ONLY A SIMPLE SERVICE
Mrs. Elstree took the card that the maid brought her. She started up,
mechanically touched her hair--which was of the feathery and fluffy
kind--and her dress, with the woman's instinct to see that everything
was in order: the quick colour rose to her cheek--perhaps from the
heat of the fire. 'Yes,' she said, 'I am at home.' She was sitting
beside the fire in the drawing-room of Armorel's flat. It was a cold
afternoon in March: outside, a black east wind raged through the
streets; it was no day for driving or for walking: within, soft
carpets, easy-chairs, and bright fires invited one to stay at home.
This lady, indeed, was one of those who love warmth and physical ease
above all other things. Actually to be warm, lazily warm, without any
effort to feel warmth, afforded her a positive and distinct physical
pleasure, just as a cat is pleased by being stroked. Therefore, though
a book lay in her lap, she had not been reading. It is much pleasanter
to lie back and feel warm, with half-closed eyes, in a peaceful room,
than to be led away by some impetuous novelist into uncomfortable
places, cold places, fatiguing places.
She started, however, and the book fell to the floor, where it
remained. And she rose to her feet when the owner of the card came in.
The relict of Jerome Elstree was still young, and grief had as yet
destroyed none of her beauty. She looked better, perhaps, in the
morning--which says a great deal.
'Alec?' she murmured--her eyes as soft as her voice. 'I thought you
would come this afternoon.'
'Are you quite alone, Mrs. Elstree?' he asked with a look of warning.
'Quite, Mr. Feilding. And, since the door is shut, and we are quite
alone--why--then----' She laughed, held out both her hands, and put up
her face like a child.
He took her hands and bent to kiss her lips.
'Zoe,' he said, 'you grow lovelier every day. Last night----' He
kissed her again.
'Lovelier than Philippa?'
'What is Philippa beside you? An iceberg beside a--a garden of
flowers----'
'There is beauty in icebergs, I have read.'
'Never mind Philippa, dear Zoe. She is nothing to us.'
'I don't mind her a bit, Alec, if you don't. If you begin to mind
her---- But we will wait until that happens. Why are you here to-day?'
'I have come to call upon Mrs. Elstree, widow of my poor friend Jerome
Elstree.'
'Ce pauvre Jerome! The tears come into my eyes'--in fact, they did at
that moment--'look!--when I think of him. So often have I spoken of
his virtues and his untimely fate that he has really lived. I never
before understood that there are ghosts of men who never lived as well
as ghosts of the dead.'
'And I came to call upon your charge, Miss Rosevean.'
'Yes'--she said this dubiously, perhaps jealously--'so I supposed. Why
did you send me here, Alec? You have always got some reason for
everything. There was no need for my coming--I was doing as well as I
expect to do.'
The young man looked about the room without replying to this question.
'Someone,' he said presently, 'has furnished this room who knows
furniture.'
'It was Armorel herself. I have no taste--as you know.'
'And how do you get on with her? Are you happy here, Zoe?'
'I am as happy as I ever expect to be--until----'
'Yes, yes,' he interrupted, impatiently. 'You like her, then?'
'I like her as much as I can like any woman. You know, Alec, I am not
greatly in love with my own sex. If there were no other women in the
world than just enough to dress me, get my dinner, and keep my house
clean, I should not murmur. Eve was the happiest of women, in spite of
the difficulties she must have had in keeping up with the fashion.
Because, you see, she was the only woman.'
'No doubt. And now tell me about this girl.'
'She is rich. To be rich is everything. Money makes an angel of every
woman. When I was eighteen, and first met you, Alec, I was rich. Then
you saw the wings sticking out visibly one on each shoulder, didn't
you? They are gone now--at least,' she looked over her shoulder, 'I
see them no longer.'
'I heard she was rich. Where did the money come from?'
'It has been saving up for I don't know how long. The girl is only
twenty-one, and she has about thirty thousand pounds, besides all
kinds of precious things worth I don't know how much.'
'Jagenal told me she was comfortably off--"comfortably," he
said--but--thirty thousand pounds!'
'The mere thought of so much makes your eyes glow quite poetically,
Alec. Write a poem on thirty thousand pounds. Well, that is what she
has, and all her own, without any drawbacks: no nasty poor
relations--no profligate brothers--to nibble and gnaw. She has not
either brother or sister--an enviable lot when one has money. When one
has no money a brother--a successful brother--might be useful.'
'And how do you get on with her?'
'I think we do pretty well together. But my post is precarious.'
'Why?'
'Because the young woman is pretty, rich, and masterful. It is a
curious thing about women that the most masterful soonest find their
master.'
'You mean that she will marry.'
'If she gets engaged, being rich, she will certainly marry at once.
Until she marries I believe we can get on together, because she is
totally independent of me. This afternoon, for example, she has gone
out to look at pictures somewhere, with a girl she has picked up
somehow--a girl who writes.'
'But, my dear Zoe, you must look after her. Don't let her pick up
girls and make friendships. You are here to look after her. I hoped
that you would gain her complete confidence--become indispensable to
her.'
'Oh! that is why you sent me here? Pray, my dear Alec, what can
Armorel be to you?'
'Nothing, dear child,' he replied, patting her soft hand, 'that will
bring any discord between you and me. But--make yourself indispensable
and necessary to her.'
'You will tell me, I dare say, presently, what you mean. But you don't
know this young islander. Necessary to me she is, as you know.
Necessary to her I shall never become. We have nothing in common. I
can do nothing for her at all, except go out to theatres and concerts
and things in the evening. Even then our tastes clash. I like to
laugh; she likes to sit solemnly with big eyes staring--so--as if she
was receiving inspiration. I like comic operas, she likes serious
plays; I like dance music, she likes classical music; I like the
fool's paradise, she likes--the other kind, where they all behave so
well and are under no illusions. In fact, Armorel takes herself quite
seriously all round. Of course, a girl with such a fortune can take
herself anyhow she pleases.'
'She knows how to dress, apparently. Most advanced girls disdain
dress.'
'But she is not an advanced girl. She is only a girl who knows a great
deal. She is not in the least emancipated. Why, she still professes
the Christian religion. She is just a girl who has set herself
resolutely to learn all she can. She has been about it for five years.
When she began, I understand that she knew nothing. What she means to
do with her knowledge I have not learned. She talks French and German
and Italian. You have heard her play? Very well: you can't beat that.
You shall see some of her drawings. They are rather in your style, I
think. A highly cultivated girl. That is all.'
'A female prig? A consciously superior person?'
'Not a bit. Rather humble-minded. But masterful and independent. Where
she fails is, of course, in ordinary talk. She can't talk--she can
only converse. She doesn't know the pictures and painters, and poets
and novelists of the day--she doesn't know a single person in society.
She doesn't know any personal history at all. And she doesn't care
about any. That is Armorel.'
'I see,' he replied thoughtfully. 'Things will be difficult, I am
afraid.'
'What things? Oh! there is another point in which she differs from
people of society.'
'Yes?'
'When you and I, dear Alec, think and talk of people, we conclude that
they are exactly like ourselves--do we not? Quite worldly and selfish,
you know. Everyone with his little show to run for himself. Now,
Armorel, on the other hand, concludes that everyone is like--not
us--but herself. Do you catch the difference? There is a difference,
you know.'
'Sometimes, Zoe, I seem not to understand you. But never mind. Under
your influence----'
'I have no influence at all with her. I never shall have.'
'But, my dear Zoe, why are you here? I want you--I repeat--to exercise
an overwhelming influence.'
'Oh! It is impossible. Consider--you who know me so well--how can I
influence a girl who is always seeking after great things? She wants
everything noble and lofty and pure. She has what they call a great
soul--and I--oh! Alec, you know that I belong to the infinitely little
souls. There are a great, great number of us, but we are very
contemptible.'
'Let us think,' he replied. 'Let us contrive and devise some way----'
'Enough about Armorel. Tell me now about yourself.'
'I am always the same.'
'You have come, perhaps, this afternoon,' she murmured softly, 'to
bring me some new hope--Oh! Alec--at last--some hope?'
'I have no new hope to give you, child.'
Both sat in silence, looking into the firelight.
'It is seven years--seven years,' said Zoe, 'since I had my great
quarrel with Philippa. She was eighteen then--and so was I--I charged
her with throwing herself at your head, you know. So she did. So she
does still. Why, the woman can't conceal, even now, that she loves
you. I saw it in her eyes last night, I saw it in her attitude when
she was talking to you. She swore after the row we had that she would
never speak to me again. But you see she has broken that vow. I was
eighteen then, and I was rich, a good deal richer than Philippa ever
will be. When you and I became engaged I was twenty-one. That is four
years ago, Alec. Yet, a year or two, and the girl you were--engaged
to--will be thin and faded. For your sake, my dear boy, I hope that
you will not keep her waiting very much longer before you present her
to the world.'
'My dear child, could I help the smash that came--the smash and
scandal? When the whole town was ringing with your father's smash and
his suicide, and the ruin of I don't know how many people, was that
the moment for us to step forward and take hands before the world?'
'No; you certainly could not. As a man of the world, you would have
been justified in breaking off the thing--especially as it was only a
day or two old.'
'I could not let you go, Zoe,' he said, with a touch of real
tenderness. 'I was madly in love.'
'I think you were, Alec. I really think that at the time you were
truly and madly in love. Else you would never have done a thing of
which you repented the next day.'
'I have never repented, dear Zoe--never once.'
'Perhaps you calculated that something would be saved out of the
smash. Perhaps, for once in your life, you never calculated at all
upon anything. Well--I consented to keep the thing a secret.'
'You know that it was necessary.'
'You said so. I obeyed. But four years--four years--and no prospect of
a termination. Consider!' She pleaded as she had spoken before, in the
same soft, caressing, murmuring tone.
'I do consider, Zoe. You can have your freedom again. I have no
right----'
'Nonsense! My freedom? It is your own that you want. My freedom?' she
repeated, but without raising her voice. 'Mine? What could I do with
it--now? Whither could I turn? Do not, I advise you, think that I will
ever while I live restore your freedom to you.'
'I spoke in your own interest, believe me.'
'I am now what you have made me. You know what that is. You know what
I was four years ago.'
'I have advised you, it is true.'
'No; you have led me. At the moment of my greatest trouble you made me
break away from my own people, who were sorry for my misfortunes, and
would have kept me among them in my own circle. There was no reason
for me to leave them. The wreck of my father's fortune was not imputed
to me. You persuaded me to assert my own independence, and to go upon
the stage, for which I was as well fitted as for the kingdom of
heaven.'
'I hoped--I thought--that you would succeed.'
'No; what you hoped and intended was to keep me in your power. You
would not let me go, and you could not--or would not----'
'Could not, my child. I could not.'
'For four years I have endured the humiliations of the actress who is
a failure and can only take the lowest parts. You know what I have
endured, and yet---- Oh! Alec, your love is, indeed, a noble gift! And
now, for your sake, I am here, playing a part for you. I am the young
widow of the man who never existed. I make up a hundred lies every day
to a girl who believes every word--which makes it more disgraceful and
more horrible. When one knows that she is disbelieved it is
different.'
'Zoe, you know my position.'
'Very well, indeed. You live in a little palace. You keep your
man-servant and your two horses. You go every day into some kind of
good society----'
'It is necessary: my position demands it.'
'Your position, my friend, has nothing to do with it. If you stayed at
home every evening just as many copies of your paper would be sold.
You spend all this money on yourself, Alec, because you are a selfish
person and indulgent, and because you like to make a great show of
success.'
'You do not understand.'
'Oh, yes, I do! You paint lovely pictures, which you sell: you write
admirable stories and excellent verses--at least, I suppose they are
admirable and excellent. You put them into a paper which is your
own----'
'Yes--yes. But all these things leave me as poor as I was four years
ago.'
He got up and stood before the fire, looking into it. Then he walked
across to the window and gazed into the street. Then he returned and
looked into the fire again. This restlessness may be a sign that
something is on a man's mind.
'Zoe,' he said at length, without looking at her, 'your impatience
makes you unjust. You do not understand. Things have come to a
crisis.'
'What kind of a crisis?'
'A financial crisis. I must have money.'
'Then go and make it. Paint more pictures: write more poetry. Make
money, as other men do. It is very noble and grand to pretend that you
only work when you please; but it isn't business, and it isn't true.'
'Again--you do not understand. I must have money in a short time, or
else----'
'Else--what may happen, Alec?' She leaned forward, losing her
murmuring manner for the first time.
'I may--I must--become bankrupt. That to me signifies social ruin.'
'You have something more to say. Won't you say it at once?'
'If I can get over this difficulty it will be all right--my anxieties
over. I thought, Zoe, when I sent you here, that, with a girl rich,
mistress of her own, of age, it would be easy for you to wind yourself
into her confidence and borrow--or beg, or somehow get what I want out
of her. To borrow would be best.'
'How much do you want? Tell me exactly.'
'I want, before the end of next month, about 3,000_l._ Say, 3,500_l._'
'That is a very large sum of money.'
'Not to this girl. Make her lend it to you. Make up some story. Beg it
or borrow it--and----' he laid his hand upon her shoulder, but she
made no movement in reply; he stooped and kissed her head, but she did
not look up. 'Zoe--I swear--if you will do this for me, our long and
weary waiting shall be at an end. I will acknowledge everything. I
will give up this extravagant life: we will settle down like a couple
of honest bourgeois: we will live over the shop if you like--that is,
the publishing office of the paper.' He took her hand and raised it to
his lips, but she made no response.
'Would she ever get the money back again?'
'Perhaps. How can I tell?'
'Even for the bribe you offer, Alec, I am afraid I cannot do it.'
'We will try together. We will lay ourselves out to attract the girl,
to win her confidence. Consider. She is alone. She is in our
hands----'
'Yes, yes. But you do not know her. Alec, if I cannot succeed, what
will you do?'
'I must look out for some girl with money and get engaged to her. The
mere fact of an engagement would be enough for me.'
'Yes,' she said quickly, 'it would have to be. Will you get engaged
to--to Philippa?'
'No; Philippa will only have money at the death of her father and
mother--not before. Philippa is out of the question.'
'Is there nobody among all your fine friends who will lend you the
money?'
'No one. We do not lend money to each other. We go on as if there were
no money difficulties in the world, as well as no diseases, no old
age, no dying. We do not speak of money.'
'Friendship in society has its limits. Yes; I see. But can't you
borrow it in the usual way of business people?'
'I should have to show books and enter into unpleasant explanations.
You see, Zoe, the paper has got a very good name, but rather a small
circulation. Everybody sees it, but very few buy it.'
'And so you heard of Armorel, and you thought that here was a chance.
You say to me, in plain words: "If you get this money, there shall be
an end of the false position." Is that so?'
'That is exactly what I do say and swear, Zoe. It is a very simple
thing. You have only to persuade the girl to lend you this money, or
to advance it, or to invest it by your agency--or something--a very
simple and easy thing. You love me well enough to do me such a simple
service.'
'I love you well enough, I suppose,' she replied sadly, 'to do
everything you tell me to do. A simple service! Only to deceive and
plunder this girl, who believes us all to be honourable and truthful!'
'Oh, we shall find a way--some way--to pay her back. Don't be afraid.
And don't go off into platitudes, Zoe--you are much too pretty--and
when it is done, and you are openly, before the world----'
'I know you well enough to know how much happiness to expect. I am a
fool. All women are fools. Philippa is a fool. And I've set my foolish
heart on--you. If I fail--if I fail'--her words sank to the softest
and gentlest murmur--'you are going to cast about for an heiress, and
you will get engaged to her, and then--then--we shall see, dear Alec,
what will happen then.' She sat up, her cheek fiery, and her eyes
flashing, though her voice was so soft. 'Hush!' she whispered. 'I hear
Armorel's step!'
They heard her voice as well outside, loud and clear.
'Come to my own room,' she said. 'What you want is there. This way.'
'It is the girl with her--the girl who writes. They have gone into her
own room--her boudoir--her study--where she works half the day. The
girl lives with her brother, close by.'
They listened, silent, with hushed breath, like conspirators.
'Poor Armorel!' said Zoe. 'If she only knew what we are plotting! She
thinks me the most truthful of women! And all I am here for is to
cheat her out of her money! Don't you think I had better make a clean
breast and ask her to give me the money and let me go?'
'Begin to-day,' said Alec. 'Begin to talk about me. Interest her in
me. Let her know how great and good----'
'Hush!'
Then they heard her voice again in the hall.
'No--no--you must come this evening. Bring Archie with you. I will
play, and he shall listen. You shall both listen. And then great
thoughts will come to you.'
'Always great thoughts--great thoughts--great pictures,' Zoe murmured.
'And we are so infinitely little. Brother worm, shall we crawl into
some hole and hide ourselves?'
Then the door opened, and Armorel herself appeared, fresh and rosy in
spite of the cold wind.
'My dear child,' said Zoe softly, looking up from her cushions, 'come
in and sit down. You must be perishing with the east wind. Do sit down
and be comfortable. You met Mr. Feilding last night, I believe.'
The visitor remained for a quarter of an hour. Armorel had been to see
a certain picture in the National Gallery. He talked of pictures just
as, the night before, he had talked of music: that is to say, as one
who knows all the facts about the painters and their works and their
schools: their merits and their defects. He knew and could talk
fluently the language of the Art Critic, just as he knew and could
talk the language of the Musical Critic. Armorel listened. Now and
then she made a remark. But her manner lacked the reverence with which
most maidens listened to this thrice-gifted darling of the Muses. She
actually seemed not to care very much what he said.
Zoe, for her part, lay back in her cushions in silence.
'How do you like him?' she asked, when their visitor left them.
'I don't know; I haven't thought about him. He talks too much, I
think. And he talks as if he was teaching.'
'No one has a better right to talk with authority.'
'But we are free to listen or not as we please. Why has he the right
to teach everybody?'
'My dear child, Alec Feilding is the cleverest man in all London.'
'He must be very clever then. What does he do?'
'He does everything--poetry, painting, fiction--everything!'
'Oh, you will show me his poetry, perhaps, some time? And his pictures
I suppose we shall see in May somewhere. He doesn't look as if he was
at all great. But one may be wrong.'
'My dear Armorel, you are a fortunate girl, though you do not
understand your good fortune. Alec--I am privileged to call him
Alec--has conceived a great interest in you. Oh, not of the common
love kind, that you despise so much--nothing to do with your _beaux
yeux_--but on account of your genius. He was greatly taken with your
playing: if you will show him your pictures he will give you
instruction that may be useful to you. He wants to know you, my dear.'
'Well,' said Armorel, not in the least overwhelmed, 'he can if he
pleases, I suppose, since he is a friend of yours.'
'That is not all: he wants your friendship as a sister in art. Such a
man--such an offer, Armorel, must not be taken lightly.'
'I am not drawn towards him,' said the girl. 'In fact, I think I
rather dislike his voice, which is domineering; and his manner, which
seems to me self-conscious and rather pompous; and his eyes, which are
too close together. Zoe, if he were not the cleverest man in London, I
should say that he was the most crafty.'
Zoe laughed. 'What man discovers by experiment and experience,' she
murmured, incoherently, 'woman discovers at a glance. And yet they
say----'