Mrs. Ames put up her black and white sunshade as she stepped into the
hot street outside Dr. Evans’ house, about half-past six on the evening
of the twenty-eighth of June, and proceeded afoot past the half-dozen
houses that lay between it and the High Street. In appearance she was
like a small, good-looking toad in half-mourning; or, to state the
comparison with greater precision, she was small for a woman, but
good-looking for a toad. Her face had something of the sulky and
satiated expression of that harmless reptile, and her mourning was for
her brother, who had mercifully died of delirium tremens some six months
before. This scarcely respectable mode of decease did not curtail his
sister’s observance of the fact, and she was proposing to wear mourning
for another three months.
She had not seen him much of late years, and, as a matter of fact, she
thought it was much better that his inglorious career, since he was a
hopeless drunkard, had been brought to a conclusion, but her mourning,
in spite of this, was a faithful symbol of her regret. He had had the
good looks and the frailty of her family, while she was possessed of its
complementary plainness and strength, but she remembered with remarkable
poignancy, even in her fifty-fifth year, birds’-nesting expeditions with
him, and the alluring of fish in unpopulous waters. They had shared
their pocket-money together, also, as children, and she had not been
the gainer by it. Therefore she thought of him with peculiar tenderness.
It would be idle to deny that she was not interested in the Riseborough
view of his blackness. It was quite well known that he was a drunkard,
but she had stifled inquiry by stating that he had died of “failure.”
What organ it was that failed could not be inquired into: any one with
the slightest proper feeling--and she was well aware that Riseborough
had almost an apoplexy of proper feeling--would assume that it was some
organ not generally mentioned. She felt that there was no call on her to
gratify any curiosity that might happen to be rampant. She also felt
that the chief joy in the possession of a sense of humour lies in the
fact that others do not suspect it. Riseborough would certainly have
thought it very heartless of her to derive any amusement from things
however remotely connected with her brother’s death; Riseborough also
would have been incapable of crediting her with any tenderness of
memory, if it had known that he had actually died of delirium tremens.
In this stifling weather she almost envied those who, like Dr. Evans,
lived at the top of the town, where, in Castle Street, was situated the
charming Georgian house in the garden of which he for a little while
only, and his wife for three hours, had been entertaining their friends
and detractors at the garden-party. Though the house was in a “Street,”
and not a “Road,” it had a garden which anybody would expect to belong
to a “Road,” if not a “Place.” Streets seemed to imply small backyards
looking into the backs of other houses, whereas Dr. Evans’ house did
not, at its back, look on other houses at all, but extended a full
hundred yards, and then looked over the railway cutting of the
South-Eastern line, on open fields. Should you feel unkindly disposed,
it was easy to ask whether the noise of passing trains was not very
disagreeable, and indeed, Mrs. Taverner, in a moment of peevishness
arising from the fact that what she thought was champagne cup was only
hock cup, had asked that very question of Millicent Evans this afternoon
in Mrs. Ames’ hearing. But Millicent, in her most confiding and
child-like manner, had given what Mrs. Ames considered to be a wholly
admirable and suitable answer. “Indeed we do,” she had said, “and we
often envy you your beautiful big lawn.” For everybody, of course, knew
that Mrs. Taverner’s beautiful big lawn was a small piece of black earth
diversified by plantains, and overlooked and made odorous by the new
gasworks. Mrs. Taverner had, as was not unnatural, coloured up on
receipt of this silken speech, until she looked nearly as red as Mrs.
Altham. For herself, Mrs. Ames would not, even under this provocation,
have made so ill-natured a reply, though she was rather glad that
Millicent had done so, and to account for her involuntary smile, she
instantly Mrs. Altham to lunch with her next day. Indeed, walking now
down the High Street, she smiled again at the thought, and Mr.
Pritchard, standing outside his grocery store, thought she smiled at
him, and raised his hat. And Mrs. Ames rather hoped he saw how different
a sort of smile she kept on tap, so to speak, for grocers.
Mrs. Ames knew very well the manner of speeches that Mrs. Altham had
been indulging in during the last three weeks, about the little
dinner-party she was giving this evening, for she had been indiscreet
enough to give specimens of them to Millicent Evans, who had promptly
repeated them to her, and it is impossible adequately to convey how
unimportant she thought was anything that Mrs. Altham said. But the fact
that she had said so much was indirectly connected with her asking Mrs.
Altham (“and your husband, of course,” as she had rather pointedly
added) to lunch to-morrow, for she knew that Mrs. Altham would be
bursting with curiosity about the success of the new experiment, and she
intended to let her burst. She disliked Mrs. Altham, but that lady’s
hostility to herself only amused her. Of course, Mrs. Altham could not
refuse to accept her invitation, because it was a point of honour in
Riseborough that any one bidden to lunch the day after a dinner-party
must, even at moderate inconvenience, accept, for otherwise what was to
happen to the remains of salmon and of jelly too debilitated to be
served in its original shape, even though untouched, but still excellent
if eaten out of jelly-glasses? So much malice, then, must be attributed
to Mrs. Ames, that she wished to observe the febrile symptoms of Mrs.
Altham’s curiosity, and not to calm them, but rather excite them
further.
Mrs. Ames would not naturally have gone for social purposes to the house
of her doctor, had he not married Millicent, whose father was her own
first cousin, and would have been baronet himself had he been the eldest
instead of the youngest child. As it was, Dr. Evans was on a wholly
different footing from that of an ordinary physician, for by marriage
he, as she by birth, was connected with “County,” which naturally was
the crown and cream of Riseborough society. Mrs. Ames was well aware
that the profession of a doctor was a noble and self-sacrificing one,
but lines had to be drawn somewhere, and it was impossible to
contemplate visiting Dr. Holmes. A dentist’s profession was
self-sacrificing, too, but you did not dine at your dentist’s, though
his manipulations enabled you to dine with comfort and confident smiles
elsewhere. Such lines as these she drew with precision, but automatic
firmness, and the apparently strange case of Mr. Turner, whom she had
induced her husband to propose for election at the club, whom, with his
wife, she herself asked to dinner, was really no exception. For it was
not Mr. Turner who had ever been a stationer in Riseborough, but his
father, and he himself had been to a public school and a university, and
had since then purged all taint of stationery away by twenty years’
impartiality as a police magistrate in London. True, he had not changed
his name when he came back to live in Riseborough, which would have
shown a greater delicacy of mind, and the present inscription above the
stationer’s shop, “Burrows, late Turner,” was obnoxious, but Mrs. Ames
was all against the misfortunes of the fathers being visited on the
children, and Riseborough, with the exception of Mrs. Altham, had quite
accepted Mr. and Mrs. Turner, who gave remarkably good dinners, which
were quite equal to the finest efforts of the (Scotch) chef at the club.
Mrs. Altham said that the Turners had eaten their way into the heart of
Riseborough society, which sounded almost witty, until Mrs. Ames pointed
out that it was Riseborough, not the Turners, who had done the eating.
On which the wit in Mrs. Altham’s _mot_ went out like a candle in the
wind. It may, perhaps, be open to question whether Mrs. Altham’s rooted
hostility to the Turners did not predispose Mrs. Ames to accept them
before their quiet amiability disposed her to do so, for she was neither
disposed nor predisposed to like Mrs. Altham.
Mrs. Ames’ way led through Queensgate Street, and she had to hold her
black skirt rather high as she crossed the road opposite the club, for
the dust was thick. She felt it wiser also to screw her small face up
into a tight knot in order to avoid inhaling the fetid blue smoke from
an over-lubricated motor-car that very rudely dashed by just in front of
her. She did not regard motors with any favour, since there were
financial reasons, whose validity was unassailable, why she could not
keep one; indeed, partly no doubt owing to her expressed disapproval of
them, but chiefly owing to similar financial impediments, Riseborough
generally considered that hired flies were a more gentlemanly and
certainly more leisurely form of vehicular transport. Mrs. Altham, as
usual, raised a dissentient voice, and said that she and her husband
could not make up their minds between a Daimler and a Rolles-Royce. This
showed a very reasonable hesitancy, since at present they had no data
whatever with regard to either.
Mrs. Ames permitted herself one momentary glance at the bow-window of
the club, as she regained the pavement after this dusty passage, and
then swiftly looked straight in front of her again, since it was not
quite _quite_ to look in at the window of a man’s club. But she had seen
several things: her husband was standing there with face contorted by
the imminent approach of a sneeze, which showed that his hayfever was
not yet over, as he hoped it might be. There was General Fortescue with
a large cigar in his mouth, and a glass, probably of sherry, in his
hand; there was also the top of a bald head peering over the geraniums
in the window like a pink full moon. That no doubt was Mr. Turner (for
no one was quite so bald as he), enjoying the privilege which she had
been instrumental in securing for him. Then Mrs. Altham passed her
driving, and Mrs. Ames waved and kissed her black-gloved hand to her,
thinking how very angular curiosity made people, while Mrs. Altham waved
back thinking that it was no use trying to look important if you were
only five foot two, so that honours were about divided. Finally, just
before she turned into her own gate, she saw coming along the road,
walking very fast, as his custom was, the man she respected and even
revered more than any one in Riseborough. She would have liked to wave
her hand to him too, only the Reverend Thomas Pettit would certainly
have thought such a proceeding to be very odd conduct. He was county
too--very much county, although a clergyman--being the son of that
wealthy and distressing peer, Lord Evesham, who occasionally came into
Riseborough on county business. On these occasions he lunched at the
club, instead of going to his son’s house, but did not eat the club
lunch, preferring to devour in the smoking-room, like an ogre with false
teeth, sandwiches which seemed to be made of fish in their decline. Mrs.
Ames, who could not be called a religious woman, but was certainly very
high church, was the most notable of Mr. Pettit’s admirers, and, indeed,
had set quite a fashion in going to the services at St. Barnabas’,
which were copiously embellished by banners, vestments and incense.
Indeed, she went there in adoration of him as much as for any other
reason, for he seemed to her to be a perfect apostle. He was rich, and
gave far more than half his goods to feed the poor; he was eloquent, and
(she would not have used so common a phrase) let them all “have it” from
his pulpit, and she was sure he was rapidly wearing himself out with
work. And how thrilling it would be to address her rather frequent notes
to him with the title ‘The Reverend The Lord Evesham!’... She gave a
heavy sigh, and decided to flutter her podgy hand in his direction for a
greeting as she turned into her gate.
* * * * *
The little dinner which had so agitated Riseborough for the last three
weeks gave Mrs. Ames no qualms at all. Whatever happened at her house
was right, and she never had any reason to wonder, like minor
dinner-givers, if things would go off well, since she and no other was
responsible for the feast; it was Mrs. Ames’ dinner party. It was
summoned for a quarter to eight, and at half-past ten somebody’s
carriage would be announced, and she would say, “I hope nobody is
thinking of going away yet,” in consequence of which everybody would go
away at twenty minutes to eleven instead. If anybody expected to play
cards or smoke in the drawing-room, he would be disappointed, because
these diversions did not form part of the curriculum. The gentlemen had
one cigarette in the dining-room after their wine and with their coffee:
then they followed the ladies and indulged in the pleasures of
conversation. Mrs. Ames always sat in a chair by the window, and always
as the clock struck ten she re-sorted her conversationalists. That was
(without disrespect) a parlour-trick of the most supreme and
unfathomable kind. There was always some natural reason why she should
get up, and quite as naturally two or three people got up too. Then a
sort of involuntary general post took place. Mrs. Ames annexed the seat
of the risen woman whose partner she intended to talk to, and instantly
said, “Do tell me, because I am so much interested ...” upon which her
new partner sat down again. The ejected female then wandered
disconsolately forward till she found herself talking to some man who
had also got up. Therefore they sat down again together. But no one in
Riseborough could do the trick as Mrs. Ames could do it. Mrs. Altham had
often tried, and her efforts always ended in everybody sitting down
again exactly where they had been before, after standing for a moment as
if an inaudible grace was being said. But Mrs. Ames, though not socially
jealous (for, being the queen of Riseborough society, she had nobody to
be jealous of), was a little prone to spoil this parlour-trick when she
was dining at other houses, by suddenly developing an earnest
conversation with her already existing partner, when she saw that her
hostess contemplated a copy of her famous manœuvre. Yet, after all, she
was within her rights, for the parlour-trick was her own patent, and it
was quite proper to thwart the attempted infringement of it.
Having waggled her hand in the direction of Mr. Pettit, she went
straight to the dining-room, where the dinner-table was being laid.
There was to be a company of eight to-night, and accordingly she took
three little cardboard slips from the top left-hand drawer of her
writing-table, on each of which was printed--
PLEASE TAKE IN
. . . . . . . . . . . .
TO DINNER.
These were presented in the hall to the men before dinner (it was
unnecessary to write one for her husband), each folded, with the name of
the guest in question being written on the back, while the name of the
woman he was to take in filled the second line. Thus there were no
separate and hurried communications to be made in the drawing-room, as
everything was arranged already. This was not so original as the other
parlour-trick, but at present nobody else in Riseborough had attempted
it. Then out of the same drawer she took--what she took requires a fresh
paragraph.
Printed Menu-cards. There were a dozen packets of them, each packet
advertising a different dinner: an astounding device, requiring
enlargement of explanation. She discovered them by chance in the
Military Stores in London, selected a dozen packets containing fifty
copies each, and kept the secret to herself. The parlour-maids had
orders to tweak them away as soon as the last course was served, so that
no menu-collector, if there was such retrospective glutton in
Riseborough, could appropriate them, and thus, perhaps, ultimately get a
clue which might lead him to the solution. For by a portent of ill-luck,
it might then conceivably happen that a certain guest would find
himself bidden for the third or fourth time to eat precisely the same
dinner as his odious collection told him that he had eaten six months
before. But the tweaking parlour-maids obviated that risk, and if the
menu-cards were still absolutely “unsoiled,” Mrs. Ames used them again.
There was one very sumptuous dinner among the twelve, there were nine
dinners good enough for anybody, there were two dinners that might be
described as “poor.” It was one of these, probably, which Mrs. Altham
had in her mind when she was so ruthless in respect to Mrs. Ames’ food.
But, poor or sumptuous, it appeared to the innocent Riseborough world
that Mrs. Ames had her menu-cards printed as required; that, having
constructed her dinner, she sent round a copy of it to the printer’s to
be set up in type. Probably she corrected the proofs also. She never
called attention to these menus, and seemed to take them as a matter of
course. Mrs. Altham had once directly questioned her about them, asking
if they were not a great expense. But Mrs. Ames had only shifted a
bracelet on her wrist and said, “I am accustomed to use them.”
Mrs. Ames took four copies of one of these dinners which were good
enough for anybody, and propped them up, two on each of the long sides
of the table. Naturally, she did not want one herself, and her husband,
also naturally, sometimes said, “What are you going to give us to-night,
Amy?” In which case one of them was passed to him. But he had a good
retentive memory with regard to food, and with a little effort he could
remember what the rest of the dinner was going to be, when the nature of
the soup had given him his cue. Occasionally he criticized, saying in
his hearty voice (this would be in the autumn or winter), “What, what?
Partridge again? _Perdrix repetita_, isn’t it, General, if you haven’t
forgotten your Latin.” And Amy from the other end of the table replied,
“Well, Lyndhurst, we must eat the game our friends are so kind as to
send us.” And yet Mrs. Altham declared that she had seen partridges from
the poulterers delivered at Mrs. Ames’ house! “But they are getting
cheap now,” she added to her husband, “particularly the old birds. I got
a leg, Henry, and the bird must have roosted on it for years before Mrs.
Ames’ friends were so kind as to send it her.”
So Mrs. Ames propped up the printed menu-cards, and spoke a humorous
word to her first parlour-maid.
“I have often told you, Parker, to wear gloves when you are putting out
the silver. I am not a detective: I am not wanting to trace you by your
finger-prints.”
Parker giggled discreetly. Somehow, Mrs. Ames’ servants adored their
rather exacting mistress, and stopped with her for years. They did not
get very high wages, and a great deal was required of them, but Mrs.
Ames treated them like human beings and not like machines. It may have
been only because they were so far removed from her socially; but it may
have been that there was some essential and innate kindliness in her
that shut up like a parasol when she had to deal with such foolish and
trying folk as Mrs. Altham. Mrs. Altham, indeed, had tried to entice
Parker away with a substantial rise in wages, and the prospect of less
arduous service. But that admirable serving-maid had declined to be
tempted. Also, she had reported the occurrence to her mistress. It only
confirmed what Mrs. Ames already thought of the temptress. She did not
add any further black mark.
The table at present was devoid of any floral decoration, but that was
no part of Mrs. Ames’ province. Her husband, that premature gardener,
was responsible for flowers and wine when Mrs. Ames gave a party, and
always returned home half-an-hour earlier, to pick such of his treasures
as looked as if they would begin to go off to-morrow, and make a
subterranean excursion with a taper and the wine book to his cellar. In
the domestic economy of the house he paid the rent, the rates and taxes,
the upkeep of the garden, the wine bills, and the cost of their annual
summer holiday, while Mrs. Ames’ budget was responsible for coal,
electric light, servants’ wages, and catering bills. Arising out of this
arrangement there occasionally arose clouds (though no bigger than Mrs.
Ames’ own hand) that flecked the brightness of their domestic serenity.
Occasionally--not often--Mrs. Ames would be pungent about the
possibility of putting out the electric light on leaving a room,
occasionally her husband had sent for his coat at lunch-time, to
supplement the heat given out on a too parsimonious hearth. But such
clouds were never seen by other eyes than theirs: the presence of guests
led Major Ames to speak of the excellence of his wife’s cook and say,
“‘Pon my word, I never taste better cooking than what I get at home,”
and suggested to his wife to say to Mrs. Fortescue, “My husband so much
enjoys having the General to dinner, for he knows a glass of good wine.”
She might with truth have said that he knew a good many glasses.
Finally, the two shared in equal proportions the upkeep of a rather
weird youth who was the only offspring of their marriage, and was
mistakenly called Harry, for the name was singularly ill-suited to him.
He had lank hair, protuberant eyes, and a tendency to write poetry. Just
now he was at home from Cambridge, and had rather agitated his mother
that afternoon by approaching her dreamily at the garden-party and
saying, “Mother, Mrs. Evans is the most wonderful creature I ever saw!”
That seemed to her so wild an exaggeration as to be quite senseless, and
to portend poetry. Harry made his father uncomfortable, too, by walking
about with some quite common rose in his hand, and pretending that the
scent of it was meat and drink to him. Also he had queer notions about
vegetarianism, and said that a hunch of brown bread, a plate of beans,
and a lump of cheese, contained more nourishment than quantities of
mutton chops. But though not much of a hand at victuals, he found
inspiration in what he called “yellow wine,” and he and a few similarly
minded friends belonged to a secret Omar Khayyam Club at Cambridge, the
proceedings of which were carried on behind locked doors, not for fear
of the Jews, but of the Philistines. A large glass salad-bowl filled
with yellow wine and sprinkled with rose-leaves was the inspirer of
these mild orgies, and each Omarite had to write and read a short poem
during the course of the evening. It was a point of honour among members
always to be madly in love with some usually unconscious lady, and
paroxysms of passion were punctuated by Byronic cynicism. Just now it
seemed likely that Mrs. Evans would soon be the fount of aspiration and
despair. That would create quite a sensation at the next meeting of the
Omar Club: nobody before had been quite so daring as to fall in love
with a married woman. But no doubt that phenomenon has occurred in the
history of human passion, so why should it not occur to an Omarite?
* * * * *
The wine at Mrs. Ames’ parties was arranged by her husband on a scale
that corresponded with the food. At either of the two “poor” dinners,
for instance, a glass of Marsala was accorded with the soup, a light
(though wholesome) claret moistened the rest of the meal, and a single
glass of port was offered at dessert. The course of the nine dinners
good enough for anybody was enlivened by the substitution of sherry for
Marsala, champagne for claret, and liqueurs presented with coffee, while
on the much rarer occasions of the one sumptuous dinner (which always
included an ice) liqueur made its first appearance with the ice, and a
glass of hock partnered the fish. To-night, therefore, sherry was on
offer, and when, the dinner being fairly launched, Mrs. Ames took her
first disengaged look round, she observed with some little annoyance,
justifiable, even laudable, in a hostess, that Harry was talking in the
wrong direction. In fact, he was devoting his attention to Mrs. Evans,
who sat between him and his father, instead of entertaining Elsie, her
daughter, whom he had taken in, and who now sat isolated and silent,
since General Fortescue, who was on her other side, was naturally
conversing with his hostess. Certainly it was rubbish to call Mrs. Evans
a most wonderful creature; there was nothing wonderful about her. She
was fair, with pretty yellow hair (an enthusiast might have called it
golden), she had small regular features, and that look of distinction
which Mrs. Ames (drawing herself up a little as she thought of it)
considered to be inseparable from any in whose veins ran the renowned
Westbourne blood. She had also that slim, tall figure which, though
characteristic of the same race, was unfortunately not quite inseparable
from its members, for no amount of drawing herself up would have
conferred it on Mrs. Ames, and Harry took after her in this respect.
Dr. Evans had not long been settled in Riseborough--indeed, it was only
last winter that he had bought his practice here, and taken the
delightful house in which his wife had given so populous a garden-party
that afternoon. Their coming, as advertised by Mrs. Ames, had been
looked forward to with a high degree of expectancy, since a fresh tenant
for the Red House, especially when he was known to be a man of wealth
(though only a doctor), was naturally supposed to connote a new and
exclusive entertainer, while his wife’s relationship to Sir James
Westbourne made a fresh link between the “town” and the “county.”
Hitherto, Mrs. Ames had been the chief link, and though without doubt
she was a genuine one (her mother being a Westbourne), she had been a
little disappointing in this regard, as she barely knew the present head
of the family, and was apt to talk about old days rather than glorify
the present ones by exhibitions of the family to which she belonged. But
it was hoped that with the advent of Mrs. Evans a more living intimacy
would be established.
Mrs. Evans was the fortunate possessor of that type of looks which wears
well, and it was difficult to believe that Elsie, with her eighteen
years and elderly manner, was her daughter. She was possessed of that
unemotional temperament which causes the years to leave only the
faintest traces of their passage, and they had graven on her face but
little record of joys and sorrows. Her mouth still possessed the
softness of a girl’s, and her eyes, large and blue, had something of the
shy, unconscious wonder of childhood in their azure. To judge by
appearances (which we shall all continue to do until the end of time,
though we have made proverbs to warn us against the fallibility of such
conclusions), she must have had the tender and innocent nature of a
child, and though Mrs. Ames saw nothing wonderful about her, it was
really remarkable that a woman could look so much and mean so little.
She did not talk herself with either depth or volume, but she had, so to
speak, a deep and voluminous way of listening which was immensely
attractive. She made the man who was talking to her feel himself to be
interesting (a thing always pleasant to the vainer sex), and in
consequence he generally became interested. To fire the word “flirt” at
her, point-blank, would have been a brutality that would have astounded
her--nor, indeed, was she accustomed to use the somewhat obvious arts
which we associate with those practitioners, but it is true that without
effort she often established relations of intimacy with other people
without any giving of herself in return. Both men and women were
accustomed to take her into their confidence; it was so easy to tell her
of private affairs, and her eyes, so wide and eager and sympathetic,
gave an extraordinary tenderness to her commonplace replies, which
accurately, by themselves, reflected her dull and unemotional mind. She
possessed, in fact, as unemotional but comely people do, the
potentiality of making a great deal of mischief without exactly meaning
it, and it would be safe to predict that, the mischief being made, she
would quite certainly acquit herself of any intention of having made it.
It would be rash, of course, to assert that no breeze would ever stir
the pearly sleeping sea of her temperament: all that can be said is that
it had not been stirred yet.
Mrs. Ames could not permit Elsie’s isolation to continue, and she said
firmly to Harry, “Tell Miss Evans all about Cambridge,” which
straightened conversation out again, and allowed Mrs. Evans to direct
all her glances and little sentences to Major Ames. As was usual with
men who had the privilege of talking to her, he soon felt himself a
vivid conversationalist.
“Yes, gardening was always a hobby of mine,” he was saying, “and in the
regiment they used to call me Adam. The grand old gardener, you know, as
Tennyson says. Not that there was ever anything grand about me.”
Mrs. Evans’ mouth quivered into a little smile.
“Nor old, either, Major Ames,” she said.
Major Ames put down the glass of champagne he had just sipped, in order
to give his loud, hearty laugh.
“Well, well,” he said, “I’m pretty vigorous yet, and can pull the heavy
garden roller as well as a couple of gardeners could. I never have a
gardener more than a couple of days a week. I do all the work myself.
Capital exercise, rolling the lawn, and then I take a rest with a bit of
weeding, or picking a bunch of flowers for Amy’s table. Weeding, too--
‘An hour’s weeding a day
Keeps the doctor away.’
I defy you to get lumbago if you do a bit of weeding every morning.”
Again a little shy smile quivered on Millie Evans’ mouth.
“I shall tell my husband,” she said. “I shall say you told me you spend
an hour a day in weeding, so that you shouldn’t ever set eyes on him.
And then you make poetry about it afterwards.”
Again he laughed.
“Well, now, I call that downright wicked of you,” he said, “twisting my
words about in that way. General, I want your opinion about that glass
of champagne. It’s a ’96 wine, and wants drinking.”
The General applied his fish-like mouth to his glass.
“Wants drinking, does it?” he said. “Well, it’ll get it from me.
Delicious! Goo’ dry wine.”
Major Ames turned to Millie Evans again.
“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Evans,” he said, “but General Fortescue likes to
know what’s before him. Yes, downright wicked of you! I’m sure I wish
Amy had asked Dr. Evans to-night, but there--you know what Amy is. She’s
got a notion that it will make a pleasanter dinner-table not to ask
husband and wife always together. She says it’s done a great deal in
London now. But they can’t put on to their tables in London such
sweet-peas as I grow here in my bit of a garden. Look at those in front
of you. Black Michaels, they are. Look at the size of them. Did you ever
see such sweet-peas? I wonder what Amy is going to give us for dinner
to-night. Bit of lamb next, is it? and a quail to follow. Hope you’ll
go Nap, Mrs. Evans; I must say Amy has a famous cook. And what do you
think of us all down at Riseborough, now you’ve had time to settle down
and look about you? I daresay you and your husband say some sharp things
about us, hey? Find us very stick-in-the-mud after London?”
She gave him one of those shy little deprecating glances that made him
involuntarily feel that he was a most agreeable companion.
“Ah, you are being wicked now!” she said. “Every one is delightful. So
kind, so hospitable. Now, Major Ames, do tell me more about your
flowers. Black Michaels, you said those were. I must go in for
gardening, and will you begin to teach me a little? Why is it that your
flowers are so much more beautiful than anybody’s? At least, I needn’t
ask: it must be because you understand them better than anybody.”
Major Ames felt that this was an uncommonly agreeable woman, and for
half a second contrasted her pleasant eagerness to hear about his garden
with his wife’s complete indifference to it. She liked flowers on the
table, but she scarcely knew a hollyhock from a geranium.
“Well, well,” he said; “I don’t say that my flowers, which you are so
polite as to praise, don’t owe something to my care. Rain or fine, I
don’t suppose I spend less than an average of four hours a day among
them, year in, year out. And that’s better, isn’t it, than sitting at
the club, listening to all the gossip and tittle-tattle of the place?”
“Ah, you are like me,” she said. “I hate gossip. It is so dull.
Gardening is so much more interesting.”
He laughed again.
“Well, as I tell Amy,” he said, “if our friends come here expecting to
hear all the tittle-tattle of the place, they will be in for a
disappointment. Amy and I like to give our friends a hearty welcome and
a good dinner, and pleasant conversation about really interesting
things. I know little about the gossip of the town; you would find me
strangely ignorant if you wanted to talk about it. But politics now--one
of those beastly Radical members of Parliament lunched with us only the
week before last, and I assure you that Amy asked him some questions he
found it hard to answer. In fact, he didn’t answer them: he begged the
question, begged the question. There was one, I remember, which just
bowled him out. She said, ‘What is to happen to the parks of the landed
gentry, if you take them away from the owners?’ Well, that bowled him
out, as they say in cricket. Look at Sir James’s place, for instance,
your cousin’s place, Amy’s cousin’s place. Will they plant a row of
villas along the garden terrace? And who is to live in them if they do?
Grant that Lloyd George--she said that--grant that Lloyd George wants a
villa there, that will be one villa. But the terrace there will hold a
dozen villas. Who will take the rest of them? She asked him that. They
take away all our property, and then expect us to build houses on other
people’s! Don’t talk to me!”
The concluding sentence was not intended to put a stop on this pleasant
conversation; it was only the natural ejaculation of one connected with
landed proprietors. Mrs. Evans understood it in that sense.
“Do tell me all about it,” she said. “Of course, I am only a woman, and
we are supposed to have no brains, are we not? and to be able to
understand nothing about politics. But will they really take my cousin
James’s place away from him? I think Radicals must be wicked.”
“More fools than knaves, I always say,” said Major Ames magnanimously.
“They are deluded, like the poor Suffragettes. Suffragettes now! A
woman’s sphere of influence lies in her home. Women are the queens of
the earth; I’ve often said that, and what do queens want with votes?
Would Amy have any more influence in Riseborough if she had a vote? Not
a bit of it. Well, then, why go about smacking the faces of policemen
and chaining yourself to a railing? If I had my way----”
Major Ames became of lower voice and greater confidence.
“Amy doesn’t wholly agree with me,” he said; “and it’s a pleasure to
thrash the matter out with somebody like yourself, who has sensible
views on the subject. What use are women in politics? None at all, as
you just said. It’s for women to rock the cradle, and rule the world. I
say, and I have always said, that to give them a vote would be to wreck
their influence, God bless them. But Amy doesn’t agree with me. I say
that I will vote--she’s a Conservative, of course, and so am I--I will
vote as she wishes me to. But she says it’s the principle of the thing,
not the practice. But what she calls principle, I call want of
principle. Home: that’s the woman’s sphere.”
Mrs. Evans gave a little sigh.
“I never heard it so beautifully expressed,” she said. “Major Ames, why
don’t you go in for politics?”
Major Ames felt himself flattered; he felt also that he deserved the
flattery. Hence, to him now, it ceased to be flattery, and became a
tribute. He became more confidential, and vastly more vapid.
“My dear lady,” he said, “politics is a dirty business now-a-days. We
can serve our cause best by living a quiet and dignified life, without
ostentation, as you see, but by being gentlemen. It is the silent
protest against these socialistic ideas that will tell in the long run.
What should I do at Westminster? Upon my soul, if I found myself sitting
opposite those Radical louts, it would take me all my time to keep my
temper. No, no; let me attend to my garden, and give my friends
good dinners,--bless my soul, Amy is letting us have an ice
to-night--strawberry ice, I expect; that was why she asked me whether
there were plenty of strawberries. _Glace de fraises_; she likes her
menu-cards printed in French, though I am sure ‘strawberry ice’ would
tell us all we wanted to know. What’s in a name after all?”
Conversation had already shifted, and Major Ames turned swiftly to a
dry-skinned Mrs. Brooks who sat on his left. She was a sad high-church
widow who embroidered a great deal. Her dress was outlined with her own
embroideries, so, too, were many altar-cloths at the church of St.
Barnabas. She and Mrs. Ames had a sort of religious rivalry over its
decoration; the one arranged the copious white lilies that crowned the
cloth made by the other. Their rivalry was not without silent jealousy,
and it was already quite well known that Mrs. Brooks had said that
lilies of the valley were quite as suitable as Madonna lilies, which
shed a nasty yellow pollen on the altar-cloth. But Madonna lilies were
larger; a decoration required fewer “blooms.” In other moods also she
was slightly acid.
Mrs. Evans turned slowly to her right, where Harry was sitting. She
might almost be supposed to know that she had a lovely neck, at least it
was hard to think that she had lived with it for thirty-seven years in
complete unconsciousness of it. If she moved her head very quickly,
there was just a suspicion of loose skin about it. But she did not move
her head very quickly.
“And now let us go on talking,” she said. “Have you told my little girl
all about Cambridge? Tell me all about Cambridge too. What fun you must
have! A lot of young men together, with no stupid women and girls to
bother them. Do you play a great deal of lawn-tennis?”
Harry reconsidered for a moment his verdict concerning the wonderfulness
of her. It was hardly happy to talk to a member of the Omar Club about
games and the advantages of having no girls about.
“No; I don’t play games much,” he said. “The set I am in don’t care for
them.”
She tilted her head a little back, as if asking pardon for her
ignorance.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I thought perhaps you liked games--football,
racquets, all that kind of thing. I am sure you could play them
beautifully if you chose. Or perhaps you like gardening? I had such a
nice talk to your father about flowers. What a lot he knows about them!”
Flowers were better than games, anyhow; Harry put down his spoon without
finishing his ice.
“Have you ever noticed what a wonderful colour _La France_ roses turn at
twilight?” he asked. “All the shadows between the petals become blue,
quite blue.”
“Do they really? You must show me sometime. Are there some in your
garden here?”
“Yes, but father doesn’t care about them so much because they are
common. I think that is so strange of him. Sunsets are common, too,
aren’t they? There is a sunset every day. But the fact that a thing is
common doesn’t make it less beautiful.”
She gave a little sigh.
“But what a nice idea,” she said. “I am sure you thought of it. Do you
talk about these things much at Cambridge?”
Mrs. Ames began to collect ladies’ eyes at this moment, and the
conversation had to be suspended. Millie Evans, though she was rather
taller than Harry, managed, as she passed him on the way to the door, to
convey the impression of looking up at him.
“You must tell me all about it,” she said. “And show me those delicious
roses turning blue at twilight.”
Dinner had been at a quarter to eight, and when the men joined the women
again in the drawing-room, light still lingered in the midsummer sky.
Then Harry, greatly daring, since such a procedure was utterly contrary
to all established precedents, persuaded Mrs. Evans to come out into the
garden, and observe for herself the chameleonic properties of the roses.
Then he had ventured on another violation of rule, since all rights of
flower-picking were vested in his father, and had plucked her
half-a-dozen of them. But on their return with the booty, and the
establishment of the blue theory, his father, so far from resenting this
invasions of his privileges, had merely said--
“The rascal might have found you something choicer than that, Mrs.
Evans. But we’ll see what we can find you to-morrow.”
She had again seemed to look up at Harry.
“Nothing can be lovelier than my beautiful roses,” she said. “But it is
sweet of you to think of sending me some more. Cousin Amy, look at the
roses Mr. Harry has given me.”
Carriages arrived as usual that night at half-past ten, at which hour,
too, a gaunt, grenadier-like maid of certain age, rapped loudly on the
front door, and demanded Mrs. Brooks, whom she was to protect on her way
home, and as usual carriages and the grenadier waited till twenty
minutes to eleven. But even at a quarter to, no conveyance, by some
mischance, had come for Mrs. Evans, and despite her protests, Major Ames
insisted on escorting her and Elsie back to her house. Occasionally,
when such mistakes occurred, it had been Harry’s duty to see home the
uncarriaged, but to-night, when it would have been his pleasure, the
privilege was denied him. So, instead, after saying good-night to his
mother, he went swiftly to his room, there to write a mysterious letter
to a member of the Omar Club, and compose a short poem, which should,
however unworthily, commemorate this amorous evening.
There is nothing in the world more rightly sacred than the first
dawnings of love in a young man, but, on the other hand, there is
nothing more ludicrous if his emotions are inspired, or even tinged, by
self-consciousness and the sense of how fine a young spark he is. And
our unfortunate Harry was charged with this absurdity; all through the
evening it had been present to his mind, how dashing and Byronic a tale
this would prove at the next meeting of the Omar Khayyam Club; with what
fine frenzy he would throw off, in his hour of inspiration after the
yellow wine, the little heart-wail which he was now about to compose, as
soon as his letter to Gerald Everett was written. And lest it should
seem unwarrantable to intrude in the spirit of ridicule on a young man’s
rapture and despair, an extract from his letter should give solid
justification.
“Of course, I can’t give names,” he said, “because you know how such
things get about; but, my God, Gerald, how wonderful she is. I saw her
this afternoon for the first time, and she dined with us to-night. She
understands everything--whatever I said, I saw reflected in her eyes, as
the sky is reflected in still water. After dinner I took her out into
the garden, and showed her how the shadows of the _La France_ roses turn
blue at dusk. I quoted to her two lines--
‘O, thou art fairer than the evening air,
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.’
And I _think_ she saw that I quoted _at_ her. Of course, she turned it
off, and said, ‘What pretty lines!’ but I think she saw. And she carried
my roses home. Lucky roses!
“Gerald, I am miserable! I haven’t told you yet. For she is married. She
has a great stupid husband, years and years older than herself. She has,
too, a great stupid daughter. There’s another marvel for you! Honestly
and soberly she does not look more than twenty-five. I will write again,
and tell you how all goes. But I think she likes me; there is clearly
something in common between us. There is no doubt she enjoyed our
little walk in the dusk, when the roses turned blue.... Have you had any
successes lately?”
He finished his letter, and before beginning his poem, lit the candle on
his dressing-table, and examined his small, commonplace visage in the
glass. It was difficult to arrange his hair satisfactorily. If he
brushed it back it revealed an excess of high, vacant-looking forehead;
if he let it drop over his forehead, though his resemblance to Keats was
distinctly strengthened, its resemblance to seaweed was increased also.
The absence of positive eyebrow was regrettable, but was there not fire
in his rather pale and far-apart eyes? He rather thought there was. His
nose certainly turned up a little, but what, if not that, did tip-tilted
imply? A rather long upper-lip was at present only lightly fledged with
an adolescent moustache, but there was decided strength in his chin. It
stuck out. And having practised a frown which he rather fancied, he went
back to the table in the window again, read a few stanzas of _Dolores_,
in order to get into tune with passion and bitterness (for this poem was
not going to begin or end happily) and wooed the lyric muse.
* * * * *
Major Ames, meantime, had seen Mrs. Evans to her door, and retraced his
steps as far as the club, where he was in half-a-mind to go in, and get
a game of billiards, which he enjoyed. He played in a loud, hectoring
and unskilful manner, and it was noticeable that all the luck (unless,
as occasionally happened, he won) was invariably on the side of his
opponent. But after an irresolute pause, he went on again, and let
himself into his own house. Amy was still sitting in the drawing-room,
though usually she went to bed as soon as her guests had gone.
“Very pleasant evening, my dear,” he said; “and your plan was a great
success. Uncommonly agreeable woman Mrs. Evans is. Pretty woman, too;
you would never guess she was the mother of that great girl.”
“She was not considered pretty as a girl,” said his wife.
“No? Then she must have improved in looks afterwards. Lonely life
rather, to be a doctor’s wife, with your husband liable to be called
away at any hour of the day or night.”
“I have no doubt Millie occupies herself very well,” said Mrs. Ames.
“Good-night, Lyndhurst. Are you coming up to bed?”
“Not just yet. I shall sit up a bit, and smoke another cigar.”
He sat in the window, and every now and then found himself saying, half
aloud, “Uncommonly agreeable woman.” Just overhead Harry was tearing
passion to shreds in the style (more or less) of Swinburne.