THE FIRST LIE
Mrs. Cosgrove was a childless widow, with sufficient means and a very
mixed multitude of acquaintances. In the general belief her marriage
had been a happy one; when she spoke of her deceased husband it was
with respect, and not seldom with affection. Yet her views on the
matrimonial relation were known to be of singular audacity. She
revealed them only to a small circle of intimates; most of the people
who frequented her house had no startling theories to maintain, and
regarded their hostess as a good-natured, rather eccentric woman, who
loved society and understood how to amuse her guests.
Wealth and position were rarely represented in her drawing-room; nor,
on the other hand, was Bohemianism. Mrs. Cosgrove belonged by birth and
marriage to the staid middle class, and it seemed as if she made it her
object to provide with social entertainment the kind of persons who, in
an ordinary way, would enjoy very little of it. Lonely and impecunious
girls or women were frequently about her; she tried to keep them in
good spirits, tried to marry them if marriage seemed possible, and, it
was whispered, used a good deal of her income for the practical benefit
of those who needed assistance. A sprinkling of maidens who were
neither lonely nor impecunious served to attract young men, generally
strugglers in some profession or other, on the lookout for a wife.
Intercourse went on with a minimum of formalities. Chaperonage—save
for that represented by the hostess herself—was as often as not
dispensed with.
“We want to get rid of a lot of sham propriety”—so she urged to her
closer friends. “Girls must learn to trust themselves, and look out for
dangers. If a girl can only be kept straight by incessant watchfulness,
why, let her go where she will, and learn by experience. In fact, I
want to see experience substituted for precept.”
Between this lady and Miss Barfoot there were considerable divergences
of opinion, yet they agreed on a sufficient number of points to like
each other very well. Occasionally one of Mrs. Cosgrove’s _protegees_
passed into Miss Barfoot’s hands, abandoning the thought of matrimony
for study in Great Portland Street. Rhoda Nunn, also, had a liking for
Mrs. Cosgrove, though she made no secret of her opinion that Mrs.
Cosgrove’s influence was on the whole decidedly harmful.
“That house,” she once said to Miss Barfoot, “is nothing more than a
matrimonial agency.”
“But so is every house where many people are entertained.”
“Not in the same way. Mrs. Cosgrove was speaking to me of some girl who
has just accepted an offer of marriage. “I don’t think they’ll suit
each other,” she said, “but there’s no harm in trying.””
Miss Barfoot could not restrain a laugh.
“Who knows? Perhaps she is right in that view of things. After all, you
know, it’s only putting into plain words what everybody thinks on all
but every such occasion.”
“The first part of her remark—yes,” said Rhoda caustically. “But as
for the “no harm in trying,” well, let us ask the wife’s opinion in a
year’s time.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Midway in the London season on Sunday afternoon, about a score of
visitors were assembled in Mrs. Cosgrove’s drawing-rooms—there were
two of them, with a landing between. As usual, some one sat at the
piano, but a hum of talk went on as undercurrent to the music.
Downstairs, in the library, half a dozen people found the quietness
they preferred, and among these was Mrs. Widdowson. She had an album of
portraits on her lap; whilst turning them over, she listened to a chat
going on between the sprightly Mr. Bevis and a young married woman who
laughed ceaselessly at his jokes. It was only a few minutes since she
had come down from the drawing-room. Presently her eyes encountered a
glance from Bevis, and at once he stepped over to a seat beside her.
“Your sisters are not here to-day?” she said.
“No. They have guests of their own. And when are you coming to see them
again?”
“Before long, I hope.”
Bevis looked away and seemed to reflect.
“Do come next Saturday—could you?”
“I had better not promise.”
“Do try, and”—he lowered his voice—“come alone. Forgive me for saying
that. The girls are rather afraid of Mr. Widdowson, that’s the truth.
They would so like a free gossip with you. Let me tell them to expect
you about half-past three or four. They will rise up and call me
blessed.”
Laughing, Monica at length agreed to come if circumstances were
favourable. Her talk with Bevis continued for a long time, until people
had begun to leave. Some other acquaintance then claimed her, but she
was now dull and monosyllabic, as if conversation had exhausted her
energies. At six o’clock she stole away unobserved, and went home.
Widdowson had resigned himself, in appearance at all events, to these
absences. It was several weeks since he had accompanied his wife to
call upon any one; a sluggishness was creeping over him, strengthening
his disinclination for society. The futile endeavour to act with
decision, to carry Monica away into Somerset, resulted, as futile
efforts of that kind are wont to do, in increased feebleness of the
will; he was less capable than ever of exerting the authority which he
still believed himself to keep for the last resort. Occasionally some
days went by without his leaving the house. Instead of the one daily
newspaper he had been used to take he now received three; after
breakfast he sometimes spent a couple of hours over the _Times_, and
the evening papers often occupied him from dinner to bedtime. Monica
noticed, with a painful conflict of emotions, that his hair had begun
to lose its uniform colour, and to show streaks that matched with his
grizzled beard. Was _she_ responsible for this?
On the Saturday when she was to visit the Bevises she feared lest he
should propose to go with her. She wished even to avoid the necessity
of telling him where she was going. As she rose from luncheon Widdowson
glanced at her.
“I’ve ordered the trap, Monica. Will you come for a drive?”
“I have promised to go into the town. I’m very sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
This was his latest mode of appealing to her—with an air of pained
resignation.
“For a day or two I haven’t felt at all well,” he continued gloomily.
“I thought a drive might do me good.”
“Certainly. I hope it will. When would you like to have dinner?”
“I never care to alter the hours. Of course I shall be back at the
usual time. Shall _you_ be?”
“Oh yes—long before dinner.”
So she got away without any explanation. At a quarter to four she
reached the block of flats in which the Bevises (and Everard Barfoot)
resided. With a fluttering of the heart, she went very quietly
upstairs, as if anxious that her footsteps should not be heard; her
knock at the door was timid.
Bevis in person opened to her.
“Delighted! I thought it _might_ be—”
She entered, and walked into the first room, where she had been once
before. But to her surprise it was vacant. She looked round and saw
Bevis’s countenance gleaming with satisfaction.
“My sisters will be here in a few minutes,” he said. “A few minutes at
most. Will you take this chair, Mrs. Widdowson? How delighted I am that
you were able to come!”
So perfectly natural was his manner, that Monica, after the first
moment of consternation, tried to forget that there was anything
irregular in her presence here under these circumstances. As regards
social propriety, a flat differs in many respects from a house. In an
ordinary drawing-room, it could scarcely have mattered if Bevis
entertained her for a short space until his sisters’ arrival; but in
this little set of rooms it was doubtfully permissible for her to sit
_tete-a-tete_ with a young man, under any excuse. And the fact of his
opening the front door himself seemed to suggest that not even a
servant was in the flat. A tremor grew upon her as she talked, due in
part to the consciousness that she was glad to be thus alone with Bevis.
“A place like this must seem to you to be very unhomelike,” he was
saying, as he lounged on a low chair not very far from her. “The girls
didn’t like it at all at first. I suppose it’s a retrograde step in
civilization. Servants are decidedly of that opinion; we have a great
difficulty in getting them to stay here. The reason seems to me that
they miss the congenial gossip of the area door. At this moment we are
without a domestic. I found she compensated herself for disadvantages
by stealing my tobacco and cigars. She went to work with such a lack of
discretion—abstracting half a pound of honeydew at a time—that I
couldn’t find any sympathy for her. Moreover, when charged with the
delinquency, she became abusive, so very abusive that we were obliged
to insist upon her immediate departure.”
“Do you think she smoked?” asked Monica laughingly.
“We have debated that point with much interest. She was a person of
advanced ideas, as you see; practically a communist. But I doubt
whether honeydew had any charms for her personally. It seems more
probable that some milkman, or baker’s assistant, or even metropolitan
policeman, benefited by her communism.”
Indifferent to the progress of time, Bevis talked on with his usual
jocoseness, now and then shaking his tawny hair in a fit of laughter
the most contagious.
“But I have something to tell you,” he said at length more seriously.
“I am going to leave England. They want me to live at Bordeaux for a
time, two or three years perhaps. It’s a great bore, but I shall have
to go. I am not my own master.”
“Then your sisters will go to Guernsey?”
“Yes. I dare say I shall leave about the end of July.”
He became silent, looking at Monica with humorous sadness.
“Do you think your sisters will soon be here, Mr. Bevis?” Monica asked,
with a glance round the room.
“I think so. Do you know, I did a very silly thing. I wanted your visit
(if you came) to be a surprise for them, and so—in fact, I said
nothing about it. When I got here from business, a little before three,
they were just going out. I asked them if they were sure they would be
back in less than an hour. Oh, they were quite sure—not a doubt about
it. I do hope they haven’t altered their mind, and gone to call
somewhere. But, Mrs. Widdowson, I am going to make you a cup of
tea—with my own fair hands, as the novelists say.”
Monica begged that he would not trouble. Under the circumstances she
had better not stay. She would come again very soon.
“No, I can’t, I can’t let you go!” Bevis exclaimed, softening his gay
tone as he stood before her. “How shall I entreat you? If you knew what
an unforgettable delight it will be to me to make you a cup of tea! I
shall think of it at Bordeaux every Saturday.”
She had risen, but exhibited no immutable resolve.
“I really must go, Mr. Bevis—!”
“Don’t drive me to despair. I am capable of turning my poor sisters out
of house and home—flat and home, I mean—in anger at their delay. On
their account, in pity for their youth, do stay, Mrs. Widdowson!
Besides, I have a new song that I want you to hear—words and music my
own. One little quarter of an hour! And I know the girls will be here
directly.”
His will, and her inclination, prevailed. Monica sat down again, and
Bevis disappeared to make the tea. Water must have been already
boiling, for in less than five minutes the young man returned with a
tray, on which all the necessaries were neatly arranged. With merry
homage he waited upon his guest. Monica’s cheeks were warm. After the
vain attempt to release herself from what was now distinctly a
compromising situation, she sat down in an easier attitude than before,
as though resolved to enjoy her liberty whilst she might. There was a
suspicion in her mind that Bevis had arranged this interview; she
doubted the truth of his explanation. And indeed she hoped that his
sisters would not return until after her departure; it would be very
embarrassing to meet them.
Whilst talking and listening, she silently defended herself against the
charge of impropriety. What wrong was she committing? What matter that
they were alone? Their talk was precisely what it might have been in
other people’s presence. And Bevis, such a frank, good-hearted fellow,
could not by any possibility fail in respect to her. The objections
were all cant, and cant of the worst kind. She would not be a slave of
such ignoble prejudices.
“You haven’t made Mr. Barfoot’s acquaintance yet?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t. There seems to have been no opportunity. Did you
seriously wish me to know him?”
“Oh, I had no wish in the matter at all.”
“You like Mr. Barfoot?”
“I think him very pleasant.”
“How delightful to be praised by you, Mrs. Widdowson! Now if any one
speaks to you about _me_, when I have left England, will you find some
nice word? Don’t think me foolish. I do so desire the good opinion of
my friends. To know that you spoke of me as you did for Mr. Barfoot
would give me a whole day of happiness.”
“How enviable! To be so easily made happy.”
“Now let me sing you this song of mine. It isn’t very good; I haven’t
composed for years. But—”
He sat down and rattled over the keys. Monica was expecting a lively
air and spirited words, as in the songs she had heard at Guernsey; but
this composition told of sadness and longing and the burden of a lonely
heart. She thought it very beautiful, very touching. Bevis looked round
to see the effect it produced upon her, and she could not meet his eyes.
“Quite a new sort of thing for me, Mrs. Widdowson. Does it strike you
as so very bad?”
“No—not at all.”
“But you can’t honestly praise it?” He sighed, in dejection. “I meant
to give you a copy. I made this one specially for you, and—if you will
forgive me—I have taken the liberty of dedicating it to you.
Songwriters do that, you know. Of course it is altogether unworthy of
your acceptance—”
“No—no—indeed I am very grateful to you, Mr. Bevis. Do give it to
me—as you meant to.”
“You will have it?” he cried delightedly. “Now for a triumphal march!”
Whilst he played, with look corresponding to the exultant strain,
Monica rose from her chair. She stood with eyes downcast and lips
pressed together. When the last chord had sounded,—
“Now I must say good-bye, Mr. Bevis. I am so sorry your sisters haven’t
come.”
“So am I—and yet I am not. I have enjoyed the happiest half-hour of my
life.”
“Will you give me the piece of music?”
“Let me roll it up. There; it won’t be very awkward to carry. But of
course I shall see you again before the end of July? You will come some
other afternoon?”
“If Miss Bevis will let me know when she is quite sure—”
“Yes, she shall. Do you know, I don’t think I shall say a word about
what has happened this afternoon. Will you allow me to keep silence
about your call, Mrs. Widdowson? They would be so annoyed—and really
it was a silly thing not to tell them—”
Monica gave no verbal reply. She looked towards the door. Bevis stepped
forward, and held it open.
“Good-bye, then. You know what I told you about my tendency to low
spirits. I’m going to have a terrible turn—down, down, down!”
She laughed, and offered her hand. He held it very lightly, looking at
her with his blue eyes, which indeed expressed a profound melancholy.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for your great kindness.”
And thereupon he opened the front door for her. Without another look
Monica went quickly down the stairs; she appreciated his motive for not
accompanying her to the exit.
* * * * * * * * * *
Before entering the house she had managed to conceal the sheet of music
which she was carrying. But, happily, Widdowson was still absent. Half
an hour passed—half an hour of brooding and reverie—before she heard
his footstep ascending the stairs. On the landing she met him with a
pleasant smile.
“Have you enjoyed your drive?”
“Pretty well.”
“And do you feel better?”
“Not much, dear. But it isn’t worth talking about.”
Later, he inquired where she had been.
“I had an appointment with Milly Vesper.”
The first falsehood she had ever told him, and yet uttered with such
perfect assumption of sincerity as would have deceived the acutest
observer. He nodded, discontented as usual, but entertaining no doubt.
And from that moment she hated him. If he had plied her with
interrogations, if he had seemed to suspect anything, the burden of
untruth would have been more endurable. His simple acceptance of her
word was the sternest rebuke she could have received. She despised
herself, and hated him for the degradation which resulted from his
lordship over her.