INITIATION
Mrs. Raymore was giving a little dinner at her house in Buckingham Gate
in honour of Grantley Imason and his wife. They had made their honeymoon
a short one, and were now in Sloane Street for a month before settling
at Milldean for the autumn. The gathering was of Grantley's friends, one
of the sets with whom he had spent much of his time in bachelor days.
The men were old-time friends; as they had married, the wives had become
his acquaintances too--in some cases (as in Mrs. Raymore's) more than
mere acquaintances. They had all been interested in him, and
consequently were curious about his wife--critical, no doubt, but
prepared to be friendly and to take her into the set, if she would come.
Mrs. Raymore, as she sat at the head of her table, with Grantley by her
and Sibylla on Raymore's right hand at the other end, was thinking that
they, in their turn, might reasonably interest the young bride--might
set her thinking, and encourage or discourage her according to the
conclusions she came to about them. She and Raymore would bear scrutiny
well as things went. There was a very steady and affectionate friendship
between them; they lived comfortably together, and had brought up their
children--a boy and a girl--successfully and without friction.
Raymore--a tall man with a reddish face and deliberate of speech--was
always patient and reasonable. He had never been very impassioned; there
had not been much to lose of what is most easily lost. He might have had
a few more intellectual tastes, perhaps, and a keener interest in things
outside his business; but she had her own friends, and on the whole
there was little to complain of.
Then came the Fanshaws--John and Christine. He was on the Stock
Exchange; she, a dainty pretty woman, given up to society and to being
very well dressed, but pleasant, kind, and clever in a light sort of
way. They liked to entertain a good deal, and got through a lot of
money. When Fanshaw was making plenty, and Christine had plenty to
spend, things went smoothly enough. In bad times there was trouble, each
thinking that retrenchment could best be practised by the other and in
regard to the expenses to which the other was addicted: it was, for
instance, the stables against the dressmaker then. The happiness of the
household depended largely on the state of the markets--a thing which it
might interest Mrs. Grantley Imason to hear.
Next came the Selfords--Richard and Janet. He was a rather small frail
man, of private means, a dabbler in art. She was artistic too, or would
have told you so, and fond of exotic dogs, which she imported from
far-off places, and which usually died soon. They were a gushing pair,
both towards one another and towards the outside world; almost
aggressively affectionate in public. "Trying to humbug everybody," Tom
Courtland used to say; but that was too sweeping a view. Their excessive
amiability was the result of their frequent quarrels--or rather tiffs,
since quarrel is perhaps an over-vigorous word. They were always either
concealing the existence of a tiff or making one up, reconciling
themselves with a good deal of display. Everybody knew this, thanks in
part to their sharp-eyed sharp-tongued daughter Anna, a girl of sixteen,
who knew all about the tiffs and could always be got to talk about them.
The last pair were the Courtlands themselves. All the set was rather
afraid of Lady Harriet. She was a tall, handsome, fair woman, still
young; she patronised them rather, but was generally affable and
agreeable when nothing occurred to upset her. Tom Courtland grew more
depressed, heavy, and dreary every day. A crisis was expected--but Lady
Harriet's small-talk did not suffer. Mrs. Raymore thought that the less
Grantley's wife saw or knew of that household the better.
The party was completed by Suzette Bligh, a girl pretty in a faded sort
of way, not quite so young as she tried to look, and in Mrs. Raymore's
opinion, quite likely not to marry at all; and finally by young Blake,
Walter Dudley Blake, a favourite of hers and of many other people's,
known as a climber of mountains and a shooter of rare game in his
energetic days; suspected of enjoying life somewhat to excess and with
riotous revelry in his seasons of leisure; impetuous, chivalrous,
impulsive, and notably good-looking. Mrs. Raymore had put him on
Sibylla's right--in case her husband should not prove amusing to the
honoured guest.
On the whole, she thought, they ought not to frighten Sibylla much.
There was one terrible example--the Courtlands; but when it comes to
throwing things about, the case is admittedly abnormal. For the rest
they seemed, to the student of matrimony, fair average samples of a bulk
of fair average merit. Perhaps there might have been an ideal
union--just to counter-balance the Courtlands at the other extreme. If
such were desirable, let it be hoped that the Imasons themselves would
supply it. In regard to one point, she decided, the company was really
above the average--and that the most important point. There had been
rumours once about Christine Fanshaw--indeed they were still heard
sometimes; but scandal had never assailed any other woman there. In
these days that was something, thought Mrs. Raymore.
Grantley turned from Christine Fanshaw to his hostess.
"You're very silent. What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Sibylla's really beautiful, and in a rather unusual way. You might pass
her over once; but if you did look once, you'd be sure to look always."
"Another woman's looks have kept your attention all this time?"
"Your wife's," she reminded him with an affectionately friendly glance.
"And I was wondering what she thought of us all, what we all look like
in those pondering thoughtful questioning eyes of hers."
"Her eyes do ask questions, don't they?" laughed Grantley.
"Many, many, and must have answers, I should think. And don't they
expect good answers?"
"Oh, she's not really at all alarming!"
"You can make the eyes say something different, I daresay?"
He laughed again very contentedly. Mrs. Raymore's admiration pleased
him, since she was not very easy herself to please. He was glad she
approved of Sibylla, though as a rule his own opinion was enough for
him.
"Well, they aren't always questioning. That would be fatiguing in a
wife--really as bad as continually discussing the Arian heresy, as old
Johnson says. But I daresay," he lowered his voice, "Lady Harriet would
excite a query or two."
"You've told me nothing about Sibylla. I shall have to find it all out
for myself."
"That's the only knowledge worth having; and I'm only learning myself
still, you know."
"Really, that's an unusually just frame of mind for a husband. I've high
hopes of you, Grantley."
"Good! Because you know me uncommonly well."
She thought a moment.
"No, not so very well," she said. "You're hard to know."
He took that as a compliment; probably most people would, since it seems
to hint at something rare and out of the common; inaccessibility has an
aristocratic flavour.
"Oh, I suppose we all have our fastnesses," he said with a laugh which
politely waived any claim to superiority without expressly abandoning
it.
"Doesn't one give up the key of the gates by marrying?"
"My dear Kate, read your Bluebeard again!"
Mrs. Raymore relapsed into the silence that was almost habitual to her,
but it passed through her mind that the conversation had soon turned
from Sibylla to Grantley himself, or at least had dealt with Sibylla
purely in her bearing on Grantley; it had not increased her knowledge of
Mrs. Imason as an independent individual.
"Well, with business what it is," said Fanshaw in his loud voice--a
voice that had a way of stopping other people's voices--"we must cut it
down somewhere."
"Oh, you're as rich as Crœsus, Fanshaw!" objected young Blake.
"I'm losing money every day! Christine and I were discussing it as we
drove here."
"I like your idea of discussion, John," remarked Christine in her
delicate tones, generally touched with sarcasm. "I couldn't open my
lips."
"He closured you, and then threw out your Budget?" asked Grantley.
"He almost stripped my gown from my back, and made an absolute clutch at
my diamonds."
"I put forward the reasonable view," Fanshaw insisted rather heatedly.
"What I said was, begin with superfluities----"
"Are clothes superfluities?" interjected Christine, watching the gradual
flushing of her husband's face with mischievous pleasure.
"Nothing is superfluous that is beautiful," said Selford; he lisped
slightly, and spoke with an affected air. "We should retrench in the
grosser pleasures--eating and drinking, display, large houses----"
"Peculiar dogs!" suggested Blake, chaffing Mrs. Selford.
"Oh, but they are beautiful!" she cried.
"Horses!" said Christine, with sharp-pointed emphasis. "You should
really be guided by Mr. Selford, John."
"Every husband should be guided by another husband. That's axiomatic,"
said Grantley.
"I'm quite content with my own," smiled Mrs. Selford. "Dick and I always
agree."
"They must be fresh from a row," Tom Courtland whispered surlily to Mrs.
Raymore.
"About money matters the man's voice must in the nature of things be
final," Fanshaw insisted. "It's obvious. He knows about it; he makes
it----"
"Quite enough for him to do," Christine interrupted. "At that point we
step in--and spend it."
"Division of labour? Quite right, Mrs. Fanshaw," laughed Blake. "And if
any of you can't manage your department, I'm ready to help."
"They can manage that department right enough," Fanshaw grumbled. "If we
could manage them as well as they manage that----" He took a great gulp
of champagne, and grew still redder when he heard Christine's scornful
little chuckle.
Raymore turned to Sibylla with a kind fatherly smile.
"I hope we're not frightening you, Mrs. Imason? Not too much of the
seamy side?"
Blake chimed in on her other hand:
"I'm here to maintain Mrs. Imason's illusions."
"If we're talking of departments, I think that's mine, Blake, thank
you," called Grantley with a laugh.
"I'm sure I've been most considerate." This was Lady Harriet's first
contribution to the talk. "I haven't said a word!"
"And you could a tale unfold?" asked Blake.
She made no answer beyond shrugging her fine shoulders and leaning back
in her chair as she glanced across at her husband. A moment's silence
fell on the table. It seemed that they recognised a difference between
troubles and grievances which could be discussed with more or less
good-nature, or quarrelled over with more or less acerbity, and those
which were in another category. The moment the Courtlands were in
question, a constraint arose. Tom Courtland himself broke the silence,
but it was to talk about an important cricket-match. Lady Harriet smiled
at him composedly, unconscious of the earnest study of Sibylla's eyes,
which were fixed on her and were asking (as Mrs. Raymore would have
said) many questions.
When the ladies had gone, Fanshaw buttonholed Raymore and exhibited to
him his financial position and its exigencies with ruthless elaboration
and with a persistently implied accusation of Christine's extravagance.
Selford victimised young Blake with the story of a picture which he had
just picked up; he declared it was by a famous Dutch master, and watched
for the effect on Blake, who showed none, never having heard of the
Dutch master. Tom Courtland edged up to Grantley's side; they had not
met since Grantley's wedding.
"Well, you look very blooming and happy, and all that," he said.
"First-rate, old boy. How are you?"
Tom lowered his voice and spoke with a cautious air.
"I've done it, Grantley--what I wrote to you. By God, I couldn't stand
it any longer! I'd sooner take any risk. Oh, I shall be very careful! I
shan't give myself away. But I had to do it."
Grantley gave a shrug.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry," he said. "That sort of thing may turn out so
awkward."
"It'd have to be infernally awkward to be worse than what I've gone
through. At any rate I get away from it sometimes now, and--and enjoy
myself."
"Find getting away easy?"
"No; but as we must have shindies, we may as well have them about that.
I told Harriet she made the house intolerable, so I should spend my
evenings at my clubs."
"Oh! And--and who is she?"
He looked round warily before he whispered:
"Flora Bolton."
Grantley raised his brows and said one word:
"Expensive!"
Tom nodded with a mixture of ruefulness and pride.
"If you're going to the devil, you may as well go quickly and
pleasantly," he said, drumming his fingers on the cloth. "By heaven, if
I'd thought of this when I married! I meant to go straight--you know I
did?"
Grantley nodded.
"I broke off all that sort of thing. I could have gone straight. She's
driven me to it--by Jove, she has."
"Take care, old chap. They'll notice you."
"I don't care if---- Oh, all right, and thanks, Grantley. I don't want
to make an exhibition of myself. And I've told nobody but you, of
course."
Sibylla, never long in coming to conclusions, had made up her mind about
the women before the evening was half over. Lady Harriet was strange and
terrible when the known facts of the case were compared with her
indolent composure. Mrs. Selford was trivial and tiresome, but a good
enough little silly soul. Suzette Bligh was entirely negligible; she had
not spoken save to flirt very mildly with Blake. Mrs. Raymore elicited a
liking, but a rather timid and distant one; she seemed very
clear-sighted and judicial. Christine Fanshaw attracted her most, first
by her dainty prettiness, also by the perfection of her clothes (a thing
Sibylla much admired), most by her friendly air and the piquant
suffusion of sarcastic humour that she had. She seemed to treat even her
own grievances in this semi-serious way--one of them certainly, if her
husband were one. Such a manner and such a way of regarding things are
often most attractive to the people who would find it hardest to acquire
the like for themselves; they seem to make the difficulties which have
loomed so large look smaller--they extenuate, smooth away, and, by the
artifice of not asking too much, cause what is given to appear a more
liberal instalment of the possible. They are not, however, generally
associated with any high or rigid moral ideas, and were not so
associated in the person of pretty Christine Fanshaw. But they are
entirely compatible with much worldly wisdom, and breed a tolerance of
unimpeachable breadth, if not of exalted origin.
"We'll be friends, won't we?" Christine said to Sibylla, settling
herself cosily by her. "I'm rather tired of all these women, except Kate
Raymore, and she doesn't much approve of me. But I'm going to like you."
"Will you? I'm so glad."
"And I can be very useful to you. I can even improve your frocks--though
this one's very nice; and I can tell you all about husbands. I know a
great deal--and I'm representative." She laughed gaily. "John and I are
quite representative. I like John really, you know; he's a good man--but
he's selfish. And John likes me, but I'm selfish. And I like teasing
John, and he takes a positive pleasure sometimes in annoying me."
"And that's representative?" smiled Sibylla.
"Oh, not by itself, but as an element, sandwiched in with the rest--with
our really liking one another and getting on all right, you know. And
when we quarrel, it's about something, not about nothing, like the
Selfords--though I don't know that that is quite so representative,
after all." She paused a moment, and resumed less gaily, with a little
wrinkle on her brow: "At least, I think John really likes me. Sometimes
I'm not sure, though I know I like him; and when I'm least sure I tease
him most."
"Is that a good remedy?"
"Remedy? No, it's temper, my dear. You see, there was a time when--when
I didn't care whether he liked me or not; when I--when I--well, when I
didn't care, as I said. And I think he felt I didn't. And I don't know
whether I've ever quite got back."
Ready with sympathy, Sibylla pressed the little richly beringed hand.
"Oh, it's all right. We're very lucky. Look at the Courtlands!"
"The poor Courtlands seem to exist to make other people appreciate their
own good luck," said Sibylla, laughing a little.
"I'm sure they ought to make you appreciate yours. Grantley and Walter
Blake are two of the most sought-after of men, and you've married one of
them, and made quite a conquest of the other to-night. Oh, here come the
men!"
Young Blake came straight across to them, and engaged in a verbal
fencing-match with Christine. She took him to task for alleged
dissipation and over-much gaiety; he defended his character and habits
with playful warmth. Sibylla sat by silent; she was still very ignorant
of all the life they talked about. She knew that Christine's charges
carried innuendoes from the way Blake met them, but she did not know
what the innuendoes were. But she was not neglected. If his words were
for gay Christine, his eyes were very constantly for the graver face and
the more silent lips. He let her see his respectful admiration in the
frank way he had; nobody could take offence at it.
"I suppose you must always have somebody to be in love with--to give,
oh, your whole heart and soul to, mustn't you?" Christine asked
scornfully.
"Yes, it's a necessity of my nature."
"That's what keeps you a bachelor, I suppose?"
He laughed, but, as Sibylla thought, a trifle ruefully, or at least as
though he were a little puzzled by Christine's swift thrust.
"Keeps him? He's not old enough to marry yet," she pleaded, and Blake
gaily accepted the defence.
Their talk was interrupted by Lady Harriet's rising; her brougham had
been announced. Grantley telegraphed his readiness to be off too, and he
and Sibylla, after saying good-night, followed the Courtlands
downstairs, Raymore accompanying them and giving the men cigars while
their wives put their cloaks on. Grantley asked for a cab, which was
some little while in coming; Tom Courtland said he wanted a hansom too,
and stuck his cigar in his mouth, puffing out a full cloud of smoke. At
the moment Lady Harriet came back into the hall, Sibylla following her.
"Do you intend to smoke that cigar in the brougham as we go to my
mother's party?" asked Lady Harriet.
"I'm not aware that your mother minds smoke; but as a matter of fact I'm
not going to the party at all."
"You're expected--I said you'd come."
"I'm sorry, Harriet, but you misunderstood me."
Tom Courtland stood his ground firmly and answered civilly, though with
a surly rough tone in his voice. His wife was still very quiet, yet
Raymore and Grantley exchanged apprehensive looks; the lull before the
storm is a well-worked figure of speech, but they knew it applied very
well to Lady Harriet.
"You're going home, then?"
"Not just now."
"Where are you going?"
"To the club."
"What club?"
"Is my cab there?" Grantley called to the butler.
"Not yet, sir; there'll be one directly."
"What club?" demanded Lady Harriet again.
"What does it matter? I haven't made up my mind. I'm only going to have
a rubber."
Then it came--what Sibylla had been told about, what the others had seen
before now. They were all forgotten--host and fellow-guests, even the
servants, even the cabman, who heard the outburst and leant down from
his high seat, trying to see. It was like some physical affliction, an
utter loss of self-control; it was a bare step distant from violence. It
was the failure of civilisation, the casting-off of decency, a being
abandoned to a raw fierce fury.
"Club!" she cried, a deep flush covering her face and all her neck.
"Pretty clubs you go to hard on midnight! I know you, I know you too
well, you--you liar!"
Sibylla crept behind Grantley, passing her hand through his arm. Tom
Courtland stood motionless, very white, a stiff smile on his lips.
"You liar!" she said once again, and without a look at any of them swept
down the steps. She moved grandly. She came to the door of her brougham,
which the footman held for her. The window was drawn up.
"Have you been driving with the windows shut?"
"Yes, my lady."
"I told you to keep them down when it was fine. Do you want to stifle
me, you fool?" She raised the fan she carried; it had stout ivory sticks
and a large knob of ivory at the end. She dashed the knob against the
window with all her strength; the glass was broken and fell clattering
on the pavement as Lady Harriet got in.
The footman shut the door, touched his hat, and joined the coachman on
the box.
With his pale face and set smile, with his miserable eyes and bowed
shoulders, Tom Courtland went down the steps to his cab. Neither did he
speak to any of them.
At last Raymore turned to Sibylla.
"I'm so sorry it happened to-night--when you were here," he said.
"What does it mean?" she gasped.
She looked from Grantley to Raymore and back again, and read the answer
in their faces. They knew where Tom Courtland had gone. Grantley patted
her hand gently, and said to Raymore:
"Well, who could stand a savage like that?"
It was the recognition of a ruin inevitable and past cure.