So day by day Alma's violin sounded, and day after day Harvey heard it with a growing impatience. As is commonly the case with people of untrained ear, he had never much cared for this instrument; he preferred the piano. Not long ago he would have thought it impossible that he could ever come to dislike music, which throughout his life had been to him a solace and an inspiration; but now he began to shrink from the sound of it. As Alma practised in the morning, he was driven at length to alter his habits, and to leave home after breakfast. Having no other business, he went to Westminster Bridge Road, met Cecil Morphew at the shop, watched the progress of alterations that seemed advisable, picked up a little knowledge of photography, talked over prices, advertisements, and numerous commercial matters of which he had hitherto been contentedly ignorant. Before long, his loan to Morphew was converted into an investment; he became a partner in the concern, which, retaining the name of the old proprietor, they carried on as Den bow & Co.
The redemption of his debentures kept him still occupied with a furtive study of the money-market. He did not dare to face risk on a large scale; the mere thought of a great reduction of income made him tremble and perspire. So in the end he adopted the simple and straightforward expedient of seeking an interview with his banker, by whom he was genially counselled to purchase such-and-such stock, a sound security, but less productive than that he had previously held. An unfortunate necessity, seeing that his expenses increased and were likely to do so. But he tried to hope that Westminster Bridge Road would eventually reimburse him. With good luck, it might do more.
His days of quietude were over. He, too, was being drawn into the whirlpool. No more dreaming among his books; no more waking to the ordinary duties and cares of a reasonable life. As a natural consequence of the feeling of unsettlement, of instability, he had recourse more often than he wished to the old convivial habits, gathering about him once again, at club or restaurant, the kind of society in which he always felt at ease—good, careless, jovial, and often impecunious fellows, who, as in days gone by, sometimes made a demand upon his purse which he could not resist, though he had now such cause for rigid economy. Was it that he grew old?—he could no longer take his wine with disregard of consequence. The slightest excess, and too surely he paid for it on the morrow, not merely with a passing headache, but with a whole day's miserable discomfort. Oh, degeneracy of stomach and of brain! Of will, too; for he was sure to repeat the foolish experience before a week had passed.
It was not till Mrs. Frothingham had left them after a fortnight's visit that he reminded Alma of her promise to go with him to Gunnersbury.
'Did I promise?' she said. 'I thought we agreed that you should settle all that yourself.'
'I had rather you came with me to see Mrs. Abbott. Shall it be Saturday?'
'Can't,' replied Alma, with a shake of the head and a smile. 'I have to see Mr. Dymes.'
'Dymes? Who is he?'
'My agent.'
'Oh! very well; then I'll go alone.'
He would not permit himself any further inquiry. Alma had never spoken to him of Dymes, her 'agent'. Harvey pictured an ill-shaven man in a small office, and turned from the thought with disgust. Too late to interpose, to ask questions; anything of that kind would but make him seem small, ridiculous, fussy. He had chosen his course, and must pursue it.
Not that Alma behaved in such a way as to suggest estrangement; anything but so. Her manner was always amiable, frequently affectionate. When they spent an evening together—it did not often happen—she talked delightfully; avoiding, as did Harvey himself, the subjects on which they were not likely to agree. Her gaze had all the old directness, her smile was sweet as ever, and her laugh as melodious. If ever he felt uneasy during her long absences in town, one of these evenings sufficed to reassure him. Alma was Alma still, and could he but have reconciled himself to the thought of her playing in public, she would have been yet the wife he chose, frankly self-willed, gallantly independent.
Until a certain day at the end of March, when something happened of which Harvey had no suspicion, but which affected Alma in a way he soon perceived.
That morning he had left home early, and would not return till late. Alma practised as usual, had luncheon alone, and was thinking of going out, when the post delivered two letters—one for herself from Dymes, the other for her husband. A glance showed her that Harvey's correspondent was Mrs. Abbott, and never till today had one of Mrs Abbott's letters come into her hand. She regarded it with curiosity, and the longer she looked the stronger her curiosity became. Harvey would of course tell her what his friend wrote about—as he always did; but the epistle itself she would not be asked to read. And did she, as a matter of fact, always know when Harvey heard from Mrs. Abbott? A foolish question, probably; for if the correspondence were meant to be secret, it would be addressed to Harvey at his club, not to the house. All the same, a desire of years concentrated itself in this moment. Alma wished vehemently to read one of Mary Abbott's letters with her own eyes.
She turned the envelope. It was of very stout paper, and did not look quite securely gummed. Would not a touch of the finger—almost——? Why, there, just as she thought; a mere touch, and the envelope came open. 'Now, if I ever wrote a dangerous word,' mused Alma—'which I don't, and never shall—this would be a lesson to me.'
Well, it was open, and, naturally enough, the letter came forth. What harm? There could be nothing in it that Harvey would wish to hide from her. So, with hands that trembled, and cheeks that felt warm, she began to read.
The letter was Mrs. Abbott's acknowledgment of the quarterly cheque she received from Rolfe. Alma was surprised at the mention of money in the first line, and read eagerly on. As Mary Abbott and her friend had seen each other so recently, there was no need of a full report concerning Minnie Wager (her brother had long since gone to a boarding-school), but the wording allowed it to be understood that Harvey paid for the child, and, what was more, that he held himself responsible for her future. What could this mean? Alma pondered it in astonishment; gratified by the discovery, but disturbed beyond measure by its mysterious suggestiveness. The letter contained little more, merely saying, towards the end, how very glad the writer would be to give her utmost care to little Hugh when presently he came into her hands. Last of all—'Please remember me kindly to Mrs. Rolfe.'
At this point of her life Alma had become habitually suspicious of any relation between man and woman which might suggest, however remotely, dubious possibilities. Innocence appeared to her the exception, lawlessness the rule, where man and woman were restrained by no obvious barriers. It was the natural result of her experience, of her companionship, of the thoughts she deliberately fostered. Having read the letter twice, having mused upon it, she leaped to a conclusion which seemed to explain completely the peculiar intimacy subsisting between Harvey and Mary Abbott. These two children, known as Albert and Minnie Wager, were Harvey's offspring, the result of someliaisonbefore his marriage; and Mrs. Abbott, taking charge of them for payment, had connived at the story of their origin, of their pitiful desertion. What could be clearer?
She did not go further in luminous conjectures. Even with her present mind, Alma could not conceive of Mary Abbott as a wanton, of Harvey Rolfe as a shameless intriguer; but it stung her keenly to think that for years there had been this secret between them. Probably the matter was known to Mrs. Abbott's husband, and so, at his death, it had somehow become possible for Harvey to suggest this arrangement, whereby he helped the widow in her misfortunes, and provided conscientiously for his own illegitimate children. Harvey was so very conscientious about children!
Did they resemble him? She had seen the little girl, but only once, and without attention. She would take an early opportunity of going over to Gunnersbury, to observe. But no such evidence was necessary; the facts stared one in the face.
That Harvey should have kept this secret from her was intelligible enough; most men, no doubt, would have done the same. But it seemed to Alma only another proof of her husband's inability to appreciate her. He had no faith in her as artist; he had no faith in her as woman. Had she not felt this even from the very beginning of their intimate acquaintance? Perhaps the first thing that awakened her interest in Harvey Rolfe was the perception that he did not, like other men, admire her unreservedly, that he regarded her with something of criticism. She could attract him; she could play upon his senses; yet he remained critical. This, together with certain characteristics which distinguished him from the ordinary drawing-room man, suggestions of force and individuality, drew her into singular relations with him long before she dreamt that he would become her husband. And his attitude towards her was unchanged, spite of passionate love-making, spite of the tenderness and familiarity of marriage; still he viewed her with eyes of tolerance, rather than of whole-hearted admiration. He compared, contrasted her with Mary Abbott, for whose intellect and character he had a sincere respect. Doubtless he fancied that, if this secret became known to her, she would sulk or storm, after the manner of ordinary wives. What made him so blind to her great qualities? Was it that he had never truly loved her? Had it been owing to mere chance, mere drift of circumstances, that he offered her marriage, instead of throwing out a proposal such as that of Cyrus Redgrave at Bregenz?
Though but darkly, confusedly, intermittently conscious of the feeling, Alma was at heart dissatisfied with the liberty, the independence, which her husband seemed so willing to allow her. This, again, helped to confirm the impression that Harvey held her in small esteem. He did not think it worth while to oppose her; she might go her frivolous way, and he would watch with careless amusement. At moments, it was true, he appeared on the point of ill-humour; once or twice she had thought (perhaps had hoped) that he could lay down the law in masculine fashion; but no—he laughed, and it was over. When, at the time of her misery in Wales—her dim jealousy of Mrs. Abbott, and revolt against the prospect of a second motherhood—she had subdued herself before him, spoken and behaved like an everyday dutiful wife, Harvey would have none of it. He wished—was that the reason?—to be left alone, not to be worried with her dependence upon him. That no doubt of her fidelity ever seemed to enter his mind, was capable of anything but a complimentary interpretation; he simply took it for granted that she would be faithful—in other words, that she had not spirit or originality enough to defy conventional laws. To himself, perhaps, he reserved a much larger liberty. How could she tell where, in what company, his evenings were spent? More than once he had been away from home all night—missed the last train, he said. Well, it was nothing to her; but his incuriousness as to her own movements began to affect her sensibly, now that she imagined so close a community of thoughts and interests between Harvey and Mary Abbott.
Before his return tonight other letters had arrived for him, and all lay together, as usual, upon his desk. Alma, trying to wear her customary face, waited for him to mention that he had heard from Gunnersbury, but Harvey said nothing. He talked, instead, of a letter from Basil Morton, who wanted him to go to Greystone in the spring, with wife and child.
'You mustn't count on me,' said Alma.
'But after your concert—recital—whatever you call it; it would be a good rest.'
'Oh, I shall be busier than ever. Mr. Dymes hopes to arrange for me at several of the large towns.'
Harvey smiled, and Alma observed him with irritation she could scarcely repress. Of course, his smile meant a civil scepticism.
'By-the-bye,' he asked, 'is Dymes the comic opera man?'
'Yes. I rather wondered, Harvey, whether you would awake to that fact. He will be one of our greatest composers.'
She went on with enthusiasm, purposely exaggerating Dymes's merits, and professing a warm personal regard for him. In the end, Harvey's eye was upon her, still smiling, but curiously observant.
'Why hasn't he been here? Doesn't he think it odd that you never ask him?'
'Oh, you know that I don't care to ask people. They are aware'—she laughed—'that my husband is not musical.'
Harvey's countenance changed.
'Do you mean that you tell them so?'
'Not in any disagreeable way, of course. It's so natural, now, for married people to have each their own world.'
'So it is,' he acquiesced.
Alma would have gone to Gunnersbury the very next day, but she feared to excite some suspicion in her husband's mind. He little imagined her capable of opening his letters, and to be detected in such a squalid misdemeanour would have overwhelmed her with shame. In a day or two she would be going to Mrs. Rayner Mann's, to meet a certain musical critic 'of great influence', and by leaving home early she could contrive to make a call upon Mrs. Abbott before lunching at Putney. This she did. She saw little Minnie Wager, scrutinised the child's features, and had no difficulty whatever in discerning Harvey's eyes, Harvey's mouth. Why should she have troubled herself to come? It was very hard to control her indignation. If Mrs. Abbott thought her rather strange, rather abrupt, what did it matter?
At Mrs. Rayner Mann's she passed into a soothing and delicious atmosphere. The influential critic proved to be a very young man, five-and-twenty at most; he stammered with nervousness when first addressing the stranger, but soon gave her to understand, more or less humorously, that his weekly article was 'quite' the most important thing in latter-day musical criticism, and that he panted for the opportunity of hearing a new violinist of real promise. But Alma had not brought her violin; lest she should make herself cheap, she never played now at people's houses. The critic had to be satisfied with hearing her talk and gazing upon her beauty. Alma was become a very fluent talker, and her voice had the quality which fixes attention. At luncheon, whilst half-a-dozen persons lent willing ear, she compared Sarasate's playing of Beethoven's Concerto with that of Joachim, and declared that Sarasate'scadenzain the first movement, though marvellous for technical skill, was not at all in the spirit of the work. The influential writer applauded, drawing her on to fresh displays of learning, taste, eloquence. She had a great deal to say about somebody's 'technique of the left hand', of somebody else's 'tonal effects', of a certain pianist's 'warmth of touch'. It was a truly musical gathering; each person at table had some exquisite phrase to contribute. The hostess, who played no instrument, but doted upon all, was of opinion that an executant should 'aim at mirroring his own nature in his interpretation of a tone-poem'; whereupon another lady threw out remarks on 'subjective interpretation', confessing her preference for a method purely 'objective'. The influential critic began to talk about Liszt, with whom he declared that he had been on intimate terms; he grew fervent over the master's rhapsodies, with their 'clanging rhythm and dithyrambic fury'.
'I don't know when I enjoyed myself so much,' said Alma gaily, as the great young man pressed her hand at parting and avowed himself her devoted admirer.
'My dear Mrs. Rolfe,' said the hostess privately, 'you were simply brilliant! We are all looking forward so eagerly!'
And as soon as Alma was gone, the amiable lady talked about her to the one remaining guest.
'Isn'tshe delightful! I do so hope she will be a success. I'm afraid so much depends upon it. Of course, you know that she is the daughter of Bennet Frothingham? Didn't you know? Yes, and left without a farthing. I suppose it was natural she should catch at an offer of marriage, poor girl, but it seems to have beenmostill-advised. One never sees her husband, and I'm afraid he is anything but kind to her. Hemayhave calculated on her chances as a musician. I am told they have little or nothing to depend upon. Do drum up your friends—will you? It is to be at Prince's Hall, on May the 16th—I think. I feel, don't you know, personally responsible; she would never have come out but for my persuasion, and I'm so anxious for a success!'
The day drew near for Ada Wellington's debut. Alma met this young lady, but they did not take to each other; Miss Wellington was a trifle 'loud', and, unless Alma mistook, felt fiercely jealous of any one admired by Felix Dymes. As she could not entertain at their own house (somewhere not far south of the Thames), Mrs. Wellington borrowed Dymes's flat for an afternoon, and there, supported by the distinguished composer, received a strange medley of people who interested themselves in her daughter's venture. Alma laughed at the arrangement, and asked Dymes if he expected her congratulations.
'Don't make fun of them,' said Felix. 'Of course, they're notyoursort, Alma. But I've known them all my life, and old Wellington did me more than one good turn when I was a youngster. Ada won't make much of it, but she'll squeeze in among the provincial pros after this send off.'
'You really are capable of generosity?' asked Alma.
'I swear there's nothing between us. There's only one woman living that I have eyes for—and I'm afraid she doesn't care a rap about me; at all events, she treats me rather badly.'
This dialogue took place in a drawing-room the evening before Miss Wellington's day. Alma had declined to meet her agent a second time at the Apollo Theatre; they saw each other, by arrangement, at this and that house of common friends, and corresponded freely by post, Dymes's letters always being couched in irreproachable phrase. Whenever the thing was possible, he undisguisedly made love, and Alma bore with it for the sake of his services. He had obtained promises from four musicians of repute to take part in Alma's concert, and declared that the terms they asked were lower than usual, owing to their regard for him. The expenses of the recital, without allowing for advertisements, would amount to seventy or eighty pounds; and Dymes guaranteed that the hall should produce at least that. Alma, ashamed to appear uneasy about such paltry sums, always talked as though outlay mattered nothing.
'Don't stint on advertisements,' she said.
'No fear! Leave that to me,' answered Felix, with a smile of infinite meaning.
Ada Wellington could not afford to risk much money, and Alma thought her announcements in the papers worth nothing at all. However, the pianist was fairly successful; a tolerable audience was scraped together (at Steinway Hall), and press notices of a complimentary flavour, though brief, appeared in several quarters. With keen anxiety Alma followed every detail. She said to herself that ifherappearance in public made no more noise than this, she would be ready to die of mortification. There remained a fortnight before the ordeal; had they not better begin to advertise at once? Thus she wrote to Dymes, who replied by sending her three newspapers, in each of which a paragraph of musical gossip informed the world that Mrs. Harvey Rolfe was about to give her first public violin recital at Prince's Hall. Mrs. Rolfe, added the journalists in varying phrase, was already well known to the best musical circles as an amateur violinist, and great interest attached to her appearance in public, a step on which she had decided only after much persuasion of friends and admirers. Already there was considerable demand for tickets, and the audience would most certainly be both large and distinguished. Alma laughed with delight.
The same day, by a later post, she received a copy of a 'society' journal, addressed in a hand unknown to her. Guided by a red pencil mark, she became aware of no less than a quarter of a column devoted to herself. From this she might learn (if she did not already know it) that Mrs. Harvey Rolfe was a lady of the utmost personal and social charm; that her beauty was not easily described without the use of terms that would sound extravagant; that as a violinist she had stood for a year or twofacile princepsamid lady amateurs; that she had till of late lived in romantic seclusion 'amid the noblest scenery of North Wales', for the sole purpose of devoting herself to music; and that only with the greatest reluctance had she consented to make known to the public a talent—nay, a genius—which assuredly was 'meant for mankind'. She was the favourite pupil of that admirable virtuoso, Herr Wilenski. At Prince's Hall, on the sixteenth of May, all lovers of music would have, &c, &c.
This batch of newspapers Alma laid before dinner on Harvey's desk, and about an hour after the meal she entered the library. Her husband, smoking and meditating, looked up constrainedly.
'I have read them,' he remarked, in a dry tone.
Alma's coldness during the last few weeks he had explained to himself as the result of his failure to take interest in her proceedings. He knew that this behaviour on his part was quite illogical; Alma acted with full permission, and he had no right whatever to 'turn grumpy' just because he disliked what she was doing. Only today he had rebuked himself, and meant to make an effort to restore goodwill between them; but these newspaper paragraphs disgusted him. He could not speak as he wished.
'This is your agent's doing, I suppose?'
'Of course. That is his business.'
'Well, I won't say anything about it. Ifyouare satisfied, I have no right to complain.'
'Indeed, I don't think you have,' replied Alma, putting severe restraint upon herself to speak calmly. Thereupon she left the room.
Harvey rose to follow her. He took a step forward—stood still—returned to his chair. And they did not see each other again that night.
In the morning came a letter from Dymes. He wrote that a certain newspaper wished for an 'interview' with Mrs. Rolfe, to be published next week. Should the interviewer call upon her, and, if so, when? Moreover, an illustrated paper wanted her portrait with the least possible delay. Were her new photographs ready? If so, would she send him a dozen? Better still if he could see her today, for he had important things to speak of. Might he look for her at Mrs. Littlestone's at about four o'clock?
At breakfast Alma was chatty, but she directed her talk almost exclusively to Pauline Smith and to little Hugh, who now had his place at table—a merry, sunny-haired little fellow, dressed in a sailor suit. Harvey also talked a good deal—he, too, with Pauline and the child. When Alma rose he followed her, and asked her to come into the library for a moment.
'I'm a curmudgeon,' he began, facing her with nervous abruptness. 'Forgive me for that foolery last night, will you?'
'Of course,' Alma replied distantly.
'No, but in the same spirit, Alma. I'm an ass! I know that if you do this thing at all, you must do it in the usual way. I wish you success heartily, and I'll read with pleasure every scrap of print that praises you.'
'I'm hurrying to town, Harvey. I have to go to the photographer, and see Mr. Dymes, and all sorts of things.'
'The photographer? I hope they'll be tolerable; I know they won't do you justice. Will you sit to a painter if I arrange it? Unfortunately, I can't afford Millais, you know; but I want a good picture of you.'
'We'll talk about it,' she replied, smiling more pleasantly than of late. 'But I really haven't time now.'
'And you forgive me my idiotics?'
She nodded and was gone.
In the afternoon she met Dymes at Mrs. Littlestone's, a house of much society, for the most part theatrical. When they had moved aside for private talk, he began by asking a brusque question.
'Who got that notice for you into theWest End?'
'Why, didn't you?'
'Know nothing about it. Come, who was it?'
'I have no idea. I took it for granted——'
'Look here, Alma, I think I'm not doing badly for you, and the least you can do is to be straight with me.'
Alma raised her head with a quick, circuitous glance, then fixed her eyes on the man's heated face, and spoke in an undertone: 'Please, behave yourself, or I shall have to go away.
'Then you won't tell me? Very well. I chuck up the job. You can run the show yourself.'
Alma had never looked for delicacy in Felix Dymes, and his motives had from the first been legible to her, but this revelation of brutality went beyond anything for which she was prepared. As she saw the man move away, a feeling of helplessness and of dread overcame her anger. She could not do without him. The only other man active on her behalf was Cyrus Redgrave, and to seek Redgrave's help at such a juncture, with the explanation that must necessarily be given, would mean abandonment of her last scruple. Of course, the paragraph in theWest Endoriginated with him; since Dymes knew nothing about it, it could have no other source. Slowly, but very completely, the man of wealth and social influence had drawn his nets about her; at each meeting with him she felt more perilously compromised; her airs of command served merely to disguise defeat in the contest she had recklessly challenged. Thrown upon herself, she feared Redgrave, shrank from the thought of seeing him. Not that he had touched her heart or beguiled her senses; she hated him for his success in the calculated scheme to which she had consciously yielded step by step; but she was brought to the point of regarding him as inseparable from her ambitious hopes. Till quite recently her thought had been that, after using him to secure a successful debut, she could wave him off, perhaps tell him in plain words, with a smile of scorn, that they were quits. She now distrusted her power to stand alone. To the hostility of such a man as Dymes—certain, save at intolerable cost—she must be able to oppose a higher influence. Between Dymes and Redgrave there was no hesitating on whatever score. This advertisement in the fashionable and authoritative weekly paper surpassed Dymes's scope; his savage jealousy was sufficient proof of that. All she could do for the moment was to temporise with her ignobler master, and the humiliation of such a necessity seemed to poison her blood.
She rose, talked a little of she knew not what with she knew not whom, and moved towards the hostess, by whom her enemy was sitting. A glance sufficed. As soon as she had taken leave, Dymes followed her. He came up to her side at a few yards from the house, and they walked together, without speaking, until Alma turned into the first quiet street.
'I give you my word,' she began, 'that I know nothing whatever about that paper.'
'I believe you, and I'm sorry I made a row,' Dymes replied. 'There's no harm done. I dare say I shall be hearing more about it.'
'I have some photographs here,' said Alma, touching her sealskin bag. 'Will you take them?'
'Thanks. But there's a whole lot of things to be arranged. We can't talk here. Let's go to my rooms.'
He spoke as though nothing were more natural. Alma, the blood throbbing at her temples, saw him beckon a crawling hansom.
'I can't come—now. I have a dreadful headache.'
'You only want to be quiet. Come along.'
The hansom had pulled up. Alma, ashamed to resist under the eyes of the driver, stepped in, and her companion placed himself at her side. As soon as they drove away he caught her hand and held it tightly.
'I can't go to your rooms,' said Alma, after a useless resistance. 'My head is terrible. Tell me whatever you have to say, and then take me to Baker Street Station. I'll see you again in a day or two.'
She did not feign the headache. It had been coming on since she left home, and was now so severe that her eyes closed under the torture of the daylight.
'A little rest and you'll be all right,' said Dymes.
Five minutes more would bring them to their destination. Alma pulled away her hand violently.
'If you don't stop him, I shall.'
'You mean it? As you please. You know what I——'
Alma raised herself, drew the cabman's attention, and bade him drive to Baker Street. There was a short silence, Dymes glaring and muttering inarticulately.
'Of course, if you really have a bad headache,' he growled at length.
'Indeed I have—and you treat me very unkindly.'
'Hang it, Alma, don't speak like that! As if Icouldbe unkind to you!'
He secured her hand again, and she did not resist. Then they talked of business, settled one or two matters, appointed another meeting. As they drew near to the station, Alma spoke impulsively, with a bewildered look.
'I shouldn't wonder if I give it up, after all.'
'Rot!' was her companion's amazed exclamation.
'I might. I won't answer for it. And it would be your fault.'
Stricken with alarm, Dymes poured forth assurances of his good behaviour. He followed her down to the platform, and for a quarter of an hour she had to listen, in torment of mind and body, to remonstrances, flatteries, amorous blandishments, accompanied by the hiss of steam and the roar of trains.
On reaching home she could do nothing but lie down in the dark. Her head ached intolerably; and hour after hour, as often happens when the brain is over-wearied, a strain of music hummed incessantly on her ear, till inability to dismiss it made her cry in half-frenzied wretchedness.
With sleep she recovered; but through the next day, dull and idle, her thoughts kept such a gloomy colour that she well-nigh brought herself to the resolve with which she had threatened Felix Dymes. But for the anticipation of Harvey's triumph, she might perhaps have done so.
For several days she had not touched the violin. There was no time for it. Correspondence, engagements, intrigues, whirled her through the waking hours and agitated her repose. The newspaper paragraphs resulted in a shower of letters, inquiring, congratulating, offering good wishes, and all had to be courteously answered, lest the writers should take offence. Invitations to luncheon, to dinner, to midnight 'at homes', came thick and fast. If all this resulted from a few preliminary 'puffs' what, Alma asked herself, would be the consequence of an actual success? How did the really popular musicians contrive to get an hour a day for the serious study of their art? Her severe headache had left behind it some nervous disorder, not to be shaken off by any effort—a new distress, peculiarly irritating to one who had always enjoyed good health. When she wrote, her hand was unsteady, and sometimes her eyes dazzled. This would be alarming if it went on much longer; the day approached, the great day, the day of fate, and what hope was there for a violinist who could not steady her hand?
The 'interviewer' called, and chatted for half an hour, and took his leave with a flourish of compliments. The musicians engaged to play with her at Prince's Hall's came down to try over pieces, a trio, a duet; so that at last she was obliged to take up her instrument—with results that did not reassure her. She explained that she was not feeling quite herself; it was nothing; it would pass in a day or two. Sibyl Carnaby had asked her and Harvey to dine next week, to meet several people; Mrs. Rayner Mann had arranged a dinner for another evening; and now Mrs. Strangeways, whom she had not seen for some weeks, sent an urgent request that she would call in Porchester Terrace as soon as possible, to speak of something 'very important'.
This summons Alma durst not disregard. Between Mrs. Strangeways and Cyrus Redgrave subsisted an intimacy which caused her frequent uneasiness. It would not have surprised her to discover that this officious friend knew of all her recent meetings with Redgrave—at the Crystal Palace and elsewhere; and, but for her innocence, she would have felt herself at the woman's mercy. That she had not transgressed, and was in no danger of transgressing, enabled her to move with head erect among the things unspeakable which always seemed to her to be lurking in the shadowed corners of Mrs. Strangeways' house. The day was coming when she might hope to terminate so undesirable an acquaintance, but for the present she must show a friendly face.
She made this call at three o'clock, and was received in that over-scented, over-heated boudoir, which by its atmosphere invariably turned her thoughts to evil. The hostess rose languidly, with a pallid, hollow-eyed look of illness.
'Only my neuralgic something or other,' she said, in reply to a sympathetic inquiry. 'It's the price one pays for civilisation. I've had two terrible days and nights, but it's over for the present. But for that I should have written to you before. Why,youdon't look quite so well as usual. Be careful—do be careful!'
'I mean to be, if people will let me.'
'You have eight days, haven't you? Yes, just eight days. You ought to keep as quiet as possible. We are all doing our best; but, after all, success depends greatly upon yourself, you know.'
The voice, as always, seemed to fondle her, but Alma's ear detected the usual insincerity. Mrs. Strangeways spoke in much the same way to numbers of people, yet not quite so caressingly. Some interest she undoubtedly had to serve by this consistent display of affection, and with all but certainty Alma divined it. She shrank from the woman; it cost her an unceasing effort not to betray dislike, or even hostility.
'Of course, you saw last week'sWest End?' pursued the hostess, smiling. 'You know whose doing that was?'
'I only guessed that itmightbe Mr. Redgrave's kindness.'
'I have the same suspicion. He was here the other day—we talked about you. You haven't seen him since then?'
'No.'
'He hinted to me—just a little anxiety. I hardly know whether I ought to speak of it.'
Alma looked an interrogation as unconcerned as she could make it, but did not open her lips.
'It was with reference to—your man of business. It seems he has heard something—I really don't know what—not quite favourable to Mr. Dymes. I shall not offend you, dear?'
'I don't take offence, Mrs. Strangeways,' Alma answered, with a slight laugh to cover her uneasiness. 'It's so old-fashioned.'
The hostess uttered a thin trill of merriment.
'One is always safe with people who have humour, dear. Itdoesmake life easier, doesn't it? Oh, the terrible persons who take everything with tragic airs! Well, there's not a bit of harm in it. Between ourselves, it struck me that our friend was just a little inclined to be—yes, you understand.'
'I'm afraid I don't.'
'I hate the word—well, just a trifle jealous.'
Alma leaned back in her chair, glanced about her, and said nothing.
'Of course, he would never allowyouto suspect anything of the kind. It will make no difference. You can count upon his utmost efforts. But when one thinks how very much he has it in his power to do——. That bit of writing in theWest End, you know—only the highest influence can command that kind of thing. TheWest Endcan't be bought, I assure you. And one has to think of the future. A good beginning is much, but how many musicians are able to follow it up? My dear Alma, let me implore you not to imagine that you will be able to dispense with this kind of help.'
'Do you mean that Mr. Redgrave is likely to withdraw it?'
'Impossible for me to say, dear. I am only telling you how his conversation struck me. He appeared to think—to be apprehensive that you might in future look to Mr. Dymes rather than to him. Of course, I could say nothing—I would not venture a syllable.'
'Of course not,' Alma murmured mechanically, her eyes wandering.
'Are you likely, I wonder, to see him in the next few days?'
'I hardly know—I think not.'
'Then let me—will you?—let me contrive achancemeeting here.'
Loathing herself, and burning with hatred of the woman, in whose hands she felt powerless, Alma gave an assenting nod.
'I am sure it will be a measure of prudence, dear. I thought possibly you might be seeing him at Mrs. Carnaby's. He is there sometimes, I believe?'
Alma looked at the speaker, detecting some special significance in her inquiry. She replied that Redgrave of course called upon Mrs. Carnaby—but not often, she thought.
'No?' threw out Mrs. Strangeways. 'I fancied he was there a good deal; I don't quite know why.'
'Have you met him there?'
'No. It's quite a long time since I called—one has so many people to see.'
Alma knew that Sibyl was now holding aloof from Mrs. Strangeways, and it seemed not improbable that this had excited some ill-feeling in the latter. But her own uneasiness regarding Sibyl's relations with Redgrave, uneasiness never quite subdued; made her quick to note, and eager to explore, any seeming suspicion on that subject in another's mind. Mrs. Strangeways was a lover of scandal, a dangerous woman, unworthy of confidence in any matter whatsoever. Common prudence, to say nothing of loyalty to a friend, bade Alma keep silence; but the subtly-interrogating smile was fixed upon her; hints continued to fall upon her ear, and an evil fascination at length compelled her to speak.
'You know,' she said, as if mentioning an unimportant piece of news, 'that Mr. Redgrave has joined Mr. Carnaby in business?'
The listener's face exhibited a surprise of which there was no mistaking the sincerity. Her very features seemed to undergo a change as the smile vanished from them; they became on the instant hard and old, lined with sudden wrinkles, the muscles tense, every line expressive of fierce vigilance.
'In business?—what business?'
'Oh, I thought you would have heard of it. Perhaps Mr. Redgrave doesn't care to have it known.'
'My dear, I am discretion itself.'
Everything was told, down to the last detail of which Alma had any knowledge. As she listened and questioned, Mrs. Strangeways resumed her smiling manner, but could not regain the perfect self-command with which she had hitherto gossiped. That she attached great importance to this news was evident, and the fact of its being news to her brought fresh trouble into Alma's thoughts.
'How very interesting!' exclaimed Mrs. Strangeways at length. 'Another instance of Mr. Redgrave's kindness to his friends. Of course, it was done purely out of kindness, and that is why he doesn't speak of it. Quite amusing, isn't it, to think of him as partner in a business of that kind. I wonder whether——'
She broke off with a musing air.
'What were you wondering?' asked Alma, whose agitation increased every moment, though the seeming tendency of her companion's words was to allay every doubt.
'Oh, only whether it wasMrCarnaby who first made known his difficulties.'
'I am told so.'
'By Mrs. Carnaby? Yes, no doubt it was so. I don't think Mrs. Carnaby could quite have—I mean she is a little reserved, don't you think? She would hardly have spoken about it to—to a comparative stranger.'
'But Mr. Redgrave can't be called a stranger,' said Alma. 'They have been friends for a long time. Surely you know that.'
'Friends inthatsense? The word has such different meanings. You and Mr. Redgrave are friends, but I don't think you would care to tell him if your husband were in difficulties of that kind—would you?'
'But Sibyl—Mrs. Carnaby didn't tell him,' replied Alma, with nervous vehemence.
'No, no; we take that for granted. I don't think Mr. Carnaby is—the kind of man——'
'What kind of man?'
'I hardly know him; we have met, that's all. But I should fancy he wouldn't care to know that his wife talked about such things to Mr Redgrave or any one else. Therearemen'—her voice sank, and the persistent smile became little better than an ugly grin—'therearemen who don't mind it. One hears stories I shouldn't like to repeat to you, or even to hint at. But those are very different people from the Carnabys. Then, I suppose,' she added, with abrupt turn, 'Mr. Carnaby is very often away from home?'
Trying to reply, Alma found her voice obstructed.
'I think so.'
'How very kind of Mr. Redgrave, wasn't it! Has he spoken about it toyou?'
'Of course not.'
'Naturally, he wouldn't.—Oh, don't go yet, dear. Why, we have had no tea; it isn't four o'clock. Must you really go? Of course, you are overwhelmed with engagements. But do—do take care of your health. And remember our little scheme. If Mr. Redgrave could look in—say, the day after tomorrow? You shall hear from me in time. I feel—I really feel—that it wouldn't be wise to let him think—you understand me.'
With scarce a word of leave-taking, Alma hastened away. The air of this room was stifling her, and the low cooing voice had grown more intolerable than a clanging uproar. From Porchester Terrace she walked into Bayswater Road, her eyes on the pavement. It was a sunny afternoon, but there had been showers, and now again large spots of rain began to fall. As she was opening her umbrella, a cabman's voice appealed to her, and fixed her purpose. She bade him drive her to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions.
Sibyl was not at home. The maid-servant could not say when she might return; she had been absent since yesterday morning. Unable to restrain herself, Alma inquired whether Mr. Carnaby was in town. He was not; he had been away for several days.
On the morrow a letter from Sibyl came to Pinner. She was grieved to hear that Alma had called during her absence. Was it anything of importance, or would it keep till she and Harvey came to dine on Saturday? 'I have been down to Weymouth—not to enjoy myself, but to see my mother. Shesaysshe is very ill, and thinks it monstrous that I don't feel inclined to devote myself to the care of her. Her illness, I am sure, is nothing but discontent and bad temper, just because she feels herself dropping out of society. She must get used to it. In any case, we could never endure each other; and how can I be expected to make any sacrifice for a mother who never gave me an hour of motherly care from the day of my birth? But you know all about this, and don't want to hear of it again just when you are so busy. If there is anything in the world I can do for you, let me know at once.'
But for her conversation with Mrs. Strangeways, it would not have occurred to Alma to doubt the truth of what Sibyl wrote; as it was, she tortured herself with dark surmises. Jealousy without love, a passion scarcely intelligible to the ordinary man, is in woman common enough, and more often productive of disaster than the jealousy which originates in nobler feeling. To suspect that she was the plaything of Sibyl's subtlety, and that Redgrave smiled at her simplicity in never having discovered an obvious rival, fired her blood to the fever point. She could no longer balance probabilities; all the considerations which hitherto declared for Sibyl's innocence lost their weight. Her overexcited mind, her impaired health, were readily receptive of such poison as distilled from the lips of Mrs. Strangeways. What she now desired was proof. Only let evidence be afforded her, cost what it might! After that, she saw her way.
No! Hugh Carnaby was assuredly not one of the men who wink at their wives' dishonour, nor one of the men who go slinking for a remedy to courts of law—or she mistook him strangely.
At receipt of the expected note from Porchester Terrace—it said merely, 'Pray be here, if possible, at three tomorrow afternoon'—she quivered with anticipation of seeing Redgrave. How it was to come about, she did not ask, but Redgrave should not part from her before she had obtained light upon his relations with Sibyl. She believed herself irresistible if she chose to put forth all her power. With two men, dangerous both of them, she had played the game of her own interests, played it safely, and for a long time; she made them her instruments, mocking at their hopes, holding them at arm's-length, in spite of all their craft and their vehemence. Only a very clever woman could do this. In giddiness of self-admiration, she felt everything to be possible. Boldness was necessary—far more boldness than she had yet dared to use. The rivalry of such a woman as Sibyl could not be despised; it threatened her ambitions. But in the struggle now to be decided she had a supreme advantage; for Sibyl, having gained her object, assuredly had paid its price. Hence her pretended absorption in study, hence the revival of her friendliness; what were these things but blinds to mislead the only woman whose observation she had much reason to fear?
How astonishing it now seemed to her that she could have accepted such shallow explanations of Redgrave's partnership with Hugh Carnaby! Why, Harvey himself, least suspicious of men, was perplexed, and avowed his inability to understand it. As for Mrs. Strangeways—a woman of the world, if there was one—the fact had but to be mentioned to her, and on the moment she saw its meaning. No wonder the matter had been kept so quiet. But for the honesty of the duped husband no one at all would have heard of it.
Arriving at the house a little before her time, she found her hostess a prey to vexation.
'My dear, he can't come. It's most annoying. Only an hour ago I had a telegram—look——'
The despatch was from Coventry: 'Don't expect me. Detained on business. Redgrave.' It rustled in Alma's hand, and she had much ado to keep herself from tears of angry chagrin.
'He had promised to be here,' went on Mrs. Strangeways. 'I thought nothing would have kept him away.'
'Do you mean,' asked Alma bluntly, 'that he knew I was coming?'
'I had said that I half expected you. Don't be vexed, dear. I did so wish you to meet.'
'If he's at Coventry,' Alma continued, 'it must be onthatbusiness.'
'It seems likely. Do sit down. You still look anything but yourself. Pray, pray remember that you have only a day or two——'
'Don't worry me, please,' said Alma, with a contemptuous gesture.
She had thrown off reserve, caring only, now the first step was taken, to make all possible use of this woman whom she detested. Her voice showed the change that had been wrought in her; she addressed her hostess almost as though speaking to an inferior.
'What do you think it means, his keeping away?'
'Business, possibly. More likely—the other thing I spoke of.'
In this reply Mrs. Strangeways modified her tone, discarding mellifluous tenderness, yet not going quite so far as Alma in neglect of appearances. She was an older woman, and had learnt the injudiciousness of impulsive behaviour.
'Speak plainly—it saves time. You think he won't care to meet me at all again?'
'I don't say that. I should be very sorry indeed to think it. But—to speak as plainly as you wish, dear—I know that someone must have said unpleasant things to him about your—your friendship with Mr. Dymes.'
'Are you hinting at anyone in particular?' Alma asked, salving her self-respect with a poor affectation of haughtiness.
'Ask yourself, my dear, who is at all likely to give him such information.'
'Information?' Alma's eyes flashed. 'That's a strange word to use. Do you imagine there is any information of that kind to be given?'
'I spoke carelessly,' answered the other, smiling. 'Do sit down, dear Mrs. Rolfe. I'm sure you will overtax your strength before Tuesday. I meant nothing whatever, I assure you.'
Reluctantly Alma became seated, and the conversation was prolonged. Without disguise they debated the probability that Redgrave was being estranged from Alma by Sibyl Carnaby; of course, taking for granted Sibyl's guilt, and presuming that she feared rivalry. From time to time Alma threw out scornful assertion of her own security; she was bold to the point of cynicism, and recklessly revealed herself. The other listened attentively, still smiling, but without constraint upon her features; at moments she appeared to feel something of admiration.
'There are several things in your favour,' she remarked deliberately, when Alma had declared a resolve to triumph at all hazards. 'Above all—but one need not mention it.'
'What? I don't understand.'
'Oh, I'm sure you do! You alluded to it the other day. Some women have such tiresome husbands.'
The look which accompanied this struck Alma cold. She sat motionless, staring at the speaker.
'What do you mean? You think that my husband——?'
'I meant only to encourage you, my dear.'
'You think that my husband has less sense of honour than Mr. Carnaby?'
Mrs. Strangeways looked wonderingly at her.
'How strange you are! Could I have dreamt of saying anything so ill-mannered?'
'You implied it!' exclaimed Alma, her voice thrilling on the note of indignation. 'How dare you so insult me! Is it possible that you have such thoughts?'
Overcome by what seemed to her the humour of the situation, Mrs Strangeways frankly laughed.
'I beg your pardon a thousand times, my dear Mrs. Rolfe! I have misunderstood, I am afraid. Youarequite serious? Yes, yes, there has been a misunderstanding. Pray forgive me.'
Alma rose from her chair. 'Therehasbeen a misunderstanding. If you knew my husband—if you had once met him—such a thought could never have entered your mind. You compare him to his disadvantage with Mr Carnaby? What right have you to do that? I believe in Mr. Carnaby's honesty, and do you know why?—because he is my husband's friend. But forthat, I should suspect him.'
'My dear,' replied Mrs. Strangeways, 'you are wonderful. I prophesy great things for you. I never in my life met so interesting a woman.'
'You may be as sarcastic as you please,' Alma retorted, in a low, passionate voice. 'I suppose you believe in no one?'
'I have said, dear, that I believe inyou; and I shall think it the greatest misfortune if I lose your friendship for a mere indiscretion. Indeed, I was only trying to understand you completely.'
'You do—now.'
They did not part in hostility. Mrs. Strangeways had the best of reasons for averting this issue, at any cost to her own feelings, which for the moment had all but escaped control. Though the complications of Alma's character puzzled her exceedingly, she knew how to smooth over the trouble which had so unexpectedly arisen. Flattery was the secret of her influence with Mrs. Rolfe, and it still availed her. With ostentation of frankness, she pointed a contrast between Alma and her presumed rival. Mrs. Carnaby was the corrupt, unscrupulous woman, who shrank from nothing to gratify a base selfishness. Alma was the artist, pursuing a legitimate ambition, using, as she had a perfect right to do, all her natural resources, but pure in soul.
'Yes, I understand you at last, and I admire you more than ever. You will go far, my dear. You have great gifts, and, more than that, you have principle. It is character that tells in the long run. And depend upon me. I shall soon have news for you. Keep quiet; prepare yourself for next Tuesday. As for allthat—leave it to me.'
Scarcely had Alma left the house, when she suddenly stood still, as though she had forgotten something. Indeed she had. In the flush of loyal resentment which repelled an imputation upon her husband's honour, she had entirely lost sight of her secret grievance against Harvey. Suddenly revived, the memory helped her to beat down that assaulting shame which took advantage of reaction in mind and blood. Harvey was not honest with her. Go as far as she might, short of the unpardonable, there still remained to her a moral superiority over the man she defended. And yet—she was glad to have defended him; it gave her a sense of magnanimity. More than that, the glow of an honest thought was strangely pleasant.
She had sundry people to see and pieces of business to transact. What a nuisance that she lived so far from the centre of things! It was this perpetual travelling that had disordered her health, and made everything twice as troublesome as it need be. Today, again, she had a headache, and the scene with Mrs. Strangeways had made it worse.
In Regent Street she met Dymes. She was not afraid of him now, for she had learnt how to make him keep his distance; and after the great day, if he continued to trouble her, he might be speedily sent to the right-about. He made an inspiriting report: already a considerable number of tickets had been sold—enough, he said, or all but enough, to clear expenses.
'What, advertising and all?' asked Alma.
'Oh, leave that to me. Advertising is a work of art. If you like just to come round to my rooms, I'll——'
'Haven't time today. See you at the Hall on Monday.'
A batch of weekly newspapers which arrived next morning, Saturday, proved to her that Dymes was sufficiently active. There were more paragraphs; there were two reproductions of her portrait; and as for advertisements, she tried, with some anxiety, to conjecture the cost of these liberal slices of page, with their eye-attracting type. Naturally the same question would occur to her husband, but Harvey kept his word; whatever he thought, he said nothing. And Alma found it easier to be good-humoured with him than at any time since she had read Mary Abbott's letter; perhaps yesterday's event accounted for it.
They dined at the Carnabys', the first time for months that they had dined from home together. Harvey would have shirked the occasion, had it been possible. With great relief, he found that the guests were all absolute strangers to him, and that they represented society in its better sense, with no suggestion of the 'half-world'—no Mrs Strangeways or Mrs. Rayner Mann. Alma, equally conscious of the fact, viewed it as a calculated insult. Sibyl had brought her here to humiliate her. She entered the doors with jealous hatred boiling in her heart, and fixed her eyes on Sibyl with such fire of malicious scrutiny that the answer was a gaze of marked astonishment. But they had no opportunity for private talk. Sibyl, as hostess, bore herself with that perfect manner which no effort and no favour of circumstance would ever enable Mrs. Rolfe to imitate. Envying every speech and every movement, knowing that her own absent behaviour and forced talk must produce an unpleasant impression upon the well-bred strangers, she longed to expose the things unspeakable that lay beneath this surface of social brilliancy. What was more, she would do it when time was ripe. Only this consciousness of power to crush her enemy enabled her to bear up through the evening.
At the dinner-table she chanced to encounter Sibyl's look. She smiled. There was disquiet in that glance—furtive inquiry and apprehension.
No music. Alma would have doubted whether any of these people were aware of her claim to distinction, had not a lady who talked with her after dinner hinted, rather than announced, an intention of being present at Prince's Hall next Tuesday. None of the fuss and adulation to which she was grown accustomed; no underbred compliments; no ambiguous glances from men. It angered her to observe that Harvey did not seem at all wearied; that he conversed more naturally than usual in a mixed company, especially with the hostess. One whisper—and how would Harvey look upon his friend's wife? But the moment had not come.
She left as early as possible, parting from Sibyl as she had met her, with eyes that scarce dissembled their malignity.
When Hugh and his wife were left together, Sibyl abstained from remark on Alma; it was Carnaby who introduced the subject. 'Don't you think Mrs. Rolfe looked seedy?'
'Work and excitement,' was the quiet answer. 'I think it more than likely she will break down.'
'It's a confounded pity. Why, she has grown old all at once. She's losing her good looks. Did you notice that her eyes were a little bloodshot?'
'Yes, I noticed it. I didn't like her look at all.'
Hugh, as his custom was, paced the floor. Nowadays he could not keep still, and he had contracted an odd habit of swinging his right arm, with fist clenched, as though relieving his muscles after some unusual constraint.
'By Jove, Sibyl, when I compare her with you!—I feel sorry for Rolfe; can't help it. Why didn't you stop this silly business before it went so far?'
'That's a characteristic question, dear boy,' Sibyl replied merrily. 'There are more things in life—particularly woman's life—than your philosophy ever dreamt of. Alma has quite outgrown me, and I begin to suspect that she won't honour me with her acquaintance much longer.'
'Why?'
'For one thing, we belong to different worlds, don't you see; and the difference, in future, will be rather considerable.'
'Well, I'm sorry. Rolfe isn't half the man he was. Why on earth didn'thestop it? He hates it, anyone can see. Why, if I were in his place——'
Sibyl interrupted with her mellow laughter.
'You wouldn't be a bit wiser. It's the fate of men—except those who have the courage to beat their wives. You know you came back to England at my heels when you didn't want to. Now, a little energy, a little practice with the horsewhip——'
Carnaby made pretence of laughing. But he turned away his face; the jest had too serious an application. Yes, yes, if he had disregarded Sibyl's wishes, and stayed on the other side of the world! It seemed to him strange that she could speak of the subject so lightly; he must have been more successful than he thought in concealing his true state of mind.
'Rolfe tells me he has got a house at Gunnersbury.'
'Yes; he mentioned it to me. Why Gunnersbury? There must be some reason they don't tell us.'
'Ask his wife,' said Hugh, impatiently. 'No doubt the choice is hers.'
'No doubt. But I don't think,' added Sibyl musingly, 'I shall ask Alma that or anything else. I don't think I care much for Alma in her new development. For a time I shall try leaving her alone.'
'Well, I'm sorry for poor old Rolfe,' repeated Hugh.