“It’s all off,” cried David wildly. “I absolutely refuse to agree to
this lop-sided idea. I won’t have anything to do with it. Her—her
imagination’s too vivid. And with that overfed serpent to egg her on
. . .”
It was fully two minutes before his protest was overcome.
“As for the jobs,” said Madge tearfully, “that they usually do together,
we can be a Court of Appeal. Take the wedding, for instance. Well, I
think it should be full-dress—not because Nell wants it, but because
it’s only decent.”
“I agree,” said Crispin warmly. “I’ve been through the hoop; why
shouldn’t David?”
Herrick raised his eyes to heaven and set his teeth.
“Madge,” he said weakly, “why did you marry the brute?”
His hostess rose with a laugh.
“Love,” she said. “He wanted me to, you see, and I wanted to do as he
wanted.”
* * * * *
The absurd arrangement worked well.
The Willoughbys’ taste was irreproachable.
Madge had learned how to dress in Boston, Mass., and possessed an
uncanny instinct for anticipating _les modes_. Crispin’s sartorial
opinions were respected in Savile Row. He had, moreover, a genius for
organization. Under his direction the ‘production’ of the wedding
proceeded like clockwork. An eye to colour made Madge a born decorator,
and, where furniture was concerned, while they were yet herded in the
showrooms, she could tell the sheep from the goats. David’s
half-timbered cottage at Hammercloth Down began to look as it had looked
when James the First was young.
Herrick and Eleanor Cloke were admirably served.
As for their patrons, they were tickled to death. Whether sitting as a
Court of Appeal or supervising the lovers’ selection of the wherewithal
to take the matrimonial field, they called an hilarious tune. Born with
large ideas, they indulged them generously. Happily for their
_protégés_, the latter were rich. . . .
If Crispin and Madge made the running, David and Eleanor were well up.
An afternoon at the dressmaker’s suited Madge down to the ground, but
the lady herself made such a dazzling mannequin that David would not
have been human if he had found the hours long. In the same way, Crispin
shouldered his burdens with the most infectious good humour, continually
reducing Miss Cloke to a condition of mirth which verged upon abandon
and throwing shop after shop into sniggering confusion. The climax was
reached at the hosier’s, when Willoughby suddenly found himself unable
to speak anything but the most imperfect English, enthusiastically
supported by an excited flow of French. Indeed, but for his solemn
promise never to repeat such simulation, their pilgrimages would have
ended that day, for, as Eleanor observed that evening—
“The laws that seem to govern men’s clothes are difficult enough without
any international complications.”
Herrick inspired audibly.
“That’s a good one,” he said. “I suppose the laws (sic) that govern
women’s clothes (sic) require rather less intelligence than does the
sucking of eggs. Of course, my office is a complete sinecure. I’m not
dressing you at all. Apparently I’m not—not competent. A woman’s
headgear alone seems to be a life study. If I make the most patent
suggestion, all the women in the place nearly burst themselves with
laughter: and when I ask why, the only answer I get is that I ‘shouldn’t
like it like that.’ And sometimes Madge adds that ‘the line’ld be
wrong.’ And when I ask, ‘What line?’ she says, ‘The line of the hat.’
Not ‘lining,’ mark you, but ‘line.’”
“Well, I expect it would.”
Herrick put a hand to his head.
“‘_Et tu, Brute_,’” he murmured. Then, “Look here. Supposing I was an
architect, and you wanted to choose a house. And every one you liked I
said, ‘You can’t have that because the point’s wrong.’ And when you said
‘What point?’ I said, ‘The point of the house.’ Well, after about
thirty, you’ld want to lie down and scream.”
“Your wretched things,” wailed Eleanor, “are every bit as bad. Yesterday
I chose a grey suit—at least, I chose the cloth. And I said I’ld bring
them the buttons. As it happened, I’d seen some that morning—blue
pebble buttons——”
“Good God!” said Herrick.
“Exactly,” said Eleanor. “That was what Crispin said. And when I asked
the cause of the excitement, I was told that I ‘didn’t understand.’ I
ask you.”
“At least,” said Herrick faintly, “we don’t change our rubric once a
year.”
“Once a month,” corrected Willoughby. “You wait. How many hats did you
get to-day?”
“Three,” said David. “One’s a topper—all blue and white straw. Looks as
if someone had rolled on it and then bought it half a pint of
gooseberries to keep it quiet.”
“What?” screamed Eleanor.
“It’s all right, darling,” cried Madge. “It’s a dream. They’re not
gooseberries at all. They’re cherries—blue cherries, and the shape’s
rather like one—I wonder if you remember; I wore it at Henley last
year, and it had a crushed strawberry——”
“Time,” said Crispin. “Maudlin memories of discarded headgear are bad
for my heart. I only introduced this ghastly topic to illustrate the
fugacity of women’s raiment. The hats you chose to-day will be out of
date before they’re married.”
“I don’t think so,” said Madge. “I’m trying to buy well ahead. Of
course——”
“One moment,” said David. “D’you mean to say that there’s even a
possibility of such a thing?”
“Well, I’m a little bit anxious about that velvet toque. You see——”
A howl of dismay interrupted her.
“My favourite?” cried David. “The wicked one that dips over the left
eye?” He threw up his hands. “Why, properly cared for, there’s years of
wear in that hat.”
“Years of wear?” shrieked the girls.
“Years,” yelled Herrick. “An’ then it could be done up.”
There was a roar of laughter.
“You see?” said Crispin. “He hasn’t the remotest idea. Never mind.
To-morrow Nell and I are looking at furnished flats.”
Eleanor made a little mouth.
“Much,” she announced, “against my will. A house would have been much
nicer. Still, I accept your ruling.”
“My dear,” purred Madge, “I know what servants are. You’re sure to
strike some wash-outs in your first twelve months—real old soldiers, I
mean. They’re like vultures. They can smell a newly married couple five
miles off. And a house is so unwieldy.”
“I know, but——”
David put in his oar.
“Give me an undress wedding, and you shall have your house.”
“Not on your life,” said Eleanor. “Besides, if you really loved me
you’ld do as I want.”
“Ugh,” said David, “she’s wheedling me.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing
doing,” he said sternly. “Besides, if you worshipped me, you’ld—you’ld
hang upon my lips.”
“I think,” said Eleanor demurely, “I think I—I might . . . in a house.”
“I’ll back the lady,” shouted Crispin. “I’ll lay five to one—six—ten
. . . ten sovereigns to one sovereign the lady gets her way.”
“Taken,” said Madge. “David, stick to your guns. The Court of Appeal’s
behind you. Besides, I’ve had some. If you take a house before you’ve
got the right servants you’ll be buying trouble in red.”
Eleanor gave her _fiancé_ a melting look.
“David darling,” she murmured, “don’t you think that this once we could
upset the Court of Appeal? After all, we’ve got to live in it—you . . .
and I.”
She blushed exquisitely.
Herrick writhed.
“Be strong,” shrieked Madge, “be strong. Think of the housemaids saying
they can’t stick the stairs and the cook complaining of the damp and the
charwomen——”
“Ch-charwomen?” stammered David.
“Charwomen. Relays of them—when all the servants have gone. And the
silver at the Bank because you’ve no one to clean it, and poor Nell in
tears counting your shirts, and answering the back-door yourself. . . .
At least, a flat has only one door.”
David addressed himself to Eleanor.
“My sweet,” he said, “not even for an undress wedding will I give you a
house. In your own interest——”
Here a salted almond hit him upon the nose.
Mrs. Willoughby regarded the ceiling.
“Ten sovereigns to one,” she murmured. “Dear me, this is very fortunate.
David, how much was that hat you didn’t like?”
“What, not ‘The Lost Chord’?”
“That’s right.”
“Nine and a half guineas,” said Herrick. He turned to Crispin. “Nine and
a half guineas for a piece of rope—wound round and round—painted red
and white—with a chunk of wood on each end.”
“But how ravishing,” said Crispin. “Was it real rope, or only
imitation?”
“It was a gem,” said Madge. “We’ll get it to-morrow, David, before we
look at the cooks.”
The conference was typical and one of several.
The four fleeted the time pleasantly, hunting in couples, conferring
perhaps twice a week. Once Madge had protested that the arrangement was
false, that her jest was being carried too far. The betrothal, she
hinted, was being shorn of its rights; the privacy of courtship was
being invaded; halcyon days were being stolen away. Her objection was
tumultuously quashed. With one consent Eleanor and David insisted that
all was well. They declared that they were not children, that chances of
present discord were being eliminated, that future harmony was being
assured. They also expressed their gratitude in certain terms. Madge was
reassured. Crispin, being a man, said and thought nothing at all. And,
as is always the way, some people, who were not concerned, said and
looked volumes.
This was inevitable.
The engagement had attracted attention to a notable pair.
Miss Cloke had been bridesmaid to Royalty, was immensely liked and of
great beauty. Herrick had played polo for England, and was known and
respected on the Turf. His beautiful filly, Cretonne, was fancied for
the Derby. Her victory would undoubtedly be cordially received.
As for the Willoughbys, they were celebrities pure and simple. They had
been conspicuous as man and maid. Captain Willoughby, bachelor, was a
V.C. Miss Madge Dinwiddy had been the darling of New York. The two had
married for love and nothing else. Two personalities—one brilliant and
the other steadfast—had made two simultaneous mutual appeals, each of
them too powerful to be withstood. Before the respective onslaughts
Crispin Willoughby and Madge had gone down incontinently.
Mayfair had roared its approval then and there, and its approval had
never waned.
So far as the two were concerned, the result of their union was natural
enough. Each began to assume something of the other’s outstanding
quality. A sheen stole upon the nap of Crispin’s steadfastness. The
charm of Madge’s brilliance began to crystallize.
American by birth, the lady would have graced any company. She was tall
and beautifully made. Some said her neck was too long, but I do not
think so. Be that as it may, it was the neck of a goddess. The
Willoughby emeralds had never looked half so well. Soft brown hair and
laughing eyes, a fine colour and an exquisite mouth went to the making
of a countenance you never forgot. Her air, her easy dignity, her flow
of excellent talk—above all, that precious radiance which could coax
flame from smoking flax would have ennobled a hunchback. Wherever she
went, Madge Willoughby was constantly aerating the wine of life. Often
enough she turned it into champagne.
Crispin was thirty-five and a handsome man. Tall, quiet, pleasant,
grave-faced, he suggested a strength and depth of character not to be
met every day. The suggestion was true. The deeper you dug, the finer
the ore you came to. But, until his marriage, the mine had to be worked.
His style, his manners were perfect—and always had been; he inspired
astounding confidence. But he had been reserved—shy. Only among his
familiars would he let himself go. . . . Five years with Madge had
altered everything. The man had shed his reserve and given his spirits
their head. His humour came bubbling. Invariably he led the dance. And
Madge watched him leading with the gentlest light in her eyes. . . .
The opposition of two such fair planets, no less than their several
conjunction with stars almost as bright, was bound to excite remark.
Eyebrows were raised; whispers were repeated; nudges were covertly
exchanged. Soon an impatient confidence that smoke so thick must be the
greasy harbinger of conflagration set tongues wagging.
* * * * *
It was on the evening of the nineteenth of April, as Mrs. Willoughby and
Herrick were returning by taxi from choosing a breakfast set, that the
latter threw his cigarette out of the window, took the lady in his arms
and kissed her upon the mouth.
“_David!_”
She shook him off and shrank into her corner, trembling violently.
Herrick took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. This was
unnaturally pale.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I beg your pardon. I—I don’t know why I
did it. I think—I think it was your perfume. I shall smell it all my
life, dear . . . your faint perfume.”
“_David!_”
The horror of the girl’s tone was reflected in her beautiful eyes.
The man nodded.
“Yes, it’s true,” he said. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“Oh, David . . .”
She began to wail tremulously, twisting her fingers as though in an
agony of mind.
“I’m only human, Madge; and if you could see yourself I think you’ld
understand. I’ve tried, dear. I know all it means. I’ve tried and fought
and jammed my nose to the stone. But it’s not the slightest good.”
“But Nell,” cried Madge. “Nell . . .”
Herrick shrugged his shoulders.
“I know. It can’t be helped. I’m sorry. She’s awfully sweet. But—— Oh,
Madge, there’s something about you that takes a man by the throat . . .
something that——”
“Stop, David, stop! You must be out of your mind. You can’t mean—— Oh,
for God’s sake tell me you’re only pulling my leg.”
“I wish to God I could,” said Herrick miserably. “But I can’t, my lady,
I can’t. I love you, and there you are.” Madge caught her breath and
clapped her hands to her face. “I’m wild—crazy about you, and that’s
the truth. Of course it’s hopeless—grotesque. You’re Crispin’s wife,
and Crispin’s one of the best. But I don’t suppose I’m the first that’s
loved his wife. . . . You’ll tell him, of course. And say if he wants to
kick me, I won’t try and cramp his style. He’s every right in the world.
But I don’t think he will, because he’ll understand. He’s a man, you see
. . . and he knows that it’s pretty easy to fall in love with you.”
“But Nell, David, Nell. . . . Don’t you see what this means to her?
You’re letting her down most frightfully. Why, man, it’ll break her
heart. If it wasn’t for Nell, I wouldn’t care a kick. We’ld have a
straight talk, and after a month——”
“Month?” echoed David, with a bitter laugh. “Shows how much you
understand. ‘After a month.’ . . . Good God, Madge, this isn’t an
evening out. I’m finished . . . bent . . . broken. . . . You’ve shown me
the precious fountain. I’ve drunk its water out of your blessed palms.
I’ve drunk—_drunk_, my lady. . . . And you only drink once. I’m
badged—branded, Madge, branded as your man. With me you stand for
womanhood. Your smile, your voice, your hair, the light in your
wonderful eyes——”
“Oh, stop, stop,” wailed Madge. “How can you talk like this? You know
it’s not the game. You know you’re wronging Nell . . . and Crispin . . .
and me. If I’ve given you cause, God knows I never meant it. If . . .”
Her voice broke, and she began to weep silently.
Herrick set his teeth.
“We’re nearly home,” he said. “Shall I tell him to drive round the
Park?”
“Yes—no—yes,” sobbed Mrs. Willoughby. “And—please don’t talk any
more.”
David gave the order and flung himself back in his seat. Presently with
a shaking hand he lighted a cigarette. . . .
By the time they were back at Park Place, Madge was reasonably composed.
She descended quickly, waved her hand, and let herself in with a rush.
Herrick told the cabman to go to the Club.
Crispin was in the library, seated upon the floor, with a pipe between
his teeth, brushing the Sealyham.
His wife burst in tempestuously.
“Crip, the most awful thing has happened.”
“Impossible,” said Crispin calmly. “My word, how lovely you look. Of
course, the way to see you is to sit at your feet.”
His wife sat down by his side and put an arm round his neck.
“Crip,” she said, laying her cheek against his. “David’s gone off the
deep end.”
“What?” cried Crispin. “Gone and got sozzled by day?”
“No, no, no. Far worse, Crip. He thinks he’s in love with me.”
“The devil he does,” said Crispin. “Not that it isn’t natural, but what
a stew and a half! Where’s Nell come in?”
“He swears she doesn’t,” cried Madge. “That’s the frightful part.
Whatever are we to do?”
Her husband knitted his brows.
“Of course, he’ll get over it,” he murmured. “That’s certain enough.
Just as the others have. But in this case we’re up against time.”
“Exactly,” said Madge. “Right up against it. A week in the country might
help, but he can’t have a couple of days. Whatever happens, Nell must
never suspect.”
“By Jove, no.” He turned and looked at his wife. “Hullo, you’ve been
crying, sweetheart.” His lips tightened. “Did he—make a fool of
himself?”
“Only for a second. He caught hold of me and kissed me. But I didn’t
mind that. Besides, he apologised directly. And he told me to tell you
that if you wanted to kick him he was at your service.” Crispin grinned.
“But he said he didn’t think you would.”
“Why?”
“He said that, being a man, you’ld understand.”
“Ah.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then Crispin kissed his wife, smiled into her eyes and fell again to
brushing the terrier, who was patiently lying on his back with his legs
in the air.
“Where is, er, Paris, at the moment?” he demanded lazily.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Probably at the Club.”
“And Œnone?”
“Probably at home. Why?”
“I was thinking they’d better not meet till David’s got his orders. Of
course, the marriage must go through. They’re perfectly matched and
they’ll be ridiculously happy. If there were anything doing—I mean, if
you were on, it’ld be a different thing. Nell wouldn’t stand an
earthly—no woman would.” Mrs. Willoughby squeezed his arm. “But as
you’re not, old lady—well, unrequited love doesn’t wear as well as it
did when ‘burning Sappho loved and sung.’ Personally, I’m not at all
sure that it was ever very durable. But that’s beside the point, which
is that our job is to knock it out quick.”
“I agree,” said Madge, abstracting her husband’s case and taking a
cigarette. “But how on earth can we do it?”
“Ask him to dinner to-night. I’ll go out. Somewhere about the fish tell
him tenderly that you wouldn’t be seen dead with him. That’ll put him
off and, what’s far more important, wound his pride. Add, for instance,
that you don’t like the way he eats.” Madge began to shake with
laughter. “And say, ‘to be perfectly frank,’ that you’ve always been
much surprised that Nell didn’t seem to mind.”
“I can’t, Crip. Besides——”
“You must. It’s the only way. Then, having got so far, say, ‘as a matter
of fact,’ you’re not at all sure that she hasn’t noticed something.
That’ll make him sit up. It’ll also make him ask questions. You’ll beat
about the bush till you get to the sweet. Then say you’ll tell him when
the servants are gone.”
“Go on,” said Madge, bubbling.
“When you’re alone, extract his word to say nothing, and then tell him
bluntly we’ve a sort of idea that she’s looking at somebody else. Refuse
to say who it is—that shouldn’t be difficult—but say he’s a pretty
strong man. Add casually that of course it isn’t everyone that could
hold a girl like Nell and that, ‘to tell the truth,’ you and I’d always
said that the one thing we were afraid of was that he wouldn’t be strong
enough to hold her affection.”
“Yes, yes,”—excitedly.
“Well, that’s all. He’ll snort and blow a bit. He may even grind his
teeth. But if you do it well, you’ll bring it off. First you wound his
pride and then you slap its face. No matter what he says, I’ll bet he
leaves this house mentally swearing he’ll show us whether he can hold
Nell. . . . As for his loving you, sweetheart, you’ll have blotted that
frenzy out.”
For a moment his wife looked thoughtful.
Then she got upon her feet.
“Crip,” she said, gently smoothing his hair, “you’ve got a lightning
brain.”
“I’ve got a peach of a wife,” said Crispin Willoughby. He smacked the
Sealyham’s flank. “Haven’t I, Boodle?”
The terrier sneezed his assent.
Husband and wife laughed.