Open quote
I’VE had such a lovely letter from Rupert, Bertha. I’m so excited, I can’t read it almost!”
Bertha held out her hand. Madeline was looking agitated.
“He says,” said Madeline, looking closely at the letter in her short-sighted way, “that he wishes he could burn me like spice on the altar of a life-long friendship! Fancy!”
“Rather indefinite, isn’t it?”
“Oh, but listen!” And Madeline read aloud eagerly: “Yesterday evening was perfect: but to-day and for several days I shall be unable to see you. Why is a feast day always followed by a fast?”
“Is it Doncaster to-morrow?” asked Bertha.
“Don’t be absurd, that’s nothing to do with it. Listen to this.What a curiously interesting nature you have! Am I not right when I say that I fancy in time, as you develop and grow older, you may look at life eye to eye with me?”
“Madeline dear,pleasedon’t mistake that for a proposal. I assure you that it isn’t one.”
Madeline looked up sharply. “Who said it was? But, anyhow, it shows interest. He must be rather keen—I mean interested—in me. It’s all very well to say it means nothing, but for a man nowadays to sit down and write a long letter all about nothing at all, it must have some significance. Look how easily he might have rung up! I know you’re afraid of encouraging me too much, and it’s very kind of you—but I must confess Idothink that letters mean a great deal. Think of the trouble he’s taken. And there’s a great deal about himself in it, too.”
“Of course, Madeline, I don’t deny that it does show interest, and he probably must be a little in love with someone—perhaps with himself—to write a letter about nothing. As you say, it’s unusual nowadays. But you mustn’t forget that, though Rupert’s young, he belongs to the ’95 period. Things were very different then. People thought nothing of writing a long letter; and a telegram about nothing was considered quite advanced and American.”
“Oh, bother!” said Madeline, “I hate being told about the period he belongs to. It makes it seem like ancient history. Listen to what he says about you—such lovely things! ‘Mrs. Kellynch is a delightful contrast to you, and is allthat is charming and brilliant, in a different way. Is she not one of those (alas, too few) who are always followed by the flutes of the pagan world?’”
“That’s really very sweet of him. I say, I wonder what it means exactly?”
“I have no idea. But it just shows, doesn’t it?”
With a satisfied smile, Madeline put the letter away. Bertha did not press to see it, but remarked: “I see he didn’t sign himself very affectionately. Evidently there’s nothing compromising in the letter.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you put it away. Otherwise you would have shown it to me. Nobody cares to show an uncompromising love-letter—with a lukewarm signature.”
“At any rate,” said Madeline, gliding over the point and leaving the letter in its cover, “your taking us out last night was a very great help. I feel I’ve made progress; he thinks more of me.”
“Yes, I thought it would be a good thing to do. Now you’d better not answer the letter, and please don’t show any anxiety if you don’t see him for a little while, either.”
“I sha’n’t be a bit anxious, Bertha, especially if it’s only racing, or something of that sort.Or, in fact, anything, unless I get afraid he’s seeing Miss Chivvey. Do you ever think that Rupert still takes an interest in Miss Chivvey?”
“A little, but I don’t think it matters. I think she’s needed as a contrast to you. She surprises and shocks him, and that amuses him, but she isn’t his real taste. I don’t think Miss Chivvey’s dangerous, seriously. She uses cheap scent.”
“Oh!” cried Madeline, delighted. “There’s nothing so awful as cheap scent!”
“Except expensive scent, because it’s stronger,” said Bertha.
Madeline looked at her admiringly.
“How extraordinary you are, Bertha! It’s wonderfully sweet of you to take such an interest in my wretched little romance. You might have so many of your own, if you cared to.”
“Ah, but I don’t care to. I’m rather exacting in a way, but I don’t want variety. I’ve no desire for an audience. I don’t want a little of everybody. All I want is the whole of one person.”
“Is that all! Well, you’ve got it,” replied Madeline.
“I hope so,” she answered, rather seriously. “I’m not altogether satisfied. I can’t settle down to the idea of a dull, humdrum sortof life—and of Percy’s being fond of me casually.”
“Oh, good gracious, I’m sure he isn’t casual! What a strange idea of yours!”
“I hope I’m wrong. I believe I want something that’s very nearly impossible. I’ve always had a sort of ideal or dream of making an ordinary average married life into a romance.”
“Well, and can’t it be?”
“I don’t really see why it shouldn’t. But there’s no doubt there are immense difficulties in the way. It seems to be necessary, first of all, for there to be not only one exceptional temperament, but two. And that’s a good deal to expect. Of course, the obvious danger is the probability of people getting tired of anything they’ve got. I’m afraid that’s human nature. The toys the children see in the shop-window always seem much less wonderful when they’re home in the nursery. As a brother of mine used to say a little vulgarly, ‘You don’t run after an omnibus when once you’ve caught it.’”
“Perhaps not.”
“As soon as you belong to a person, obviously, Madeline, they don’t value youquitein the same kind of way. The glamour seems to go.”
“But you don’t want necessarily always to berun after, surely? You want to be treasured and valued—all that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I know! But my ideal would be that there should be just as much excitement and romance andfunafter marriage as before—if it were possible.”
“Oh, good heavens, Bertha! then, if one were to go by that horrible theory of your brother’s, one ought never to marry the person one loves, if one wants to keep them.”
“No, in theory, one ought not. But then, where are you if he goes and marries someone else? After all, you’d rather he got tired ofyouthan of the other person! Wouldn’t you prefer he should makeyourlife miserable than any other woman’s? Besides, one must take a risk. It’s worth it.”
“I should think it is, indeed!” cried Madeline. “Why, I would marry Rupert if I thought I should never see him again after a month or two—if I knew for a fact he would get tired of me!”
“Of course you would, and quite right too. But remember people are not all alike. There are any number of men who are absolutely incapable of being really in love with anyone who belongs to them. They simply can’t help it. It’s the instinct of the chase. And it’s mere waste of time and energy to attempt to change them.”
“Are you speaking of men or husbands?”
“Either, really. But don’t let’s forget that there are a great many others, on the other hand, who care for nothing and no one who isn’t their own. Collectors, rather than hunters. Surely you’ve noticed that, Madeline? It’s a passion for property. The kind of man who thinkshishouse,hispictures,hiscook, even his mother, everything connected with him must be better than the possessions of anyone else. Well, this kind of man is quite capable of remaining very devoted to his own wife, and in love with her, if she’s only decently nice to him; and even if she’s not. I mean the sort of man one sometimes sees at a party, pointing out some utterly insignificant person there, and declaring that Gladys or Jane, or whoever it is, takes the shine out of everyone else, and that there’s no one else in the room to touch her. His wife, of course. I don’t mean out of devotion—that’s another, finer temperament—but simply and solely because she belongs to him.”
“Well, Bertha, I don’t care what his reason is, Ilikethat man!”
“Oh, rather! So do I. And very often he’s not a bit appreciated; though he would be by us. Perhaps the most usual case of all is for the husband, if he’s married for love, to remain in love for the first two or three years, and for the love then to turn gradually into a warm friendship,or even a deep affection, which may go on growing deeper—it’s only the romance and the glamour and sparkle that seems to go—the excitement. And that’s such a pity. I can’t help thinking in many cases it really needn’t be. More often than not, I believe, it’s the woman’s mistake. Just at first, she’s liable to take too much advantage of the new sort of power she feels.”
“Do you mean, Bertha, that the woman generally doesn’t take enough trouble with the house to make it pleasant for him at home—and all that?”
“Ididn’tmean that, though it might be so. But sometimes it’s just the other way. More often than not she takes a great deal too much trouble about the home, and bothers him about it. There’s far too much domesticity. It’s like playing at houses at first, but soon it grows tedious. At any rate the whole thing is worth studying very deeply. I can tell you I haven’t given it up yet.”
“You? Oh, Bertha, I can’t think what fault you have to find. You, as you say, certainly are exacting.”
“I blame myself, solely. I feel that, somehow or other, I’ve allowed things to get too prosaic. Percy takes everything for granted: everything goes on wheels. Of course, if I were satisfied to settle down at twenty-eight with completecontentment at the prospect of a humdrum existence, it would be all right; but I’m not. In another few years Percy will be getting on very well as a barrister, taking himself seriously, and regarding me just as part of the furniture at home. You know he always calls me a canary; that shows his point of view. Well, then, he might get a little interested in a wilder kind of bird, and I shouldn’t like it!”
“What would your idea be, then? Would you flirt to make him jealous?”
“No, I certainly shouldn’t. That’s frightfully obvious and common. If I ever did flirt, it wouldn’t be for such a silly reason as that. It would be for my own amusement and for nothing else, but I don’t think I ever shall. I think it’s a fatal mistake for a woman to lower herself in any way in the other person’s eyes. Her lasting hold and best one, is that he must think her perfection; it’s the safest link with a really nice man. Anyone can be worse than you are, but it’s not easy when you take the line that none can bebetter! because no one else is going to try! But if, after all, he still gets tired of her, as they sometimes do, well—it’s very hard—but I am afraid she must manage badly.”
“I never should have dreamed you thought of all these things, Bertha. You seem so serene and happy.”
“I am. It’s the one subject I ever worry about. I’m always prepared for the worst.”
“And I’m quite sure you’ve no cause to be. Why not wait till trouble comes?” suggested Madeline.
“Why, then it would be too late. No, I want to ward it off long before there’s any danger.”
“I think it’s very unlike you—almost morbid—bothering about possibilities that will never happen.”
“I daresay it is, in a way. But, you know, I fancy I’ve second sight sometimes. What I feel with us is that things are too smooth, too calm, a little dull. Something ought to happen.”
“You’re looking so pretty, too,” said Madeline rather irrelevantly.
“I’m glad to hear it; but I only want one person to think so.”
“But it’s obvious that he does; he’s very proud of you.”
“I sometimes think he’s too much accustomed to me. He takes me as a matter of course.”
“If that is so, I daresay you’ll be able to alter matters,” said Madeline, getting up to go.
“Yes, I daresay I shall; it only needs a little readjusting,” Bertha said.
They shook hands in cordial fashion. They did not belong to the gushing school, and, notwithstanding their really deep mutual affection, neither would ever have dreamed of kissing the other.
As soon as Madeline had gone Bertha went and looked steadily and seriously in the glass, for some considerable time. She thought on the whole that it was true that she was looking pretty: on this subject she was perfectly calm, cool and unbiassed, as if judging the appearance of a stranger. For, though she naturally liked to be admired, as all women do, she was entirely without that fluffy sort of vanity, that weak conceit, so indulgent to itself, that makes nearly all pretty women incapable of perceiving when they are beginning to go off, or unwilling to own it to themselves.
The one person for whose admiration and interest she cared for more and more, her Percy, she fancied was growing rather cooler. This crumpled rose-leaf distressed her extremely.
At this moment he arrived home. She heard his voice and his step, and waited for him to come up, with an increasing vividness of colour and expression, with a look of excited animation, that in so sophisticated a woman was certainly, after ten years, a remarkable tribute to a husband.
Percy, who was never very quick, was this evening much longer coming upstairs than usual. He was looking at the letters in the hall. With his long, legal-looking, handsome face, his even features, his fine figure and his expression of mild self-control, and the large, high brow, he had a certain look of importance. He appeared to have more personality then he really had. His manner was impressive, even when one knew—as Bertha certainly did—that he was the mildest, the most amiable and good-natured of serious barristers.
With one of those impulses that are almost impossible to account for, Percy took one of the letters up before the others. It was directed in type. He half opened it, then put it in his pocket. He felt anxious to read it; for some quite inexplicable reason he felt there was something about it momentous, and of interest. It was not a circular, or a bill. It made him feel uncomfortable. After waiting a moment he opened it and read part of it. Then he replaced it in his pocket, and ran up to his room, taking the other unopened letters with him.
“Percy!” called Bertha, as he passed the drawing-room.
“I shall be down in a few minutes,” he called out.
He went upstairs and shut himself into his room.
She also felt unaccountably uncomfortable and anxious, as if something had happened, or was going to happen. Why was Percy so long?
When he came down at last she gave him his tea and a cigarette and noticed, or perhaps imagined, that he looked different from usual. He was pale. Yes, he was distinctly a little pale. Poor Percy!
Instead of telling him he was not looking very well, and asking him what was the matter, complaining that he had not taken any notice of her, or behaving otherwise idiotically, after the usual fashion of affectionate wives, she remained silent, and waited till he seemed more as usual.
Then he said: “Has anyone been here to-day?”
“No one but Madeline. She’s only just gone.”
“Oh yes—been out at all?”
“I went out this morning for a little while.”
He seemed absent.
“You enjoyed yourself last night, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Oh yes, it was rather fun. Yet, somehow, the Russian Ballet never leaves me in good spirits for the next day. It doesn’t really leave a pleasant impression somehow—an agreeable flavour.”
“Doesn’t it—why?”
“One wants to see it, one is interested, from curiosity, and then, afterwards, there’s a sort of Dead Sea-fruitish, sour-grapes, autumn-leaves, sort of feeling! It’s too remote from real life and yet it hasn’t an uplifting effect. At any rate it always depresses me.”
He gave her a rather searching look, and then said:
“Did Hillier like it?”
“I think he enjoys everything. He’s always so cheery.”
“And to-night we’re dining at home?”
“Oh yes, I hope so. We’ll have a quiet evening.”
After a moment Percy said, in a slightly constrained way:
“I think I shall have to go out for half-an-hour. I want to see a man at the club.”
“Oh, must you? But it’s raining so much. Why don’t you ring him up and ask him to come here?”
She was anxious not to betray a womanish fear that he might be getting influenza, as she knew that nothing would annoy him so much as bothering about him.
“No; I must go out.”
She dropped the subject. He took up a new book she had been reading and talked about itsomewhat pompously and at great length. The whole time it struck her he was not like himself. Something was wrong. He was either worried, or going to be ill. He had either a temper or a temperature. But she did not refer to it. Dinner was sometimes a good cure for such indispositions.
He continued to make conversation in a slightly formal way until he went out. After he had gone she observed to herself that his manner had varied from polite absent-mindedness to slight irritability. He had gone out without telling her anything about his plans. He had not even kissed her.
MRS. HILLIER habitually had breakfast in her own room, for no particular reason, but because Nigel encouraged her in this luxurious manner of beginning the day. He said a woman ought not to have to come down until the day had been a little warmed, and got ready for her; that she should have time to choose her clothes to harmonise with her moods—time, after a look at the weather, and hearing the news of the day, to settle on what the moods should be. For a man, on the contrary, he thought it ridiculous and weakly idle—indolent in a way not suited to a man. A man, according to Nigel, ought no more to have his breakfast in bed than to come down with a bow of blue ribbon in his hair, or to go and lie down before dressing for a dinner-party.
However, one morning it darted suddenly into Mary’s head that Nigel, on going downstairs to breakfast, while she did not, had nearly an hourto himself. What a horrible idea! What injustice to her! And it occurred to her that for years she had never seen Nigel open his letters. She had, indeed, not the slightest idea what his manner at breakfast was like. Was this fair? He always managed to get out of any invitation to the country which included them both.
As soon as she had thought of this, she rang for her maid, and dressed in the wildest hurry, as though she had to catch a train: leaving her tray on the little table untouched, the maid running after her to fasten hooks, and buttons, to stick in pins, and tie ribbons, as though they were playing a game.
Mary won. She was flying out of the room when the maid ran after her, saying:
“Madame, your tortoiseshell comb is falling out of your hair; won’t you let me finish dressing it?”
“Don’t worry, Searle. Whatdoesit matter?”
She flew downstairs.
Nigel looked up with that intense surprise that no one can succeed in disguising as the acutest pleasure.
“Well, by Jove,” he said, in his quick way, which was so cool and casual that it almost had the effect of a drawl. He looked at her closely, and said reassuringly:
“After all, it may not be true; and if it is, it may be for the best.”
“What may not be true, Nigel. What do you mean?”
“Why, this sudden bad news.”
“What news? There is no news.”
“Isn’t there? By Jove, this is splendid! Just come down to have breakfast with me, then! Capital. What will you have, dear?”
He rang the bell.
“Are you sorry to see me?” she asked, darting looks at the envelopes by his plate, looks that were almost sharp enough to open them.
“Sorry to see you? Don’t be absurd! Your comb’s falling into the sugar basin, and I shouldn’t think it would improve the taste of the coffee. Look out! Help! Saved! Mary dear, why don’t you do your hair?”
“I was afraid you might go out before I came down.”
“Why, I’m not going out for ages, yet.”
He gave her his letters in their envelopes, with a half-smile.
“I don’t want to see them,” she said. “Why do you pass me the letters, as though you thought I came down for that?”
Nigel pretended not to hear. He opened the newspaper.
“I thought,” she went on, “it seemed rather a shame that I should always have breakfast upstairs, and leave you alone, without anyone to keep you company.”
“Awfully kind of you, but, really, I don’t mind a bit.”
He gave a quick look round the room. He had again that curious, bitter sensation of being trapped. Was he now not even going to have this pleasant morning hour to himself?
Probably there was not a prettier room in London than this one. It had the pale pink and green, blue and mauve colouring of spring flowers; the curved shapes of the dainty artificial creatures who lived for fine and trivial pleasure only; the best Louis Quinze decoration. And to-day it was a lovely day; and the warm west wind blew in the breath of the pink and blue hyacinths in the window-boxes. There was that pleasant gay buzzing sound of London in June outside in Grosvenor Street: the growing hum of the season, that made one feel right in it, even if one wasn’t. Everything was peacefully happy, harsh and hard things seemed unreal; the world seemed made for birds and butterflies, light sentiment, colour, perfume and gay music. In this London life seemed like a Watteau picture.
Nigel saw that he had never yet realised why he was so fond of this room, where he always had breakfast. It was because there he was free, and alone.
Now he was determined that there should be no quarrelling to-day. It is only fair to Nigel to say that he was always quite determined to keep away the quarrels; and fought against them. Placed as they were, with such infinitely more possibilities of happiness than nineménagesout of ten—though leaving out unfortunately one, and that the most important part—love—it was terrible that they should quarrel. He was so easy-going, so ready to ignore her faults, to make the best of things as they were. And she liked to quarrel, merely because it made her, for the time, of importance to him. In fact, being madly in love with him, and both wildly and stupidly jealous, to get up a quarrel was almost the only satisfaction she ever had, the only effect she ever produced now.
Since the other evening, when she had behaved with entire want of self-control, or, perhaps, rather with a kind of instinctive premeditated hysteria, she appeared to recognise that manner had not been a real success. She had tried, at all costs, to prevent him going to the theatre, and had failed.
The next day they ignored the trouble; and for some time afterwards she seemed pleasanter, while he was kind and attentive, believing she had really forgotten her grievance.
On the contrary, it was more firmly fixed in her mind than before. She was absolutely determined that, on no excuse whatever, should he continue to see Bertha Kellynch.
She had found out that the host of the evening at the ballet had been Rupert Denison, and that Madeline Irwin, Bertha and Nigel were the guests. For more than a week Mary had entirely given up the quarrelsome and nagging mood, so that Nigel believed she no longer had this absurd fancy about Bertha. As a matter of fact, for the first time, she had really been dissembling, had spent a good deal of time and money in finding out how both Bertha and Nigel spent their time. What little she had found out had given her an entirely false impression, and that had resulted in a very desperate determination. She meant to carry it out this morning. But she wanted to talk a little more to Nigel first.
“Nigel dear, you know what you said the other evening about giving parties?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking, perhaps, dear, you’re right. I find I’ve dropped nearly all your oldfriends. I think we’d better give one big party—a reception, I think. Our drawing-room has never been seen yet.”
Nigel looked up, really pleased to see her taking a more normal sort of interest in her existence.
“By Jove! I am glad. That’s capital! Yes, of course. To start with we’ll give an At Home, as they call ’em.”
“Do you think there ought to be any sort of entertainment, Nigel?”
“Well, just as you like. You said you didn’t want music. … How would it be to have a band to play the whole evening?”
“Yes, that would do very well. Oh, and, Nigel! I find I’ve been so careless and forgotten all the addresses and lost the cards of people that we used to know. I shall want someone to help me.”
“Yes, I suppose Mademoiselle won’t do.”
“Oh no, she’s no use. I shall engage a typewriter to go through the list with me and send out cards.”
“Right-o! good idea.”
He was quite surprised and satisfied, and thought to himself how wise it was of him the other day to ignore the absurd fit of excitement when she had smashed the vases. Certainly she had been better ever since.
“You’d like me to help you with the list, wouldn’t you, dear?” he said presently.
She gave him a sharp look.
“I suppose we’d better ask everybody we know to this sort of thing,” she said.
“Your mother and I are not on the best of terms, I’m afraid. But you must be sure to ask her, and we’ll make it up.”
Nigel thought to himself that really would be only fair, considering that he had practically and ingeniously invented the quarrel on purpose; in order that he could have an excuse to go out when Mary’s mother came to see her. But, really, Nigel liked her personally and knew that she liked him, and that she was not without sympathy for anyone who had to live with her daughter.
“I suppose you’ll want me to ask the Kellynches?” asked Mary, in a rather low voice.
“It would look natural if you did. But, really, I have seen so little of them for the last few years that you can please yourself about it.”
“You’ve accepted several invitations from them,” said Mary, in rather a cutting tone. “Perhaps it would be as well to return them.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever dined there,” said Nigel casually.
“Didn’t you meet them that night at the Russian Ballet? Don’t deny it! I know you all went to supper at the Savoy.”
“Who’s denying it! You know that Denison asked me to supper at the Savoy, and that Madeline Irwin was there, and Mrs. Kellynch.”
“Quite a nice littlepartie carrée,” said Mary, unable to keep up her plan of self-control, and speaking in a trembling voice.
“Now, Mary, don’t be absurd! You know it’s hardly usual for a bachelor like Rupert to ask three women or three men to supper!”
“I suppose he drove Miss Irwin home?” said Mary, commanding herself as well as she could.
“No, he didn’t. Why should he? Mrs. Kellynch who is Madeline’s intimate friend, naturally drove Miss Irwin home in her car. And Rupert, who lives near here, dropped me. It was some little time ago, by the way, but I remember it quite well. Nice feller Rupert—we ought to ask him, too.”
“All right, dear.”
They parted amiably.
An hour later Mary was going through her lists of cards and addresses with the typewriter when she suddenly said:
“Oh, Miss Wilson, I’m writing a sort of story. And it’s to be told in a series of letters.”
“Oh yes.”
“Will you please take this down. This is the address: Percy Kellynch, Esq., 100 Sloane Street. It begins like this: ‘Dear Mr. Kellynch——’” …
LADY KELLYNCH was in the room she usually chose for sitting in for any length of time, when her son, Clifford (twelve years old), was at home for the holidays.
A widow, handsome and excessively dignified, as I have mentioned, with her prim notions, she was essentially like the old-fashioned idea of an old maid. As her fine house was very perfectly and meticulously furnished, she treated the presence of Clifford as an outrage in any room but this particularly practical and saddle-bag old apartment, where there was still a corner with a little low chair in it, and boxes full of toys and other things, which were not only far outgrown by Clifford, but which were absolutely never seen nowadays at all, and would be considered far behindhand as amusements for a child of four.
This extra, additional child, born eighteen years after his brother, and just before thedeath of his father, was still looked upon by Lady Kellynch as a curious mixture of an unexpected blessing, an unnecessary nuisance, and a pleasant surprise. She was always delighted to see him when he first came home from school, but he was very soon allowed to go and stay with Bertha and Percy. Bertha adored him and delighted in him in reality; Lady Kellynch worshipped him in theory, but though she hardly knew it herself, his presence absolutely interfered with all her plans about nothing, spoilt her little arrangements for order, and jarred on the clockwork regularity of her life, especially in her moments of sentiment.
He was a very good-looking boy, with smooth black hair and regular features like his brother, Percy. Perhaps because he was, according to his mother’s view, very much advanced for his age, he regarded her rather as a backward child, to whom it would be highly desirable, but unfortunately practically impossible, to explain life as it is now lived.
Lady Kellynch was doing a peculiar little piece of bead embroidery. She did it every day for ten minutes after lunch with a look at Clifford every now and then, occasionally counting her beads, as if she was not altogether quite sure whether or not he ate them when shewasn’t looking. This was the moment that she always chose to have conversation with him, so as to learn to know his character. A couple of suitable books, “The Jungle Book,” and “Eric, or Little by Little,” were placed on a low table by Clifford’s side; but, as a matter of fact, he was readingThe English Review.
“Clifford darling!”
He put the magazine down, shoving a newspaper over it.
“Well, mother?”
“Tell me something about your life at school, darling.”
He glanced at the ceiling, then looked down for inspiration.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, haven’t you any nice little friends at school, Clifford—any favourites?”
He smiled.
“Oh, good Lord, mother, of course I haven’t! People don’t have little friends. I don’t know what you mean.”
She looked rather pained.
“No friends! Oh, dear, dear, dear! But are there no nice boys that you like?”
“No. Most of them are awful rotters.”
She put down her beads.
“Clifford! I’m shocked to hear this. Rotters! I suppose that’s one of your school expressions—you mean no nice boys? Poor little fellow! I shall make a note of that.”
He looked up, rather frightened.
“What on earth for?”
“Why, I shall certainly speak to your master about it. Oh! to think that you haven’t got a single friend in the school!Allbad boys! There must be something wrong somewhere!”
“Oh, mummy, for goodness sake don’t speak to anybody about it. If you say a word, I tell you, I sha’n’t go back to school. I never heard of such a thing! I didn’t say they were all bad boys—rot! No. Some of them aren’t so bad.”
“Well, tell me about one—if it’s only one, Clifford.”
He thought a moment.
“I’m afraid you’ll go writing to the master, as you call it, and get me expelled for telling tales, or something.”
“Oh, my darling, of course I won’t! Poor boy! tell me about this one.”
“There’s one chap who’s fairly decent, a chap called Pickering.”
“To think,” she murmured to herself, stroking her transformation, and shaking her head, “to think there should be only one boy fairly decent in all that enormous school!”
“Oh, well!he’ssimplyfrightfullydecent, as a matter of fact. Pickering fairly takes it. He’s top-hole. There’s nothing he can’t do.”
“What does he do, darling?”
“Oh, I can’t exactly explain. He’s a bit of all right. It’s frightfully smart to be seen with him.”
Lady Kellynch looked surprised at this remark.
“Clifford—really! I’d no idea you had these social views. Of course you’re quite right, dear. I’ve always been in favour of your being friends with little gentlemen. But I shouldn’t like you to be at all—what is called a snob. So long as heisa little gentleman, of course, that’s everything.”
Clifford laughed.
“I never said Pickering was a gentleman! big or little! You don’t understand, mother. I mean it’s smart to be seen with him because—oh! I can’t explain. He’s all right.”
His mother thought for a little while, then, having heard that it is right to encourage school friendships at home, so as to know under what influence your boy got, she said:
“Would you like, dear, to have this young Master Pickering to tea here one day?”
He looked up, and round the room.
“Oh no, mother; I shouldn’t care for him to come here.”
“Why not, dear?”
“Oh, I can’t explain exactly; it isn’t the sort of place for him.”
Lady Kellynch was positively frightened to ask why, for fear her boy should show contempt for his own home, so she didn’t go into the matter, but remarked:
“I should think a beautiful house in Onslow Square, with a garden like this, was just the thing for a boy to like.”
He shook his head with a humorous expression of contempt.
“Pickering wouldn’t go into aSquaregarden, mother!”
She waited a moment, wondering what shaped garden was suited to him, what form of pleasaunce was worthy of the presence of this exceptional boy, and then said, trying to ascertain the point of view:
“Would you take him to see Percy?”
He brightened up directly.
“Percy! Oh yes, rather. I’d like him to see Bertha. I shall ask her to let me take him one day.”
Lady Kellynch felt vaguely pained, and envious and jealous, but on reflection realised to herself that probably the wonderful Pickering would be a very great nuisance, and make a noise, and create general untidiness and confusion,in which Bertha was quite capable of taking part; so she said:
“Do so, if you like, dear. You’re going to see Bertha soon, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m going to see her to-day.” He quickly putThe English Reviewunder the cushion, sitting on it as he saw his mother look up from her work.
“Bertha’s all right; she’s pretty too.”
“She’s very good and kind to you, I must say,” said Lady Kellynch. “As they have asked you so often, I think I should like you to pay her a nice little attention to-day, dear. Take her a pretty basket of flowers.”
Clifford’s handsome dark face became overclouded with boredom.
“Oh, good Lord, mother! can’t you telephone to a florist and have it sent to her, if she’sgotto have vegetables?”
“But surely, dear, it would be nicer for you to take it.”
“Oh, mother, it would be awful rot, carting about floral tribs in a taxi all over London.”
“Floral tribs? What are floral tribs? Oh, tributes! I see! In a taxi! No. I never dreamt of your doing such a thing. Ridiculous extravagance! Go from Kensington to Sloane Street in a taxi!”
“How did you suppose I’d take it, then?”
“I supposed you’d walk,” said Lady Kellynch, in a frightened voice.
“Walk! Great Scott! Walk with a basket of flowers! What next! I didn’t know you were bringing me up as a messenger-boy. No, mother, I’m too old to be a boy scout, or anything of that sort. What have you got Warden for? Why don’t you send the footman? But far the most sensible way is to ring up the place itself, and give the order.”
“No, dear,” said Lady Kellynch, rather crushed. She had pictured his entrance with some beautiful flowers to please his sister-in-law. “Never mind; it doesn’t matter.”
“Mind you,” said the spoilt boy, standing up, and looking at himself in the glass. “Mind you I should be awfully glad to give Bertha anything she likes. I don’t mind. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call in at that place in Bond Street, and get her some chocolates.”
“Charbonnel and Walker’s, I suppose you mean,” said his mother.
He smiled.
“They’ll do. Pickering says his brother, who’s an artist, is going to do a historical picture for next year’s Academy on the subject of ‘The First Meeting between Charbonnel and Walker.’”
She looked bewildered.
“Just as you like, my dear. Take her some bonbons if you prefer it. Wait! One moment, Clifford. Bertha hates sweets. She never touches them.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “I do.”