Mrs. Palmer, when the opera was over, had many voluble good-byes to
say to her friends, for she was leaving London next day, and sailing
for her native shores in the middle of the week. Consequently, it was
some time before the two young men could get off from Covent Garden,
but eventually they strolled away together to pick up a hansom rather
than wait for one. Charlie Brancepeth's rooms were in Half Moon Street,
and it was thus nearer one than twelve when they got home. He threw
himself into a long easy-chair with an air of fatigue, while the other
strolled about somewhat aimlessly and nervously, smoking a cigarette,
sipping whisky-and-soda, with the indolent carriage of a man who is at
home with himself and his surroundings. In person he was of the fair,
blue-eyed type of his family, small-featured, and thin, and looking
taller, in consequence, than he really was. His eyebrows, darker than
his hair, had the line of determination and self-reliance; but one
felt somehow that his appearance had less to do with the essential man
beneath than with the ancestors from whom he had inherited it. But his
aimless, undetermined strolling one felt was more truly his own.
At last he went to the window and threw it open, letting in the great
_bourdon_ hum of London, coming somewhat muffled through the heavy
air. Only the gentlest draught drew into the room from outside, barely
stirring the flowers in the window-boxes, but spreading slowly over
the room the warm, drowsy scent of them. Then, taking himself by the
shoulders, as it were, he sat down.
'Charlie, I am going to America,' he said, 'in order, if possible, to
find an extremely wealthy girl who is willing to marry me.'
'So I understood when you said the mercantile spirit was not
suppressed. Well, you are frank, anyhow. Will you tell her that? Will
you ask how much she expects to have as a dowry?'
'No, it will be unnecessary to tell her anything; she will know. You
don't suppose the Americans really think that lots of us go there to
find wives because we prefer them to English girls? They know the true
state of the case perfectly well. They only don't choose to recognise
it, just as one doesn't choose to recognise a man one doesn't want to
meet. They look it in the face, and cut it--cut it dead.'
'I dare say you are perfectly right,' said Charlie with marked
neutrality.
'I suppose you disapprove; you have a habit of disapproving, as I heard
Sybil Massington say to you to-night. By the way, she is going to
America, too, she told me.'
Charlie's face remained perfectly expressionless.
'Yes,' he said slowly. 'You might arrange to travel together. Never
mind that now, though. You told me your father had some very sensible
things to say about mercenary marriages. Do tell me what they were; he
is always worth listening to.'
Bertie Keynes hailed this with obvious relief. It was easier to him to
put up his father's ideas for his friend, if he chose, to box with,
than receive the attack on his own person. He did not care in the least
how much Charlie attacked his father's opinions on matrimony; nor, on
the other hand, would the Marquis of Bolton care either, because the
fact of his never caring for anything was so widely known as to have
been abbreviated like a sort of hall-mark into his nick-name of Gallio.
'Yes, the governor talked to me about it yesterday,' he said to the
other. 'He was very convincing, I thought. He put it like this: It is
impossible for royalty to marry commoners; therefore, when royalty goes
a-wooing, it goes a-wooing in its own class. It is equally impossible
for me to marry a poor woman, because I can't afford it. Everything
is mortgaged up to the hilt, as you probably know, and, indeed, if I
don't marry a rich woman, we go smash. Therefore, I must go a-wooing,
like royalty, among the class into which alone it is possible for me
to marry. I see the force of that reasoning, so I am going to America.
See?'
'Gallio might have gone on to say that it appeared that the English
aristocracy is the only possible class for extremely rich American
girls to marry into,' remarked Charlie.
'Yes, I'll tell him that,' said the other; 'he would be pleased with
that. Then he went on to say that every country necessarily sends
abroad for barter or exchange what it doesn't want or has too great a
supply of. America has more money than it knows what to do with, so it
is willing to let some of it come here, while we have just found out
that titles are no longer of the slightest value to us. Nobody cares
about them now, so we send them for distribution abroad too.'
'Labelled,' said Charlie. 'Ducal coronet so much, countess's coronet
much cheaper, baroness's coronet for an annuity merely. You will be a
marquis, won't you? Marquises come rather high. Brush up the coronet,
Bertie, and put a fancy price on it.'
Charlie rose with some impatience as he spoke, and squirted some
soda-water into a glass.
'Doesn't the governor's view seem to you very sensible?' asked the
other.
'Yes, very sensible; that is why I find it so damnable. Sense is
overrunning us like some horrid weed. Nobody thinks of anything except
what will pay. That is what sense means. A sensible, well-balanced
view--a sensible, bank-balanced view! That is what it comes to.'
Bertie Keynes whistled gently to himself a minute.
'I don't think I'll tell Gallio that,' he said; 'I don't think he would
like that so much.'
Charlie laughed.
'Oh yes, he would; but you needn't tell him, since he knows it already.
Well, in soda-water, I drink success to your wooing. Don't make
yourself cheap.'
Bertie lit another cigarette from the stump of the one he had been
smoking previously.
'If anybody else had said that, I should have been rather annoyed,' he
remarked.
'You are annoyed as it is; at least, I meant you to be. It's no use
arguing about it, because we really differ, and you cannot argue unless
you fundamentally agree, which we do not. I'm in the minority, I know;
almost everybody agrees with you. But I am old-fashioned; I have been
told so this evening.'
'By----'
'Yes, by Sybil Massington. She, too, agrees with you.'
There was silence for a minute or two.
'It's two years since her husband died, is it not?' asked Bertie.
'Yes, two years and one month. I know what you are thinking about. I
asked her--at least, she saw what I meant--again this evening, but I
have asked her for the last time. I suppose it is that--my feeling
for her--that to-night makes me think what a horrible cold-blooded
proceeding you are going to embark on. I can't help it; I do feel like
that. So there's an end of it.'
Bertie did not reply, and a clock on the chimney-piece chimed two.
'There's one more thing,' he said at length. 'You advised me to brush
up the coronet. Did you mean anything?'
Charlie took out his watch, and began winding it up. Mechanically,
Bertie took his coat on his arm.
'Yes, I meant exactly what you think I meant.'
'It's rather awkward,' said Bertie. 'She's going out to America in the
autumn to act. I am certain to meet her in New York; at any rate, she
is certain to know I am there.'
'Will that really be awkward?' asked Charlie. 'Is she--is she?'
'I haven't seen her for nearly two years,' said the other.
'I don't know whether she hates me or the other thing. In either case,
I am rather afraid.'
Mrs. Massington also had spent the hour after she had got home in
midnight conference. Since her husband's death, two years ago, she
had lived with an unmarried sister of her own, a woman some ten years
older than herself, yet still on the intelligent side of forty, and
if she herself had rightly earned the title of the prettiest widow in
London, to Judy, even more unquestionably, belonged the reputation
of the wisest spinster in the same village. She was charmingly ugly,
and relished the great distinction that real ugliness, as opposed to
plainness, confers on its possessor. She was, moreover, far too wise
ever to care about saying clever things, and thus there were numbers
of people who could never imagine why she was so widely considered a
gifted woman. To Sybil Massington she was a sort of reference in all
questions that troubled her--a referee always to be listened to with
respect, generally to be agreed with, but in all cases to be treated
with entire frankness, for the very simple reason that Judy invariably
found you out, if you concealed any part of the truth, or had been in
any degree, when consulting her, what Mrs. Massington preferred to call
diplomatic.
Sybil Massington herself, though now a two-years-old widow, with
weeds which, as we have seen, others considered quite outworn, was
still barely twenty-five. She was one of those fortunate beings who
invariably through life see more smiles than frowns, more laughter than
tears, for the two excellent reasons that she was always, even when
herself tired or bored past the general freezing-point of politeness,
alert to amuse and to be interested in other people; the second because
she studiously avoided all people and places where frowns and tears
were likely to be of the party. K She deliberately took the view that
life is a very charming 'business at the best, but full in its very
woof--inseparably from existence--of many sombre-tinted threads. It
was therefore futile to darken the web of existence by serious or
solemn thoughts on the sadness of life and the responsibilities which
she did not really think were binding on her. She preferred dancing
in the sun to reading tracts in the shade; she wished primarily to be
happy herself, and, in a scarcely secondary degree, she wished all her
friends to be happy too. In this way her essential selfishness yet had
the great merit of giving much pleasure as it went on its pleasant
course; and though she had not, to state the fact quite baldly, the
slightest desire that anybody should be good, it gave her the greatest
pleasure to see that they were happy, and she really spent an enormous
amount of trouble and force in advancing this object. Such a nature,
whatever may be its final reward or punishment, certainly reaps a rich
harvest here; for strenuous and continued efforts to be agreeable,
especially when made by a young and pretty woman, yield their sixtyfold
and a hundredfold in immediate returns.
It must be confessed that she had immense natural advantages for the
rôle she so studiously played. She was rather above the ordinary height
of women, and had that smooth, lithe gracefulness which one associates
with boyhood rather than womanhood. Her head, small for her height,
was set on to her neck with that exquisite pose one sees in the Greek
_figurines_ from Tanagra; and her face, with its long, almond-shaped
eyes, straight features, and small mouth, expressed admirably the Pagan
attitude towards life that was hers. It was a face to be loved for its
fresh dewy loveliness, a face as of a spring morning, to be enjoyed
with a sense of unreasoning delight that such beauty exists. It gave
the beholder the same quality of pleasure that is given by the sight of
some young animal, simply because it is so graceful, so vital, so made
for and capable of enjoyment. And behind her beauty lay a brain of the
same order, subtle because she was a woman, but in other respects even
as her face, a minister and pastor of the religion of innocent mirth
and pleasure. In pursuance of this creed, however, she was capable
of subtle and intricate thought, and just now, in her talk with her
sister, it was getting abundant exercise.
'Ah, that is no use, dear Judy,' she was saying. 'I do not say to you,
"Make me different, then tell me what to do," but "Take me as I am, and
tell me what to do."' Judy's shrewd face broadened into a smile, and a
pleasant soul looked out of her intelligent eyes--eyes that were bright
and quick like a bird's.
'I don't in the least want to make you different,' she said, 'because I
think you are a unique survival.'
Sybil's eyes expressed surprise.
'Survival!' she said.
'Yes, dear; you came straight out of Pagan mythology; you were a nymph
in the woods by the Ilyssus, and Apollo saw you and ran after you.'
'Did he catch me?' asked Sybil, with an air of dewy innocence.
'Don't be risky; it doesn't suit you. Really, Sybil, considering
what--what great natural advantages you have, you should study yourself
more closely. Just as a fault of manner committed by a woman who wears
a beautiful dress is worse than a fault of manner committed by a
char-woman, so you, with your appearance, should be doubly careful not
to say anything out of character.'
'Dear Judy, you are charming, but do keep to the point.'
'I thought you were the point; I am sure I have talked about nothing
else.'
'I know: it is charming of you; and you have yawned so frightfully
doing it that it is cruel to bring you back to it. But I really want
your advice now at once.'
Judy poured out some hot water from a blanketed jug, and sipped it.
Having an admirable digestion, she was determined to keep it. 'Take
care of your health, if it is good,' was a maxim of hers. 'If it is
inferior, try to think about something better.'
'State your case, then, in a very few words,' she said, looking at the
clock.
'It is fast,' said Sybil, laughing, 'though not so fast as I should
wish. Well, it is this: I am twenty-five years old, and I don't believe
I have the faculty of what is known as falling in love. It always seems
to me I haven't time, to begin with. I was married, as you know, at
eighteen, but I can't imagine I was ever in love with John. Otherwise
that horror couldn't have happened.'
Judy looked up, forgetting the time and the hot water.
'What horror?' she asked.
The light died out of Sybil's face; she looked like a troubled child.
'I have never told anyone,' she said, 'because I was ashamed, but I
will tell you to make you understand me. He was ill, as you know, for
months before he died; every day I used to grow sick at the thought of
having to sit by him, to talk to him. He got more and more emaciated
and awful to look at. One night I did not kiss him as usual. He asked
me to, and I refused; I could not--simply I could not. I loathed the
thought of the days that were coming; I longed for the end, and when
the end came I was glad. I tried to persuade myself that I was glad his
sufferings were over. It was not so; I was glad that mine were over. So
I think I never loved him, though I liked him very much. Then he got
ill and awful, and I was very sorry for him. But that was all. Ah----'
She got up, and walked up and down the room once or twice, as if to
waken herself from the clutch of some horrid dream. Then she stopped
behind Judy's chair, and leaned over her sister, stroking her hair.
'Yes, that was the horror, Judy,' she said; 'and I am that horror. Now,
to-night again Charlie would have asked me to marry him, if I had not;
"smiling put the question by." I like him very much; I think I should
like to have him always in the house. I like everything about him.'
'Don't marry him,' said Judy quickly.
'Judy, when you speak like that, you are saying to yourself, "If only
she was different." Well, I am not; I am as I am. I couldn't make my
eyes blue by wanting, or make myself an inch taller. Well, it must
surely be far more difficult to change one's nature in so radical a
way.'
'I think you did not run very fast when Apollo began Judy.
'That does not suit you, either, dear,' remarked Sybil. 'Well, then, I
am not to marry Charlie. Am I to marry anybody? That is the point. Or
am I to consider that marriage is not for me?'
'How can I tell you, Sybil?' asked Judy, rather perplexed. 'I dare say
there are men who regard marriage like you. You can calmly contemplate
marrying a man whom you just like. I don't see why, if you can find a
man like you, you shouldn't be far happier together than you would be
single. I don't see what law, human or Divine, prevents your marrying.
You promise to love, honour, and obey--well, fifty people mean exactly
fifty different things by love. Because A doesn't attach the same
meaning to it as B, B has no right to say that A doesn't love. And
perhaps your "liking very much" will do. But don't marry a man who
loves you very much. John did.'
'Yes, John did,' said Sybil, and paused a moment. 'Then I think I shall
go to America,' she said.
'America?' said Judy.
'Yes; Mrs. Palmer has asked me to go, and I think I shall accept.'
'Do you mean the steam-siren?' asked Judy.
'Yes, the steam-siren. You see, I like steam, go, energy, so much that
I don't really mind about the siren.'
'She has the manners,' said Judy, 'of a barmaid, and the mind of a--a
barmaid.'
'I know. But I don't mind. In fact--don't howl--I like her; she is
extremely good-natured.'
Judy yawned.
'Dear Sybil, she is extremely rich.'
'Certainly. If she lived in a back fourth-floor flat in New York, I
shouldn't go to stay with her. You see, I like rich people; I like the
quality of riches just as you like the quality of generosity. By the
way, you must be rather rich to be generous to any extent, so the two
are really synonymous; I'm glad I thought of that. Anyhow, I am going
to stay with her.'
Judy got up.
'You are going to stay with her in order to meet other people who are
rich,' she said.
'Why not?' asked Sybil. 'Other things being equal, I should prefer to
marry a rich man than a poor one. Or shall I cultivate acquaintances in
Seven Dials?'
Judy laughed.
'I think they would appreciate you in Seven Dials,' said she, 'and I am
sure they will in America. You can make yourself very pleasant, Sybil.'
'Yes, dear, and you can make yourself most unpleasant, and I adore you
for it. Judy dear, it's after two. How you keep one up talking!'