CHAPTER XIV.WHENPamela walked out into the yard at Victoria, the stale stable smell, the heavy air, and coarse sounds instantly made her feel at home. The last time she had breathed London was on that hot, stifling August morning nearly a year ago when she had started for Folly Corner. Her head had been heavy then, her eyes inflamed with crying, her feet sore and burning with the ceaseless, hopeless walk of the night before—backward and forward across the common, keeping the stolid prison—his shameful casket—in sight.To-day her mouth curved happily, the blood ran in and out of her face with the intensity of her emotion. Folly Corner was far behind her—behind forever; Aunt Sophy, Nancy, Annie—all the kind, slow-witted women—were mere phantoms; Jethro, clumping his fields stupidly, his head hanging, his big heart sore, was simply a rustic figure of no particular interest.That life at Folly Corner had been a different incarnation. The one moment when it seemed real was when a ruddy-faced man had brushed by her on the platform—a pointed Niphetos rosebud in his coat. She thought then fleetly of her garden, of all the bushes which had been her choice, which had been planted for her.She listened joyously to the hoarse voices of the drivers, to the mellow rattle of the piano-organ playing a tune which she had never heard. An orderly boy, looking pertly up in her face as she got into the cab, said:“Now weshan’tbe long.”That must be the new catchword; once she had been well up in these things. Edred had taken her to music-halls.How hot and misty and stuffy it was! And how delicious! She leaned back in the cab, laughing softly and continuously, like a mad thing. Then she began to be afraid, not knowing how Edred would receive her. Then she smiled again, knowing that she knew how to make herself adorable—at least for a little while. There were certain gestures, certain airs and words, which always pleased him. She coaxed a finger under her veil, and pulled a loose bit of hair on the temple over her brow. He liked loose hair.It was a misty, gray-gold afternoon. London was empty—for London.The Green Park was thick and mystic, the white frocks of the little children standing out solidly in the haze; an occasional white perambulator moving along slowly, like a fairy boat.Marquise Mansions. The cab pulled up. The driver called out ironically to the conductor of a Hammersmith omnibus, “Fancy meetingyou!”—that must be another catchword. How she had lost touch of the gay, silly, witty London life! She had been contemptuous of it, imagined that she hated it,that she only longed for it because Edred was there. Was it possible that only yesterday, about this time, she had been watching Jethro’s cart horses, with their elaboration of brass harness and head decking? She had thought then that the country was so large, so utterly satisfying; that towns, with their hotbed air of struggle and scheming, would choke her. Only yesterday! It had all faded into a sad, tender dream. She was very glad to be awake again. Marquise Mansions!It was a leviathan block of latter-day flats; red brick, white paint already turning smoke-colored, muslin curtains at the windows, little fragile balconies to the upper stories. A maid in smart black-and-white livery came daintily out and flicked a duster over one of the balconies. She looked down into the street and smirked at a man with a milk cart.The place was like Edred. It was a typical place for him to choose: all swagger show, all glitter, very smart and ostentatious, very thin.She dismissed her cab, went up the tesselated steps, consulted the names which were displayed on the wall. The hall porter rang the lift bell. The lift came down. She got in, reclined on the thickly-cushioned back, and watched the floors skim by, dip down.Edred was on the third. She knocked with some trepidation at the extravagantly shaped copper knocker which flaunted itself on a peacock door. A little pert page, all claret cloth and gilt buttons, opened it. She caught her breath at the color anddepth of the carpets lying on the stained floor, at great copper bowls and decorative dishes which were disposed on shelves in a room with a half-opened door.“Is Mr. Crisp in?”The little page smiled knowingly; it was a very horrible smile, on such a chubby, child face. He didn’t seem at all surprised at the advent of such a visitor—a handsome woman, young and well dressed. It was evident—her blazing, aching heart told her this—that she was only one of a type.“Mr. Crisp is in, miss. What name?”“Never mind. Tell him an old friend.”He left her in a little ante-room, dainty, extravagant, luxurious, with an oriel window looking over the park. She had composure enough to get up and put her face close to an oval, gilt-framed glass which hung above the hearth. She had hardly turned away when the door opened. With lips parted and hands out she advanced, then fell back as a strange man put his chin and a pair of keen eyes round the lintel. He was a nondescript. She took an instant dislike to the weak face and reedy figure. He was dressed in brown tweed of an ugly herring-bone pattern; he had a thick new watch-chain. She didn’t know who he was, but she instantly hated—and resented—him.He came a little farther into the room, looked at her thoughtfully, critically—as a lady’s-maid might at her lady’s new gown—possibly to be hers some day. Then he, too, grinned. The glance instantly fired her; she looked and almost spoke indignantremonstrance. But the strange man merely grinned again and slipped away. She was left alone.Edred was a very long time. When at last she heard lagging feet, the ball in her throat—of frenzied delight, of trepidation and tumult—nearly choked her.He was faultlessly dressed. He looked prosperous—a bit bored and languid—that was part of his mask—but happy and very much plumper. She fancied that his puffy cheeks detracted from his good looks. He hadn’t missed her. He had left her at Folly Corner—to die if she liked, to do worse—without caring.She struggled up from the extravagantly stuffed divan of figured silk.“Edred!”“By Jove! Pam! You?”She had nervously pulled her gloves off while she waited. His eyes fell to her hands at once. There wasn’t a ring on them.“Whew! He hasn’t found out? The wedding isn’t off?”“Aren’t you glad to see me?”“My dear little girl—it is such a surprise. Fancy meetingyou!” he laughed airily. “Where’s old Jeth? What’s the joke?” His eyes fell to her hands again. “You’re married? It was to be the sixth—wasn’t it? No—the sixteenth?” He looked at a calendar.“The tenth.”“To-day’s the fourth. Are you playing a trick? How did you know I was here? I say, Pam, besquare. Is he—Jethro, you know—waiting outside? The old fellow must look odd in a frock-coat. Does he lift each foot along the pavement, as if he were walking through stubble? If he’s up, I can give him a good tip. The new company——”“The ruby mine. I know. I saw your name—that is why I came.”“Does he want an investment?”She clasped her hands with an air of hopeless, helpless tragedy.“You men are all alike. Can’t you see an inch before your nose? Do you think I should come up here about rubies? Oh! can’t you see it on my face? Jethro was just as bad; he made me tell him everything.”“Everything?”His handsome face became blank.“Everything.” She threw a hard laugh at him. “Everything—No. 4658 and all.”“You didn’t?”“I did. It is your fault. I couldn’t marry him, Eddie. I had to come. He wished it. He knows everything. He sent me.”“He sent you to me?”“Yes.” She was growing deadly pale. “Don’t you want me? I can go away—but not to Folly Corner. That is finished.”He looked troubled, stroking and tugging the coal-black, silky mustache. He raised his eyes to her, then dropped them to the ground.She had fallen back, her lids half fallen. It was a hot day; it had been a long journey. She wasvery tired, quite faint. She didn’t think she cared much, now that he evidently didn’t. Yet, never for a moment did she regret leaving Jethro; never for a moment entertain the idea of going back. She shut her eyes, listening quite listlessly to the rumble of life below. Her fate had long ago passed out of her own hands. She was a chattel in spirit; although free in letter. Let him settle what he liked.She was roused by a kiss on her mouth. Edred was on the lounge. His face was tender—the bold, assured tenderness that always made her happy.“Good little girl,” he said, in the half-sneering, half-caressing voice which was his nearest approach to adoration. “Good little girl to come. You must stay with me. I’ve missed you, Pam. You had the telegram?”She let her head stay on his arm; she stretched her dusty feet out wearily, with a gesture of absolute content.“Yes. It was dangerous; Jethro might have opened it. I waited by the yew half the night. Why didn’t you come?”“Because I had just a shred or so of honor left——”“The evasive thing that men call honor! I never could understand it.”“A woman doesn’t. Jethro—poor old man—had been devilish good. The two ‘hun’ put me on my feet, Pam. Like the place?” He nodded his head comprehensively at the luxury which walled them. “Decentish, isn’t it?”“It’s very nice. Why didn’t you come, or write?It nearly broke my heart. If I had not seen your name in the paper yesterday I should have married Jethro.”“I’m very glad you didn’t.” He looked sleepily at the beauty of her flushed cheeks, at the depths of her happy eyes. “You saw the page advertisement in theStandard?We’re spending thousands in advertisements—throw a sprat to catch a herring. Does the carrier still bring the paper? What’s the fellow’s name?”“Buckman.”“That’s it. The same slow old horse—Hackty. You see I’ve remembered that. I suppose they mean it for Hector, or perhaps Active. Gad! what a sleepy hole! I felt like being in a dentist’s chair the whole time, half under the gas, you know, just going off. If you went back in fifty years, they’d be just the same. It’s so precious dull that they’d blow their brains out—if they had any.”“Jethro has been so good,” she said, feeling numbly that Jethro was already very, very far away. She actually laughed, adding: “He insisted on my bringing up flowers, eggs, some quince jam.”“That stunning quince jam,” he said boyishly. “Jeth’s a good sort. Was he very much cut up? It was too bad.” He gave her another kiss, without any protest on her part, any courtliness on his; quite as a matter of course.“He was splendid. Poor, dear old Jethro! You wouldn’t understand. You’ll only laugh. You always laugh at things that make me want to cry—it’s the way with a man. He was so simple,so grand. He was like a Greek god, very calm, but not a bit indifferent. He regarded it so broadly—talked of Nature. He is all Nature. He is a great, simple, clean-living ox—slow, reflective, not a bit stupid. He seemed to be above or past all the small teasing, tearing strings which drag mean hearts like yours and mine. I’ve been talking a great deal of nonsense and you are annoyed.”She looked quite frightened as Edred got up abruptly and rang the bell. The past ten minutes had been so sweet that she would have accepted them willingly as eternity.“Not a bit.” He shrugged. “But it’s rather rough to compare him to one of his own oxen. Do you remember how proud he was of his stock—murderous black beasts with tremendous horns? I tell you I didn’t half like crossing some of those fields in the twilight.”The page came in. He looked at her boldly as she sat on the couch. She decided that her first step of authority should be the dismissal of that boy. Edred ordered tea. Everything was dainty, strangely dainty to her, because she was fresh from the coarse, lavish hospitality of Sussex. The sandwiches were evanescent—a suggestion of yellow and green. Edred tilted the cream into her cup; at Folly Corner they often had to put up with skim milk because Jethro insisted on having so many pounds of butter made weekly. He had his stern economies; believed in making farming thoroughly pay. When eggs fetched more than a shilling a dozen almost every one was sent to market.There were French cakes, toast cut in mathematically exact triangles. The aroma of the tea seemed to fill the room. They sat by the open window, an inlaid table spread with exquisitely drawn linen between them. She looked at the road, across the railings into the park, where an occasional carriage drove through the haze. She looked at Edred. The prison stain was completely gone. His diamond ring, the pin at his neck, all his indications of prosperity, pleased her. And yet she thought the diamonds ostentatious. If he had been a portly man, instead of a slim and elegant one, he would have been vulgar.She was always touched by externals—had a painful respect for the things money gave. In the midst of her intense happiness she paused to consider discreetly that, love apart, Edred was a more eligible husband than Jethro. She thought of Jethro—that side of him which had always jarred on her: his half-sheepish, half-surly air in the presence of strangers, his shy avoidance of women. Then she thought of his toilet—the striped tags of his thick boots, which were generally hanging out, the black suit, which he would speak of as his “best”; his week-day shirts of galatea; his best white ones, which he did not often wear because of the difficulty experienced by the old washerwoman in getting them up. She thought of his ridiculous neckties, of his huge, snuffy silk pocket-handkerchief, of the turnip-like repeater which had been his grandfather’s, and which he lugged out of his capacious pocket laboriously. She poured herself moretea from the Queen Anne silver pot. She poured another cup for Edred, feeling a delightful sense of being wifely as she did it.“We might have had some of Jeth’s jam,” he said, idly smiling at her. His eyes seemed to contract and glitter unnaturally with undisguised admiration. She was very flushed and triumphant, a little feverish and reckless with her mastery of him. Yet, all the same, because she was a woman of the world, and had been driven to consider her reputation, she began to wonder, as the gray haze in the park grew black, what suggestion he was going to make for the night. One could not walk out into the street, take a hansom, and drive to be married forthwith. He said, pushing his empty cup away and settling back in the chair:“I’ve been lucky. Everything I’ve touched has turned up trumps.”“The ruby mine——”“Pooh! That is only one thing. I’ve learnt, by very bitter experience, that it is as well to have plenty of irons in the fire.”“Is it a genuine concern? You won’t risk anything this time?”She put the question for his sake—for theirs. She did not wish him to fail, to suffer again. She wanted to be rich—safe—for the rest of her life.“As genuine as anything can be,” he returned evasively. “But don’t spoil yourself by being serious. The prettiest woman—and you are looking devilish pretty to-night, darling—can’t afford to be serious: it brings lines about the mouth.”She returned his smile, but a moment after she sobered again.“I’m obliged to be serious,” she told him deprecatingly. “What arrangement do you propose for to-night? If I go to Bloomsbury too late they will not be willing to take me in.”“Bloomsbury!” He looked annoyed at being reminded of that page in his life. “You don’t want to go there.”“They know me. I can think of no other place.”He didn’t answer for a moment. She searched his flushed face anxiously through the uncertain light.“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last. “There’s a very fair hotel a few doors down. Sutton shall send my traps there. I’ll engage a couple of rooms for myself and him, and you shall have this place. Will that do? You’ll be very comfortable. They give me service—the cooking’s fair. One of the chambermaids will unpack your things and help dress you.”He spoke as if she had all her life been accustomed to such attendance. He was wonderfully plastic; it was one of his feminine attributes. In a few weeks he had assimilated the manner, cultivated the brain of a wealthy man who instinctively measures cost by a five-pound note: nothing smaller than a “fiver.”“That would do very well.”“It won’t be for long. We must marry. I’ll get a license to-morrow. Sutton shall see about it—he’s a rare fellow for details.”“Is that the horrid man who looked into the room while I was waiting?”Edred laughed.“Yes.”“Who is he? He mustn’t come here any more. I’m sure he’s hateful.”“He’s very useful. He lives here—a most superior fellow, much to be pitied. He was a clerk in a City firm for twenty-five years; went there when he left school; worked up to a salary of £150. Threw all his energies into the business; stayed late on Saturday, took papers home to master on Sunday. Then they chucked him—wanted a younger fellow. Everybody must be young nowadays. Sutton is invaluable. He knows the inside of the city. He’s my clerk. I give him a couple of pounds a week and his grub. He’s perfectly happy—so am I. His tips have put hundreds into my pocket. Oh! you’ll have to be civil to Sutton.”“Don’t be in too great a hurry to make money, will you?”He laughed.“Too much haste leads to the dock,” he said lightly. “I’m careful enough. Some day—in a fairly little time, too—I shall be a second Milligan. Lady Pamela Crisp. It sounds well, doesn’t it?”“We are going to be married—in my name. Will that be legal?”“Extraordinary delusions a woman has about the marriage service! Of course it will be legal.”“I ought to be going to Victoria to get my luggage. It is in the cloak-room.”“Sutton will see to that.”She never forgot the witchery of that evening. Edred was so adoring, so recklessly generous, so optimistic. They dined; they had a box at the theater. No tinge of conscience whipped up her light heart. She never threw one half-thought back, across the lonely miles of suburb and common and pasture, to the mellow old house, girt with a great pond, whose master at that moment might be sitting by the empty hearth with his whole big faithful heart full of her.The one disconcerting touch was when they parted at the door of Marquise Mansions. Edred had been talking of his successes, of the many clever, shifty schemes he had in prospect.“We must entertain—in a Bohemian way,” he said. “Only men; jossers I want to persuade into doing things. You understand? Very often a look from a pretty, well-dressed woman will do more than hours of plausibility, of convincing proof, from the woman’s husband. You must have some Paris frocks; get your hair dressed well.”“We shall only entertain men?”“Women are not interesting—the wives and daughters of city men. We shall only entertain from diplomacy—other women would spoil everything. You must help me to play my game. It is to your interest, isn’t it?”She did not answer. He thought that her expression in the uncertain light—stars and gas lamps competing—was rebellious. He became savagely petulant.“This marrying is a bore,” he said. “Why do you insist on it? Marriage is only an empty form. It would be all the same—no one would know. Married people are not branded for all the world to see, after all. We shall never get tired of each other. It will be just the same, just as safe, more romantic. What do you think, Pam?”He stared at her with odd intentness, as she stood in the shadow of the wide entrance door. She was wrapped from her soft dull hair to her shoe in a costly evening cloak which they had hurriedly bought on the way to the theater to cover her dusty traveling dress.“I think that it has all been said, threshed out,” she returned firmly. “I don’t want romance—at the expense of respectability.”The night-rattle of London swung by them as they stood in the shadow of the door poising their fate in their hands. The warm, misty streets were festooned with strings of red and yellow light. Pamela was reminded of those miserable omnibus rides from Portobello Road, when she had watched the words “OXFORCE—NINONSOAP—DUNN’SNOSTRUM” glitter and die on the face of a house.Edred’s eyes, contracted and brilliant, tried to destroy her will. They were admiring, magnetic. But she was fiercely respectable; she had struggled, had seen the seamy side of life. She loved him, she was madly, wickedly infatuated with him, but his smooth claptrap about the romance of an irregular union did not take her in.“You are jesting,” she said coldly; “jesting—in very bad taste.”“Yes. Only a jest,” he returned, gripping her hand.Three days after that they were married. She started a new, intoxicating career as mistress of the gorgeously appointed flat at Marquise Mansions.
WHENPamela walked out into the yard at Victoria, the stale stable smell, the heavy air, and coarse sounds instantly made her feel at home. The last time she had breathed London was on that hot, stifling August morning nearly a year ago when she had started for Folly Corner. Her head had been heavy then, her eyes inflamed with crying, her feet sore and burning with the ceaseless, hopeless walk of the night before—backward and forward across the common, keeping the stolid prison—his shameful casket—in sight.
To-day her mouth curved happily, the blood ran in and out of her face with the intensity of her emotion. Folly Corner was far behind her—behind forever; Aunt Sophy, Nancy, Annie—all the kind, slow-witted women—were mere phantoms; Jethro, clumping his fields stupidly, his head hanging, his big heart sore, was simply a rustic figure of no particular interest.
That life at Folly Corner had been a different incarnation. The one moment when it seemed real was when a ruddy-faced man had brushed by her on the platform—a pointed Niphetos rosebud in his coat. She thought then fleetly of her garden, of all the bushes which had been her choice, which had been planted for her.
She listened joyously to the hoarse voices of the drivers, to the mellow rattle of the piano-organ playing a tune which she had never heard. An orderly boy, looking pertly up in her face as she got into the cab, said:
“Now weshan’tbe long.”
That must be the new catchword; once she had been well up in these things. Edred had taken her to music-halls.
How hot and misty and stuffy it was! And how delicious! She leaned back in the cab, laughing softly and continuously, like a mad thing. Then she began to be afraid, not knowing how Edred would receive her. Then she smiled again, knowing that she knew how to make herself adorable—at least for a little while. There were certain gestures, certain airs and words, which always pleased him. She coaxed a finger under her veil, and pulled a loose bit of hair on the temple over her brow. He liked loose hair.
It was a misty, gray-gold afternoon. London was empty—for London.
The Green Park was thick and mystic, the white frocks of the little children standing out solidly in the haze; an occasional white perambulator moving along slowly, like a fairy boat.
Marquise Mansions. The cab pulled up. The driver called out ironically to the conductor of a Hammersmith omnibus, “Fancy meetingyou!”—that must be another catchword. How she had lost touch of the gay, silly, witty London life! She had been contemptuous of it, imagined that she hated it,that she only longed for it because Edred was there. Was it possible that only yesterday, about this time, she had been watching Jethro’s cart horses, with their elaboration of brass harness and head decking? She had thought then that the country was so large, so utterly satisfying; that towns, with their hotbed air of struggle and scheming, would choke her. Only yesterday! It had all faded into a sad, tender dream. She was very glad to be awake again. Marquise Mansions!
It was a leviathan block of latter-day flats; red brick, white paint already turning smoke-colored, muslin curtains at the windows, little fragile balconies to the upper stories. A maid in smart black-and-white livery came daintily out and flicked a duster over one of the balconies. She looked down into the street and smirked at a man with a milk cart.
The place was like Edred. It was a typical place for him to choose: all swagger show, all glitter, very smart and ostentatious, very thin.
She dismissed her cab, went up the tesselated steps, consulted the names which were displayed on the wall. The hall porter rang the lift bell. The lift came down. She got in, reclined on the thickly-cushioned back, and watched the floors skim by, dip down.
Edred was on the third. She knocked with some trepidation at the extravagantly shaped copper knocker which flaunted itself on a peacock door. A little pert page, all claret cloth and gilt buttons, opened it. She caught her breath at the color anddepth of the carpets lying on the stained floor, at great copper bowls and decorative dishes which were disposed on shelves in a room with a half-opened door.
“Is Mr. Crisp in?”
The little page smiled knowingly; it was a very horrible smile, on such a chubby, child face. He didn’t seem at all surprised at the advent of such a visitor—a handsome woman, young and well dressed. It was evident—her blazing, aching heart told her this—that she was only one of a type.
“Mr. Crisp is in, miss. What name?”
“Never mind. Tell him an old friend.”
He left her in a little ante-room, dainty, extravagant, luxurious, with an oriel window looking over the park. She had composure enough to get up and put her face close to an oval, gilt-framed glass which hung above the hearth. She had hardly turned away when the door opened. With lips parted and hands out she advanced, then fell back as a strange man put his chin and a pair of keen eyes round the lintel. He was a nondescript. She took an instant dislike to the weak face and reedy figure. He was dressed in brown tweed of an ugly herring-bone pattern; he had a thick new watch-chain. She didn’t know who he was, but she instantly hated—and resented—him.
He came a little farther into the room, looked at her thoughtfully, critically—as a lady’s-maid might at her lady’s new gown—possibly to be hers some day. Then he, too, grinned. The glance instantly fired her; she looked and almost spoke indignantremonstrance. But the strange man merely grinned again and slipped away. She was left alone.
Edred was a very long time. When at last she heard lagging feet, the ball in her throat—of frenzied delight, of trepidation and tumult—nearly choked her.
He was faultlessly dressed. He looked prosperous—a bit bored and languid—that was part of his mask—but happy and very much plumper. She fancied that his puffy cheeks detracted from his good looks. He hadn’t missed her. He had left her at Folly Corner—to die if she liked, to do worse—without caring.
She struggled up from the extravagantly stuffed divan of figured silk.
“Edred!”
“By Jove! Pam! You?”
She had nervously pulled her gloves off while she waited. His eyes fell to her hands at once. There wasn’t a ring on them.
“Whew! He hasn’t found out? The wedding isn’t off?”
“Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“My dear little girl—it is such a surprise. Fancy meetingyou!” he laughed airily. “Where’s old Jeth? What’s the joke?” His eyes fell to her hands again. “You’re married? It was to be the sixth—wasn’t it? No—the sixteenth?” He looked at a calendar.
“The tenth.”
“To-day’s the fourth. Are you playing a trick? How did you know I was here? I say, Pam, besquare. Is he—Jethro, you know—waiting outside? The old fellow must look odd in a frock-coat. Does he lift each foot along the pavement, as if he were walking through stubble? If he’s up, I can give him a good tip. The new company——”
“The ruby mine. I know. I saw your name—that is why I came.”
“Does he want an investment?”
She clasped her hands with an air of hopeless, helpless tragedy.
“You men are all alike. Can’t you see an inch before your nose? Do you think I should come up here about rubies? Oh! can’t you see it on my face? Jethro was just as bad; he made me tell him everything.”
“Everything?”
His handsome face became blank.
“Everything.” She threw a hard laugh at him. “Everything—No. 4658 and all.”
“You didn’t?”
“I did. It is your fault. I couldn’t marry him, Eddie. I had to come. He wished it. He knows everything. He sent me.”
“He sent you to me?”
“Yes.” She was growing deadly pale. “Don’t you want me? I can go away—but not to Folly Corner. That is finished.”
He looked troubled, stroking and tugging the coal-black, silky mustache. He raised his eyes to her, then dropped them to the ground.
She had fallen back, her lids half fallen. It was a hot day; it had been a long journey. She wasvery tired, quite faint. She didn’t think she cared much, now that he evidently didn’t. Yet, never for a moment did she regret leaving Jethro; never for a moment entertain the idea of going back. She shut her eyes, listening quite listlessly to the rumble of life below. Her fate had long ago passed out of her own hands. She was a chattel in spirit; although free in letter. Let him settle what he liked.
She was roused by a kiss on her mouth. Edred was on the lounge. His face was tender—the bold, assured tenderness that always made her happy.
“Good little girl,” he said, in the half-sneering, half-caressing voice which was his nearest approach to adoration. “Good little girl to come. You must stay with me. I’ve missed you, Pam. You had the telegram?”
She let her head stay on his arm; she stretched her dusty feet out wearily, with a gesture of absolute content.
“Yes. It was dangerous; Jethro might have opened it. I waited by the yew half the night. Why didn’t you come?”
“Because I had just a shred or so of honor left——”
“The evasive thing that men call honor! I never could understand it.”
“A woman doesn’t. Jethro—poor old man—had been devilish good. The two ‘hun’ put me on my feet, Pam. Like the place?” He nodded his head comprehensively at the luxury which walled them. “Decentish, isn’t it?”
“It’s very nice. Why didn’t you come, or write?It nearly broke my heart. If I had not seen your name in the paper yesterday I should have married Jethro.”
“I’m very glad you didn’t.” He looked sleepily at the beauty of her flushed cheeks, at the depths of her happy eyes. “You saw the page advertisement in theStandard?We’re spending thousands in advertisements—throw a sprat to catch a herring. Does the carrier still bring the paper? What’s the fellow’s name?”
“Buckman.”
“That’s it. The same slow old horse—Hackty. You see I’ve remembered that. I suppose they mean it for Hector, or perhaps Active. Gad! what a sleepy hole! I felt like being in a dentist’s chair the whole time, half under the gas, you know, just going off. If you went back in fifty years, they’d be just the same. It’s so precious dull that they’d blow their brains out—if they had any.”
“Jethro has been so good,” she said, feeling numbly that Jethro was already very, very far away. She actually laughed, adding: “He insisted on my bringing up flowers, eggs, some quince jam.”
“That stunning quince jam,” he said boyishly. “Jeth’s a good sort. Was he very much cut up? It was too bad.” He gave her another kiss, without any protest on her part, any courtliness on his; quite as a matter of course.
“He was splendid. Poor, dear old Jethro! You wouldn’t understand. You’ll only laugh. You always laugh at things that make me want to cry—it’s the way with a man. He was so simple,so grand. He was like a Greek god, very calm, but not a bit indifferent. He regarded it so broadly—talked of Nature. He is all Nature. He is a great, simple, clean-living ox—slow, reflective, not a bit stupid. He seemed to be above or past all the small teasing, tearing strings which drag mean hearts like yours and mine. I’ve been talking a great deal of nonsense and you are annoyed.”
She looked quite frightened as Edred got up abruptly and rang the bell. The past ten minutes had been so sweet that she would have accepted them willingly as eternity.
“Not a bit.” He shrugged. “But it’s rather rough to compare him to one of his own oxen. Do you remember how proud he was of his stock—murderous black beasts with tremendous horns? I tell you I didn’t half like crossing some of those fields in the twilight.”
The page came in. He looked at her boldly as she sat on the couch. She decided that her first step of authority should be the dismissal of that boy. Edred ordered tea. Everything was dainty, strangely dainty to her, because she was fresh from the coarse, lavish hospitality of Sussex. The sandwiches were evanescent—a suggestion of yellow and green. Edred tilted the cream into her cup; at Folly Corner they often had to put up with skim milk because Jethro insisted on having so many pounds of butter made weekly. He had his stern economies; believed in making farming thoroughly pay. When eggs fetched more than a shilling a dozen almost every one was sent to market.
There were French cakes, toast cut in mathematically exact triangles. The aroma of the tea seemed to fill the room. They sat by the open window, an inlaid table spread with exquisitely drawn linen between them. She looked at the road, across the railings into the park, where an occasional carriage drove through the haze. She looked at Edred. The prison stain was completely gone. His diamond ring, the pin at his neck, all his indications of prosperity, pleased her. And yet she thought the diamonds ostentatious. If he had been a portly man, instead of a slim and elegant one, he would have been vulgar.
She was always touched by externals—had a painful respect for the things money gave. In the midst of her intense happiness she paused to consider discreetly that, love apart, Edred was a more eligible husband than Jethro. She thought of Jethro—that side of him which had always jarred on her: his half-sheepish, half-surly air in the presence of strangers, his shy avoidance of women. Then she thought of his toilet—the striped tags of his thick boots, which were generally hanging out, the black suit, which he would speak of as his “best”; his week-day shirts of galatea; his best white ones, which he did not often wear because of the difficulty experienced by the old washerwoman in getting them up. She thought of his ridiculous neckties, of his huge, snuffy silk pocket-handkerchief, of the turnip-like repeater which had been his grandfather’s, and which he lugged out of his capacious pocket laboriously. She poured herself moretea from the Queen Anne silver pot. She poured another cup for Edred, feeling a delightful sense of being wifely as she did it.
“We might have had some of Jeth’s jam,” he said, idly smiling at her. His eyes seemed to contract and glitter unnaturally with undisguised admiration. She was very flushed and triumphant, a little feverish and reckless with her mastery of him. Yet, all the same, because she was a woman of the world, and had been driven to consider her reputation, she began to wonder, as the gray haze in the park grew black, what suggestion he was going to make for the night. One could not walk out into the street, take a hansom, and drive to be married forthwith. He said, pushing his empty cup away and settling back in the chair:
“I’ve been lucky. Everything I’ve touched has turned up trumps.”
“The ruby mine——”
“Pooh! That is only one thing. I’ve learnt, by very bitter experience, that it is as well to have plenty of irons in the fire.”
“Is it a genuine concern? You won’t risk anything this time?”
She put the question for his sake—for theirs. She did not wish him to fail, to suffer again. She wanted to be rich—safe—for the rest of her life.
“As genuine as anything can be,” he returned evasively. “But don’t spoil yourself by being serious. The prettiest woman—and you are looking devilish pretty to-night, darling—can’t afford to be serious: it brings lines about the mouth.”
She returned his smile, but a moment after she sobered again.
“I’m obliged to be serious,” she told him deprecatingly. “What arrangement do you propose for to-night? If I go to Bloomsbury too late they will not be willing to take me in.”
“Bloomsbury!” He looked annoyed at being reminded of that page in his life. “You don’t want to go there.”
“They know me. I can think of no other place.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. She searched his flushed face anxiously through the uncertain light.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last. “There’s a very fair hotel a few doors down. Sutton shall send my traps there. I’ll engage a couple of rooms for myself and him, and you shall have this place. Will that do? You’ll be very comfortable. They give me service—the cooking’s fair. One of the chambermaids will unpack your things and help dress you.”
He spoke as if she had all her life been accustomed to such attendance. He was wonderfully plastic; it was one of his feminine attributes. In a few weeks he had assimilated the manner, cultivated the brain of a wealthy man who instinctively measures cost by a five-pound note: nothing smaller than a “fiver.”
“That would do very well.”
“It won’t be for long. We must marry. I’ll get a license to-morrow. Sutton shall see about it—he’s a rare fellow for details.”
“Is that the horrid man who looked into the room while I was waiting?”
Edred laughed.
“Yes.”
“Who is he? He mustn’t come here any more. I’m sure he’s hateful.”
“He’s very useful. He lives here—a most superior fellow, much to be pitied. He was a clerk in a City firm for twenty-five years; went there when he left school; worked up to a salary of £150. Threw all his energies into the business; stayed late on Saturday, took papers home to master on Sunday. Then they chucked him—wanted a younger fellow. Everybody must be young nowadays. Sutton is invaluable. He knows the inside of the city. He’s my clerk. I give him a couple of pounds a week and his grub. He’s perfectly happy—so am I. His tips have put hundreds into my pocket. Oh! you’ll have to be civil to Sutton.”
“Don’t be in too great a hurry to make money, will you?”
He laughed.
“Too much haste leads to the dock,” he said lightly. “I’m careful enough. Some day—in a fairly little time, too—I shall be a second Milligan. Lady Pamela Crisp. It sounds well, doesn’t it?”
“We are going to be married—in my name. Will that be legal?”
“Extraordinary delusions a woman has about the marriage service! Of course it will be legal.”
“I ought to be going to Victoria to get my luggage. It is in the cloak-room.”
“Sutton will see to that.”
She never forgot the witchery of that evening. Edred was so adoring, so recklessly generous, so optimistic. They dined; they had a box at the theater. No tinge of conscience whipped up her light heart. She never threw one half-thought back, across the lonely miles of suburb and common and pasture, to the mellow old house, girt with a great pond, whose master at that moment might be sitting by the empty hearth with his whole big faithful heart full of her.
The one disconcerting touch was when they parted at the door of Marquise Mansions. Edred had been talking of his successes, of the many clever, shifty schemes he had in prospect.
“We must entertain—in a Bohemian way,” he said. “Only men; jossers I want to persuade into doing things. You understand? Very often a look from a pretty, well-dressed woman will do more than hours of plausibility, of convincing proof, from the woman’s husband. You must have some Paris frocks; get your hair dressed well.”
“We shall only entertain men?”
“Women are not interesting—the wives and daughters of city men. We shall only entertain from diplomacy—other women would spoil everything. You must help me to play my game. It is to your interest, isn’t it?”
She did not answer. He thought that her expression in the uncertain light—stars and gas lamps competing—was rebellious. He became savagely petulant.
“This marrying is a bore,” he said. “Why do you insist on it? Marriage is only an empty form. It would be all the same—no one would know. Married people are not branded for all the world to see, after all. We shall never get tired of each other. It will be just the same, just as safe, more romantic. What do you think, Pam?”
He stared at her with odd intentness, as she stood in the shadow of the wide entrance door. She was wrapped from her soft dull hair to her shoe in a costly evening cloak which they had hurriedly bought on the way to the theater to cover her dusty traveling dress.
“I think that it has all been said, threshed out,” she returned firmly. “I don’t want romance—at the expense of respectability.”
The night-rattle of London swung by them as they stood in the shadow of the door poising their fate in their hands. The warm, misty streets were festooned with strings of red and yellow light. Pamela was reminded of those miserable omnibus rides from Portobello Road, when she had watched the words “OXFORCE—NINONSOAP—DUNN’SNOSTRUM” glitter and die on the face of a house.
Edred’s eyes, contracted and brilliant, tried to destroy her will. They were admiring, magnetic. But she was fiercely respectable; she had struggled, had seen the seamy side of life. She loved him, she was madly, wickedly infatuated with him, but his smooth claptrap about the romance of an irregular union did not take her in.
“You are jesting,” she said coldly; “jesting—in very bad taste.”
“Yes. Only a jest,” he returned, gripping her hand.
Three days after that they were married. She started a new, intoxicating career as mistress of the gorgeously appointed flat at Marquise Mansions.