MRS. AARONS.
There was no room for doubt as to what Paul Brion had meant. When
the evening of the next day came--on which there was no Parliament
sitting--he returned to No. 7 to dinner, and after dinner it was
apparent that neither professional nor other engagements would have
prevented him from enjoying the society of his fair neighbours if he
had had a mind for it. His sitting-room opened upon the balcony--so
did theirs; there was but a thin partition between them, and the girls
knew not only when he was at home, but to a great extent what he was
doing, by the presence and pungency of the odour from his pipe. When
only faint whiffs stole into their open window from time to time,
he was in his room, engaged--it was supposed--upon those wonderful
leading articles which were, to them, the great feature of the paper
to whose staff he belonged. At such times--for the houses in Myrtle
Street were of a very lath-and-plastery order--they were careful to
make no noise, and especially not to open their piano, that he might
pursue his arduous labours undisturbed. But sometimes on these "off"
nights he sat outside his window or strolled up and down the few feet
of space allotted to him; and they would hear the rustle of the leaves
of books on the other side of the partition, and the smell of his pipe
would be very strong. This indicated that he had come home to rest and
relax himself; on which occasions, prompted by some subtle feminine
impulse, they would now and then indulge themselves with some of their
best music--tacitly agreeing to select the very finest movements from
the works of those best-beloved old masters whose majestic chimes rang
out the dark evening of the eighteenth century and rang in the new age
of art and liberty whose morning light we see--so as not to suggest,
except by extreme comparison, the departed lady who played conventional
rubbish on the instrument that was out of tune. That Paul Brion did not
know Bach and Spohr, even by name and fame (as he did not), never for
a moment occurred to them. How were they to know that the science and
literature of music, in which they had been so well instructed, were
not the usual study of educated people? They heard that he ceased to
walk up and down his enclosure when they began to play and sing, and
they smelt that his pipe was as near their window as it could get until
they left off. That was enough.
To-night, then, he was strolling and sitting about his section of the
balcony. They heard him tramping to and fro for a full hour after
dinner, in a fidgetty manner; and then they heard him drag a chair
through his window, and sit down on it heavily. It occurred to them
all that he was doing nothing--except, perhaps, waiting for a chance
to see and speak to them. A little intercourse had taken place of late
in this way--a very little. One night, when Elizabeth had gone out
to remonstrate with Dan for barking at inoffensive dogs that went by
in the street below, Paul, who had been leaning meditatively on his
balustrade, bent his head a little forward to ask her if she found the
smell of his tobacco unpleasant. She assured him that none of them
minded it at all, and remarked that the weather was warm. Upon which
he replied that the thermometer was so and so, and suggested that she
must miss the sea breezes very much. She said they missed them very
much indeed, and inquired if he had heard from his father lately, and
whether he was well. He was glad to inform her that his father, from
whom he had just heard, was in excellent health, and further, that
he had made many inquiries after her and her sisters. She thanked
Mr. Brion sincerely, and hoped he (Mr. Paul) would give him their
kindest regards when he wrote again and tell him they were getting on
admirably. Mr. Paul said he would certainly not forget it. And they
bade each other a polite good-night. Since then, both Elizabeth and
Eleanor had had a word to say to him occasionally, when he and they
simultaneously took the air after the day was over, and simultaneously
happened to lean over the balustrade. Patty saw no harm in their doing
so, but was very careful not to do it herself or to let him suppose
that she was conscious of his near neighbourhood. She played to him
sometimes with singular pleasure in her performance, but did not once
put herself in the way of seeing or speaking to him.
To-night, not only she, but all of them, made a stern though unspoken
vow that they would never--that they _could_ never--so much as say
good-night to him on the balcony any more. The lesson that he had
taught them was sinking deeply into their hearts; they would never
forget it again while they lived. They sat at their needlework in the
bright gaslight, with the window open and the venetian blind down, and
listened to the sound of his footstep and the dragging of his chair,
and clearly realised the certainty that it was not because he was too
busy that he had refused to spend the evening with them, but because
he had felt obliged to show them that they had asked him to do a thing
that was improper. Patty's head was bent down over her sewing; her face
was flushed, her eyes restless, her quick fingers moving with nervous
vehemence. Breaking her needle suddenly, she looked up and exclaimed,
"Why are we sitting here so dull and stupid, all silent, like three
scolded children? Play something, Nellie. Put away that horrid skirt,
and play something bright and stirring--a good rousing march, or
something of that sort."
"The Bridal March from 'Lohengrin,'" suggested Elizabeth, softly.
"No," said Patty; "something that will brace us up, and not make us
feel small and humble and sat upon." What she meant was "something that
will make Paul Brion understand that we don't feel small and humble and
sat upon."
Eleanor rose, and laid her long fingers on the keyboard. She was not in
the habit of taking things much to heart herself, and she did not quite
understand her sister's frame of mind. The spirit of mischief prompted
her to choose the saddest thing in the way of a march that she could
recall on the spur of the moment--that funeral march of Beethoven's
that Patty had always said was capable of reducing her to dust and
ashes in her most exuberant moments. She threw the most heartbreaking
expression that art allowed into the stately solemnity of her always
perfectly balanced execution, partly because she could never render
such a theme otherwise than reverently, but chiefly for the playful
purpose of working upon Patty's feelings. Poor Patty had "kept up"
and maintained a superficial command of herself until now, but this
unexpected touch of pathos broke her down completely. She laid her arm
on the table, and her pretty head upon her arm, and broke into a brief
but passionate fit of weeping, such as she had never indulged in in
all her life before. At the sound of the first sob Eleanor jumped up
from the music-stool, contrite and frightened--Elizabeth in another
moment had her darling in her arms; and both sisters were seized with
the fear that Patty was sickening for some illness, caught, probably,
in the vitiated atmosphere of city streets, to which she had never been
accustomed.
In the stillness of the night, Paul Brion, leaning over the balustrade
of the verandah, and whitening his coat against the partition that
divided his portion of it from theirs, heard the opening bars of
the funeral march, the gradually swelling sound and thrill of its
impassioned harmonies, as of a procession tramping towards him along
the street, and the sudden lapse into untimely silence. And then
he heard, very faintly, a low cry and a few hurried sobs, and it
was as if a lash had struck him. He felt sure that it was Patty who
had been playing (he thought it must always be Patty who made that
beautiful music), and Patty who had fallen a victim to the spirit of
melancholy that she had invoked--simply because she always _did_ seem
to him to represent the action of the little drama of the sisters'
lives, and Elizabeth and Eleanor to be the chorus merely; and he had
a clear conviction, in the midst of much vague surmise, that he was
involved in the causes that had made her unhappy. For a little while
he stood still, fixing his eyes upon a neighbouring street lamp and
scowling frightfully. He heard the girls' open window go down with a
sharp rattle, and presently heard it open again hastily to admit Dan,
who had been left outside. Then he himself went back, on tiptoe, to
his own apartment, with an expression of more than his usual alert
determination on his face.
Entering his room, he looked at his watch, shut his window and bolted
it, walked into the adjoining bedchamber, and there, with the gas
flaring noisily so as to give him as much light as possible, made a
rapid toilet, exchanging his loose tweeds for evening dress. In less
than ten minutes he was down in the hall, with his latch key in his
pocket, shaking himself hurriedly into a light overcoat; and in less
than half an hour he was standing at the door of a good-sized and
rather imposing-looking house in the neighbouring suburb, banging it
in his peremptory fashion with a particularly loud knocker.
Within this house its mistress was receiving, and she was a friend
of his, as might have been seen by the manner of their greeting when
the servant announced him, as also by the expression of certain faces
amongst the guests when they heard his name--as they could not well
help hearing it. "Mr.--_Paul_--BRION," the footman shouted, with three
distinct and well-accentuated shouts, as if his lady were entertaining
in the Town Hall. It gave Mrs. Aarons great pleasure when her domestic,
who was a late acquisition, exercised his functions in this impressive
manner.
She came sailing across the room in a very long-tailed and brilliant
gown--a tall, fair, yellow-haired woman, carefully got up in the best
style of conventional art (as a lady who had her clothes from Paris
regardless of expense was bound to be)--flirting her fan coquettishly,
and smiling an unmistakeable welcome. She was not young, but she looked
young, and she was not pretty, but she was full of sprightly confidence
and self-possession, which answered just as well. Least of all was
she clever, as the two or three of her circle, who were, unwillingly
recognised; but she was quick-witted and vivacious, accomplished in
the art of small talk, and ready to lay down the law upon any subject,
and somehow cleverness was assumed by herself and her world in general
to be her most remarkable and distinguishing characteristic. And,
finally, she had no pretensions to hereditary distinction--very much
the contrary, indeed; but her husband was rich (he was standing in a
retired corner, a long-nosed man with dark eyes rather close together,
amongst a group of her admirers, admiring her as much as any of
them), and she had known the social equivalent for money obtainable
by good management in a community that must necessarily make a table
of precedence for itself; and she had obtained it. She was a woman
of fashion in her sphere, and her friends were polite enough to have
no recollection of her antecedents, and no knowledge of the family
connections whose existence she found it expedient to ignore. It must
be said of her that her reputation, subject to the usual attacks of
scandal-loving gossips who were jealous of her success, was perfectly
untarnished; she was too cold and self-contained to be subject to the
dangers that might have beset a less worldly woman in her position (for
that Mr. Aarons was anything more than the minister to her ambitions
and conveniences nobody for a moment supposed). Nevertheless, to have
a little court of male admirers always hanging about her was the chief
pleasure, and the attracting and retaining of their admiration the
most absorbing pursuit of her life. Paul Brion was the latest, and at
present the most interesting, of her victims. He had a good position
in the press world, and had recently been talked of "in society" in
connection with a particularly striking paper signed "P. B.," which
had appeared in the literary columns of his journal. Wherefore, in the
character of a clever woman, Mrs. Aarons had sought him out and added
him to the attractions of her _salon_ and the number of sympathetic
friends. And, in spite of his hawk eyes, and his keen discernment
generally, our young man had the ordinary man's belief that he stood
on a pedestal among his rivals, and thought her the kindest and most
discriminating and most charming of women.
At least he had thought so until this moment. Suddenly, as she came
across the room to meet him, with her long train rustling over the
carpet in a queenly manner, and a gracious welcome in her pale blue
eyes, he found himself looking at her critically--comparing her
complacent demeanour with the simple dignity of Elizabeth King, and
her artificial elegance with the wild-flower grace of Eleanor, who was
also tall and fair--and her studied sprightliness with Patty's inspired
vigour--and her countenance, that was wont to be so attractive, with
Patty's beautiful and intellectual face.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Aarons, shaking hands with him impressively, "you have
remembered my existence, then, _at last!_ Do you know how many weeks it
is since you honoured me with your company?--_five_. And I wonder you
can stand there and look me in the face."
He said it had been his misfortune and not his fault--that he had been
so immersed in business that he had had no time to indulge in pleasure.
"Don't tell me. You don't have business on Friday evenings," said Mrs.
Aarons promptly.
"Oh, don't I?" retorted Mr. Brion (the fact being that he had spent
several Friday evenings on his balcony, smoking and listening to his
neighbours' music, in the most absolute and voluptuous idleness).
"You ladies don't know what a press-man's life is--his nose to the
grindstone at all hours of the night and day."
"Poor man! Well, now you are here, come and sit down and tell me what
you have been doing."
She took a quick glance round the room, saw that her guests were in a
fair way to support the general intercourse by voluntary contributions,
set the piano and a thin-voiced young lady and some "Claribel" ditties
going, and then retired with Paul to a corner sofa for a chat. She was
inclined to make much of him after his long absence, and he was in a
mood to be more effusive than his wont. Nevertheless, the young man
did not advance, as suspicious observers supposed him to be doing, in
the good graces of his charming friend--ready as she was to meet him
half-way.
"Of course I wanted very much to see you--it seems an awful time since
I was here--but I had another reason for coming to-night," said Paul,
when they had comfortably settled themselves (he was the descendant
of countless gentlefolk and she had not even a father that she could
conveniently call her own, yet was she constrained to blush for his bad
manners and his brutal deficiency in delicacy and tact). "I want to ask
a favour of you--you are always so kind and good--and I think you will
not mind doing it. It is not much--at least to you--but it would be
very much to them--"
"To whom?" inquired Mrs. Aarons, with a little chill of disappointment
and disapproval already in her voice and face. This was not what
she felt she had a right to expect under the present combination of
circumstances.
"Three girls--three sisters, who are orphans--in a kind of way, wards
of my father's," explained Paul, showing a disposition to stammer
for the first time. "Their name is King, and they have come to live
in Melbourne, where they don't know anyone--not a single friend. I
thought, perhaps, you would just call in and see them some day--it
would be so awfully kind of you, if you would. A little notice from a
woman like _you_ would be just everything to them."
"Are they nice?--that is to say, are they the sort of people whom one
would--a--care to be responsible for--you know what I mean? Are they
_ladies?_" inquired Mrs. Aarons, who, by virtue of her own extraction,
was bound to be select and exclusive in her choice of acquaintances.
"Most certainly," replied Paul, with imprudent warmth. "There can be no
manner of doubt about that. _Born_ ladies."
"I don't ask what they were born," she said quickly, with a toss of the
head. "What are they _now?_ Who are their connections? What do they
live on?"
Paul Brion gave a succinct and graphic sketch of the superficial
history and circumstances of his father's "wards," omitting various
details that instinct warned him might be accounted "low"--such, for
instance, as the fact that the single maidservant of the house they
lived in was nothing more to them than their medium of communication
with the front door. He dwelt (like the straightforward blunderer
that he was) on their personal refinement and their high culture and
accomplishments, how they studied every day at the Public Library,
taking their frugal lunch at the pastry-cook's--how they could talk
French and German like "natives"--how they played the piano in a way
that made all the blood in one's veins tingle--how, in short, they were
in all things certain to do honour and credit to whoever would spread
the wing of the matron and chaperon over them. It seemed to him a very
interesting story, told by himself, and he was quite convinced that it
must touch the tender woman's heart beating under that pretty dress
beside him.
"You are a mother yourself," he said (as indeed she was--the mother
of four disappointing little Aaronses, who were _all_ long-nosed and
narrow-eyed and dark, each successive infant more the image of its
father than the last), "and so you can understand their position--you
know how to feel for them." He thought this an irresistible plea,
and was unprepared for the dead silence with which it was received.
Glancing up quickly, he saw that she was by no means in the melting
mood that he had looked for.
"Of course, if you don't wish it--if it will be troubling you too
much--" he began, with his old fierce abruptness, drawing himself
together.
"It is not that," said she, looking at her fan. "But now I know why you
have stayed away for five weeks."
"Why _I_ have stayed away--oh! I understand. But I told you they were
living _alone_, did I not? Therefore I have never been into their
house--it is quite impossible for me to have the pleasure of their
society."
"Then you want me to take them up, so that you can have it here? Is
that it?"
The little man was looking so ferocious, and his departure from her
side appeared so imminent, that she changed her tone quickly after
putting this question. "Never mind," she said, laying her jewelled
fingers on his coat sleeve for a moment, "I will not be jealous--at
least I will try not to be. I will go and call on them to-morrow, and
as soon as they have called on me I will ask them to one of my Fridays.
Will that do?"
"I don't wish you for a moment to do what would be at all unpleasant to
yourself," he said, still in a hurt, blunt tone, but visibly softening.
"It won't be unpleasant to me," she said sentimentally, "if it will
please you."
And Paul went home at midnight, well satisfied with what he had done,
believing that a woman so "awfully kind" as Mrs. Aarons would be a
shield and buckler to those defenceless girls.