Certainly the breakfast tongue, which was for the first time that
morning, was not of the pleasant reddish hue which Mrs. Altham was
justified in expecting considering that the delicacy in question was not
an ordinary tinned tongue (you had to take things as you found them, if
your false sense of economy led you to order tinned goods) but one that
came out of a fine glass receptacle with an eminent label on it. It was
more of the colour of cold mutton, unattractive if not absolutely
unpleasant to the eye, while to the palate it proved to be singularly
lacking in flavour. Altogether it was a great disappointment, and for
reason, when Mr. Altham set out at a quarter-past twelve to stroll along
to the local club in Queensgate Street with the ostensible purpose of
seeing if there was any fresh telegram about the disturbances in
Morocco, his wife accompanied him to the door of that desirable mansion,
round which was grouped a variety of chained-up dogs in various states
of boredom and irritation, and went on into the High Street in order to
make in person a justifiable complaint at her grocer’s. She would be
sorry to have to take her custom elsewhere, but if Mr. Pritchard did not
see his way to sending her another tongue (of course without further
charge) she would be obliged....
So this morning there was a special and imperative reason why Mrs.
Altham should walk out before lunch to the High Street, and why her
husband should make a morning visit to the club. But to avoid
misconception it may be stated at once that there was, on every day of
the week except Sunday, some equally compelling cause to account for
these expeditions. If it was very wet, perhaps, Mrs. Altham might not go
to the High Street, but wet or fine her husband went to his club. And
exactly the same thing happened in the case of most of their friends and
acquaintances, so that Mr. Altham was certain of meeting General
Fortescue, Mr. Brodie, Major Ames, and others in the smoking-room, while
Mrs. Altham encountered their wives and sisters on errands like her own
in the High Street. She often professed superior distaste for gossip,
but when she met her friends coming in and out of shops, it was but
civil and reasonable that she should have a few moments’ chat with them.
Thus, if any striking events had taken place since the previous
afternoon, they all learned about them. Simultaneously there was a
similar interchange of thought and tidings going on in the smoking-room
at the club, so that when Mr. Altham had drunk his glass of sherry and
returned home to lunch at one-thirty, there was probably little of
importance and interest which had not reached the ears of himself or his
wife. It could then be discussed at that meal.
Queensgate Street ran at right-angles to the High Street, debouching
into that thoroughfare at the bottom of its steep slope, while the
grocer’s shop lay at the top of it. The morning was a hot day of early
June, but to a woman of Mrs. Altham’s spare frame and active limbs, the
ascent was no more than a pleasurable exercise, and the vivid colour of
her face (so unlike the discouraging hues of the breakfast tongue) was
not the result of her exertions. It was habitually there, and though
that and the restlessness of her dark and rather beady eyes might have
made a doctor, on a cursory glance (especially if influenza was about),
think that she suffered from some slight rise of temperature, he would
have been in error. Her symptoms betokened not an unnatural warmth of
the blood, but were the visible sign of her eager and slightly impatient
mind. Like the inhabitants of ancient Athens, she was always on the
alert to hear some new thing (though she disliked gossip), but her mind
appreciated the infinitesimal more than the important. The smaller a
piece of news was, the more vivid was her perception of it, and the
firmer her grip of it: large questions produced but a vague impression
on her.
Her husband, a retired solicitor, was singularly well-adapted to be the
partner of her life, for his mind very much akin to hers, and his
appetite for news was no less rapacious. Indeed, the chief difference
between them in this respect was that she snapped at her food like a
wolf in winter, whereas he took it quietly, in the manner of a leisurely
boa-constrictor. But his capacity was in no way inferior to hers.
Similarly, they practised the same harmless hypocrisies on each other,
and politely forbore to question each other’s sincerity. An instance has
already been recorded where such lack of trust might have been
manifested, but it never entered Mrs. Altham’s head to tell her husband
just now that he cared nothing whatever about the disturbances in
Morocco, while she would have thought it very odd conduct on his part to
suggest a sharply worded note to Mr. Pritchard would save her the walk
uphill on this hot morning. But it was only sensible to go on their
quests; had they not ascertained if there was any news, they would have
had nothing to talk about at lunch. As it was, conversation never failed
them, for this little town of Riseborough was crammed with interest and
incident, for all who felt a proper concern in the affairs of other
people.
The High Street this morning was very full, for it was market-day, and
Mrs. Altham’s progress was less swift than usual. Barrows of itinerant
vendors were crowded into the road from the edge of the pavements,
leaving a straitened channel for a traffic swelled by farmers’ carts and
occasional droves of dusty and perplexed looking cattle, being driven in
from the country round. More than once Mrs. Altham had to step into the
doorway of some shop to avoid the random erring of a company of pigs or
sheep which made irruption on to the pavement. But it was interesting to
observe, in one such enforced pause, the impeded passage of Sir James
Westbourne’s motor, with the owner, broad-faced and good-humoured,
driving himself, and to conjecture as to what business brought him into
the town. Then she saw that there was his servant sitting in the body of
the car, while there were two portmanteaus on the luggage-rail behind.
There was no need for further conjecture: clearly he was coming from the
South-Eastern station at the top of the hill, and was driving out to his
place four miles distant along the Maidstone road. Then he caught sight
of somebody on the pavement whom he knew, and, stopping the car, entered
into conversation.
For the moment Mrs. Altham could not see who it was; then, as the car
moved on again, there appeared from behind it the tall figure of Dr.
Evans. Mrs. Altham was not so foolish as to suppose that their
conversation had necessarily anything to do with medical matters; she
did not fly to the conclusion that Lady Westbourne or any of the
children must certainly be ill. To a person of her mental grasp it was
sufficient to remember that Mrs. Evans was Sir James’ first cousin. She
heard also the baronet’s cheerful voice as the two parted, saying,
“Saturday the twenty-eighth, then. I’ll tell my wife.” That, of course,
settled it; it required only a moment’s employment of her power of
inference to make her feel convinced that Saturday the twenty-eighth
would be the date for Mrs. Evans’ garden-party. There were a good many
garden-parties in Riseborough about then, for strawberries might be
expected to be reasonably cheap. Probably the date had been settled only
this morning; she might look forward to receiving the “At-Home” card
(four to seven) by the afternoon post.
The residential quarters of Riseborough lay both at the top of the hill,
on which the town stood, clustering round the fine old Norman church,
and at the bottom, along Queensgate Street, which passed into the
greater spaciousness of St. Barnabas Road. On the whole, that might be
taken to be the Park Lane of the place, and commanded the highest rents;
every house there, in addition to being completely detached, had a small
front garden with a carriage drive long enough to hold three carriages
simultaneously, if each horse did not mind putting its nose within
rubbing distance of the carriage in front of it, while the foremost
projected a little into the road again. But there were good houses also
at the top of the hill, where Dr. Evans lived, and those who lived
below naturally considered themselves advantageously placed in being
sheltered from the bleak easterly winds which often prevailed in spring,
while those at the top wondered among themselves in sultry summer days
how it was possible to exist in the airless atmosphere below. The middle
section of the town was mercantile, and it was here that the ladies of
the place, both from above and below, met each other with such
invariable fortuitousness in the hours before lunch. To-day, however,
though the street was so full, it was for purposes of news-gathering
curiously deserted, and apart from the circumstance of inferentially
learning the date of Mrs. Evans’ garden-party, Mrs. Altham found nothing
to detain her until she had got to the very door of Mr. Pritchard’s
grocery. But there her prolonged fast was broken; Mrs. Taverner was
ready to give and receive, and after the business of the colourless
tongue was concluded in a manner that was perfectly creditable to Mr.
Pritchard, the two ladies retraced their steps (for Mrs. Taverner was of
St. Barnabas Road) down the hill again.
Mrs. Taverner quite agreed about the strong probability of Mrs. Evans’
garden-party being on the twenty-eighth; and proceeded to unload herself
of far more sensational information. She talked rather slowly, but
without ever stopping of her own accord, so that she got as much into a
given space of time as most people. Even if she was temporarily stopped
by an interruption, she kept her mouth open, so as to be able to proceed
at the earliest possible moment.
“Yes, three weeks, as you say, is a long notice, is it not?” she said;
“but I’m sure people are wise to give long notice, otherwise they will
find all their guests are already engaged, such a quantity of parties
as there will be this summer. Mrs. Ames has sent out dinner-cards for
exactly the same date, I am told. I daresay they agreed together to have
a day full of gaiety. Perhaps you are asked to dine there on the
twenty-eighth, Mrs. Altham?”
“No, not at present.”
“Well, then, it will be news to you,” said Mrs. Taverner, “if what I
have heard is true, and it was Mrs. Fortescue’s governess who told me,
whom I met taking one of the children to the dentist.”
“That would be Edward,” said Mrs. Altham unerringly. “I have often
noticed his teeth are most irregular: one here, another there.”
She spoke as if it was more usual for children to have all their teeth
on the same spot, but Mrs. Taverner understood.
“Very likely; indeed, I think I have noticed it myself. Well, what I
have to tell you seems very irregular, too; Edward’s teeth are nothing
to it. It was talked about, so Miss--I can never recollect her name,
and, from what I hear, I do not think Mrs. Fortescue finds her very
satisfactory--it was talked about, so Mrs. Fortescue’s governess told
me, at breakfast time, and it was agreed that General Fortescue should
accept, for if you are asked three weeks ahead it is no use saying you
are engaged. No doubt Mrs. Ames gave that long notice for that very
reason.”
“But what is it that is so irregular?” asked Mrs. Altham, nearly dancing
with impatience at these circumlocutions.
“Did I not tell you? Ah, there is Mrs. Evans; I was told she was asked
too, without her husband. How slowly she walks; I should not be
surprised if her husband had told her never to hurry. She did not see
us; otherwise we might have found out more.”
“About what?” asked the martyred Mrs. Altham.
“Why, what I am saying. Mrs. Ames has asked General Fortescue to dine
that night, without asking Mrs. Fortescue, and has asked Mrs. Evans to
dine without asking Dr. Evans. I don’t know who the rest of the party
are. I must try to find time this afternoon to call on Mrs. Ames, and
see if she lets anything drop about it. It seems very odd to ask a
husband without his wife, and a wife without her husband. And we do not
know yet whether Dr. Evans will allow his wife to go there without him.”
Mrs. Altham was suitably astounded.
“But I never heard of such a thing,” she said, “and I expect my memory
is as” (she nearly said “long,” but stopped in time) “clear and
retentive as that of most people. It seems very strange: it will look as
if General Fortescue and his wife are not on good terms, and, as far as
I know, there is no reason to suppose that. However, it is none of my
business, and I am thankful to say that I do not concern myself with
things that do not concern me. Had Mrs. Ames wanted my advice as to the
desirability of asking a husband without a wife, or a wife without a
husband, I should have been very glad to give it her. But as she has not
asked it, I must suppose that she does not want it, and I am sure I am
very thankful to keep my opinion to myself. But if she asked me what I
thought about it, I should be compelled to tell her the truth. I am very
glad to be spared any such unpleasantness. Dear me, here I am at home
again. I had no idea we had come all this way.”
Mrs. Taverner seemed inclined to linger, but the other had caught sight
of her husband’s face looking out of the window known as his study,
where he was accustomed to read the paper in the morning, and go to
sleep in the evening. This again was very irregular, for the watch on
her wrist told her that it was not yet a quarter-past one, the hour at
which he invariably ordered a glass of sherry at the club, to fortify
him for his walk home. Possibly he had heard something about this
revolutionary social scheme in the club, and had hastened his return in
order to be able to talk it over with her without delay. For a moment it
occurred to her to ask Mrs. Taverner to join them at lunch, but, after
all, she had heard what that lady had to tell, and one of the smaller
bundles of asparagus could not be considered ample for more than two. So
she checked the hospitable impulse, and hurried into his study, alert
with suppressed information, though she did not propose to let it
explode at once, for the method of them both was to let news slip out as
if accidentally. And, even as she crossed the hall, an idea for testing
the truth of what she had heard, which was both simple and ingenious,
came into her head. She despised poor Mrs. Taverner’s scheme of calling
on Mrs. Ames, in the hope of her letting something drop, for Mrs. Ames
never let things drop in that way, though she was an adept at picking
them up. Her own plan was far more effective. Also it harmonized well
with the system of mutual insincerities.
“I have been thinking, my dear,” she said briskly, as she entered his
study, “that it is time for us to be asking Major and Mrs. Ames to
dinner again. Yes: Pritchard was reasonable, and will send me another
tongue, and take back the old one, which I am sure I am quite glad that
he should do, though it would have come in for savouries very handily.
Still, he is quite within his rights, since he does not charge for it,
and I should not think of quarrelling with him because he exercises
them.”
Mr. Altham was as keen a housekeeper as his wife.
“Its colour would not have signified in a savoury,” he said.
“No, but as Pritchard supplies a new tongue without charge, we cannot
complain. About Mrs. Ames, now. We dined with them quite a month ago: I
do not want her to think we are lacking in the exchange of
hospitalities, which I am sure are so pleasant on both sides.”
Mr. Altham considered this question, caressing the side of his face.
There was no doubt that he had a short pointed beard on his chin, but
about half-way up the jawbone the hair got shorter and shorter, and he
was quite clean-shaven before it got up to his ear. It was always a
question, in fact, among the junior and less respectful members of the
club, whether old Altham had whiskers or not. The general opinion was
that he had whiskers, but was unaware of that possession.
“It is odd that the idea of asking Mrs. Ames to dinner occurred to you
to-day,” he said, “for I was wondering also whether we did not owe her
some hospitality. And Major Ames, of course,” he added.
Mrs. Altham smiled a bright detective smile.
“Next week is impossible, I know,” she said, “and so is the week after,
as there is a perfect rush of engagements then. But after that, we might
find an evening free. How would it suit you, if I asked Mrs. Ames and a
few friends to dine on the Saturday of that week? Let me count--seven,
fourteen, twenty-one, yes; on the twenty-eighth. I think that probably
Mrs. Evans will have her garden-party on that day. It would make a
pleasant ending to such an afternoon. And it would be less of an
interruption to both of us, if we give up that day. It would be better
than disarranging the week by sacrificing another evening.”
Mr. Altham rang the bell before replying.
“It is hardly likely that Major and Mrs. Ames would have an engagement
so long ahead,” he said. “I think we shall be sure to secure them.”
The bell was answered.
“A glass of sherry,” he said. “I forgot, my dear, to take my glass of
sherry at the club. Young Morton was talking to me, though I don’t know
why I call him young, and I forgot about my sherry. Yes, I should think
the twenty-eighth would be very suitable.”
Mrs. Altham waited until the parlour-maid had deposited the glass of
sherry, and had completely left the room with a shut door behind her.
“I heard a very extraordinary story to-day,” she said, “though I don’t
for a moment believe it is true. If it is, we shall find that Mrs. Ames
cannot dine with us on the twenty-eighth, but we shall have asked her
with plenty of notice, so that it will count. But one never knows how
little truth there may be in what Mrs. Taverner says, for it was Mrs.
Taverner who told me. She said that Mrs. Ames has asked General
Fortescue to dine with her that night, without asking Mrs. Fortescue,
and has invited Mrs. Evans also without her husband. One doesn’t for a
moment believe it, but if we asked Mrs. Ames for the same night we
should very likely hear about it. Was anything said at the club about
it?”
Mr. Altham affected a carelessness which he was very far from feeling.
“Young Morton did say something of the sort,” he said. “I was not
listening particularly, since, as you know, I went there to see if there
was anything to be learned about Morocco, and I get tired of his
tittle-tattle. But he did mention something of the kind. There is the
luncheon-bell, my dear. You might write your note immediately and send
it by hand, for James will be back from his dinner by now, and tell him
to wait for an answer.”
Mrs. Altham adopted this suggestion at once. She knew, of course,
perfectly well that the thrilling quality of the news had brought her
husband home without waiting to take his glass of sherry at the club, a
thing which had not happened since that morning a year ago, when he had
learned that Mrs. Fortescue had dismissed her cook without a character,
but she did not think of accusing him of duplicity. After all, it was
the amiable desire to talk these matters over with her without the loss
of a moment which was the motive at the base of his action, and so
laudable a motive covered all else. So she had her note written with
amazing speed and cordiality, and the boot-and-knife boy, who also
exercised the function of the gardener, was instructed to wash his hands
and go upon his errand.
Criticism of Mrs. Ames’ action, based on the hypothesis that the news
was true, was sufficient to afford brisk conversation until the return
of the messenger, and Mrs. Altham put back on her plate her first stick
of asparagus and tore the note open. A glance was sufficient.
“It is all quite true,” she said. “Mrs. Ames writes, ‘We are so sorry to
be obliged to refuse your kind invitation, but General Fortescue and
Millicent Evans, with a few other friends, are dining with us this
evening.’ Well, I am sure! So, after all, Mrs. Taverner was right. I
feel I owe her an apology for doubting the truth of it, and I shall slip
round after lunch to tell her that she need not call on Mrs. Ames, which
she was thinking of doing. I can save her that trouble.”
Mr. Altham considered and condemned the wisdom of this slipping round.
“That might land you in an unpleasantness, my dear,” he said. “Mrs.
Taverner might ask you how you were certain of it. You would not like to
say that you asked the Ames’ to dinner on the same night in order to
find out.”
“No, that is true. You see things very quickly, Henry. But, on the other
hand, if Mrs. Taverner does go to call, Mrs. Ames might let drop the
fact that she had received this invitation from us. I would sooner let
Mrs. Taverner know it myself than let it get to her in roundabout ways.
I will think over it; I have no doubt I shall be able to devise
something. Now about Mrs. Ames’ new departure. I must say that it seems
to me a very queer piece of work. If she is to ask you without me, and
me without you, is the other to sit at home alone for dinner? For it is
not to be expected that somebody else will on the very same night always
ask the other of us. As likely as not, if there is another invitation
for the same night, it will be for both of us, for I do not suppose that
we shall all follow Mrs. Ames’ example, and model our hospitalities on
hers.”
Mrs. Altham paused a moment to eat her asparagus, which was getting
cold.
“As a matter of fact, my dear, we do usually follow Mrs. Ames’ example,”
he said. “She may be said to be the leader of our society here.”
“And if you gave me a hundred guesses why we do follow her example,”
said Mrs. Altham rather excitedly, picking up a head of asparagus that
had fallen on her napkin, “I am sure I could not give you one answer
that you would think sensible. There are a dozen of our friends in
Riseborough who are just as well born as she is, and as many more much
better off; not that I say that money should have anything to do with
position, though you know as well as I do that you could buy their house
over their heads, Henry, and afford to keep it empty, while, all the
time, I, for one, don’t believe that they have got three hundred a year
between them over and above his pay. And as for breeding, if Mrs. Ames’
manners seem to you so worthy of copy, I can’t understand what it is you
find to admire in them, except that she walks into a room as if it all
belonged to her, and looks over everybody’s head, which is very
ridiculous, as she can’t be more than two inches over five feet, and I
doubt if she’s as much. I never have been able to see, and I do not
suppose I ever shall be able to see, why none of us can do anything in
Riseborough without asking Mrs. Ames’ leave. Perhaps it is my stupidity,
though I do not know that I am more stupid than most.”
Henry Altham felt himself to blame for this agitated harangue. It was
careless of him to have alluded to Mrs. Ames’ leadership, for if there
was a subject in this world that produced a species of frenzy and a
complete absence of full-stops in his wife, it was that. Desperately
before now had she attempted to wrest the sceptre from Mrs. Ames’ podgy
little hands, and to knock the crown off her noticeably small head. She
had given parties that were positively Lucullan in their magnificence on
her first coming to Riseborough; the regimental band (part of it, at
least) had played under the elm-tree in her garden on the occasion of a
mere afternoon-party, while at a dance she had given (a thing almost
unknown in Riseborough) there had been a cotillion in which the presents
cost up to five and sixpence each, to say nothing of the trouble. She
had given a party for children at which there was not only a
Christmas-tree, but a conjuror, and when a distinguished actor once
stayed with her, she had, instead of keeping him to herself, which was
Mrs. Ames’ plan when persons of eminence were her guests, asked
practically the whole of Riseborough to lunch, tea and dinner. To all of
these great parties she had bidden Mrs. Ames (with a view to her
deposition), and on certainly one occasion--that of the cotillion--she
had heard afterwards unimpeachable evidence to show that that lady had
remarked that she saw no reason for such display. Therefore to this day
she had occasional bursts of volcanic amazement at Mrs. Ames’ undoubted
supremacy, and made occasional frantic attempts to deprive her of her
throne. There was no method of attack which she had not employed; she
had flattered and admired Mrs. Ames openly to her face, with a view to
be permitted to share the throne; she had abused and vilified her with a
view to pulling her off it; she had refrained from asking her to her
own house for six months at a time, and for six months at a time she had
refused to accept any of Mrs. Ames’ invitations. But it was all no use;
the vilifications, so she had known for a fact, had been repeated to
Mrs. Ames, who had not taken the slightest notice of them, nor abated
one jot of her rather condescending cordiality, and in spite of Mrs.
Altham’s refusing to come to her house, had continued to send her
invitations at the usual rate of hospitality. Indeed, for the last year
or two Mrs. Altham had really given up all thought of ever deposing her,
and her husband, though on this occasion he felt himself to blame for
this convulsion, felt also that he might reasonably have supposed the
volcano to be extinct. Yet such is the disconcerting habit of these
subliminal forces; they break forth with renewed energy exactly when
persons of exactly average caution think that there is no longer any
life in them.
He hastened to repair his error, and to calm the tempest, by fulsome
agreement.
“Well, my dear,” he said, “certainly there is a great deal in what you
say, for we have no reason to suppose that everybody will ask husband
and wife singly, or that two of this new set of invitations will always
come for the same night. Then, too, there is the question of
carriage-hire, which, though it does not much matter to us, will be an
important item to others. For, every time that husband and wife dine
out, there will be two carriages needed instead of one. I wonder if Mrs.
Ames had thought of that.”
“Not she,” said Mrs. Altham, whose indignation still oozed and spurted.
“Why, as often as not, she comes on foot, with her great goloshes over
her evening shoes. Ah, I have it!”
A brilliant idea struck her, which did much to restore her equanimity.
“You may depend upon it,” she said, “that Mrs. Ames means to ask just
husband or wife, as the case may be, and make that count. That will save
her half the cost of her dinners, and now I come to think of it, I am
sure I should not be surprised to learn that they have lost money
lately. Major Ames may have been speculating, for I saw the _Financial
News_ on the table last time I was there. I daresay that is it. That
would account, too, for the very poor dinner we got. Salmon was in
season, I remember, but we only had plaice or something common, and the
ordinary winter desert, just oranges and apples. You noticed it, too,
Henry. You told me that you had claret that couldn’t have cost more than
eighteenpence a bottle, and but one glass of port afterwards. And the
dinner before that, though there was champagne, I got little but foam.
Poor thing! I declare I am sorry for her if that is the reason, and I am
convinced it is.”
Mrs. Altham felt considerably restored by this explanation, and got
briskly up.
“I think I will just run round to Mrs. Taverner’s,” she said, “to tell
her there is no need for her to call on Mrs. Ames, since you have heard
the same story at club, so that we can rest assured that it is true.
That will do famously; it will account for everything. And there is
Pritchard’s cart at the gate. That will be the tongue. I wonder if he
has told his man to take away the pale one. If not, as you say, it will
serve for savouries.”
Summer had certainly come in earnest, and Mr. Altham, when he went out
on to the shaded verandah to the east of the house, in order to smoke
his cigar before going up to the golf-links, found that the thermometer
registered eighty degrees in the shade. Consequently, before enjoying
that interval of quiescence which succeeded his meals, and to which he
felt he largely owed the serenity of his health, he went upstairs to
change his cloth coat for the light alpaca jacket which he always wore
when the weather was really hot. Last year, he remembered, he had not
put it on at all until the end of July, except that on one occasion he
wore it over his ordinary coat (for it was loosely made) taking a drive
along an extremely dusty road. But the heat to-day certainly called for
the alpaca jacket, and he settled himself in his chair (after tapping
the barometer and observing with satisfaction that the concussion
produced an upward tremor of the needle, which was at “Set Fair”
already) feeling much more cool and comfortable.
Life in general was a very cool and comfortable affair to this contented
gentleman. Even in youth he had not been of very exuberant vitality, and
he had passed through his early years without giving a moment’s anxiety
to himself or his parents. Like a good child who eats and digests what
is given him, so Mr. Altham, even in his early manhood, had accepted
life exactly as he found it, and had seldom wondered what it was all
about, or what it was made of. His emotions had been stirred when he met
his wife, and he had once tried to write a poem to her--soon desisting,
owing to the obvious scarcity of rhymes in the English language, and
since then his emotional record had been practically blank. If happiness
implies the power to want and to aspire, that quality must be denied
him, but his content was so profound that he need not be pitied for the
lack of the more effervescent emotions. All that he cared about was
abundantly his: there was the _Times_ to be read after breakfast, news
to be gleaned at the club before lunch, golf to be played in the
afternoon, and a little well-earned repose to be enjoyed before dinner,
while at odd moments he looked at the thermometer and tapped the
aneroid. He was distinctly kindly by nature, and would no doubt have
cheerfully put himself to small inconveniences in order to lighten the
troubles of others, but he hardly ever found it necessary to practise
discomfort, since those with whom he associated were sunk in precisely
the same lethargy of content as himself. Being almost completely devoid
of imagination, no qualms or questionings as to the meaning of the
dramas of life presented themselves to him, and his annual subscriptions
to the local hospital and certain parish funds connoted no more to him
than did the money he paid at the station for his railway ticket. He
was, in fact, completely characteristic of the society of Riseborough,
which largely consisted of men who had retired from their professions
and spent their days, with unimportant variations, in precisely the same
manner as he did. Necessarily they were not aware of the amazing
emptiness of their lives, for if they had been, they would probably have
found life very dull, and have tried to fill it with some sort of
interest. As it was, golf, gardening, and gossip made the days pass so
smoothly and quickly that it would really have been hazardous to attempt
to infuse any life into them, for it might have produced upset and
fermentation. But these chronicles would convey a very false impression
if they made it seem as if life at Riseborough appeared dull or empty at
Riseborough. The affairs of other people were so perennial a source of
interest that it would only be a detached or sluggish mind that was not
perpetually stimulated. And this stimulus was not of alcoholic
character, nor was it succeeded by reaction and headache after undue
indulgence. Mr. Altham woke each morning with a clean palate, so to
speak, and an appetite and digestion quite unimpaired. As yet, he had
not to seek to fill the hours of the day with gardening, like Major
Ames, or with continuous rubbers of bridge in the card-room at the club;
his days were full enough without those additional distractions, which
he secretly rather despised as signs of senility, and wondered that
Major Ames, who was still, he supposed, not much more than forty-five,
should so soon have taken to a hobby that was better fitted for ladies
and septuagenarians. It was not that he did not like flowers; he thought
them pretty enough things in their place, and was pleased when he looked
out of the bathroom window in the morning, and saw the neat row of red
geraniums which ran along the border by the wall, between calceolarias
and lobelias. Very likely when he was older, and other interests had
faded, he might take to gardening, too; at present he preferred that the
hired man should spend two days a week in superintending the operations
of James. Certainly there would be some sense in looking after a
vegetable garden, for there was an intelligible end in view
there--namely, the production of early peas and giant asparagus for the
table, but since the garden at Cambridge House was not of larger
capacity than was occupied with a croquet lawn and a couple of flower
borders, it was impossible to grow vegetables, and the production of a
new red sweet-pea, about which Major Ames had really rendered himself
tedious last summer, was quite devoid of interest to him, especially
since there were plenty of other red flowers before.
His cigar was already half-smoked before he recalled himself from this
pleasant vacancy of mind which had succeeded the summer resumal of his
alpaca jacket, and for the ten minutes that still remained to him before
the cab from the livery-stables which was to take him up the long hill
to the golf-links would be announced, he roused himself to a greater
activity of brain. It was natural that his game with Mr. Turner this
afternoon should first occupy his thoughts. He felt sure he could beat
him if only he paid a very strict attention to the game, and did not let
his mind wander. A few days ago, Mr. Turner had won merely because he
himself had been rather late in arriving at the club-house, and had
started with the sense of hurry about him. But to-day he had ordered the
cab at ten minutes to three, instead of at the hour. Thus he could both
start from here and arrive there without this feeling of fuss. Their
appointed hour was not till a quarter-past three, and it took a bare
fifteen minutes to drive up. Also he had on his alpaca jacket; he would
not, as on the last occasion of their encounter, be uncomfortably hot.
As usual, he would play his adversary for the sum of half-a-crown; that
should pay both for cab and caddie.
His thoughts took a wider range. Certainly it was a strange thing that
Mrs. Ames should ask husbands without their wives, and wives without
their husbands. Of course, to ask Mrs. Evans without the doctor was less
remarkable than to ask General Fortescue without his wife, for it
sometimes happened that Dr. Evans was sent for in the middle of dinner
to attend on a patient, and once, when he was giving a party at his own
house, he had received a note which led him to get up at once, and say
to the lady on his right, “I am afraid I must go; maternity case,” which
naturally had caused a very painful feeling of embarrassment, succeeded
by a buzz of feverish and haphazard conversation. But to ask General
Fortescue without his wife was a very different affair; it was not
possible that Mrs. Fortescue should be sent for in the middle of dinner,
and cause dislocation in the party. He felt that if any hostess except
Mrs. Ames had attempted so startling an innovation, she would, even with
her three-weeks’ notice, have received chilling refusals coupled with
frankly incredible reasons for declining. Thus with growing radius of
thought he found himself considering the case of Mrs. Ames’ undoubted
supremacy in the Riseborough world.
Most of what his wife had said in her excited harangue had been
perfectly well-founded. Mrs. Ames was not rich, and a marked parsimony
often appeared to have presided over the ordering of her dinners; while,
so far as birth was concerned, at least two other residents here were
related to baronets just as much as she was; Mrs. Evans, for instance,
was first cousin of the present Sir James Westbourne, whereas Mrs. Ames
was more distant than that from the same fortunate gentleman by one
remove. Her mother, that is to say, had been the eldest sister of the
last baronet but one, and older than he, so that beyond any question
whatever, if Mrs. Ames’ mother had been a boy, and she had been a boy
also, she would now have been a baronet herself in place of the cheerful
man who had been seen by Mrs. Altham driving his motor-car down the High
Street that morning. As for General Fortescue, he was the actual
brother of a baronet, and there was the end of the matter. But though
Riseborough in general had a very proper appreciation of the deference
due to birth, Mr. Altham felt that Mrs. Ames’ supremacy was not really
based on so wholesale a rearrangement of parents and sexes. Nor, again,
were her manners and breeding such as compelled homage; she seemed to
take her position for granted, and very seldom thanked her hostess for
“a very pleasant evening” when she went away. Nor was she remarkable for
her good looks; indeed, she was more nearly remarkable for the absence
of them. Yet, somehow, Mr. Altham could not, perhaps owing to his lack
of imagination, see anybody else, not even his own wife, occupying Mrs.
Ames’ position. There was some force about her that put her where she
was. You felt her efficiency; you guessed that should situations arise
Mrs. Ames could deal with them. She had a larger measure of reality than
the majority of Mr. Altham’s acquaintances. She did not seem to exert
herself in any way, or call attention to what she did, and yet when Mrs.
Ames called on some slightly doubtful newcomer to Riseborough, it was
certain that everybody else would call too. And one defect she had of
the most glaring nature. She appeared to take the most tepid interest
only in what every one said about everybody else. Once, not so long ago,
Mrs. Altham had shown herself more than ready to question, on the best
authority, the birth and upbringing of Mrs. Turner, the election of
whose husband to the club had caused so many members to threaten
resignation. But all Mrs. Ames had said, when it was clear that the
shadiest antecedents were filed, so to speak, for her perusal, was, “I
have always found her a very pleasant woman. She is dinning with us on
Tuesday.” Or again, when he himself was full of the praise of Mrs.
Taverner, to whom Mrs. Ames was somewhat coldly disposed--(though that
lady had called three times, and was perhaps calling again this
afternoon, Mrs. Ames had never once asked her to lunch or dine, and was
believed to have left cards without even inquiring whether she was
in)--Mrs. Ames had only answered his panegyrics by saying, “I am told
she is a very good-natured sort of woman.”
Mr. Altham, hearing the stopping of a cab at his front-door, got up. It
was still thirteen minutes to three, but he was ready to start. Indeed,
he felt that motion and distraction would be very welcome, for there had
stolen into his brain a strangely upsetting idea. It was very likely
quite baseless and ill-founded, but it did occur to him that this defect
on the part of Mrs. Ames as regards her incuriousness on the subject of
the small affairs of other people was somehow connected with her
ascendency. He had so often thought of it as a defect that it was quite
a shock to find himself wondering whether it was a quality. In any case,
it was a quality which he was glad to be without. The possession of it
would have robbed him of quite nine points of the laws that governed his
nature. He would have been obliged to cultivate a passion for gardening,
like Major Ames. Of course, if you married a woman quite ten years your
senior, you had to take to something, and it was lucky Major Ames had
not taken to drink.
* * * * *
He felt quite cynical, and lost the first four holes. Later, but too
late, he pulled himself together. But it was poor consolation to win the
bye only.