'Many people have love in their lives without a violent public scandal,' he repeated.
'Yes, I know. I understand what you mean. But I hate deceit, Landi. I don't think I could lead a double life. And even if I would, he wouldn't!'
She spoke rather proudly.
'Pauvre garçon!' said Sir Tito. 'Je l'admire.'
'So do I,' said Edith. 'Aylmer's not a man who could shake hands with Bruce and be friends and deceive him. And you know, before, when I begged him to remain … my friend … he simply wouldn't. He always said he despised the man who would accept the part of a tame cat. And he doesn't believe in Platonic friendship: Aylmer's too honest, toorealfor that.'
'But, Edith, oh, remember, before,' said Landi taking her hand, 'even when Bruce ran away with another woman, you couldn't bear the idea of divorce.'
'I know. But I may have been wrong. Besides, I didn't care for him as I do now. And I'm older now.'
'Isn't this rather sudden, my dear?'
'Only because I've let myself go—let myself be natural! Oh,doencourage me—give me strength, Landi! Don't let me be a coward! Think if Aylmer goes out again and is killed, how miserable I should feel to have refused him and disappointed him—for the second time!'
'Wait a moment, Edith. Suppose, as you say, he goes out again and is killed, and youhaven'tdisappointed him, what would your position be then?'
She couldn't answer.
'How is it your conscientiousness with regard to Bruce doesn't come in the way now? Why would it ruin him less now than formerly?'
'Bruce doesn't seem to matter so much.'
'Because he isn't fighting?' asked Sir Tito.
'Oh no, Landi! I never thought of that. But you know he always imagines himself ill, and he's quite all right really. He'll enjoy his grievance. Iknowhe won't be unhappy. And he's older, and he's not tied to that silly, mad girl he ran away with. And besides, I'm older. This is probablymylast chance!'
She looked at Landi imploringly, as if begging his permission.
He answered calmly: 'Écoute, chérie. When do you see him again?'
'I'm to take him for a drive tomorrow.'
'My dear Edith, promise me one thing; don't undertake anything yet.'
'But why not?'
'You mustn't. This may be merely an impulse; you may change again. It may be a passing mood.'
'I don't think it is,' said Edith. 'Anyhow, it's my wish at present.It's the result of thinking, remember—not of his persuasion.'
'Go for a drive, but give him no hope yet.' He took both her hands. 'Make no promise, except to me. Don't I know you well? I doubt if you could do it.'
'Yes, I could! I could go throughanythingif I were determined, and if I had the children safe.'
'Never mind that for the present. Live for the day. Will you promise me that?'
She hesitated for a moment.
Then he said:
'Really, dear, it's too serious to be impulsive about. Take time.'
'Very well, Landi. I promise you that.'
'Then we'll meet again afterwards and talk it over. I'll come and see you.'
'Very well. And mustn't I tell him anything? Not make him a little bit happy?'
'Tell him nothing. Be nice to him. Enjoy your drive. Put off all decision at present.'
He looked at her. Her eyes were sparkling, her colour, her expression were deepened. She looked all animation, with more life than he had ever seen in her…. Somehow the sight made his heart ache a little, a very little.
Poor girl! Of course she had been starving for love, and hidden the longing under domestic interests, artistic, social, but human. But she deserved real love, a real lover. She was so loyal, so true herself.
'Tiens! You look like a lamp that has been lighted,' said Sir Tito, chuckling a little to himself. 'Eh, bien!—and the pretty nurse? Does she still dance the Cachuca? I know I'm old-fashioned, but it's impossible for me not to associate everything Spanish with the ridiculous. I think of guitars, mantillas, sombreros, or—what else is it? Ah, I know—onions.'
'She isn't even Spanish, really!'
'Then why did you deceive me?' said Landi, a shade absently, with a glance at his watch and another in the mirror.
'She can't remain with Aylmer. She knows it herself. I'm trying to arrange for her to become a companion for Lady Conroy.'
He laughed.
'You are more particular about her being chaperoned than you were last week.'
'Landi, Aylmer will never care for her. She's a dear, but he won't.'
'Tu ne l'a pas revu? Lui—Aylmer?'
'No, but he's written to me.'
'Oh, for heaven's sake, my child, burn the letters! I daresay it won't be difficult; they are probably all flames already.'
'I did have one lovely letter,' said Edith.
She took it out of her dress. He glanced at it.
'Mon Dieu! To think that a pupil of mine drives about in a taxi-cab with compromising letters in her pocket! Non, tu est folle, véritablement, Edith.'
To please him she threw it into the fire, after tearing a small blank piece of the paper off, and putting this unwritten-on scrap back in the bodice of her dress. As she hurried away, she again promised him not to undertake anything, nor to allow Aylmer to overpower her prudent intention during their drive.
'What time do you start? I think I shall come too,' said Sir Tito, pretending to look at his engagement-book.
He burst out laughing at her expression.
'Ah, I'm not wanted! Tiens! If you're not very carefuloneperson will go with you, I can tell you. And that will be Madame Frabelle.'
'No, she won't. Indeed not! It's the last day of Archie's holidays.'
'He's coming with you?'
'On the front seat, with the chauffeur,' said Edith.
There was a ring at the bell. He lifted the curtain and caressingly but firmly pushed her through into the other room.
* * * * *
Sir Tito had another appointment.
While this drama was taking place in the little house in Sloane Street, Madame Frabelle, who lived for romance, and was always imagining it where it didn't exist, was, of course, sublimely unconscious of its presence. She had grown tired of her fancy about Edith and Mr Mitchell, or she made herself believe that her influence had stopped it. But she was beginning to think, much as she enjoyed her visit and delighted in her surroundings, that it was almost time for her at least tosuggestgoing away.
She had made Edith's friends her own. She was devoted to Edith, fonder of the children than anyone except their grandmother, and strangely, considering she was a visitor who gave trouble, she was adored by the servants and by everyone in the house, with the single exception of Archie.
She was carrying on a kind of half-religious flirtation with the Rev. Byrne Fraser, who was gradually succeeding in making her very high church. Sometimes she rose early and left the house mysteriously. She went to Mass. There was a dreamy expression in her eyes when she came back. A slight perfume of incense, instead of the lavender water that she formerly affected, was now observable about her.
She went to see the 'London Group' and the 'New English' with young Coniston, who explained to her all he had learnt from Aylmer, a little wrong; while she assured him that she knew nothing about pictures, but she knew what she liked.
She bought book-bindings from Miss Coniston, and showed her how to cook macaroni and how to make cheap but unpalatable soup for her brother. And she went to all the war concerts and bazaars got up by Valdez, to meetings for the Serbians arranged by Mrs Mitchell and to Lady Conroy's Knitting Society for the Refugees. She was a very busy woman. But it was not these employments that were filling her mind as she sat in her own room, looking seriously at herself in the glass. Something made her a little preoccupied.
She was beginning to fear that Bruce was getting too fond of her.
The moment the idea occurred to her, it occurred to Bruce also. She had a hypnotic effect on him; as soon as she thought of anything he thought of it too. Something in her slight change of manner, her cautious way of answering, and of rustling self-consciously out of the room when they were left alone together, had this effect. Bruce was enchanted. Madame Frabelle thought he was getting too fond of her! Then, he must be! Perhaps he was. He certainly didn't like the idea at all of her going away and changed the subject directly she mentioned it. He had always thought her a very wonderful person. He was immensely impressed by her universal knowledge and agreeable manners and general charm. Still, Madame Frabelle was fifteen years older than Bruce, and Bruce himself was no chicken. Although he was under forty, his ideal of himself was that he liked only very young girls. This was not true. But as he thought it was, it became very much the same thing. As a matter of fact, only rather foolish girls were flattered at attentions from Bruce. Married women preferred spirited bachelors, and attractive girls preferred attractive boys. In fact, Bruce was not wanted socially, and he felt a little bit out of it among the men through not being among the fighters. The fact that he told everyone that he was not in khaki because he was in consumption didn't seem to make him more interesting to the general public. His neurotic heart bored his friends at the club. In fact there was not a woman, even his mother, except Madame Frabelle, who cared to listen to his symptoms. That she did so, and with sympathy, was one of her attractions.
But as long as she had listened to them in a sisterly, friendly way, he regarded her only as a friend—a friend of whom he was very proud, and whom he respected immensely. As has been said, she impressed him so much that he did not know she bored him. When she began rustling out of the room when they were left alone, and looking away, avoiding his eye when he stared at her absently, things were different, and he began to feel rather flattered. Of course it would be an infernal shame, and not the act of a gentleman, to take advantage of one's position as a host by making love to a fascinating guest. But there was so much sympathy between them! It is only fair to say that the idea would never have occurred to Bruce unless it had first occurred to Madame Frabelle. If a distinguished-looking woman in violet velvet leaves the room five minutes after she's left alone with one—even though she has grey hair—it naturally shows that she thinks one is dangerous. The result of it all was that when Bruce heard Edith was taking Aylmer for a drive, he apologised very much indeed for not going with her. He said, frankly, much as he liked Aylmer, wounded heroes were rather a bore. He hoped Aylmer would forgive him. And Madame Frabelle had promised to take him to the Oratory. She disapproved of his fancy of becoming a Catholic; she was not one herself, though she was extremely high, and growing daily higher, but the music at the Oratory on that particular day was very wonderful, and they agreed to go there. And afterwards—well, afterwards they might stroll home, or—go and have tea in Bond Street.
* * * * *
It was the last day of Archie's holidays, and though it was rather cold his mother insisted on taking him with her.
Aylmer tried to hide the shade that came over his face when he saw the boy, but remembering that he had undertaken to be a father to him, he cheered up as soon as Archie was settled.
It was a lovely autumn day, one of those warm Indian-summer days that resemble early spring. There is the same suggestion of warmer sunshine yet to come; the air has a scent as of growing things, the kind of muffled hopes and suppressed excitement of April is in the deceptive air. This sort of day is dangerous to charming people not in their very first youth.
* * * * *
In high spirits and beyond the speed limit they started for Richmond.
A week later Aylmer and his son were sitting looking at each other in the old brown library. Teddy had come over for ten days' leave from somewhere in France. Everyone, except his father, was astonished how little he had changed. He seemed exactly the same, although he had gone through strange experiences. But Aylmer saw a different look in his eyes. He looked well and brisk—perhaps a little more developed and more manly; his shoulders, always rather thick and broad, seemed even broader, although he was thinner. But it was the expression of the eyes that had altered. Those eyes hadseen things. In colour pale blue, they had a slightly strained look. They seemed paler. His sunburn increased his resemblance to his father, always very striking. Both had large foreheads, clearly cut features and square chins. Aylmer was, strictly speaking, handsomer. His features more refined, more chiselled. But Teddy had the additional charm of extreme youth—youth with the self-possession and ease that seemed, as it were, a copy—as his voice was an echo—of his father. The difference was in culture and experience. Teddy had gone out when he was just on the point of going to Balliol, yet seemed to have something of the Oxford manner, characteristic of his father—a manner suave, amiable, a little ironical. He had the unmistakable public-school look and his training had immensely improved his appearance.
Aylmer was disappointed that the very first thing his son insisted on doing was to put on evening clothes and go to the Empire. That was where the difference in age told. Aylmer would not have gone to the Empire fresh from the fighting line. He made no objection, and concealed the tiniest ache that he felt when Teddy went out at once with Major Willis, an elder friend of his. Quite as old, Aylmer thought to himself, ashewas. But not being a relative, he seemed of the same generation.
The next evening Teddy spent at home, and sat with his father, who declared himself to be completely recovered, but was still not allowed to put his foot to the ground, Miss Clay was asked to sing to them. Her voice, as has been said, was a very beautiful one, a clear, fine soprano, with a timbre rare in quality, and naturally thrilling. She had not been taught well enough to be a public success perhaps, but was much more accomplished than the average amateur.
Teddy delighted in it. She sang all the popular songs—she had a way that was almost humorous of putting refinement into the stupidest and vulgarest melody. And then she sang some of those technically poor but attaching melodies that, sung in a certain way, without sickening sentimentality or affectation, seem to search one's soul and bring out all that there is in one of romance.
She looked very beautiful, that Aylmer admitted to himself, and she sang simply and charmingly; that he owned also. Why did it irritate him so intensely to see Teddy moved and thrilled, to see his eyes brighten, his colour rise and to see him obviously admiring the girl? When she made an excuse to leave them Teddy was evidently quite disappointed.
The next day Aylmer limped down to the library. To his great surprise heheard voices in the room Dulcie used for her sitting-room. He heardTeddy begging her to sing to him again. He heard her refuse and thenTeddy's voice asking her to go out to tea with him.
Aylmer limped as loudly as he could, and they evidently heard him, but didn't mind in the least. He didn't want Miss Clay to stop at home. He was expecting Edith.
'Hang it, let them go!' he said to himself, and he wondered at himself. Why should he care? Whyshouldn'tshe flirt with the boy if she liked, or rather—for he was too just not to own that it was no desire of hers—why shouldn't the boy make up to her? Whatever the reason was, it annoyed him.
Annoyance was soon forgotten when Mrs Ottley was announced.
Since their drive to Richmond there had been a period of extraordinary happiness and delight for Edith. Not another word had been said with reference to Aylmer's proposal. He left it in abeyance, for he saw to his great joy and delight that she was becoming her old self, more than her old self.
Edith was completely changed. The first thing she thought of now in the morning was how soon she should see him again. She managed to conceal it well, but she was nervous, absent, with her eyes always on the clock, counting the minutes. When other people were present she was cool and friendly to Aylmer, but when they were alone he had become intimate, delightful, familiar, like the time, three years ago, when they were together at the seaside. But her mother-in-law had then been in the house. And the children. Everything was so conventional. Now she was able to see him alone. Really alone…. His eyes welcomed her as she came in. Having shut the door quietly, she reached his chair in a little rush.
'Don't take off your hat. I like that hat. That was the hat you wore the day I told you—'
'I'm glad it suits me,' she said, interrupting. 'Does it really? Isn't it too small?'
'You know it does.'
He was holding her hand. He slowly took off the glove, saying: 'What a funny woman you are, Edith. Why do you wear grey gloves? Nobody else wears grey gloves.'
'I prefer white ones, but they won't stay white two minutes'
'I like these.'
'Tell me about Teddy. Don't, Aylmer!'
Aylmer was kissing her fingers one by one. She drew them away.
'Teddy! Oh, there's not much to tell.' Then he gave a little laugh. 'I believe he's fallen in love with Miss Clay.'
'Has he really? Well, no wonder; think how pretty she is.'
'I know. Is she? I don't think she's a bit pretty.'
'She's to see Lady Conroy tomorrow, you know,' Edith said, divining an anxiety or annoyance in Aylmer on the subject.
'Yes. Will it be all right?'
'Oh yes.'
'Well, Teddy's going back on Monday anyway, and I certainly don't need a nurse any more. Headley will do all I want.'
Headley was the old butler.
'What scent do you use, Edith?'
'I hardly ever use any. I don't care for scent.'
'But lately you have,' he insisted. 'What is it? I think I like it.'
'It's got a silly name. It's called Omar Khayyám.'
'I thought it was Oriental. I think you're Oriental, Edith. Though you're so fair and English-looking. How do you account for it?'
'I can't think,' said Edith.
'Perhaps you're a fair Circassian,' said he. 'Do you think yourself you're Oriental?'
'I believe I am, in some ways. I like lying down on cushions. I like cigarettes, and scent, and flowers. I hate wine, and exercise, and cricket, and bridge.'
'That isn't all that's needed. You wouldn't care for life in a harem, would you?' He laughed. 'You with your independent mind and your cleverness.'
'Perhaps not exactly, but I can imagine worse things.'
'I shall take you to Egypt,' he said. 'You've never been there, have you?'
'Never.' Her eyes sparkled.
'Yes, I shall take you to see the Sphinx. For the first time.'
'Oh, you can't. You're looking very well, Aylmer, wonderfully better.'
'I wonder why? You don't think I'm happy, do you?'
'I am,' said Edith.
'Because you're a woman. You live for the moment. I'm anxious about the future.'
'Oh, oh! You're quite wrong. It's not women who live for the moment,' said Edith.
'No, I don't know that the average woman does. But then you're not an average woman.'
'What am I?'
'You're Edith,' he answered, rather fatuously. But she liked it. She moved away.
'Now that's awfully mean of you, taking advantage of my wounded limb.'
She rang for tea.
'And that's even meaner. It's treacherous,' he said, laughing.
She sat down on a chair at a little distance.
'Angel!' he said, in a low, distinct voice.
'It is not for me to dictate,' said Edith, in a tone of command, 'but I should think it more sensible of you not to say these things to me—just now.'
The servant came in with tea.
Just before Archie went back to school he made a remark that impressed Edith strangely. Quite dressed and ready to start, as he was putting on his gloves, he fell into one of his reveries. After being silent for some time he said:
'Mother!'
'Yes, darling?'
'Why doesn't father fight?'
'I told you before, darling. Your father is not very strong.'
'Mother!'
'Yes, dear?'
'Is Aylmer older than father?'
'Yes. Aylmer's four years older. Why?'
'I don't know. I wish I had a father who could fight, like Aylmer. AndI'd like to fight too, like Teddy.'
'Aylmer hasn't any wife and children to leave. Teddy's eighteen; you're only ten.'
'Mother!'
'Yes, dear?'
'I wish I was old enough to fight. And I wish father was stronger…. Do you think I shall ever fight in this war?'
'Good heavens, dear! I hope it isn't going to last seven years more.'
'I wish it would,' said Archie ferociously. 'Mother!'
'Yes, darling?'
'But what's the matter with father? He seems quite well.'
'Oh, he isn't very well. He suffers from nerves.'
'Nerves! What's nerves?'
'I think, darling, it's time for us to start. Where's your coat?'
She drove him to the station. Most of the way he was very silent As she put him in the train he said.
'Mother, give my love to Aylmer.'
'All right, dear.'
He then said:
'Mother, I wish Aylmer was my father.'
'Oh, Archie! You mustn't say that.'
* * * * *
But she never forgot the boy's remark. It had a stronger influence on her action later than anything else. She knew Archie had always had a great hero-worship for Aylmer. But that he should actually prefer him to Bruce!
She didn't tell Aylmer that for a long time afterwards.
* * * * *
Before returning to the front Teddy had become so violently devoted to Miss Clay that she was quite glad to see him go. She received his attentions with calm and cool friendliness, but gave him not the smallest encouragement. She was three years older, but looked younger than her age, while Teddy looked much older, more like twenty-two. So that when on the one or two occasions during his ten days' leave they went out together, they didn't seem at all an ill-assorted couple. And whenever Aylmer saw the two together, it created the greatest irritation in him. He hardly knew which vexed him more—Dulcie for being attractive to the boy, or the boy for being charmed by Dulcie. It was absurd—out of place. It displeased him.
A day or two after Teddy's departure Dulcie went to see Lady Conroy, who immediately declared that Dulcie was extraordinarily like a charming girl she had met at Boulogne. Dulcie convinced her that she was the same girl.
'Oh, how perfectly charming!' said Lady Conroy. 'What a coincidence!Toowonderful! Well, my dear, I can see at a glance that you're the very person I want. Your duties will be very,verylight. Oh, how light they will be! There's really hardly anything to do! I merely want you to be a sort of walking memorandum for me,' Lady Conroy went on, smiling. 'Just to recollect what day it is, and what's the date, and what time my appointments are, and do my telephoning for me, and write my letters, and take the dog out for a walk, andsometimesjust hear my little girls practise, and keep my papers in order. Oh, one can hardly say exactly—you know the sort of thing. Oh yes! and do the flowers,' said Lady Conroy, glancing round the room. 'I always forget my flowers, and I won't let Marie do them, and so there they are—dead in the vases! And I do like a few live flowers about, I must say,' she added pathetically.
Dulcie said she thought she could undertake it.
'Well, then, won't you stay now, and have your things sent straight on? Oh, do! I do wish you would. I've got two stalls for the St James's tonight. My husband can't come, and I can't think of anybody else to ask. I should love to take you.'
Dulcie would have enjoyed to go. The theatre was a passion with her, as with most naïve people. She made some slight objection which Lady Conroy at once waved away. However, Dulcie pointed out that she must go home first, and as all terms and arrangements absolutely suited both parties, it was decided that Dulcie should go to the play with her tonight and come the next day to take up her duties.
She asked Lady Conroy if she might have her meals alone when there were guests, as she was very shy. A charming little sitting-room, opening out of the drawing-rooms, was put at her disposal.
'Oh, certainly, dear; always, of course, except when I'm alone. But you'll come when I ask you, now and then, won't you? I thought you'd be very useful sometimes at boring lunches, or when there were too many men—that sort of thing. And I hear you sing. Oh, that will be delightful! You'll sing when we have a few tedious people with us? I adore music. We'll go to some of those all-British concerts, won't we? We must be patriotic. Do you know it's really been my dream to have a sweet, useful, sympathetic girl in the house. And with a memory too! Charming!'
Dulcie went away fascinated, if slightly bewildered. It was a pang to her to say good-bye to Aylmer, the more so as he showed, in a way that was perfectly obvious to the girl, that he was pleased to see her go, though he was as cordial as possible.
She had been an embarrassment to him of late. It was beginning to be what is known as a false position, since Headley the butler could now look after Aylmer. Except for a limp, he was practically well.
Anyone who has ever nursed a person to whom they are devoted, helped him through weakness and danger to health again, will understand the curious pain she felt to see him independent of her, anxious to show his strength. Still, he had been perfect. She would always remember him with worship. She meant never to love anyone else all her life.
When she said good-bye she said to him:
'I do hope you'll be very happy.'
He laughed, coloured a little, and said as he squeezed her hand warmly:
'You've been a brick to me, Miss Clay. I shall certainly tell you if I ever am happy.'
She wondered what that meant, but she preferred to try to forget it.
* * * * *
When Dulcie arrived, as she had been told, at a quarter to eight, dressed in a black evening dress (she didn't care to wear uniform at the theatre), she found Lady Conroy, who was lying on the sofa in a tea-gown, utterly astonished to see her.
'My dear! you've come to dine with me after all?'
'No, indeed. I've dined. You said I was to come in time to go to the play.'
'The play? Oh! I forgot. I'm so sorry. I've sent the tickets away. I forgot I'd anyone to go with me. I'm afraid it can't be helped now. Are you very disappointed? Poor child. Well, dear, you'll dine with me, anyhow, as you've come, and I can tell you all about what we shall have to do, and everything. We'll go to the theatre some other evening.'
Dulcie was obliged to decline eating two dinners. She had not found it possible to get through one—her last meal at Aylmer's house. However, as she had no idea what else to do, she remained with Lady Conroy. And she spent a very pleasant evening.
Lady Conroy told her all about herself, her husband, her children and her friends. She told her the history of her life, occasionally branching off on to other subjects, and referring to the angel she had met on a boat who was in the Black Watch, and who, Dulcie gathered, was a wounded officer. Lady Conroy described all the dresses she had at present, many that she had had in former years, and others that she would like to have had now. She gravely told the girl the most inaccurate gossip about such of her friends as Dulcie might possibly meet later. She was confidential, amusing, brilliant and inconsequent. She appeared enchanted with Dulcie, whom she treated like an intimate friend at sight. And Dulcie was charmed with her, though somewhat confused at her curious memory. Indeed, they parted at about eleven the best possible friends; Lady Conroy insisting on sending her home in her car.
Dulcie, who had a sensitive and sensible horror of snobbishness, felt sorry to know that her father would casually mention that his daughter was staying with the Conroys in Carlton House Terrace, and that her stepmother would scold her unless she recollected every dress she happened to see there. Still, on the whole she felt cheered.
She had every reason to hope that she would be as happy as a companion, in love without hope of a return, could be under any circumstances.
Madame Frabelle and Edith were sitting side by side in Edith's boudoir. Madame Frabelle was knitting. Edith was looking at a book. It was a thin little volume of essays, bound by Miss Coniston.
'What is the meaning of this design?' Edith said. 'It seems to me very unsuited to Chesterton's work! Olive-green, with twirly things on it!'
'I thought it rather artistic,' answered Madame Frabelle.
'It looks like macaroni, or spaghetti. Perhaps the idea was suggested by your showing her how to cook it,' said Edith, laughing.
Madame Frabelle looked gravely serene.
'No—I don't think that had anything to do with it.'
'How literal you are, Eglantine!'
'Am I? I think you do me injustice, Edith dear,' returned the amiable guest with a tinge of stateliness as she rolled up her wool.
Edith smiled, put down her book, looked at the clock and rearranged the large orange-coloured cushion behind her back. Then she took the book up again, looked through it and again put it down.
'You're not at all—forgive me for saying so—not the least bit in the world restless today, Edith darling, are you?' said Madame Frabelle in a calm, clear, high voice that Edith found quite trying.
'Oh, I hope not—I think not.'
'Ah, that's well,' and Madame Frabelle, with one slight glance at her hostess, went on knitting.
'I believe I miss Archie a good deal,' said Edith.
'Ah, yes, you must indeed. I miss the dear boy immensely myself,' sympathetically said Madame Frabelle. But Edith thought Madame Frabelle bore his loss with a good deal of equanimity, and she owned to herself that it was not surprising. The lady had been very good to Archie, but he had teased her a good deal. Like the Boy Scouts, but the other way round, he had almost made a point of worrying her in some way or other every day. Edith could never persuade him to change his view of her.
He said she was a fool.
Somehow, today Edith felt rather pleased with him for thinking so. All women are subject to moods, particularly, perhaps, those who have a visitor staying with them for a considerable time. There are moments of injustice, of unfairness to the most charming feminine guest, from the most gentle hostess. And also there are, undoubtedly, times when the nicest hostess gets a little on one's nerves.
So—critical, highly strung—Madame Frabelle was feeling today. So was Edith. Madame Frabelle was privately thinking that Edith was restless, that she had lost her repose, that her lips were redder than they used to be. Had she taken to using lip salve too? She was inclined to smile, with a twinkle in her eye, at Madame Frabelle's remarks, a shade too often. And what was Edith thinking of at this moment? She was thinking of Archie's remarks about Madame Frabelle. That boy had genius!
But there would be a reaction, probably during, or immediately after, tea-time, for these two women were sincerely fond of one another. The irritating fact that Edith was eighteen years younger than her guest made Eglantine feel sometimes a desire to guide, even to direct her, and if she had the disadvantage in age she wanted at least the privilege of gratifying her longing to give advice.
The desire became too strong to be resisted. The advantage of having something to do with her hands while she spoke was too great a one not to be taken advantage of. So Madame Frabelle said:
'Edith dear.'
'Yes?'
'I've been wanting to say something to you.'
Edith leant forward, putting her elbows on her knees and her face on her hands, and said:
'Oh,dotell me, Eglantine. What is it?'
'It is simply this,' said the other lady, calmly continuing her knitting…. 'Very often when one's living with a person, one doesn't notice little things a comparative stranger would observe. Is that not so?'
'What have you observed? What's it about?'
'It is about your husband,' said Madame Frabelle.
'What! Bruce?' asked Edith.
'Naturally,' replied Madame Frabelle dryly.
'What have you observed about Bruce?'
'I have observed,' replied Madame Frabelle, putting her hand in the sock that she was knitting, and looking at it critically, her head on one side, 'I have observed that Bruce is not at all well.'
'Oh, I'm sorry you think that. It's true he has seemed rather what he calls off colour lately.'
'He suffers,' said Madame Frabelle, as if announcing a great discovery,' he suffers from Nerves.'
'I know he does, my dear. Who should know it better than I do? But—do you think he is worse lately?'
'I do. He is terribly depressed. He says things to me sometimes that—well, that really quite alarm me.'
'I'm sorry. But you mustn't take Bruce too seriously, you know that.'
'Indeed I don't take him too seriously! And I've done my best either to change the subject or to make him see the silver lining to every cloud,' Madame Frabelle answered solemnly, with a shake of her head.
'I think what Bruce complains of is the want of a silver lining to his purse,' Edith said.
'You are jesting, Edith dear.'
'No, I'm not. He worries about money.'
'But only incidentally,' said Madame Frabelle. 'Bruce is really worried about the war.'
'Naturally. But surely—I suppose we all are.'
'But Mr. Ottley takes it particularly to heart,' said Madame Frabelle, with a kind of touching dignity.
Edith looked at her in a little surprise. Why did she suddenly callBruce 'your husband' or 'Mr. Ottley'?
'Why this distant manner, Eglantine?' said Edith, half laughing. 'I thought you always called him Bruce.'
'I beg your pardon; yes, I forgot. Well, don't you see, Edith dear, that what we might call his depression, his melancholy point of view, is—is growing worse and worse?'
Edith got up, walked to the other end of the room, rearranged some violets in a copper vase and came back to the sofa again. Madame Frabelle followed her with her eyes. Then Edith said, picking up the knitting:
'Take care, dear, you're losing your wool. Yes; perhaps he is worse. He might be better if he occupied his mind more.'
'He works at the Foreign Office from ten till four every day,' said Madame Frabelle in a tone of defence; 'he looks in at his club, where they talk over the news of the war, and then he comes home and we discuss it again…. Really, Edith, I scarcely see how much more he could do!'
'Oh, my dear, but don't you see all the time he doesn't do anything?—anything about the war, I mean. Now both you and I do our little best to help, in one way or another. You especially, I'm sure, do a tremendous lot; but what does Bruce do? Nothing, except talk.'
'That's just it, Edith. I doubt if your husband is in a fit state of health to strain his mind by any more work than he does already. He's not strong, dear; remember that.'
'Of course, I know; if he were all right he wouldn't be here,' saidEdith.' I suppose he really does suffer a great deal.'
'What was it again that prevented him joining?' asked Madame Frabelle, with sympathetic tenderness.
'Neurotic heart,' answered Edith. Though she tried her very utmost she could not help the tone of her voice sounding a little dry and ironical. Of course, she did not in the least believe in Bruce's neurotic heart, but she did not want Madame Frabelle to know that.
'Ah! ah! that must cause him a great deal of pain, but I think so far his worst symptoms are his nervous fears. Look at last night,' continued Madame Frabelle, and now she put down her knitting and folded it into her work-basket.' Last night, because there was no moon, and it wasn't raining, and fairly clear, Mr Ott—Bruce had absolutely made up his mind there would be a Zeppelin raid. It was his own idea.'
'Not quite, dear. Young Coniston, who is a special constable, rang up and told him that there was a chance of the Zeppelins last night.'
'Well, perhaps so. At any rate he believed it. Well, instead of being satisfied when I told him that I had got out my mask, that I saw to the bath being left half-filled with water, helped your husband to put two large bags of sand outside his dressing-room—in spite of all that, do you know what happened in the middle of the night?'
'I'm afraid I don't,' said Edith. 'Since Archie went back to school I have had Dilly in my room, and we both slept soundly all night.'
'Did you? I fancied I saw a light in your room.'
This was quite true. Edith was writing a very long letter.
'Ah, perhaps.'
'Well, at three o'clock in the morning, fancy my surprise to hear a knock at my door!'
'I wonder I didn't hear a knock at mine,' said Edith.
'Your husband was afraid to disturb the little girl. Most considerate, I thought. Well, he knocked at my door and said that he was unable to sleep, that he felt terribly miserable and melancholy, in fact was wretched, and that he felt on the point of cutting his throat…. Don't be frightened, dear. I don't mean that he reallymeantit,' said Madame Frabelle, putting her hand on Edith's.
'Poor fellow! But what a shame to disturb you.'
'I didn't mind in the least. I was only too pleased. Well, what do you think I did? I got up and dressed, went down to the library and lighted the fire, and sat up for half-an-hour with your husband trying to cheer him up!'
'Did you really?' Edith smiled. 'It was very sweet of you, Eglantine.'
'Not at all; I was only too glad. I made a cup of tea, Bruce had a whisky and soda, we had a nice talk, and I sent him back quite cheerful. Still, it just shows, doesn't it, how terribly he takes it all?'
'Rather hard on you, Eglantine; quite improper too,' laughed Edith as she rang the bell.
Madame Frabelle ignored this remark.
'If I could only feel at all that I've done a little good during my stay here, I shall be quite satisfied.'
'Oh! but you mustn't dream yet of—' began Edith.
There was a ring at the bell.
'Why, here is Bruce, just in time for tea.'
Edith went to meet him in the hall. Although he came in with his key, he invariably rang the bell, so that the maid could take his coat and stick.
'Hallo, Edith,' he said, in a rather sober tone. 'How are you? And where is Madame Frabelle?'
Bruce came in with a rather weary air, and sat down by the fire. MadameFrabelle was presiding at the tea-table.
'How are you feeling, Bruce?' Edith asked.
'Oh, pretty rotten. I had a very bad night. How are you, MadameFrabelle?'
'Oh, very well. Tea?'
'Poor Bruce!' said Edith kindly. 'Oh, and poor Madame Frabelle,' she added, with a smile.
Bruce gave Madame Frabelle a slightly reproachful look as he took a cup of tea from her.
'I've been telling Edith,' said that lady in a quiet, dignified way.
'What about?'
'About last night,' said Madame Frabelle, passing Bruce the buttered toast without looking at him, as if avoiding his glance.
'I'm really very much ashamed of it,' said Bruce. 'You can't think how kind she was to me, Edith.'
'I'm sure she was,' said Edith.
'Oh, you won't have a bad night like that again,' said Madame Frabelle cheerily.
'I'm sure I hope not.' He gave a dark, despairing look, and sighed. 'Upon my word, if it hadn't been for her I don't know what I would have done.' He shook his head and stroked his back hair.
Suddenly Edith felt intensely bored. Madame Frabelle and Bruce were looking at each other with such intense sympathy, and she knew they would repeat in different words what they had said already. They were so certain to go over the same ground again and again!… Edith felt she was not wanted. But that didn't annoy her. She was merely thinking of an excuse to get away from them.
'By the way, how's Aylmer, Edith?' asked Bruce.
'Getting on well. I believe he's been ordered out of town.'
'To the seaside? For God's sake don't let him go to the east coast!'
'The east coast is quite as safe as any other part of England,Ithink.' said Madame Frabelle.
'Oh, he'll take his chance,' Edith replied.
'I expect he'll missyou, my dear,' said Bruce. 'You've been so jolly good to him lately.'
'Naturally,' said Madame Frabelle, a little quickly, very smoothly, and with what Edith thought unnecessary tact. 'Naturally. Anyone so kind-hearted as Edith would be sure to try and cheer up the convalescence of a wounded friend. Have afoie-grassandwich, Edith?'
Edith felt an almost irresistible desire to laugh at something in the hospitable, almost patronising tone of her guest.
'Oh, Edith likes going to see him,' said Bruce to Madame Frabelle. 'So do I, if it comes to that. We're all fond of old Aylmer, you know.'
'I know. I quite understand. You're great friends. Personally, I think Mr Ross has behaved splendidly.' Madame Frabelle said this with an air of self-control and scrupulous justice.
'You don't care very much about him, I fancy,' said Bruce with the air of having made a subtle discovery.
She raised one eyebrow slightly. 'I won't say that. I see very excellent points in him. I admit there's a certain coldness, a certain hard reserve about his character that—Well, frankly, it doesn't appeal to me. But I hope I am fair to him. He's a man I respect…. Yes, I respect him.'
'But he doesn't amuse you—what?' said Bruce.
'The fact is, he has no sense of humour,' said Madame Frabelle.
'Fancy your finding that out now!' said Bruce, with a broad smile.'Funny! Ha ha! Very funny! Do you know, it never occurred to me! But nowI come to think of it—yes, perhaps that's what's the matter with him.Mind you, I call him a jolly, cheery sort of chap. Quite an optimist—adistinct optimist. You never find Aylmer depressed.'
'No, not depressed. It isn't that. But he hasn't got—You won't either of you be angry with me for what I say, will you?'
'Oh no, indeed.'
'You won't be cross with me, Edith? Perhaps I ought not to say it.'
'Yes, do tell us,' urged Edith.
'Well, what I consider is the defect in Aylmer Ross is that he has brains, but no temperament.'
'Excellent!' cried Bruce. 'Perfectly true. Temperament! That's what he wants!'
Edith remembered hearing that phrase used in her presence to Madame Frabelle—not about Aylmer, but about someone else. It was very characteristic of Madame Frabelle to catch up an idea or a phrase, misapply it, and then firmly regard it as her own.
Bruce shook his head. 'Brains, but no temperament! Excellent!'
'Mind you, that doesn't prevent him being an excellent soldier,' went onMadame Frabelle.
'Oh dear, no. He's done jolly well,' said Bruce. 'I think I know what she means—don't you, Edith?'
'I'm sureshedoes,' said Edith, who had her doubts. 'I don't know that I do quite know what people mean when they say other people haven't got temperament. The question is—whatistemperament?'
'Oh, my dear, it's a sort of—a something—an atmosphere—a sympathy.What I might call the magnetism of personality!'
'That's right!' said Bruce, passing his cup for another cup of tea.'Aylmer's hard, hard as nails.'
'Hasn't he got the name of being rather warm-hearted and impulsive, though?' suggested Edith.
'Oh, he's good-natured enough,' said Bruce. 'Very generous. I've known him to do ever so many kind things and never let a soul except the fellow he'd helped know anything about it.'
'You don't understand me,' said Madame Frabelle. 'I don't doubt that for a moment. He's a generous man, because he has a sense of duty and of the claims of others. But he has the effect on me—'
'Go on, Eglantine.'
'Frankly, he chills me,' said Madame Frabelle. 'When I went to see him with Edith, I felt more tired after a quarter of an hour's talk with him than I would—' She glanced at Bruce.
'Than you would after hours with Landi, or Bruce, or Byrne Fraser, or young Coniston,' suggested Edith.
'That's what I mean. He's difficult to talk to.'
'I have no doubt you're right,' said Edith.
'Well, she generally is,' said Bruce. 'The only thing is she's so infernally deep sometimes, she sees things in people that nobody else would suspect. Oh, you do, you know!'
'Oh, do I?' said Madame Frabelle modestly.
'Yes, I think you do,' said Edith, who by this time felt inclined to throw the tea-tray at her guest. The last fortnight Edith's nerves had certainly not been quite calm. Formerly she would have been amused at the stupidity of the conversation. Now she felt irritated, bored and worried, except when she was with Aylmer.
There was a moment's silence. Bruce leant back and half shut his eyes. Madame Frabelle softly put a cushion behind his shoulder, putting a finger on her lip as she looked at Edith.
Edith suddenly got up.
'You won't think it horrid of me, Bruce? I've got to go out for a few minutes.'
'Oh no, no, no!' said Bruce. 'Certainly not. Do go, my dear girl. You'll be back to dinner?'
'Dinner? Of course. It isn't a quarter to six.'
Her eyes were bright. She looked full of elasticity and spirit again.
'I quite forgot,' she said, 'something that I promised to do for MrsMitchell. And she'll be disappointed if I don't.'
'I know what it is,' said Madame Frabelle archly. 'It's about that Society for the Belgians,'—she lowered her voice—'I mean the children'slingerie!'
'That's it,' said Edith gratefully. 'Well, I'll fly—and be back as soon as I can.'
Bruce got up and opened the door for her.
'For heaven's sake don't treat me with ceremony, my dear Edith,' saidMadame Frabelle.
She made a little sign, as much as to say that she would look after Bruce. But she was not very successful in expressing anything by a look or a gesture. Edith had no idea what she meant. However, she nodded in return, as if she fully comprehended, and then ran up to her room, put on her hat, and, too impatient to wait while the servant called a cab, walked as quickly as possible until she met one near the top of Sloane Street. It was already very dark.
'Twenty-seven Jermyn Street,' said Edith as she jumped in.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later she was sitting next to Aylmer.
'Only for a second; I felt I must see you.'
'Fool! Angel!' said Aylmer, beaming, and kissing her hand.
'Bruce is too irritating for words today. And Madame Frabelle makes me sick. I can't stand her. At least today.'
'Oh, Edith, don't tell me you're jealous of the woman! I won't stand it!I shan't play.'
'Good heavens, no! Not in the least. But her society's so tedious at times. She has such a pompous way of discovering the obvious.'
'I do believe you object to her being in love with Bruce,' said Aylmer reproachfully. 'That's a thing I willnotstand.'
'Indeed I don't. Besides, she's not. Who could be?… And don't be jealous of Bruce, Aylmer…. I know she's very motherly to him, and kind. But she's the same to everyone.'
They talked on for a few minutes. Then Edith said:
'Good-bye. I must go.'
'Good-bye,' said Aylmer.
'Oh! Are you going to let me go already?' she asked reproachfully.
She leant over him. Some impulse seemed to draw her near to him.
'You're using that Omar Khayyám scent again,' he said. 'I wish you wouldn't.'
'Why? you said you liked it.'
'I do like it. I like it too much.'
She came nearer. Aylmer gently pushed her away.
'How unkind you are!' she said, colouring a little with hurt feeling.
'I can't do that sort of thing,' said Aylmer in a low voice. 'When once you've given me your promise—but not before.'
'Oh, Aylmer!'
'I won't rush you. You'll see I'm right in time, dear girl.'
'You don't love me!' suddenly exclaimed Edith.
'But that's where you're wrong. I do love you. And I wish you'd go.'
She looked into his eyes, and then said, looking away:
'Are you really going out of town?'
'I'm ordered to. But I doubt if I can stand it.'
'Well, good-bye, Aylmer dear.'
'Fiend! Are you going already? Cruel girl!'
'Why you've just sent me away!'
'I can stand talking to you, Edith. Talking, for hours. But I can't stand your being within a yard of me.'
'Thank you so much,' she said, laughing, and arranging her hat in front of the mirror.
He spoke in a lower voice:
'How often must I tell you? You know perfectly well.'
'What?'
'I'm not that sort of man.'
'What sort?'
After a moment's pause he said:
'I can't kiss people.'
'I'm very glad you can't. I have no wish for you to kisspeople.'
'I can't kiss. I don't know how anyone can. I can't do those things.'
She pretended not to hear, looked round the room, took up a book and said:
'Will you lend me this, Aylmer?'
'No, I'll give it you.'
'Good-bye.'
'Good-bye, darling,' said Aylmer, ringing the bell.
The butler called her a cab, and she drove to Mrs Mitchell's.
When she got to the door she left a message with the footman to say she hadn't been able to see about that matter for Mrs Mitchell yet, but would do it tomorrow.
Just as she was speaking Mr Mitchell came up to the door.
'Hallo, hallo, hallo!' he cried in his cheery, booming voice.
'Hallo, Edith! How's Bruce?'
'Why, you ought to know. He's been with you today,' said Edith.
'He seems a bit off colour at the Foreign Office. Won't you all three come and dine with us tomorrow? No party. I'm going to ring up and get Aylmer. It won't hurt him to dine quietly with us.'
'We shall be delighted,' said Edith.
Mr Mitchell didn't like to see her go, but as he was longing to tell his wife a hundred things that interested them both, he waved his hand to her, saying:
'Good-bye. The war will be over in six months. Mark my words! And then won't we have a good time!'
'Dear Mr Mitchell!' said Edith to herself as she drove back home in the dark.
Landi was growing rather anxious about his favourite, for it was quite obvious to him that she was daily becoming more and more under the spell. Curious that the first time she should have found the courage to refuse, and that now, after three years' absence and with nothing to complain of particularly on the subject of her husband, she should now be so carried away by this love.
She had developed, no doubt. She was touched also, deeply moved at the long fidelity Aylmer had shown. He was now no longer an impulsive admirer, but a devotee. Even that, however, would not have induced her to think of making such a break in her life if it hadn't been for the war. Yes, Sir Tito put it all down to the war. It had an exciting, thrilling effect on people. It made them reckless. When a woman knows that the man she loves has risked his life, and is only too anxious to risk it again—well, it's natural that she should feel she is also willing to risk something. Valour has always been rewarded by beauty. And then her great sense of responsibility, her conscientiousness about Bruce—no wonder that had been undermined by his own weak conduct. How could Edith help feeling a slight contempt for a husband who not only wouldn't take any chances while he was still within the age, but positively imagined himself ill. True, Bruce had always been amalade imaginaire; like many others with the same weakness, his valetudinarianism had been terribly increased by the anxiety and worry of the war. But there was not much sympathy about for it just now. While so much real suffering was going on, imaginary ills were ignored, despised or forgotten.
Bruce hated the war; but he didn't hate it for the sake of other people so much as for his own. The interest that the world took in it positively bored him—absurd as it seems to say so, Edith was convinced that he was positively jealous of the general interest in it! He had great fear of losing his money, a great terror of Zeppelins; he gave way to his nerves instead of trying to control them. Edith knew his greatest wish would have been, had it been possible, to get right away from everything and go and live in Spain or America, or somewhere where he could hear no more about the war. Such a point of view might be understood in the case, say, of a great poet, a great artist, a man of genius, without any feeling of patriotism, or even a man beyond the age; but Bruce—he was the most ordinary and average of human beings, the most commonplace Englishman of thirty-seven who had ever been born; that Bruce should feel like that did seem to Edith a little—contemptible; yet she was sorry for him, she knew he really suffered from insomnia and nerves, though he looked a fine man and had always been regarded as a fair sportsman. He had been fair at football and cricket, and could row a bit, and was an enthusiastic golfist; still, Edith knew he would never have made a soldier. Bruce wanted to be wrapped up in cotton wool, petted, humoured, looked up to and generally spoilt.
* * * * *
But what Sir Tito felt most was the thought of his favourite, who had forgiven her husband that escapade three years ago, now appearing in an unfavourable light. She had been absolutely faithful to Bruce in every way, under many temptations, and he knew she was still absolutely faithful. Aylmer and Edith were neither of them the people for secret meetings, for deception. It was not in her totromperher husband while pretending to be a devoted wife, and it was equally unlike Aylmer to be a false friend.
Landi was too much of a man of the world to have been particularly shocked, even if he had known they had both deceived Bruce. Privately, for Edith's own sake he almost wished they had. He hated scandal to touch her; he thought she would feel it more than she supposed. But, after all, he reflected, had they begun in that way it would have been sure to end in an elopement, with a man of Aylmer's spirit and determination. Aylmer, besides, was far too exclusive in his affections, far too jealous, ever to be able to endure to see Edith under Bruce's thumb, ordered about, trying to please him; and indeed Landi was most anxious that they should not be alone too much, in case, now that Edith cared for him so much, his feelings would carry him away…. Yes, if it once went too far the elopement was a certainty.
Would the world blame her so very much? That Bruce would let her take the children Landi had no doubt. He would never stand the bother of them; he wouldn't desire the responsibility; his pride might be a little hurt, but on the whole Sir Tito shrewdly suspected, as did Edith herself, that there would be a certain feeling of relief. Bruce had become such an egotist that, though he would miss Edith's devotion, he wouldn't grudge her the care of the children. Aylmer had pledged her his faith, his whole future; undoubtedly he would marry her and take the children as his own; still, Edith would bear the brunt before the world.
This Sir Tito did not fancy at all, and instinctively he began to watch Bruce. He felt very doubtful of him. The man who had flirted with the governess, who had eloped with the art student—was it at all likely that he was utterly faithful to Edith now? It was most unlikely. And Edith's old friend hoped that things would be adjusted in fairness to her.
He knew she would be happy with Aylmer. Why should she not at thirty-five begin a new life with the man she really cared for—a splendid fellow, a man with a fine character, with all his faults, who felt the claims of others, who had brains, pluck, and a sense of honour?
But Aylmer was going out again to the front. Until he returned again, nothing should be done. They should be patient.