LADY BLAKE had started evening receptions, and once a fortnight she was
at home. She had some idea of founding a _salon_, but her ignorance of
the necessary steps was appalling. She thought it would have something
to do with school-books and asking questions on abstruse subjects.
Launa went frequently, and took Sylvia with her, who was now second
leading lady in the new play “Some Cabbages and a Weed.” The interview
in the _Signal_ had been of much assistance to her career. Formerly she
had an existence—now she had a career. Mr. George devoted himself to
her. This evening they met at Lady Blake’s. Launa was quickly surrounded
by her friends, by her enemies, and people who could be either, had they
known her. She was charming—the self-possession of a duchess, combined
with the amiability and cleverness of the unknown woman wishing to be
successful.
Mr. George was amusing them by relating the triumphs of the interviewer.
He had been the one to hear the aims and aspirations of the newest “Lady
Temperance Lecturer.”
“Is she a Lady Temperance Lecturer?” he asked, “or a Temperance Lady
Lecturer? The last way sounds as if one might suspect her of imbibing,
and a Lady Temperance Lecturer does not sound—well, is nice the word?
Women like that word; it expresses untold things to them, daintinesses
and pretty undergarments. To a man it means a woman does not bore him.
He does not call his best beloved ‘nice’ merely—angels are not nice.”
“Tell me about the Temperate Lady,” said Launa.
“I think Temperate Lady Lecturer would be a good name,” said Sylvia.
“She might have an idea when to stop.”
“It was late,” said Mr. George, “when I interviewed her. She had been
lecturing. Her window blinds were not down, and the moon shone in. There
appeared to be much temperance in her mansion. We observed the moon with
attention and in silence. After she had told me several details of her
own life, ‘There is no water in the moon,’ she said, with a solemn air,
‘and nothing to drink. _The people in the moon have nothing to drink._’
This whole sentence was in the largest of italics. I suggested that our
best astronomers are in doubt as to the fact of human beings living in
the moon. ‘Such a beautifully mountainous world,’ she said, ‘must be
inhabited. Think of their Switzerland and of their Himalayas! They never
have typhoid, for there is no water.’
“‘No drinks,’ I said. ‘Nothing to drink,’ she replied. ‘Not even the sea
to bathe in, to picnic by in summer,’ I suggested. I won’t publish it
all. I asked if the moon were fruitful, and she said, ‘Undoubtedly.’
Then I replied, ‘They are obliged to drink their brandy raw. If it is
fruitful there must be grapes, if grapes, brandy’—you see the
connection? ‘There is no water to make brandy,’ she observed. ‘Pardon
me,’ I said, ‘you do not require water to make brandy only to dilute it,
if you have temperance yearnings.’ She gasped, and I left her.”
“How glad she must have been,” said Launa, moving as she spoke to talk
to Mr. Wainbridge’s cousin.
The rooms were becoming empty. Sylvia, Launa, Mr. Wainbridge, and Mr.
George were standing together. The Member for Hackney joined Launa. He
had developed an affection, nay, an inclination towards her. He was too
cold for affection; he admired her.
The Under-Secretary for the Home Department came up behind them.
“Bolton, have you heard?” he asked, and kept his eyes fixed on Launa. He
might have kept his information to himself had not Mr. Bolton been
occupied with her.
“What?” asked the Member for Hackney. He did not desire to know anything
further. His interest in the Colonies, as exemplified by Launa, was
absorbing.
She smiled at the Under-Secretary, who wondered if Mr. Bolton would
leave her when he heard the news.
“There has been a skirmish somewhere in Africa, and Fairmouth is, the
telegram says, dead. You are Lord Fairmouth. I thought you would like to
hear it.”
He waited. Sylvia gave a sort of moan and put out her hands.
“I loved him,” she said.
The Member for Hackney started, and Launa said:
“Miss Cooper and I must go home. Mr. George, will you give her your arm?
Hugh, you will get us our carriage?”
Mr. Bolton stayed by Launa; the Under-Secretary had vanished.
“So that is the girl,” he said; “I have heard of her. That was somewhat
dramatic. May I not be of some use to you, Miss Archer? Shall I take you
to Lady Blake? You will want to say good-night to her.”
He offered her his arm, and they found the hostess. Launa apologised for
Sylvia. The Member for Hackney said she looked quite pale. Lady Blake
suggested sal volatile, and expressed her great concern.
“I will come and see you to-morrow,” said the Member for Hackney, as he
held Launa’s hand at parting. “I am much interested in the Colonies and
in the New World.”
Mr. George stared after their carriage, then he lighted a cigarette. Mr.
Wainbridge had disappeared.
“She has a blister on now,” said Mr. George, “I wonder if it will ever
heal.”
Mr. Bolton nodded and said:
“Miss Archer is engaged to Mr. Wainbridge?”
“Yes,” replied George.
They walked away together.
* * * * *
“Sylvia, don’t try to talk,” said Launa, as they drove home.
“Let me alone,” she moaned. “I am a fool to break down. You cannot tell
what a joy it has been to me to feel to be sure of his love. It was all
I had—all—”
Launa left her alone, after giving her a brandy and soda.
Fortunately “Some Cabbages and a Weed” was over, and the theatre shut
up. It would open with a new play in September. Sylvia had her part to
study and could rest, but not with her mother.
Mrs. Cooper could not have believed her daughter was in trouble—trouble
which she should not share. A mother’s heart is the resting and the
confiding-place for her daughter. She forgot a mother’s tongue often
prevents confidences. She would have labelled her daughter “lost” had
she known.
Launa had decided on taking a house by the river—a cottage with drains
and hot water, as well as roses!
Mrs. Cooper and Sylvia would come too. Launa hoped Mr. Bolton would not
talk of this accident and betray Sylvia. She waited with apprehension
for the morrow and the Member for Hackney.
Sylvia besought her to find out the circumstances.
“Find out if he is dead. How he died: when and where. Oh, God! It is
torture! Torture! Find out all about him.”
Mr. Wainbridge, Mr. George, and Paul came next day. Launa dispatched
them for particulars. There was nothing in the paper. Mr. Wainbridge
went to the Club, Mr. George to his newspaper, and Paul to the High
Commissioner for Canada. This was his first meeting with Launa since
their day of confession. He asked for no further explanation and she
gave none.
He returned in an hour. The High Commissioner had been gracious. It was
said that Paul knew too much about him to allow of his being anything
else. There were episodes; the lady was happily married, and the
Commissioner was High. The news was confirmed—Lord Fairmouth was dead.
“I must tell her,” said Launa.
Paul went down to the cottage to inspect it and to order it to be
immediately prepared for them.
In all this they had quite forgotten Mrs. Cooper.
The Member for Hackney arrived before tea. His business engagements were
many, but he was in need of refreshment.
He found Launa in the music-room. He took her hand with sympathy. He
knew how to express his emotion with the ease of a ladies’ doctor. Some
people said he had no real emotions, only fictitious ones.
“What a charming room!” he said, as he viewed it and her with
admiration. He changed his tone as he added, “How is she to-day?”
“Broken-hearted.”
“Ah! In what way?” His experience had not provided him with any symptoms
of such a thing. “The defeat of a measure,” he began, when Launa
interrupted him.
“Oh, Mr. Bolton, does anyone know? Did the other man tell of what
happened last night?”
Fear of discovery is a woman’s broken heart, he made a note of it, while
he answered:
“No one knows. You may be quite sure of that. I arranged it with my
friend. You may tell Miss Cooper I am glad I can set her—mind at rest.”
He meant at first to say heart.
“She does not care, she does not think of that,” she answered. “She has
not seen him for six months . . . she loves him, he loved her . . . she
made him leave her.”
“Really!”
“It is terrible to hear her. She does not cry, she merely moans. . . .
You will have some tea?”
“I would like some tea,” he answered. “I am very tired.”
He felt much refreshed. Miss Archer had discrimination, and evidently
was a good housekeeper.
“You stay in town for some time?” he asked. “Miss Archer, are you not
the hansom girl? Mr. George told me about it, I remember. It applies to
you both with and without a ‘d’.”
She smiled, and did not thank him.
“I have taken a house at Shelton, and as Miss Cooper is so wretched I
intend to take her there.”
“She is related to you?”
“No; I am sorry for her. She is my friend.”
“Ah, that is better. Will you not be sorry for me? I, too, am alone, and
sometimes lonely.”
She had never associated any frivolity with the Member for Hackney. He
was one of those mysterious men who assisted in the governing of the
country, and as such beyond much emotion. She looked at him.
“Do you need my sorrow?”
“I want it.”
“We often want what we do not need. I want more tea, it is not good for
me, I do not need it.”
“Can I do anything to help you?”
“If you would. I had forgotten Mrs. Cooper, her mother. You could
interview her for me. She may hear Sylvia is ill. I do not want her to
come to see her daughter. Mrs. Cooper would believe you. She is an old
lady who believes in a man’s opinion.”
“‘Man was made in the image of God.’ She believes it still?”
“Yes,” said Launa, “and she accepts with thankfulness ideas from any
man.”
“If she were a young woman this might be attractive and new. I will go
to see this Adamite. What must I say?”
“Be indefinite.”
“Headache and weariness for disease; absolute quiet and rest for the
remedies,” he replied. “I quite understand. May I come again? Above all
I would like to be with you at Shelton.”
“Do come. I should be so glad.”
“I could wish you would not—could not express it so easily. Where does
this lady live?”
“In the Fulham Road.”
He sighed. The prospect of the long drive did not cheer him.
“You will take my brougham. I have ordered it for you.”
“Thank you,” he replied, and let his glance say more.
The Colonies were interesting. It was the year of new fishery
arrangements with America and France. The Member for Hackney made a
point of knowing all about them. He intended to ask Launa for
information; he felt singularly elated at the prospect of seeing her
again.
He was not particularly fond of fishing nor of bills, but information on
all subjects was acceptable to him. He prided himself on knowing the
views of the people for whom he was legislating.