“Perhaps, Rollo,” said my sister (Caroline Butterfield, spinster), “you
would like to go on to your club, and call for me in an hour or so.
There will only be women, I expect.”
“Carrie,” I replied, “your consideration does you credit; but no company
that you may enter is too bad for me. I insist on accompanying you. It
is my first duty as a brother.”
Carrie laughed.
“I believe you like it, Rol,” she said. “Molly Chatterton says Loring
says you never go to a club if you can have tea with a married woman.”
“It is the one reward of a blameless reputation,” I replied; “but that
Loring Chatterton should say so is rank ingratitude, considering his own
ante-nuptial record. Rank ingratitude.”
We dismounted together at Millicent Dixon’s door, and were admitted to
the hall. Carrie gave my necktie an attentive little tug, slapped my
cheek (Carrie is justly proud of her middle-aged brother, and likes to
show him off to advantage), and preceded me into Millie Dixon’s
drawing-room. Some half-dozen ladies were engaged in the usual
five-o’clock flirtation with tea and cake, and contributing to the
feminine hum which didn’t subside in the least as we entered.
“He _would_ come, Millie,” said Caroline, after a cross-over kiss on
both cheeks, “but you can lean him up in a corner and give him some tea
to keep him quiet.”
This from my own flesh and blood!
Millie Dixon gave me a laughing nod over her shoulder, and busied
herself preparing the cup that should have the effect Carrie suggested.
I sat down, and composed myself to listen to the restful chatter that
was supposed not to interest me. Mrs. Loring Chatterton, at my side, was
rippling gently on the subject of a School of Art Needlework Exhibition,
while Carrie and Mrs. Carmichael talked Marshall and Snelgrove to Cicely
Vicars and Mrs. Julian Joyce. I have no disdain for ladies’ babble--it
is quite as entertaining as starting-price and stock-exchange gossip,
and much prettier. But I couldn’t get Chatterton’s remark out of my
mind.
“Cream or lemon, Mr. Butterfield?” called Miss Dixon from the other side
of the room.
“Yes, if you please,” I answered absently, while Miss Dixon looked a
deprecating query as to when I _should_ be sensible. I roused, and
turned to Mrs. Loring Chatterton.
“Where is Loring to-day?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied. “I told him I shouldn’t want him this
afternoon, so he said he would count the dreary hours till joy returned.
I expect he went to count them at some club.”
“Loring always was ardent,” I remarked, looking meditatively into my
cup. “I seem to remember that kind of thing from Loring before. Long
before you knew him, Mrs. Chatterton.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Butterfield?”
“Nothing, my dear Mrs. Chatterton,” I replied. “Nothing out of the way.
But you don’t suppose that Loring had the good fortune to happen on the
perfect gem without--what shall I say?--preliminary prospecting?”
Mrs. Chatterton and I are old friends. She laughed.
“Do you think you can make me inquisitive, Mr. Butterfield? I know all
about that. Why, I made Loring tell me every----”
It was my turn to laugh.
“Then there is nothing more to say,” I answered. “Loring is my
friend--he has claims upon me. He has, doubtless, given himself quite
away, and half his bachelor friends into the bargain. I think I see him
doing it. Isn’t that a pretty gown Carrie is wearing? I chose it for
her.”
“Loring told me a great deal,” said Mrs. Chatterton musingly.
“The buttons are from her grandmother’s wedding-gown.”
“And he was so clumsy and boyish,” she continued.
Words were superfluous. I smiled.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Loring went on, “I don’t think it fair. Men have half a
dozen flirtations before they are married their wives know nothing
about.”
“And women, Mrs. Chatterton?” I asked.
“_Some_ women, Mr. Butterfield, may not be scrupulous. But----”
The unfinished sentence was a _résume_ of female virtue since the days
of Penelope.
“What are you two so interested in?” cried Mrs. Carmichael from a remote
sofa. I had just caught her eye.
Mrs. Loring placed her hand beseechingly on my sleeve, but I hardened my
heart.
“We were recalling the time, Mrs. Kit,” I replied, “before your several
husbands were enticed from the liberty of bachelor life; we were
commenting on the change in them.”
“_You_ should be able to appreciate the difference, Mr. Butterfield,”
returned Mrs. Carmichael. “You are just where they left you years and
years ago.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, “I have not been able to bury my memory in the
wedding-service, nor forget my past in a honeymoon. I am still as
unregenerate as, say, Kit Carmichael was before he met you.”
“You are a great deal worse,” returned Mrs. Kit.
“You refuse a very pretty compliment, Mrs. Carmichael,” I replied.
“Yes, at Kit’s expense. It was you who made Kit as bad as he was. He
told me so.”
The perfidy of these married friends! Rol Butterfield, you have no use
for them when they sacrifice you on their nuptial altars. Their eyes
lost their singleness with their hearts, and your reputation has gone
for a kiss. Well, you have your revenge on their wives, if you care to
use it.
The spark of righteous war was kindled within me. I leaned forward, and
spoke my speech with icy distinctness.
“So I am responsible for Carmichael’s past, am I, Mrs. Kit? Listen to
me. There was not a more abandoned and desperately wicked trio in London
than Kit Carmichael--your meek brother, Miss Dixon--and Loring----”
Mrs. Chatterton endeavoured to stop me with a hot teaspoon laid on my
hand, but I still testified.
“And Loring Chatterton. Not content with steeping their own souls in
infamy, they must needs go afield, and corrupt the spotless name of
one--oh, Carrie, Carrie, what your poor brother has suffered! And now to
be told in his old--his middle--age that he did it all!”
Mrs. Kit and Cicely Vicars had put their heads together, and were
endeavouring to put aside the damning testimony in mock admiration of
the dramatic skill with which it was uttered. Cicely Vicars had best be
very careful. I was to be leaned up in a corner and given tea, was I?
“Doesn’t Mr. Butterfield look well with the light behind him?” said Mrs.
Vicars with a pretty gesture of her hand. Mrs. Vicars paints flowers,
and asks her friends what they would really like for wedding presents.
“Mr. Butterfield may have the Light behind him, Mrs. Vicars,” I replied,
“but he has no regrets for a misspent youth. Charlie Vicars wasted his
youth most shamefully. Mornings in the park, with a young lady in a pink
frock--is that not so, Mrs. Loring?”