Hitherto I had attended to myself, but now I determined to have a maid.
I found one without much difficulty. Her name was Price. She was a very
plain woman of thirty, with piercing black eyes; and when I engaged her
she seemed anxious above all else to make me understand that she "never
saw anything."
I soon discovered that she saw everything, especially the relations
between myself and my husband, and that she put her own interpretation
(not a very flattering one) on our separated apartments. She also saw
the position of Alma, and putting her own interpretation upon that also,
she tortured me with many pin-pricks.
Under the guidance of my maid I began to haunt the shops of the
dressmakers, the milliners and the jewellers. It did not require the
memory of my father's letter to make me spend his money--I spent it like
water. Feeling ashamed of my quaker-cut costumes (Alma had a costume for
every day of the week, and wore a large gold snake on her arm), I bought
the most costly toilettes, and loaded myself with bracelets, rings and
necklaces.
I was dressing for my husband, and for him I did many things I had never
dreamt of doing before. For him I filed my nails, put cream on my skin,
perfume on my handkerchief, and even rouge on my lips. Although I did
not allow myself to think of it so, I was running a race with Alma.
My maid knew that before I did, and the first night she put me into one
of my uncomfortable new gowns she stood off from me and said:
"His lordship must be a strange gentleman if he can resist you _now_."
I felt ashamed, yet pleased too, and went downstairs with a certain
confidence.
The result was disappointing. My husband smiled rather condescendingly,
and though Alma praised me beyond measure I saw that she was secretly
laughing as she said:
"Our Margaret Mary is coming out, isn't she?"
Nevertheless I persevered. Without too much preparation for so perilous
an enterprise, I threw myself into the gaieties of Cairo, attending polo
matches, race-meetings, picnics at the Pyramids, dances at the different
hotels, and on the island of Roda, where according to tradition,
Pharaoh's daughter found Moses in the bulrushes.
I think I may say that I drew the eyes of other men upon me,
particularly those of the colonel commanding on the Citadel, a fine type
of Scotsman, who paid me the most worshipful attention. But I thought of
nobody but my husband, being determined to make him forget Alma and fall
in love with me.
It was a hopeless task, and I had some heart-breaking hours. One day,
calling at a jeweller's to see a diamond necklace which I greatly
coveted, I was told in confidence that my husband had been pricing it,
but had had to give it up because it was a thousand francs too dear for
him. I was foolish enough to pay the thousand francs myself, under a
pledge of secrecy, and to tell the jeweller to send the necklace to my
husband, feeling sure in my simplicity that it had been meant for me.
Next night I saw it on Alma's neck, and could have died of mortification
and shame.
I daresay it was all very weak and very childish, but I really think my
last attempt, if rather ridiculous, was also very pitiful.
Towards the end of our stay the proprietors of the hotel gave a
Cotillon. As this was the event of the season, and nearly every woman
was giving a dinner in honour of it, I resolved that I too would give
one, inviting the gayest of the gay acquaintances I had made in Cairo.
Feeling that it would be my last battle, and that so much depended upon
it, I dressed myself with feverish care, in a soft white satin gown,
which was cut lower than I had ever worn before, with slippers to match,
a tight band of pearls about my throat and another about my head.
When Price had finished dressing me she said:
"Well, if his lordship prefers anybody else in the world to-night I
shan't know where he puts his eyes."
The compliment was a crude one, but I had no time to think of that, for
my heart was fluttering with hopes and fears, and I think any woman
would forgive me under the circumstances if I told myself, as I passed
the tall mirrors on the stairs, that I too was beautiful.
The dining-room was crowded when I entered it with my guests, and seeing
that we were much observed it flashed upon me that my husband and I had
become a subject of gossip. Partly for that reason I strangled the ugly
thing that was writhing in my bosom, and put Alma (who had flown to me
with affectionate rapture) next to my husband, and the colonel
commanding on the Citadel in the seat beside me.
Throughout the dinner, which was very long, I was very nervous, and
though I did my best to keep up conversation with the colonel, I knew
quite well that I was listening to what was being said at the other side
of my big round table, and as often as any mention was made of "Margaret
Mary" I heard it.
More than once Alma lifted her glass with a gracious nod and smile,
crying, "Mary dearest!" and then in another moment gave my husband one
of her knowing glances which seemed to me to say, "Look at that foolish
little wife of yours!"
By the time we returned to the hall for coffee we were rather a noisy
party, and even the eyes of the ladies betrayed the fact that they had
dined. The talk, which had grown louder, was also a little more free,
and God forgive me, I joined in it, being feverishly anxious to outdo
Alma, and be looked upon as a woman of the world.
Towards eleven o'clock, the red-coated orchestra began to play a waltz,
and then the whole variegated company of ladies, soldiers, and diplomats
stood up to dance, and the colonel asked me to join him.
I was ashamed to tell him that I had never danced except with a
schoolgirl, so I took his hand and started. But hardly had we begun,
when I made mistakes, which I thought everybody saw (I am sure Alma saw
them), and before we had taken many turns my partner had to stop,
whereupon I retired to my seat with a forced laugh and a sense of
confusion.
It was nearly twelve when they began the Cotillon, which Alma and my
husband led with supreme self-possession. As one of the hostesses I sat
in the front row of the square, and when I was taken out I made further
mistakes, which also Alma saw and communicated by smiles to my husband.
Before the Cotillon came to an end the night was far spent and then the
company, which had become very boisterous, began to look for some new
excitement, no matter how foolish. One or other started "turkey trot"
and "grizzly bear" and finally Alma, with memories of the winter sports
at St. Moritz, proposed that they should toboggan down the great
staircase.
The suggestion was welcomed with a shout, and a broad board was
immediately laid on the first long flight of stairs for people to slide
on.
Soldiers went first, and then there were calls for the ladies, when Alma
took her turn, tucking her dress under her at the top and alighting
safely on her feet at the bottom. Other ladies followed her example,
with similar good fortune, and then Alma, who had been saying "Such fun!
Such lots of fun!" set up a cry of "Margaret Mary."
I refused at first, feeling ashamed of even looking at such unwomanly
folly, but something Alma said to my husband and something that was
conveyed by my husband's glance at me set my heart afire and, poor
feverish and entangled fool that I was, I determined to defy them.
So running up to the top and seating myself on the toboggan I set it in
motion. But hardly had I done so when it swayed, reeled, twisted and
threw me off, with the result that I rolled downstairs to the bottom.
Of course there were shrieks of laughter, and if I had been in the
spirit of the time and place I suppose I should have laughed too, and
there would have been an end of the matter. But I had been playing a
part, a tragic part, and feeling that I had failed and covered myself
with ridicule, I was overwhelmed with confusion.
I thought my husband would be angry with me, and feel compromised by my
foolishness, but he was not; he was amused, and when at last I saw his
face it was running in rivulets from the laughter he could not restrain.
That was the end of all things, and when Alma came up to me, saying
everything that was affectionate and insincere, about her "poor dear
unfortunate Margaret Mary" (only women know how to wound each other so),
I brushed her aside, went off to my bedroom, and lay face down on the
sofa, feeling that I was utterly beaten and could fight no more.
Half an hour afterwards my husband came in, and though I did not look up
I heard him say, in a tone of indulgent sympathy that cut me to the
quick:
"You've been playing the wrong part, my child. A Madonna, yes, but a
Venus, no! It's not your _métier_."
"What's the good? What's the good? What's the good?" I asked myself.