LILY HERBERT as Lily Phillips had realised the importance of keeping her
husband’s love, not his toleration. Mr. Phillips had been affectionate
always, and she had tolerated him. She remembered it all; she had been
so relieved and glad when he was away from her, his kisses nauseated
her.
With Herbert life was joy, and, had she not firmly believed it could not
last, real happiness would have been hers.
Their honeymoon had lasted for three weeks, three weeks of absolute
happiness, tempered only by her husband’s reflections of sorrow for
Launa—for he admired Launa. Lily did likewise, and she feared her, too.
Lily wondered whether she was to be the one who cared most; in all
marriages one cares more than the other. She had always felt a contempt
for women who show they care while their husbands seem indifferent. She
blamed them; they were no longer desirable to their husbands; they were
within reach. Someone must lead, so she took it: fear lest he should
change or grow tired lent terror to all her ideas and movements.
They were staying in Surrey. The house was small, with a garden which
was a bower of roses, with beautiful lawns and large cedar trees. They
lived out of doors. Mr. Herbert did not work, and she took to
embroidery. He told her she looked absolutely lovely when she sewed.
She laughed.
“There is something syren-like about you,” he said. “You will never grow
old; you could not become unattractive.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that all—is that all you are going to say to me, only thank you?”
“All,” she said.
He came over by her.
“Your hands are so beautiful. I would like to live like this always.”
“It would not be always June and warm,” she said.
“I love you, love you absolutely—what can change it?”
“What?” she repeated, even while she feared. “Don’t ask, you will spoil
it.”
“You never—will not often let me kiss you. Why is it?”
“I hate kissing.”
“I will kiss you,” he said masterfully. “You are mine, mine, mine. You
are an enchantress, a witch. When I am with you, or away from you, I
think of nothing but you. My life is all you.”
He took her in his arms gently. She remembered with a shudder those
horrible embraces of her first marriage. He kissed her lips, those warm
red lips which were one of her chief beauties; but it was all done so
gently.
“You were afraid of me,” he said. “Heavens! here is someone coming to
call.”
“And you have crushed my blouse,” she said reproachfully.
It was Lady Blake.
“How are you both?” she asked, as she rustled towards them, pretty,
smiling, and glancing from one to the other.
“Very happy,” said Mr. Herbert. “The nightingales are still singing.”
“Ah,” said Lady Blake, as she seated herself in his chair, and accepted
a cushion from him. “Happy—there is something subdued about happiness.
I want you to come and stay with me.”
“When is your uncle coming home?” Lily said to her husband.
“In a week,” he replied.
“In a week then,” said Mrs. Herbert, “we would like to come to you.”
After Lady Blake left he said:
“And now it is over.”
“Not over,” she answered, “just beginning. We stay at Blake House for
two weeks, and then papa wants us.”
Mr. Herbert acquiesced. He had given in to her conditions, and he knew
what she did not or pretended not to believe, that he loved her with all
his soul. He would go with cheerfulness to Lady Blake’s, anything to
prolong the honeymoon, and he hoped Lily would forget her proposed
arrangement when they returned to town. That oblivion might descend on
her mind he prayed!
After their visits they went back to London.
They arrived one morning about twelve, and drove to her flat in Sloane
Street, he had his luggage sent to his rooms which were two streets
further on.
“I think we might take a larger flat,” he suggested. “It would be
cheaper and less trouble.”
She laughed and answered:
“By and by. You remember our bargain? We are not to grow tired like
other people or to see too much of each other—enough of each other.”
“And so one of us is to be always miserable,” he said.
“Isn’t it better?” she asked. “Isn’t anything better than for either of
us to be tired?”
There were tears in her eyes.
“No, my beloved, it is not better. Will you not think it over? Will
you—” he held her hand. “We are so happy, we shall be always. It will
last, I swear it will—”
The cab stopped and she got out.
She gave herself a little shake as she went up in the lift. How
perilously near giving in she had been! What would it be to her to lose
the lover? A husband is a poor exchange. No, she would be firm.
The little flat looked very pretty, there were flowers everywhere. Her
two maids welcomed her with smiles and blushes. Lunch was ready.
Mrs. Herbert went to take off her hat. Her own room was decorated with
white flowers; it was a dear little white and green room.
“I should like to wash my hands,” said her husband meekly.
“Yes, you may. I will show you my room. Now that we are married I can
show you everything. There is a delightful sensation of freedom as well
as of bondage in matrimony.”
She took him into her room and left him there.
“That is my spare room,” she said, and pointed to a door. “It will be
your room when I ask you to stay here.”
“There is something unusually novel in being asked to stay with one’s
wife. It is as if you had me on approval.”
“Don’t say that,” she suggested. “No, you belong to me now.”
“I wish I did. You are like the angel with the drawn sword at the gate
of the Garden of Eden. He was not placed there until after Eve had eaten
the apple. I suppose I have had a bite of my apple.”
“You are anticipating. You are borrowing trouble. Wash your hands and
come to lunch.”
He looked into the next room. It was yellow and white, and dainty and
fresh. A row of his boots would disfigure it. His bachelor quarters
seemed so dull in comparison. The faint smell of violets came from her
clothes, he used her hair brush, and looked at her shoes lingeringly.
They ate their lunch and smoked afterwards.
“This is lovely!” he said, with a sigh.
“And how unlike matrimony. The average husband likes to use his
authority at first, and says he will have the pictures altered, and he
cannot sleep in a bed which runs from east to west, or from north to
south or—”
He looked at her rather sadly.
“You are not an average wife, and I am little more than a bachelor even
now.”
“You are a very nice one.”
“Will you come and see my abode? You have seen my sitting-room, but Mrs.
Grant has it all done up, and so you must pay me a visit.”
“Do you remember one day when I went to have tea with you, and Mrs.
Carson disappointed us? How terrified I was that someone might see me,
though you told the minion to say you were out. Every time the bell rang
I thought it was a man who would force his way in; do you remember?”
“Do I not remember? Put on your hat.”
“I will change my dress. You will wait?”
“For ever,” with a smile and a glance.
So far they both felt matrimony a success; desire had not failed. When
would it?
Joy was clouded by apprehension in her mind; in his there was no doubt,
no fear. He knew himself better than she did. They walked together to
his rooms. He showed her all over them. His housekeeper, Mrs. Grant,
welcomed her. She too had arranged flowers in plenty.
“How will you have this room furnished?” he asked, as he threw open the
door. It was a large room, the best one in a set of four. It had been
his work-room, but he had given it up for another, and a dark one.
“This is to be your room when you come to stay.”
She smiled. There was a touch of genius in his suggestion—more a touch
of impropriety—which appealed to her.
“You will ask me to stay?”
“Sometimes,” he replied. “Not too often, lest you grow weary of me and
find fault with the housekeeping.”
“Pale pink would be pretty for the room decorations, and also be
becoming. I would come more frequently if it were becoming.” She turned
to look at his pictures. “Oh! here is a photograph of Launa. She gave it
to you?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“She is beautiful, and what a queer girl! I had no idea her father’s
death would make her so wretched. She was perfectly crushed. She behaved
as if he were her lover.”
“He was very fond of her.”
“He was devoted to her. I cannot quite make her out. She is—there is a
history somewhere. I did not know she had given you her photograph. I
suppose she gave them to everyone. She did not keep them only for people
she cared for. I am glad,” she said suddenly, “that I have enough money
to do without yours.”
“I can give you presents.”
“And ask me to stay.”
“For always. I ask you now,” he said. “I beg you. Will you stay always
with me? Not in these rooms, but we can have one flat together.”
“You promised,” she answered, with a slightly unsteady voice. “You
promised—don’t.”
To remind a man of his promise when he wants to break it, frequently
means the woman would not mind if he did, and if he insists she will
give in. It betrays weakness. He put his arms round her and said
nothing, but he gave no orders for the immediate furnishing of one large
flat. Her experiment should be tried. He had no desire or intention of
forcing her to give in nor of being master; just then she would have
liked him to be master, but how can a man know these things?
They went back to her rooms for dinner. She put on a creamy gown trimmed
with lace; he gave her some pale pink roses and fastened them on. He
never forgot her flowers.
In the evening they sat in the big window and looked out at the moon—it
rose, a big round shining moon. They were silent. At last she said:
“The stars are larger than the moon, but how faint beside it. The moon
is nearer.”
“That is what one feels sometimes,” he answered. “One loves the stars,
but the moon is nearer.”
“Yes, it is nearer. Would you feel so? Am I the moon or a star? Of what
are you thinking?”
“Of you.”
“Of me. Think of something nice.”
“You are not nice. You are original, and that is never nice. How lonely
I shall be to-night!”
“And I.”
Here Mr. George walked in.
“I have come,” he said, “to condole with you both on being married.”
“How kind of you!” said Lily.
“And to ask you, Mrs. Herbert, whether the bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush? There were two in your bush. Do gratify my desire—my
ardent desire—for information.”
“I will,” she replied. “First I must give you some coffee and ask you to
look at the moon.”
“Moon,” repeated Mr. George. “There are many moons; this is the old
moon, not your kind, and this one is lovely. Was your moon full of
honey?”
“No,” replied Mr. Herbert, lighting a cigarette, “ours was without
anything sickly or monotonous.”
“Or satiating?”
“Exactly,” answered Mr. Herbert.
“Tell me now, Mrs. Herbert, about the bush. Is it not better to have two
in the bush than the bird in your hand?”
“Are you asking merely as a journalist, Mr. George? Or do you honestly
desire information?”
“I desire honest information and information honestly.”
“Two in the bush,” she repeated.
“Sir Ralph and Mr. Buxton,” suggested the inquirer softly. “Perhaps you
prefer the bird in your hand as well as the two in the bush, for they
are still there. They have returned to town, and are looking more
cheerful than they appeared at your wedding. If you remember, they left
that festive scene early, before your departure for the desert of
matrimony.”
“The bird in the hand is enough for me,” said Lily, “enough now.”
“Ah!” said her husband, with an air of abstraction, “now.”
“Yes, now,” she said defiantly.
“Now,” repeated Mr. George, with exaggerated emphasis. “Why are we all
talking of now? Tell me about Launa, Mrs. Herbert? Where is she?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Herbert, “where is she?”
“I will make you both a present of her address,” said Lily. “She will
not see you; you can both write volumes to her, and you, Mr. George,
will at once rush by the night or the morning train to see her.”
“No, time and distance will merely mellow her affection for me. I am
very fond of her, too fond, for I love her.”
“Dear me,” said Lily. “In what way do you love her? Hopelessly, madly,
platonically, or matrimonially?”
“Not matrimonially, because I could never tire of her; not platonically,
platonic people are too clever and enjoy their experiences too much to
be indifferent, but they never want to kiss each other. I might—”
“These are revelations,” said Mr. Herbert.
“Go on,” commanded Lily.
“I can’t. Launa is perfect. I fear she does not love me. When I call her
Launa, her eyelids never quiver. Did you ever quiver, Mrs. Herbert?”
“Never.”
“You are intellectual. I am going to write a book and call it
‘Marriage.’ There will be various assortments in it. Platonic matrimony
is interesting.”
“Very,” said Lily.
She went away to get the address for him.
“Wainbridge is very fond of Miss Archer,” said George, when he was alone
with Herbert.
“She looked ill when I last saw her. I am going to write to her.”
“Tell her—”
“Tell her what?” asked Lily, returning as he spoke.
“That we are perfectly, indefinitely happy.”
“How unlucky of you, Jack. You never should boast about happiness. It
will go. How dreadful of you. I know something will go wrong.”
“You have no nerve,” said Mr. Herbert.
“These connubial differences so early in your matrimonial career are
most embarrassing,” said Mr. George. “Later you will seldom or never
differ, or differ altogether. Thus do the early quarrels of husband and
wife evolve themselves. I must go.”
“Shall we ever become indifferent?” she asked. “Shall we ever grow old
and cold and—?”
“Grey,” interrupted Herbert. “The moon will change and not shine.”
They gazed at each other as if appalled by their remarks.
“Anyway the moon does not shine solely for you,” said Mr. George.
“Farewell.”
Mr. Herbert accompanied him to the door, and when he came back to her,
Lily said:
“Good-night, you must go home.”
“It is so late for me to be out, and I want to stay with you.”
“No. You must go,” she said.
“May I come to breakfast?”
“At a quarter-past nine.”
“Good-night, my darling, my—good-night.”
He lingered. He was loath to go, and she almost said, “Stay, never go;”
but she did not say it, and so he left her.
She missed him. He had gone away indifferently, and had not seemed to
mind. She had ordered a special breakfast for him next day. Where had he
gone after leaving her? The moon and the star comparison returned to her
mind. Then she wrote to Sir Ralph Egerton, telling him to come to see
her. Had Jack borne their first parting with indifference?
It was part of the plan that the wife should not worry whether her
husband suffered indifference or any other malady. Worry causes
sleepless nights and wrinkles. Mrs. Herbert went to bed, but the moon
shone in and she could not sleep. She hoped he could not; nor did he.