“To the greatest of artists and my dear friend. M.J.”
“To the greatest of artists and my dear friend. M.J.”
With a laugh, he tore it up into fragments and threw the pieces in the fire. “Maria Jacobs! Maria Jacobs! Well, the roses have come in handy”—mockingly—“thank you, Maria.”
As the last fragment was consumed, the door-bell rang, and he went out into the hall to receive his visitor.
“I am afraid I am a little late,” apologized Claudia, letting him take her cloak, “but—— Oh, well! the Bridgemans are later, it seems, so I shan’t apologize any more.”
He drew her into the dining-room and kissed her.
“Don’t! You are crushing the poor primroses. Are they not sweet? Don’t you love the frailty and delicate sweetness of wild flowers?”
She was very sweet herself as she said it, her eyes taking in approvingly the decorations of the table. But she was also to him still a littlegrande dame, with her dignified carriage and her head held high. For a moment doubt knocked at his confident heart. It would all depend how she took his news. The next few minutes would decide his fate.
“Claudia, I have a disappointment for you. I have just had a wire from the Bridgemans. She is ill and they cannot come.” He was watching her narrowly, although the words were spoken easily enough. “There was no time to get another couple. The wire arrived a few minutes ago. You can see the table is set for them. Do you mind, dearest?”
For a moment she hesitated. She had a curious suddenfeeling of fright, like someone who sees a gate closing behind her.
“Of course,” he said lightly, “it’s not quitecomme il faut, but neither you nor I care about that, do we? We will go to a restaurant if you prefer. It’s a pity the Bridgemans didn’t let me know sooner.”
The room was very cozy and inviting. The situation was compromising; but then, as Frank said, did she care about small conventionalities? No one would know. It was only Mother Grundy who would drive them forth to a noisy, rag-time restaurant where they would hardly be able to hear one another speak. The country air had made her agreeably tired, so that the mellow light of the candles and the room perched high above the traffic appealed to her mood. Had he made the least attempt to persuade her she would not have stayed, but he was wise enough to make it seem a matter of indifference where they dined so long as they were together.
“I’m tired of the clatter of restaurants,” she said, sinking into a chair by the hearth; “and I smell a smell of savoury baked meats. It’s very peaceful here at night.”
“Marshall isn’t at all a bad cook,” returned Frank lightly, “and I told her to think out a specially nice dinner.”
“For the Bridgemans or—for me?”
The momentary sensation of panic had passed. He was just as he always was, devoted, deferential, entirely at her command.
“For the Bridgemans, of course. Need you ask?” He took the pretty arm lying on the arm of the chair and let his lips gently slip along the skin from the elbow to the wrist. “Claudia, I can’t think of anyone but you these days.”
“Just an infatuation!” she laughed provocatively, a thrill running through her.
“Are you sorry that I am so infatuated? Would you have me more cool and reasonable? You told me once that you hated tepid people. Have you changed your ideas?”
“No.”
“Then why—— Ah! here is the soup.Madame est servie.Will she graciously adorn this chair?”
“How charming! It’s Jacobean, isn’t it? I shall enjoy sitting in it.”
Part of the face was in shadow, but the light fell full on the soft, curving lips, very sweet and gracious to-night, the firm, well-moulded chin, and the exquisite line of the bare neck and shoulders.
“Do you know any of the other tenants in the building, Frank?” she asked over her soup.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Colin Paton knows an architect further down, Leonard Gost. I wonder if you knew him too.”
Frank shook his head. “No, but I happened to hear this morning that he had been suddenly taken ill. The doctor came here by mistake. Don’t let’s talk about Paton.”
“Why? Don’t you like him?”
“I’m jealous of every man you even see. That day I came in and found him holding your hand I could have slain him.”
She smiled, and then the smile suddenly vanished and was replaced by a more thoughtful expression.
“Are you, then, jealous of my husband?” she asked suddenly.
The question was unexpected, and for a moment he had no answer ready.
“Why, yes; of course, I——”
“No, I see you are not. How curious! I think if I were in love with a married woman I should be morbidly jealous of her husband. My imagination would torture me, the grey matter in my brain would turn abright orange with jealous hate.” She had never spoken to him of her relations with her husband. He had never asked any questions, and she had volunteered no information. But sometimes she had wondered that Frank could take his existence and rights so calmly.
“But you do not love him,” objected Frank; “if you loved him I should hate him.”
“I did love him—once.”
“A man who has failed to keep his wife’s love deserves to lose it,” said Frank glibly, who was opening the champagne.
“Frank, you say you love me. Suppose I said I was tired of the life I lead, that there is something in me that shrinks from deception, that I like all the cards on the table. Would you take me away?”
The cork popped loudly at the moment, and he had to quickly pour some of the champagne into her glass.
“Darling, I should only be too proud. You ought to know that.”
Was it his preoccupation with the champagne, or was there something wrong with his tone or his words? What had she expected him to say? Then she pulled herself together with a laugh.
“To love is human, to marry—sometimes divine. Don’t be afraid,mon ami. I’m not cut out for those heroics, or,” she added, “you either.”
He was inwardly relieved, for a man could never be sure what a highly-strung, emotional woman like Claudia would expect of him. She was adorable, she was well-born and clever, but—no, he was not cut out for “heroics.” As much as he could be, he was desperately in love with her; it was perfectly true that the thought of her obsessed his days and nights. But love to him was a pleasant thing, a serious light-mindedness in which a little pretence was necessary on either side. They might sigh together over the impossibility of spendingtheir lives together; they might regret that they had not met before she entered into the legal compact; they might even indulge in rosy dreams of a future if she “ever became free,” but they would be very careful not to endanger her reputation or cause her spouse to set her free. Bourgeois born, reared among ideals of hypocritical respectability, Frank Hamilton had secretly a horror of anythingoutré, such as the Divorce Court. It would probably make very little difference to his career as an artist, but his innate conventionality revolted at the thought.
“If you would trust yourself to me, I would try and prove worthy of your bounty,” he said humbly. “My dearest, you wring my heart by these doubts of me. Don’t youyetbelieve in my love?”
She was playing with the wing of a chicken.
“How can one tell love from passion? Do you know?”
“I’ll ask you a question. Do you believe that love between a young normal woman and man can exist without passion?”
His eyes challenged hers over the deep red roses. There was a little flush on her creamy cheeks now, and the primroses were fading whitely at her breast. There was a current of electricity in the little room going from him to her. She fancied she could almost hear the beating of the wings.
“No, passion must be part of love.”
“And you wouldn’t care for a man who was content merely to love you at a respectful distance? No, you needn’t answer. I know you wouldn’t. You’re much too alive for that. You are much too passionate. A placid, hold-my-hand love would never make you happy.... Shall we have coffee upstairs in the studio?”
She nodded. The atmosphere of the little room seemed to have become too close. She was aware that her checks were burning.
She knew that she stood on the Great Threshold. It was only fair to Frank that she should decide to-night. She knew by this time enough of men to realize that self-repression, self-control are foreign to their nature and upbringing. She was content, or she could have forced herself to be content, with the indefinite relations between them. Something urged her across the threshold, and yet something that she could not grasp or define held her back. She remembered a phrase from a play she had seen a few days previously, in which a man had spoken of “woman’s innate purity.” Could she lay claim to such a possession? Clearly, no. She had dallied with the idea, she had let Frank kiss her time and again without any repugnance. A pure-minded woman would have repulsed him at the outset. She would have said, “I am a married woman. Only my husband has a right to my caresses.”
“I have forgotten the cigarettes. I’ll run down for them, if you’ll excuse me a minute.”
She nodded as she made herself comfortable on the low divan covered with cushions.
The Great Threshold! Her heart beat faster as she contemplated it. She wondered in what fashion the married women she knew had stepped across it—gaily, impulsively, with reckless abandonment, with inward shrinking, with cool deliberation—how? La Rochefoucauld once said, “Some ladies may be met with who never had any intrigue at all, but it will be exceedingly hard to find any who have had one and no more,” but then, he was only a maxim-monger, and the making of maxims, like the making of epigrams, is only a trick. If she crossed it, there would only be Frank. They would love one another secretly, and the stolen hours together would make her barren life more tolerable. Jack had made out thatliaisonswere nothing more than licentious flirtations. If two people really loved——
Moved by a restless spirit, she rose and went over to the mantelpiece. Her eyes fell with a start on a visiting-card inscribedCOLIN PATON.
Her hands fell nervelessly to her sides. Somehow there seemed a third person in the room. Frank came back and handed her the box of cigarettes.
She indicated the card.
“Mr. Paton—has been here?... Thank you.”
“Yes. I asked him to come some time, and he came to-day. He said he wanted to see how your portrait was getting on.”
“What did he say about it?”
“I didn’t show it to him,” said Frank, with a touch of arrogance. “Besides, it isn’t quite finished, and no artist likes to expose an unfinished picture.”
“It’s practically finished. I needn’t come any more for it?”
“We won’t tell people it’s finished,” he whispered, close to her ear. “We will pretend it is still only half-finished.”
The words jarred, and she drew away from him. Yet he was quite right. If she crossed the threshold, she must in future take refuge in such subterfuges. She must lie to everyone, to honest Pat, to Colin Paton—— Her brows met in a frown. Could love thrive in such an atmosphere? Frank seemed to have thought the whole thing out, counted on her surrender—How dared he?—and yet—She had certainly encouraged him, there was no gainsaying that.
“Let us look at the picture again,” she said abruptly. “I’d like to see it by nightlight.”
With a smile he complied, classing her with the other vain women who had sat to him. She wanted to look on her own beauty. He pulled forward the easel and took off the cloth.
It was one of the best bits of painting he had everdone. He had worked hard on it, and it had but slightly the faults that usually marred his work. He had put in careful, conscientious brush-work; and in combination with the arresting individuality of the sitter, the result was one of which he might justly be proud.
But as Claudia gazed on it, dissatisfaction stirred within her. The yellowish lights—the electric globes were of some daffodil tint—made her see it as she had never done before. The eyes were surely too ardent, the curve of the lips too sensual, the whole face had a curious voluptuousness that made her recoil from the picture. Did she give people that impression?
“Is it—exactly like me?” she asked.
“It’s as I see you,” he said complacently. “My beautiful Claudia! It is good, isn’t it? I think it will create a sensation when it is exhibited.”
Suddenly she knew that she hated it, that she did not want the world to see it, to stare at it, to comment on it. Yes, she was glad Colin had not seen it. He might have thought——
“I don’t like it.”
If she had suddenly held a pistol at his head he could not have been more surprised. He turned from his very self-satisfied contemplation of the picture and stared at the original. And it was not the woman of the portrait he saw, nor the flushed, hesitating woman of the dinner-table, but a woman whose eyes were wide open and startled, as though some new aspect of life had struck her; a woman who was fighting for self-mastery, calling to her aid that pride and moral fastidiousness that were innate in her, and which lately she had been trying to keep out of sight.
She was not the woman, she told herself, she never would be the woman of the picture. That was not a woman with true love and passion in her eyes, it was mere animal sensuality. Yet she was aware that shemight become that woman if she crossed the threshold. Dare she take the risk? Did she want to take the risk?
“I don’t understand.”
She had never heard him speak so angrily. Yes, he was really angry. His artistic pride was wounded.
“It’s very clever, very clever,” she stammered, “but I—I don’t like the way you have depicted me. It isn’t the nicest—me.”
His eyes were very light and very cold as he faced her, and suddenly they seemed to be bright and shallow, like those of a bird. His lips made a thin red line, and a hardness of the lines of the jaw became noticeable.
“Frank, don’t you understand?” she pleaded. “There, in the picture, you have made me anamoureuse,une grande amoureuse, and I—I don’t think I’m really that.” Then a little wildly—“It may be in me, I may have it in my blood, but I don’t want it to come out.... I’m sorry, Frank, but I don’t like it.”
She saw, as she looked in his face, that he did not understand, that she could never make him understand. She had mortally wounded his pride. He would never forgive the thrust.
Without a word he noisily pushed back the easel. Mechanically she sank down on the divan again, and as she disturbed one of the cushions, a piece of paper became uncovered. Before she realized that it might be private, her eyes had taken in the wording. It was the Bridgemans’ telegram—“Sorry wife ill. Cannot come to-morrow.Bridgeman.”
With a last kick the easel was lodged in its place against the wall. She put the cushion over the telegram again, as he came back to the centre of the room like a sulky child, a cigarette drooping at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re extremely difficult to please,” he said sarcastically. “I’m glad all my sitters are not so particular.You can’t say I haven’t done full justice to your looks.”
That was all he could make out of her explanation, her confession! It was a shock, but it had the effect of steadying her. Her voice was very quiet and composed as she replied:
“If you don’t mind, Frank, I won’t have the picture exhibited. After all, a portrait is a personal thing. Send it home to me as soon as it is finished.” She wanted to add “and I will send you a cheque for it,” but she was afraid of hurting his feelings. Nothing had ever been said about payment. It had been tacitly assumed that it was a labour of love.
“I don’t think it’s fair to me,” he protested, still sulky, the man submerged in the artist. “It’s the best picture I have ever done. No woman can judge her own portrait. Besides, you never objected to it before.”
“I always saw it quite close at hand and in the light of day. To-night, at the end of the room, it looks different.”
“Well, commend me to women-sitters for changeability!” he exclaimed bitterly.
She put her hand on the cushion that concealed the telegram. He had evidently been sitting in her position when it arrived.
“Perhaps—if the Bridgemans had come—they might have liked it, and their opinion is more valuable than mine. You only heard of her illness this evening?”
“Yes,” he responded moodily, “just before you came in.”
Petty trickery! She had nearly lent herself to that. Afterwards—yes, circumstances might have made it necessary, but before—— It was not, and it never could have been, love on either side. Love was a bigger, finer thing than that! Perhaps too large always to be confined within a wedding-ring, but this did not of itself overleap the bounds. Only the trickster passion again!And passion she had proved to be a cheat, a miserable, mean cheat, that preyed on the emotions and ignorance of women.
She suddenly felt very tired, and her face had gone pathetically white as she rose from the divan.
“Frank, I am sorry I have hurt your feelings. I can only say again that I admire it as a piece of painting, immensely.... Now I must go home. It is getting rather late, and I think a day in the country tires one, don’t you?”
Suddenly themanovercame the vanity of the artist. His eyes changed, and before she could stop him he had crushed her in his arms.
“Never mind about the picture ... it’s you I want andmust have.... I love you to distraction.... Claudia, you can’t hesitate any longer.... It’s Kismet, stronger than both of us.”
She knew it would only be an unseemly scuffle if she struggled, a scuffle that would abase her pride still further. She remained cold and lifeless in his arms, until at last he released her and looked into her face with alarm.
“Claudia, you’re not going—you shan’t go——”
“Frank,” she said clearly, but without an atom of fear in her eyes, “I apologize to you. I know I’ve what you men call ‘encouraged you.’ You have the right to be angry with me, only if you love me—don’t.... I—I thought I could.... I am very unhappy.... I didn’t know myself until to-night.... There’s something that won’t let me cross the threshold.... I’m not good, and I’m not afraid of convention, but I can’t do it.... I should wake up to hate myself. It’s as well I found out in time—for you and for me.”
“You say you’re not afraid. Youareafraid,” he said.
“I said I was not afraid of convention. It’s true I am afraid of something—in myself. I thought it was aneasy game to play. Now I wonder how a woman can play it.... Let me go now, Frank. I’m very tired.”
“You don’t love me?”
“No ... not that way?”
Her quiet voice, her steady eyes, frightened him. He knew he was playing a losing game, and he began to bluster.
“You would love me ... you practically promised me everything ... you’ve just amused yourself with me, like other women in your set ... you run up an account, and you don’t pay the bill ... if you were a man I should call it damned dishonourable, but as you are a woman——”
She stooped and drew forth the telegram.
“And if I were a man, what should I call this?”
The paper dropped from her hand and fluttered to the ground, where it lay between them.
“It was through love of you,” he said desperately. “You shilly-shallied ... women always have ridiculous scruples.... I swear it was through love of you. You’ve driven me out of my wits.”
She shook her head. There was no anger on her lips, only a drooping sadness.
“I wonder if that’s all a man’s love can ever mean.... I wonder! Good-night, Frank. Let’s close this chapter—friends. There have been faults on both sides.”
She held out her hand, but he turned away and flung himself on the divan with his head in his cushions.
She waited a moment, and then she went out of the door and down the stairs that led to the living-rooms below. Surely he would see her out? Would not Mrs. Marshall think it curious that she should depart in such an odd fashion? What a ludicrous finish to the evening!
The hall below was in darkness. She could see no light from the region of the kitchen. Was that, too, part ofhis experienced manœuvring? She shivered, and groped for the electric switch. After some time she found it. Her cloak was lying on one of the hall chairs.
Was he going to let her depart alone? How would she get a taxi? It was half past eleven. Oh! how tired she felt now. Her feet seemed leaden as she slipped the cloak round her shoulders. She cast one more glance up at the door of the studio. But it remained closed. His manners, with his hopes of her favours, had forsaken him. There had been something in Rhoda Carnegie’s remarks, after all.
She opened the hall-door, and found the stone stairs only very dimly lit. She went heavily down them, forgetting that she might have summoned the lift. Her soft pink dress trailed after her, for she was too tired to hold it up. How unending the stairs were! Would she ever get to the bottom? How many flights was it—six?
It seemed to her that she had been plodding down the stairs for ages, when suddenly a hall-door opened just as she was rounding a turn of the staircase. A voice said quietly, “I’ll come in to-morrow morning to see how he is getting on.”
She had unconsciously shrunk back against the wall among the shadows, but at the recognition of his voice she exclaimed, she thought in a whisper, “Colin!”
He stopped in the act of running down the stairs, and came back. But now she had no volition left to move backwards or forwards. He groped up the stairs, and saw the gleam of a diamond spray on her corsage. He went nearer and saw her.
“Claudia!... Claudia!” The first “Claudia” was pure astonishment, but the second held something more, something that seemed to match the look in his eyes when he had been watching her flirting with Frank at her mother’s “at home.”
“Colin,” she said pitifully, “I’m so tired ... take me home ... please, take me home....”
She stumbled a little, and he quietly put her hand through his arm.
“It’s not worth summoning the lift ... it’s only two flights; lean on my arm.”
She leaned more heavily than she knew, for all her spirit had gone, her springy step had deserted her, her head drooped sideways.
Luckily there was a taxi passing, and in a few minutes she found herself beside him on the narrow seat. For a moment she sat motionless, hardly realizing his presence. Then, with a childish impulse for comfort, she put her head on his shoulder, and commenced to sob.
“Colin, don’t think things.... I want to explain....”
His hand closed firmly over her cold one, cold, though the night was quite hot.
“Claudia, don’t ... there’s no need ... what are friends for?”
Claudia had slept but little that night, her thoughts going over the scene in the studio again and again, sometimes accusing herself, sometimes wondering at herself. One fact stood out clearly. Frank had not loved her, nor she him. What had Colin thought when he found her crouching on the stairs? She had offered to explain—but what could she have said?
With weary eyes and pale cheeks she took the letters from her maid’s hand. She was almost too tired to open them, but as the letters fell loosely on the coverlet, she saw one in Colin’s handwriting. With her heart beating fast, she picked it up and tore it open. For a moment she forgot that it had probably been posted before he brought her home from the studio.
A letter and some printed matter fell out. She picked up the printed matter first. It was a page proof of a book, containing a dedication to herself. She read it with a queer feeling, but her apathy had gone.
“To my Friend, Claudia Currey,whose sympathy and friendship have inspired me to put down on paper some facts I have been able togather, together with some purely personal views on that most baffling and fascinating of all subjects—sociology. I beg her to accept the dedication of this book, with all its faults and shortcomings, of which the author is painfully aware, in memory of our many talks about ‘humans.’”
“To my Friend, Claudia Currey,
whose sympathy and friendship have inspired me to put down on paper some facts I have been able togather, together with some purely personal views on that most baffling and fascinating of all subjects—sociology. I beg her to accept the dedication of this book, with all its faults and shortcomings, of which the author is painfully aware, in memory of our many talks about ‘humans.’”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she could hardly read the letter that accompanied the page.
“My dear Claudia,” it ran, “I was horribly disappointed, childishly disappointed the other day when you told me you had heard about my forthcoming book. I think you must have got it from some inside source, for it is not yet announced to the public. I wanted the enclosed to be a surprise to you, and now the squib won’t go off! I asked and obtained Gilbert’s permission to put in this little dedication, because you really did inspire it. You always liked people who ‘did things,’ and your interest in life and ‘humans’ quickened mine. How dare you say you will order a copy as soon as it is out? Youknowyou’ll get an advance copy, the very first. I do hope you will like it, at least, a little. Now it is in print, I realize what a little I have been able to say on a vast subject. All I can say in extenuation is, I’ve done my best, though perhaps I don’t deserve any marks for that. But it’s such a huge field to try and cover. Do you remember when you asked me for a book on the subject and I gave you Lecky’s ‘History of European Morals’? I’ve always been cheered by your remark after reading it. ‘Only a Methusaleh could hope to come to any definite conclusions, and then he might be ready to lie down and die!’“There are no definite conclusions in my book, because I try hard to keep my mind plastic. Some day, when I’m a greybeard with stooping shoulders and several deaf ears, perhaps I’ll do something better.“I’m sending you a new ‘Lear Nonsense’ book. Rather jolly, I think. Do look at the picture of the German and the baby who isgedroppen.“Always your admiring friend,“Colin Paton.”
“My dear Claudia,” it ran, “I was horribly disappointed, childishly disappointed the other day when you told me you had heard about my forthcoming book. I think you must have got it from some inside source, for it is not yet announced to the public. I wanted the enclosed to be a surprise to you, and now the squib won’t go off! I asked and obtained Gilbert’s permission to put in this little dedication, because you really did inspire it. You always liked people who ‘did things,’ and your interest in life and ‘humans’ quickened mine. How dare you say you will order a copy as soon as it is out? Youknowyou’ll get an advance copy, the very first. I do hope you will like it, at least, a little. Now it is in print, I realize what a little I have been able to say on a vast subject. All I can say in extenuation is, I’ve done my best, though perhaps I don’t deserve any marks for that. But it’s such a huge field to try and cover. Do you remember when you asked me for a book on the subject and I gave you Lecky’s ‘History of European Morals’? I’ve always been cheered by your remark after reading it. ‘Only a Methusaleh could hope to come to any definite conclusions, and then he might be ready to lie down and die!’
“There are no definite conclusions in my book, because I try hard to keep my mind plastic. Some day, when I’m a greybeard with stooping shoulders and several deaf ears, perhaps I’ll do something better.
“I’m sending you a new ‘Lear Nonsense’ book. Rather jolly, I think. Do look at the picture of the German and the baby who isgedroppen.
“Always your admiring friend,
“Colin Paton.”
The other letters lay unheeded. She dropped back among the pillows, and there was no movement of the head, or even the hand in which lay the letter. She might have been asleep.
But when her maid, whose face betokened hesitation and perplexity, came in quietly, Claudia turned and opened her dark eyes. There were no tears in them, only a burning, unfathomable look which, though it envisaged Johnson clearly, did not notice her perturbed face.
“Madam, I——” began Johnson, clearing her throat. “Did the master tell you he would not be coming home last night?”
Claudia came back from a remote distance.
“Last night? No. He was only going to his club, I believe. Why, has he not slept in the flat?”
“No, madam, and he did not say anything about stopping out to Marsh, and he didn’t have his bag packed. He thought he had told Marsh to pack it for him to go down to Wynnstay, but Marsh says——”
“Yes, I remember. Perhaps he went down to Wynnstay, after all, rather late.” It had never happened before that Gilbert had been away from the flat without informing her or the servants; but Claudia saw nothing remarkable in the oversight.
“Marsh thought so too, madam, and he got a trunk call through to Wynnstay, but he has not been there, and then he telephoned the club and—and they told him Mr. Currey was there last night and left about twelve o’clock. I—we thought we had better mention it, madam.”
Claudia was roused to attention this time. Wherecould Gilbert have got to after he left the club? There were some wives, she knew, who would have dismissed the matter with a shrug of their shoulders, but she had no complaint of Gilbert on that score. Perhaps he would have been more human and companionable had he had some of the weaknesses of the flesh.
She looked at the clock. It was half-past nine. He was generally down at his chambers soon after nine.
“Was he in evening-dress, Johnson, when he went out last night?”
“Yes, madam; Marsh said he changed before he went out, and told him he was going to bed early, as he had a big case on to-day and wanted to be fresh for it.”
Johnson looked at her for instructions, but Claudia knit her brows in perplexity. It was very curious, but it did not occur to her that there was anything seriously wrong. He must have gone home with some friend and turned in for the night. And yet—he had never done any such thing. He was essentially a man of routine and order.
“I don’t think there is anything to be done, Johnson,” said Claudia, after a little thought. “Probably they will ring up from his office to say he has arrived all right. Ring them again and ask them to telephone immediately Mr. Currey comes in. And bring my coffee, please.”
But when she had finished her coffee and toast there was still no word from the office, except that they had rung up rather agitatedly to know if Mrs. Currey had any idea where he could be found. By this time Claudia had become impressed with the idea that something was wrong. One was always hearing of motor accidents nowadays. Could anything of the kind have happened to Gilbert?
Instinctively she turned to Colin Paton in the emergency. After they had silently bade one another good-bye last night she had thought she could never facehim again, for if he did not think the worst of her he must have guessed that there had been some kind of a scene that had upset her. And on the top of it all his charming letter.
But this happening made her put her ownaffaires du cœuron one side. If anything had happened to Gilbert, Colin would be able to find it out. She hardly realized how blind her faith in Colin was. She went to the telephone in her dressing-gown and called him up.
“Colin! Oh! I am so glad you are there. I don’t know whether I ought to be alarmed or not, but Gilbert has not been home since eight o’clock last night, and he is not at the office. He took no suit-case out with him, and he was seen to leave the club at twelve o’clock. What ought I to do?”
He answered her quite quietly, asking a few more questions; but she knew his voice so well by now that she realized that he did not consider her an alarmist in ringing him up.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go to the club and make some inquiries, and telephone you later. Leave it to me.”
“What do you think——?” she began timidly.
“I don’t know. But we must find him. I’ll keep in touch with you. Don’t be alarmed, Claudia.”
“Thank you,” she replied humbly. “You—you are always very good to me.”
There was a slight pause at the other end. “Don’t talk nonsense. When will you learn the meaning of friendship?”
She went back to her dressing feeling more comforted, for the mere fact of having confided a trouble to him always seemed to halve it. He was essentially a man who inspired confidence, and Claudia wondered vaguely, as she brushed her hair, why some men were like that and others were not. His opinion was always sought after by his friends and acquaintances, and yet he never gaveit in any ponderous spirit. Sometimes he replied with a joke, or a happy allusion, but he gave an answer all the same. This reminded her of Patricia, who had said enthusiastically a few days previously, “He’s the most helpful man I ever knew.” Lately Pat had seen a good deal of him, and one or two people had remarked on it to Claudia, saying, “Is Pat going to settle down at last?”
Was Colin Paton in love with Pat? What else could be the meaning of their frequent meetings and that seclusion in the library? She, Claudia, was only a great friend, and the little prick of jealousy she acknowledged to her self that she felt was natural to women where their men friends were concerned. All women hated losing their men friends by marriage. And—yes—Pat would make a charming wife if she fell in love.
It was eleven o’clock—Gilbert’s case was on—and he had made no appearance. This much had just been telephoned from his office. Claudia was sure now that something was seriously amiss. For Gilbert to neglect his work, some accident must have happened.
She felt a restless desire to do something, to search for him herself; but what could she do? Where could he be? Could he be lying in one of the great hospitals, unable to give an account of himself?
Johnson came hurrying in. “Madam, Mr. Paton is on the telephone and wants to speak to you.”
Claudia flew to the receiver.
“Claudia, is that you? It’s all right, I’ve got him safe and sound. No, he’s not hurt. I’ll tell you more when I see you. I am bringing him back now. It’s a case of complete loss of memory; spent the night in the police cells as a drunk and disorderly—he must have been very excited. He is still dazed and suspicious of everyone. Don’t show there is anything amiss. Keep quite calm, and telephone Dr. Neeburg.”
Gilbert locked up in the police-cells as drunk and disorderly! It was unbelievable! It was too ironic! Though she no longer loved him, her heart was touched by pity for him. He must have known where he was, although he could not remember his name. What an awful time he must have had!
But she immediately rang up Fritz Neeburg, who, she noted, did not seem startled at the news. He said he would come immediately. “I was afraid of something like this, Mrs. Currey,” he concluded.
The strong constitution of which Gilbert had always boasted had given way. His pride would be in the dust. It would mean giving up work for some time. It meant a very bad break.
Claudia was appalled when she saw the man who got out of the taxi with Colin. No man looks well after a night spent in his clothes, but Gilbert’s appearance had a wildness and dishevelment which was as much due to the brain as the body. His eyes were bloodshot, there was a strong growth of hair on his chin which showed conspicuously, his shirt-front was rumpled and crushed as she had never seen any front, his mouth kept twitching and his walk was unsteady. But Claudia controlled her alarm and went forward with a smile.
“You’ll like some breakfast, won’t you, Gilbert? Marsh has got some nice hot coffee for you in the dining-room.”
Neeburg had not arrived, and she had not known what preparations to make, but she wanted to appear natural.
Gilbert looked at her with a curious indifference; she could not make out if he knew her or not.
“I think you’d like a bath first, old man, wouldn’t you?” said Colin cheerfully. “And some fresh clothes. This garb is unseemly in the morning.”
He allowed Colin to lead him up the stairs, and in a few minutes Neeburg arrived and went after him.
In half an hour the two men came down together. “We’ve put him to bed, Mrs. Currey,” said Neeburg, “with a sleeping-draught. He’ll probably sleep twelve hours or so. That’s the best thing for him at present. He may wake up with his mind quite clear. It’s a case of mental aphasia, due to nerve-strain. I’ve given him the clearest warnings time after time. I’m very sorry, but he has brought it on himself.”
“He had made up his mind to go to Le Touquet next week,” said Claudia. She looked at Colin. “You were going with him, were you not?”
“He asked me, and I was trying to make arrangements. Can he go, doctor, as soon as he recovers a little?”
“The sooner the better. I’m glad you’re going with him. Keep him out in the open all day, and don’t let him talk or think about his work. Let him play golf, and keep him out of doors until he falls asleep directly he gets into bed. No stimulants whatever. Has he been sleeping badly lately, Mrs. Currey?”
“Yes, he told me he seldom got to sleep till late in the morning.”
“Madness! Sheer madness to neglect such warnings. Paton, I’ll have a talk with you before he goes. How did you find him?”
“I got Carey Image to go the rounds of the hospitals in case it was an accident, and I went myself to all the police-stations. As a matter of fact, someone had just recognized him as I arrived at Bow Street. As far as I can make out, he took a stiff hot whiskey at the club before leaving—he told the waiter he thought he had a cold coming on—and went out into the night air. Owing to the taxi strike there were no cabs about, and after waiting a few minutes, Gilbert said he would walk.”
“And the fresh air on top of the hot whiskey finished him,” commented Neeburg. “Was he very violent?”
“So the policeman said. He thought it was an ordinarycase of drunk and disorderly. He could hardly articulate, and couldn’t say where he lived or his name. The policeman says the more he tried to say it the more violent he became, and, as it happens, there was nothing in his pockets to identify him. He spent the night in an ordinary lock-up. It wasn’t the fault of the police.”
“I hope this won’t get in the papers,” said Claudia thoughtfully. “You know how Gilbert would feel that, Colin; can you——?”
“I’ll try. I must go now. Ring up Pat and ask her to come and be with you. Good-bye, Neeburg; I’ll ring you up and fix an appointment....” He turned to Claudia. “You were splendid when he came in. It must have been rather a shock to you.”
“Splendid! Colin, don’t laugh at me. I’m the least splendid of women. I ought not to accept that dedication. Take it out. I’m not worth it. If—if I don’t break all the sins in the Decalogue, it’s because—yes, I suppose it’s because I’m a coward.”
She lifted her eyes miserably to his, and at what she read in his some of the anguish and self-abasement in her heart was softened. For a few moments they stood silent, only their eyes speaking.
“Colin,” she whispered, her finger-tips playing with his coat, “do you still believe in me—after—last night?”
“If you told me with your own lips that youhadcommitted all the sins in the Decalogue, I should not believe you. I think I know you, Claudia, better than you know yourself, and I believe in you more than you believe in yourself.... I shall be back in the afternoon, in case you want me.”
He was gone, but Claudia went upstairs with a load taken off her heart. She did not try to analyse the meaning of it, she only knew that the sting had been taken out of her folly.
“I don’t understand it,” said Lady Currey, in tones of extreme annoyance, “myhusband never had a nervous breakdown.”
She was lunchingtête-à-têtewith Claudia at the flat, for she and her husband had quartered themselves most considerably upon her directly they had heard of Gilbert’s illness. Lady Currey’s meaning was unmistakable. In some way, she evidently held Claudia responsible.
Claudia played with her toast, but she made no reply. Gilbert was better, and his memory had returned to him, but he was again very irritable and rebellious. After the two excitements had come the reaction, and she sat facing the window, her face quite expressionless, weariness and boredom in her eyes and on her lips. Her excursion into the realm of romance was over. She did not regret her decision, but now life seemed stale and unprofitable, like the drab sea-shore when the turbulent waters have receded. It seemed to her at the moment that she had come to an end of all things. Life stretched in a grey monotone before her. She was in a cage, and what release could she hope for? Gilbert would go to Le Touquet and get better, and things would continue on just the same lines as before, only, unless her nature radically changed, she could never experiment again with themodern solace of the dissatisfied married woman. A Rhoda Carnegie, a Circe might, but apparently for her it was impossible. As Jack had said, she would always see through the whole business.
She came out of her reverie to discover Lady Currey looking at her questioningly with her shallow eyes.
“I beg your pardon,” she said contritely.
“I asked you if you really gave attention to his having good, nourishing food. I’ve always made a point of having the best English meat and fresh vegetables.”
“I don’t think it’s a question of diet,” replied Claudia, with a faint smile, “and we can’t grow our vegetables on the balcony. Dr. Neeburg says it is overwork. Your husband once told me that hard work never yet hurt any man.”
“Fancy his being locked up in a common police-cell! I shall never get over that. My poor dear Gilbert! What his feelings must have been when he recovered himself! It seems to me the police were greatly to blame in exceeding their duty, but my husband tells me we cannot take action against them.... Do you give Gilbert porridge for his breakfast? I strongly believe in porridge myself.”
“You might talk to Dr. Neeburg,” suggested her daughter-in-law. Her only comfort was the great bowl of narcissi in the centre of the table and Billie’s warm, loving little body against her skirt. She was certain he looked up every now and then with sympathy in his soft eyes.
“I don’t approve of a German doctor, even though he has been in England most of his life,” said Lady Currey primly. “I know all about German doctors and their cleverness, but is it the right kind of cleverness? I wish Gilbert would see dear old Doctor Green. He treated him as a baby. All German doctors are faddists. I daresay Dr. Green could have averted this trouble. He’s wonderful when I’ve got a sore throat, and his manner is sorestful. He doesn’t approve of German doctors either. He says they experiment on you. That’s exactly what I think.... Don’t you think your laundry puts too much starch in the serviettes? Starch ruins good linen. I see there is a small hole already in the corner of this one. No, no German doctors for me, thank you. I should make ready to die if I fell in the hands of one.”
Claudia knew that she ought to be able to laugh—inwardly—but somehow her sense of humour seemed to have deserted her. One cannot support life entirely on a sense of humour, though it helps one over many a dreary mile. How Pat would have enjoyed the conversation, thought Claudia.
“Does this German say how long Gilbert ought to rest? It’s dreadful to think of his work being at a standstill.”
“Some months, but it depends, of course, on the patient. He seems to have got another touch of influenza—I suppose it was the cold of the cells, and he never really got rid of it; but next Monday he will go to Le Touquet.”
“I suppose Le Touquet is all right,” said Lady Currey, in a dissatisfied tone. “I think French places are often so enervating, and you can never be sure of the water in France. I must tell Gilbert always to drink mineral water. France is so dreadfully behind in the matter of hygiene. Look at a Frenchwoman’s pasty complexion.”
“Le Touquet is above any kind of reproach,” Claudia reassured her, hailing the arrival of coffee as one who, lost in the bush, sees the first sign of a human habitation. “The air is excellent, and Gilbert always enjoys the golf there. He chose it himself out of several places. He hates sea-voyages, you know, or Dr. Neeburg wished him to go on one.”
“Yes, I know. He inherits my constitution in that respect. Are these cups old Worcester? I have somevery like them, but I do not care to have them used. You know they are very valuable? Servants are so careless. They broke a really exquisite piece of old Chelsea the other day. I cried, I positively cried, and had a headache all the rest of the day. I don’t know when I have been so upset, except”—hastily—“of course, when I heard the terrible news about poor Gilbert! I think I’ll go up and see how he feels now, and ask him if he won’t see Dr. Green.”
Later in the day Mr. Littleton came in to see Claudia. He found her with Billie on her lap, a volume of Strindberg’s plays in her hands. He took in at a glance her tired, languid aspect, though she greeted him cordially enough. There were but few people she wanted to see that day, but Littleton was one of them.
“Madame,” he said with mock seriousness, “Strindberg is not good reading for you to-day. Horribly clever, but much too morbid. His plays are interesting to those who study human nature, but they are not exhilarating.”
“Morbid! I don’t know. Because he presents men and women as complex, many-sided, vari-coloured egos, you call him morbid. Don’t talk like Jack.”
He smiled and picked up the book, and commenced to read. “‘Our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannot rest satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn how it comes to happen. What we want to see are just the wires, the machinery. We want to investigate the box with the false bottom, touch the magic ring in order to find the suture, and look into the cards to discover how they are marked.’ You can carry that spirit too far, you know. I guess you have too much time on your hands. How is your husband?”
“Better. He goes to Le Touquet next week.”
“Le Touquet! Why, I’m going there for a few days; partly because a French author I want to see is there, and won’t leave his golf to write letters, and partly becauseI want a little holiday. How delightful! We shall meet there, then.”
“Oh! I am not going.”
He was distinctly disappointed. “Is it permitted to ask why not? It’s delicious weather now. Can’t you smell the sea and the pines and the springy, sandy grass?”
She could, and a sudden desire to get away from London caught hold of her. She would have to meet Frank if she kept her engagements, and that would be awkward. She was willing to be friends, to turn over the page, but she divined that he was too angry. It would be awkward.
He saw the sudden light in her eyes, the quickening of interest, and urged her afresh.
“We could make it international golf, you know, EnglandversusAmerica. And between the holes we could talk Strindberg if you liked. Not that you would want to, with a fresh breeze blowing in your face, and your club in your hand.” They both laughed. “No, I can’t see Strindberg on a golf-course. Do come. Was your husband going alone? Surely that is not good for him?”
“Colin Paton is going with him.”
“Oh!” Littleton did some quick thinking. He had wondered once or twice if she were particularly interested in Colin, but as she had not thought of accompanying them, he deduced that the answer was in the negative. “Then we should be a foursome on our own. Have you anything very special to keep you in London?”
“No, except poor Fay, you know. She has got to look forward to my going to her constantly.”
“But,” said Charles Littleton gently, “she is likely to be ill for many, many months, is she not? Forgive me for attempting to persuade you to anything, but you know you are not looking quite your usual self. You are not the woman I met at the Rivingtons. I don’t know if it is fresh air you need, but fresh air always helps everytrouble, don’t you think? One can always see everything more clearly in the country. You are much too analytical and introspective. Blow the mental cobwebs away at Le Touquet.”
He felt practically sure she would come when he left, and expectation leapt high at the thought of the days with her. Her husband would be there, but he realized that he had no rival in her husband. He did not dread burnt-out fires, and Colin Paton would naturally pair with Gilbert. He was not an imaginative man, he had never had any time to dream, and he had always stifled any tender shoots of romance; but he longed to have her there with him, among the sweet-scented pines through which they would walk, on the fine stretches of grass and sand, playing the little white ball, by the sea-shore with its curling waves and long, long stretches of level, golden sand. Romance had come to him late in life, but now he did not stifle it. He would stake his all on this throw; he would make a fight for what he did not deserve to win. Perhaps Fate would be kind to him, perhaps she would forgive his early absorption in business, his blunt refusals of her invitations to enjoy life. He had rejected the possibilities of love before, now—now was there still a chance for him? If Claudia could be won—ah! the tall, spare American who walked along with alert, springy footsteps was not thinking of dollars or glory, only of the beauty of a woman’s heart and body which had swept him off his feet. His whole soul was invaded by her presence. She was his entire horizon.
So it happened that on Monday they all travelled together. Colin had approved heartily of her going, and as soon as she set foot on the Boulogne boat Claudia felt a little uplift that brightened her face and made it possible for her once again to take an interest in her fellow-creatures. Colin and Littleton were both good companions, and though Gilbert was rather morose—his humiliatingexperience had left a scar that would not heal—Claudia was happier than she had been for a long time.
She knew that she was happier, and she wondered why. Nothing was changed. Then she resolutely put questioning on one side. “I won’t think about myself or my stupid emotions,” she said vehemently to herself. “I’ll just be a brainless animal for awhile, at least”—truthfully—“I’ll try.”
She was saying this to herself when she noticed that Colin was regarding her.
“Were your lips moving in silent prayer?” he said jokingly, “or was it some great poem in glory of the sea?”
“Neither. I was taking myself to task. I was telling myself not to be an idiot, or rather”—laughingly—“to be one.”
“It’s rather involved. Is there any key?”
“Yes, I’m the key. If you know me well——” She stopped and coloured, for she remembered when he had said he knew her better than she knew herself. She turned her head away as she added hastily, “But anyway, it’s not worth solving. Who was it that said you should never try to understand women, you should be content with loving them?”
“Someone who wanted to appear smart,” answered Colin promptly.
“Do you think you understand women?”
“Heaven forfend! Is thy servant a grey-headed wizard that he should lay claim to such knowledge? Wouldst thou have me bear a burden beyond my years? Besides, if I pretended that I did, you’d only slay me with great despatch and neatness. Do look at that elderly woman occupying four seats!”
“Well, look at the man who has just put his seat in the middle of the gangway and looks daggers at everyone who falls over his chair!... By the by, you know Patricia has announced her determination of coming over to Le Touquet for a few days next week.” She spoke carelessly,but she watched the effect of her words upon him. She could see no change, however. He only nodded cheerily.
“We shall be quite a merry party, shan’t we? She has announced her intention of turning ten complete somersaults on the first green!”
“She’s a dear, isn’t she?”
“Of the first water.” But there was no undue enthusiasm in his tone. “And she’s very devoted to you.”
“Is she? I don’t deserve it.”
“Not in the least. I have been trying to talk her out of it. Quite unsuccessfully, I may add.”
It was really very provoking. He would not be drawn. Did he deliberately refuse her his confidence? Were he and Pat keeping a secret?
She tried again.
“I suppose she’ll be getting married one of these days.”
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “it is a fate that frequently overtakes charming women. The lady with the four seats has been obliged to relinquish one of her seats to another elderly female with a bird-cage. It takes an elderly lady to outwit another elderly lady.”
“Pat don’t believe in marriage.”
“We none of usbelievein marriage. It’s a question of faith and hope, like religion. It isn’t an Athanasian Creed, with vehement damnatory clauses, which have no application to yourself.”
“You can’t talk, you haven’t tried it,” retorted Claudia. “Then you think—someone—will convert Pat to the usual fate? You already see her in white satin and orange-blossom, and a noisy voice from Eden breathing hard over her?” The wind was causing her hair to wave wildly, and whipping her cheeks to a brilliant pink. Some of the sparkle had come back in her eyes at the contest, and the man at her side was more than aware of her good looks. “Two of us have already made disastrous marriages.Heigh ho! for a third! I’m sure there’s no luck of the children of Circe!”
She had never said plainly before to him that her marriage was a failure. Always they had played about the borderland of truth, each knowing that the other knew. To-day for some reason, she had spoken plainly.
He was silent, leaning against the gunwale, looking down at the hurrying, foaming waters below.
“Are you shocked at me for my lack of reticence?” she said rather bitterly. “Yes, you can’t joke about that. I wanted to make you serious. Oh, yes! youcanmake a joke now. Look, your old lady is not feeling well, and is hurriedly relinquishing the three seats. Why don’t you look? It’s quite funny, and you always take life with a smile.”
But he never lifted his eyes from the foaming, greenish water. Only his hand, which gripped the gunwale tightly, showed any sign of emotion.
“Don’t.... Perhaps when Gilbert is better——”
“Oh, no! it’s quite hopeless. You can’t make a new fire with white ashes. Did you ever think we were suited to one another?” She was gazing out at sea. Every now and then a lurch of the boat sent her arm against his, and once a strand of her hair swept his cheek.
He was a little time before he replied. “Claudia, you once said something like that before. You said I might have warned you. Was that fair? It hurt me. Suppose I had said to you, ‘I don’t think Gilbert can make you happy.’ What would you have thought of me? Think how happy and confident you were. And—can anyone interfere in such matters? Are they not questions wemustdecide for ourselves? I—or anyone—would always be utterly helpless, whatever you chose to do.”
She gave a sigh. “I know. I shouldn’t have believed you.”
The next words seemed to slip out almost against hiswill. “And you might have thought I was jealous of my friend.”
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed impulsively. “I should never have thought that.”
“I see,” he replied, with a bitterness she had never before heard in his voice. “I was never a real man to you. I was and am only a literary abstraction, an amiable stuffed animal, suitable for friendship, a——”
She lifted startled, amazed eyes to his, but at that instant Littleton’s voice sounded the other side of her.
“I need not ask you if you enjoy the sea, Mrs. Currey? Isn’t it bully? I like it rough, don’t you?”
Just then the spray caught them all, and for the next few minutes they were busy laughingly mopping their faces and coats.
“I call that a playful smack in the eye for my patronizing tone,” said Littleton. “I believe Nature hates us most when we patronize her. She did us all in then. Say, Mrs. Currey, will your husband be able to do much golfing?”
She looked inquiringly at Colin, for Neeburg had given him the final instructions.
“In moderation, Mr. Littleton. He mustn’t get over-tired—Neeburg was very insistent on that—but a certain amount of golf and exercise will keep him from brooding, and make him healthily tired.”
Littleton nodded. “I once had a bad attack of nerves. My! but I shall never forget it. I got so that I stuttered in my speech, and I used to fancy people were watching me. I couldn’t sleep and had all sorts of weird fancies. I could hear the telephone-bell ringing all night, and when I did get to sleep, I used to jump up with a shout to answer it. They sent me for a long sea-voyage to Australia. I came back cured. But it was an awful time. One ought to be sympathetic with a man in that condition. Only one who has been through really understands.”
After a few minutes Claudia left the two men and walked over to where Gilbert was seated in a chair, reading theTimes. He did not suffer frommal de mer, but he always experienced a curious feeling in his head, as though someone had put a band round his forehead.
“Gilbert, why don’t you enjoy the air and the sea?” she said gently. “Why do you worry your brain with the paper?” She noticed he was reading the law news.
He did not look up at her, but finished reading a case before he replied. “I knew the view Morely would take of the affair. I told Roche so at the beginning. He’s the most bigoted old fool on the bench. What did you say? Well, the sea bores me. It’s just—sea!”
“Talk to me. The trip is very short.”
With evident reluctance he put down the paper.
“Gilbert,” she said earnestly, “do give yourself every chance. Can’t you pretend to yourself that this a well-earned holiday, and that you are going to enjoy it thoroughly? Put London and the Law Courts out of your mind.”
He gave a half-sigh, half-grunt. “That’s like a woman. Women think you can detach yourself from your real interest in life, like you can take off an old overcoat. I must think of something. Claudia, how many papers did my—my accident get into?”
“Only one or two unimportant ones. You needn’t worry about that, Gilbert.”
He frowned at the blue sky overhead. “I suppose everybody was laughing about it.... It was that hot whisky that did it.”
“Yes. Don’t think about it.”
“A few weeks will set me up. I suppose I really did need a holiday. But I never thought I should have to give up like this. You’ve got the laugh on me, Claudia.”
“I don’t want to laugh, Gilbert. I realize what this means to you and—I’m sorry.”
He looked at her with his sombre, heavy-lidded eyes, that had once darkened with overmastering passion, that night of the dance. All the youthfulness had gone out of the face. He might have been a man of forty-five instead of thirty-five. Youth had fought unsuccessfully with a heaviness of the spirit that had always been there, but had greatly increased the last two years. She wondered of what he was thinking as he looked at her. One could never guess with Gilbert. He had the typical barrister’s face, non-committal, secretive of his thoughts.
Then he said abruptly, “Enjoy yourself at Le Touquet. I shan’t. It’s medicine, and I must take it. Just leave me alone and have a good time yourself. Is that Boulogne? Thank goodness!”
Gilbert did not prove an easy patient to manage, because though he was still in need of treatment, being well had become a habit. He was impatient of any restraint, and sometimes almost rude to Colin, who took the chief share of the restraining. Neeburg had limited him to nine holes, morning and afternoon, which meant that a good portion of his day was unoccupied.
And that which Claudia had foreseen came to pass. He had no hobby to amuse him. He hated to be alone with his own thoughts, and yet he was either impatient with other people’s conversation and ideas, or he was bored with the subjects that interested them, and did not interest him. He did not sleep well, and he had taken a dislike to books. Bridge and billiards he had always considered a waste of time, and the entertainments at the small Casino did not amuse him. He took no interest in the small happenings of life, which for other people pleasantly diversify the days with their light and shade. His day was one long fidget to get back into harness.
Still, the bracing air did him good, and his nerves daily got steadier. Sometimes he almost looked his old self.
One day, after they had been there for a week, it happened to be very wet, and golf for Gilbert was out of the question. He and Colin were sitting out on theverandah of the Golf Hotel, smoking and talking, when Claudia came out to them. She seated herself a little distance away, withLe Petit Journal, which she looked at in a desultory holiday sort of way, as they went on talking. Gilbert was evidently replying to some remark of Colin’s.
“It’s what you call ‘tolerance’ that is ruining England. It’s a blessing for her that there are a few ‘intolerant’ people left. You know, Colin, you’ve got mixed up with a lot of cranks, all grinding their own little axes. For instance, I can’t think why you want to mess about with such questions as Child Labour. It won’t make you popular, very few people take an interest in it. Why don’t you leave such questions to faddists? I wonder that a man of your ability plays about with such small issues.”
Claudia saw a fighting gleam in Colin’s eye, but he replied quietly enough.
“We always did disagree on our definition of ‘small,’ you know, Gilbert. A small question does not become a big one because it becomes the popular one of the day.”
Gilbert made a gesture of impatience. “Nonsense, you must accept the world’s verdict on these things, and let me tell you, as a lawyer, that the verdict of the people is pretty sound, in spite of any Ibsen paradoxes you may fling at me. If you like to paddle about in a backwater, no one can prevent you, but don’t pretend it’s the main stream, or rather don’t expect anyone to believe you. I think enough has been talked about Child Labour. Sentimental twaddle! The law has done all that is necessary.”
“Have you ever gone closely into the question, Gilbert?” Colin took his cigarette-case out of his pocket and abstracted another cigarette.
“Yes, as much as I want to. I once had a compensation case, where a lot of sentiment was dragged in by the heels.”
“Ah! you represented the employer, of course?” He threw the match over the verandah.
“Well? The parents of the child were willing it should work. The sentiment came in when it got injured.”
“Exactly, that’s just what we complain of. Child labour demoralizes the parents. But, leaving the parents out of the question,” his voice grew warmer, in spite of his evident effort to keep cool—“don’t you see that the interest of future generations of workers demands that children, instead of becoming ‘half-timers,’ shall have a chance to develop, to let their bodies grow into something strong and fine, so that—and this should appeal toyou—England may hold her own against other younger, more vigorous nations. I say nothing about the joyless lives of the children who are old in mind as well as body before those of our class go to Eton or Harrow, but surely the future of the race interests you? You get more work out of a vigorous, able-bodied man or woman.”
“Oh yes! I’m interested, but I prefer to work for the present generation. I’ll do without a rain-washed, dirty statue that a crank occasionally puts a wreath on and no one else remembers.”
“Gilbert!” exclaimed Claudia, unable to let the taunt pass. “How can you be such an arrant materialist?”