Hyacinth Waits
'He's coming this afternoon, Anne,' Hyacinth said. 'See that I'm really
alone today--I mean that I'm out to everyone.'
'You think, then, that he really will propose today?'
'Don't be so horribly explicit. Don't you think his having to go the
other day--because of Lady Cannon--would lead to a sort of crisis? I
mean, either he wouldn't come here again, or else--'
'I suppose it would,' said Anne. 'At least, it would if he had some
glimmering of his own intentions. But he's in such a very
undecided state.'
'Well, don't let's worry about his intentions. At any rate, he's coming
to see me. The question is, what shall I wear?'
'It doesn't matter in the least. You attach a ridiculous amount of
importance to dress.'
'Perhaps; but I must wear something. So what shall it be?'
'Well, if you want to look prepared for a proposal--so as to give him a
sort of hint--you'd better wear your pale mauve dress. It's becoming,
and it looks festive and spring-like.'
'Oh, Anne! Why, it's ever so much too smart! It would be quite
ridiculous. Just like you, advising pale mauve _crêpe de Chine_ and
Irish lace for a quiet visit in the afternoon from a friend!'
'Oh! all right. Then wear your blue tailor-made dress--and the little
boots with the cloth tops.'
'Oh, good heavens, Anne! I'm not going for a bicycle ride. Because I'm
not got up for a garden-party, it doesn't follow I must be dressed for
mountain-climbing. Cecil hates sensible-looking clothes.'
'Then I should think anything you've got would do. Or do you want to get
a new dress?'
'Of course I want to get a new dress, but not for this afternoon. It
wouldn't be possible. Besides, I don't think it's a good plan to wear
something different every time you see a person. It looks so
extravagant.'
'Wear your black and white, then.'
'No, it isn't _intime_ enough, and the material's too rough--it's a hard
dress.'
'Oh! Funny, I had the impression you had more clothes than you knew what
to do with, and you don't seem to have anything fit to wear.'
'Why, of course, I shall wear my blue voile. How on earth could I wear
anything else? How silly you are, Anne!'
'Well, if you knew that all the time, why did you ask me?'
'Are there plenty of flowers in the studio?'
'Yes; but I'll get some more if you like.'
'No, no; don't have too many. It looks too _arranged_.'
She looked at the clock.
'It won't be five just yet,' said Anne. 'It's only eleven.'
'Yes; that's the awful part. What on earth shall I do till then?'
'Whatever I suggested you would do the reverse.'
'Shall I go for a long drive in the motor?'
'That's a good idea.'
'But it's a very windy day, and I might get neuralgia--not feel up to
the mark.'
'So you might. I think, perhaps, the best thing for you would be to have
your hair waved.'
'How can I sit still to have my hair waved? Besides, it makes it look
too stiff--like a hairdresser's dummy.'
'Ah! there is that. Then why not do something useful--go and be
manicured?'
'I'm afraid I shouldn't have the patience today.'
'I suppose what you'd really like,' said Anne, 'would be to see Edith
Ottley.'
'No, I shouldn't. Not till tomorrow. I don't want to see anybody,' said
Hyacinth.
'Well, all right. I'm going out.'
'Oh, but I can't bear to be alone.'
'Then I scarcely see ...'
'This afternoon especially, Anne. You must stay with me till about a
quarter of an hour before I expect him. The horrible agony of waiting is
so frightful! It makes me feel so ill. But I don't want you to stay
beyond the time I expect him, in case he's late. Because then I suffer
so much that I couldn't bear you to see it.'
'I see. How jolly it must be to be in love! You _do_ seem to have a good
time.'
'When one has the slightest hope, Anne, it's simply too awful. Of
course, if one hasn't, one bears it.'
'And if one has no encouragement, I suppose one gets over it?'
'I have a presentiment that everything will be all right today,' said
Hyacinth. 'Is that a bad sign?'
'There are no good signs, in your present state,' answered Anne.
It was about half-past four, and Hyacinth in the blue dress, was sitting
in the studio, where she could see both the window and the clock. Anne,
by the fire, was watching her.
'You seem very fairly calm, Hyacinth.'
'I am calm,' she said. 'I am; quite calm. Except that my heart is
beating so fast that I can hardly breathe, that I have horrible kinds of
shivers and a peculiar feeling in my throat, I'm quite all right. Now,
just fancy if I had to pretend I wasn't in suspense! If I had no-one to
confide in!... Do you think he's mistaken the day? Do you think he
thinks it's Thursday instead of Tuesday?'
'That's not likely.'
'I'm glad I feel so cool and calm. How ashamed I should be if he ever
knew that I was so agitated!'
'Who knows, perhaps he's feeling as uncomfortable as you are?'
'Oh, no, no! There's no hope of that.... Will he telephone and put it
off, do you think, at the last minute?'
'I shouldn't think so.'
'Are there any little pink cakes?'
'Heaps. Far more than will ever be eaten.'
'Now, don't talk to me, Anne. I'm going to read for a quarter of an
hour.'
She took up a novel and read two pages, then looked up at the clock and
turned pale.
'It's five. Is that clock fast?'
'No; listen, the church clock's striking. Good-bye.'
Anne went, and Hyacinth kissed her hand to her and arranged her hair in
the mirror. She then sat down and resolved to be perfectly quiet.
Ten minutes slowly ticked away, then Hyacinth went to the window, saying
to herself that it was an unlucky thing to do. She did not remain there
long, then walked round and round the room. Several cabs passed, each of
which she thought was going to stop. Then she sat down again, looking
cool and smiling, carelessly holding a book.... Each time the cab
passed. It was half-past five, rather late under the circumstances. She
was angry. She resolved to be very cold to him when he first came in,
or--no, she wouldn't be cold, she would pretend she didn't know he was
late--hadn't noticed it; or she would chaff him about it, and say she
would never wait again. She took the letter from her pocket and read it
again. It said:--
'DEAR MISS VERNEY, 'May I come and see you at five o'clock tomorrow
afternoon?
'Yours,
'CECIL REEVE.'
Its very brevity had shown it was something urgent, but perhaps he would
come to break off their friendship; since the awkwardness of Lady
Cannon's visit, he must have been thinking that things couldn't go on
like this. Then she began to recapitulate details, arguing to herself
with all the cold, hard logic of passion.
At Lord Selsey's afternoon she had given herself away by her anger, by
the jealousy she showed, and had told him never to come and see her
again. Immediately after that had been their meeting at the National
Gallery, where Cecil had followed her and sought her out. Then they had
those two delightful walks in Kensington Gardens, in which he had really
seemed to 'like' her so much. Then the pleasant intimate little lunch,
after which Lady Cannon had called.... In the course of these meetings
he had told her that he and Mrs Raymond had quarrelled, that she would
never see him again. She had felt that he was drifting to her.... How
strangely unlike love affairs in books hers had been! In all respectable
novels it was the man who fell in love first. No-one knew by experience
better than Hyacinth how easily that might happen, how very often it
did. But she, who was proud, reserved, and a little shy with all her
expansiveness, had simply fallen hopelessly in love with him at first
sight. It was at that party at the Burlingtons. She realised now that
she had practically thought of nothing else since. Probably she was
spoilt, for she had not foreseen any difficulty; she had had always far
more admirers than she cared for, and her difficulties had usually been
in trying to get rid of them. He seemed to like her, but that was all.
Mrs Raymond was, of course, the reason, but Mrs Raymond was over. She
looked up at the clock again.
Ten minutes to six. Perhaps he had made it up with Mrs Raymond?... For
the next ten minutes she suffered extraordinary mental tortures, then
her anger consoled her a little. He had treated her too rudely! It was
amazing--extraordinary! He was not worth caring for. At any rate, it
showed he didn't care for her.... If it was some unavoidable accident,
couldn't he have telephoned or telegraphed?... No; it was one of those
serious things that one can only write about. He was with Mrs Raymond,
she felt sure of that. But Mrs Raymond didn't like him.... Perhaps,
after all, he had only been detained in some extraordinary way, she
might hear directly....
She went up to her room, and was slightly consoled for the moment to
find the clock there five minutes slower than the one in the
drawing-room. She again arranged her hair and went into the hall, where
she found two or three cards of people who had called, and been told she
was out--an irritating detail--for nothing! Then she went back to
the studio.
Even to be in the place where she had been waiting for him was
something, it gave her a little illusion that he would be here again....
Could he really be an hour and a quarter late? It was just possible.
She heard a ring. Every sign of anxiety disappeared from her face. She
was beaming, and got back into the old attitude, holding the book. She
could hear her heart beating while there was some parley in the hall.
Unable to bear it any more, she opened the door. It was someone with
a parcel.
'What is it?'
'It's only the new candle-shades, miss. Shall I bring them in for you to
see?'
'No, thank you....'
Candle-shades!
She put her hands over her eyes and summoned all her pride. Probably the
very butler and her maid knew perfectly well she had been waiting at
home alone for Mr Reeve. She cared absolutely nothing what they thought;
but she felt bitter, revengeful to him. It was cruel.
Why did she care so much? She remembered letters and scenes with other
people--people whose sufferings about her she felt always inclined to
laugh at. She couldn't believe in it. Love in books had always seemed to
her, although intensely interesting, just a trifle absurd. She couldn't
realise it till now.
Another ring. Perhaps it was he after all! ...
The same position. The book, the bright blue eyes....
The door opened; Anne came in. It was striking seven o'clock.