Anne Returns
It was about six o'clock, and Hyacinth was sitting in her boudoir alone. It was a lovely room and she herself looked lovely, but, for a bride of four months, a little discontented. She was wondering why she was not happier. What was this unreasonable misery, this constant care, this anxious jealousy that seemed to poison her very existence? It was as intangible as a shadow, but it was always there. Hyacinth constantly felt that there was something in Cecil that escaped her, something that she missed. And yet he was kind, affectionate, even devoted.
Sometimes when they spent evenings at home together, which were calm and peaceful and should have been happy, the girl would know, with the second-sight of love, that he was thinking about Eugenia. And this phantom, of which she never spoke to him and could not have borne him to know of, tormented her indescribably. It seemed like a spell that she knew not how to break. It was only a thought, yet how much it made her suffer! Giving way for the moment to the useless and futile bitterness of her jealousy, she had leant her head on the cushion of the little sofa where she sat, when, with a sudden sensation that she was no longer alone, she raised it again and looked up.
Standing near the door she saw a tall, thin figure with a rather wooden face and no expression—a queer figure, oddly dressed in a mackintosh and a golf-cap.
'Why do you burn so much electric light?' Anne said dryly, in a reproachful voice, as she turned a button on the wall.
Hyacinth sprang up with a cry of surprise.
Anne hardly looked at her and walked round the room.
'Sit down. I want to look at your new room. Silk walls and Dresden china. I suppose this is what is called gilded luxury. Do you ever see that the servants dust it, or do they do as they like?'
'Anne! How can you? Do you know how anxious we've been about you? Do you know we weren't sure you were not dead?'
'Weren't you? I wasn't very sure myself at one time. I see you took the chances, though, and didn't go into mourning for me. That was sensible.'
'Anne, will you have the ordinary decency to tell me where you've been, after frightening me out of my life?'
'Oh, it wouldn't interest you. I went to several places. I just went away because at the last minute I felt I couldn't stand the wedding. Besides, you had a honeymoon. I didn't see why I shouldn't. And mine was much jollier—freer, because I was alone. Cheaper, too, thank goodness!'
'What an extraordinary creature you are, Anne! Not caring whether you heard from me, or of me, for four months, and then coolly walking in like this.'
'It was the only way to walk in. I really had meant never to see you again, Hyacinth. You didn't want me. I was only in the way. I was no longer needed, now you've got that young man you were always worrying about. What's his name? Reeve. But I missed you too much. I was too bored without you. I made up my mind to take a back seat, if only I could see you sometimes. I had to come and have news of you. Well, and how do you like him now you've got him? Hardly worth all that bother—was he?'
'I'll tell you, Anne. You are the very person I want. I need you immensely. You're the only creature in the world that could be the slightest help to me.'
'Oh, so there is a crumpled rose-leaf! I told you he was exactly like any other young man.'
'Oh, but he isn't, Anne. Tell me first about you. Where are you—where are you staying?'
'That's my business. I'm staying with some delightful friends. You wouldn't know them—wouldn't want to either.'
'Nonsense! You used to say you had no friends except mine. You must come and stay here. Cecil would be delighted to see you.'
'I daresay—but I'm not coming. I may be a fool, but I'm not stupid enough for that. I should hate it, besides! No; but I'll look in and see you from time to time, and give you a word of advice. You doing housekeeping, indeed!' She laughed as she looked round. 'Who engaged your servants?'
'Why, I did.'
'I suppose you were too sweet and polite to ask for their characters, for fear of hurting their feelings? I suppose you gave them twice as much as they asked? This is the sort of house servants like. Do you allow followers?'
'How should I know? No; I suppose not. Of course, I let them see their friends when they like. Why shouldn't they? They let me see mine.'
'Yes! that's jolly of them—awfully kind. Of course you wouldn't know. And I suppose the young man, Cecil, or whatever you call him, is just as ignorant as you are, and thinks you do it beautifully?'
'My dear Anne, I assure you—'
'I know what you are going to say. You order the dinner. That's nothing; so can anyone. There's nothing clever in ordering! What are you making yourself miserable about? What's the matter?'
'Tell me first where you're staying and what you're doing. I insist on being told at once.'
'I'm staying with charming people. I tell you. At a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. I'm a great favourite there; no—now I come to think of it—I'm hated. But they don't want me to leave them.'
'Now, Anne, why live like that? Even if you wouldn't stay with us, it's ridiculous of you to live in this wretched, uncomfortable way.'
'Not at all. It isn't wretched, and I thoroughly enjoy it. I pay hardly anything, because I help with the housekeeping. Of course it isn't so much fun as it used to be with you. It's a little sordid; it isn't very pretty but it's interesting. It's not old-fashioned; there's no wax fruit, nor round table in the middle of the room. It's only about twenty-five years out of date. There are Japanese fans and bead curtains. They think the bead curtains—instead of folding-doors—quite smart and Oriental—rather wicked. Oh and we have musical evenings on Sundays; sometimes we play dumb crambo. Now, tell me about the little rift within the lute.'
'I always told you every little thing, Anne—didn't I?'
Anne turned away her head.
'Who arranges your flowers?'
'I do.'
'Oh, youdodo something! They look all right but I did it much better. Oh—by the way—you mustn't think these are the only clothes I've got. I have a very smart tailor-made coat and skirt which I bought at a sale at a little shop in Brixton. I went to Brixton for the season. There's nothing like the suburbs for real style—I mean real, thoroughly English style. And the funny part is that the suburban English dresses all come from Vienna. Isn't it queer?'
'All right, come to see me next time in your Brixton-Viennese costume, and we'll have a long talk. I think you're pleased I've got a little trouble. Aren't you?'
'Oh, no—I don't want you to have trouble. But I should like you to ownheisn't so wonderful, after all.'
'But I don't own that—not in the least. The thing is, you see'—she waited a minute—'I believe I'm still jealous of Mrs Raymond.'
'But she isn't Mrs Raymond any more. You surely don't imagine that he flirts with his aunt?'
'Of course not—how absurd you are! That's a ridiculous way to put it.No—he won't even see her.'
'Is that what you complain of?'
'His avoiding her shows he still thinks of her. It's a bad sign—isn't it? What I feel is, that he still puts her on a pedestal.'
'Well, that's all right. Let her stay there. Now, Hyacinth, when people know what they want—reallywantsomething acutely and definitely—and don't get it, I can pity them. They're frustrated—scored off by fate, as it were; and even if it's good for them, I'm sorry. But when theyhavegot what they wanted, and then find fault and are not satisfied, I can't give them any sympathy at all. Who was it said there is no tragedy like not getting your wish—except getting it? You wanted Cecil Reeve. You've got him. How would you have felt if the other woman had got him instead?'
'You're right, Anne—I suppose. And yet—do you think he'll ever quite forget her?'
'Do you think, if you really tried hard, you could manage to find out what your grievance is, Hyacinth?'
'Yes.'
'Well, then, try; and when you've found it, just keep it. Don't part with it. A sentimental grievance is a resource—it's a consolation for all the prosaic miseries of life. Now I must go, or I shall be late for high tea.'
The Ingratitude of Mitchell
Since Bruce had had the amateur-theatrical trouble, he had forgotten to have any other illness. But he spent many, many half-hours walking up and down in front of the glass rehearsing his part—which consisted of the words,'Ah, Miss Vavasour, how charming you look—a true Queen of Night! May a humble mandarin petition for a dance?'He tried this in many different tones; sometimes serious and romantic, sometimes humorous, but in every case he was much pleased with his reading of the part and counted on a brilliant success.
One evening he had come home looking perturbed, and said he thought he had caught a chill. Eucalyptus, quinine, sal-volatile, and clinical thermometers were lavishly applied, and after dinner he said he was better, but did not feel sufficiently up to the mark to go through his part with Edith as usual, and was rather silent during the rest of the evening.
When he came down to breakfast the next morning, Edith said—
'Do you know Anne's come back?'
'Who's Anne?'
'Anne. Hyacinth's companion. Miss Yeo, I mean.'
'Come back from where?'
'Don't you remember about her going away—about her mysterious disappearance?'
'I seem to remember now. I suppose I had more important things to think about.'
'Well, at any rate, shehascome back—I've just had a letter—Hyacinth wants me to go out with her this afternoon and hear all about it. At four. I can, of course; it's the day you rehearse, isn't it?'
Bruce waited a minute, then said—
'Curious thing, youcan'tget our cook to make a hot omelette! And we've tried her again and again.'
'Itwasa hot omelette, Bruce—very hot—about three-quarters of an hour ago. Shall I order another?'
'No—oh, no—pray don't—not for me. I haven't the time. I've got to work. You have rather a way, Edith, of keeping me talking. You seem to think I've nothing else to do, and it's serious that I should be punctual at the office. By the way—I shouldn't go out with Hyacinth today, if I were you—I'd rather you didn't.'
'Why not, Bruce?'
'Well, I may want you.'
'Then aren't you going to the Mitchells'?'
'The Mitchells'? No—I am certainlynotgoing to the Mitchells'—under the present circumstances.'
He threw down a piece of toast, got up, and stood with his back to the fire.
'How you can expect me to go to the Mitchells' again after their conduct is more than I can understand! Have you no pride, Edith?'
Edith looked bewildered.
'Has anything happened? What have the Mitchells done?' she asked.
'What have they done!' Bruce almost shouted. He then went and shut the door carefully and came back.
'Done! How do you think I've been treated by these Mitchells—by my friend Mitchell—after slaving night and day at their infernal theatricals? Ihaveslaved, haven't I, Edith? Worked hard at my part?'
'Indeed you have, dear.'
'Well, you know the last rehearsal? I had got on particularly well. I told you so, didn't I? I played the little part with a certain amount of spirit, I think. I certainly threw a good deal of feeling and suppressed emotion, and also a tinge of humorous irony into my speech to Miss Vavasour. Of course, I know quite well it doesn't seem of any very great importance, but a lot hinges on that speech, and it isn't everyone who could make the very most of it, as I really believe I did. Well, I happened to be pointing out to Mitchell, yesterday at the office, how much I had done for his play, and how much time and so forth I'd given up towards making the thing a success, then, what do you think he turned round and said? Oh, he is a brute!'
'I can't think!'
'He said, "Oh, by the way, Ottley, old chap, I was going to tell you there's been a change in the scheme. We've altered our plans a little, and I really don't think we shall need to trouble you after all. The fact is, I've decided to cut out the fancy ball altogether." And then people talk of gratitude!'
'Oh, dear, Bruce, that does seem a pity!'
'Seems a pity? Is that all you've got to say! It's an outrage—a slight onme. It isn't treating me with proper deference. But it isn't that I care personally, except for the principle of the thing. For my own sake I'm only too pleased—delighted, relieved. It's fortheirsake I'm so sorry. The whole thing is bound to be a failure now—not a chance of anything else. The fancy ball in the second act and my little scene with Miss Vavasour, especially, was the point of the play. As Mitchell said at first, when he was asking me to play the part, it would have beentheattraction.'
'But why is he taking out the fancy ball?'
'He says they can't get enough people. Says they won't make fools of themselves and buy fancy dresses just to make one in a crowd and not be noticed—not even recognised. Says the large fancy ball for the coming of age of the hero in his ancestral halls would have consisted of one mandarin, one Queen of the Night, and a chap in a powdered wig. He thinks it wouldn't have been worth it.'
'Well, I am sorry! Still, couldn't you say your part just the same in an ordinary dress?'
'What!"Ah, Miss Vavasour, how charming you look—a true Queen of Night!"Why, do you remember the lines, Edith? Don't you recollect how they refer to our costumes? How could I say them if we weren't in fancy dress?'
'Still, if the whole plot hinges on your scene—'
'Well! all I know is, out it goes—and out I go. The second act will be an utter frost now. They're making a terrible mistake, mind you. But that's Mitchell's business, not mine. It's no kind of deprivation tome—you know that. What possible gratification can it be for a man like me—a man of the world—to paint my face and put on a ridiculous dress and make a general ass of myself, just to help Mitchell's rotten performance to go off all right!'
'I don't know. I daresay it would have amused you. I'm sorry, anyhow.'
'I'm sorry enough, too—sorry for them. But if you really want to know the root of the matter, I shrewdly suspect it's really jealousy! Yes, jealousy! It's very odd, when people get keen on this sort of thing, how vain they begin to get! Perfectly childish! Yes, he didn't want me to make a hit. Old Mitchell didn't want to be cut out! Natural enough, in a way, when one comes to think it over; but a bit thick when one remembers the hours I've worked for that man—isn't it?'
'What did you say to him, Bruce, when he first told you?'
'Say? Oh, nothing. I took it very coolly—as a man of the world. I merely said, "Well, upon my word, Mitchell, this is pretty rough," or something of that sort. I didn't show I was hurt or offended in any way. I said, of course, it was like his beastly ingratitude—or words to that effect.'
'Oh! Was he angry?'
'Yes. He was very angry—furious.'
'Then you've had a quarrel with Mitchell?'
'Not a quarrel, Edith, because I wouldn't quarrel. I merely rubbed in his ingratitude, and he didn't like it. He said, "Well, let's hope if you're no longer wasting your valuable life on my theatricals you'll now be able to arrive at the office in fairly decent time," or something nasty like that. Disgusting—wasn't it?'
Edith looked at the clock.
'Too bad,' she said. 'Well, you must tell me all about it—a long account of the whole thing—this afternoon. I won't go out. I'll be at home when you come—to hear all about it. And now—'
'But that wasn't nearly all,' continued Bruce, without moving; 'you'd hardly believe it, but Mitchell actually said that he didn't think I had the smallest talent for the stage! He said I made much too much of my part—over-acted—exaggerated! When I made a point of keeping my rendering of the little sceneparticularlyrestrained! The fact is, Mitchell's a conceited ass. He knows no more of acting than that chair, and he thinks he knows everything.'
'It's fortunate you hadn't ordered your costume.'
'Yes, indeed. As I told him, the whole thing might have cost me a tremendous lot—far more than I could afford—put me to tremendous expense; and all for nothing! But he said no doubt the costumier would take it back. Take it back, indeed! And that if he wouldn't I could send the costume to him—Mitchell—andthe bill—it would be sure to come in useful some time or other—the costume, I mean. As though I'd dream of letting him pay for it! I told him at once there could be no question of such a thing.'
'Well, there won't, as you haven't ordered it.'
'Now, Edith, let me beg you not to argue. Isn't it bad enough that I'm slighted by my so-called friends, and treated with the basest ingratitude, without being argued with and nagged at in my own home?'
'I didn't know I was arguing. I beg your pardon. You mustn't worry about this, dear. After all, I suppose if they found at the rehearsals that they didn't reallyneeda mandarin—I mean, that the fancy-ball scene wasn't necessary—perhaps from their point of view they were right to cut it out. Don't have a lasting feud with Mitchell—isn't he rather an important friend for you—at the office?'
'Edith, Mitchell shall never set foot under my roof—never darken these doors again!'
'I wonder why, when people are angry, they talk about their roofs and doors? If you were pleased with Mitchell again, you wouldn'taskhim to set foot under your roof—nor to darken the door. You'd ask him to come and see us. Anyhow, he won't feel it so very much—because he'll not notice it. He's never been here yet.'
'I know; but Mrs Mitchell was going to call. You will be out to her now, remember.'
'I can safely promise, I think, never to receive her, Bruce.'
'Good heavens!' cried Bruce, looking at the clock. 'Do you know what the time is? I told you so! I knew it! You've made me late at the office!'
Mitchell Behaves Decently
For the last few days Bruce had been greatly depressed, his temper more variable than ever, and he had managed to collect a quite extraordinary number of entirely new imaginary illnesses. He was very capricious about them and never carried one completely through, but abandoned it almost as soon as he had proved to Edith that he really had the symptoms. Until she was convinced he never gave it up; but the moment she appeared suitably anxious about one disease he adopted another. She had no doubt that he would continue to ring the changes on varieties of ill-health until he had to some extent recovered from the black ingratitude, as he considered it, of Mitchell, in (what he called) hounding him out of the amateur theatricals, and not letting him play the part of one line at which he had slaved night and day.
One evening he came home in quite a different mood, bright and cheerful. He played with Archie, and looked in the glass a good deal; both of which signs Edith recognised as hopeful.
'How is your temperature tonight, do you think?' she asked tentatively.
'Oh, I don't know. I can't worry about that. A rather gratifying thing has happened today, in fact, very gratifying.' He smiled.
'Really? You must tell me about it.'
'However badly a chap behaves—still, when he's really sorry—I mean to say when he climbs down and begs your pardon, positively crawls at your feet, you can't hold out, Edith!'
'Of course not. Then did Mitchell—'
'And when you have known a fellow a good many years, and he has always been fairly decent to you except in the one instance—and when he is in a real difficulty—Oh, hang it! One is glad to do what one can.'
'Do I gather that there has been a touching scene between you andMitchell at the office?'
He glanced at her suspiciously. 'May I ask if you are laughing?'
'Oh, no, no! I was smiling with pleasure, hoping you had made it up.'
'Well, yes, it may be weak of me, but I couldn't see the poor fellow's scheme absolutely ruined without lending a helping hand. I have got my share of proper pride, as you know, Edith, but, after all, one has a heart.'
'What did he do?'
'Do!' exclaimed Bruce triumphantly. 'Do! Only apologised—only begged me to act with them again—only said that the piece was nothing without me, that's all! So I forgave him, and he was jolly grateful, I can tell you.'
'Fancy! Is it the same part?'
'Of course not. Didn't I tell you that the fancy ball in the second act has been cut out, so of course they don't want a mandarin. No; but Frank Luscombe has given up his part—chucked it, and they have asked me to take it.'
'Is it as long as the other one?'
'Longer! I appear twice. Mind you, in a way it's not such an important part as the other would have been; but the play wouldn't hold together without it, and, as Mitchell said, Frank Luscombe is such a conceited chap he thought himself too grand to play a footman. He didn't have the proper artistic feeling for the whole effect; it appears that he was grumbling all the time and at last gave it up. Then it occurred to Mitchell that perhaps I would help him out, and I said I would. It is a bit of a triumph, isn't it, Edith?'
'A great triumph. Then you will be going back to the rehearsals again?'
'Of course I shall; they begin tomorrow. Mitchell thinks that I shall make the hit of the evening. Some of these comparatively unimportant parts, when they are really well played, are more effective than the chief characters. Mitchell says he saw before, by the rehearsals, what a tremendous lot of talent I had. But it isn't merely talent, as he said; what they all noticed was my Personal Magnetism—and I expect that's it. Fancy a man like Mitchell coming cringing to me, after all that has passed between us! Mind you, it's a distinct score, Edith!'
'It is, indeed. If you have not got your part with you, you won't want to work at it tonight. I wonder, as you seem better, whether you would feel up to listening while I tell you something about the accounts?'
'There you are! How like a woman! The very moment I am a bit cheered up and hopeful and feeling a little stronger, you begin worrying me again.'
'Dear Bruce, I wasn't going to worry you. I don't want you to do anything—anything at all but listen, and it really will take hardly any time at all. You remember you said you weren't strong enough to go through them, and suggested I should show them to your mother? Well, I went today, and I only want to tell you what happened.'
'Awfully good of you. What did she say?'
'She didn't say much, and she thought she could arrange it, but not without speaking to your father.'
'Oh, I say, really? Well, that's all right then. The girl who plays Miss Vavasour is quite as good as any professional actress, you know; in fact, she would have made a fortune on the stage. She's a Miss Flummerfelt. Her father was German by birth. If she weren't a little bit inclined to be fat, she would be wonderfully handsome. I shall have a little scene with her in the third act, at least, not really a scene exactly, but I have to announce her. I open the door and say, "Miss Vavasour!" and then she rushes up to Lady Jenkins, who is sitting on the sofa, and tells her the bracelet has been found, and I shut the door. But there's a great deal, you know, in the tone in which I announce her. I have to do it in an apparently supercilious but really admiring tone, to show that all the servants think Miss Vavasour had taken the bracelet, but thatIam certain it isn't true. Frank Luscombe, it seems, used to say the words without any expression at all, just "Miss Vavasour!" like that, in an unmeaning sort of way.'
'I see. Your father was at home at the time, so your mother most kindly said she would go in to him at once, and try to get it settled, just to spare you the suspense of waiting for a letter about it. Isn't it sweet and considerate of her?'
'Awfully. In the second act, Lady Jenkins says to me, "Parker, has an emerald snake bracelet with a ruby head been found in any of the rooms?" and I have to say, "I will inquire, my lady." And then I move about the room, putting things in order. She says, "That will do, Parker; you can go."'
'You seem to make yourself rather a nuisance, then; but do listen, Bruce. I waited, feeling most frightfully uncomfortable, and I am afraid there was a fearful row—I felt so sorry for your mother, but you know the way she has of going straight to the point. She really wasn't long, though itseemedlong. She came back and said—'
'Of course there's one thing Mitchell asked me to do, but I was obliged to refuse. I can't shave off my moustache.'
'Heavens! You aren't going to play the part of a powdered footman with a moustache?'
'Yes, I shall; Mitchell doesn't know it yet, but I mean to. I can carry it off. I can carry off anything.'
'Well, your mother came back and said that your father had given an ultimatum.'
'Is that all he's given?'
'He will put the thing straight on one condition—it seems it is quite an easy condition; he's going to write and tell it you. Your mother says you must agree at once, not argue, and then everything will be all right.'
'Oh, I am glad. It's all through you, Edith. Thanks, awfully. It's really very good of you. You should have seen how pleased Mitchell was when I said I'd do this for him. Simply delighted. Oh, and Mrs Mitchell is going to call on you. I'll find out which day.'
'I suppose I am to be at home to her now? You told me before not to receive her, you know.'
'Well, no; if you could manage it without being rude, I would rather she only left a card. The Mansions look all right from outside, and they are in a decent neighbourhood and all that, but the flat is soverysmall. I hardly like her to see it.'
'Really, Bruce, you are absurd. Does Mitchell suppose that you live in a palace?'
'Not apalace, exactly; but I expect I have given him an impression that it is—well—all right.'
'Well, so it is. If you think the flat unworthy to be seen by MrsMitchell, why be on visiting terms with her at all? I don't want to be.'
'But, Edith, you can't refuse the advances of a woman like that, the wife of such a friend of mine as Mitchell. He's a most valuable friend—a splendid fellow—a thoroughly good sort. You've no idea how upset he was about our little quarrel the other day. He said he couldn't sleep at night thinking about it; and his wife, too, was fretting dreadfully, making herself quite ill. But now, of course, it is all right.'
'I am not so sure that it is all right; perhaps you will quarrel again on the moustache question.'
'Oh, no, we shan't! There can't be any more choppings and changings. After telling the whole company that we buried the hatchet and that I am going to take Luscombe's part, he wouldn't care to disappoint them all again. They are very keen, too, on pleasing Miss Flummerfelt, and it seems Mitchell thought she would be particularly glad I was going to act with her instead of Luscombe, because, as I say, Luscombe put so little meaning into the words. It never would have got over the footlights. Old Mitchell will be too pleased to get me back to worry about a trifle like that.'
'Well, that's all right. But do you mind writing to your mother tonight, just a line to thank her for being so kind? It was awfully nice of her, you know—she stuck up for you like anything, and put all the little extravagances on to your ill-health; and, you see, she has spared you having a scene with your father—he is just going to write you a nice note.'
'Yes, I understand, you told me before; but I have got to write a letter tonight, a rather important one. I'll write to the mater tomorrow.'
'Oh, Bruce!'
'My dear girl, business first, pleasure after. To write to one's mother is a pleasure. I wonder what the blessed ultimatum is. Look here, Edith, don't take any engagements for the next two or three weeks, will you? I shall want you every evening for rehearsing. I mean to make a good piece of work of this. I think I shall rather surprise Miss Flummerfelt and Mitchell.' 'Very well; but still I think you might write to your mother. Who is the very important business letter to?'
'Why, it's to Clarkson.'
Jane's Sister
'I have made up my mind, Charles, never to go and see Hyacinth again!'
'Indeed! What's the matter? What has happened?' Sir Charles looked up rather wearily from his book and took off his gold-rimmed spectacles.
'Why should I wear myself out giving advice that is never followed?' indignantly said the lady.
'Why, indeed?'
Lady Cannon looked more than ever like a part of her own furniture, being tightly upholstered in velvet and buttons, with a touch of gold round the neck. She was distinctly put out. Her husband glanced at her and then at the door, as she poured out tea with an ominous air.
'You know how gratified I was, how thankful to see no more of that odious Miss Yeo. I always disapproved of her. I felt she had a bad influence—at any rate not a good one—in the household. I was simply delighted to hear that Hyacinth never saw her now. Well, today I called in to give Hyacinth a suggestion about her under-housemaid—I knew she wanted a new one; and Jane has a sister out of a situation who, I felt certain, would be the very person for her; when, who do I find sitting chatting with Hyacinth, and taking the lead in the conversation in the same odious way she always did, but Miss Yeo!'
'Oh, she has come back, has she? Well, I'm glad she's all right. Poor old Anne! How is she looking?'
'Looking!' almost screamed Lady Cannon. 'As if it mattered how she looked! What did she ever look like? She looked the same as ever. Although it's a lovely day, she had on a mackintosh and a golf-cap and dogskin riding-gloves. She was dressed for a country walk in the rain, but hardly suitable for a visit to Hyacinth. How ever, that is not the point. The point is her extraordinary impertinence and disrespect tome. I naturally took scarcely any notice of her presence beyond a slight bow. I made no reference whatever to her sudden disappearance, which, though exceedingly ill-bred and abrupt, I personally happened to be very glad of. I merely said what I had come to say to Hyacinth: that Jane's sister was looking for a situation, and that Hyacinth's was the very one to suit her. Instead of allowing Hyacinth to speak, what does Miss Yeo do but most impertinently snap me up by saying—what do you suppose she asked me, Charles?'
'How on earth could I possibly guess?'
'She asked me, in a hectoring tone, mind, what I knew about Jane's sister! Daring to askme a thing like that!'
'What did you say?'
'I answered, in a very proper and dignified way, of course, that I personally knew nothing whatever about her, but that I was always glad to get a good place for a relative of any domestic of mine; so Miss Yeo answered that she thought her sister—I mean Jane—having been with me five years was a circumstance not in her favour at all, quite the contrary, and she would strongly advise Hyacinth not to take Jane's sister on so flimsy recommendation. I was thunderstruck. But this is not all. Before I left Miss Yeo dared to invite me to go to see her and her friends, and even went so far as to say she could get me an invitation to a musical party they are giving in a boarding-house in Bloomsbury! She says they have charming musical evenings every Sunday, and sometimes play dumb crambo! It was really almost pathetic. To askmeto play dumb crambo! The woman can have no sense of humour!'
'I'm not so sure of that,' murmured Sir Charles.
'I merely replied that I had a great deal to do, and could make no engagements at present. I did not like to hurt her feelings by pointing out the glaring incongruity of her suggestion, but really I was astonished; and when I said this about the engagements, she answered, "Oh well, never mind; no doubt we shall often meet here," almost as if she guessed my strong aversion to seeing her at Hyacinth's house. Then she went away; and I took the opportunity to advise Hyacinth against encouraging her. Hyacinth seemed extremely vexed and did not take my suggestion at all well. So now, if I know I am to run the risk of meeting that person there and, as I say, am to give advice to no purpose, I prefer to keep away altogether.'
'Did you ask Hyacinth how it was Miss Yeo turned up again?'
'I did; and she answered that Anne could not live without her I Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous in your life?'
'One can understand it,' said Sir Charles.
'I can't. What use can she possibly be to Hyacinth?'
'It isn't only a question of use, I suppose. They've been great friends for years, but as far as that goes, there's not the slightest doubt Anne could be of great use if she chose. Hyacinth isn't practical, and has never learnt to be, and Anne is.'
'Then you approve?' said Lady Cannon in a low voice of anger; 'you defend my being insulted, contradicted, and—and—asked to play dumb crambo by such a person as Miss Yeo!'
'Oh, no, my dear; of course I don't. But I daresay she didn't mean to be rude; she was always rather eccentric, and she can be very tactful when she likes. She never was in the slightest degree in the way when she was Hyacinth's companion and actually lived with her, so I don't see how she possibly can be now by going to see her occasionally. Really, I rather like Anne Yeo.'
'Oh, you do,' said his wife furiously; 'then I regret to say we differ very radically. It ismostunnecessary that you should like her at all.'
'No doubt it is unnecessary, but how can it possibly hurt you? When I say I like her, I mean that I have a friendly sort of feeling for her. I think she's a very good sort, that's all.'
'Then perhaps ifyouwere Cecil Reeve you would like her to live in the house altogether?'
'Oh, I don't go so far as that,' said Sir Charles.
'What Ican'tget over,' continued Lady Cannon, who could never forgive the slightest opposition, and was intensely annoyed and surprised at her husband for once being of a different opinion, 'what Ican'tforgive is her astonishing interference on the question of Jane's sister! When I know that it is the very situation to suit the girl! Now, in future, whatever difficulty Hyacinth may be in, I shall never come forward again withmyhelp and experience. I wash my hands of it. It was bad enough before; Hyacinth forgot every single thing I told her, but she never contradicted me and seemed grateful for my advice. But now—now that she has that creature to make her believe that my opinions are not worth considering, of course it is all over. I am sorry for Hyacinth, very sorry. By this, by her own folly, she loses a chance that very few young married women have—a chance of getting an under-housemaid, whose sister has been with me for five years! I have no doubt whatever in my own mind that it would have been arranged today, and that I should have brought the good news back to Jane, if it hadn't been for that unpleasant and unnecessary Miss Yeo. Poor thing! It is very hard on her.'
'What extraordinary creatures women are!' said Sir Charles.'May I ask whom you are pitying now, Anne or Hyacinth?'
'Neither,' said Lady Cannon, with dignity as she left the room.'I was pitying Jane's sister.'
The Drive
From time to time invitations had been received from the Selseys, all of which Cecil had asked Hyacinth to refuse on various pretexts. As she was convinced that he intended never to see Lady Selsey again if he could possibly help it, she made no objection, and did not even remark to him that it would look odd.
One afternoon Cecil was in St James's Street when he remembered that there was an exhibition at Carfax's. He strolled in, and was for the moment quite taken by surprise at the evident gaiety of the crowd. It seemed so incongruous to hear laughter at a private view, where it is now usual to behave with the embarrassed and respectful gloom appropriate to a visit of condolence (with the corpse in the next room).
Then he remembered that it was an exhibition of Max Beerbohm's caricatures, and that people's spirits were naturally raised at the sight of the cruel distortions, ridiculous situations, and fantastic misrepresentations of their friends and acquaintances on the walls.
Cecil was smiling to himself at a charming picture of the Archbishop ofCanterbury, when someone touched him on the shoulder.
He turned round. It was Lord Selsey with his wife. He looked suave and debonair as ever, with his touch of attenuated Georgian dandyism. She had not changed, nor had her long brown eyes lost their sly and fascinating twinkle. Evidently Lord Selsey had not been able—if indeed he had tried—to persuade her to take much trouble about her appearance, but he had somehow succeeded in making her carelessness seem picturesque. The long, rather vague cloak that she wore might pass—at any rate, in a picture-gallery—as artistic, and the flat hat with its long brown feather suggested a Rembrandt, and must have been chosen for her against her will, no doubt by her husband. She really looked particularly plain this afternoon, but at the first glance Cecil admired her as much as ever.
'It's most fortunate we've met you. I have to go on somewhere, and you must drive Eugenia home. You must have a lot to talk about,' Lord Selsey said.
Cecil began to make an excuse.
'Oh, you can't refuse! Are you afraid of me? Don't you want to have a talk with your aunt?' said Eugenia.
He had no choice, and ten minutes later found himself driving in a hansom with his old love.
'Well, tell me, Cecil, aren't you happy? Weren't we quite right?'
'Of course,' said he.
'What an absurd boy you are. It's nice to see you again. I feel just like a mother to you. When am I going to see Hyacinth? Why won't you let me be friends with her? I fell in love with her at first sight. I suppose she worships you, eh? And you take it as a matter of course, and give yourself airs. Oh, I know you! I like Ted very much. He's a wonderful man. He knows everything. He's—what's the word—volatile? No, versatile. He's a walking encyclopaedia of knowledge. He can write Persian poetry as soon as look at you, and everything he hasn't learnt he knows by instinct. He has the disposition of an angel and the voice of a gazelle. No, wait a minute; do I mean gazelles? Gazelles don't sing, do they? I must mean nightingales. He sings and plays really beautifully. Why didn't you tell me what a rare creature your uncle is? He has the artistic temperament, as they call it—without any of the nasty temper and horrid unpunctuality that goes with it. I really do admire Ted, Cecil. I think he's perfect.'
'That is most satisfactory,' said Cecil.
She burst out laughing.
'Oh, Cecil, you haven't changed a bit! But marvellous and angelic as Ted is, it's a sort of relief in a way to meet an ordinary man.Youdon't know all about everything, do you? If I asked you the most difficult question about art or science or history or metaphysics, or even dress, you wouldn't be able to answer it, would you? Do you always keep your temper? Is your judgement thoroughly sound? Can you talk modern Greek, and Arabian? I think not. You're full of faults, and delightfully ignorant and commonplace. And it's jolly to see you again.'
'Eugenia, you're the same as ever. Don't go home yet. Let's go for a drive.'
'But oughtn't you to go back to your wife? I daresay she's counting the minutes. Nothing could ever grow prosaic to her, not even being married to you.'
'She's gone out somewhere, with Anne Yeo, I think. Do, Eugenia; I shall never ask you again. Just for once, like old times. I couldn't stand the idea of going to see you at Selsey House; it depressed and irritated me. This is different.'
'All right,' said Eugenia. 'Then make the most of it. I shan't do it again.'
'Where shall we drive?'
'I've always wondered what happened at the very end of the Cromwell Road. Let's drive there, and then you can leave me at home. That will be quite a long way. It's rather a mad idea, Cecil, but it's fun. Isn't it just like Ted to ask you to take me home? You see what a darling, clever creature he is. He guessed—he knew we should be a little excited at meeting again. He wanted to get it over by leaving us quite free to talk.'
'I must say I shouldn't have done that in his place,' said Cecil.
'Oh, you! You might have had some cause of jealousy. He never could. But don't think I shall allow any more freaks like this. In a way I'm rather pleased you haven't forgotten me, Cecil.'
'Who could ever forget you? Who could ever get tired of you?'
'You could; and you would have by now, if I had been foolish enough to marry you.'
She seemed to Cecil, as ever, a delightful medley of impulses, whims, and fancies. For him there was always some magic about her; in her pale radiance he still found the old dazzling, unaccountable charm….
'Hyacinth, do let us score off Lady Cannon, and get the housemaid without her help.'
'Why, I have, Anne, I advertised all by myself. Several came to see me yesterday.'
'Well, what did you do about it?'
'Nothing particular. Oh yes; I did. I wrote down the address of one or two. Emma Sinfield, Maude Frick, Annie Crutcher, and Mary Garstin. Which shall I have, Anne—which name do you like best?'
'Emma Sinfield, I think, or if she doesn't do, I rather fancy Garstin.Where does Emma live?'
'In the Cromwell Road. We ought to go and ask for her character today.'
'You go, then, and I'll go with you. You won't know what to ask. I'll do it for you.'
'All right. We may as well drive there as anywhere.'
Anne declared the character quite satisfactory, for Emma Sinfield's late employer, although displaying the most acute conscientiousness, could find no fault with her except a vaulting ambition and wild desire to better herself, which is not unknown in other walks of life, and they were driving away in the motor when they came face to face with Cecil and Eugenia in a hansom. He was talking with so much animation that he did not see them. She was looking straight before her.
Hyacinth turned pale as death and seized Anne's hand. Anne said nothing.
The Quarrel
'So that's why he wouldn't take me to see her! He's been meeting her in secret. My instinct was right, but I didn't think he would do that now. Oh, to think he's been deceiving me!'
'But you mustn't be in such a hurry to judge.' protested Anne; 'it may be just some accidental thing. Hyacinth, do take my advice. Don't say anything about it to him, and see if he mentions it. If he doesn't, then you'll have some reason for suspecting him, and we'll see what can be done.'
'He won't mention it—I know he won't. What accident could make them meet in a hansom in the Cromwell Road? It's too cruel! And I thought she was good. I didn't know she'd be so wicked as this. Why, they've only been married a few months. He never loved me; I told you so, Anne. He ought not to have married me. He only did it out of pique. He never cared for anyone but that woman.'
'Is it hopeless to ask you to listen to reason? So far you have no proof of anything of the kind. Certainly not that he cares for her now.'
'Didn't I see his face? I don't think he's ever looked like that at me.'
If Anne had had a momentary feeling of triumph, of that resignation to the troubles of other people that we are all apt to feel when the trouble is caused by one of whom we are jealous, the unworthy sentiment could not last at the sight of her friend's grief.
'This is serious, Hyacinth. And everything depends on your being clever now. I don't believe that she can possibly mean any harm. She never did. Why on earth should she now? And if you remember, she didn't look a bit interested. There must be some simple explanation.'
'And if there isn't?'
'Then a strong line must be taken. He must be got away from her.'
"To think of having to say that! And he says he loves me! On our honeymoon I began to believe it. Since we have been home I told you I had vague fears, but nothing like this. It's an outrage."
"It isn't necessarily an outrage for your husband to drive his aunt in a hansom."
"Don't make fun of me, Anne, when you know she was formerly—"
"But she wasn't, my dear. That's just the point. I'm perfectly sure, Ireallybelieve, that she never regarded him in that way at all. She looks on him as a boy, and quite an ordinary boy."
"Ah, but he isn't ordinary!"
"What ever you do, Hyacinth, don't meet him by making a scene. At present he associates you with nothing but gentleness, affection, and pleasure. That is your power over him. It's a power that grows. Don't let him have any painful recollections of you."
"But the other woman, according to you, never gave him pleasure and gentleness and all that—yet you see he turns to her."
"That's a different thing. She didn't love him."
There was a pause.
"And if I find he doesn't mention the meeting, deceives me about it, don't you even advise me to charge him with it then?"
"It is what I should advise, if I wanted you to have a frightful quarrel—perhaps a complete rupture. If you found out he had deceived you, what would you really do?"
Hyacinth stood up.
"I should—no, I couldn't live without him!"
She broke down.
"I give you two minutes by the clock to cry," said Anne dryly, "not a second more. If you spoil your eyes and give yourself a frightful headache, what thanks do you suppose you'll get?"
Hyacinth dried her eyes.
"Nothing he says, nothing he tells me, even if he's perfectly open about the drive this afternoon, will ever convince me that he's not in love with her, and that's the awful thing."
"Even if that were true, it's not incurable. You're his wife. A thousand times prettier—and twenty years younger! The longer he lives with you the more fond he'll grow of you. You are his life—and a very charming life—not exactly a dull duty. She is merely—at the worst—a whim."
'Horrid creature! I believe she's a witch,' Hyacinth cried.
'Don't let us talk it over any more. Just as if your own instinct won't tell you what to do far better than I ever could! Besides, you understand men; you know how to deal with them by nature—I never could. I see through them too well. I merely wanted to warn you—being myself a cool looker-on—to be prudent, not to say or do anything irrevocable. If you find you can't help making a scene, well, make one. It can't do much harm. It's only that making oneself unpleasant is apt to destroy one's influence. Naturally, people won't stand being bullied and interfered with if they can help it. It isn't human nature.'
'No; and it isn't human nature to share the person one loves with anyone else. That I could never do. I shall show him that.'
'The question doesn't arise. I feel certain you're making a mountain out of a mole-hill, dear. Well—cheer up!'
Anne took her departure.
As Cecil came in, looking, Hyacinth thought, particularly and irritatingly handsome, she felt a fresh attack of acute jealousy. And yet, in spite of her anger, her first sensation was a sort of relenting—a wish to let him off, not to entrap him into deceiving her by pretending not to know, not to act a part, but to throw herself into his arms, violently abusing Eugenia, forgiving him, and imploring him vaguely to take her away.
She did not, however, give way to this wild impulse, but behaved precisely as usual; and he, also, showed no difference. He told her about the pictures, and said she must come and see them with him, but he said nothing whatever of having seen Lady Selsey. He was deceiving her, then! How heartless, treacherous, faithless—and horribly handsome and attractive he was! She was wondering how much longer she could keep her anger to herself, when by the last post she received a note. It was from the Selseys, asking her and Cecil to dine with them on an evening near at hand.
Her hand trembled as she passed the letter to Cecil.
'Am I to refuse?' she asked.
He answered carelessly—
'Oh, no! I suppose we may as well accept.'
The words 'Have you seen her yet?' were on her lips, but she dared not say them. She was afraid he would tell her the truth.
'Have you any objection?' he asked.
She didn't answer, but walked to the door and then turned round and said—
'None whatever—toyourgoing. You can go where you please, and do as you like. But I shall certainly not go with you!'
'Hyacinth!'
'You've been deceiving me, Cecil. Don't speak—please don't—because you would lie to me, and I couldn't bear it. I saw you driving with that woman today. I quite understand that you're beginning to think it would be better I should go to her house. No doubt you arranged it with her. But I'm not going to make it so convenient for you as all that!'
'My dear child, stop, listen!—let me explain. We met accidentally at the picture-gallery, and her husband himself asked me to drive her home. I couldn't get out of it.'
'Oh! He asked you to drive her home! You went a long way round, Cecil. The Cromwell Road is scarcely on the way to Regent's Park from St James's Street. Anyhow, you need not have done it. I have felt for some time that you don't really care for me, and I'm not going to play the part of the deceived and ridiculous wife, nor to live an existence of continual wrangling. I'm disappointed, and I must accept the disappointment.'
'My dearest girl, what do you mean?'
'Let us separate!' she answered. 'I will go abroad somewhere with Anne, and you can stay here and go on with your intrigue. I doubt if it will make you very happy in the end—it is too base, under the circumstances. At any rate, you're perfectly free.'
'You are absolutely wrong, Hyacinth. Terribly wrong—utterly mistaken! I swear to you that today is the first time I've seen her since she married. She wants to know you better—to be your friend. That is why she asked us again. She's devoted to her husband. It was a mere chance, our drive today—there's nothing in it. But still, though I'm absolutely innocent, if youwishto leave me, I shall not stand in your way. You want to go abroad with Anne Yeo, do you? Upon my word, I believe you prefer her to me!'
'You are grotesque, Cecil. But, at least, I can believe what she says. I know she would not be treacherous to me.'
'I suppose it was she who put this pretty fancy in your head—this nonsense about my imaginary flirtation with—Lady Selsey?'
'Was it Anne who made you drive with Lady Selsey, and not tell me about it? No, I can't believe you—I wish I could. This is all I've seen, so it's all you acknowledge. For a long time I've known that it was she who was between us. You have always cared for her. I suppose you always will. Well, I am not going to fight with her.'
She threw the note on the table.
'You can answer it! Say you'll go, but that I am going away. I shall probably go tomorrow.'
The door closed behind her. Cecil was left alone.
'By Jove!' he said to himself; and then more slowly, 'By—Jove!'
He lighted a cigarette and immediately threw it away. He rang the bell, and when the servant came, said he didn't want anything. He went into the dining-room, poured out some brandy-and-soda. He looked at it and left it untouched. Then, suddenly, he went upstairs. There was an expression on his face of mingled anxiety, slight amusement, and surprise. He went to her room. The door was locked.
'Hyacinth,' he said in a low voice, 'Hyacinth, darling, do open the door…. I want to speak to you. Do answer. You are quite mistaken, you know…. You know I don't care for anyone but you, dear. It's too absurd. Open the door!'
'Please go away, Cecil.'
'But, I say, Iinsiston your opening the door! Iwillcome in; you're treating me shamefully, and I won't stand it. Do you hear?'
She came close to the door and said in a low, distinct voice—
'I don't wish to see you, and you must please leave me alone. I'm busy.'
'Busy! Good Lord! What are you doing?'
'I'm packing,' she answered.
He waited a second, and then went downstairs again and sat down in the arm-chair.
'By Jove!' he exclaimed again. 'By—Jove!'
His thoughts were more eloquent. But a baffled Englishman is rarely very articulate.
Anne and Eugenia
'If you please, my lady, there's someone called to see you.'
Eugenia looked up in surprise. She was in the library, occupied in cataloguing Lord Selsey's books.
'It's a—well—it's not exactly a young person, my lady. She says she's sure you will see her. The name is Miss Yeo.'
'Miss Yeo?' Eugenia looked puzzled. 'Show her in at once.'
Anne came in, coolly.
'I'm afraid you hardly remember me, Lady Selsey,' she said. 'We met last summer. I was Miss Verney's companion.'
Eugenia held out her hand cordially.
'Of course, I remember you very well. Why, it was here we met! At that musical party! Do sit down, Miss Yeo. Won't you take off your mackintosh?'
'No, thanks. I must apologise for intruding. The fact is I've come about something important. It's about Mrs Reeve.'
'Mrs Reeve?' Eugenia leant eagerly forward. 'Do, do tell me! Anything about her interests me so much.'
'You'll think me very impertinent, Lady Selsey. But I can't help it.I'll come straight to the point.'
'Do, please.'
'Mrs Reeve has had a terrible quarrel with her husband. She would have left him this morning, but that I persuaded her to wait. I came to tell you because I felt sure you would be sorry. It's about you, Lady Selsey.'
'About me!'
'Yes. She saw you driving with her husband, and he didn't mention it. She's jealous of you. Of course he explained it, but she doesn't believe him. I thought he probably would not say anything about it to you. I know, of course, it's a sort of misunderstanding. But I thought perhaps you could do something about it to make it all right.'
'Iamgrieved,' said Eugenia, clasping her hands. 'You know Cecil was an old friend of mine, don't you? I met him again after many months, and in a foolish impulse we went for a drive. That is all, of course. Miss Yeo, I'm sure you're her true friend. This quarrel must be made up. What can I do? What do you advise?'
'Even if this particular quarrel is patched up, she would always be suspicious and jealous of you. It makes her miserable.'
'Poor darling, how ridiculous! I'm sure I'd be only too pleased never to see the silly boy again.'
'I quite understand all that, but, you see, she's very proud. That sort of rupture—all being connected as you are—would be noticeable to other people, and she's very sensitive—she couldn't stand it.'
Eugenia thought a moment.
'Suppose we went away somewhere for a year? That would give her time to forget this nonsense. My husband has been trying to persuade me to go to the Ionian Islands with him—yachting. He'll be only too pleased if I say I will. I'm a wretched sailor, but if it would do any good—'
'It would be perfect. It would all come right.'
'Then I'll do it. I had asked them to dinner for next week. I haven't had an answer yet. I'll telegraph, putting them off, and explaining why.'
'That would be splendid,' said Anne.
'Then it's settled,' answered Eugenia briefly.
Anne got up.
'Of course it must be understood that you know nothing about it—I mean about the quarrel,' she said.
'Of course not. Not a soul, not my husband, nor Cecil, nor his wife shall ever know a word about your visit, Miss Yeo.'
'That is very kind of you, Lady Selsey. I—well, you know I'm devoted to Hyacinth. At first I was almost selfishly glad about this. I could have got her back. We could have gone away together. But I can't see her miserable. She has such a mania for Cecil Reeve! Isn't it extraordinary?'
'Most extraordinary,' replied Eugenia emphatically.
'And since she's got him, she may as well be happy with him,' Anne added.
'Of course. And she will. This misunderstanding won't do any harm in the long run,' said Eugenia. 'If he had any real fear of losing her, it would do him a great deal of good. He's devoted to her really, more than either of them knows.'
'I daresay,' said Anne dryly. 'It's sure to be fixed up soon, and thenI'm going away too.'
'You are! Why, Miss Yeo?'
'Oh, I don't know. I feel I'm not in the picture. I hate the sight of turtle-doves. If I've been able to do her a good turn in this little trouble, it will be a great consolation where I'm going.'
'I'm afraid you're not happy, Miss Yeo?' said Eugenia impulsively.
'I don't know that I am, particularly. But does it matter? We can't all be happy.'
'I'm sorry. I want everyone to be happy.'
'I suppose it's always a mistake to make an idol of anyone,' said Anne. 'I'm afraid Hyacinth thinks that is what her husband has done about you.'
'Thatwould indeed be inexcusable!'
'She thought that the hopelessness of it had made him idealise you, and even that worried her; but when she saw you together, and it seemed—well, concrete treachery—she was furious.'
'It will bring them nearer than they have ever been before,' assuredEugenia.
'Good-bye,' said Anne. 'I'll write to you—once—and tell you what has happened.'
'Do, and be quick; I shall be busy buying yachting dresses. By the way, you might take the telegram.'
Anne waited while she wrote—
'Frightfully sorry, dinner next week unavoidably postponed as unexpectedly leaving town for season. Writing. Eugenia Selsey.'
'I will write to her when I've arranged it with my husband.'
Anne took the telegram.