia's gracious pardon, and take the blame of the whole how-do-you-do on my own shoulders, and as like as not have to go to Church with Aunt Priscilla. Well—I won't, and there's an end of it!"
And Mr. Aiken didn't, and prolonged his uncomfortable circumstances quite to the end of the year. But it is only right to say that his wife contributed all her share to their extension and consolidation. In fact, if this story has achieved the wish of its compiler, ourself, it should be clear to its reader that Mr. Reginald and Mrs. Euphemia Aiken were precisely six of the one and half a dozen of the other.
The Upwell family in London. How Madeline promised not to get mixed up. A nice suburban boy, with a Two-Power Standard. No Jack now! The silver teapot. Miss Priscilla's extraction. Imperialism. Horace Walpole and John Bunyan. The Tapleys. How an item in theTelegraphupset Madeline. How she failed in her mission, but left a photograph behind her. The late Lady Betty Dusters's chin. How Mrs. Aiken stayed downstairs and went to sleep in an arm-chair, and of a curious experience she had. How she related the same to her cousin Volumnia. Of Icilia Ciaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi, and of The Dust. The Psychomorphic Report. How Miss Volumnia did not lose her train.
"Whydo you want the carriage, darling?"
"To call on a lady somewhere near Richmond, or Combe, I think it is."
"Won't it do to-morrow?"
"Not so well as to-day."
"Then I suppose youmusthave it, darling."
"Not if you want it, Mumsey!" The speaker got the head of the person she addressed in Chancery, to kiss it, using the chair-back of the latter as a fulcrum.
Lady Upwell, the victim of this manoeuvre, said, "Take care, Mad dear; you'll spoil myrucheand put your eyes out." So her daughter released her, and sat at her feet. She had on her tussore in saxe-blue, trimmed with guipure lace, and was as pretty as ever, and as sad.
"Whois it you want to go and see, darling?" said her ladyship.
"That Mrs. Aiken," said Madeline.
"Oh," said her mother, "but isn't she rather?" But Madeline shook her head, with her eyes very wide open, and kept on shaking it all the while as she replied, "Oh no, she's not rather at all. It was all her husband." Whereupon her mother said, "Oh—it was her husband, was it?" and put back a loose lock of hair on her daughter's forehead that was getting in her eyes.
This wasn't at Surley Stakes. The family had come up to Eaton Place for a week or ten days. And these ladies were sitting in a small jury drawing-room that did duty on flying visits. The real drawing-room was all packed up, and must have been rather savage when the family came to town, yet left itin statu quo. And very savage indeed with Madeline, who was begging to be allowed to stop in the country and not come to town this season at all. Indeed, she would have had her way, had not her father said that come she must, to see the new pair of carriage-horses he was thinking of purchasing, whose owner was willing to lend them for a few days on trial, but only on condition that they should not be taken away from London. So the family coachman had accompanied the family, in a certain sense clandestinely. It is needless to tell anyone who knows, that of course these ladies were themselves only theoretically in town, with those shutters all up.
Madeline helped to get the lock of hair back, remarking, "It always does," without an antecedent. It was a pity there was no one there—mothers don't count—to see how pretty her wrist looked, with the blue veins in it, as she did so. She continued talking about that Mrs. Aiken, but semi-apologetically, as if she felt abnormal in wanting to see that Mrs. Aiken.
Her mother attempted to rationalise and formulate her daughter's position. "Ican'tunderstand, dear child," she said. "You only saw this lady that one time, and only for a few minutes then. What makes you want to see her again? She doesn't seem to have produced a—a favourable impression exactly."
"N-n-not very!" is the reply; the prolonged initial conveying the speaker's hesitation to condemn. "But it isn't that."
"What isn't it, child?"
"What she's like. It's because I went there with Jack."
"I see, dear." But it isn't so very clear that her ladyship does see. For she adds:—"I quite understand. Of course. Yes!" in a tone which seems to invite further explanation.
Her daughter at least puts this interpretation on it. "Don't you see, Mumsey dear?" she says. "It's because I recollect me and Jack, and her and her husband, all talking together in that muddle of a Studio, and the lay-figure with its head on backwards. They seem to come into it somehow." The further particulars are slight, one would say, but they carry conviction, for her mother says, "I understand that, but can you do any good?" as if the substratum of a debatable point might be considered settled. Madeline goes on, encouraged to confidence. "I thinkperhaps. Because those Baxes we met..."
"Thosewhats?" her ladyship interrupts; adding, however, "Oh. I see—it's a name! Go on."
"A grim big one and a little rather jolly one. That evening at Lady Presteign's. The grim big one talked about it to me in a corner, because her sister's too young to know about such things—only she's nearly my age, and I don't see why—and told me she believed it was a perfectly ridiculous quarrel about a horrible maidservant, who was quite out of the question. And of course this Miss Bax doesn't know whatweknow."
"My darling Madeline!" A large amused maternal smile irradiates the speaker. "Know! What a funny child you are!"
"Well. Mumsey, don't we know, or as good as know? Do you really think Uncle Christopher made all that up?Idon't."
"It was the action of his brain, my dear, not his own doing at all! Let me see—what's it called?—something ending inism."
"Hypnotism?"
"No! Oh dear, I shall remember directly...."
"Mesmerism?"
"No, no!—do be quiet and let me think...."
"Vegetarianism?"
"You silly girl! I had just got it, and you put it out of my head ... There! ... Stop! ... No! ... Yes—I'vegot it.Unconscious Cerebration! How on earth did I manage to forget that? Unconscious Cerebration, of course!"
"But it doesn't end inism. It ends ination."
"Never mind, child! Anyhow, Ihaverecollected it, and it's a thing one ought to be able to say. Don't let's forget it again." To Lady Upwell this world was a theatre, and the name of the piece was Society. She was always on the sweetest terms with the Management, and her benevolence to the worn-out and broken-down actors was heartfelt. Still, one had to talk one's part, and dress it. "Unconscious Cerebration" was useful gag. "But," said she, returning to the main point, "I don't see what you cando, child."
"No more do I, Mumsey dear. But I may be able to do something for all that. I should like to try, anyhow. I'm sure the picture was right. Besides, see what that Miss Bax said. You may say what you like, but sheisMrs. Aiken's first cousin, after all!"
"No doubt she's right, dear! And no doubt the picture's right." Her ladyship retires with the dignity of one withdrawing herself from mundane matters, Olympuswards. But one can never touch pitch and not be defiled. Some has clung to her, for she adds absently, "I wonder where Thyrza Presteign picks up all these odd people." In the end she forsakes speculation to say, "Of course have the carriage, darling; I don't see that any harm can come of it. Only don't get mixed up."
"Iwon't get mixed up," says Miss Upwell confidently, and kisses her mother on both sides, for granting the carriage to go on such a crazy quest. She for the tenth of a second associates the two kisses with the beautiful pair of greys that draw it. She loves horses very much, and gives them too much sugar. If any tongue's tip is ready with a denial of the possibility of such an impression as this, it only shows that the tongue's owner has not had a similar experience. The kisses were cash down for each horse—does that make it clearer?
Anyhow, the greys' eight hoofs rang sweetly next day on a frosty road, going south-westwards, as soon as they left the traffic—that road-spoiler—far enough behind. The sun had taken a mean advantage of its being such a glorious day, to get at nice clean frozen corners and make a nasty mess. But there were many havens of security still where what was blown snow-dust in the early morning might still have a little peace and quiet, and wait with resignation for inevitable thaw.
Such a one was—or had been—on a low window-sill of the Cheshire Cheese, behind the horse-trough which the steaming greys suggested they should empty, but were only allowed to sample.Had been, because of a boy. A boy is a reason for so many things in this world. This one, a very nice specimen, coming, well-informed, from a Gothic school near by, was showing how indifferent chubbiness can be to chilblains, by manipulating the snow on this window-sill in the manufacture of two snowballs, of which one was complete. His was a Two Power Standard, evidently.
"Ask that little boy where this place is," says Miss Upwell, from inside furs; because the carriage-lid is set back by request, and the rider is convinced of cold, but won't give in on principle. "He's a native, and ought to know. Ask him, James."
"Where's Athabasca Villa, young un? ... Don't believe he knows, Miss."
"Where's Athabasca Villa, little man? ... Don't you know? Well—where does Miss Priscilla Bax live?"
"Oh—I knowshe! Over yarnder." A vigorous illumination speaks to the force of Miss Priscilla Bax's identity. "Over yonder" is, however, vague; and you may have eyes like sloes, and crisp curly brown hair, and ruddy cheeks, and yet have very small powers of indicating complex routes past Daddy's—not otherwise described—and round to the left, and along to the right, and by Farmer Phipps's barn, and so on. But this is a young gentleman of resource, and he has a suggestion ready: "You let I royd up behind, andI'llpoyunt out where to drive." The lady accedes to this proposal, though James is evidently uneasy lest a precedent should be established. "Let him ride behind—he won't do any harm—" says Madeline, between whom and this youth a bond of sympathy forges itself unexpectedly. It might have been more judicious to deprive him of ammunition.
For the Two Power Standard, in his case, seemed to involve a Policy of Aggression. His first snowball was aimed too low; and though it struck its object, the Incumbent of the Parish, that gentleman only laughed. The second landed neatly under the back-hair of a stout lady, and probably went down her back behind, as her indignation found voice proportionate to such a result. Miss Upwell—to her shame be it spoken—pretended not to see or hear; refusing, Gallio-like, to listen—but in this case to Gentiles—and saying to James, "Please don't stop, James—go on quick."
The infant was, however, as good as his undertaking, conducting the carriage intelligently to Athabasca Villa, and taking an unfair advantage of permission to pull its bell; he was, in fact, detached from it with some difficulty. He seemed surprised and pleased at the receipt of adouceur, and danced.
"Oh dear!" said poor Madeline to herself, as she heard him die away, with some friends he met, in the distance. "How Jack would have liked that boy!" There was to be no Jack, it seemed, now!
Mrs. Aiken, at one of the bays that flanked the doorway of Athabasca Villa, looked out upon the top and bottom half of a sun up to his middle in a chill purple mist, and waited for tea. Tea waited to be made, like Eve when she was a rib. But with a confidence based on precedent; for Tea was made every day at the same time, which Eve wasn't. Besides, Miss Priscilla Bax made tea, and wouldn't let anyone else make it. Not that there appears to be any suggestion in the story of Eve that there was ever any talk of underletting the job.
Miss Priscilla Bax had a cap out of last century, about half-way, and the cap had ribbons which had to be kept entirely out of the tea. These ribbons had no function or practical object, though an imaginative mind might have ascribed to them that, being alike on both sides, they helped the sense of equilibrium necessary to safe conduct of the unmade tea from a casket on four gouty feet, whose lid wouldn't keep up, to a black Rockingham teapot, which did for when there was no one.
Only, this time therewassomeone—some carriage one—and his, her, or its approach caused Mrs. Aiken to exclaim, "Good gracious, Aunty, I'm afraid it's people!"
Miss Priscilla was watching the tap of the urn run—her phrase, not ours. "How many?" said she. Then dialogue worked out as follows:
"I think I see who it is."
"How many?"
"Only one. I fancy it's that Miss What's-her-name. I wish it wasn't. It's too late to say not at home. She's seen me at the window. But you'll have to put in another heaped-up spoonful. Whenever will they stop ringing that bell?"
At this point presumably the mercenary was strangled off it, and rewarded, for the lady added, "Yes, it's her. She's talking to a boy. What on earth has brought her here? I shall go."
"You can't. You've been seen. Don't be a fool. Who do you mean by 'her'?"
"Oh—youknow! Miss Upsley Pupsley of Curly something. That place in Worcestershire the picture was to go to.Youknow! They've a house in Eaton Square."
"Thenwe must have the silver teapot, and I shall have to make fresh tea." The house in Eaton Square settled that. A hurried aside caused the appearance of the silver teapot in all its glory, and a new ebullition, over the lamp, of a fresh kettle of water at par.
Thereupon Miss Upwell found herself within reach—academically speaking—of talking with this Mrs. Aiken of that lady's private domestic dissensions. But, oh, the impossibility of it! Madeline felt it now, too late. Even getting to speak of the subject at all seemed hopeless. And in another moment she became horribly aware that she was inexplicable—couldn't account for her visit at all. Still, she had too much grit in her to dream of giving in. And then, look at the motive! Besides, she had in her heart a strong suspicion that she was a beauty, and that that was why people always gave way to her. Her beauty was of no use, now that Jack was gone. Nothing being of any use to her, now, at least let it help her to do a good turn to a fellow-woman in tribulation. If this picture-ghost—so she said to herself—had told this Mrs. Aiken where Jack was, wouldshenot come and tell, on the chance? Of course she would! Courage!
The most terrifying obstacle in her path was Aunt Priscilla. If this lady had been the inoffensive tabby Madeline's wish had been father to her thought of, she could have been treated as a negligible factor. But what is to be done when your Aunt, living under an impression that in early life she mixed in circles, recognises your distinguished young friend as having emerged from a circle. This way of putting the case transfers the embarrassment from Miss Upwell to Mrs. Aiken. Probably that lady felt it, and wished Aunt Priscilla wouldn't go on so. The fact is she was getting curious to know the reason of her visitor's unexpected appearance. Theremustbesomereason.
It lost its opportunity of being divulged at the outset. The visitor's parade of the utter indefensibility of her intrusion, and her fib—for a fib it was in the spirit, however true in the letter—that she "was in the neighbourhood" worked on the imagination, and made the position plausible. Mrs. Aiken dropped all attempts to look amiably surprised, as one courteously awaiting a revelation, and candidly admitted an extremely clear recollection of Miss Upwell's visit to the Studio. Of course she was delighted to see her, on any terms. But the reason of her coming could get no chance of a hearing, when the first flush of conversation had once failed to give it an opening. Miss Priscilla's extraction had to be reckoned with.
If only that appalling old lady had not been there, or would even have been content to play second fiddle! But as soon as she heard the name of the village of Grewceham in Worcestershire mentioned as the nearest township to Surley Stakes, she identified that county as the cradle of her race, saying, "WE came from Sampford Plantagenet, I believe," in a tone suggestive of remote epochs, and considerable yeomen farmers, at least, vanishing into the mists of antiquity. "But my mother's family," she added, "were all Brocks, of Sampford Pagnell."
Madeline, anxious to oblige as she was, could go no farther than to believe, as an abstract truth, that there were still Brocks in Sampford Pagnell; speaking of them rather as if they ran away when seen, but might be heard occasionally, like bitterns. She could not do any Baxes at Sampford Plantagenet. However, her father would know the name Bax, and his heraldic sympathies would be stirred by it like the war-horse in Job at the sound of battle. This anticipation was founded solely on his daughter's desire to fill out the order for Baxes.
Miss Priscilla always preferred to pour the tea herself, not without a certain Imperial suggestion in the preference. Vespasian would have insisted on pouring out the tea, under like circumstances.
But the tea, when poured, brought with it no clue to the cause of Miss Upwell's visit. It had furnished a certain amount of relief, during its negotiation, by postponing discussion of the point, and by the claim it made for a chapter to itself. For a short chapter of your life-story begins when you get your tea, and ends when you've done your tea. When Madeline had ceased to be able to pretend that this chapter had not ended, her suspended sense of incomprehensibility cropped up again, and she grew painfully aware that her hostesses would soon begin waiting visibly for enlightenment, which she was no nearer being able to give than at first. How could she have guessed it would be so difficult? She was even conscious of gratitude to Miss Priscilla for her persistency in Atavism, and at heart hoped that the good lady would not stop just yet.
No fear of that! The Brocks were not nearly over, and they had to be disposed of before the Baxes could be taken in hand. Their exponent picked them up where she had dropped them. "My Mother's family," she resumed, "were well known during the Middle Ages. There were Brocks in Sampford Pagnell as early as fourteen hundred and four. They are even said to have been connected with John of Gaunt. Unhappily all the family documents, including an autograph letter of Alice Piers to Edward the Black Prince, were destroyed in the Great Fire of London." On lines like these, as we all know, a topic may be pursued for a very long time without the pursuer's hobby breaking down. It went on long enough in this case for Madeline to wish she could get a chance of utilising some courage she had been slowly mustering during the chase. This being hardly mature yet, she took another cup of tea, thank you! and sat on, supplying little notes of exclamation and pleased surprise whenever the manner of the narrator seemed to call for them.
"It seems only the other day," Aunt Priscilla continued, with her eyes half-closed to express memory at work upon the past, "that I was taken as a little girl of six, to see my great-grandmother, then in her hundredth year. She was a friend of Horace Walpole.Hermother could remember John Bunyan."
"Is it possible!" said Madeline, very shaky about dates, but ready with any amount of wonderment. She added idiotically, "Ofcoursemy father must have knownallyour people,quitewell." Which did not follow from the apparent premisses.
Mrs. Aiken muttered in a warning voice, for her visitor's ear only, "When Aunt gets on her grandmother she never gets off. You'll see!" She took advantage of the old lady's deafness to keep up a running comment.
Miss Priscilla then approached a subject which required to be handled with the extremest delicacy. "I think, Euphemia," she said, "that after so long a time there can be no objection ... You know what I am referring to?"
"Objection?—why should there be? Oh yes,Iknow. Horace Walpole and your great-grandmother. No—none!" To Madeline Mrs. Aiken said in an undertone, "I told you how it would be." That young lady affected a lively interest in scandal against Queen Elizabeth, which was what she anticipated.
"I myself," said Aunt Priscilla, in the leisurely way of a lecturer who has secured an audience, "have always held to the opinion that there was a marriage, but what the motives may have been for concealing it can only be conjectured...."
This was too leisurely for her niece's patience. It provoked a species ofsotto voceabstract of her Aunt's coming statement thus, "Oh yes—do get on! You cannot otherwise understand how so rigid an observer of moral law as your great-grandfather, however lamentable his religious tenets may have been, could have brought himself to marry the widow.Dogeton!" Which proved to be the substance of the original, as soon as the latter was published. But it certainly got over the ground quicker, and made a spurt at the winning-post, arriving almost before the other horse started.
"This," resumed Aunt Priscilla, after a small blank for the congregation to sniff and cough, if so disposed, "was some considerable time before his accession to the Earldom. The only clue that has been suggested as a motive for concealment of the marriage was his unaccountable aversion to the title, which he could scarcely have indulged if ... There's a knock. Do see if it's the Tapleys, and don't let them go." Mrs. Aiken rose and went out, reciting rapidly another forecast, "He-never-took- his-seat-in-the-House-of-Lords-and-signed-his- letters-'the-Uncle-of-the-late-Earl-of-Orford.' She'll have done that by the time I'm back," as she left the room. Miss Upwell felt a little resentment at this lady's treatment of her Aunt. After all, is not man an Atavistic animal? Is not ancestor-worship the oldest of religions?
Itwasthe Tapleys, if Madeline had not heard the name wrong; who had already had tea with the Outstrippingtons, subject to the same reservation. But she may easily have got both names wrong. She thought she saw a chance of speaking with the niece by herself, and at any rate appointing a counter-visit before she went back to the Stakes, if she cut her own short before she became involved with the Tapleys, as might happen; and that would be fatal, she felt. So she suddenly perceived that she must not keep the greys standing in the cold, and got past the incoming Tapleys, who seemed to be in mourning for the human race, as far as clothes went; but not sorry at all, if you came to that. She had failed, and must give up the object of her visit, and acknowledge defeat. And, oh dear, how late it was!
She could, however, get a word or two with the niece before departing, unless that young woman consigned her to a servant and fled back to her Tapleys, who were shouting about how late they were, as if they had distinguished themselves. However, Mrs. Aiken had evidently no such intention, but, for some reason, very much the contrary.
The reason came out as soon as the door shut the shouters in, leaving her and her visitor in the passage, with a cap and a white apron hanging on their outskirts, ready for prompt action.
First Mrs. Aiken said, "I am afraid Aunt must have bored you dreadfully, Miss Upwell. She and her family! Oh dear!"
Madeline answered rather stiffly: "It was very interesting. I enjoyed listening." For she would have been better pleased with this young person if she had taken her Aunt's part. Her own mother prosed, copiously, about ancestors; but she herself never tried to silence her.
However, her displeasure melted when Mrs. Aiken—having told the cap it needn't wait; she would call—coloured and hesitated, and wanted to say something.
"Yes," said Madeline.
"I was—was so grieved—to see about your friend.... Oh dear!—perhaps I oughtn't to talk about it...."
Miss Upwell felt she had to be dignified. After all she and Jack werenotengaged. "You mean Captain Calverley, Mrs. Aiken," said she. "We are hoping now—I mean his family are hoping—to hear from him every day. But, of course, they are—we all are—veryanxious."
Mrs. Aiken looked dubiously at her visitor's face, seeming not to see the hand that was suggesting a good-bye shake. Then she said, very hesitatingly, "I—I didn't know—is there a hope? I only see theTelegraph." Then, an instant after, she saw her mistake. She might at least have had the sense to say nothing about theTelegraph.
Madeline felt her colour come and go, and her heart getting restless. "A hope? Ohdear, yes!" How bravely she said it! "You know there is no proof whatever of his..." But she could not say "death."
"Oh no—no proof, of course! ... I should be so glad ... I suppose they only meant..."
All Madeline's courage was in the voice that succeeded in saying, "Dear Mrs. Aiken, do tell me what was said. I dare say it was all nonsense. The newspapers get all sorts of stories."
Mrs. Aiken would have given something to be allowed to say no more about it. She stumbled a good deal over an attempt to unsay her blunder. She really couldn't be positive. Quite as likely as not the paragraph might have referred to someone else. She was far from sure, after all, that the name wasn't Silverton. Yes, it certainly was, Major Silverton—that was it!
"You are only saying that," said Madeline, gently but firmly, "to make my mind easy. It is kind—but—but you had better tell me now. Haven't you got theTelegraph? I can buy one, of course, on my way home. But I would much rather know now."
Mrs. Aiken saw no way of keeping it back. "It's in here—theTelegraph" said she. That is, it was in the parlour opposite to the one they had left. There it was, sure enough, and there, in clear print, was the statement of its correspondent at Something-fontein or other, that all hopes were now given up of the reappearance of Captain Calverley, who had been missing since the action at Burghersdrift, as some of his accoutrements had been found in the river below Kroondorp, and it was now looked upon as certain that he was drowned shortly after the action.
Madeline knew quite well that she had in herself an ample store of fortitude if only she could get a fair chance to exercise it. But a horrible sort of ague-fit had possession of her, and got at her teeth and spoiled her speech. It would go off directly, and she would be able to know practically, as she now did theoretically, that it was no use paying attention to any newspaper correspondence. She would soon get right in the air. If this Mrs. Aiken would only have the sense to see that what she wanted was to get away and have herself to herself until at least her teeth stopped chattering! But instead of that the tiresome young woman must needs say, "Oh dear, you look so ill! Shan't I get you something?" Which was silly, because what on earth could she have got, except brandy, or some such horror?
Madeline made a bad shot at speech, wishing to say that she would be all right directly, but really saying, "I shall be reckly." Collapse into a proffered chair enabled her to add, "Leave me alone—it's nothing," and to sit still with her eyes shut. Nervous upsets of this sort soon pass off; and by the time Mrs. Aiken—who felt that some remedymustbe exhibited, for the honour of the house—had got at one through an emissary, she was able to meet it half-way. "Oh yes—eau-de-Cologne, please! It's always delightful!" Whereat Mrs. Aiken felt proud and successful, and Madeline mopped her forehead, feeling better.
But she must get away now as quick as possible. Her card-castle had collapsed. And, indeed, she felt too late the absurdity of it all from the beginning. So far from being able to produce her ghost, or whatever it could be called, in extenuation of this young lady's reprobate husband, she had not seen her way to mentioning him at all, even under a pretext with which she had flattered her hopes, as a last resource, that she knew nothing about his quarrel with his wife and their separation. It might have brought him on the tapis, with a successful result. There was no chance now, even if she had felt at her best. And here she was, morally crippled by a severe shock! For though, of course, she was not going to pay attention to newspaper stuff, it was a severe shock all the same.
So she gathered herself up to say good-bye, and with profusest gratitude for the eau-de-Cologne departed. And Mrs. Aiken, after watching the brisk start of the greys, and thinking how bored they must have been, went slowly back into the house, to wonder what on earth could have brought an up-to-date young lady out of the Smart Set to such an unpretending mansion as Athabasca Villa.
She wondered also whether those interminable Tapleys were going to talk like that till seven o'clock, and would Aunt P. go and ask them to stay to supper? Very likely! And she would have to be civil to them all the evening, she supposed.
Reflecting thus, her eye rested on the corner of the mahogany hall-bench, with a roll at each end; to prevent very short people falling over sideways, presumably. What she saw made her say, "What's this, Anne?"
"Which, Ma'am?" said Anne. "Perhaps the Missis knows."
This thing was inside brown paper, and rectangular. The corners were hard, but the middle clicketted. Probably apasse-partout. At least, it could be nothing else. So if it wasn't apasse-partout, it was non-suited,quoadexistence. Mrs. Aiken opened the drawing-room door, meeting a gust of the Tapleys, both speaking at once. It didn't matter. Aunt Priscilla heard all the plainer for a noise. There certainly was one.
Her niece said, through it, "Have you ordered a photograph, Aunty?" No, no photograph had been ordered. "Then I shall have to look at it, to see what it is," said Mrs. Aiken. The Tapleys sanctioned and encouraged this course, with loud shouts. And it really is a capital step to take when you want to find out what a thing is, to look at it and see.
It was a photograph, and was recognised at once by Mrs. Aiken as a copy from the Surley Stakes picture. It was a print of the photograph that Madeline had sent a copy of to Mr. Aiken at the Studio, a long time before. You remember how it stood on the table while he talked with Mr. Hughes? "I see," said Euphemia; "Miss Upwell must have left it behind. We must get it back to her." And she was proceeding to wrap it up again; not, however, without seeing enough of it to be sure of its identity.
But she was reckoning without her guests, who pounced simultaneously on the back of the photograph, crying out, "Stop!—it's written on. Read behind." Whereupon it was read behind that this photograph was for Mrs. Reginald Aiken, Athabasca Villa, Coombe. "I suppose she brought it for me," said that lady, rather sulkily.
"Whatever she came for I can't make out," said the niece to the Aunt after supper, and indeed after the departure of the Tapleys. For Mrs. Aiken's worst anticipations had been fulfilled, and they had been invited to stay to supper and had done so remorselessly.
The Aunt could throw no light on this sudden appearance of Miss Upwell. "She has great charm of manner," she said. "She reminds me a little of the late Lady Betty Dusters. It is in the turn of the chin." But Miss Bax's chin, cited in action to confirm this turn, was unconvincing.
Her niece ignored the late Lady Betty. "I think the girl was going lengths in coming at all," she said. "After all, what did it amount to? Just that she and this young soldier of hers came to the Studio to see a picture. And supposing it did happen on the day when Reginald behaved so detestably with that horrible girl! Doesn't that make it all the other way round?" She wished to express that if Miss Upwell had come to know about her quarrel with her husband, she should have kept her distance the more on that account. But she was not equal to the effort, and perhaps acknowledged it when she said, "You know what I mean, so it's no use drum-drum-drumming it all through, like a cart-horse or a barrel-organ. Anyhow, Miss Upsley Pupsley would have shown better taste to keep away, tomythinking!"
"I thought you seemed to like her, Euphemia," said the Aunt meekly.
"I didn't say I didn't," said the niece.
"Then I won't speak." Which resolve of Miss Priscilla's is inexplicable, unless due allowance is made for the fact that familiar domestic chat turns quite as much on the way it omits, as the way it uses words. The younger lady's manner was that of one in whom exasperation, produced by unrighteous conspiracy, was being kept in check by rare powers of self-control. That of the elder indicated constitutional toleration of the waywardness of near relations; who are, as we know, a crotchety class. When one of these, in addition to tapping with her foot and looking flushed and ready to cry on small provocation, bites articles ofvirtu, surely a certain amount of forbearance—an irritating practice—is permissible.
"You'll spoil the paper-knife," said Miss Priscilla. "And it was a present from your great-uncle John Bulstrode, when he came from India."
Mrs. Aiken put the paper-knife down irritably, because she knew, as you and I do, that when those little mosaic pieces once come out, it's no use trying to stick them in again. But she said, "Bother the paper-knife!" And for a few moments her soul was content to find expression in foot-tapping and lip-biting; while her Aunt forbore, and took up her knitting.
Then she got up and paced about the room restlessly. The lamp was going out, or wanted seeing to. She turned it up; but if lamps are going out for want of oil, turning them up does no good, and only burns the wick away. They have to be properly seen to. It was too late to be worth putting fresh oil in, this time. Candles would do, or for that matter, why not do without? The firelight was much nicer.
Mrs. Reginald Aiken walked about the room while Miss Priscilla Bax looked at the fire and knitted. It was getting on for bedtime.
Suddenly the walker stopped opposite the knitter. "Aunty!" said she, but in a voice that almost seemed to add, "Do talk to me and be sympathetic. I'm quite reasonable now."
Her aunt seemed to accept the concession, skipping ratifications. "Certainly, my dear Euphemia," she said, with dignity.