It was characteristic of Aylmer, the moment he was able, to see as many friends as he was allowed. Aylmer was a very gregarious person, though—or perhaps because—he detested parties. He liked company, but hated society. Arthur Coniston, who always did his best to attract attention by his modest, self-effacing manner, was sitting with his handsome young head quite on one side from intense respect for his host, whom he regarded with the greatest admiration as a man of culture, and a judge of art. He rejoiced to be one of the first to see him, just returned after three years' absence from England, and having spent the last three months at the front.
Arthur Coniston (also in khaki), who was a born interviewer, was anxious to know Aylmer's impression of certain things over here, after his long absence.
'I should so very much like to know,' he said, 'what your view is of the attitude to life of the Post-Impressionists.'
Aylmer smiled. He said: 'I think their attitude to life, as you call it, is best expressed in some of Lear's Nonsense Rhymes: "His Aunt Jobiska said, 'Everyone knows that a pobble is better without his toes.'"'
Archie looked up in smiling recognition of these lines, and Edith laughed.
'Excuse me, but I don't quite follow you,' said young Coniston gravely.
'Why, don't you see? Of course, Lear is the spirit they express. A portrait by a post-Impressionist is sure to be "A Dong with a luminous nose." And don't you remember, "The owl and the pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat"? Wouldn't a boat painted by a Post-Impressionist be pea-green?'
'Perfectly. I see that. But—why the pobble without its toes?'
'Why, the sculptor always surrenders colour, and the painted form. Each has to give up something for the limitation of art. But the more modern artist gives up much more—likeness, beauty, a few features here and there—a limb now and then.'
'Ah yes. I quite see what you mean. Like the statuary of Rodin or Epstein. One sees really only half the form, as if growing out of the sketchy sculpture. And then there's another thing—I hope I'm not wearying you?'
'No, indeed. It's great fun: such a change to hear about this sort of thing again.'
'The Futurists?' asked Arthur. 'What is your view of them?'
'Well, of course, they are already past, They always were. But I should say their attitude to life is that of the man who is looking at the moon reflected in a lake, but can't see it; he sees the reflection of a coal-scuttle instead.'
'Ah yes. They see things wrong, you mean. They're not so real, not so logical, as the Post-Impressionists.'
'Yes, the Futurist is off the rails entirely, and he seems to see hardly anything but railways. But all that noisy nonsense of the Futurists always bored me frightfully,' Aylmer said. 'Affectation for affectation, I prefer the pose of depression and pessimism to that of bullying and high spirits. When the affected young poet pretended to be used up and worn out, one knew there was vitality under it all. But when I see a cheerful young man shrieking about how full of life he is, banging on a drum, and blowing on a tin trumpet, and speaking of his good spirits, it depresses me, since naturally it gives the contrary impression. It can't be real. It ought to be but it isn't. If the noisy person meant what he said, he wouldn't say it.'
'I see. The modernposeursaren't so good as the old ones. Odle is not so clever as Beardsley.'
'Of course not. Beardsley had the gift of line—though he didn't always know where to draw it—but his illustrations to Wilde's work were unsuitable, because Beardsley wanted everything down in black and white, and Wilde wanted everything in purple and gold. But both had their restraints, and their pose was reserve, not flamboyance.'
'I think you mean that if people are so sickening as to have an affectation at all, you would rather they kept it quiet,' said Edith.
'Exactly! At least, it brings a smile to one's lips to see a very young man pretend he is bored with life. I have often wondered what the answer would be from one of these chaps, and what he would actually say, if you held a loaded pistol to his head—I mean the man who says he doesn't think life worth living.'
'What do you think he would say?' asked Coniston.
'He would scream: "Good heavens! What are you doing? Put that down!"' said Edith.
'She's right,' said Aylmer. 'She always is.'
Dulcie came in and brought tea.
'I hope we're not tiring him,' Edith asked her.
'Oh no. I think it does him good. He enjoys it.'
She sat down with Archie and talked to him gently in the corner.
'After living so much among real things,' Coniston was saying, 'one feels half ashamed to discuss our old subjects.'
However, he and Aylmer continued to talk over books and pictures, Coniston hanging on his lips as though afraid of missing or forgetting a word he said.
Presently Edith told Aylmer about their new friend, Madame Frabelle. He was very curious to see her.
'What is she like?' he asked. 'I can't imagine her living with you. Is she a skeleton at the feast?'
'A skeleton!' exclaimed Coniston. 'Good heavens—no! Quite the contrary.'
'A skeleton who was always feasting would hardly remain one long,' suggested Edith.
'Anyhow,' said Aylmer, 'the cupboard is the proper place for a skeleton.'
Archie had joined the group round Aylmer. Edith sat in a corner for some time, chatting with Dulcie. They arranged that Bruce was to call the next day, and Edith and Madame Frabelle the day after.
When they went away Archie, who had listened very closely to the conversation, said:
'What a lot of manners Mr Coniston has! What did he mean by saying thatSpanish painters painted a man in a gramophone?'
Edith racked her brain to remember the sentence. Then she said, with a laugh:
'Oh yes, I know! Mr Coniston said: "The Spanish artists painted—to a man—in monochrome." I can't explain it, Archie. It doesn't matter. Why did you leave Miss Clay and come back to us?'
'Why, I like her all right, but you get tired of talking to women. I get bored with Dilly sometimes.'
'Then you're looking forward to going back to school?'
'I shall like the society of boys of my own sex again,' he said grandly.
'You're not always very nice to Dilly, Archie. I've noticed when anything is given to her, you always snatch at it. You must remember Ladies first.'
'Yes, that's all very well. But then Dilly takes it all, and only gives me what's left.'
Archie looked solemn.
'Edith,' said Bruce, next morning, with some importance of manner, 'I've had a letter from Aylmer—Aylmer Ross, you know—asking me,mostparticularly, to call on him.'
'Oh, really,' said Edith, who knew it already, as she had asked him to write to Bruce.
'He wants me to come at half-past four,' said Bruce, looking over the letter pompously. 'Four-thirty, to the minute. I shall certainly do it. I shan't lose a minute.'
'I'm afraid you'll have to lose a few minutes,' said Edith. 'It's only ten o'clock.'
Bruce stared at her, folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket. He thought it would be a suitable punishment for her not to see it.
Obviously he was not in the best of humours. Not being sure what was wrong, Edith adopted the simple plan of asking what he meant.
'What do I mean!' exclaimed Bruce, who, when his grievances, were vague, relied on such echoes for his most cutting effects. 'You ask me what I mean? Mean, indeed!' He took some toast and repeated bitterly: 'Ah! You may well ask me what I mean!'
'May I? Well, what were the observations you didn't approve of?'
'Why … what you said. About several minutes being lost before half-past four.'
'Oh, Bruce dear, I didn't mean any harm by it.'
'Harm, indeed!' repeated Bruce. 'Harm! It isn't a question of actual harm. I don't say that you meant to injure me, nor even, perhaps, to hurt my feelings. But it's a way of speaking—a tone—that I think extremelydéplacé, from you to me. Do you follow me, Edith? Fromyoutome.'
'That's a dark saying. Well, whatever I said I take it back, if you don't like it. Will that do?'
Bruce was mollified, but wouldn't show it at once.
'Ah,' he said, 'that's all very well. These sort of things are not so easily taken back. You should think before you speak. Prevention is better than cure.'
'Yes, and a stitch in time saves nine—though it doesn't rhyme. And it's no good crying over spilt milk, and two heads are better than one. But, really, Bruce, I didn't mean it.'
'What didn't you mean?'
'Good heavens, I really don't know by now! I'm afraid I've utterly forgotten what we were talking about,' said Edith, looking at the door with some anxiety.
She was hoping that Madame Frabelle would soon come down and cause a diversion.
'Look here, Edith,' said Bruce, 'when an old friend, an old friend of yours and mine, and at one time a very intimate friend—next door to a brother—when such a friend as that has been wounded at the front, fighting for our country—and, mind you, he behaved with remarkable gallantry, for it wasn't really necessary for him to go, as he was beyond the age—well, when a friend does a thing like that, and comes back wounded, and writes, with his own hand, asking me to go and see him—well, I think it's the least I can do! I don't know whatyouthink. It seems tomethe right thing. If you disagree with me I'm very sorry. But, frankly, it appears to me that I ought to go.'
'Who could doubt it?'
'Read the letter for yourself,' said Bruce, suddenly taking it out of his pocket and giving it to her. 'There, you see. "Dear Ottley," he says.'
Here Bruce went to her side of the table and leant over her, reading the letter aloud to her over her shoulder, while she was reading it to herself.
'"DEAR OTTLEY,—If you could look in tomorrow about half-past four, I should be very glad to see you. Yours sincerely, AYLMER ROSS." Fairly cordial, I think, isn't it? Or not? Perhaps you think it cold. Would you call it a formal letter?'
Bruce took the letter out of her hand and read it over again to himself.
'Very nice, dear,' said Edith.
'So I thought.' He put it away with a triumphant air.
Edith was thinking that the writing was growing stronger. Aylmer must be better.
'I say, I hope it isn't a sign he's not so well, that he wants to see me. I don't call it a good sign. He's depressed. He thinks I'll cheer him up.'
'And I'm sure you will. Ah, here's Madame Frabelle.'
'I'm afraid I'm a little late,' said their guest, with her amiable smile.
'Oh dear, no—not at all, not at all,' said Bruce, who was really much annoyed at her unpunctuality. 'Of course, if you'd been a minute later I shouldn't have had the pleasure of seeing you at all before I went to the office—that's all. And what does that matter? Good heavens,that'sof no importance! Good gracious, this is Liberty Hall, I hope—isn't it? I should be very sorry for my guests to feel tied in any way—bound to be down at any particular time. Will you have some coffee? Edith, give Madame Frabelle a cup of coffee. Late? Oh dear, no; certainly not!' He gave a short, ironical laugh.
'Well, I think I'm generally fairly punctual,' said Madame Frabelle, beginning her breakfast without appearing to feel this sarcasm. 'What made me late this morning was that Archie and Dilly came into my room and asked me to settle a kind of dispute they were having.'
'They regard you quite as a magistrate,' said Edith. 'But it was too bad of them to come and bother you so early.'
'Oh no. Not at all. I assure you I enjoy it. And, besides, a boy with Archie's musical talents is bound to have the artistic temperament, you know, and—well—of course, we all know what that leads to—excitement; and finally a quarrel sometimes.'
'If he were really musical I should have thought he ought to be more harmonious,' Edith said.
'Oh, by the way, Edith, did you consult Landi about him?' Bruce inquired. 'You said you intended to.'
'Oh yes, I did. Landi can see no sign of musical genius yet.'
'Dear, dear!' said Bruce.
'Ah, but I am convinced he's wrong. Wait a few years and you'll find he'll agree with me yet,' said Madame Frabelle. 'I'm not at all sure, either, that a composer like Landi is necessarily the right person to judge of youthful genius.'
'Perhaps not. And yet you'd think he'd know a bit about it, too! I mean to say, they wouldn't have made him a baronet if he didn't understand his profession. Excuse my saying so, won't you?'
'Not at all,' she answered. 'It doesn't follow. I mean it doesn't follow that he's right about Archie. Did he try the boy's voice?' she asked Edith.
'Very much.'
'How?'
'Well, he asked Archie to sing a few notes.'
'And did he?'
'Yes, he did. But they weren't the notes Landi asked him to sing.'
'Oh!'
'Then Landi played him two tunes, and found he didn't know one from the other.'
'Well, what of that?'
'Nothing at all. Except that it showed he had no ear, as well as no voice. That is all.'
Madame Frabelle would never own she was beaten.
'Ah, well, well,' she said, shaking her head in an oracular way. 'You wait!'
'Certainly. I shall.'
'By the way, I may be a little late for dinner tonight. I'm going to see an old friend who's been wounded in the war,' Bruce told Madame Frabelle proudly.
It had always been something of an ordeal to Edith when she knew that Aylmer and Bruce were alone together. It was a curious feeling, combined of loyalty to Bruce (she hated him to make himself ridiculous), loyalty to Aylmer, and an indescribable sense of being lowered in her own eyes. When they seemed friendly together it pained her self-respect. Most women will understand the sensation. However, she knew it had to be, and would be glad when it was over.
The next evening Bruce came in, holding himself very straight, with a slightly military manner. When he saw his wife he just stopped himself from saluting.
'That's a man!' he exclaimed. 'That's a splendid fellow.'
Edith didn't answer.
'You don't appreciate him. In my opinion Aylmer Ross is a hero.'
'I hope he's better?'
'Better! He would say so, anyhow. Ah, he's a wonderful chap!' Bruce hummed Tipperary below his breath.
Edith was surprised to find herself suffering no less mental discomfort and irritation while Bruce talked about Aylmer and praised him than she used to feel years ago. It seemed as if three years had passed and altered nothing. She answered coldly. Bruce became more enthusiastic. He declared that she didn't know how to value such a fine character. 'Women,' he repeated, 'don't know a hero when they see one.'
Evidently if Bruce had had his way Aylmer would have been covered withDSO's and VC's; nothing was good enough for him.
On the other hand, if Edith had praised Aylmer, Bruce would have been the first todebinerhis actions, undervalue his gifts, and crab him generally.
Edith was not one of those women, far more common than is supposed, who consider themselves aggrieved and injured when a discarded lover consoles himself with someone else. Nor was she one of the numerous people who will not throw away what they no longer want for fear someone else will pick it up. She had such a strong sympathy for Dulcie Clay that she had said to herself several times she would like to see her perfectly happy. Edith was convinced that the nurse adored her patient, but she was not at all sure that he returned the admiration. Edith herself had only seen him alone once, and on that occasion they had said hardly anything to each other. He had been constrained and she had been embarrassed. The day that Arthur Coniston was there and they talked of pictures, Aylmer had given her, by a look, to understand that he would like to see her again alone, and she knew perfectly well, even without that, that he was longing for anothertête-à-tête.
However, the next day Edith went with Madame Frabelle.
This was a strangely unsatisfactory visit. Edith knew his looks and every tone of his voice so well that she could see that Aylmer, unlike everybody else, was not in the least charmed with Madame Frabelle. She bored him; he saw nothing in her.
Madame Frabelle was still more disappointed. She had been told he was brilliant; he said nothing put commonplaces. He was supposed to be witty; he answered everything she said literally. He was said to be a man of encyclopaedic information; but when Madame Frabelle questioned him on such subjects his answers were dry and short; and when she tried to draw him out about the war, he changed the subject in a manner that was not very far from being positively rude.
Leaving them for a moment, Edith went to talk to Dulcie.
'How do you think he's getting on?' she said.
'He's getting well; gradually. He seems a little nervous the last day or so.'
'Do you think he's been seeing too many people?'
'He hasn't seen more than the doctor has allowed. But, do you know, Mrs.Ottley, I think it depends a great deal who the people are.'
She waited a moment and then went on in a low voice:
'You do him more good than anyone. You see, he's known you so long,' she added gently, 'and so intimately. It's no strain—I mean he hasn't got to make conversation.'
'Yes, I see,' said Edith.
'Mr. Ross hasn't any near relations—no mother or sister. You seem to take their place—if you understand what I mean.'
Edith thought it charmingly tactful of her to put it like that.
'I'm sureyoutake their place,' Edith said.
Dulcie looked down.
'Oh, of course, he hasn't to make any effort with me. But thenIdon't amuse him, and he wants amusement, and change. It's a great bore for a man like that—so active mentally, and in every way—to have to lie perfectly still, especially when he has no companion but me. I'm rather dull in some ways. Besides, I don't know anything about the subjects he's interested in.'
'Don't talk nonsense,' said Edith, smiling. 'I should imagine that just to look at you would be sufficient.'
'Oh, Mrs. Ottley! How can you?'
She turned away as if rather pained than pleased at the compliment.
'I haven't very high spirits,' she said. 'I'm not sure that I don't sometimes depress him.'
'On the contrary; I'm sure he wouldn't like a breezy, restless person bouncing about the room and roaring with laughter,' Edith said.
She smiled. 'Perhaps not. But there might be something between. He will be able to go for a drive in a week or two. I wondered whether, perhaps, you could take him out?'
'Oh yes; I dare say that could be arranged.'
'I have to go out all tomorrow afternoon. I wondered whether you would come and sit with him, Mrs. Ottley?'
'Certainly I will, if you like.'
'Oh, please do! I know he's worrying much more about his son than anybody thinks. You see, the boy's really very young, and I'm not sure he's strong.'
'I suppose neither of them told the truth about their age,' said Edith. 'It reminds one of the joke inPunch: "Where do you expect to go if you tell lies? To the front."'
Miss Clay gave a little laugh. Then she started. A bell was heard ringing rather loudly.
'I'll tell him you're coming tomorrow, then,' she said.
They returned to Aylmer's room.
He was looking a little sulky. He said as Edith came in:
'I thought you'd gone without saying good-bye. What on earth were you doing?'
'Only talking to Miss Clay,' said Edith, sitting down by him. 'How sweet she is.'
'Charming,' said Madame Frabelle. 'Wonderfully pretty, too.'
'She's a good nurse,' said Aylmer briefly. 'She's been awfully good to me. But I do hope I shan't need her much longer.' He spoke with unnecessary fervour.
'Oh, Mr Ross!' exclaimed Madame Frabelle. 'I'm sure if I were a young man I should be very sorry when she had to leave me!'
'Possibly. However, you're not a young man. Neither am I.'
There was a moment's silence. This was really an exceptional thing whenMadame Frabelle was present. Edith could not recall one occasion whenEglantine had had nothing to say. Aylmer must have been excessivelysnubbing. Extraordinary I Wonder of wonders! He had actually silencedMadame Frabelle!
All Aylmer's natural politeness and amiability returned when they rose to take their leave. He suddenly became cordial, cheery and charming. Evidently he was so delighted the visitor was going that it quite raised his spirits. When they left he gave Edith a little reproachful look. He did not ask her to come again. He was afraid she would bring Madame Frabelle.
'Well, Edith, I thoroughly understand your husband's hero-worship for that man,' said Madame Frabelle (meaning she thoroughly misunderstood it). 'I've been studying his character all this afternoon.'
'Do tell me what you think of him!'
'Edith, I'm sorry to say it, but it's a hard, cold, cruel nature.'
'Is it really?'
'Mr Aylmer Ross doesn't know what it is to feel emotion, sentiment, or tenderness. Principle he has, perhaps, and no doubt he thinks he has great self-control, but that's only because he's absolutely incapable of passion of any kind.'
Edith smiled.
'I see you're amused at my being right again. It is an odd thing about me, I must own. I never make a mistake,' said Madame Frabelle complacently.
As they walked home, she continued to discourse eloquently on the subject of Aylmer. She explained him almost entirely away.
There was nothing Madame Frabelle fancied herself more on than physiognomy. She pointed out to Edith how the brow showed a narrow mind, the mouth bitterness. (How extraordinarily bored Aylmer must have been to give that impression of all others, thought her listener.) And the eyes, particularly, gave away his chief characteristic, the thing that one missed most in his personality.
'And what is that?'
'Can't you see?'
'No, I don't think I can.'
'He has no sense of humour!' said Madame Frabelle triumphantly.
After a few moment's pause, Edith said:
'What do you think of Miss Clay?'
'She's very pretty—extremely pretty. But I don't quite like to say whatI think of her. I'd rather not. Don't ask me. It doesn't concern me.'
'As bad as that? Oh, do tell me. You're so interesting about character,Eglantine.'
'Dear Edith, how kind of you. Well, she's very, very clever, of course. Most intellectual. A remarkable brain, I should say. But she's deep and scheming; it's a sly, treacherous face.'
'Really, I can't see that.'
Madame Frabelle put her hand on Edith's shoulder. They had just reached the house.
'Ah, you don't know so much of life as I do, my dear.'
'I should have said she is certainly not at all above the average in cleverness, and I think her particularly simple and frank.'
'Ah, but that's all put on. You'll see I'm right some day. However, it doesn't matter. No doubt she's a very good nurse.'
'Don't abuse her to Bruce,' said Edith, as they went in.
'Certainly not. But why do you mind?'
'I don't know; I suppose I like her.'
Madame Frabelle laughed. 'How strange you are!'
She lowered her voice as they walked upstairs, and said:
'To tell the real truth, she gave me a shiver down the spine. I believe that girl capable of anything. That dark skin with those pale blue eyes! I strongly suspect she has a touch of the tarbrush.'
'My dear! Nonsense. You can't have looked at her fine little features and her white hands.'
'Why is she so dark?'
'There may have been Italian or Spanish blood in her family,' saidEdith, laughing. 'It's not a symptom of crime.'
'There may, indeed,' replied Madame Frabelle in a tone of deep meaning, as they reached the door of her room. 'But, mark my words, Edith, that's a dangerous woman!'
* * * * *
An event had occurred in the Ottley household during their absence. Archie had brought home a dog and implored his mother to let him keep it.
'What sort of dog is it?' asked Edith.
'Come and look at it. It isn't any particularsort. It's just a dog.'
'But, my dear boy, you're going to school the day after tomorrow, and you can't take it with you.'
'I know; but I'll teach Dilly to look after it.'
It was a queer, rough, untidy-looking creature; it seemed harmless enough; a sort of Dobbin inVanity Fairin the canine world.
'It's an inconsistent dog. Its face is like a terrier's, and its tail like a sort of spaniel,' said Archie. 'But I think it might be trained to a bloodhound.'
'You do, do you? What use would a bloodhound be to Dilly?'
'Well, you never know. It might be very useful.'
'I'm afraid there's not room in the house for it.'
'Oh, Mother!' both the children cried together. 'Wemustkeep it!'
'Was it lost?' she asked.
Archie frowned at Dilly, who was beginning to say, 'Not exactly.'
'Tell me how you got it.'
'It was just walking along, and I took its chain. The chain was dragging on the ground.'
'You stole it,' said Dilly.
Archie flew at her, but Edith kept him back.
'Stole it! I didn't! Its master had walked on and evidently didn't care a bit about it, poor thing. That's not stealing.'
'If Master Archie wants to keep a lot of dogs, he had better take them with him to school,' said the nurse. 'I don't want nothing to do with no dogs, not in this nursery.'
'There's only one thing to be done, Archie; you must take care of it for the next day or two, and I shall advertise in the paper for its master.'
'Oh, mother!'
'Don't you see it isn't even honest to keep it?'
Archie was bitterly disappointed, but consoled at the idea of seeing the advertisement in the paper.
'How can we advertise it? We don't know what name it answers to.'
'It would certainly be difficult to describe,' said Edith.
They had tried every name they had ever heard of, and Dilly declared it had answered to them all, if answering meant jumping rather wildly round them and barking as if in the very highest spirits, it certainly had.
'It'll be fun to see my name in the paper,' said Archie thoughtfully.
'Indeed you won't see your name in the paper.'
'Well, I found it,' said Archie rather sulkily.
'Yes; but you had no right to find it, and still less to bring it home.I don't know what your father will say.'
Bruce at once said that it must be taken to Scotland Yard. Dilly cried bitterly, and said she wanted it to eat out of her hand, and save her life in a snowstorm.
'It's not a St Bernard, you utter little fool,' said her brother.
'Well, it might save me from drowning,' said Dilly.
She had once seen a picture, which she longed to realise, of a dog swimming, holding a child in its mouth. She thought it ought to be called Faithful or Rover.
All these romantic visions had to be given up. Madame Frabelle said the only thing to do was to take it at once to the Battersea Dogs' Home, where it would be 'happy with companions of its own age'. Immediately after dinner her suggestion was carried out, to the great relief of most of the household. The nurse said when it had gone that she had 'known all along it was mad, but didn't like to say so.'
'But it took such a fancy to me,' said Archie.
'Perhaps that was why,' said Dilly.
* * * * *
The children were separated by force.
For a woman who was warm-hearted, sensitive and thoughtful, Edith had a singularly happy disposition. First, she was good-tempered; not touchy, not easily offended about trifles. Such vanity as she had was not in an uneasy condition; she cared very little for general admiration, and had no feeling for competition. She was without ambition to be superior to others. Then, though she saw more deeply into things than the generality of women, she was not fond of dwelling on the sad side of life. Very small things pleased her, while trifles did not annoy her. Hers was not the placidity of the stupid, fat, contented person who never troubles about other people.
She was rather of a philosophical turn, and her philosophy tended to seeing the brighter side. Where she was singularly fortunate was that though she felt pleasure deeply—a temperament that feels pain in proportion—her suffering, though acute, seldom lasted long. There was an elasticity in her disposition that made her rebound quickly from a blow.
Her affections were intense, but she did not suffer the usual penalty of love—a continual dread of losing the loved object. If she adored her children and was thankful for their health and beauty, she was not exactly what is called an anxious mother. She thought much about them, and was very determined to have her own way in anything concerning them. That, indeed, was a subject on which she would give way to no-one. But as she had so far succeeded in directing them according to her own ideas, she was satisfied. And she was very hopeful. She could look forward to happiness, but troubles she dealt with as they arose.
Certainly, after the first few months of their marriage, Bruce had turned out a disappointment. But now that she knew him, knew the worst of him, she did not think bad. He had an irritating personality. But most people had to live with someone who was a little irritating; and she was so accustomed to his various ways and weaknesses that she could deal with them unmoved, almost mechanically. She did not take him seriously. She would greatly have preferred, of course, that he should understand her, that she could look up to him and lean on him. But as this was not so, she made the best of it, and managed to be contented enough. Three years ago she had not even known she could be deeply in love.
She had loved Aylmer Ross. But even at that time, when Bruce gave her the opportunity, by his wild escapade with Miss Argles, to free herself and marry Aylmer—her ideal of divine happiness at the time—somehow she could not do it. She had a curious sense of responsibility towards Bruce, which came in the way.
Often since then she had had regrets; she had even felt it had been a mistake to throw away such a chance. But she reflected that she would have regrets anyhow. It would have worried her to know that Bruce needed her. For all that, she knew he did, if unconsciously. So she had made up her mind to content herself with a life which, though peaceful, was certainly, to her temperament, decidedly incomplete.
Edith had other sources of happiness more acute than that of the average. She took an intense and keen enjoyment in life itself. Everything interested her, amused her. She was never bored. She so much enjoyed the mere spectacle of life that she never required to be the central figure. When she had to play the part of a mere spectator it didn't depress her; she could delight in society and in character as if at a theatre. On the other hand, as she had a good deal of initiative and a strong personality, she could also revel in action, in playing a principal part. Under a quiet manner her courage was daring and her spirit high. Unless someone or something was actively tormenting her, to an extent quite insupportable, she was contented, even gay.
Her past romance with Aylmer had naturally opened to her a source of delight that she knew nothing of before.
Since she had seen him again she scarcely knew how she felt about it. This day she was to see him again alone, because he wished it, and because Dulcie Clay had begged her to gratify the wish.
Why was it, she asked herself, that the little nurse desired they should be alone together? It was perfectly clear, to a woman with Edith's penetration, that Dulcie was in love with Aylmer. Also, she was equally sure that the girl believed Aylmer to be devoted to her, Edith. Then it must be the purest unselfishness. Dulcie probably, she thought, loved him with a kind of hopeless worship. She had seen him ill and weak, she pitied him, she wanted him to be happy. In return for this generosity Edith felt a generous kindness for her, a sympathy that she would never have believed she could feel at seeing such a beautiful girl on those rather intimate terms with Aylmer.
It must mean, simply, that Edith knew Aylmer cared for her still. A look was enough to convince her that at least he still took a great and deep interest in her. And she wanted to come to an understanding with him, or she could have avoided atête-à-tête.
During the three years he had been away the feeling had calmed down, but the ideal was still there, and the memory. Whenever Bruce was maddening—which was fairly often—when she heard music, when she saw beautiful scenery, when she was reading a romantic book, when any other man admired her, Aylmer was always in her thoughts.
When Edith saw him again she was not sure that she had not worn out her passion by dwelling on it. But that might easily be caused by the meregêneof the first two or three meetings. There is a shyness, a sort of coldness, in meeting again a person one has passionately loved. To see the dream in flesh and blood, the thought made concrete, once more brings poetry down to prose. Then the terms they met on now were changed. He was playing such a different part. Instead of the strong, determined man who had voluntarily left her, refusing to know her as a friend, and reproaching her bitterly for playing with him, as he called it, here was a broken invalid, a pathetic figure who appealed to entirely different sentiments. There is naturally something maternal in a woman's feeling to a sick man. There was also the halo that surrounds the wounded hero. He was not ill through weakness, but through strength and courage.
She found herself thinking of him day and night, but it was in a different way. It might be because he had not yet referred to their past love affair.
Edith dressed with unusual care to go and see him today. Even if a woman wishes to discourage or to break off all relations with a man, she doesn't, after all, wish to leave a disagreeable impression.
Her prettiness and charm—of which she was modestly but confidently aware, by her experience of its effect—was a great satisfaction. It was remarkably noticeable today. In front of the glass Edith hesitated between her favourite plain sailor hat and a new black velvet toque, which shaded her eyes, contrasting with the fair hair of which very little showed, and giving her an aspect of dashing yet discreet coquetry. She looked younger in the other sailor hat (so she decided when she put it on again) and more as she used to look. Which was the more attractive? She decided on novelty, and went out, finally, in the toque.
Of course only another woman could have appreciated the remarkable fact that she could wear at thirty-five such a small hat and yet look fresh. Certainly a brim was more flattering to most women of her age, but the contour of Edith's face was still as youthful as ever; she had one of those clearly shaped oval faces that are not disposed to growing thick and broad, or to haggardness. The oval might be a shade wider than it was three years ago; that was all the more becoming; did it not make the features look smaller?
* * * * *
As she went out she laughed at herself for giving so much thought to her appearance. It was as though she believed she was going to play an important part in the chief scene of a play.
Once dressed, as usual she lost all self-consciousness, and thought of outside things.
Miss Clay was out, as she had told Edith she would be, and the servant showed her in.
She saw at once that Aylmer, also, had been looking forward to this moment with some excitement. He, too, had dressed with special care; and she knew, without being told, that orders had been given to receive no other visitors.
He was sitting in an arm-chair, with the bandaged leg on the other chair, a small table by his side laid for tea. Even a kettle was boiling (no doubt to avoid interruption). It was his old brown library, where she had occasionally seen him with others in the old days. But this was literally the first time she had seen him in his own house alone.
It was essentially a man's room. Comfortable, but not exactly luxurious; very little was sacrificed to decoration.
There were a few very old dark pictures on the walls. The room was crammed with books in long, low bookcases. On the mantelpiece was a pewter vase of cerise-coloured carnations.
An uncutEnglish Reviewwas in his hand, but he threw it on the floor with a characteristic gesture as she came in.
'You look very comfortable,' said Edith, as she took her seat in the arm-chair placed for her.
He answered gravely, speaking in his direct, quick way, with his sincere manner:
'It was very good of you to come.'
'Shall I pour out your tea?'
'Yes. Let's have tea and get it over.'
She laughed, took off her gloves, and he watched her fingers as they occupied themselves with the china, as though he were impatient for the ceremony to be finished.
While she poured it out and handed it to him he said not a word. She saw that he looked pale and seemed rather nervous. Each tried to put the other at ease, more by looks than words. Edith saw it would worry him to make conversation. They knew each other well enough to exchange ideas without words.
He had something to say and she would not postpone it. That would irritate him.
'There,' said Aylmer, giving a little push to the table. 'Do you want any more tea?'
'No, thanks.'
'Well—do you mind coming a little nearer?'
She lifted the little table, put it farther behind his chair, placed the arm-chair closer to him by the fire, and sat down again. He looked at her for some time with a serious expression. Then he said, rather abruptly and unexpectedly:
'What a jolly hat!'
'Oh, Iamglad you like it!' exclaimed Edith. 'I was afraid you'd hate it.'
For the first time they were talking in their old tone, she reflected.
'No, I like it—I love it.' He lowered his voice to say this.
'I'm glad,' she repeated.
'And I love you,' said Aylmer as abruptly, and in a still lower voice.
She didn't answer.
'Look here, Edith. I want to ask you something.'
'Yes.'
He seemed to have some difficulty in speaking. He was agitated.
'Have you forgotten me?'
'You can see I haven't, or I wouldn't be here,' she answered.
'Don't fence with me. I mean, really. Are you the same as when I went away?'
'Aylmer, do you think we had better talk about it?'
'We must. I must. I can't endure the torture of seeing you just like anybody else. You know I told you—' He stopped a moment.
'You told me you'd never be a mere friend,' she said. 'But everything's so different now!'
'It isn't different; that's where you're wrong. You're just the same, and so am I. Except that I care for you far more than I ever did.'
'Oh, Aylmer!'
'When I thought I was dying I showed your little photograph to Miss Clay. I told her all about it. I suppose I was rather mad. It was just after an operation. It doesn't matter a bit; she wouldn't ever say a word.'
'I'm sure she wouldn't.'
'I had to confide in somebody,' he went on. 'I told her to send you back the photograph, and I told her that my greatest wish was to see you again.'
'Well, my dear boy, we have met again! Do change your mind from what you said last! I mean when you went away.' She spoke in an imploring tone.
'Do you wish to be friends, then?'
She hesitated a moment, then said: 'Yes, I do.'
After a moment's pause he said: 'You say everything's changed. In a way it is. I look at things differently—I regard them differently. When you've been up against it, and seen life and death pretty close, you realise what utter rot it is to live so much for the world.'
Edith stared. 'But … doesn't it make you feel all the more the importance of principle—goodness and religion, and all that sort of thing? I expected it would, with you.'
'Frankly, no; it doesn't. Now, let us look at the situation quietly.'
After an agitated pause he went on:
'As far as I make out, you're sacrificing yourself to Bruce. When he ran away with that girl, and begged you to divorce him, you could have done it. You cared for me. Everything would have been right, even before the world. No-one would have blamed you. Yet you wouldn't.'
'But thatwasn'tfor the world, Aylmer; you don't understand. It was for myself. Something in me, which I can't help. I felt Bruce needed me and would go wrong without me—'
'Why should you care? Did he consider you?'
'That isn't the point, dear boy. I felt as if he was my son, so to speak—a sort of feeling of responsibility.'
'Yes, quite. It was quixotic rubbish. That's my opinion. There!'
Edith said nothing, remembering he was still ill.
'Well,' he went on, 'now, hehasn'trun away from you. He's stayed with you for three years; utterly incapable of appreciating you, as I know he is, bothering you to death.'
'Oh, Aylmer!'
'Don't I know him? You're wasting and frittering yourself away for nothing.'
'The children—'
'Don't you think I'd have looked after the children better than he?'
'Yes, I do, Aylmer. But heistheir father. They may keep him straight.'
'I consider you're utterly wasted,' he said. 'Well! He's stuck to you, apparently, for these last three years (as far as you know), and now I'm going to ask you something entirely different, for the last time. When I was dying, or thought I was, things showed themselves clearly enough, I can tell you. And I made up my mind if I lived to see you, to say this. Leave Bruce, with me!'
She stared at him.
'In six weeks, when he's tired of telling his friends at the club about it, he'll make up his mind, I suppose, if you insist, or even without, to divorce you. But do you suppose he'll keep the children? No, my dear of course he won't. You'll never have to leave them. I would never ask you that. Now listen!' He put his hand over hers, not caressingly, but to keep her quiet. 'He'll want to marry again, won't he?'
'Very likely,' she answered.
'Probably already he's in love with that woman What's-her-name—MadameFrabelle—who's staying with you.'
Edith gave a little laugh.
'Perhaps he's in love with her already,' continued Aylmer.
'Quite impossible!' said Edith calmly.
'She's a very good sort. She's not a fool, like the girl. She'd look after Bruce very well.'
'So she would,' answered Edith.
'Bruce will adore her, be under her thumb, and keep perfectly 'straight', as you call it—as straight as he ever would. Won't he?'
She was silent.
'You'll get the children then, don't you see?'
'Yes. With a bad reputation, with a cloud on my life, to bring upDilly!'
He sighed impatiently, and said: 'You see, you don't see things as they really are, even now. How could you ever possibly hurt Dilly? You're only thinking of what the world says, now.
'Hear me out,' he went on. 'Is this the only country? After the war, won't everything be different? Thank goodness, I'm well provided for. You needn't take a farthing. Leave even your own income to Bruce if you like. You know I've five thousand a year now, Edith?'
'I didn't know it. But that has nothing on earth to do with it,' she answered.
'Bosh! It has a great deal to do with it. I can afford to bring your children up as well as Teddy, my boy. We can marry. And in a year or two no one would think any more about it.'
'You bewilder me,' said Edith.
'I want to. Think it over. Don't be weak. I'm sorry, dear, to ask you to take the blame on your side. It's unfair; but after all, perhaps, it's straighter than waiting for an opportunity (which you could easily get in time) of finding Bruce in the wrong.'
Her face expressed intense determination and disagreement with his views.
'Don't answer me,' he said, 'think—'
'My dear boy, you must let me answer you. Will you listen to me?'
'Go on, Edith. I'll always listen to you.'
'You don't realise it, but you're not well,' she said.
He gave an impatient gesture.
'How like a woman! As soon as I talk sense you say I'm not well. A broken leg doesn't affect the brain, remember.'
'No, Aylmer; I don't mean that. But you've been thinking this over till you've lost your bearings, your sense of proportion….'
'Rot! I've just got it! That's what you mean. It comes to this, my dear girl'—he spoke gently. 'Of course, if you don't care for me, my suggestion would be perfectly mad. Perhaps you don't. Probably you regard our romance as a pretty little story to look back on.'
'No, I don't, unless—'
'I won't ask you straight out,' he said. 'I don't suppose you know yourself. But, if you care for me, as I do for you'—he spoke steadily—'you'll do as I ask.'
'I might love you quite as much, and yet not do it.'
'I know it's a big thing. It's a sacrifice, in a way. But don't you see, Edith, that if you still like me, your present life is a long, slow sacrifice to convention, or (as you say) to a morbid sense of responsibility?'
She looked away with a startled expression.
'Well, do you love me?' he said rather impatiently, but yet with his old charm of tenderness and sincerity. 'I have never changed. As you know, after the operation, when they thought I was practically done in—it may seem a bit mad, but I was really more sane than I have ever been—I told Dulcie Clay all about it.'
She stopped him. 'I know you did, my dear, and I don't blame you a bit. She's absolutely loyal. But now, listen. Has nothing occurred to you about her?'
'Nothing, except that I'm hoping to get rid of her as soon as possible.'
'She's madly in love with you, Aylmer.'
He looked contemptuous.
'She's a dear girl,' said Edith. 'I feel quite fond of her.'
'Really, I don't see how she comes in. You are perverse, Edith!'
'I'm not perverse. I see things.'
'She's never shown the slightest sign of it,' said Aylmer. 'I think it's your imagination. But even if it's not, it isn't my business, nor yours.'
'I think it is, a little.'
'If you talk like that, I'll send her away today.'
'Oh, Aylmer! how ungrateful of you to say such a thing! She's been an angel.'
He spoke wearily. 'I don't wantangels! I wantyou!' He suddenly leant forward and took her hands.
She laughed nervously. 'What a compliment.'
Then she disengaged herself and stood up.
Aylmer sighed. 'Now you're going to say, Ought you to talk so much? What is your temperature? Oh, womenareirritating, even the nicest, confound them!'
Edith was unable to help laughing.
'I'm afraid Iwasgoing to say something like that.'
'Now, are you going to say you won't answer me for fear it will excite me?'
'Don't talk nonsense,' said Edith. 'Itake you seriously enough. Don't worry!'
He looked delighted.
'Thank heaven! Most women treat a wounded man as if he were a sick child or a lunatic. It's the greatest rot. I'm nearly well.'
Edith looked round for his tonic, but stopped herself.
'Are you going now?' he asked.
'No, Aylmer. I thought of stopping a few minutes, if you don't mind.'
'Shall we talk of something else,' said Aylmer satirically, 'to divert my thoughts? Hasn't it been lovely weather lately?'
She smiled and sat down again.
'Would you like to know how soon the war will be over?' he went on.'Oddly enough, I really don't know!'
'Are you going back when you've recovered?' she asked abruptly.
'Of course I'm going back; and I want to go back with your promise.' Then he looked a little conscience-stricken. 'Dear Edith, I don't want to rush you. Forgive me.'
They both sat in dead silence for five minutes. He was looking at the black velvet toque on the fair hair, over the soft eyes. She was staring across at the cherry-coloured carnations in the pewter vase on the mantelpiece.
As has been said, they often exchanged ideas without words.
He remarked, as she glanced at a book: 'Yes, I have readA Life ofSlavery. Have you? Do you think it good?'
'Splendid,' Edith answered; 'it's a labour of hate.'
He laughed.
'Quite true. One can't call it a labour of love, though it was written to please the writer—not the public.'
'I wonder you could read it,' said Edith, 'after what you've been through.'
'It took my thoughts off life,' he said.
'Why? Isn't it life?'
'Of course it is. Literary life.'
Edith looked at the clock.
'When am I going to see you again?' he asked in a rather exhausted voice.
'Whenever you like. What about taking you out for a drive next week?'
'Right.'
'I'll think over what you said,' said Edith casually as she stood up.
'What a funny little speech. You'reimpayable! Oh, you are a jolly girl!'
'"Jolly" girl,' repeated Edith, not apparently pleased. 'I'm thirty-five, with a boy at school and a growing girl of seven!'
'You think too much of the almanac. I'm forty-one, with a son at the front.'
'How on earth did you get your commissions?'
'In the usual way. Teddy and I told lies. He said he was eighteen and I said I was thirty-nine.'
'I see. Of course.'
He rang the bell.
'Will you write to me, dear Edith?'
'No. I'll come and see you, Aylmer.'
'Are you going to bring Archie, Bruce, or Madame Frabelle?'
'Neither.'
'Do leave Madame Frabelle at home.'
'Though you don't like her, you might pronounce her name right! She's such a clever woman.'
'She's an utter fool,' said Aylmer.
'Same thing, very often,' said Edith. 'Don't worry. Good-bye.'
She went away, leaving him perfectly happy and very hungry.
* * * * *
Hardly had she gone when Miss Clay came in and brought him some beef-tea on a tray.
To Edith's joy, as they entered the Mitchell's huge, familiar drawing-room, the first person she saw was her beloved confidant, Sir Tito Landi. This was the friend of all others whom she most longed to see at this particular moment.
The extraordinary confidence and friendship between the successful Italian composer and Edith Ottley needs, perhaps, a word of explanation. He was adored equally in the artistic and the social worlds, and was at once the most cynical of Don Juans and the most unworldly of Don Quixotes. He was a devoted and grateful friend, and a contemptuous but not unforgetful enemy.
It was not since his celebrity that Edith had first met him; she had known him intimately all her life. From her earliest childhood she had, so to speak, been brought up on Landi; on Landi's music and Landi's views of life. He had been her mother's music teacher soon after he first made a name in London; and long before he was the star whose singing or accompanying was a rare favour, and whose presence gave a cachet to any entertainment.
How many poor Italians—yes, and many people of other nationalities—had reason to bless his acquaintance! How kind, how warm-hearted, how foolishly extravagant on others was Landi! His brilliant cleverness, which made him received almost as an Englishman among English people, was not, however, the cleverness of thearriviste. Although he had succeeded, and success was his object, no one could be less self-interested, less pushing, less scheming. In many things he was a child. He would as soon dine at Pagani's with a poor sculptor, or a poor and plain woman who was struggling to give lessons in Italian, as with the most brilliant hostess in London. And he always found fashion and ceremony a bore. He was so great a favourite in England that he had been given that most English of titles, a knighthood, just as though he were very rich, or political, or a popular actor. In a childish way it amused him, and he was pleased with it. But though he was remarkable for his courtly tact, he loved most of all to be absolutely free and Bohemian, to be quite natural among really sympathetic, witty, or beautiful friends. He liked to say what he thought, to go where he wished, and to make love when he chose, not when other people chose. He had long been a man with an assured position, but he had changed little since he was twenty-one, and arrived from Naples with only his talent, his bright blue eyes, his fair complexion, his small, dignified figure and his daring humour. Yet the music he wrote indicated his sensitive and deeply feeling nature, and though his conversation could hardly be called other than cynical, nor his jokes puritanical, there was always in him a vein of genuine—not sentimental, but perhaps romantic—love and admiration for everything good; good in music, good in art, good in character. He laid down no rules of what was good. 'Tout savoir c'est tout pardonner' was perhaps his motto. But he was very unexpected; that was one of his charms. He would pass over the most extraordinary things—envious slights, small injuries, things another man would never forgive. On the other hand, he retained a bitter memory, not at all without its inclination for repayment, for other trifles that many would disregard.
* * * * *
Ever since she was a child Edith had been his special favourite. He loved the privilege of calling her Edith, of listening to her confidences, of treating her with loving familiarity. It was a joke between them that, while he used formerly to say, 'Cette enfant! Je l'ai vue en jupe courte, vous savez!' he had gradually reached the point of declaring, 'Je l'ai vue naître!' almost with tears in his eyes.
This explains why Landi was the only creature to whom Edith could tell everything, and did. Must not all nice people have a confidant? And no girl or woman friend—much as they might like her, and she them—could ever take the place of Landi, the wise and ever-sympathetic.
There was something in his mental attitude that was not unfeminine, direct and assertive as he was. He had what is generally known as feminine intuition, a quality perhaps even rarer in women than in men.
* * * * *
Tonight the persistently hospitable Mrs Mitchell had a large party. Dressed in grey, she was receiving her guests in the big room on the ground floor, and tactfully directing the conversation of a crowd of various and more or less interesting persons.
It was one of those parties that had been described as a Russian Salad, where one ran an equal risk—or took an equal chance—of being taken to dinner by Charlie Chaplin or Winston Churchill, and where society and the stage were equally well represented. Young officers on leave and a few pretty girls filled the vacancies.
As Bruce, Edith and Madame Frabelle came in together, Landi went straight to Edith's side.
Looking at her through his eyeglass, he said, as if to himself, in an anxious tone:
'Elle a quelquechose, cette enfant; oui, elle a quelquechose,' and as the last guest had not arrived he sat down thoughtfully by her on the small sofa.
'Yes, Landi, there is something the matter. I'm longing to tell you about it. I want your advice,' said Edith, smiling.
'Tout se sait; tout se fait; tout s'arrange,' sententiously remarkedLandi, who was not above talking oracular commonplaces at times.
'Oh, it isn't one of those things, Landi.'
'Not? Are you sure? Don't be sad, Edith. Be cheerful. Tiens! Tiens! Tiens! How excited you are,' he went on, as she looked at him with perfect composure.
'You will think I have reason to be excited when I tell you.'
He smiled in an experienced way.
'I'll sit next to you at dinner and you shall tell me everything. Tiens! La vieille qui voit double!' He bowed politely as Madame Frabelle came up.
'Dear Sir Tito,whata pleasure to see you again! Your lovely songs have been ringing in my ears ever since I heard them!'
'Where did you hear them? On a piano-organ?' he asked.
'You're too bad! Isn't he naughty? No, when you sang here last.'
Mr Mitchell came up, and Madame Frabelle turned away.
'Dieu merci! La pauvre! Elle me donne sur les nerfs ce soir,' saidLandi. 'I shall sit next to you whether the cards are placed so or not,Edith, and you'll tell me everything between the soup and the ices.'
'I will indeed.'
'Madame Meetchel,' he said, looking round through his eyeglass, 'is sure to have given you a handsome young man, someone who ought to drive Bruce wild with jealousy, but doesn't, or … or …'
'Or some fly-blown celebrity.'
'Sans doute!'
The door opened and the last guest appeared. It was young Coniston (in khaki), who was invariably asked when there was to be music. He was so useful.
He approached Landi at once.
'Ah, cher maître, quel plaisir!' he said with his South Kensington accent and his Oxford manner. (He had been a Cambridge man.)
'C'est vrai?' asked Landi, who had his own way of dismissing a person in a friendly way.
Coniston began talking to him of a song. Landi waved him off and went up to Mrs Mitchell, said something which made her laugh and blush and try to hit him with her fan—the fan, the assault and the manner were all out of date, but Mrs Mitchell made no pretence at going with the times—and his object was gained.