“Of making many books there is no end:and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”
“Of making many books there is no end:and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”
“Of making many books there is no end:and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”
“Of making many books there is no end:
and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”
He arrived at the club about seven o’clock, and was informed that a gentleman was waiting to see him.
“I don’t want to see anybody. Who is he?”
The page produced a card bearing the name, “Mr. Sefton Wainwright,” and below, “New British Drama Association.”
Every one had heard of the New British Drama Association. It was rumoured that it would be the greatest and most progressive theatrical enterprise in England. The scaffold-poles of the façade of their splendid new theatre were already being taken down, and it was said that the opening would be in the coming autumn.
“How long had he been waiting?”
“Nearly an hour, sir.”
“Then he deserves to see me.”
Mr. Wainwright was very affable, also he was very businesslike.
“We want three producers on our permanent staff—a business producer, a classic producer, and one with aflairlike yourself. We mean to do things at our theatre, Mr. Rendall!”
“Aha.”
“Well, what about it?”
“I’m a writer.”
“So much the better. You’ll have plenty of time.”
“I believe I’m a mercenary too.”
“A thousand a year any good?”
Wynne smiled.
“I have lived on less,” he said.
“Then I repeat, what about it?”
“If you’ll do a play of mine I’ll think more kindly of the offer.”
“Send it right along. And in the meantime—”
“You let me know about the play and I’ll let you know about the producing.”
“Very well—today is Friday. Shall we say Friday week?”
“I’ll come and see you at eleven o’clock.”
“And you like the idea?”
“I like everything. I’m in love with the world today.”
At dinner Wynne drank a large quantity of champagne, and insisted that every one else in the immediate neighbourhood should do likewise. As he drank his spirits rose, and so also did his voice. There was a great deal of laughter and much wit—and the wit was accorded more laughter than it deserved. After dinner there were brandies and sodas and more wit—lots of wit—so much wit that every one was witty at once and missed their neighbour’s scintillations. Under the influence of the brandies and sodas wit ripened to adventure. Many and glorious were the adventures recited, and it seemed that all save Wynne had adventured deeply. He leaned against the mantelshelf and looked at the brave with bright eyes.
“Oh, you marvellous Lotharios!” he cried. “To think that you, Anson—and you, too, Braithwaite—should have adventured along paths denied to myself.”
Many wise heads were shaken at this improbable suggestion.
“No, no, no, I assure you—innocent, my lords and gentlemen—hand on heart I say it” (much laughter and ironical cheers). “But I will turn over a new leaf. The spring is in the air—the call! Guide me with your wise lights to glades of Eros, for honestly”—he dropped into the commonplace—“if I ran away with a girl I shouldn’t know where to run. Tell me, some one.”
“Depends on how secret you wish to be,” the some one replied.
“Secret no—to hell with subterfuge!” cried Wynne, who had many drinks beneath his waistcoat. “Love is for the light, the sunshine, and the sea.”
“Nothing for it but the Cosmopolis, Brighton.”
“Right—every time. Marvellous Lotharios! Every time right. The Cosmopolis, Brighton. I shan’t forget—write it down, some one, ’case I do. Hullo, that you Quiltan?”
Lane Quiltan, who had entered the room five minutes earlier, nodded.
“Made an appointment, and you didn’t turn up.”
“Yes.”
“Lost a fine chance! Might have had an interest in something of mine.”
“Might I?”
“Had your chance—didn’t take it. Too late now!”
“Is it?” said Quiltan.
PART EIGHTTHE LEAP
Clementine Rendall lay in bed and watched the sun-patterns of the string-coloured pile carpet. The birds on the lettuce-green trees of Kensington Square sang gaily of summer and their adventurous flights from the roof of John Barker’s to the happy hunting ground of Earl’s Court. It was a good day, he reflected, a day full of scent and harmony, and yet for some reason he felt oppressed.
“Parsons,” he said, as his man entered with a small tea-tray. “Parsons, I have an impression that I am not going to enjoy myself.”
“I hope that won’t be so, sir.”
“So do I, Parsons; but I fear the worst. How old am I?”
“Fifty-one and three months.”
“That’s not very old—but it’s too old!”
“For what, sir?”
“I don’t know. But I should like always to be young enough to go courting when summer’s here. Dreadful thing when one loses the inclination to court, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Then you’re not fifty-one.”
“That was not my meaning.”
“Seems to me, if one can’t go courting oneself one should show the lanes to others. Know any one, Parsons, to whom I could show the lanes? I’d be an awful good guide.”
“I rather fancy, sir, young folk find ’em pretty easy without help.”
“You’re wrong there—they don’t—least some don’t; they stick to the barren moor and the wind-swept places. Not very good tea this morning, Parsons.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“ ’Twouldn’t have been good, anyhow. I’m in for a bad day. I can feel it in my bones.”
Parsons laid out a tweed suit and a cheerful necktie, and placed a silk dressing-gown over the bedrail.
“Ready for your bath, sir?”
“Yes, turn it on.”
Parsons retired and returned a few moments later with the announcement:
“A gentleman has called to see you, sir. I told him you wasn’t up, but he asked permission to wait.”
“Who is he?”
“Mr. Lane Quiltan, sir.”
“Quiltan, oh, yes—yes, wrote that play at the—. What’s he after?”
“I don’t know, sir. Looked a bit worried, I thought.”
“Oh! I don’t know the fellar. What’s he like? Think he’d care for me in my dressing-gown?”
“I could ask, sir.”
“Yes, ask, and tell him if he wants me in a suit he can’t have me at all.”
Clementine Rendall swung his feet to the floor as the door closed and felt for his slippers. He pulled on the bandanna dressing-gown, lit a cigarette, and combed his hair. As he did so he sang cheerfully a song written to the occasion:
“I don’t know the fellar,I don’t know the fellar,I don’t know the fellar,Or who the hell he is.”
“I don’t know the fellar,I don’t know the fellar,I don’t know the fellar,Or who the hell he is.”
“I don’t know the fellar,I don’t know the fellar,I don’t know the fellar,Or who the hell he is.”
“I don’t know the fellar,
I don’t know the fellar,
I don’t know the fellar,
Or who the hell he is.”
At the conclusion he became aware of the reflection of a stranger in the mirror.
“Hullo! Mr. Quiltan,” he said. “Excuse my song—went with the comb strokes. Liked your play no end—top hole! Sit down, won’t you. What you come to see me for, eh?”
Quiltan hesitated.
“It’s difficult to answer,” he replied, “for really I don’t know.”
“That’s the style. Just a friendly visit.”
“Not altogether. I want to talk to some one—and I chose you. I’m in love.”
“I envy you.”
“You needn’t, for I’m as miserable as hell.”
“It’s all a part of it.”
“And I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s all a part of it.”
“Don’t you want to know with whom I’m in love?”
“Does it concern me?”
“In a way it does.”
“Fire ahead.”
“Wynne Rendall is your nephew, isn’t he? I’m in love with his wife.”
Clementine shot a quick, fierce glance at his visitor.
“Oh! Well, hadn’t you better get over it?”
“I’m not sure that I want to. Not at all sure.”
“Then I’m glad you came to see me. Why did you?”
“Your name occurred last night. She said that you understood. Well, I want you to understand, that’s all; to understand that, if anything goes wrong, it’s her husband’s fault, not hers.”
“And not yours?” The question was very direct.
“No, by God, I believe not mine either. I want her to be happy—I think of nothing else.”
“And isn’t she?”
“You know the life she’s led!”
“Well?”
“Doesn’t that answer the question? He treats her as if she didn’t exist. I verily believe he isn’t even conscious of her.”
“Is she in love with you?”
Quiltan hesitated. “Not yet—but I think I could make her.”
“Ha! Make her love you that you may make her happy, eh? Roundabout scheme, isn’t it?”
“She shall be happy. I’m determined on that.”
“You’re very sympathetic.”
“I am.”
Clem’s voice softened.
“I believe you are,” he said. “Tell me—what’s the trouble there?”
“He’s cheated her, and used her as a ladder to climb from her world. It’s a damnable enough story—d’you want to hear it?”
“No—no—no. I can fill in the gaps. But look here! D’you think a lover will make up for what she’s lost? And are you sure she has lost? That’s the point to decide.”
“I say he ignores her—isn’t conscious of her—”
“But imagine what might happen if he were.”
“He never will be.”
“You’re very sure.”
“Absolutely.”
“How long have you known her?”
“We met first last Friday.”
“And today’s Thursday. Six days?”
“We’ve met every day since.”
“Does he know that?”
“No.”
“Tell him.”
“Why should I?”
“You said you wanted her to be happy.”
“I do, but why should I tell him?”
“Love is a light sleeper—who wakes very easily. Tell him—wake him up. The boy is drunk with success—blind drunk. Are you going to steal from a blind man?”
“I shan’t tell him,” said Quiltan, slowly.
“No, because you’re a coward. Frightened of losing ground. Her happiness! You don’t give a damn for it beside your own.”
“That’s not true. If I refuse to tell him, it’s because he wouldn’t care if I did. God! he isn’t even faithful to her.”
Clementine Rendall sprang to his feet and dropped a hand on Quiltan’s shoulder.
“You’re inventing it—inventing it.”
“No. He boasted at the club the other night of a girl he would take to Brighton.”
“He was drunk.”
“He had been drinking.”
“Who listens to a drunken man?”
“He was sober enough to mean it. Besides, it’s true. I know the girl—Esme Waybury, a pretty, flaxen little strumpet—week-end wife to any bidder—understudying at the theatre. You needn’t doubt the facts. Half the company knows by this time.”
Clem rapped his closed fist upon the table.
“I hate this,” he exclaimed, “hate it! What will she do—Eve?”
“God knows. It’ud be the last knock. God knows how she’ll take it. Anything might happen—she’s extraordinary, and she’s counted on him so much—built up a future of hopes. It’s pitiable. If he fails her altogether—”
“If?”
“As he will tomorrow night.”
“Tss!”
“Sounds sordid enough, doesn’t it?”
“Well, what then?”
“As I said—anything. She might jump off a bridge.”
“Or fall into your arms, eh?”
“They are waiting.”
For a moment or two Clementine paced the floor of the bedroom, his brows creased and his chin down.
“Where’s it all going to lead? How are we going to pull ’em out?”
“Them?”
“Yes. For the boy’s worth saving when he comes to life. I’m sorry for him—damn sorry.”
“Think he’s worth it?”
“Worth it? Of course he’s worth it. One can see—you can’t, perhaps, but I can—why this has happened. She knows too. One gets a true perspective right down the aisle of all those straining, striving years through which he struggled. A boy of no physique, whose mind was a great question-mark, and a mighty desire to find the answer. That was all that mattered—Nature could go hang. He’s dragooned that body of his to carry the mind to the places where the answers might be found—worked, toiled, sweated, starved for that ideal, asking no help, accepting no charity, driving, driving forward on the fuel of his own brain. Then she came—the all-understanding she—and took half the burden from his shoulders, and built up his neglected body to the likeness of a man. Nature was coming back! She knew his ideals, and wanted him to realize them—gave up herself that he might realize them, for there was a promise in his eyes that she and the ideals might be one.”
“Will it come true?”
“God knows; but He does not put promises there for nothing. It’s all outside their reach now. Now Nature is taking a hand—cruel, tempting, thrilling old Nature. She’s found the untried subject, and is whispering her thousand impulses in his ear. Take your mind back, Quiltan. Can’t you remember how it was? Can’t you recall the first pretty face you kissed, for no better reason than a whisper of Nature’s that today it would be different from what it had been before. And wasn’t it different? And didn’t Nature whisper to you that night of a thousand other differences? And didn’t you tremble and wonder, and wasn’t curiosity alive in you? Oh, man, it comes to all of us sooner or later, and the later it comes the more devil there is to pay. A boy is young enough to be afraid and old enough to live clean; but a man is not afraid, and when his passions come to life they rule him through and through, and no damned power on earth can turn them aside.”
“There isn’t much hope, then, for her.”
“It looks like that. But we’ve got to try.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“Not for an instant.”
“Then what?”
“Don’t know. Perhaps something will turn up. But you’ll give her her chance?”
Quiltan hesitated.
“Come on, man!”
“Very well.”
“Word of honour?”
“Word of honour.”
“Good. Where can I find you tomorrow?”
“You’ve got my card. I’ll stop in all day.”
“There’s a good chap.”
Quiltan rose and moved toward the door.
“Good-bye, then.”
“ ’Bye.”
Wynne rose from the breakfast table and took a step toward the window. Then he turned abruptly, as a man will who has something important to say.
“Yes,” said Eve.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I—er. No, nothing.”
It was the first time he had spoken that morning. They had sat opposite each other in silence, and three times he had opened his lips as if about to speak, only to close them again.
They were both near, perilously near, saying many things to each other, but that unexplainable conversational barrier which holds up the traffic of speech had risen between them. For six days it had been thus, six days in which they had not expressed a word that was not commonplace.
That night at the club it had seemed easy enough to Wynne to come and tell his wife that red blood was coursing in his veins, and white carelessness had thrown an arm about his shoulders. It had seemed a simple and an honest confession. She was concerned in him, and had a right to know. Yet try as he would his pluck broke down before the ordeal. He could do no more than look at her furtively and postpone.
Wynne hated himself when he shirked a deed. Want of courage galled him, and the knowledge that he lacked the temerity to put his intentions into words seemed to clip the wings of the new mad impulses which possessed him.
All the while Eve knew there was something he wanted to say, but she could not fathom what manner of thing it might be. Thus from his silence grew her own, each waiting for the other to begin.
The day before he had telephoned to the Cosmopolis for rooms. He and Esme were going down by the 9.15 that night. As an understudy it was easy for her to be released from appearing at the theatre on the Saturday. If Eve were to be told it would have to be at once, for the appointment with the British Drama Association was at eleven o’clock.
He put a cigarette in his mouth and tapped his pocket for matches.
“Empty,” he said.
“I’ll get you some.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m going to the kitchen with these things.”
As she went from the room carrying the tray he noticed how shabby she was. He was not irritated, but it seemed wrong, somehow. Presently she returned and laid a box of matches on the table.
“Thanks. I—”
“Yes.”
“I shall want a box. I’m just going out.”
“I see.”
“Got to—er—see some people. Might be rather good. Do my play, perhaps, and a big production job. Quite good, it might be.”
“I’m glad.”
“Yes. ’Pointment at eleven. There’s—er—. Didn’t you want some furniture for this place?”
“No,” said Eve.
“Thought you said—”
“I may have done—but—”
“No reason why you shouldn’t have it.”
A vague hope took shape, but it was too vague to risk encouraging him to say more. Often before the hope had arisen, only to fall to dust.
She made no answer.
“No reason at all why you shouldn’t have it,” he repeated, “or any clothes you want. Don’t you want some clothes? You do.”
Still she made no answer.
“Come on.”
“I want clothes—yes.”
“Well, get them, I mean.”
“Is that all—all you mean?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I don’t want any clothes,” said Eve.
He looked at her uneasily, then at his watch.
“I ought to be off.”
She nodded.
“Shall you be back?”
He hesitated.
“Probably; but don’t keep anything for me if I’m late. I may—be late.”
As the door closed Eve said, very gently:
“Oh, we’re having a hell of a life.”
Wynne went to his bedroom and pulled out a drawer. He threw a shirt or two and some collars on to the bed, then rummaged for a suit case behind the dressing-table.
“Damn the things, I can buy what I want,” he said.
Eve heard the front door slam a moment later.
At the offices of the New British Drama Association Wynne met some important gentlemen, and the words they spoke acted upon him like good red wine.
“It’s an astonishing play,” said Mr. Howard Delvin, who was not given to encomiums. “So astonishing that we propose to use it for our opening event.”
“I thoughtyou’dlike it, Mr. Delvin,” said Wynne.
“I don’t like it—I dislike it very much indeed. I said it was an astonishing play, and that is exactly what I meant. Your wit is positively polar, there is no other word; and your philosophy is glacial—with all the hard, clear transparence of ice. My personal inclination is to put the whole play in a stewpan and boil it, for if any man were clever enough to raise its temperature to blood heat he would have achieved a play—I say it in all sincerity—of incomparable worth. However, we’re satisfied, and now well see if we can satisfy you.”
When Wynne departed from that erudite circle he felt almost sublime—like nightingales sang their words of praise. A wild elation prompted him to sing, to dance, to fill his lungs with the thin air of the high peaks to which he had leapt. With youth in one hand and success in the other there were no limits to the achievements which might be his.
He felt a frenzied desire to celebrate—to celebrate wildly.
He lunched at Scott’s, and ordered a lobster, because its livery was scarlet, and a rare champagne, because it beat against the glass. He pledged himself and the future—the broad, untrammelled future—and drank damnation to the cobwebs of dull care.
The wine fired his brain and imagination, restocked his courage, and set his heart a-thumping.
“Paper and an envelope and some Napoleon brandy,” he called to the waiter. And when these were brought:
“I was a waiter once—just such a fellow as yourself—a very devil of a waiter. Here’s a sovereign. Go and be happy.”
The white paper lay before him, and he dashed a dozen careless words across its surface. The envelope he addressed to his wife.
“Here,” he cried, “send that along in an hour or two. God bless you.”
He rose and pushed his way through the swing doors.
Clementine Rendall spent the morning in a peculiar fashion. He first called on his banker, and, armed with many banknotes, took a cab to the Vandyke Theatre. At the stage door he inquired for Miss Esme Waybury.
“Just gone,” said the doorkeeper, “half an hour ago.”
“Unfortunate. Now I wonder when I could see her. Comes out about eleven at night, I s’pose?”
“Get out ’bout nine. Understudyin’, she is.”
“I wonder if you could ask her to wait a little tonight.”
The doorkeeper negatived the idea: “Wouldn’t be any good. She’s a-goin’ to Brighton by the 9.15, and won’t be back till Monday. Ast me to have a cab ready.”
“I see. ’Safternoon I’m engaged. But you could give me her address, no doubt.”
“Couldn’t. ’Tisn’t allowed.”
“Nonsense. I’m her uncle. Right to know.”
He produced silver in generous quantities, to which the doorkeeper succumbed.
Miss Esme had a flat in Maida Vale, whither Clementine Rendall proceeded with all dispatch.
In the taxi he reflected that he had set himself a foolish and a hopeless task. Even supposing he succeeded in buying off Miss Esme, nothing would have been achieved. To postpone a crisis is not to avert it. Accordingly he thrust his head from the window and addressed the driver:
“Look here—I don’t want to go to Maida Vale. Drive me to Whatshisname Mansions—one of the turnings off Baker Street. I’ll rap on the glass to show you.” And as he subsided on the cushions again: “Heaven knows what I shall do when I get there.”
He found a porter, who directed him to Wynne’s flat, and though assailed by many doubts, he beat a cheerful tattoo upon the knocker.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed, when Eve opened the door.
“Can you do with a visitor?”
Without waiting for the answer he kissed her very cordially, and putting a friendly arm round her shoulders carried her off to the sitting-room.
“As you never come and see me I came to see you,” he announced. “Well, how’s things?”
“Oh, they are all right.”
There was a restraint in her manner, which even his cheeriness was unable to break down. He could feel a sense of crisis in the atmosphere.
“And Wynne?”
“He’s out.”
“Out to lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Brain storm!—we’ll go out too.”
“You and I?”
“As ever is! Get yer hat.”
Eve hesitated. “I—”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t a hat.”
She laughed. “No; but it’s so long since I went out to lunch, probably I shouldn’t know how to behave.”
“I never could,” he answered. “Eat peas with my knife, talk with my mouth full—never was such a fellar as me. Come on—lively does it. What ’ud you like to do afterwards?”
“Anything.”
“ ’Cos I’ve an idea—more’n that, I’ve the means of carrying it out. Listen to the program: Taxi; a sole and a cutlet at the Berkeley Grill, with just a little Rhine wine to help it along. Then what? I suggest a picture gallery, and you nod—I suggest a theatre, and you nod a bit more agreeably. Finally, I suggest a shopping excursion up Bond Street and down Regent Street, with a taxi rolling from door to door to carry the parcels; at this you nod vigorously—and perhaps you smile. You shall have a Crême de Cacao after your ice, and then youwillsmile. The third and last proposal is carried unanimously, and before we start we make out a complete trousseau on the back of the menu card. Outside and inside we’ll get the lot. What do you say?”
Eve leant over and touched his hand.
“It sounds so lovely,” she said in a trembling voice; “but what do I want with a trousseau?”
“Want with it? Every one wants a trousseau.”
“If anybody cared how you looked in it.”
Uncle Clem’s forehead clouded, and his eyes rested upon her. As he looked he noted how sadly she was dressed.
“Little Eve,” he said, “has he ever seen you in a trousseau? I mean—look here, my dear, we men are such poor trivial, sleepy beings. We only wake up when something bangs us in the eye. Have you never thought it might be worth while to bang him in the eye with all that beauty of yours in the setting it deserves? You see we get used to things as they are, and never bother our heads with things as they might be. Don’t answer. I know it’s all quite indefensible, and I know you know it too. But just for fun—for a lark—a spree, let’s go out and do this thing. He’ll be in later, yes?”
“He said he would come to dinner.”
“Then we’ll fill in the time between then and now, and I’ll take charge.”
Eve stood up suddenly.
“Why—why do you always make me feel it will be all right?”
“It will. There, be off and get your hat.”
“Very well.” At the door she turned. “I have a frock if you’ll let me put it on. You won’t have to take me out in this old thing.”
“Have you worn it for him?”
“No.”
“Silly girl. Wear it for me, then. I’ll wait.”
As the door closed he muttered to himself:
“Wonder why the devil I’m buoying up her hopes. Wonder where we’ll be this time tomorrow?”
Clementine Rendall was a wonderful host, and he ordered the most delicious luncheon. He and monsieur, the faultless monsieur, laid their heads together and made decisions over the menu with a deliberation Downing Street might have envied. Monsieur would touch the title of some precious dish with the extreme point of pencil, and Clem would nod or query the suggestion. At last the decision was made, brought up for amendment, and finally approved.
The cooking was incomparable, and Uncle Clem matched his spirits to its perfection. Gradually he drew Eve out, and by the time the last course was set before them she was full of exquisite plans for the things they would buy together. The harmony of the surroundings, the attention, the good food, and the subtle white wine worked a miracle of change. Her eyes softened and took fresh lustre, her cheeks glowed with a gentle colour, and her voice warmed.
Noting these matters Uncle Clem was glad, but feared greatly.
“Now for the shops,” she said.
They had scarcely turned the corner of Piccadilly before he rapped against the glass of the taxi.
“Barrett’s!” he cried; “we mustn’t pass poor old Barrett’s without giving them a look in.”
Next instant they were in those pleasant leather-smelling showrooms, and an attentive assistant was directing their gaze to rows of dressing bags, both great and small.
“Make your choice—mustn’t lose time.”
“Am I really to have one of those bright bottley things?”
“ ’Course you are; what’s old Barrett run the place for? Choose, and quick about it.”
Long economy prompted Eve to decide upon the smallest and cheapest. Whereupon Clementine pointed to another with his stick, and cried:
“Sling it in the taxi—you know me! Right! On we go.”
But he did not go on before he had purchased a great spray of malmaisons at Solomon’s.
“Hats, dresses, and all the rest of it! Bond Street, cabby.”
In Bond Street he was at his best. He insisted on following Eve through all manner of extraordinary departments.
“Oh, go on with you. I’m old enough to have been married years ago. I’ll look out of the window if you like—but if the bill ain’t big enough I shall turn round. Get busy!”
Infected by his enthusiasm Eve got busy, and two great boxes of exquisite frillies floated down to the taxi.
“When we’ve filled this cab we’ll get another,” he declared as they clambered in and took their seats.
At Redfern’s, in Conduit Street, he showed that he was a man of discrimination. He paraded themannequins, and bought four dresses after a deal of inspection and deliberation.
“But four’s such a heap!” said Eve.
“Nonsense. I’ll make it six if you say another word. Here, bundle off and put on that fawn thing—know it’ll suit you—want to see how you look! I’ll go and choose hats. I’m a whaler on hats.”
So while she changed he went off hatting, to the great joy of the department, and returned with many.
Eve was very quick, and as she came from the little changing-room he had a wild desire to cheer.
“Lord! You look lovely! Here, try some of these. Ain’t I a chooser? This one! Ain’t it a tartar—the very devil of a little hat.”
He was right.
“It!” he cried. “It! Clicks with the dress every time! Keep it on. Here, some of you kind young ladies, this lot for the taxi. Bill! Splendid.”
He shovelled out a handful of notes and they followed their purchases to the street.
“No more,” begged Eve, between laughter and tears. “Not any more today.”
“Gloves—shoes—’brollies must be bought.”
He was inexorable, and it was six o’clock before the laden taxi rolled them to the door of the Mansions.
“You’ve given me my most wonderful day,” she said.
“You child!” he answered, and pressed her hand. “There are lots more wonderful days ahead—remember that.”
Then he and she, and the driver, each burdened sky-high with packages, mounted the stairs to the flat.
As Uncle Clem paid the fare, Eve stooped and picked up a note from the door-mat. She opened it as he closed the door.
“God!” she said, in a very little voice.
He took the note and read it.
Twenty minutes later Clementine Rendall was hammering on Quiltan’s front door.
He had seen what to do. It had come to him very suddenly with all the force of a strong white light. He had made no attempt to comfort Eve—she had not needed that. Wynne Rendall’s note had done its work strangely. At the death of her hopes Eve had laughed a careless, wanton laugh. It was the laugh which gave him the idea.
“Mr. Quiltan—at once!” he said to the servant who opened the door.
“Well?” said Quiltan.
“You’re in love with Eve?”
“Yes.”
“Will you run away with her—now?”
“Now?”
“At once. Go and make love to her. Don’t be frightened, it will be quite easy. She knows. Then take her away.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“Have you got a car?”
“Yes.”
“Order it. Pack her inside and get away to Brighton.”
“Brighton?”
“I said so—the Cosmopolis.”
“But good God! he’s going there.”
“She doesn’t know that.”
“Have you gone mad?”
“Thought you wanted her to be happy?”
“I do.”
“Thought you were prepared to give her the chance.”
“Yes, but—”
“Then do as I say. Take her to Brighton. She’ll go—give her supper in the public room at 10.30. Don’t look so blank, man. After all, it’s ten to one against, and the odds are with you.”
Quiltan hesitated. “It’s so extraordinary.”
“Quiltan! if you refuse to do this thing I’ll shoot you—by God! I believe I will.”
Quiltan rang the bell.
“I want the car,” he said—“immediately—and—and a suit case.”
Eve scarcely spoke in the car as they drove over the long, undulating road to Brighton. When Quiltan came to the flat he found her with a queer hard light in her eyes. She nodded in a detached kind of way when he told her he knew. In the same detached way she listened to his half-scared, wholly genuine, protestations of love. She even allowed him to kiss her.
“I want you to come with me,” he had said—“to come away now.”
And with a fierceness which astonished him she had answered:
“Yes—yes— I don’t care—I will—will. Seems rather funny to me! All right. I’ve heaps of clothes—I’ll come—yes.”
At Crawley a tyre burst, and it took nearly an hour to wake up a garage and procure a new outer cover. It was after 10.30 when they drew up before the Cosmopolis, with all its naughty lights winking at the sea.
Eve laughed as they stood in the foyer, and the porter brought in her beautiful new suit case.
“Don’t,” said Quiltan.
For the first time she seemed aware of his presence, and turned with kindlier light in her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’m not playing the game, am I? But itdoesseem funny. I suppose we have supper now. Will you wait, and I’ll run up and put on a pretty frock for you?”
He would have stopped her, but she was gone with the words.
Rather nervously he entered the great dining-hall and ordered a table for two. There were many guests present, and his eyes travelled quickly from table to table. Wynne was nowhere to be seen, and with this a sudden intolerable excitement seized him. It was short-lived, however, for his next glance lighted on the fluffy head of little Miss Esme, her eyes demurely lowered over a dessert plate. Facing her, with his back to Quiltan, sat Wynne. They were some distance away, and while the room was crowded it was impossible to see them from the table he had taken.
Quiltan took a cigarette from his case and passed out to wait for Eve.
As she stepped from the lift he thought her the most wonderful being he had ever seen. Fragile—adorable—desirable—everything to set a man’s heart on fire.
With a passion he could not control he whispered:
“You dear, beautiful—beautiful dear!”
Her answering smile seemed to come from a long way off.
They took their places, hers looking in the direction of Wynne’s table, and a busy waiter approached:
“Ah, in one minute the supper. Wine? Cliquot ver’ good.”
“Champagne?” queried Quiltan.
“I suppose so—yes, of course.”
He gave the order.
Aconsomméwas brought in little cups. Presently a cork popped into a serviette and the creaming wine tinkled into the glasses. A few guests at the neighbouring table rose and left, one or two others following their example.
The company began to thin out, and vistas occurred through which one could see people in other parts of the room. The conversation lost its general constant hum and became isolated and more individual.
“You are a quiet old boy, aren’t you?” whispered Miss Esme.
Wynne started and raised his head.
“What—what’s that?”
“I say you are quiet.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Funny old boy!”
He called a waiter.
“Get me some more cigarettes—these little boxes hold none at all.”
“You smoke too much.”
He played with a cold cigarette-end upon his plate.
“You simply haven’t stopped.”
“What?”
“I say”—she whispered it—“isn’t it lovely being down here—just we two?”
“Um.”
He crumbled a piece of bread, then swept the crumbs to the floor. He shot a quick glance at her, lowered his eyes, picked up the cigarette-end again, and drew with it upon his plate.
“I say—”
“Wish that waiter would do what he is told.”
Esme sighed and stole a shy glance at the clock.
“Isn’t it getting late?”
“Is it? I don’t know—I’m a late person. Ah, that’s better!”
He took the cigarettes from the waiter and lighted one.
When the man had gone, Esme remarked:
“Everybody seems to be going away. Nobody left soon—but us.”
“H’m.”
“I love Brighton. Don’t you love the sea? I do—and the hills—oh, I love the hills!”
Quite suddenly Wynne said:
“Must you talk such a lot?”
“Oh,” said Esme, “you old cross patch.”
A party of people at a round table in the centre of the room rose and moved toward the door.
Eve and Quiltan sat in silence as course after course was brought to them. His few efforts to talk had broken down, and all he could do was to look at her—look at this woman whomightbecome his.
As the party from the round table passed them by he said:
“Emptying now.”
Eve roused herself, and her eyes wandered round the room. Suddenly she leant forward with a sharp little gasp in her throat.
“What is it?” said Quiltan, although he knew.
She ignored his question. Her eyes were wide open and bright. Then she laughed a cold, quick laugh.
“I’m glad,” she whispered—“yes, I’m glad—glad. Look!”
She did not notice if he acted well or ill when he saw the sight he had expected to see.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know—don’t care.”
She did not move her eyes from Wynne’s table, and after a moment a puzzled look came into her face. She had recognized his attitude. He always sat like that, with his head down and his fingers fidgeting, when he was irritated. But why now? A sudden insane desire possessed her to spring to her feet and cry aloud.
Then Esme’s eyes, wandering once more toward the clock, met hers, and in an instant Eve smiled and bowed. Esme looked surprised, and Eve smiled again.
“Some one over there knows me,” said Esme, “but I don’t know her. No, you mustn’t look, ’cos she’s too pretty.”
Wynne turned slowly in the direction indicated, and saw. His napkin dropped to the floor, and unsteadily he rose to his feet. He rubbed one hand over his eyes as though to clear the vision. He took a few quick steps to the centre of the room—stopped—then came on again.
And all the while Eve kept her eyes on his.
Beside her table he stopped, and looked from one to the other, his mouth twitching and his face strangely white.
“Yes—well?” he said, as if expecting they would be ready with explanation.
“What are you doing here?”
“Or you?” she answered.
“What’shedoing?”
“Orshe?”
“Come on.”
“Can’t you see?”
“No.”
“We said when we took the leap we’d take it together. We are.”
Quiltan rose and moved a little away.
“I shall want you,” whispered Wynne.
“No, you won’t,” said Eve.
Quiltan walked from the room. In the hall he waited indecisively. Then he remembered the flash of a light seen in Wynne’s eyes—a light of possession—wild, primal, outraged possession. He drew a quick conclusion.
“I’m no good,” he thought. Then, turning to the porter, “I want that car of mine.” He waited in the porch until it came.
Wynne jerked his head toward the door.
“Out of this,” he said. “Can’t talk here.”
He moved to the half-light of a deserted winter garden beyond the dining-hall, and suddenly he spoke, very fast and hoarsely:
“You and that fellar—wasn’t true!”
“Yes it was.”
“God!”
“Why not?”
“God! But you’re mine.”
“You say that.”
“Mine.”
“In what possible way?”
“You are—you are! My woman—mine!”
“And that other one?”
“That! Nothing—it’s you—you!”
He clenched and unclenched his hands. Then caught at a random hope:
“You knew I was here—came because of that.”
She shook her head.
“You did.”
“I came with him.”
His hands fell on her shoulders and shook her fiercely.
“For Christ’s sake! no, that’s not the reason!”
The wild agony in his voice started the honest answer:
“I came because of what you’re doing.”
He stopped, caught his breath, took fresh fear, and sobbed out:
“But—but you’ve never looked—like this before—you never looked like this forme.”
“Did you ever want me to look like this for you? Did you ever—— Oh—oh—oh!”
She turned, covered her eyes with her hands, and fell sobbing on to a chair.
And he fell on his knees beside her, and fought to draw away her hands, calling:
“Oh, God! I haven’t lost you! For God’s sake!—for Christ’s sake!—I haven’t lost you!”
Miss Esme sat at her table wearing an expression of absolute amazement. A slight but growing tendency toward tears emphasized itself in her small and brittle soul. She, of all the guests, remained in the room. Presently the lights were lowered one by one, and presently an elderly gentleman detached himself from a shadowy seat in a window corner and came toward her.
“Don’t you think you’d better be going?” he said, in the kindliest possible way.
Esme started.
“I beg your pardon—n-no, I must wait for my husband.”
“Dear me! I shouldn’t do that, because—I mean—after all—you haven’t one—and he has a wife already.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “then that—”
“Quite so. Splendid, isn’t it?”
“But—who are you?”
“Just a friend.”
“Of course,” said Esme, trying to recover a grain of lost prestige. “I hadn’t any idea he was married.”
“ ’Course not. Not in the least to blame.”
“Fancy his being married!”
“I’m doing that,” said Clem, with rather a wonderful expression on his face. “But, look here, suppose we do the rest of our fancyin’ in the 12.30 to town? Nice time to catch it.”
“Well, I can’t stop here, can I?”
“Wouldn’t do.”
They had a first-class compartment all to themselves, and Uncle Clem made a most favourable impression upon Miss Esme. She thought him such a nice old gentleman. He talked of such pleasant things in such a pleasant way. He wasn’t a bit prudish, and seemed to think she had done perfectly right in coming away with Wynne.
“Still, I do think it was very wrong of him, as he was married,” she said.
“Yes—yes—yes. Still, it’s a queer world. You see he may have forgotten he was married—some folk do. He may never really have known—but hewillknow. My dear, it isn’t until we realize the wonder of another that we become wonderful ourselves. You don’t know what you’ve done for that young man.”
“Somehow I don’t believe I should like to have married him,” said Esme, thoughtfully.
“You don’t! No! Well, there you are, you see! Yet somebody is always wanted by somebody else, and that somebody else can always make that somebody into something. Victoria! Wouldn’t be any harm to kiss you good-night, would it? ’Course not! That’s right Splendid!”
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without note. When multiple spellings occurred, majority use has been employed.
A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.
[End ofOur Wonderful Selvesby Roland Pertwee]