MRS. HERBERT was at home. Her drawing-room had been crowded. Sir Ralph
Egerton had paid his first visit, and was more admiring, more devoted
than ever. Lily had increased in value in his eyes now that another man
had appropriated her. Her desirability was greater because she was out
of reach.
Lily was looking particularly well. Sir Ralph had brought her a wedding
present and an invitation to go to the play with him. The guests had all
left, and he had not succeeded in persuading her to come when Mr.
Wainbridge came in, followed by Mr. Herbert.
“Sir Ralph wants me to go to the theatre to-night,” she said, turning to
her husband. “You are not asked.”
“I shall be delighted if you will come,” said Sir Ralph politely.
“I cannot,” answered Mr. Herbert. “You have forgotten your engagement,
Lily, to come with me.”
“So I have. Sir Ralph, will you dine here to-morrow night and we can go
somewhere? I won’t ask you, dear,” she said to her husband, “for you
would not be amused.”
“Many thanks, I will come at eight to-morrow,” said Sir Ralph.
“Good-bye.”
“Tell me about yourself,” said Lily to Mr. Wainbridge. “How are you?”
Mr. Herbert left them alone.
“I am very well. I want you to help me.”
“To help you?”
“Will you try to get Miss Archer to come back to town? I cannot go to
Derbyshire to see her.”
“You want to see her?”
“Very much.”
“I will do what I can. You want to marry her?”
“Perhaps.”
“Marriage is not peace—not always.”
“It is better than separation and distance,” he replied. “Where are you
and your husband going?”
“Out—to the opera and then to supper somewhere.”
After he went away Lily wrote to Launa and then dressed and went out
with her husband. They were so happy when they were together, and his
absences, ordered by herself, were so trying—he was kind and strong,
moreover he loved her. How terrible if he were to forget, to grow cold!
She hardened her heart—her way was the best. She forgot that a day
comes when passion must grow cooler; then it is that friendship seasoned
by passion takes its place, and makes life rest and sweetness. She was
torn with jealousy lest he might care for some other woman, for if he
were to, he would not settle down to the dull, assured matrimonial
existence when he grew used to her, and probably seek amusement
elsewhere. This was her way of keeping his love. She let him see her
seldom, not often alone. He heard of her flirtations from herself. She
loved him absolutely, and she feared the force of her love might cause
his to grow cold, therefore she kept him at a distance and hungered for
a sign, for a caress from him, while she never betrayed her feelings.
The next day Launa received the following letter. She was starting for a
long walk when it came, and read it on the way.
* * * * *
“MY DEAREST LAUNA,—How are you? We are longing to see you. Do
come to London. Are you not coming for your music? Mr.
Wainbridge was here to-day. He is much concerned, dear, that you
do not come back to town. He fears you may be going to Canada to
leave us all. Jack is most anxious to see you too. We are still
happy, madly, gloriously, interruptedly happy. Interruptions are
salutary—they add joy to the everydayness of life. Dear Launa,
_do_ come back soon.
“Thine as ever,
“L. H.”
* * * * *
Launa went across the moor to the “Cat and Fiddle.” Only by long walks
could she kill the restlessness which overcame her. She was longing to
hear some music again, and Lily’s letter arrived at exactly the very
best time for Mr. Wainbridge.
Mr. Wainbridge wrote almost every day. He sent her books, music, and
flowers. He tried to induce her to come to town. He told her that he
loved her with a love of the soul, that his one longing was to comfort
her, to endeavour to make up for the grief and despair of the past. She
thought of him with interest. He possessed the glamour of a lover for
her without any of the disadvantages of being enamoured herself. This
was an affection of the mind—a soul-love that he felt for her; it
lulled her into security. She resolved to leave in a week for London,
there to begin her music again.
As she walked home across the moor, she thought of the days at
“Solitude” with her father—she felt old and sad. Work only was left;
her aspirations on first coming to London seemed the foolish yearnings
of a child for the moon. She would _do_ something—play, work, and
forget with her heart and soul, and also she _would_ care for some
person. This unsatisfied longing for the woods, for her father and the
old life must be crushed, and speedily. How easy it was to label her
longings! She did not add the desire for one word from Paul to them, and
yet that was the greatest one of all. Lily’s suggestion that she might
intend to go to Canada again filled her with loathing. How could she
face “Solitude”?
And so she and her maid journeyed to Victoria Mansions. Lily came to
welcome her, and expressed herself as being enchanted with life, though
really Jack and she were starting on an unsatisfactory wild-goose chase.
Occasionally they had a day together—sometimes he merely came to dine
when she was having a party. Sir Ralph spent many and long days with
her; they went about together, and Jack waited. He had a firm belief in
his own future with her. She would tire of this life and be glad to
rest, and know he would care always.
When Launa had set her house in order, and had the piano tuned, she
began to take music lessons again.
Mr. Wainbridge came at once to see her. She wanted to take up their
friendship where they had left it before their letter-writing; he had
added the letters, the wishes and imaginings of their separation to it.
At first this intentional game of cross-purposes amused him. She would
not understand what any one might have seen.
She wanted friendship, only bounded by all the old opinions, with
love-making confined to books. There was a grey shadow between her and
love-making. Mr. Wainbridge saw it and was patient.
About this time Launa met the Coopers. Mrs. Cooper was a relic as well
as a relict—her one daughter Sylvia was of the present day. They were
very poor, and Sylvia worked very hard.
Mrs. Cooper knew how to dress in silk or satin, decorated with lace; but
to adapt herself to serge was quite beyond her capabilities. She was a
woman who could only order a dinner of an era which is passing away.
Clear soup, turbot, or cod-fish, with thick sauce, roast beef, a heavy
pudding, plum or cabinet—no savoury—and for dessert candied fruit and
oranges. Dainty dinners and economy were unknown to her. Sylvia did the
housekeeping, and Mrs. Cooper wept. Her husband had been angelic, with a
decided turn for unpunctuality, which is the prerogative of angels. This
was a daily cross to his wife, and her husband bore her revilings with a
saintly and irritating fortitude. Sylvia Cooper was pretty. She was
small and pale, with browny green eyes and brown hair. She met Mr.
George at Victoria Mansions; he had vainly tried to get introduced to
her. He went to the editor of the _Signal_, the new paper which was to
be the signal for every one’s opinions—lords and ladies, ballet girls,
actresses and actors, all wrote for it; only managers did not write for
it, and they disliked it. The notoriety the publication of opinions
brought was not always agreeable.
Mr. George thought of interviewing Miss Cooper, as she sang in the
chorus of the newest and most dull opera.
The editor of the _Signal_ said if she were pretty he would have her
photograph, and if she had broken any of the commandments, he would
allow the interview to be published.
Mr. George said she was pretty, and as for the commandments, Miss Cooper
looked as if she had never heard of them. So he started for the Fulham
Road, where she lived.
First he saw Mrs. Cooper. She received him with the graciousness his
clothes and boots deserved. When he explained his errand she gasped with
horror.
Fortunately at this moment Sylvia entered and the tragic situation
ended. Mr. George asked questions and obtained her photograph for the
paper.
“I will not repeat any of the opinions you confide in me,” he said. “If
I did, and you said you preferred fine days to rainy ones, you would see
in all the papers that Miss Cooper owns to a fondness for fine days, but
she need not imagine that Heaven will be gracious to _her_ at the
expense of the farmers.”
“Or cab drivers,” said Sylvia. “Showery weather must be their harvest
time. Still no paper will notice my opinions. Why did you come to
interview me? I am nobody.”
“I want to get your ideas on chorus work.”
“Yes? Well, you shall have them by and by. We need not talk of my
feelings or of my preferences—but will you have some tea?”
He owned to being a friend of Launa’s and a cousin of Sir Anthony
Howard’s. Mrs. Cooper forgave everything then, and found his visit of
over an hour too short. As soon as he left he drove to Victoria
Mansions.
Launa had just come in. She had lunched at the Herberts’. Mr. Wainbridge
as usual was with her.
“You will never guess where I have been,” said Mr. George, with
complacency, accepting a third cup of tea. Launa’s tea was always good;
at Sylvia’s there was no cream. “I suppose,” he reflected, “there are
lives without cream.”
“Tell me where you have been.”
“Interviewing Miss Cooper for the _Signal_, and here is her photograph.”
“Not really,” said Launa, with interest. “How naughty of you when I
refused to introduce you to her, for I do not approve of you.”
“Now, Miss Launa, you are real mean, as you Yankees say.”
“I am a Canadian.”
“I know it. Haven’t I kept your secret? Did I ever tell Mr. Wainbridge
how you fell violently in love with me and told me so, and how you would
hold my hand? And how I did stroke yours? I was obliged to that night of
the Fulton’s ball. The night you cried—you had just been dancing with
Mr. Wainbridge—you said you were tired—you said—”
“It is nothing new for Miss Archer to be tired,” interrupted Mr.
Wainbridge. “Did she see a ghost? She saw one, I remember, on a Sunday
afternoon.”
“And you are base,” said Launa. “I will not invite you to any of my
parties to meet Sylvia. You have thus betrayed my tenderest feelings and
my tears. For what paper was your interview?”
“The _Signal_, I told you. Now, don’t roll your eyes, Launa; you are not
shocked, I know. What could I do? You see you would not introduce me to
her; Wainbridge said he could not; Mrs. Herbert is so much married _à la
mode_, that I, a young and innocent young man, cannot risk my slender
reputation in her company. Then I thought of the _Signal_. Their leave
was easily procured; they have no intention of paying me, and they will
publish her photograph some day. Her mother was alarmed when she heard
why I had come. I trotted out my cousin, Sir Anthony, and you, Launa. We
had tea, and I am going again soon; perhaps they may come with me some
Sunday afternoon somewhere.”
“Indefinite,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “but convincing of your affection for
her. Take care.”
“Tell me about Sylvia,” said Mr. George. “Wainbridge, you know her well.
Isn’t there a story attached to her?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us,” said Launa. “Do.”
“When the Coopers were well off, only two years ago, Sylvia met Lord
Fairmouth. He is in Africa, or somewhere.”
“Go on,” said Launa.
“You are quite safe, I know; but that young ruffian, will he tell?”
“Tell,” repeated Mr. George. “I long to kick you down the stairs, Mr.
Wainbridge. Go on.”
“Sylvia did not know he was married, and they met every day. He loved
her. His wife was a woman who—”
“Who belonged to every and any man as well as to him,” suggested Mr.
George.
“Sylvia, then,” continued Mr. Wainbridge, “was very religious. She did
not believe in marriage after divorce. Fairmouth could easily have got
rid of his wife; but Sylvia was firm, so he left her and then went away.
She probably sent him.”
“How terrible!” said Launa. “Could they not have met sometimes? Might
not his love have been a comfort to her?”
“Moralists say not,” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“Such love cannot be real,” said Launa. “I used to think love was
immortal.”
“It would be immortal,” said Mr. George. “Too pure for this earth.”
The two men looked at her.
“Almost thou persuadest me that such things can be,” said Mr. George.
“I have learned such a lot,” she said, “in London. Love is marriage and
an end.”
“I am not going to murmur marriage to Sylvia,” said Mr. George. “I have
left it out altogether in my new book, the difficulty was to dispose of
my man and woman. I overcame that by saying, ‘The end is the usual one.’
To return to Sylvia. I am not afraid of a breach of promise, but
nowadays marriage is labelled a ‘question,’ and the reviewers are so
tired of it; they are all married. I fear I must leave you now, Miss
Launa. Good-bye.”
“Be a good boy! Don’t chase the cat or—Good-bye.”
“Suppose you were situated as they were,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “would
you have sent him away? Would you have been afraid?”
“Afraid?” she repeated, with a contempt for fear. “No, I would have
loved him—forever and ever. Why, because a man is bound to a vile
woman, need he make the woman he loves vile because he loves her, or
because he is bound?”
She looked at him, flushed with excitement, and doing battle for truth,
and he realised that to some women love does not mean temptation because
they are usually ignorant—at first. It would be difficult to explain
this to Launa.
“I know not,” he whispered.
“I often wish,” she said, half to herself, “that we knew more of what
will happen after death, if we were only told—should we try more? There
is such temptation to become lethargic—to drown remembrance in the
waters of Lethe.”
“You have no temptation. Do you want a reward? That is the lowest type
of religion.”
“I do not want crowns, and vast seas of gold have no charm for me. Do
you not suppose that Sylvia often wonders whether she will meet and know
the man she loves again?”
“Certainly she does, and she will see him and know him here. He won’t be
able to stay away.”
“You don’t believe in a future anywhere?”
“I believe in another world,” he said, “in another life where a verdict
of temporary insanity as regards the foolishness of man’s doings in this
life will be given with frequency. Most of us are not responsible for
what we do. You know if a man or a woman kills his or herself the jury
usually call it suicide while temporarily insane. Many of us commit
self-murder for this life, but, in the eyes of the higher jury, if it
exist at all, we are temporarily insane.”
“Don’t say if it exist; it must, else it were never worth one’s while to
give up anything.”
“Is giving up worth it? Is it?” he asked. “Why not take all one can get?
it is little enough. I love you,” he added softly, and put one arm round
her.
“Don’t,” she said sharply, “_don’t_; I cannot bear being touched.”
“You love me?”
“No, I love no one. I like you, we are friends. You like what I do. You
must not spoil it by loving me.”
“What did George mean when he said you had cried one night after dancing
with me?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“I did not offend you?”
“No; oh, no. It had nothing to do with you personally. Can’t we be as we
were?”
“I have always loved you. I long to help and comfort you, to make you
happy. Do you think that impossible?”
“Why ask inconvenient questions?”
“Is it inconvenient? My dearest, I did not mean it.”
“Because she cares for me she was afraid happiness was never coming,” he
thought.
A man always attributes a woman’s refusing to tell him how much she
cares to her being too shy to talk of it; never to her not caring
enough. “Yet does she care?” he wondered. That he might still doubt, and
not be obliged to think of settlements and the wedding ring was
satisfactory, it left an element of uncertainty in their relations; he
could dare to be tender, yet not too loving. Men marry because there is
nothing else to do, he thought. They know all about their future wives,
their affection is returned, it is satiating—there is nothing new.
Ten minutes afterwards Launa was singing Darkey songs for him, and
laughing as if her quest for happiness were over—successfully.
As he bade her good-bye, she gave him her hand.
“Is that all?”
“Yes; all. Next time I shall not shake hands, between friends it is
unnecessary.”
“I can wait.”
“Do,” she replied. “You could not well do anything else.”
He could not feel sure that it was time even to think a wedding ring
would ever be required.