CUTTING FOR PARTNERS
"Then you'll--ask a man?"
"I'll ask a man."
The first speaker was Miss Douglas, the second Mrs. Lushington. These
ladies, having agreed to go to the play together, the former at once
secured adjoining stalls, for herself, her admirer, her friend, and her
friend's admirer. Only in such little parties of four can the modern
drama be appreciated or enjoyed.
Miss Douglas had long promised General St. Josephs that she would
accompany him to the performance of a popular farce called _Uncle
Jack_, whereof the humour consisted in an abstraction by "Boots" of a
certain traveller's garments at his hotel, and consequent engagement
of this denuded wayfarer to the lady of his affections. The General
would have walked barefoot to Canterbury for the delight of taking Miss
Douglas to the play; and, after many misfires, a night was at length
fixed for that treat, of course under the supervision of a chaperon.
Like others who follow "will-o'-the-wisps," St. Josephs was getting
deeper into the mire at every step. Day by day this dark bewitching
woman occupied more of his thoughts, wound herself tighter round his
weary heart. Now for the first time since she died he could bear to
recall the memory of the blue-eyed girl he was to have married long
ago. Now he felt truly thankful to have baffled the widow at Simla, and
behaved like "a monster," as she said, to the foreign countess who used
to ride with him in the Park.
Hitherto he was persuaded his best affections had been thrown away,
all the nobility of his character wasted and misunderstood. At last he
had found the four-leaved shamrock. He cared not how low he stooped to
pluck it, so he might wear it in his breast.
For one of his age and standing, such an attachment has its ridiculous
as well as its pitiful side. He laughed grimly in his grizzled
moustache to find how particular he was growing about the freshness
of his gloves and the fit of his coat. When he rode he lengthened his
stirrups, and brought his horse more on its haunches. He even adopted
the indispensable flower in his button-hole; but could never keep it
there, because of his large circle of child-friends, to whom he denied
nothing, and who regularly despoiled him of any possession that took
their fancy. There was one little gipsy, a flirt, three years of age,
who could and would, have coaxed him out of a keepsake even from Miss
Douglas herself.
Nobody, I suppose, is insane enough to imagine a man feels happier for
being in love. There were moments when St. Josephs positively hated
himself, and everybody else. Moments of vexation, longing, and a bitter
sense of ill-usage, akin to rage, but for the leavening of sadness,
that toned it down to grief. He knew from theory and practice how to
manage a woman, just as he knew how to bridle and ride a horse. Alas!
that each bends only to the careless ease of conscious mastery. He
could have controlled the Satanella on four legs almost as well as
reckless Daisy. He had no influence whatever over her namesake on two.
Most of us possess the faculty of looking on those affairs in which we
are deeply interested, from the outside, as it were, and with the eyes
of an unbiassed spectator. Such impartial perception, however, while
it increases our self-reproach, seems in no way to affect our conduct.
General St. Josephs cursed himself for an old fool twenty times a day,
but none the more for that did he strive or wish to put from him the
folly he deplored.
It was provoking, degrading, to know that, in presence of Miss Douglas
he appeared at his very worst; that when he rode out with her, he
was either idiotically simple, or morosely preoccupied; that when he
called at her house, he could neither find topics for conversation,
nor excuses to go away; that in every society, others, whom he rated
as his inferiors, must have seemed infinitely pleasanter, wiser,
better informed, and more agreeable: and that he, professedly a man
of experience, and a man of the world, lost his head, like a raw boy,
at the first word she addressed him, without succeeding in convincing
her that he had lost his heart. Then he vowed to rebel--to wean himself
by degrees--to break the whole thing off at once--to go out of town,
leaving no address--to assert his independence, show he could live
without her, and never see her again! But when she asked him to take
her to the play, he said he should be delighted, and _was_!
Among the many strange functions of society, few seem more
unaccountable than its tendency to select a theatre as the _rendezvous_
of sincere affection. Of all places, there is none, I should imagine,
where people are more _en evidence_--particularly in the stalls, a
part of the house specially affected, it would seem, as affording no
protection to front or rear. Every gesture is marked, every whisper
overheard, and even if you might speak aloud, which you mustn't, during
the performances, you could hardly impart to a lady tender truths or
falsehoods, as the case may be, while surrounded by a mob of people who
have paid money with the view of keeping eyes and ears wide open till
they obtain its worth.
Nevertheless, and notwithstanding all these drawbacks to confidential
communication, no sooner does a fair angler of the present day feel
that, in fisherman's language, she "has got a bite," than straightway
she carries her prey off to a minor theatre, where by some inexplicable
method of her own, she proceeds to secure the gudgeon on its hook.
St. Josephs got himself up with extreme care on the evening in
question. He was no faded _petit maître_, no wrinkled dandy, curled,
padded, girthed, and tottering in polished boots towards his grave. On
the contrary, he had the wisdom to grow old gracefully, as far as dress
and deportment were concerned, rather advancing than putting back the
hand of time. Yet to-night he _did_ regret the lines on his worn face,
the bald place at the crown of his head. Ten years, he thought, rather
bitterly, only give him back ten years, and he could have held his own
with the best of them! She might have cared for him ten years ago.
Could she care for him now? Yes, surely she must, he loved her so!
"Your brougham is at the door, sir," said his servant, once a soldier,
like himself, a person of calm temperament and a certain grim humour,
whose private opinion it was that his master had of late been
conducting himself like an old fool.
The General got into his carriage with an abstracted air, and was
driven off to dine nervously and without appetite at the Senior United.
How flabby seemed the fish, how tasteless the cutlets, how insufferably
prosy the conversation of an old comrade at the next table--a jovial
veteran, who loved highly-seasoned stories, and could still drink the
_quantum_ he was pleased to call his "whack of Port." Never before had
this worthy's discourse seemed so idiotic, his stomach so obtrusive,
his chuckles so fatuous and inane. What did he mean by talking about
"fellows of _our_ age" to St. Josephs, who was seven years his junior
in the Army List, and five in his baptismal register? Why couldn't he
eat without wheezing, laugh without coughing; and why, oh! why could
he not give a comrade greeting, without slapping him on the back? St.
Josephs, drinking scalding coffee before the other arrived at cheese,
felt his sense of approaching relief damped by remorse for the reserve
and coldness with which he treated his old, tried friend. Something
whispered to him, even then, how the jolly gormandising red face would
turn to him, true and hearty, when all the love of all the women in
London had faded and grown cold.
Nevertheless, at the doors of the theatre his pulses leapt with
delight. So well timed was his arrival, that Mrs. Lushington and Miss
Douglas were getting out of their carriage when his own stopped.
Pleased, eager as a boy, he entered the house with Satanella on his
arm, placing himself between that Lady and her friend, while he
arranged shawls, foot-stools, scent-bottles, and procured for them
programmes of the entertainment; chary, indeed, of information, but
smelling strong of musk.
Need I say that he addressed himself at first to Mrs. Lushington? or
that, perceiving a vacant stall on the other side of Miss Douglas,
his spirit sank within him while he wondered when and how it would be
filled?
Satanella seemed tired and abstracted. "Uncle Jack's" jokes fell
pointless on her ear. When St. Josephs could at last think of
something to say, she bent her head kindly enough, but persistently
refused to accept or understand his tender allusions, interesting
herself, then, and then only, in the business of the stage. In sheer
self-defence, the General felt obliged to do the same.
The house roared with laughter. A celebrated low comedian was running
up and down before the foot-lights in shirt and drawers. The scene
represented a bedroom at an inn. The actor rang his bell, tripped over
his coal-scuttle, finally upset his water-jug. Everybody went into
convulsions, and St. Josephs found himself thinking of the immortal
Pickwick, who "envied the facility with which the friends of Mr. Peter
Magnus were amused." Turning to his tormentor, he observed the place by
her side no longer vacant, and its occupant was--Daisy!
Mischievous Mrs. Lushington had "asked a man," you see, and this was
the man she asked.
Captious, jealous, sensitive, because he really cared for her, St.
Josephs' vexation seemed out of all proportion to its cause. He felt
it would have relieved him intensely to "have it out" with Miss
Douglas--to scold her, take her to task, reproach her roundly--and
for what? _She_ had never asked Daisy to come; _she_ had not kept a
seat for him at her elbow. From her flushed cheek, her bright smile,
it could not but be inferred that this was an unexpected meeting--a
delightful surprise.
Calm and imperturbable, Daisy settled himself as if he were sitting
by his grandmother. Not till he had smoothed his moustache, buttoned
his gloves, and adjusted his glasses, did he find time to inform Miss
Douglas "that he knew she would be here, but did not think she could
have got away from dinner so soon; that the house was hot, the stalls
were uncomfortable, and this thing was not half bad fun if you'd never
seen it before." The General, cursing him for "a cub," wondered she
could find anything in such conversation to provoke a smile on that
proud beautiful face.
What was it she whispered behind her fan?--the fan he loved to hold
because of the fragrance it seemed to breathe from _her_. He scarcely
knew whether to be relieved or irritated when he overheard certain
questions as to the progress of the black mare. It vexed him to think
these two should have a common interest, should find it so engrossing,
should talk about it so low. Why couldn't they attend to the farce they
had come on purpose to see?
Mrs. Lushington, although she must have been surfeited with that
unmeaning and rather tiresome admiration which such ladies find
floating in abundance on the surface of London society, was yet ready
at all times to accept fresh homage, add another captive to the net she
dragged so diligently through smooth and troubled waters alike. Till
the suggestion came from her friend, it had never occurred to her that
the General was worth capturing. She began now in the usual way.
"What a number of pretty women!" she whispered, "Don't you think
so, General? I haven't seen as much beauty under one roof since Lady
Scavenger's ball."
Abstracted though he was, her companion had those habits of society
which of all others seem to be second nature, so he answered:--
"There are only _two_ pretty women in the house as far as I can see;
and they asked me to come to the play with them to-night."
She had a fascinating way of looking down and up again, very quick,
with a glance, half shy, half funny, but altogether deadly. Even her
preoccupied neighbour felt its influence, while she replied:--
"You say so because you think all women are vain, and like to be
flattered, and have no heart. It only shows how little you know us. Do
you mean to tell me," she added, in a lighter tone, "_that's_ not a
pretty girl, in the second row there, with a _mauve_ ribbon through her
hair?"
She _was_ pretty, and he thought so; but St. Josephs, being an old
soldier in more senses than one, observed sententiously:--
"Wants colouring--too pale--too sandy, and I should say freckled by
daylight."
"We all know you admire dark beauties," retorted the lady, "or you
wouldn't be here now."
"_You're_ not a dark beauty," returned the ready General; "and I knew
you were coming too."
"That '_too_' spoils it all," said she, with another of her killing
glances. "Hush! you needn't say any more. If you won't talk to _her_,
at least attend to the stage."
Satanella meanwhile was perusing Daisy's profile as he sat beside
her, and wondering whether anybody was ever half so good-looking
and so unconscious of his personal advantages. Not in the slightest
degree embarrassed by this examination, Mr. Walters expressed his
entire approval of the farce as it proceeded, laughing heartily at its
"situations" and even nudging Miss Douglas with his elbow, that she
might not miss the broadest of the fun. Was there another man in the
house who could have accepted so calmly such an enviable situation?
and did she like him more or less for this strange insensibility to
her charms? The question must be answered by ladies who are weary of
slaughter, and satiated with victory.
"Will she win, Daisy?" hazarded Miss Douglas at last, in a low whisper,
such as would have vibrated through the General's whole frame, but only
caused Daisy to request she would "speak up." Repeating her question,
she added a tender hope that "it was all right, and that her darling
(meaning the black mare) would pull him through."
"If she don't," replied Daisy, "there's no more to be said. I must
leave the regiment. 'Soldier Bill' gets the troop; and I am simply
chawed up."
"Oh, Daisy," she exclaimed earnestly, "how much would it take to set
you straight?"
Mr. Walters worked an imaginary sum on the gloved fingers of his right
hand, carried over a balance of liabilities to his left, looked as
grave as he could and replied, briefly, "Two thou--would tide me over.
It would take _three_ to pull me through."
Her face fell, and the rich colour faded in her cheek. He did not
notice her vexation; for the crisis of the farce had now arrived,
and the stage was crowded with all its _dramatis personæ_, tumbling
each other about in the intensely humorous dilemma of a hunt for the
traveller's clothes; but he _did_ remark how grave and sorrowful was
her "good-night," while she took the General's proffered arm with an
alacrity extremely gratifying to that love-stricken veteran. She had
never before seemed so womanly, so tender, so confiding. St. Josephs,
pressing her elbow very cautiously against his beating heart, almost
fancied the pressure returned. He was sure her hand clung longer than
usual in his clasp when the time came to say "Good-bye."
In spite of a headache and certain angry twinges of rheumatism, this
gallant officer had never felt so happy in his life.