Miss Bennett
Since his return Aylmer saw everything through what he called a rose-coloured microscope—that is to say, every detail of his life, and everything connected with it, seemed to him perfect. He saw Edith as much as ever, and far less formally than before. She treated him with affectionate ease. She had admitted by her behaviour on the night he returned that she cared for him, and, for the moment, that was enough. A sort of general relaxation of formality, due to the waning of the season, and to people being too busy to bother, or already in thought away, seemed to give a greater freedom. Everyone seemed more natural, and more satisfied to follow their own inclinations and let other people follow theirs. London was getting stale and tired, and the last feverish flickers of the exhausted season alternated with a kind of languor in which nobody bothered much about anybody else's affairs. General interest was exhausted, and only a strong sense of self-preservation seemed to be left; people clung desperately to their last hopes. Edith was curiously peaceful and contented. She would have had scarcely any leisure but that her mother-in-law sometimes relieved her of the care of the children.
Being very anxious that they should not lose anything from MissTownsend's absence, she gave them lessons every day.
One day, at the end of a history lesson, Archie said:
'Where's Miss Townsend?'
'She's at Bexhill.'
'Why is she at Bexhill?'
'Because she likes it.'
'Where's Bexhill?'
'In England.'
'Why isn't Miss Townsend?'
'What do you mean, Archie?'
'Well, why isn't she Miss Townsend any more?'
'She is.'
'But she's not our Miss Townsend any more. Why isn't she?'
'She's gone away.'
'Isn't she coming back?'
'No.'
Watching his mother's face he realised that she didn't regret this, so he said:
'Is Miss Townsend teaching anybody else?'
'I daresay she is, or she will, perhaps.'
'What are their names?'
'How should I know?'
'Do you think she'll teach anybody else called Archie?'
'It's possible.'
'I wonder if she'll ever be cross with the next boy she teaches.'
'Miss Townsend was very kind to you,' said Edith. 'But you need not think about her any more, because you will be going to school when you come back from the holidays.'
'That's what I told Dilly,' said Archie. 'But Dilly's not going to school. Dilly doesn't mind; she says she likes you better than Miss Townsend.'
'Very kind of her, I'm sure,' laughed Edith.
'You see you're not a real governess,' said Archie, putting his arm round her neck. 'You're not angry, are you, mother? Because you're not a real one it's more fun for us.'
'How do you mean, I'm not a real governess?'
'Well, I mean we're notobligedto do what you tell us!'
'Oh, aren't you? You've got to; you're to go now because I expect MissBennett.'
'Can't I see Miss Bennett?'
'Why do you want to see her?'
'I don't want to see her; but she always brings parcels. I like to see the parcels.'
'They are not for you; she brings parcels because I ask her to do shopping for me. It's very kind of her.'
She waited a minute, then he said:
'Mother, do let me be here when Miss Bennett brings the parcels. I'll be very useful. I can untie parcels with my teeth, like this. Look! I throw myself on the parcel just like a dog, and shake it and shake it, and then I untie it with my teeth. It would be awfully useful.'
She refused the kind offer.
Miss Bennett arrived as usual with the parcels, looking pleasantly business-like and important.
'I wonder if these things will do?' she said, as she put them out on the table.
'Oh, they're sure to do,' said Edith; 'they're perfect.'
'My dear, wait till you see them. I don't think I've completed all your list.' She took out a piece of paper.
'Where did you get everything?' Edith asked, without much interest.
'At Boots', principally. Then the novels—Arnold Bennett, Maxwell—Oh, and I've got you the poem: 'What is it?' by Gilbert Frankau.'
'No, you mean, 'One of us',' corrected Edith.
'Then white serge for nurse to make Dilly's skirts—skirts a quarter of a yard long!—how sweet!—and heaps and heaps of muslin, you see, for her summer dresses. Won't she look an angel? Oh, and you told me to get some things to keep Archie quiet in the train.' She produced a drum, a trumpet, and a mechanical railway train. 'Will that do?'
'Beautifully.'
'And here's your travelling cloak from the other place.'
'It looks lovely,' said Edith.
'Aren't you going to try it on?'
'No; it's sure to be all right.'
'I never saw such a woman as you! Here are the hats. You'vegotto choose these.'
Here Edith showed more interest. She put them on, said all the colour must be taken out of them, white put in one, black velvet in the other. Otherwise they would do.
'Thanks, Grace; you're awfully kind and clever. Now do you know what you're going to do? You're going to the Academy with me and Aylmer. He's coming to fetch us.'
'Oh, really—what fun!'
At this moment he arrived. Edith introduced them.
'I've been having such a morning's shopping,' she said, 'I deserve a little treat afterwards, don't I?'
'What sort of shopping? I'll tell you what you ought to have—a great cricket match when the shopping season's over, between the Old Selfridgians, and the Old Harrodians,' he said, laughing.
They walked through acres of oil paintings and dozens of portraits ofChief Justices.
'I can't imagine anyone but Royalty enjoying these pictures,' saidEdith.
'They don't go to see pictures; they go to view exhibits,' Aylmer answered.
Declaring they had 'Academy headache' before they had been through the second room, they sat down and watched the people.
One sees people there that are to be seen nowhere else. An extraordinary large number of clergymen, a peculiar kind of provincial, and strange Londoners, almost impossible to place, in surprising clothes.
Then they gave it up, and Aylmer took them out to lunch at a club almost as huge and noisy and as miscellaneous as the Academy itself. However, they thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
Edith and Bruce were to take up their abode in their little country house at Westgate next day.
At Westgate
'I've got to go up to town on special business,' said Bruce, one afternoon, after receiving a telegram which he had rather ostentatiously left about, hoping he would be questioned on the subject. It had, however, been persistently disregarded.
'Oh, have you?'
'Yes. Look at this wire.'
He read aloud:
'Wish to see you at once if possible come up today M.'
'Whois'M'?'
'Mitchell, of course. Who should it be?' He spoke aggressively, then softened down to explanation, 'Mitchell's in town a few days on business, too. I may be detained till Tuesday—or even Wednesday next.'
Bruce had been to town so often lately, his manner was so vague, he seemed at once so happy and so preoccupied, so excited, so pleased, so worried, and yet so unnaturally good-tempered, that Edith had begun to suspect he was seeing Miss Townsend again.
The suspicion hurt her, for he had given his word of honour, and had been nice to her ever since, and amiable (though rather absent and bored) with the children.
She walked down to the station with him, though he wished to go in the cab which took his box and suit-case, but he did not resist her wish. On the way he said, looking round as if he had only just arrived and had never seen it before:
'This is a very nice little place. It's just the right place for you and the children. If I were you, I should stay on here.'
It struck her he spoke in a very detached way, and some odd foreshadowing came to her.
'Why—aren't you coming back?' she asked jokingly.
'Me?Whatan idea! Yes, of course. But I've told you—this business of mine—well, it'll take a little time to arrange. Still, I expect to be back on Tuesday. Or quite on Wednesday—or sooner.'
They walked on and had nearly reached the station.
'How funny you are, Bruce!'
'What do you mean? Are you angry with me for going up to see about important business? Why, here you've got Aylmer and his boy at the hotel, my mother and Vincy to stay with you. You've got plenty of companions. I don't suppose you'll miss me much. You see—a—this is a sort of business matter women don't understand. Women are incapable of understanding it.'
'Of what nature is it?'
'How do you mean, nature? It's not of any particularnature. Nature, indeed! How like a woman! It's just business.' He waited a minute. 'Stockbroking; that's what it is. Yes, it's stockbroking. I want to see a chap who's put me in to a good thing. A perfectly safe thing. No gambling. But one has to see into it, you see. Mitchell wants to see me at once, you see. Do you see? You saw his wire, didn't you? I've explained, haven't I? Aren't you satisfied with my explanation?'
'Youappear to be—very. But I'm not asking you to tell me any details about the business, whatever it may be.'
They arrived at the station, and Bruce gave her what she thought a very queer look. It was a mixture of fear, daring, caution and a sort of bravado. Anxiety was in it, as well as a pleased self-consciousness.
'Tell me, frankly, something I'd like to know, Bruce.'
'Are you getting suspicious of me, Edith? That's not like you. Mind you, it's a great mistake in a woman; women should always trust. Mistrust sometimes drives a man to—to—Oh, anyhow, it's a great mistake.'
'I only want you to tell me something, Bruce. I'll believe you implicitly if you'll answer…. Do you ever see Miss Townsend now?'
'Never, on my honour! I swear it.' He spoke with such genuine good faith that she believed him at once.
'Thanks. I'm glad. And—have you never since—'
'Never seen her, never written to her, never communicated with her since she left! Don't know where she is and don't care. Now you do believe me?' he asked, with all the earnestness and energy of truth.
'Absolutely. Forgive me for asking.'
'Oh, that's all right.'
He was relieved, and smiled.
'All right, Bruce dear. I'm glad. It would have worried me.'
'Now go, Edith. Don't bother to wait till I get in. I'll write to you—I'll write to you soon.'
She still lingered, seeing something odd in his manner.
'Give my love to my mother,' he said, looking away. 'I say—' Edith.'
'Yes, dear?'
'Oh, nothing.'
She waited on till the train started. His manner was alternately peevish and kind, but altogether odd. Her last glimpse was a rather pale smile from Bruce as he waved his hand and then turned to his paper….
'Well, whatdoesit matter so long as hehasgone!' exclaimed Aylmer impatiently, when she expressed her wonder at Bruce's going. The tide was low, and they went for a long walk over the hard shining sand, followed by Archie picking up wonderful shells and slipping on the green seaweed. Everything seemed fresh, lovely. She herself was as fresh as the sea breeze, and Aylmer seemed to her as strong as the sea. (Privately, Edith thought him irresistible in country clothes.) Edith had everything here to make her happy, including Bruce's mother, who relieved her of the children when she wanted rest and in whose eyes she was perfection.
She saw restrained adoration in Aylmer's eyes, love and trust in the eyes of the children. She had all she wanted. And yet—something tugged at her heart, and worried her. She had a strange and melancholy presentiment.
But she threw it off. Probably there was nothing really wrong with Bruce; perhaps only one of those little imaginary romances that he liked to fabricate for himself; or, perhaps, it was really business? It was all right if Mr Mitchell knew about it. Yet she could not believe that 'M'wasMitchell. Bruce had repeated it too often; and, why on earth should Mitchell suddenly take to sending Bruce fantastic telegrams and signing them, for no reason, with an initial?…
Goggles
'What divine heavenly pets and ducks of angels they are!' exclaimed Lady Everard rather distractedly. 'Angels! Divine! And so good, too! I never saw such darlings in my life. Look at them, Paul. Aren't they sweet?'
Lady Everard with her party (what Aylmer called her performing troupe) had driven over to Westgate, from where she was staying in the neighbourhood, to have tea with Edith. She had brought with her a sort of juvenile party, consisting of Mr Cricker, Captain Willis and, of course, Paul La France, the young singer. She never moved without him. She explained that two other women had been coming also, but they had deserted her at the last minute.
Paul La France had been trying for an hour and a half to make eyes through motor goggles, which, naturally, was not a success; so he seemed a little out of temper. Archie was staring at him as if fascinated. He went up and said:
'Voulez-vous lend me your goggles?'
'Mais certainement! Of course I will. Voilà mon petit.'
'The darling! How sweet and amusing of him! But they're only to be used in the motor, you know. Don't break them, darling, will you? Monsieur will want them again. Ah! how sweet he looks!' as he put them on, 'I never saw such a darling in the whole course of my life! Look at him, Mrs Ottley. Look at him, Paul!'
'Charmant. C'est délicieux,' grumbled La France.
'What a charming little lawn this is, going right down to the sea, too. Oh, Mr Ross, is that you? Isn't this a delightful little house? More tea? Yes, please. Mr La France doesn't take sugar, and—'
'You don't know what I am now,' said Archie, having fixed the goggles on his own fair head, to the delight of Dilly.
'Oh, I guess what you are! You're a motorist, aren't you, darling? That's it! It's extraordinary how well I always get on with children, Mrs Ottley,' explained Lady Everard. 'I daresay it's through being used to my little grandchildren, Eva's two angels, you know, but I never see them because I can't stand their noise, and yet I simply adore them. Pets!'
'What am I?' asked Archie, in his persistent way, as he walked round the group on the lawn, in goggles, followed closely by Dilly, saying, 'Yes, what is he?' looking exactly like a live doll, with her golden hair and blue ribbons.
'You're a motorist, darling.'
'No, I'm not a silly motorist. Guess what I am?'
'It's so difficult to guess, such hot weather! Can you guess, Paul?'
'I sink he is a nuisance,' replied the Frenchman, laughing politely.
'No, that's wrong. You guess what I am.'
'Guess what he is,' echoed Dilly.
'O Lord! what does it matter? What I always say is—live and let live, and let it go at that,' said Captain Willis, with his loud laugh. 'What, Mrs Ottley? But they won't do it, you know—they won't—and there it is!'
'Guess what I am,' persisted Archie.
'Never mind what you are; do go and sit down, and take those things off,' said Edith.
'Not till you guess what I am.'
'Does Dilly know?'
'No, Dilly doesn't know. Guess what I am, grandmamma!'
'I give it up.'
'I thought you'd never guess. Well, I'm a blue-faced mandrill!' declared Archie, as he took the goggles off reluctantly and gave them back to La France, who put them under his chair.
'Yes, he's a two-faced mangle,' repeated Dilly.
He turned round on her sharply. 'Now, don't talk nonsense! You're a silly girl. I never said anything about being a two-faced mangle; I'm a blue-faced mandrill.'
'Well, I said so; a two-faced mangle.'
'Don't say anything at all if you can't say it right,' said Archie, raising his voice and losing his temper.
'Well, they's both the same.'
'No, they jolly well aren't.'
He drew her a little aside. 'A blue-faced mandrill, silly, is real; it's in my natural history book.'
'Sorry,' said Dilly apologetically.
'In my natural history book it is, arealthing. I'm a blue-faced mandrill…. Now say it after me.'
'You's a two-faced mangle.'
'Now you're doing it on purpose! If you weren't a little girl, Dilly—'
'I wasn't doing it on purpose.'
'Oh, get away before I hit you! You're a silly little fool.'
She slowly walked away, calling out: 'And you're a silly two-faced mangle,' in a very irritating tone. Archie made a tremendous effort to ignore her, then he ran after her saying:
'Will you shut up or will you not?'
Aylmer seized hold of him.
'What are you going to do, Archie?'
'Teach Dilly what I am. She says—Oh, she'ssucha fool!'
'No, Archie, leave her alone; she's only a baby. Come along, old boy.Give Mr Cricker a cup of tea; he hasn't had one yet.'
Archie was devoted to Aylmer. Following him, he handed the tea to MrCricker, saying pathetically:
'I'm a blue-faced mandrill, and she knew it. I told her so. Aren't girls fools? They do worry!'
'Theyaretorments,' said Aylmer.
'I wish that Frenchman would give me his goggles to keep! He doesn't want them.'
'I'll give you a pair,' said Aylmer.
'Thanks,' said Cricker,' I won't have any tea. I wish you'd come and have a little talk with me, Ross. Can I have a word with you alone?'
Aylmer good-naturedly went aside with him.
'It's worse than ever,' said Cricker, in low, mysterious tones. 'Since I've been staying with Lady Everard it's been wire, wire, wire—ring, ring, ring—and letters by every post! You see, I thought it was rather a good plan to get away for a bit, but I'm afraid I shall have to go back. Fancy, she's threatened suicide, and telling her husband, and confiding in Lady Everard! And giving up the stage, and oh, goodness knows what! There's no doubt the poor child is absolutely raving about me. No doubt whatever.'
Aylmer was as sympathetic as he knew how.
The party was just going off when La France found that the goggles had disappeared. A search-party was organised; great excitement prevailed; but in the end they went away without the glasses.
When Dilly had just gone to sleep in her cot a frightening figure crept into her room and turned on the electric light.
'Oh, Archie! What is it! Who is it! Oh!… Oh!'
'Don't be frightened,' said Archie, in his deepest voice, obviously hoping she would be frightened. He was in pyjamas and goggles. 'Don't be frightened!Now! Say what I am. What am I?'
'A blue-faced mandrill,' she whined.
He took off the goggles and kissed her.
'Right! Good night, old girl!'
The Elopement
The following Tuesday, Edith, Aylmer, Vincy and Mrs Ottley were sitting on the veranda after dinner. They had a charming little veranda which led on to a lawn, and from there straight down to the sea. It was their custom to sit there in the evening and talk. The elder Mrs Ottley enjoyed these evenings, and the most modern conversation never seemed to startle her. She would listen impassively, or with a smile, as if in silent approval, to the most monstrous of paradoxes or the most childish chaff.
Aylmer's attention and kind thought for her had absolutely won her heart. She consulted him about everything, and was only thoroughly satisfied when he was there. His strong, kind, decided voice, his good looks, his decision, and a sort of responsible impulsiveness, all appealed to her immensely. She looked up to him, in a kind of admiring maternal way; Edith often wondered, did she not see Aylmer's devotion? But, if she did, Mrs Ottley thought nothing of it. Her opinion of Edith was so high that she trusted her in any complications….
'Isn't Bruce coming down tonight?' she asked Edith.
'I'm to have a wire.'
'Ah, here's the last post. Perhaps he's written instead.'
Vincy fetched the letters. There was one from Bruce.
Edith went into the drawing-room to read it; there was not sufficient light on the veranda….
In growing amazement she read the following words:—
'I hope what I am about to tell you will not worry you too much. At any rate I do hope you will not allow it to affect your health. It is inevitable, and you must make up your mind to it as soon as possible. I say this in no spirit of unkindness; far from it. It is hard to me to break the news to you, but it must be done.
'Mavis Argles and I are all in all to each other. We have made up our minds on account of certaincircumstancesto throw in our lot together, and we are starting for Australia today. When this reaches you, we shall have started. I enclose the address to write to me.
'In taking this step I have, I am sure, acted for the best. It may cause you great surprise and pain. I regret it, but we met and became very quickly devoted to one another. She cannot live without me. What I am doing is my duty. I now ask you, and believe you will grant my request, to make arrangements togive me my freedom as soon as possible. Mind you do this, Edith, for it is really my duty to give my name to Mavis, who, as I have said, is devoted to me heart and soul, and cannot live without me.
'I shall always have the greatest regard and respect for you, andwish you well.
'I am sorry also about my mother, but you must try and explain that it is for the best. You also will know exactly what to do, and how to bring up the children just as well without me as with.
'Hoping this sudden news will not affect your health in any way, and that you will try and stay on a good while at Westgate, as I am sure the air is doing you good, believe me, yours affectionately as always,
'P.S.—Mind you don't forget to divorce me as soon as you can for Mavis's sake. Vincy will give you all the advice you need. Don't think badly of me; I have meant well. Try and cheer up. I am sorry not to write more fully, but you can imagine how I was rushed to catch today's steamer.'
She sat alone gazing at the letter under the light. She was divided at first between a desire to laugh and cry. Bruce had actually eloped! His silly weakness had culminated, his vanity had been got hold of. Vincy's horrid little art-student had positively led him into running away, and leaving his wife and children.
Controlling herself, Edith went to the veranda and said to Mrs Ottley that Bruce wasn't coming back for a day or two, that she had neuralgia and was going to retire, but begged Aylmer not to go yet. Of course at this he went at once.
The next morning Aylmer at his hotel received a little note asking him to come round and see Edith, while the others were out.
It was there, in the cool, shady room, that Edith showed him the letter.
'Good God!' he exclaimed, looking simply wild with joy. 'This is too marvellous!—too heavenly! Do you realise it? Edith, don't you see he wants you to make him free? You will be my wife—that's settled—that's fixed up.'
He looked at her in delight almost too great for expression.
Edith knew she was going to have a hard task now. She was pale, but looked completely composed. She said:
'You're wrong, Aylmer. I'm not going to set him free.'
'What?' he almost shouted. 'Are you mad? What! Stick to him when he doesn't want you! Ruin the wretched girl's life!'
'That remains to be seen. I don't believe everything in the letter. The children—'
'Edith!' he exclaimed. 'What—when he doesn'twantthe children—when he deserts them?'
'He is their father.'
'Their father! Then, if you were married to a criminal who implored you to divorce him you wouldn't, because he was their father!'
'Bruce is not a criminal. He is not bad. He is a fool. He has behaved idiotically, and I can never care for him in the way I used to, but I mean to give him a chance. I'm not going to jump at his first real folly to get rid of him…. Poor Bruce!'
She laughed.
Aylmer threw himself down in an arm-chair, staring at her.
'You amaze me,' he said. 'You amaze me. You're not human. Do you adore this man, that you forgive him everything? You don't even seem angry.'
'I don't adore him, that is why I'm not so very angry. I was terribly hurt about Miss Townsend. My pride, my trust were hurt but after that I can't ever feel that personal jealousy any more. What I have got to think of is what is best.'
'Edith, you don't care for me. I'd better go away.' He turned away; he had tears in his eyes.
'Oh, don't, Aylmer! You know I do!'
'Well, then, it's all right. Fate seems to have arranged this onpurpose for us—don't you know, dear, how I'd be good to the children?How I'd do anything on this earth for them? Why, I'd reconcile MrsOttley to it in ten minutes; I'd doanything!' He started up.
'I'm not going to let Mrs Ottley know anything about it for the present.'
'You're not going to tell her?'
'No. I shall invent a story to account for his absence. No-one need know. But, of course, if, later—I mean if he persists—'
'Oh, Edith, don't be a fool! You're throwing away our happiness when you've got it in your hand.'
'There are some things that onecan'tdo.' said Edith. 'It goes against the grain. I can't take advantage of his folly to make the path smoother—for myself. What will become of him when they quarrel! It's all nonsense. Bruce is only weak. He's a very good fellow, really. He has no spirit, and not much intellect; but with us to look after him,' she unconsciously said us, and could not help smiling at the absurdity of it,' he will get along all right yet.'
'Edith, you're beyond me,' said Aylmer. 'I give up understanding you.'
She stood up again and looked out of the window.
'Let him have his silly holiday and his elopement and his trip! He thinks it will make a terrific sensation! And I hope she will be seasick. I'm sure she will; she's the sort of woman who would, and then—after—'
'And you'll take him back? You have no pride, Edith.'
She turned round. 'Take him back?—yes; officially. He has a right to live in his own house, with his own children. Why, ever since I found out about Miss Townsend … I'm sure I was nice to him, but only like a sister. Yes. I feel just like a sister to him now.'
'Oh, good God! I haven't patience with all this hair-splitting nonsense. Brotherly husbands who run away with other girls, and beg you to divorce them; sisterly wives who forgive them and stick to them against their will….'
He suddenly stopped, and held out his hand.
'Forgive me, Edith. I believe whatever you say is right. Will you forgive me?'
'You see, it's chiefly on account of the children. If it weren't for them Iwouldtake advantage of this to be happy with you. At least—no—I'm not sure that I would; not if I thought it would be Bruce's ruin.'
'And you don't think I'd be good to the children?'
'Good? I know you would be an angel to them! But what's the use? I tell you I can't do it.'
'I won't tease you, I won't worry you any more,' he said, in a ratherbroken voice. 'At any rate, think what a terrible blow this is to me.You show me the chance of heaven, then you voluntarily dash it away.Don't you think you ought to consult someone? You have asked no-one?'
'I have consultedyou,' she said, with a slight smile.
'You take no notice of what I say.'
'As a matter of fact, I don't wish to consult anyone. I have made my own decision. I have written my letter.'
She took it out of her bag. It was directed to Bruce, at the address he had given her in Australia.
'I suppose you won't let me read it?' he said sadly.
'I think I'd rather not,' she said.
Terribly hurt, he turned to the door.
'No—no, you shall read it!' she exclaimed. 'But don't say anything, make no remark about it. You shall read it because I trust you, because I really care for you.'
'Perhaps I oughtn't to,' he said. 'No, dear; keep it to yourself.' His delicacy had revived and he was ashamed of his jealousy.
But now she insisted on showing it to him, and he read:
'I'm not going to make any appeal to your feelings with regard to your mother and the children, because if you had thought even of me a little this would not have happened. I'm very, very sorry for it. I believe it happened from your weakness and foolishness, or you could not have behaved with such irresponsibility, but I'm trying to look at it quite calmly. I therefore propose to do nothing at all for three months. If I acted on your suggestion you might regret it ever after. If in three months you write to me again in the same strain, still desiring to be free, I will think of it, though I'm not sure that I should do it even then. But in case you change your mind I propose to tell nobody, not even your mother. By the time you get this letter, it will be six weeks since yours to me, and you may look at things differently. Perhaps by then you will be glad to hear that I have told your mother merely that you have been ordered away for a change, and I shall say the same to anyone else who inquires for you. If you feel after this time still responsible, and that you have a certain duty, still remember, even so, you might be very unhappy together all your lives. Excuse me, then, if I don't take you at your word.
'Another point occurs to me. In your hurry and excitement, perhaps you forgot that your father's legacy depended on the condition that you should not leave the Foreign Office before you were fifty. That is about fourteen years from now. If you are legally freed, and marry Miss Argles, you could hardly go back there. I think it would be practically impossible under those circumstances, while if you live in Australia you will have hardly any means. I merely remind you of this, in case you had forgotten.
'I shall regard it all as an unfortunate aberration; and if you regret it, and change your mind, you will be free at any time you like to come back and nothing shall be ever said about it. But I'm not begging you to do so. I may be wrong; perhaps she's the woman to make you happy. Let me know within three months how you feel about it. No-one will suffer except myself during this time, as I shall keep it from your mother, and shall remain here during this time. Perhaps you will be very angry with me that I don't wish to take you at your word, Bruce. At first I thought I would, but I'm doing what I think right, and one cannot do more.
'I'm not going to reproach you, for if you don't feel the claims of others on you, my words will make no difference.
'Think over what I say. Should you be unhappy and wish to separate from her without knowing how, and if it becomes a question of money, as so many things do, I would help you. I did not remind you about your father's legacy to induce you to come back. If you really find happiness in the way you expect, we could arrange it. You see, I have thought of everything, in one night. But youwon'tbe happy.
'Remember, whenever you like to come back, you will be welcomed, and nothing shall ever be said about it.'
Aylmer gave her back the letter. He was touched.
'You see,' she said eagerly, 'I haven't got a grain of jealousy. All that part is quite finished. That's the very reason why I can judge calmly.'
She fastened up the letter, and then said with a smile:
'And now, let's be happy the rest of the summer. Won't you?'
He answered that she wasimpayable—marvellous—that he would help her—devote himself to doing whatever she wished. On consideration he saw that there was still hope.
Bruce Returns
'Never, Edith!' exclaimed Vincy, fixing his eyeglass in his eye, and opening his mouth in astonishment. 'Never! Well, I'm gormed!'
A week had passed since the news of Bruce's elopement. The little group at Westgate didn't seem to have much been affected by it; and this was the less surprising as Aylmer and Edith had kept it to themselves. Mrs Ottley listened imperturbably to Edith's story, a somewhat incoherent concoction, but told with dash and decision, that Bruce had been ordered away for a sea-voyage for fear of a nervous breakdown. She cried a little, said nothing, kissed Edith more than usual, and took the children away for longer walks and drives. With a mother's flashlight of intuition she felt at once certain there was something wrong, but she didn't wish to probe the subject. Her confidence in Edith reached the point of superstition; she would never ask her questions. Edith had assured her that Bruce would come back all right, and that was enough. Personally, Mrs Ottley much preferred the society of Aylmer to that of her son. Aylmer was far more amusing, far more considerate to her, and to everybody else, and he didn't use his natural charm for those who amused him only, as the ordinary fascinating man does. Probably there was at the back of his attentions to Mrs Ottley a vague idea that he wanted to get her on his side—that she might be a useful ally; but he was always charming to elderly women, and inclined to be brusque with younger ones, excepting Edith; he remembered his own mother with so great a cult of devotion, and his late wife with such a depressed indifference.
Edith had asked Aylmer to try and forget what had happened—to make himself believe that Bruce had really only gone away medicinally. For the present, he did as she wished, but he was longing to begin talking to her on the subject again, both because it interested him passionately from the psychological point of view, and far more, naturally, because he had hopes of persuading her in time. She was not bound by letter; she could change her mind. Bruce might and possibly would, insist.
There was difficulty in keeping the secret from Vincy, who was actually staying in the house, and whose wonderful nerves and whimsical mind were so sensitive to every variation of his surroundings. He had the gift of reading people's minds. But it never annoyed anyone; one felt he had no illusions; that he sympathised with one's weaknesses and follies and, in a sense, enjoyed them, from a literary point of view. Probably his friends forgave his clear vision for the sake of his interest. Most people would far rather be seen through than not be seen at all.
One day Vincy, alone on the beach with Edith, remarked that he wondered what had happened to Mavis.
Edith told him that she had run away with a married man.
'Never, Edith!' he exclaimed. 'Who would have thought it! It seems almost too good to be true!'
'Don't say that, Vincy.'
'But how did you hear it? You know everything.'
'I heard it on good authority. Iknowit's true.'
'And to think I was passing the remark only the other day that I thought I ought to look her up, in a manner of speaking, or write,or something,' continued Vincy; 'and whoisthe poor dear man? Do you know?'
He looked at her with a sudden vague suspicion of he knew not what.
'Bruce was always inclined to be romantic, you know,' she said steadily.
'Oh, give over!'
'Yes, that's it; I didn't want anyone to know about it. I'm so afraid of making Mrs Ottley unhappy.'
'But you're not serious, Edith?'
'I suppose I'd better show you his letter. He tells me to ask your advice.'
She gave it to him.
'There is only one word for what I feel about it,' Vincy said, as he gave it back. 'I'm gormed! Simply gormed! Gormed, Edith dear, is really the only word.'
'I'm not jealous,' said Edith. 'My last trouble with Bruce seems to have cured me of any feeling of the kind. But I have a sort of pity and affection for him still in a way—almost like a mother! I'm really afraid he will be miserable with her, and then he'll feel tied to her and be wretched all his life. So I'm giving him a chance.'
He looked at her with admiring sympathy.
'But what about other friends?'
'Well—oh, you know—'
'Edith, I'm awfully sorry; I wish I'd married her now, then she wouldn't have bothered about Bruce.'
'But you can't stand her, Vincy.'
'I know, Edith dear; but I'd marry any number of people to prevent anything tiresome for you. And Aylmer, of course—Edith, really, I think Aylmer ought to go away; I'm sure he ought. It is a mistake to let him stay here under these circumstances.'
'Why?' said Edith. 'I don't see that; if I were going to take Bruce at his word, then it would be different, of course.'
'It does seem a pity not to, in some ways; everything would be all nicely settled up, just like the fourth act of a play. And then I should be glad I hadn't married Mavis… Oh, do let it be like the fourth act, Edith.'
'How can life be like a play? It's hopeless to attempt it,' she said rather sadly.
'Edith, do you think if Bruce knew—how much you liked Aylmer—he would have written that letter?'
'No. And I don't believe he would ever have gone away.'
'Still, I think you ought to send Aylmer away now.'
'Why?' she repeated. 'Nothing could be more intensely correct. MrsOttley's staying with me—why shouldn't I have the pleasure of seeingAylmer because Bruce is having a heavenly time on board ship?'
'I suppose there's that point of view,' said Vincy, rather bewildered.'I say, Edith!'
'About Bruce having a heavenly time on board ship—a—she always grumbles; she's always complaining. She's never, never satisfied… She keeps on making scenes.'
'So does Bruce.'
'Yes. But I suppose if there's a certain predicament—then—Oh,Edith—are you unhappy?'
'No, not a bit now. I think I'm only really unhappy when I'm undecided. Once I've taken a line—no matter what it is—I can be happy again. I can adjust myself to my good fortune.'
Curiously, when Edith had once got over the pain and shock that the letter first gave her, she was positively happier now than she ever had been before. Bruce really must have been a more formidable bore than she had known, since his absence left such a delicious freedom. The certainty of having done the right, the wisest thing, was a support, a proud satisfaction.
During these summer days Aylmer was not so peacefully happy. His devotion was assiduous, silent, discreet, and sometimes his feelings were almost uncontrollable, but he hoped; and he consoled himself by the thought that some day he would really have his wish—anything might happen; the chances were all in his favour.
What an extraordinary woman she was—and how pretty—how subtle; how perfect their life might be together….
He implored Vincy to use his influence.
'I can't see Edith in anything so crude as the—as—that court,' Vincy said.
'But Bruce begs her to do it. What could their life be together afterwards? It's simply a deliberate sacrifice.'
'There's every hope that Miss Argles will never let him go,' said Vincy. 'One has to be very firm to get away from her. Oh, ever so firm, andobstinate, you can't think! How many times a day she must be reproaching Bruce—that will be rather a change for him. However, anything may happen,' said Vincy soothingly. He still maintained, for he had a very strong sense of propriety in matters of form, that Aylmer ought to go away. But Edith would not agree.
* * * * *
So the children played and enjoyed themselves, and sometimes asked after their father, and Mrs Ottley, though a little anxious, enjoyed herself too, and Edith had never been so happy. She was having a holiday. She dismissed all trouble and lived in a sort of dream.
* * * * *
Towards the end of the summer, hearing no more from Bruce, Aylmer grew still more hopeful; he began to regard it as practically settled. The next letter in answer to Edith's would doubtless convince her, and he would then persuade her; it was, tacitly, he thought, almost agreed now; it was not spoken of between them, but he believed it was all right….
* * * * *
Aylmer had come back to London in the early days of September and was wandering through his house thinking how he would have it done up and how he wouldn't leave it when they were married, when a telephone message summoned him to Knightsbridge.
He went, and found the elder Mrs Ottley just going away. He thought she looked at him rather strangely.
'I think Edith wants to speak to you,' she said, as she left the room.'Dear Edith! Be nice to her.' And she fled.
* * * * *
Aylmer waited alone, looking round the room that he loved because he associated it with her.
It was one of the first cold damp days of the autumn, and there was a fire. Edith came in, in a dark dress, looking pale, and different, he thought. She had seemed the very spirit of summer only a day or two before.
A chill presentiment struck to his heart.
'You've had a letter? Go on; don't keep me in suspense.' He spoke with nervous impatience, and no self-restraint.
She sat down by him. She had no wish to create an effect, but she found it difficult to speak.
'Yes, I've had a letter,' she said quietly. 'They've quarrelled. They quarrelled on board. He hates her. He says he would rather die than remain with her. He's written me a rather nice letter. They quarrelled so frightfully that a young man on board interfered,' she said, smiling faintly. 'As soon as they arrived the young man married her. He's a commercial traveller. He's only twenty-five…. It seems he pitied her so much that he proposed to her on board, and she left Bruce. It wasn't true about the predicament. It was—a mistake. Bruce was grateful for my letter. He's glad I've not told anyone—not done anything. Now the children will never know. But I've told Mrs Ottley all about it. I thought I'd better, now it's over. She won't ask him questions…. Bruce is on his way home.'
'All right!' said Aylmer, getting up. 'Let him come. Forgive him again, that's right! Would you have done that forme?'
'No! Never! If you had once been unfaithful, and I knew it, I'd never have forgiven you.'
'I quite believe it. But why?'
'Because I care for you too much. If you had been in Bruce's position I should never have seen you again. With him it's different. It's a feeling of—it's for him, not for me. I've felt no jealousy, no passion, so I could judge calmly.'
'All right,' repeated Aylmer ironically; 'all right! Judge calmly! Do the right thing. You know best.' He stopped a moment, and then said, taking his hat: 'I understand now. I see clearly at last. You've had the opportunity and you wouldn't take it; you don't care for me. I'm going.'
He went to the door.
'Oh, come back, Aylmer! Don't go like that! You know I care for you, but what could I do? I foresaw this…You know, I can't feelnoresponsibility about Bruce. I couldn't make my happiness out of someone else's misery. He would have been miserable and, not only that, it would have been his ruin. Bruce could never be safe, happy, or all right, except here.'
'And you think he'll alter, now, be grateful and devoted, I suppose—appreciate you?'
'Do people alter?' she answered.
'I neither know nor care if he will, but you? I could have made you happy. You won't let me. Oh, Edith, how could you torture me like this all the summer?'
'I didn't mean to torture you. We enjoyed being together.'
'Yes. But it makes this so much harder.'
'It would be such a risk!' she answered. 'But is anything worth having unless you're ready to risk every-thing to get it?'
'Iwouldrisk everything, for myself. But not for others…If you feel you want to go away,' she said, 'let it be only for a little while.'
'A little while! I hope I shallneversee you again! Do you think I'm such a miserable fool—do you think I could endure the position of a tame cat? You forget I'm a man!… No; I'll never see you again now, not if it kills me!'
At these words, the first harsh ones she had ever heard from him, her nerves gave way, and she burst into tears.
This made him irresolute, for his tender-heartedness almost reached the point of weakness. He went up to her, as she lifted her head, and looked at her once more. Then he said:
'No, you've chosen. Youhavebeen cruel to me, and you're too good to him. But I suppose you must carry out your own nature, Edith. I've been the victim. That's all.'
'And won't you be friends?' she said.
'No. I won't and I can't.'
He waited one moment more.
* * * * *
'If you'll change your mind—you still can—we can still be happy. We can be everything to each other…. Give him up. Give him up.'
'I can't,' said Edith.
'Then, good-bye.'
Intellectual Sympathy
'What are you going to wear tonight, Edith?'
'Oh; anything!'
'Don't say anything. I don't wish you to wear anything. I'm anxious you should look your best, really nice, especially as we haven't been to the Mitchells' for so long. Wear your new blue dress.'
'Very well.'
Bruce got up and walked across the room and looked in the glass.
'Certainly, I'm a bit sunburnt,' he remarked thoughtfully. 'But it doesn't suit me badly, not really badly; does it?'
'Not at all.'
'Edith.'
'Yes?'
'If I've spoken about it once, I've spoken about it forty times. This ink-bottle is too full.'
'I'll see about it.'
'Don't let me have to speak about it again, will you? I wonder who will be at the Mitchells' tonight?'
'Oh, I suppose there'll be the new person—the woman with the dramatic contralto foghorn voice; and the usual people: Mr Cricker, Lady Everard, Miss Mooney—'
'Miss Mooney! I hope not! I can't stand that woman. I think she's absurd; she's a mass of affectation and prudishness. And—Edith!'
'Yes?'
'I don't want to interfere between mother and daughter—I know you're perfectly capable and thoroughly well suited to bringing up a girl, but I really do think you're encouraging Dilly in too great extravagance.'
'Oh! In what way?'
'I found her making a pinafore for her doll out of a lace flounce of real old Venetian lace. Dilly said she found it on the floor. 'On the floor, indeed,' I said to her. 'You mustn't use real lace!' She said, 'Why not? It's a real doll!' Lately Dilly's got a way of answering back that I don't like at all. Speak to her about it, will you, Edith?'
'Oh yes, of course I will.'
'I'm afraid my mother spoils them. However, Archie will be going to school soon. Of course it isn't for me to interfere. I have always made a point of letting you do exactly as you like about the children, haven't I, Edith? But I'm beginning to think, really, Dilly ought to have another gov—' He stopped, looking self-conscious.
'Oh, she's only five, quite a baby,' said Edith. 'I daresay I can manage her for the present. Leave it to me.'
* * * * *
Since his return, Edith had never once referred to Bruce's sea-voyage. Once or twice he had thanked her with real gratitude, and even remorse, for the line she had taken, but her one revenge had been to change the subject immediately. If Bruce wished to discuss the elopement that she had so laboriously concealed, he would have to go elsewhere.
* * * * *
A brilliantly coloured version, glittering with success and lurid with melodrama, had been given (greatly against the hearer's will) to Goldthorpe at the club. One of the most annoying things to Bruce was that he was perfectly convinced, when he was confessing the exact truth, that Goldthorpe didn't believe a word of it.
It was unfortunate, too, for Bruce, that he felt it incumbent on him to keep it from Vincy; and not to speak of the affair at all was a real sacrifice on Vincy's part, also. For they would both have enjoyed discussing it, while Goldthorpe, the only human being in whom Bruce ever really confided, was not only bored but incredulous. He considered Bruce not only tedious to the verge of imbecility, but unreliable beyond the pardonable point of inaccuracy. In fact, Bruce was his ideal of the most wearisome of liars and the most untruthful of bores; and here was poor Vincy dying to hear all about his old friend, Mavis (he never knew even whether she had mentioned his name), ready to revel, with his peculiar humour, in every detail of the strange romance, particularly to enjoy her sudden desertion of Bruce for an unmarried commercial traveller who had fallen in love with her on board.—And yet, it had to be withheld! Bruce felt it would be disloyal, and he had the decency to be ashamed to speak of his escapade to an intimate friend of his wife.
* * * * *
Bruce complained very much of the dullness of the early autumn in London without Aylmer. This sudden mania for long journeys on Aylmer's part was a most annoying hobby. He would never get such a pleasant friend as Aylmer again. Aylmer was his hero.
'Why do you think he's gone away?' he rather irritatingly persisted.
'I haven't the slightest idea.'
'Do you know, Edith, it has sometimes occurred to me that if—that, well—well, you know what I mean—if things had turned out differently, and you had done as I asked you—'
'Well?'
'Why, I have a sort of idea,' he looked away, 'that Aylmer might—well, might have proposed to you!'
'Oh!Whatan extraordinary idea!'
'But he never did show any sign whatever, I suppose of—well, of—being more interested in you than he ought to have been?'
'Good heavens, no!'
'Oh, of course, I know that—you're not his style. You liked him very much, didn't you, Edith?…'
'I like him very much now.'
'However, I doubt if you ever quite appreciated him. He's so full of ability; such an intellectual chap! Aylmer is more a man's man.Imiss him, of course. He was a very great friend of mine. And he didn't ever at all, in the least—seem to—'
'Seem to what?'
'It would have been a very unfair advantage to take of my absence if he had,' continued Bruce.
'Oh!'
'But he was incapable of it, of course.'
'Of course.'
'Henevershowed any special interest, then, beyond—'
'Never.'
'I was right, I suppose, as usual. You never appreciated him; he was not the sort of man a womanwouldappreciate … But he's a great loss to me, Edith. I need a man who can understand—Intellectual sympathy—'
* * * * *
'Mr Vincy!' announced the servant.
Vincy had not lost his extraordinary gift for turning up at the right moment. He was more welcome than ever now.