It was never denied, even by the stupidest of her enemies, that Mildred
Brereton was a woman of the world, and her mode of procedure, when she
learned from Maud of her first rejection of Anthony's hand, was
perfectly correct from the standpoint of wisdom. She made no fuss or
scene of any kind, and only said:
"Dear Maud, I am very, very sorry. But you know, dear, how I trust you."
Maud pondered this remark, in her silent, uncomfortable way, for a
moment.
"Do you mean you trust me eventually to accept him?" she asked.
Mrs. Brereton wondered in her own mind where Maud _could_ have got her
tactlessness from. Aloud she said:
"I trust you in every way, dear--every way. And it shows your good sense
that you did not definitely refuse him. I do not wish to force you at
all or hurry your decision."
This was all that was said on the subject at the time, but Mildred,
after careful thought, was convinced she had done right. This impeccable
attitude was completed by her looking rather sad whenever her daughter
was observing her, sighing, and constantly calling her "dear child" in
well-modulated tones of chastened and uncomplaining affection. This
policy--if it is possible to use so cold and calculating a word for a
process so tender--had its desired effect, and Maud felt herself touched
with a sense of vague contrition. Eventually, not feeling sure of
herself, she had decided to confide her difficulty to Marie Alston, for
whom she cherished a shy and secret adoration. This interview, however,
had not been productive of a result which harmonized with her mother's
tender processes; indeed, had Mildred known that her gentle dropping of
water on a stone (the tender process) would have led her daughter to ask
advice of Marie, she would have adopted quite different methods. Maud
told her about the interview the same afternoon. She was not called
"dear child," or words to that effect, on this occasion.
Now, there is a sort of anger which, though it is often seen in
combination with irritation and ill-temper, is something very different
from either. It is not a quick-burning emotion; it is in no hurry to
strike and to hurt, but is quite deliberate, very patient, and at the
end, when a favourable opportunity presents itself, strikes hard. It was
this quality of anger that entered into Mildred's mind when Maud told
her of this interview. Had she been simply irritated with Marie or angry
with an anger of the less dangerous and quicker sort, she would probably
have rushed round to Park Lane, used the language of a cook to Marie,
burst into tears, and probably made it up a day or two later. But she
had not the slightest impulse to do any of those things. She was
irritated with Maud, called her a fool, and sent her away. Then she sat
down and thought about Marie.
There occurred to her, of course, at once a very obvious method of
injuring Marie. All London--every one, that is to say, who mattered at
all--except Marie herself, knew that she and Jack had been great friends
for a very long time. What would be the effect on Marie if she let her
know quietly, drop by drop, as one lets absinthe cloud and embitter
water, what had been going on so long, what she had been blind to so
long! Mildred knew her to be a woman of a pride and fastidiousness
quite beyond not only her own reach, but her own comprehension. This she
had never either resented or envied; if people chose to behave in what
she called a Holy Land manner, it was nothing to her, but she was not
jealous of their unattainable Oriental longitudes. It was all very well
to sit on a pedestal, but if you did, you had no idea what games went on
in the jostling world below. Marie's habitual attitude was to put her
nose in the air and draw her skirts away from the crowd; it would really
be very humiliating for her to get to learn by degrees what had been
going on all these years, to upset the pedestal, in fact, and let her
struggle to her feet as best she could, to let her, who always professed
to find scandal and gossip of all sorts so uninteresting, know for the
first time a bit of it which she could scarcely consider dull.
Mildred got up from the sofa where she was lying in her sitting-room,
and, lighting a cigarette, took a turn up and down. At first sight it
seemed an excellent plan, diabolical, which suited her mood, and simple
as all good plans are; but on second thoughts there were objections. In
her present anger she did not value Marie's friendship a straw, while
as for her own reputation, she was well aware that for all practical
purposes she had none. People, she knew, did not talk about Jack and her
any longer, simply because the facts were so stale, "and that," she
thought to herself with grim cynicism, "is what one calls living a thing
down." No, the danger lay elsewhere. Supposing Marie cut up very rough
indeed, supposing in her horror and disgust at Jack she did not hesitate
to punish herself as well, and bring the matter if she could into the
crude and convincing light of the Divorce Court, it would be both
unpleasant for Mildred herself, for she felt that cross-examination was
not likely to be amusing, and it would also spell ruin for Jack's
career, a thing which now, in the present state of her affections, she
cared about perhaps more than Jack. Of course, the matter might be
conveyed to Marie in so gradual and vague a manner that such proceedings
on her part would be without chance of success as far as getting a
divorce was concerned--to possess her mind with suspicions that
gradually became moral certainties was the point--but Mildred knew well
that in the mind of the great middle class to be mentioned in
connection with the Divorce Court is the mischief, not to lose or win
your case there. In any case, if she decided on this she would have to
think it very carefully over; it must be managed so that Marie could not
possibly go to the courts. Besides, ridiculous as Marie would appear
even if she adopted the least aggressive attitude of self-defence, yet
Mildred felt she must not underrate the strength of her position in
society. Perhaps another plan might be found as simple and without these
objections. She wanted, in fact, to think of something which would hurt
Marie as much as possible, and yet give her no chance of retaliation.
Where was Marie vulnerable? Where was she most vulnerable?
For a moment her irritation and exasperation got the upper hand, and she
flung off the sofa with clenched and trembling hands. "How dare she--how
dare she persuade Maud not to marry him!" she said to herself. It
frankly appeared to her the most outrageous thing to have done. Marie
must have known what her own desires for her daughter were--in fact, she
had before now told her of them--yet she had done this. Mildred felt a
qualm of almost physical sickness from the violence of her rage, and
sat down again to recover herself. It soon passed, leaving her again
quiet, patient, and implacable, searching about for a weapon. Suddenly
she got up, and stood quite still a moment.
"Most extraordinary that I should not have thought of that before," she
said aloud. Then she washed her face and bathed her eyes with some
rose-water, examining them a little anxiously as she dried them on her
silk face-napkin. They were as red as if she had been crying--red, she
must suppose, from anger, just as a mongoose's eyes get red when it sees
a cobra. Certainly she had been angry enough to account for the colour.
But on the whole she did not like emotions, except pleasant ones--they
were exhausting; and she lay down again on her sofa for half an hour to
recover herself, and told her maid to bring her a tablespoonful of
brandy with an egg beaten up into it. Then she dressed and went out to a
small private concert, where Saltsi was going to sing two little French
songs, exceedingly hard to understand, but simply screaming when you did
so. For herself, she was certain that she would understand quite
enough.
She had just come down-stairs when a note was brought her, which proved
to be from Marie.
"Maud has just consulted me," it ran, "about the question of her
marriage. Although I knew your views, I could not but advise her in
opposition to them. This looks as if I set her against you--as far
as that goes, I regret it extremely. But I could not do
differently; I wanted to, but could not. I tell you this in case
she does not."
Mildred read it and tore it up, not even troubling to question its
sincerity. Then, being told the carriage was waiting, she went out.
She was to call on her way to the concert for the person usually known
as Silly Billy, who in reality was an ignoble Earl. He was called Silly
Billy partly because his name was William, partly because he was
exceedingly sharp. His Countess was kept in the country, and was
supposed to go to church a great deal. The world was not particularly
interested in her, nor was her husband. Once she had had money, but she
no longer had any.
Silly Billy himself was now getting on for forty, and looked anything
between twenty-five and thirty. Probably he was naturally depraved, for
a career of vice seemed to suit him, and he thrived on it as other
people thrive on the ordinary rules of health. He had charming manners,
a slim attractive appearance, and no morals of any kind whatever. His
passion just now was Bridge, which he played regularly from sunset to
sunrise; the remaining hours of the twenty-four were occupied in
consuming large quantities of food, owing large sums of money, and
talking. He was supposed not to stand in need of sleep, which he
declared was a sheer waste of time. He was often to be seen in other
people's victorias; to-day he was in Lady Brereton's.
"Yes, we'll just stop for Saltsi's two songs," said she, as they drove
from his flat in Berkeley Mansions, "and then I'll set you down where
you like. How has the world been treating you, Silly Billy?"
He considered a moment.
"The world always treats me as I treat it," he said. "Lately I have not
had much to say to it; in fact, I have done nothing, and so I have heard
nothing. Tell me news. Anybody fresh about?"
"Only Jim Spencer, and he's rather a disappointment. As rich as
Croesus, you know?"
"That's always an advantage for him and his friends," remarked Silly
Billy candidly. "I should like to meet him. Does he play Bridge, or bet,
or anything?"
She laughed.
"You are always refreshing," she said, "because you are so very frank.
Does it pay?"
"Well, you must do one of two things," said he. "You must be absolutely
enigmatical or quite transparent. I am quite transparent. I want other
people's money."
"Shall I draw you a small cheque?"
"No, thanks; small cheques would be no good. By the way, I have heard
something about Jim Spencer.... Isn't he a friend of Marie Alston?"
Lady Brereton could not help smiling, and her inward anger licked its
lips.
"Ah! you have heard that too," she said. "But who cares?"
"Any one may do precisely what they please, so far as I am concerned,"
said Silly Billy, "so long as it doesn't personally annoy me. So it's
true, is it?"
"Dear Marie!" observed Mildred. "You see, they were engaged years and
years ago. Marie told me so herself."
Silly Billy considered a moment.
"What have you quarrelled with her about?" he asked after a short pause.
Mildred turned round.
"Now, how on earth did you guess that?" she asked.
"Pretty simple. You said 'Dear Marie!' in--well, in a tone. So the
Snowflake is melting, you think! I'm sure I tried to melt her often
enough. But I never had the very slightest success."
Mildred laughed.
"How funny!" she said. "I never knew that. What did Marie do?"
"Looked bored. Merely bored; not shocked, but bored. But Jim Spencer
doesn't bore her, you think? I suppose you are telling everybody about
it?"
"I haven't told a soul. It seems there is no need."
"Well, thank God, I'm no prude," said Silly Billy, as they stopped at
the house.
"Dear Marie!" said Mildred again. "Perhaps I ought never to have
discussed it with you. You are such a gossip, Silly Billy."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Surely that is what you want," he said, and Mildred did not contradict
him. Nor did she feel that she had been wasting time.
So Saltsi sang her little French songs, and the very distinguished
company all shrieked with laughter. Some of them did not understand what
they meant: those shrieked most, in order that it should appear that
they did; the rest shrieked because they did understand. Royalty was
there in a quiet little broughamish kind of way, and everything, in
fact, went just exactly as it should, and when Mildred stole quietly
away to avoid a string quartette and talk to Lady Maxwell, both to
congratulate her on her husband's honour and advocate the virtues of
patience and perseverance for Anthony, she felt braced and invigorated
for the duties that lay before her. She had already wound the clock up,
and it pleased her to think that its ticking would soon be audible all
over London. For herself, she did not care the slightest how loudly
people talked about her. She knew, on the other hand, that Marie would
care very much indeed. And the audibleness of the ticking was destined
to be heard more quickly than even she had hoped or expected.
It was two afternoons after this that Silly Billy was gently threading
his way down Piccadilly. The day was heavenly, a flood of yellow
sunshine invaded the streets, and a plum-like bloom hung over the
distances. It being so divine out of doors, he was proposing to spend
the hours till dinner at a select little club called the Black Deuce,
which had been lately founded with the sole and simple aim of
Bridge-playing. Just as he was about to cross the street, his way was
stopped for a moment by a policeman letting out the pent-up carriages
which stood waiting for their turn in Bond Street, just as a lock is
opened to let the water out. Among this shining stream of black lacquer
and silver harness there passed him a victoria with Marie Alston in it.
By her side sat Jim Spencer. And Silly Billy smiled gently to himself
all the rest of the way to the club.
There were three men only, all friends and respecters of his, in the
card-room, for it was yet early, and he making the fourth, they sat down
at once. Silly Billy, having, as usual, won the deal and the seats,
established himself with his back to the window. At the angle of the
wall, close to the window, was the door, which by reason of the heat was
left open. Then the holy silence fell.
He and his partner went out in the first deal, and Billy cut the cards
to his left in great good-humour.
"Met the Snowflake just now," he said, "driving along with her melter."
A paper rustled in the window-seat, and though the deal was not yet
finished, silence more awful than the silence of the game itself again
fell. Billy gave half a glance round, not to see who it was, for he
instinctively felt quite sure, but merely in confirmation of his
knowledge.
"Hullo, Jack!" he said. "That you? Didn't see you come in."
"I supposed you hadn't," said Jack.
"Damned good answer!" observed Billy. "What trumps did you say, Martyn?"
It is to be set down to the credit of Billy's nerves, that not only did
he not revoke during that hand, but played with quite his usual
brilliance. He had often claimed that the game had the advantage of
enabling one to forget everything else in the world for the time being,
and in this instance he was certainly justified. What was coming
afterwards he had not the slightest idea, but for the present it did not
concern him.
In turn his partner dealt, passed, and Billy, after a little
consideration, gave him no-trumps. The first card was led, Billy's hand
exposed on the table, and at that moment, Billy being unoccupied, Jack
rose.
"Can you speak to me a minute without interrupting the game?" he asked.
Silly Billy rose, looking exceedingly small and young.
"Rather. Next room, I should think," he said.
The two passed out, and Martyn spoke.
"Well, I'm damned!" he said, and nobody contradicted him.
The door of the next room shut behind the others, and Jack and Silly
Billy found themselves simultaneously taking out their cigarette-cases.
In the box on the table there was only one match, which Jack lit, and
handed first to the other. Then he spoke.
"I saw whom she was with," he remarked.
"Glad you haven't got to ask me, then," said Silly Billy; "because I
couldn't have told you."
Jack threw the match into the fireplace.
"Ah! you did mean my wife, then?" he said.
Silly Billy, figuratively speaking, threw up his hand.
"Very neatly done," he said. "You had me there. Now, what do you mean to
do?"
"Ask you a question or two first. Now, was that lie of your own
invention, or did you get it passed on from another liar?"
"You are using offensive language to me," observed Silly Billy.
"I am. If you prefer to come back to the other room, I will use it
there."
Silly Billy smiled. The situation was becoming clearer to him.
"As regards your question," he said, "what you call that lie was not of
my own invention. I should also advise you for your own sake not to
press me to tell who told me. I warn you that if you are offensive
again, I shall. At present, I do not tell you by way of _amende_ for a
speech which was indiscreet on my part. I ought to have looked round to
see that you were not in the room. And that's how we stand."
Jack knew perfectly well that Billy was no fool, and he weighed this
speech for a moment in silence.
"I don't understand," he said. "I think you are too crooked for me to
follow. Perhaps it will be best and simplest if we go back to the other
room. I can then box your ears in the presence of witnesses."
At this Billy laughed outright.
"I shall then bring an action for assault," he said, "for I suppose you
are not _vieux jeu_ enough to imagine I shall challenge you to fight.
What will happen? The reasons for the quarrel will come out in open
court. Will you like that? Will you like to pose as the defender of your
wife's honour? Are you"--and Billy grew more animated--"are you so dense
as not to know that the surest way of dragging it in the dust is to
defend it, oh, successfully, I grant you, in the court? We live in an
age, my dear Jack, in which violence has altogether ceased, and law,
which is meant to take its place, defeats its own object. However
successful your defence of both your action and of your wife's honour
may be, surely you know that, if such a thing is made public at all,
every one instantly says that there must have been something in it."
He paused a moment, Jack saying nothing.
"You are thinking that I am a cur and a coward," continued Billy. "You
have also used offensive language to me. Take this, then. Do you
consider yourself a good defender of your wife's honour? It is easy for
you to box my ears, as you suggest, and think you have done a fine and
manly action, but is all your conduct to her of a piece with that? Do
you think that no one will say that it was the most arrant piece of
humbug? If you had been beyond reproach in your married life, I do not
say that I might not even have consented to shoot at you and let you
shoot at me. But now, good God!"
Jack started up, black and angry, and stood towering over the other.
"Do you think you can speak to me like that?" he said, very quietly.
For the moment Silly Billy expected to find himself on the floor, but
not an eyelash quivered. He lounged against the chimney-piece, and
flickered his cigarette-ash into the grate.
"If you touch me, you will be sorry for it," he said. "If you say
another offensive word to me, you will be sorry for it. I am not in the
slightest degree afraid of you. If you had been faithful to your wife, I
should say your behaviour was admirable. As it is, it is merely
childish. We are rotten folk, you and I; but I have the pull over you
because I am not a hypocrite about it. Well, I don't want to call you
names. I had better get back, had I not? The hand must be over, and they
will be waiting for me."
Jack sat down.
"Wait a minute," he said.
"Certainly, if you have anything agreeable to say," remarked Billy. "For
myself, I have done. And it was rather a weak no-trump. Wonder what my
partner had?"
"Oh, damn your game!" said Jack.
"I probably shall, when I get back," conceded Silly Billy. "What do you
want to say?"
"This only: We are rotten people, and I have got to think it all over."
Silly Billy moved towards the door.
"Oh, yes; that's all right enough," he said. "Not coming back, I
suppose, are you?"
He sauntered back into the card-room, where the hand was only just
over.
"Well, what luck?" he asked. "Whisky-and-soda, waiter."
"Yes, my lord--large or small?"
"Enormous. Two tricks did you say, partner? Thanks. Game, and
twenty-four to nothing. How were aces? I only had one."