Maggy meant to disregard Woolf's injunction against her going to Mrs.
Lambert's. The temptation to see Alexandra was too strong to resist.
Moreover, she thought it likely that he would forget having made it.
Then, if she went and he still objected, she would admit having
disobeyed him. She would not lie about it. She never did tell lies;
not on moral grounds but because lying was cowardly and she did not know
the meaning of cowardice.
Woolf had been a little overbearing with her lately, too much the
master. She did not mind that sort of tyranny so long as it implied
fondness, but she had a feeling that he was changing towards her. For
one thing, she knew he was annoyed at her condition. That hurt her
abominably. In books she had read of husbands and wives being drawn
closer together, of estranged couples becoming reconciled under similar
conditions. Indeed, she had hoped for special tenderness from him
directly he knew they existed. She had even tried to delude herself
into the hope that he might marry her.
It was not that she wanted any legal hold on him. She would not have
loved Woolf any more because of marriage. But if he married her it
would be a guarantee of his love, which just now she had reason to
doubt. That was all. The rights which marriage confer on a woman meant
nothing to her. She only wanted to get rid of the nightmare dread of
separation from him. Any other girl similarly situated would have stood
out for marriage, but Maggy had too much pride for that. She recoiled
from a more than possible refusal.
She felt thrown back upon herself, lonely in spirit. A faintness
assailed her whenever she thought of what she would have to undergo
without a soul knowing of it except Woolf. And on this subject, so
closely connecting them, Woolf was cold and remote. He would have shown
more concern had she cut her finger. She wanted comfort. It would have
helped her to confide in some sympathetic woman. She wondered whether
she dared tell Alexandra, and decided that it would not be fair or even
expedient. Virginal Alexandra would not understand, or if she
understood she would be more afraid than Maggy herself. Obviously she
could neither reassure nor comfort her, since the thing was right out of
her experience, and always would be. Poor Maggy! Her abundant vitality,
her pulsing affections, made motherhood infinitely desirable to her. As
a child she had scarcely had time to play with dolls because she was
always on the stage, but she had always yearned over babies. Nature,
which takes no account of the individual, concerned only with the
reproduction of the race, had intended her to be a mother. Man-made
shibboleths were to deny her that right.
She took great pains in dressing for her visit to Mrs. Lambert's. She
was free from the spirit of feminine emulation, but she wanted to look
her best, to please Alexandra's critical taste, so that she might
remember how she looked that day, in case they might never see each
other again. Maggy had never before been inclined to depression, but the
clammy fingers of morbidity touched her now.
She elected to wear a frock of sprigged muslin and a simple hat that she
had trimmed herself. The hat was in part a concession to Woolf, for she
took pleasure in such tasks, and liked him to see that she could excel
in them. Thus dressed, she was quite perfect. Her coloring was so
vivid and her figure so mature that extreme simplicity suited her. But
she was not quite satisfied with the effect. Her eyes roved over the
dressing-table in search of some finishing touch, and came to a stop at
her jewel-case. From it she took a diamond bracelet Woolf had given
her, and put it on. He had bestowed it on her with great
impressiveness, and she accordingly believed it to be very valuable.
When she reached Albert Place neither Mrs. Lambert nor Alexandra was in.
They had been detained somewhere and had telephoned through to say so.
The maid showed her into the drawing room. Somewhat to her dismay she
found it occupied by a man. She did not know him by sight, but she
immediately came to the conclusion that he must be Lord Chalfont. She
felt awkward, uncertain whether it was "proper" to speak or not. She
had not encountered any men of rank before, and had not the average
chorus girl's assurance with male members of the peerage.
Lord Chalfont got up.
"I fancy we're both here for the same reason: to lunch," he said
pleasantly. "Shall we become known to each other? I'm Lord Chalfont."
"My name's Delamere," rejoined Maggy.
"We both owe something to the French, then. It ought to provide us with
a sort of _entente cordiale_."
"Oh, I don't believe Delamere's my right name. It's too high-falutin'.
But it's the only one I know of. My mother took it for the stage and it
had to do for my christening."
The statement was made quite innocently. Chalfont was amused.
"I'm sure I've seen you before," he said.
His easy manner gave her confidence. She liked him. She felt she could
talk to him without being on her guard. The way in which he looked at
her had nothing disturbing in it. It was not the hunting look which she
was accustomed to see in men's eyes, and against which she was for ever
armed. If there was a touch of admiration in it there was also respect.
She recognized the difference, and knew she had to do with a gentleman.
Woolf had spoken of him as a bounder. There he was obviously wrong.
Lord Chalfont looked the sort of person she had seen in historical
pictures, dressed in silk and lace, walking unconcernedly to have his
head chopped off.
"I daresay you've seen me often," she agreed. "I'm in the front row at
the Pall Mall Theater--black chiffon over pink. Then I'm somebody's
boot polish in the advertisements--my photograph, you know--cleaning my
own shoes without dirtying my frock. And I'm somebody else's
motorcoats, and nearly everybody's mouth-wash and cigarettes."
Chalfont laughed.
"By Jove! Do you know, I've always wondered who they got to sit for
those advertisements. How's it arranged? Do you mind telling me?"
"Not at all. Sometimes the people--cigarettes or motorcoats, you
know--write and ask you to come and pose for them at their shops; but
generally it's done through a photographer. He gets paid for taking the
photos, and you get a little cheque and a lot of advertisement. When
it's for a mouth-wash you have to put on a broad grin and show your
teeth. It's awfully tiring sometimes. For a hair-restorer you wear
your hair down, and if you haven't much they fluff it out with a long
switch so as to make people believe in the stuff."
"You're not tempted to use it, I suppose?"
"Rather not! I've got too much hair as it is. It won't even fall out in
the autumn and spring."
"How about the cigarettes?"
"Oh, I daresay they're all right, though I don't suppose you'd want to
smoke them."
"Just what I thought. Personally, I never buy anything that's
advertised if I can help it. When I have it I invariably have a feeling
that I'm being taken in."
"I think it's the women more than the men who are taken in," said Maggy
thoughtfully. "Women believe anything they see in the papers. I used to
once."
"But not now?"
She shook her head. "You get to know a lot about make-believe when
you're on the stage."
"I suppose you do. How is it I've never met you here before?"
"I'm Lexie's friend. I mean Miss Hersey. Excuse my bad habit of
speaking of people by their Christian names. I know it's not right. I
don't, myself, like to hear women call their husbands 'Daddy' or
'Father' before strangers. It always sounds to me as if they wanted you
to consider yourself one of the family."
"But you know Mrs. Lambert, don't you?"
"Hardly. I met her with Lexie in a shop the other day and she asked me
to lunch. So here I am. Have I come too early?"
"On the contrary. I'm very glad you're here, relieving my solitude."
"I was afraid I was boring you. I can only talk rubbish. I can't help
it. You see, I don't know anything about the things that sensible
people talk about. Pictures and books and politics."
"I think you do yourself an injustice. Please don't imagine I say it
out of compliment, but it's evident you are full of ideas, jolly
interesting ones, too."
"Everybody has ideas of a sort, I suppose. What I mean is, I can't
discuss any of the subjects that really matter. Religion, for instance.
I know there are a thousand and one different ways of worshiping God,
but I haven't brains enough to argue about them. I'm far more
interested in a thousand different patterns for crochet, or the everyday
things you see from the top of a bus. I'm just hot and cold, or happy or
miserable."
"Which is it to-day?" asked Chalfont.
There was no flippancy in his tone. He saw that Maggy was an innately
simple girl, quite natural, and by no means unintelligent. He found her
frankness very refreshing, and he could but admire her delightful
appearance. He was anything but bored.
"Which is it to-day?" he repeated.
"Warm and happy--just now. I'm not often miserable. I love my life,"
she said.
She meant it. The pretty room, the flowers abounding in it, the shaded
windows framing masses of pink geranium, the soft ease of the big
armchair she was seated in, so different from the new-art, unadaptable
chairs of her own flat, had induced in her bodily comfort and mental
contentment. For the moment she had forgotten the anxieties caused by
her physical state. Unconsciously too she had fallen under the charm of
Chalfont's amiability. She had never met a man like him. She felt she
did not want to be on her guard with him. Whether he was more honest or
more reasonable than other men she had known she did not stop to think
about. Had she been asked for her chief impression of him she would
have expressed it in the word clean.
So while she waited for Alexandra's return she let her candor have full
play, keeping Chalfont amused by her cheery talk and quaintly humorous
accounts of her life behind the scenes at the Pall Mall. She had
brought with her a number of picture postcards of herself to give to
Alexandra, for recently she had become quite a photographic favorite,
and these she showed him.
"This is the one I like best," he said. "In the dress you have on now.
It's charming."
"The dress, you mean. I'm so glad you like it. I was afraid it was too
quiet. I'm never quite sure about my dresses and hats. My taste in
clothes isn't always quiet. I love bright colors. They make me feel
warm and comfy. You know how dogs like rolling in mud. I have the same
feeling about colors. If I see anything very bright and gorgeous I want
to hug it to me for joy. People are always staring at me in the street
because of what I'm wearing."
Chalfont could quite understand that any one, in the street or
elsewhere, would find pleasure in looking twice at such a beautiful
creature. But he did not say so in so many words.
"You need not mind that," he said. "There's an esthetic sense in nearly
everybody that makes them glad to look at anything--radiant."
"Radiant means brilliance, doesn't it? Talking of brilliance, do you
like this?"
She held out her arm with the bracelet on it. Chalfont had already
noticed it. Now he gave it a closer inspection. Whilst being a good
judge of precious stones he had a great liking for paste when it was old
and good, but what he saw now was merely a product of the modern
manufacturer.
"A French copy, isn't it?" he asked, thoughtlessly.
Maggy's eyes widened. French--copy? Her diamond bracelet a
copy--imitation! She could not credit it.
"But--they're diamonds!" she stammered, filled with a horrible
misgiving.
Chalfont noticed the sharp note of disappointment in her voice and put
it down to one of two causes. Either she had been defrauded by somebody
or the bracelet was a present meant to deceive her. He made haste to
modify the opinion he had expressed about it. Looking at it once more,
he said:
"Is it? I'm awfully sorry. Of course, I must be mistaken. Hullo!" he
interjected with relief, "here are Mrs. Lambert and Miss Hersey."