A feeling of exhilaration amounting to recklessness possessed Jane as
she put on the white serge coat and skirt sacred to the Sabbath
crocodile. Attired in it Renata, side by side with Daphne Todhunter,
had, doubtless, walked many a time to church and back. In front of her
two white serge backs, behind her more white serge, and more, and more,
and more. Jane’s head reeled. She detested this garment, but considered
it appropriate to the occasion.
They drove into Withstead across the marshes. The sun blazed, and all
the tiny marsh plants seemed to be growing and stretching themselves.
Mrs. Cottingham lived in a villa on the outskirts of the town, and was
ashamed of it. She had married kind little Dr. Cottingham, but imagined
that she had condescended in doing so. Her reasons for thinking this
were not apparent.
Jane followed Lady Heritage into the dark, rather stuffy drawing-room,
and beheld a middle-aged woman with a rigidly controlled Victorian
figure, a tightly netted grey fringe, and a brown satin dress with a
good many little gold beads upon it. She had a breathless sense of the
extraordinary way in which the room was overcrowded. Every inch of the
walls was covered with photographs, fans, engravings, and china plates.
Almost every inch of floor space was covered with small ornamental
tables crowded with knick-knacks. There was a carved screen, and an
ebonised overmantel with looking-glass panels. There was a Japanese
umbrella in the fireplace.
Jane’s eyes looked hastily into every corner. There were more things
than she had ever seen in one room before, but there was no Daphne
Todhunter. Mrs. Cottingham was shaking hands with her. She had a fat
hand and squeezed you.
“And are you Daphne’s Miss Molloy?” she said. “She was _wildly_ excited
at the prospect of meeting you, and I said at once, ‘I’ll just ring up
Luttrell Marches, and ask Lady Heritage to bring her here this
afternoon.’ I thought I _might_ do that. You see, I only happened to
mention your name this morning, and Daphne was so _excited_, and she
goes away tomorrow, so it was the only chance. So I thought I would just
ring up and ask Lady Heritage to bring you. I said to Daphne at once,
‘Lady Heritage is so kind, I’m sure she will bring Miss Molloy.’”
Jane saw Lady Heritage’s eyebrows rise very slightly. She moved a step,
and instantly Mrs. Cottingham had turned from Jane:
“Why Lady Heritage, you’re standing! Now I always say _this_ is the most
comfortable chair.”
Her voice went flowing on, but Jane suddenly ceased to hear a word she
said, for a door at the far end of the room was flung open. On the
threshold appeared Miss Daphne Todhunter.
In common with most other Daphnes, Cynthias and Ianthes, she was short
and rather heavily built. Her brown hair was untidy. She wore the twin
coat and skirt to that which was adorning Jane.
With an exclamation of rapture, she rushed across the room, dislodging a
book from one little table and an ash-tray from another.
(“Her eyes are exactly like gooseberries which have been boiled until
they are brown,” thought Jane, “and I _know_ she’s going to kiss me.”)
She not only kissed Jane, she hugged her. Two stout arms and a waft of
white rose scent enveloped Jane’s shrinking form.
After a moment in which she wondered how long this embrace would last,
Jane managed to detach herself. Mrs. Cottingham’s voice fell gratefully
upon her ears:
“Daphne, Daphne, my dear, come and speak to Lady Heritage.—She’s wildly
excited, as I told you—the natural enthusiasms of youth, dear Lady
Heritage, so beautiful, so quickly lost; I’m sure you agree with
me.—Daphne, Daphne, my dear.”
Daphne came reluctantly and thrust a large hand at Lady Heritage without
looking at her. Raymond looked at it for a moment, and, after a
perceptible pause, just touched the finger-tips. Mrs. Cottingham never
stopped talking.
“So it _is_ your friend, and you’re just too excited for words. Take her
away and have a good gossip. Lady Heritage and I have a great deal to
talk about.—You were saying....”
“I was saying,” said Lady Heritage wearily, “that you must write at once
if you want Masterson to lecture for you next winter.”
Daphne dragged Jane to the far end of the room.
“Oh, Renata, how perfectly delicious! But how did you come here? And
what are you doing, and where’s Arnold, and why aren’t you with him?”
She made a pounce at Jane’s left hand, and felt the third finger.
“Oh, where’s your ring?” she said.
“Hush!” said Jane.
They reached a sofa and sank upon it. Immediately in front of them was
an octagonal table of light-coloured wood profusely carved. Upon it,
amongst lesser portraits, stood a tall photograph of Mrs. Cottingham in
a train, and feathers, and a tiara. The sofa was low, and Jane felt that
fate had been kinder than she deserved.
“Oh, Renata, aren’t you married?” breathed Daphne.
She breathed very hard, and Jane was reminded of Arnold on the
fire-escape.
“Oh, Renata, tell me! When she ... Mrs. Cottingham said, ‘Miss Renata
Molloy,’ I nearly died. I said, ‘Miss Molloy?’ And she said, ‘Yes, Miss
Renata Molloy,’ and oh, I very nearly let the cat out of the bag.” She
grasped Jane’s hand and pressed it violently. “But I didn’t. Arnold told
me not to, and I didn’t, but, of course, I’m simply _dying_ to know all
about everything. Now, darling, tell me ... tell me everything.”
Never in her life had Jane felt so much aloof from any human creature.
There was something so inexpressibly comic in the idea of pouring out
her heart to Daphne Todhunter that she did not even feel nervous, only
aloof—aloof, and cool. She looked earnestly at Daphne, and said:
“What did Arnold tell you?”
“It was the greatest shock,” said Daphne, “and such a surprise. One
minute there he was, moving about at home, and not knowing when he would
get a job, and perfectly distracted with hopelessness about you; and the
next he rushed down to say good-bye because he was going to Bolivia, and
his heart was broken because you wouldn’t go too....” She stopped for
breath, and squeezed Jane’s hand even harder than before. “And then,”
she continued, “you can imagine what a shock it was to get the
letter-card.”
“Yes,” said Jane, “it must have been. What did it say?”
Daphne opened her eyes and her mouth.
“Didn’t he show it to you? How perfectly extraordinary of him!”
“Well, he didn’t” said Jane. “What did he say?”
“I know it by heart,” said Daphne ardently. “I could repeat every word.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake do!”
“Renata! How odd you are, not a bit like yourself!” Fear stabbed Jane.
“Tell me what he said—tell me what he said,” she repeated.
With an effort she pressed the hand that was squeezing hers.
“What, Arnold, in the letter-card? But I think it was just too weird of
him not to have shown it to you—too extraordinary.”
Jane felt that she was becoming dazed.
“What did he say?”
“I know it all by heart. I could say it in my sleep. He said, ‘Just off;
we sail together. We were married this morning, and I’m the happiest man
in the world. Don’t tell any one at present. If you love me, not a word
to a soul. Will write from Bolivia.—Arnold. P. S.—On no account tell
Aunt Ethel.’ So you see why I nearly died when she said Miss Renata
Molloy, for of course I thought you were in Bolivia with Arnold, and oh,
Renata, where is he and what has happened? Tell me everything?”
She flung her arms about Jane’s neck as she spoke and gave her a long,
clinging kiss. Jane endured it under pressure of that, “You are not a
bit like yourself.” When she had borne it for as long as she could, she
drew back.
“Listen,” she said.
“Tell me—tell me the worst—tell me everything. Where is Arnold?”
“Arnold is in Bolivia,” said Jane.
“And why aren’t you with him?”
Jane produced a pocket-handkerchief. It was a very little one, but it
sufficed. In her own mind Jane described it as local colour.
“We have parted,” she said, and dabbed her eyes.
“Renata! But you’re married to him!”
“No,” said Jane, quite truthfully.
An inward thankfulness that she was not married to Arnold supported her.
Daphne stared at her with bulging eyes.
“You’re not! But he said, ‘We were married this morning.’ I read it with
my own eyes, and I could repeat it in my sleep. I know it by heart....”
Jane checked her with a look that held so much mysterious meaning that
the flood of words was actually stemmed.
“He didn’t marry _me_,” said Jane, in a tense whisper. She looked
straight into the boiled gooseberry eyes, and then covered her own.
“He didn’t marry you?” repeated Daphne, gasping.
“No,” said Jane, from behind the handkerchief.
“But he’s married?”
“Y—yes,” said Jane.
“Oh, Renata!”
Miss Todhunter cast herself upon Jane’s neck and burst into tears. The
impact was considerable and her weight no light one.
“Daphne, please—please—Lady Heritage is looking at us. Do sit up. I
can’t tell you anything if you cry. There’s really nothing to cry
about.”
Daphne sat up again. She also produced a handkerchief, a very large one
with “Daphne” embroidered across the corner in coral pink. A terrific
blast of white rose emerged with the handkerchief.
“But he was so much in love with you,” she wailed. “I don’t understand
it. How _could_ he marry any one else and break your heart!”
“My heart is not broken,” said Jane.
“Then it was your fault, and you’ve broken his, and he’s got married
just to show he doesn’t care, like people do in books. I don’t believe
you love him a bit.”
Jane looked modestly at the carpet, which was of a lively shade of
crimson.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” she said, in a very small voice.
An unbecoming flush mounted to Daphne’s cheeks.
“I don’t know how you’ve got the face,” she said.
Much to Jane’s relief, she withdrew from her to the farthest corner of
the sofa, and then glared.
“Poor Arnold! Aunt Ethel always did say you were sly. She always said
she wouldn’t trust you a yard.” She paused, sniffed, and then added, in
what was meant for a tone of great dignity:
“And please, whom _has_ Arnold married?”
“Her—her name is Jane, I believe,” said Jane, with a tremor.
At this moment she became aware that Lady Heritage had risen to her
feet. Mrs. Cottingham’s voice clamoured for attention.
“Oh, Lady Heritage, not without your tea! It won’t be a moment. Indeed,
I couldn’t dream of letting you go like this. Just a cup of tea, you
know, so refreshing. Indeed, it would distress me to think of your
facing that long drive without your tea.”
Raymond stood perfectly still, her face weary and unresponsive.
“I am afraid my time is not my own,” she said, and crossed the room to
where the two girls were sitting. They both rose, Daphne with a jerk
that dislodged a photograph frame.
“I am afraid I must interrupt your talk,” said Lady Heritage. “Were you
living school triumphs over again? I suppose you swept off all the
prizes between you?”
If there was irony in the indifferent voice, Miss Todhunter was unaware
of it. She laughed rather loudly, and said:
“Renata never won a prize in her life.”
“Oh!” said Raymond, with a lift of the brows. “I am surprised. I
pictured her always at the head of her class, and winning everything.”
Daphne laughed again. She was still angry.
“I’m afraid she’s been putting on side,” she said. “Why, Miss Basing
would have fainted with surprise if she had found Renata anywhere near
the top of anything. Or me either,” she added, with reluctant honesty.
“Miss Molloy,” said Raymond, “ask Mrs. Cottingham if she will let Lewis
know that we are ready;” and as Jane moved away, she continued, “I
should have thought her languages now....”
Daphne’s mouth fell open.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said, “she _must_ have been piling it on. Why,
her languages were rotten, absolutely rotten. Why, Mademoiselle said
that I was enough to break her heart, but when it came to Renata it was
just, ‘Mon dieu!’ the whole time; and then there were rows because Miss
Basing thought it was profane. Only, somehow it seems different in
French—don’t you think?”
Lady Heritage looked at Daphne as though she had some difficulty in
thinking about her at all.
“I see,” she said gravely, and then Mrs. Cottingham bore down upon them.
“Tea should have been ready if I had known,” she said. Her colour had
risen, and her voice shook a little. “If I could persuade you ... I’m
sure it won’t be more than a moment. But, of course, if you must ... but
if I had only known. You see, I thought to myself we would have our talk
first, and then enjoy our tea comfortably, and indeed it is _just_
coming in—but, of course, if you are _obliged_ to go....”
“Thank you very much; I am obliged to go. Good-bye, Mrs. Cottingham.
You’ll write to Masterson and let me know what the answer is? I think I
hear the car.”
Miss Todhunter, who had embraced her friend so warmly half an hour
before, parted from her with a tepid handshake; but if neither Daphne
nor Mrs. Cottingham considered the visit a success, Lady Heritage seemed
to derive some satisfaction from it, and Jane told herself that not only
had a danger been averted, but a distinct advantage had been gained.