Chapter Thirteen
Martyn Ambrey, evidently desirous of showing me what a strongly individual viewpoint he possessed, told me that evening that he felt “Mr. Harter,” as we all called him, in faint mimicry of his wife’s invariable phrase, to be very much more worth seeing than the theatricals themselves.
I did not tell him that I felt exactly the same. He would probably not have believed me.
By seven o’clock the house was full of people, most of them in a state of great disorder and agitation.
People were dressing, or even undressing, in almost every room.
At last Claire appeared in the hall in a very beautiful black velvet gown.
“They’ll be ready by nine o’clock,” she said confidently.
The curtain was to go up at nine. The performers, all except Mrs. Harter, had dined early at the Manor.
She and her husband arrived after dinner.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harter.”
Whatever hergaucheries, Mrs. Harter knew how to enter a room—an art that is not a common one nor—generally—an acquired one. She moved remarkably well.
Harter followed her.
The word “nondescript” is the one that first occurs to me, in attempting to describe him, and the next one is “unwholesome.”
He was a small man, sandy-haired, with a sallow, fretful face and narrow shoulders. He seemed to walk like a cat—almost, but never quite, on the tips of his toes. When his wife, in her abrupt, graceless fashion, said, by way of introduction, “This is Mr. Harter,” he bowed stiffly. Almost at once Mrs. Harter, obviously constrained, suggested that she ought to go and change her dress, and Claire took her away.
I gave Harter a drink.
He was a difficult man to talk with, noncommittal and without humor. It was a relief to him, without a doubt, when Mr. and Mrs. Leeds were announced.
I performed the usual introductions, but Leeds listens only to his own voice, never to that of anybody else.
He said, “How d’ye do,” and in the same breath went on to talk of the play, and ended his sentence with a hearty laugh and the pleasing observation:
“Amateur theatricals almost always lead to a scandal of some sort, that’s the beauty of them. Somebody runs off with somebody else’s wife—that sort of thing. I’ve seen it happen time and time again—”
“Mr. Harter, have another drink,” said I, with all the distinctness of utterance at my command. I saw—and no doubt Harter did, too—that Leeds jumped at the sound of his name. Then he looked at Mrs. Leeds, then again, hard, at Harter, and finally at me, with comically raised eyebrows. Harter remained entirely impervious.
“Let me see, you and I met once in Cairo, I believe,” said Mr. Leeds, “when our yacht was at Alexandria.”
“Yes,” said the little man, with a sort of neutral civility. “I believe that was so.”
“And your wife—”
“Oh, yes.”
There was a pause.
I had an unreasonable, and quite unfounded, premonition that the next thing would be the cocktail story.
It was a relief when Lady Annabel and the Rector arrived, and then the Kendals and other people.
The atmosphere was somehow jerky, almost apprehensive. No conversation seemed to have any continuity, and no movement any very definite purpose.
The third, and greatest, relief of the evening waswhen we all adjourned to our places in front of the stage and waited for the curtain to go up.
There were a good many people present. Some of the men, among them Harter, stood up at the end of the room.
Mrs. Harter’s song went very well. There was an instant in which I thought, with surprise, that she was nervous. Her eyes searched the audience intently for a moment, seeking to identify someone or something in the fashion that so unmistakably differentiates the amateur from the professional. Lady Annabel, beside me, said not a word, but I saw her eyebrows go up.
However, it wasn’t Bill Patch that Mrs. Harter was looking for—he was behind the scenes, and of course she must have known that. In less than a minute I saw by her face that she had discovered what she wanted, and she began her song and sang it very well.
I had curiosity enough to turn around and follow the direction that her glance had taken, and I saw that it must have been her husband, whose situation she had wanted to ascertain.
His little, sallow face was inexpressive, and I suddenly saw some justification for Martyn’s adjective—reptilian. There was something oddly and inexplicablybaleful about the singularly unattractive Mr. Harter as he leaned against the wall and watched his wife on the stage.
After her song was over and had been vigorously applauded she went off the stage and I did not see her again during the play, but Dolly Kendal, who had a seat at the far end of a row, assured me afterward that Mrs. Harter sat in the wings, and that Bill Patch came and stood beside her in every interval when he was not on the stage.
There are always observant people to note these things and to retail them in conversation.
Of course the play was a great success. Amateur theatricals always are a great success. Sallie’s performance was quite brilliant and the others were good enough.
The chief success of the evening was achieved by Alfred, who overacted his part, uttered impromptu soliloquies, cut into other people’s speeches and played the clown in dumb show throughout a pathetic duet between Sallie and Martyn.
The audience, as a whole, adored him. He was applauded at every impossible moment, and the servants, at the back of the hall, screamed with laughter whenever he spoke. Mumma was beaming.
“I must say, Ahlfred has a great sense of the ridiculous,”she said appreciatively. “I hope weallhave, it’s such a help, to see the funny side—but Ahlfred especially, from the time he was quite a little fellow, has always been able to keep us in a perfect roar.”
Finally the performers all sang “The Bulbul Ameer,” and Bill and Nancy took a call for “Author,” and then everybody said to everybody else how good it had all been, and the actors came off the stage still in costume and received compliments and congratulations.
A blaring atrocity, known as a “sensational fox-trot,” opened the dance. Claire had engaged a jazz band, and at intervals, to a sound of clattering fire-irons, they suddenly yelled in brassy staccato:
“Why—did—I kiss—that girl—Why, oh! why, oh! why?”
“Why—did—I kiss—that girl—Why, oh! why, oh! why?”
“Why—did—I kiss—that girl—
Why, oh! why, oh! why?”
It was ugly, discordant, essentially vulgar, and when all that was admitted it had its value. It wasentrainant.
The brazen yelp of it had not torn the air more than three times before people were dancing.
Mrs. Kendal planted herself firmly beside me with her kindest air and began:
“Dancing has changed so much in the last four years. These modern dances don’t look to me like dancing at all.”
“Give me a real old-fashioned waltz,” said General Kendal.
And before I could say it for them—and it was on the tip of my tongue, too—they exclaimed together, “Now, the old Blue Danube—”
“Look at that,” said Mrs. Kendal, and she shook her head and made a sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth that quite adequately conveyed regret and disapproval.
“That” was of course Mrs. Harter, dancing with Bill Patch. They were in their pseudo-oriental dresses, but Bill’s red head was unmistakable and so was Mrs. Harter’s dancing.
They were together the whole evening. So were Chris and Nancy, Martyn and some unidentified young woman in mauve bead shoulder straps and a fragment of crimson chiffon, and Leeds and a very pretty widow who had come with their party. But nobody made distressed sounds aboutthem.
“She dances quite beautifully,” I pointed out firmly to Mrs. Kendal, who replied in a tone of concession:
“If you call it dancing. I must say, I don’t think that either Puppa or I would very much care to see one of our girlies dancing like that.”
The suggested test of Puppa and Mumma’s sensibilitiesappeared to me to be a very remote contingency indeed.
At rather infrequent intervals one or other of the Miss Kendals lolloped cheerfully round the room with a stray partner, but, as Mrs. Kendal said:
“This modern way of dancing with one man the whole evening seems to me very odd. I shouldn’t care about it for any of my own flock.”
“But you know, Mumma, we don’t know any men who are in the least likely to ask us to dance with them for the whole evening,” observed Dolly Kendal very honestly.
“And one never does go to any dance, except perhaps at Christmas—struggling along down here,” added Aileen.
I thought Mumma looked rather disconcerted at so much candor, but she only said, “Well, well,” and put up her glasses to scrutinize Bill and Mrs. Harter more effectively.
Their performance was well worth watching, artistically speaking, although it was undoubtedly not that aspect of the case which presented itself to those people who appeared unable to take their eyes off them.
Harter himself was among these. He stood near one of the windows and never stirred. Claire askedif he cared to dance and he said, “No thanks, Lady Flower. I am not a dancing man.”
Later on I saw Sallie go up to him. I think that she actually asked him to dance, probably out of pure curiosity, but if so, he declined the privilege.
Sallie, looking very pretty, stayed beside him, talking and laughing, for a few moments, but I did not once see Harter smile or make any response except of the shortest and most formal kind.
He had a peculiar way of not looking at the person to whom he was—presumably—listening, and all the while that Sallie was with him he looked at Bill Patch and at his wife.
“Well, if you ask me, that little worm Harter will be filing his petition within a month,” said Mrs. Leeds cheerfully.
“If I were in his shoes, I’d take that woman home and thrash her,” charitably remarked old Carey, to whom she had spoken.
“She was pretty hot stuff, even in Egypt.”
“She! I’m not thinking about her. I’m thinking about a decent young fellow like Patch. She’s out to make a fool of that lad and, by Jove, she’s succeeding. He’s bewitched.”
“Men always run after that sort of woman. Theywere all after her in Cairo. Hector would have been as bad as any of them if I hadn’t put my foot down.”
Mrs. Leeds looked up at her husband and laughed most good-naturedly.
It was quite evident that to her the whole thing was a joke, and a joke of the type that most appealed to her.
Where Lady Annabel saw sin she saw only vulgarity, and vulgarity amused her.
I am reminded that Lady Annabel was particularly gracious that evening. It was quite characteristic of her that once she had given us her advice and we had tacitly refused to take it, she should avoid any slightest hint of the “I-told-you-so” attitude that really was open to her.
She certainly looked at those two—but then so did everybody. She never said a word.
Lady Annabel has a wonderfully good memory both for names and for faces. (“I have heard it called a royal attribute,” she sometimes says smilingly.)
She remembers to inquire after sick relatives and she can always make some happily turned little reference to “the last time that I met you, on that very hot day at the station”—which makes one feel that the meeting in question left an indelible impression on hermind and was of real importance to her. It is all very pleasant and gratifying.
On the night of the party she told me that she thought it was all going most successfully and that the theatricals had been delightful. “Such a charming way of meeting one’s neighbors all together,” she said, looking around the room through her tortoise-shell lorgnette.
She was wearing a blue gown that was all over sequins and shimmered as she moved, and although Lady Annabel is a small woman, and very thin and spare, she looked majestic and altogether reminded me of Queen Elizabeth.
“I think I see a face that is strange to me,” she murmured, drawing her brows together in a rather puzzled way, and one knew that this was one of Lady Annabel’s very harmless little affectations, since there are of necessity a good many faces that are strange to her, even in Cross Loman.
I followed the direction of the lorgnette and saw, as I had somehow expected, that she was looking at Harter.
“That is Mr. Harter.”
“Oh,” said Lady Annabel.
She looked hard at him and then she said, “Oh,” again—but that was all.
Leeds was less forbearing.
“Sour-faced devil, isn’t he? Not that it’s much wonder. If he’d had any sense, he’d have stayed where he was. What the eyes don’t see the heart won’t grieve for.”
“I should have thought he’d got used to it by this time,” said Mrs. Leeds simply. “Do you remember Captain Tompkins and that unfortunate engineer—what was his name—who threw up his job and went home?”
Evidently the Leeds couple, who had, after all, seen something of Mrs. Harter in Egypt, looked upon Bill Patch as being one of a series.
I reflected that perhaps they knew more about it than we did. Provincials take these things so seriously.
“I’m going to take that wretched chap to have a drink,” Leeds declared. “Utter little outsider though he is, I’m sorry for him.”
Mrs. Leeds, laughing loudly, called out, “Fellow-feeling, I suppose?” after him as he went off. I thought it to Lady Annabel’s credit that not a muscle of her face had moved during the whole of this rather crude conversation.
It was one of the few hot nights of the year, and sooner or later everybody drifted into the garden. I went there with Mary Ambrey, and we found our wayto the furthest summerhouse, one that has fallen into disuse. The summerhouse proper, a strangely obvious little trysting place, was being monopolized by Christopher and Mrs. Fazackerly.
I suppose that every single couple who went into the garden that night must have passed the summerhouse, glanced inside it, smiled sympathetically and gone on.
Christopher and Nancy sat in two deck chairs, her frock and shoes and hair all looking equally silvery in the moonlight, and they were talking in low, happy voices.
“That’sall right,” I said, and Mary agreed. Perhaps she was conscious, as I certainly was, of something rather perfunctory in the tone of her assent. She added after a moment:
“It really is quite plain sailing for them, isn’t it?”
“Unless you call Nancy’s father a rock in the way.”
“Nancy isn’t a Victorian schoolgirl. I don’t think they have much to contend with.”
“So much the better.”
“Oh yes,” said Mary, her tone rather enigmatical.
Then she suddenly burst out:
“It’s all so upside down! Christopher and Nancy are dears, both of them, but you know as well as I do that they are neither of them people of tremendoussignificance. Yet one wishes them well and wants to see it all happily settled. But those other two people—andtheyarerealpeople, both of them—are outside the law, and there’s no possible happy ending in sight, anywhere, for them. And—one doesn’t know what to wish.”
It was unlike Mary to be vehement. Although she had not raised her voice at all, she had spoken with great intensity.
I put my hand on her arm.
“Look!”
Two people were coming down the path, where no Japanese lanterns had found their way, but which was crossed by a clear patch of white moonlight.
“Not Sallie, is it?”
The dress was almost Sallie’s, and the coins on it clinked together slightly, and the long gauze veil hung in motionless folds in the unusual stillness of the night air—but it wasn’t Sallie—of course.
Sallie is less tall than Mrs. Harter and her movements have the lightness and abruptness of extreme youth.
Mrs. Harter’s way of walking was unmistakable, and even in the moonlight Bill’s red hair was easily recognizable.
They were walking very slowly, not speaking. He was looking at her, whose head was bent.
Just as I realized that they could not see us, in the dark little summerhouse, Mrs. Harter stopped dead and looked up at him. Mary sprang to her feet with a decided movement and at the same moment we both heard Diamond Harter’s voice very distinctly, that voice that Bill Patch had called a “carrying” voice.
“To-morrow, when we go up Loman Hill to the crossroads,” she said.
Almost before she had finished speaking—but not quite—she heard us move; and she and Bill walked on, out of the patch of white light into the darkness of the overhanging syringa bushes.
Was it a tryst, or a promise, or a decision? I have never known, and neither Mary nor I spoke about what we had heard as we went back to the house again.
I have my theory, of course. Almost all my knowledge of Mrs. Harter is theoretical. I think that Bill had asked her for a decision and that she was deferring it until the next day, until they went “up Loman Hill to the crossroads” once more. I always imagine that, in spite of Harter, and certainly in spite of the people who looked at them so often, and with so much disapproval, they deliberately forgot about the future for that one evening.
Both of them must have realized that a turning point had been reached. Harter had come home, he had made it perfectly clear that in no circumstances would he give his wife her freedom, and she had, I afterwards learned, made it equally clear that, whether she went away with Bill or not, she had no intention of returning to her husband again.
It was Bill Patch, with his strange mixture of a belief in God and a strong sense of the “unsportingness” of adultery, who saw the necessity for a decision. To Mrs. Harter I am quite certain that the issue would have been a simple one. All her life she had gone for what she wanted with a singular and unusual freedom of aim, in so far as the opinion of other people was always a matter of complete and genuine indifference to her. Neither by education nor by temperament was she a woman of ideals, and it seems to me the measure of her regard for Bill Patch that she was prepared to let his be a determining factor in their future.
They did not return to the ballroom again until the last dance of the evening was being played.
It is part of the incongruity that was so marked a feature of the whole affair that for that last dance the players chose to repeat the “sensational fox-trot” with which the evening had begun—that loud, swaggering,jerky abomination that yet held its third-rate appeal:
“Why—did—I kiss that girl—Why, oh! why, oh! why?”
“Why—did—I kiss that girl—Why, oh! why, oh! why?”
“Why—did—I kiss that girl—
Why, oh! why, oh! why?”
And Bill Patch and Mrs. Harter danced it together.
I watched them all the while this time almost as Mrs. Kendal herself might have done, and Mrs. Harter’s eyes were shining like a girl’s, and I remembered Martyn Ambrey and his—“Thatwoman hard?”
Bill’s young face was that of a boy in love until one looked at it very closely, and then it was that of a man who has found security.
I have always had a fancy that Bill knew that evening which way Diamond Harter would eventually decide, but that he had consciously put the knowledge away from him, and was simply, as he had once said to Nancy Fazackerly, “so extraordinarily happy, in spite of it all.”
It was after three o’clock when the Kendals, who are generally the last to leave any entertainment, prepared to go home.
“I shall enjoy a drive in the moonlight,” said Mumma, pleasantly sentimental. “Don’t you think, Puppa dear, that a drive in the moonlight will be toodelightful? It will remind us of our honeymoon days,” said Mumma, smiling delightfully.
Then acontretempsarose.
The car that had been hired to take old Carey and his daughter home had not appeared at the door, and Christopher, returning from the stable yard, reported the driver to be lying helplessly intoxicated in a corner of the old cowhouse.
Christopher said that the lad deserved instant dismissal and that he would make a point of seeing that he got it, but he had seized the opportunity of bringing round his own two-seater and was eager to take Nancy home in it.
“Oh, but Father—”
“I could easily come back for him.”
Old Carey, however, had flown into a passion.
He used fearful language and said that he should walk every step of the way home, which threat he evidently supposed to constitute a terrible revenge upon the drunken driver, Nancy, Christopher, and everybody who had helped to enrage him.
“He’s in one of his rather difficult moods, I’m afraid,” said Nancy aside.
It was Harter, of all unlikely people, who suddenly suggested a solution.
“The car is only a Ford, isn’t it? I’ll drive it backto the garage—it’s next door to our rooms in Queen Street—and I will drop Mr. —”
“Carey—”
“Mr. Carey and this lady on the way.”
“No room,” growled Carey, determined not to be appeased.
“Plenty of room,” everybody assured him.
“Three at the back and one beside the driver,” said Harter, who appeared to have become suddenly articulate.
I remember that it flashed across my mind just then, casually, that he had been drinking a good deal during the evening and that this had evidently had the effect of rendering him sociable.
“Mr. Carey and his daughter and Mrs. Harter in the back and myself and Captain Patch in front,” said Harter calmly.
There was an electric silence.
Then Mrs. Kendal, tactfully filling up the significant pause, inquired brightly:
“Then can you drive a car, Mr. Harter?”
They settled it at last, but Christopher held firm to his intention of taking Nancy home in the two-seater, and they went off, overtaking and passing General Kendal, in his tightly packed Standard, before the lodge gates were reached.
Harter brought the hired Ford round to the front door, old Carey, still grumbling, was helped in, and Mrs. Harter got in beside him.
Captain Patch hesitated for a moment.
“Get in,” said little Harter coldly.
He was himself already at the wheel and he sketched a slight gesture which unmistakably invited Bill to the place beside him.
It crossed my mind then that he was determined to speak to Bill, and I think Mrs. Harter thought so, too.
She said, “Come on, then,” and Bill came, and they all drove off together.