I
"Miss Spence will be down directly, sir."
"Thank you," said Mr. Hutton, without turning round. Janet Spence's
parlourmaid was so ugly--ugly on purpose, it always seemed to him,
malignantly, criminally ugly--that he could not bear to look at her
more than was necessary. The door closed. Left to himself, Mr. Hutton
got up and began to wander round the room, looking with meditative eyes
at the familiar objects it contained.
Photographs of Greek statuary, photographs of the Roman Forum, coloured
prints of Italian masterpieces, all very safe and well known. Poor, dear
Janet, what a prig--what an intellectual snob! Her real taste was
illustrated in that water-colour by the pavement artist, the one she had
paid half a crown for (and thirty-five shillings for the frame). How
often his had heard her tell the story, how often expatiate on the
beauties of that skilful imitation of an oleograph! "A real Artist in
the streets," and you could hear the capital A in Artist as she spoke
the words. She made you feel that part of his glory had entered into
Janet Spence when she tendered him that half-crown for the copy of the
oleograph. She was implying a compliment to her own taste and
penetration. A genuine Old Master for half a crown. Poor, dear Janet!
Mr. Hutton came to a pause in front of a small oblong mirror. Stooping a
little to get a full view of his face, he passed a white, well-manicured
finger over his moustache. It was as curly, as freshly auburn as it had
been twenty years ago. His hair still retained its colour, and there was
no sign of baldness yet--only a certain elevation of the brow.
"Shakespearean," thought Mr. Hutton, with a smile, as he surveyed the
smooth and polished expanse of his forehead.
Others abide our question, thou art free.... Footsteps in the sea ...
Majesty ... Shakespeare, thou shouldst be living at this hour. No, that
was Milton, wasn't it? Milton, the Lady of Christ's. There was no lady
about him. He was what the women, would call a manly man. That was why
they liked him--for the curly auburn moustache and the discreet
redolence of tobacco. Mr. Hutton smiled again; he enjoyed making fun of
himself. Lady of Christ's? No, no. He was the Christ of Ladies. Very
pretty, very pretty. The Christ of Ladies. Mr. Hutton wished there were
somebody he could tell the joke to. Poor, dear Janet wouldn't appreciate
it, alas?
He straightened himself up, patted his hair, and resumed his
peregrination. Damn the Roman Forum; he hated those dreary photographs.
Suddenly he became aware that Janet Spence was in the room, standing
near the door. Mr. Hutton started, as though he had been taken in some
felonious act. To make these silent and spectral appearances was one of
Janet Spence's peculiar talents. Perhaps she had been there all the
time, had seen him looking at himself in the mirror. Impossible! But,
still, it was disquieting.
"Oh, you gave me such a surprise," said Mr. Hutton, recovering his smile
and advancing with outstretched hand to meet her.
Miss Spence was smiling too: her Gioconda smile, he had once called it,
in a moment of half-ironical flattery. Miss Spence had taken the
compliment seriously, and had always tried to live up to the Leonardo
standard. She smiled on his silence while Mr. Hutton shook hands; that
was part of the Gioconda business.
"I hope you're well," said Mr. Hutton. "You look it."
What a queer face she had! That small mouth pursed forward by the
Gioconda expression into a little snout with a round hole in the middle
as though for whistling--it was like a penholder seen from the front.
Above the mouth a well-shaped nose, finely aquiline. Eyes large,
lustrous, and dark, with the largeness, lustre, and darkness that seems
to invite sties and an occasional blood-shot suffusion. They were fine
eyes, but unchangingly grave. The penholder might do its Gioconda trick,
but the eyes never altered in their earnestness. Above them, a pair of
boldly arched, heavily pencilled black eyebrows lent a surprising air of
power, as of a Roman matron, to the upper portion of the face. Her hair
was dark and equally Roman; Agrippina from the brows upward.
"I thought I'd just look in on my way home," Mr. Hutton went on. "Ah,
it's good to be back here"--he indicated with a wave of his hand the
flowers in the vases, the sunshine and greenery beyond the windows
--"it's good to be back in the country after a stuffy day of business in
town."
Miss Spence, who had sat down, pointed to a chair at her side.
"No, really, I cant sit down," Mr. Hutton protested. "I must get back to
see how poor Emily is. She was rather seedy this morning." He sat down,
nevertheless. "It's these wretched liver chills. She's always getting
them. Women--" He broke off and coughed, so as to hide the fact that he
had uttered. He was about to say that women with weak digestions ought
not to marry; but the remark was too cruel, and he didn't really believe
it. Janet Spence, moreover, was a believer in eternal flames and
spiritual attachments. "She hopes to be well enough," he added, "to see
you at luncheon to-morrow. Can you come? Do!" He smiled persuasively.
"It's my invitation too, you know."
She dropped her eyes, and Mr. Hutton almost thought that he detected a
certain reddening of the cheek. It was a tribute; he stroked his
moustache.
"I should like to come if you think Emily's really well enough to have a
visitor."
"Of course. You'll do her good. You'll do us both good. In married life
three is often better company than two."
"Oh, you're cynical."
Mr. Hutton always had a desire to say "Bow-wow-wow" whenever that last
word was spoken. It irritated him more than any other word in the
language. But instead of barking he made haste to protest.
"No, no. I'm only speaking a melancholy truth. Reality doesn't always
come up to the ideal, you know. But that doesn't make me believe any the
less in the ideal. Indeed, I believe in it passionately the ideal of a
matrimony between two people in perfect accord. I think it's realisable.
I'm sure it is."
He paused significantly and looked at her with an arch expression. A
virgin of thirty-six, but still unwithered; she had her charms. And
there was something really rather enigmatic about her. Miss Spence made
no reply but continued to smile. There were times when Mr. Hutton got
rather bored with the Gioconda. He stood up.
"I must really be going now. Farewell, mysterious Gioconda." The smile
grew intenser, focused itself, as it were, in a narrower snout. Mr.
Hutton made a Cinquecento gesture, and kissed her extended hand. It was
the first time he had done such a thing; the action seemed not to be
resented. "I look forward to to-morrow."
"Do you?"
For answer Mr. Hutton once more kissed her hand, then turned to go. Miss
Spence accompanied him to the porch.
"Where's your car?" she asked.
"I left it at the gate of the drive."
"I'll come and see you off."
"No, no." Mr. Hutton was playful, but determined. "You must do no such
thing. I simply forbid you."
"But I should like to come," Miss Spence protested, throwing a rapid
Gioconda at him.
Mr. Hutton held up his hand. "No," he repeated, and then, with a gesture
that was almost the blowing of a kiss, he started to run down the drive,
lightly on his toes, with long, bounding strides like a boy's. He was
proud of that run; it was quite marvellously youthful. Still, he was
glad the drive was no longer. At the last bend, before passing out of
sight of the house, he halted and turned round. Miss Spence was still
standing on the steps, smiling her smile. He waved his hand, and this
time quite definitely and overtly wafted a kiss in her direction. Then,
breaking once more into his magnificent canter, he rounded the last dark
promontory of trees. Once out of sight of the house he let his high
paces decline to a trot, and finally to a walk. He took out his
handkerchief and began wiping his neck inside his collar. What fools,
what fools! Had there ever been such an ass as poor, dear Janet Spence?
Never, unless it was himself. Decidedly he was the more malignant fool,
since he, at least, was aware of his folly and still persisted in it.
Why did he persist? Ah, the problem that was himself, the problem that
was other people.
He had reached the gate. A large, prosperous-looking motor was standing
at the side of the road.
"Home, M'Nab." The chauffeur touched his cap. "And stop at the
cross-roads on the way, as usual," Mr. Hutton added, as he opened the
door of the car. "Well?" he said, speaking into the obscurity that
lurked within.
"Oh, Teddy Bear, what an age you've been!" It was a fresh and childish
voice that spoke the words. There was the faintest hint of Cockney
impurity about the vowel sounds.
Mr. Hutton bent his large form and darted into the car with the agility
of an animal regaining its burrow.
"Have I?" he said, as he shut the door. The machine began to move. "You
must have missed me a lot if you found the time so long." He sat back
in the low seat; a cherishing warmth enveloped him.
"Teddy Bear...." and with a sigh of contentment a charming little head
declined on to Mr. Hutton's shoulder. Ravished, he looked down sideways
at the round, babyish face.
"Do you know, Doris, you look like the pictures of Louise de
Kerouaille." He passed his fingers through a mass of curly hair.
"Who's Louise de Kera-whatever-it-is?" Doris spoke from remote
distances.
"She was, alas! _Fuit_. We shall all be 'was' one of these days.
Meanwhile...."
Mr. Hutton covered the babyish face with kisses. The car rushed smoothly
along. McNab's back, through the front window was stonily impassive, the
back of a statue.
"Your hands," Doris whispered. "Oh, you mustn't touch me. They give me
electric shocks."
Mr. Hutton adored her for the virgin imbecility of the words. How late
in one's existence one makes the discovery of one's body!
"The electricity isn't in me, it's in you." He kissed her again,
whispering her name several times: Doris, Doris, Doris. The scientific
appellation of the sea-mouse, he was thinking as he kissed the throat,
she offered him, white and extended like the throat of a victim awaiting
the sacrificial knife. The sea-mouse was a sausage with iridescent fur:
very peculiar. Or was Doris the sea cucumber, which turns itself inside
out in moments of alarm? He would really have to go to Naples again,
just to see the aquarium. These sea creatures were fabulous,
unbelievably fantastic.
"Oh, Teddy Bear!" (More zoology; but he was only a land animal. His poor
little jokes!) "Teddy Bear, I'm so happy."
"So am I," said Mr. Hutton. Was it true?
"But I wish I knew if it were right. Tell me, Teddy Bear, is it right or
wrong?"
"Ah, my dear, that's just what I've been wondering for the last thirty
years."
"Be serious, Teddy Bear. I want to know if this is right; if it's right
that I should be here with you and that we should love one another, and
that it should give me electric shocks when you touch me."
"Right? Well, it's certainly good that you should have electric shocks
rather than sexual repressions. Read Freud; repressions are the devil."
"Oh, you don't help me. Why aren't you ever serious? If only you knew
how miserable I am sometimes, thinking it's not right. Perhaps, you
know, there is a hell, and all that. I don t know what to do. Sometimes
I think I ought to stop loving you."
"But could you?" asked Mr. Hutton, confident in the powers of his
seduction and his moustache.
"No, Teddy Bear, you know I couldn't. But I could run away, I could hide
from you, I could lock myself up and force myself not to come to you."
"Silly little thing!" He tightened his embrace.
"Oh, dear, I hope it isn't wrong. And there are times when I don't care
if it is."
Mr. Hutton was touched. He had a certain protective affection for this
little creature. He laid his cheek against her hair and so, interlaced,
they sat in silence, while the car, swaying and pitching a little as it
hastened along, seemed to draw in the white road and the dusty hedges
towards it devouringly.
"Good-bye, good-bye."
The car moved on, gathered speed, vanished round a curve, and Doris was
left standing by the sign-post at the cross-roads, still dizzy and weak
with the languor born of those kisses and the electrical touch of those
gentle hands. She had to take a deep breath, to draw herself up
deliberately, before she was strong enough to start her homeward walk.
She had half a mile in which to invent the necessary lies.
Alone, Mr. Hutton suddenly found himself the prey of an appalling
boredom.