"THE GORDIAN KNOT"
Mr. Talfourd twiddled the bunch of La France roses between his
fingers with a smile which was scarcely one of satisfaction.
They were very fine roses--in just that stage of bursting bud in
which the La France is seen at its best. In London La France
roses cost money, even when they are poor examples of their
kind; those were good enough for exhibition. There were a great
many of them, and they were tied about with a beautiful green
ribbon, in charming contrast with the blooms. They had probably
cost some one at least half a sovereign. They were for him; they
had cost him nothing; yet they did not seem to afford him
pleasure.
The fact was he was puzzled. He did not quite know what to make
of the situation; what he did understand he did not like.
"This gets beyond a jest," he told himself. "Because I happened
to mention, accidentally, that La France roses were my favourite
flowers, I didn't expect to find a bouquet of them on my table
every morning awaiting my arrival. Either it means something or
it doesn't; either way I don't like it. I'm getting three
hundred pounds a year in cash for doing I don't quite know what,
and apparently half as much again in flowers. It won't do--it
will not do." He gave the unoffending roses an impatient twirl.
"The point of the joke is that when I said La France roses were
my favourite flowers I was speaking a little beside the mark. I
don't know that I have a favourite flower. They're Meg's--I was
thinking of her at the time, as I generally am. I don't want
Mrs. Lamb to think that she is giving me flowers, when she is
really giving them to Meg, to whom I invariably pass them on. I
don't know that she would really relish the notion of my giving
her flowers to some one else. Confound her impudence!"
He threw the roses from him on to the table with a show of
roughness which they, at any rate, had done nothing to deserve.
As if conscious that his temper was being vented in the wrong
quarter, picking them up again he regarded them with looks of
whimsical self-reproach.
While he was still eyeing them the door was opened, and a
masculine voice inquired from without--
"May I come in?"
Without waiting for a reply the inquirer entered. It was Mr.
Gregory Lamb. A much more resplendent Gregory Lamb than the one
whose acquaintance we have previously made. The Gregory Lamb we
met in the wood was purely an affair of make-believe--not of
very plausible make-believe. His attire then looked as if it
wished you to think it had cost a great deal of money--but the
trained eye knew better. There could be no doubt that everything
about this Gregory Lamb was the most expensive of its kind--only
the trained eye knew really how expensive. The impression he
conveyed was that he had got as much on him in the way of money
as he conveniently could--probably that impression was not far
wrong. Yet the result was scarcely satisfactory. Especially was
this shown to be the case when he brought himself into
comparison with the man who was already in the room.
Both were young; both bore themselves well; both were
good-looking; yet there could not be a moment's doubt as to
which was the pleasanter to look upon. It was not only that one
was obviously a gentleman, and the other just as obviously was
not; nor was it that one looked a clever, an intellectual, man,
and the other emphatically did not; still less was it an affair
of costume, since Gregory Lamb was overdressed and Harry
Talfourd's attire was simply plain and neat. It was something
subtler than any of these things which made the one attractive
and the other the reverse. Gregory Lamb had never made a friend
worth having in all his life--and never would; Talfourd made
friends wherever he went. He could not himself have said why; it
was certainly not because he tried.
To begin with, Mr. Lamb's manner was unfortunate. His intention
was to be on terms of hail-fellow-well-met with every one; to be
no respecter of persons; to be "my dear chap" with Tom, Dick and
Harry. As a matter of fact, there was an air of patronage about
everything he said and did which was perhaps the more
insufferable because unconscious. He came into the room with
what he meant to be an air of jaunty geniality.
"All alone? I thought you would be. It's not your time for
receiving visitors, is it? Just come; I heard you knock; must
have time to breathe before you let them in--eh? Those are fine
roses."
"They are not bad ones."
"Bad ones!--I should think they weren't. They oughtn't to be; I
happen to know what my wife paid for them." He laughed, as if he
sneered. "Sends you them every morning, doesn't she? Standing
order, I hear. Talfourd, you're in luck."
Mr. Talfourd's manner was as cold as the other's was warm.
"Mrs. Lamb is very kind--kinder than I deserve."
"Perhaps she knows what you deserve better than you do--trust
her, she's no simpleton. When she takes a fancy she has her
reasons. I say, old man, I want you to do me a favour."
"I shall be happy to do you a service if I can."
"There's no doubt about the can--not the least in the
world--you'll find that it's as easy as winking. I want you to
get my wife to let me go for a little run to Monte Carlo."
"I beg your pardon?--I don't understand."
"It's this way. I'll be frank with you, Talfourd. I look upon
you as a friend, my boy. I can't go without cash; I'm
stony-broke; my wife holds the money-bags. You tell her--you
know how!"--Mr. Lamb winked--"that you think the run would do me
good, and tell her to give me a thousand to do it with,
and--I'll do as much for you one day, upon my soul I will."
Mr. Talfourd stared at the speaker in undisguised amazement.
"You credit me with powers of persuasion which are altogether
beyond any I possess."
"Oh no, I don't"--Mr. Lamb laughed again--"I know better than
that! You tell her what I've asked you to tell her, and I bet
you anything I cross by to-night's boat, with notes for a
thousand in my pocket. She'd send me to the North Pole at a hint
from you."
There was scarcely such a friendly expression on Mr. Talfourd's
face as on the other's.
"Are you not forgetting that Mrs. Lamb is my employer? that I am
merely her servant since I receive her wages?"
"Her servant?"--the laugh again--"I hope she doesn't overwork
you. Come, Talfourd, be the good sort you are, help a lame dog
over a stile. I'm spoiling for a flutter, and I'm dead sure that
the only chance I have of getting it is by means of a helping
word from you."
"You must excuse me, Mr. Lamb. I am engaged to do clerical work
for Mrs. Lamb. I should not presume to speak to her on the
subject you have mentioned."
"Presume?--what ho! Now Talfourd, you're no kid any more than I
am. You know as well as I do that you can twist my wife round
your finger. All I want you to do is to give her a twist for my
particular benefit."
"I can give you no answer but the one I have already given."
"Oh yes, you can--and you will. I'll look in for it to-morrow
morning--by that time you'll have thought it over. You're
not so crusty as you make yourself out to be. That'll be
four-and-twenty hours clean thrown away; and when you're
spoiling for a burst like I am, that's a deuce of time. But I
shall have every confidence in your kind offices when you've had
a chance to see just what I'm driving at."
When Mr. Lamb had retired Mr. Talfourd seemed unhappy.
"Every time that man talks to me I want to kick him. I wonder if
he affects other people in the same way--the unmentionable
animal! If, as the husband of his wife, he thinks himself
entitled to talk to me like that, it's time for me to think
things over. I must know where I am moving. Three hundred pounds
are three hundred pounds--I know that as well as any one--but
they may be earned too dearly. It is one thing to be Mrs. Lamb's
secretary, quite another to be----" He did not finish the
sentence even mentally. Sitting down to the table he drew
towards him the little heap of correspondence which was supposed
to justify his secretarial existence. There were about a dozen
envelopes, mostly containing circulars of different kinds. "I
believe that the letters are examined, and any of the slightest
importance retained, before they are sent to me. The idea of my
receiving three hundred pounds a year for opening circulars is
too thin."
While he sat with both elbows on the table, staring ruefully in
front of him, the door opened again, and Mrs. Lamb came in.
"At work? I hope I'm not disturbing you."
She had changed more than her husband, whether for the better or
for the worse was not easy to determine. So far as appearance
went she had become a much better imitation of a lady. Society,
or what with her passed as society, had smoothed away some of
the angles. She had the air of a woman who had to do with many
persons of different sorts, and had learned to adapt herself to
them all. One felt that she was probably a popular character on
the stage on which she had chosen to perform--successful, at
least within certain limits. One did not wonder that it was so,
if only because, in her own way, she was good to look at.
That way, however, did not happen to be Mr. Talfourd's--which
was unfortunate. Indeed, she inspired him with a curious
feeling. He was afraid of her. It seemed absurd, but he was. For
one thing, he realised that she was not only a clever, an
unusually clever woman, but that her cleverness lay in a
direction in which he was incompetent, and would perhaps
prefer to be. Again, he felt that she read him like an open
book, knew him to his finger-tips, while she was beyond his
comprehension--where, again, he would possibly prefer her to
remain. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that she saw in him
something which was not savoury; that her keenest glances were
continually directed on his weakest points; that it would please
her to find him an undesirable creature. He had no overt cause
to suppose this was so. So far she had been to him nothing but a
friend--a friend in need. But on such a point even the vaguest
shadow of a doubt was disquieting.
He rose as she came in.
"It is not possible for you to disturb me--I wish it were."
"You wish it were? Why?"
"Because in that case I should be really doing some genuine
work--which I never am. My post is too much of a sinecure; my
conscience will not allow me to remain your secretary much
longer if there continues to be nothing to do."
"You want something to do? You shall have it--very soon--at
least, I think so. I have been reading your play."
"My play?"
He had noticed that she was carrying in her hand what looked
like some typewritten MSS., in brown-paper covers. Now, with a
start, he recognised them as his own.
"'The Gordian Knot.' Mr. Winton gave it me to read."
"Winton! What right----"
He was about to ask what right Winton had to do anything of the
kind, but perceiving that that would scarcely be a civil
inquiry, he stopped, not, however, before she understood what
had been on the tip of his tongue.
"Mr. Winton had every right to give it me to read, as, I think,
you will yourself admit when I explain. I have, of course, known
for a long time that Mr. Winton would like to commence
management on his own account. The other afternoon he told me
that he had a play which he would produce at once if he could
only find some one who would furnish at any rate part of the
necessary capital. I asked by whom it was. He said, 'It's by a
man named Talfourd--Harry Talfourd'. You may easily believe that
that did arouse my interest." She said this in a tone which
seemed to make him go all over pins and needles; it was almost
as if she had caressed him. "I mentioned to Mr. Winton that,
given certain conditions, it was possible that I might be
tempted to enter into such a speculation. He offered to send me
the MS. It reached me yesterday. I read it last night and again
this morning--not once, but three or four times. Mr. Talfourd,
it's first-rate."
"It's very good of you to say so."
"It's not good of me. It's a simple statement of a simple fact.
If it were rubbish I should tell you so plainly--if you were the
dearest friend I have in the world. On such matters I have no
hesitation; and I think you will confess that this is a matter
on which I do know something. Your play's first-rate. If we can
agree about terms it shall have an immediate production."
"I hardly know what to say to you."
He did not. On that play he had founded more hopes than he would
have cared to mention to that friendly lady. Its success would
mean so much to him, and to the woman he loved. It had gone the
usual round of the untried dramatist's play. Hope deferred again
and again had made his heart sick. He had begun almost to
despair that it would ever see the light. Yet now that he was
told that if there was only an agreement about terms--as if
there was any likelihood of a disagreement!--it should have an
immediate production, he was not at all sure that his feelings
were what, under the circumstances, he had supposed they would
have been. It was perfectly true, he did not know what to say to
her. She was glib enough.
"Say?--say nothing. Let's talk business, and stick to that. I
mean to. You understand that this is purely a business
proposition which I am about to make to you, and absolutely
nothing else. If I go into this matter it will be on strictly
commercial grounds, and on those only."
"I wish I were sure of it."
"It's not nice of you to doubt my word, Mr. Talfourd; before I
have finished you will be sorry for having done so. Before
entering into negotiations for the production of your play, do
you know what would be one of the preliminary conditions I
should be disposed to make?"
"I have not a notion."
"That I should be your leading lady."
"Mrs. Lamb!"
"Mr. Talfourd! I presume you are aware that I can act?"
"I know that you have made some successful appearances in--in
amateur theatricals."
"Mr. Winton will inform you that those amateur theatricals were
not greatly below the standard of any professional
representations you have seen. Apart from that--this is strictly
between ourselves--I may mention that once upon a time I was
professionally connected with the stage." She did not think it
necessary to mention with what branch of it. "Your heroine, Lady
Glover----"
"Lady Glover is hardly my heroine."
"She is the leading feminine character--the pivotal character;
the one about whom the whole thing turns. To my mind the one
creature of real flesh and blood."
"I had hoped that Agnes Eliot was a character of some
importance."
"Agnes Eliot?--pooh!--namby-pamby, bread-and-butter miss! She's
not bad in her way, and, I suppose, in a pit-and-gallery sense,
she's the heroine--and not an ineffective one either; but I
assure you I have not the slightest wish to play Agnes Eliot.
Susan Stone, who becomes Lady Glover, is a woman who, in the
face of all obstacles, achieves success; continually confronted
by difficulties, she treats them as so many Gordian knots; she
cuts them and walks straight on. Quite indifferent as to the
means she employs, she always gets there. Considering the
present craze among actresses for what they are pleased to call
sympathetic parts, I think you will agree that that is not a
character which would appeal to every one."
"Certainly. Winton is of opinion that in casting the play the
chief difficulty would be to find an adequate representative. As
you say, many actresses don't like to act wicked women."
"I don't know about an adequate representative, but I'm quite
willing to act Lady Glover, and, although I say it myself, I
think you'll find that I shall be equal to the occasion. Indeed,
I am ready to make a sporting bet with you that, in my hands,
Lady Glover will take the town by storm. There's a popular
fallacy that people don't like wicked women--it is a fallacy.
When they're of the right brand, they love 'em--especially men.
Give me a chance, and I'll prove it. I'll guarantee that
seventy-five per cent, of masculine playgoers shall fall in love
with Lady Glover--if I play her. What do you say?"
"I don't understand why you should wish to play her."
"How's that?"
"The answer seems so obvious. You--a lady of position, of
fortune, with troops of friends!"
"Change, Mr. Talfourd, is the salt of life. I'm very fond of
salt. Before I read your play I had no more idea of doing
anything of the kind than I had of flying to the moon. But Lady
Glover went straight to my heart. I saw at once what magnificent
fun it would be to give to the stage a really adequate
representation of the naughty feminine. I knew I could do
it--and I can. So why shouldn't I?"
"You understand that Mr. Winton has the refusal of the play, and
that I should first have to consult him."
"Of course I understand that Winton has the refusal of the play,
and of course I understand that you will have to consult him.
I'm not afraid of Winton. He shall be the leading man, and cast
the other parts as he pleases. I'll be Lady Glover, and find the
money. I'll be an ideal Lady Glover. I believe in your heart you
know it. Winton and I between us will make of the play a
monstrous success, and so your fortune will be made, and a few
shillings added to my own. I should dearly like to make your
fortune, if only for one reason--because you don't like me."
"Mrs. Lamb!"
"Which is the more odd, because men generally do. Do you
remember our first meeting?"
"I'm never likely to forget it."
"You don't say that in a tone which suggests an unsophisticated
compliment. I had read that thing of yours in the _Cornhill_.
Frank Staines said that he had the honour of your acquaintance;
that you were clever on quite unusual lines--as he put it, 'a
cut above the market'--and that in consequence you'd been having
a pretty rough time. You recollect that it was at an early stage
of our acquaintance that I offered you the post of private
secretary."
"I wonder if, when you did so, you knew that I'd nearly reached
my last shilling?"
"I'd an inkling. If you hadn't you'd have said no." This was so
literally the truth that he was silent. She understood him so
much better than he did her. He had an irritating feeling that
she was treating him as if he were some plastic material, which
she was gradually fashioning into the shape she desired. "I've
done you nothing else than good turns----"
"I know it, quite well."
"And yet, actually, I believe, on that account, you seem to
dislike me more and more."
"I do assure you, Mrs. Lamb, that you are wrong. I do hope I'm
not the blackguard you seem to imagine."
"I am not wrong, Mr. Talfourd--in a matter of that sort I seldom
am. And you're not a blackguard; you're altogether the other
way. It's a case of Dr. Fell--the reason why you don't like me
you cannot tell. It's not your fault at all--it's sort of
congenital. Don't worry! But that being so, since I have already
done you one or two good turns, it would be delightful to be
able to do you a crowning good turn--to make your fortune; to
make you the most successful man of the day--you, the only man I
ever met who really did, and does, dislike me.
"Mrs. Lamb, I--I can't tell you how you make me feel."
"I wouldn't try."
He did not. She looked at him and smiled, while he stood before
her, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes, like some shamefaced
schoolboy.