BLUE skies and shining sun, but far down on the horizon one dark cloud
gathers and drifts slowly upwards unobserved. Frank Crosse was aware of
its shadow when coming down to breakfast he saw an envelope with a
well-remembered handwriting beside his plate. How he had loved that
writing once, how his heart had warmed and quickened at the sight of it,
how eagerly he had read it—and now a viper coiled upon the white
table-cloth would hardly have given him a greater shock. Contradictory,
incalculable, whimsical life! A year ago how scornfully he would have
laughed, what contemptuous unbelief would have filled his soul, if he had
been told that any letter of hers could have struck him cold with the
vague apprehension of coming misfortune. He tore off the envelope and
threw it into the fire. But before he could glance at the letter there
was the quick patter of his wife’s feet upon the stair, and she burst,
full of girlish health and high spirits, into the little room. She wore
a pink crepon dressing-gown, with cream guipure lace at the neck and
wrists. Pink ribbon outlined her trim waist. The morning sun shone upon
her, and she seemed to him to be the daintiest, sweetest tiling upon
earth. He had thrust his letter into his pocket as she entered.
‘You will excuse the dressing-gown, Frank.’
‘I just love you in it. No, you mustn’t pass. Now you can go.’
‘I was so afraid that you would breakfast without me that I had no time
to dress. I shall have the whole day to finish in when you are gone.
There now—Jemima has forgotten to warm the plates again! And your coffee
is cold. I wish you had not waited.’
‘Better cold coffee with Maude’s society.’
‘I always thought men gave up complimenting their wives after they
married them. I am so glad you don’t. I think on the whole that women’s
ideas of men are unfair and severe. The reason is that the women who
have met unpleasant men run about and make a noise, but the women who are
happy just keep quiet and enjoy themselves. For example, I have not time
to write a book explaining to every one how nice Frank Crosse is; but if
he were nasty my life would be empty, and so of course I should write my
book.’
‘I feel such a fraud when you talk like that.’
‘That is part of your niceness.’
‘Oh don’t, Maude! It really hurts me.’
‘Why, Frank, what is the matter with you to-day?’
‘Nothing, dear.’
‘Oh yes, there is. I can tell easily.’
‘Perhaps I am not quite myself.’
‘No, I am sure that you are not. I believe that you have a cold coming
on. O Frank, do take some ammoniated quinine.’
‘Good heavens, no!’
‘Please! Please!’
‘My dear girlie, there is nothing the matter with me.’
‘But it is such splendid stuff.’
‘Yes, I know. But really I don’t want it.’
‘Have you had any letters, Frank?’
‘Yes, one.’
‘Anything important?’
‘I have hardly glanced at it yet.’
‘Glance at it now.’
‘Oh, I will keep it for the train. Good-bye, dearest. It is time that I
was off.’
‘If you would only take the ammoniated quinine. You men are so proud and
obstinate. Good-bye, darling. Eight hours, and then I shall begin to
live again.’
He had a quiet corner of a carriage to himself, so he unfolded his letter
and read it. Then he read it again with frowning brows and compressed
lips. It ran in this way—
MY DEAREST FRANKIE,—I suppose that I should not address you like this
now that you are a good little married man, but the force of custom
is strong, and, after all, I knew you long before she did. I don’t
suppose you were aware of it, but there was a time when I could very
easily have made you marry me, in spite of all you may know about my
trivial life and adventures, but I thought it all over very
carefully, and I came to the conclusion that it was not good enough.
You were always a dear good chap yourself, but your prospects were
not quite dashing enough for your festive Violet. I believe in a
merry time even if it is a short one. But if I had really wanted to
settle down in a humdrum sort of way, you are the man whom I should
have chosen out of the whole batch of them. I hope what I say won’t
make you conceited, for one of your best points used to be your
modesty.
But for all that, my dear Frankie, I by no means give you up
altogether, and don’t you make any mistake about that. It was only
yesterday that I saw Charlie Scott, and he told me all about you, and
gave me your address. Don’t you bless him? And yet I don’t know.
Perhaps you have still a kindly thought of your old friend, and would
like to see her.
But you are going to see her whether you like or not, my dear boy, so
make up your mind to that. You know how you used to chaff me about
my whims. Well, I’ve got a whim now, and I’ll have my way as usual.
I am going to see you to-morrow, and if you won’t see me under my
conditions in London, I shall call at Woking in the evening. Oh my
goodness, what a bombshell! But you know that I am always as good as
my word. So look out!
Now I’ll give you your orders for the day, and don’t you forget them.
To-morrow (Thursday, 14th, no excuses about the date) you will leave
your office at 3.30. I know that you can when you like. You will
drive to Mariani’s, and you will find me at the door. We shall go up
to our old private room, and we shall have tea together, and a dear
old chat about all sorts of things. So come! But if you don’t,
there is a train which leaves Waterloo at 6.10 and reaches Woking at
7. I will come by it and be just in time for dinner. What a joke it
will be!
Good-bye, old boy! I hope your wife does not read your letters, or
this will rather give her fits.—Yours as ever,