Though it was true that Claude’s kindness in lending Austell his flat
did not cost him anything, it conferred a great convenience on his
beneficiary, and Jim, who had been living at the Bath Club, had his
luggage packed without pause, and wrote the letter of acceptance and
thanks to Claude from the flat itself on Claude’s writing paper. The
letter was quite genuine and heart-felt, or at the least pocket-felt,
for Jim had had some slight difference of opinion with his mother on the
subject of being seen in a hansom with a young lady who in turn was
sometimes seen on the stage, and Eaton Place, where he had meant to
spend those weeks, was closed to him. But Claude’s flat filled the bill
exactly; it was far more comfortable than his mother’s house, and there
was nothing to pay for lodging, so that it was better than the club. His
satisfaction was complete when he found that Claude had left his cook
there, with no instructions whatever except to go on cooking, nor any
orders to have catering bills sent to the tenant. So Jim made himself
charming to the cook, gave her the sovereign which he had at once found
on Claude’s dressing table when he explored his bedroom, and said he
would be at home for lunch. Plovers’ eggs? Yes, by all means, and a
quail, and a little _macédoine_ of fruit. And by way of burying the
hatchet with his mother, and incidentally making her green with envy
(for it would have suited her very well if Claude had offered her the
flat, since somebody wanted to take her house), he instantly telephoned
asking her to lunch, and mentioned that he was in Mount Street till the
end of July. The lunch she declined, and made no comment on the other,
but Jim heard her sigh into the telephone. She could not hear him grin.
As had been mentioned before, Jim had no liking for Claude, and up till
the present he had done little living upon him. But this loan of the
flat--especially since there was free food going--was extremely
opportune, for at the present moment Jim was particularly hard up,
having been through a Derby week of the most catastrophic nature. He had
done nothing rash, too, which made his misfortunes harder to bear; he
had acted on no secret and mysterious tips from the stables, but had
with the most plebeian respectability backed favourites only. But the
favourites had behaved in the most unaccountable manner, and their
blighted careers had very nearly succeeded in completely blighting his.
But he had raised money on the rent of Grote which would be paid him at
the end of the month, and had paid up all his debts. That process,
however, had made fearful inroads on his receipts for the next quarter,
and strict economy being necessary, Claude’s kindness had been most
welcome. And as he ate his quail, Jim planned two or three pleasant
little dinner parties. He would certainly ask Claude and Dora to one of
them, or was that a rather ironical thing to do, since Claude would be
paying for the food that they all ate? He would pay for the wine as
well, it seemed, for a bottle of excellent Moselle had appeared, since
he had expressed a preference that way, coming, he supposed, from
Claude’s cellar.
Jim looked round the room as he ate and drank, pleased to find himself
in this unexpected little haven of rest, but feeling at the same time
envious of and rather resentful towards its possessor. He quite
sympathised with the doctrine of Socialism, and asked himself why it
should be given to Claude to live perpetually in that diviner air where
financial anxieties are unknown, where no bills need ever remain unpaid
except because it was a nuisance to have to dip a pen in the ink and
draw a cheque, whereas he himself was as perpetually in want of money.
The particular reason why he was in this moment in want of it, namely
because he had had a very bad week at Epsom, did not present itself to
his mind, or, if it did, was dismissed as being an ephemeral detail.
Perhaps in this one instance that was the reason why just now he was so
absurdly hard up, but the general question was what occupied him. Claude
was rich, he was poor; where was the justice of it? He liked prints,
too, and why should Claude be able to cover his dining room walls with
these delightful first impressions, while he could not? Indeed, he had
no dining room at all in which he could hang prints even if he possessed
them. His dining room was let to Mr. Osborne, who, it was said, was
going to be made a peer, and on their walls hung the stupendous
presentments of him and his wife. And Claude had married his sister:
everything came to those who had cheque-books. Well, perhaps the Ascot
week would make things pleasanter again; he had a book there which could
hardly prove a disappointment. If it did--but so untoward a possibility
presented no features that were at all attractive to contemplate.
He finished his lunch and then made a more detailed tour of the flat. It
was delightfully furnished (probably Uncle Alf was responsible for all
this, since it was clearly out of the ken of any other Osborne), and
everything breathed of that luxurious sort of simplicity which is so far
beyond the reach of those who have to make sovereigns exercise their
utmost power of purchase. By the way, he had taken a sovereign which was
lying about on Claude’s dressing-table and given it to the cook; he must
remember to tell Claude that (for Claude might remember, if he did not),
and pay him. Next that room was the bathroom, white-walled and
white-tiled, with all manner of squirts and douches to refresh and cool.
Then came a second bedroom, then the dining room in which he had just
now so delicately fed, then the drawing room, out of which opened a
smaller sitting room, clearly Claude’s. There was a big writing table in
it, with drawers on each side, and Jim amused himself by opening these,
for they were all unlocked, and looking at their contents. Certainly
Claude did things handsomely when he lent his flat, for in the first
drawer that Jim opened was a box of cigarettes, and one of cigars. These
latter smelt quite excellent, and Jim put back the cigarette he had
taken from the other box and took a cigar instead. In another drawer
were paper and envelopes stamped with a crest (no doubt the outcome of
the ingenuity of the Herald’s College), in another a pile of letters,
some of which Jim recognized to be Dora’s handwriting. This drawer he
closed again at once: it was scarcely a temptation not to do so since
he only cared quite vaguely to know what Dora found to say to her
_promesso_. In another drawer were a few photographs, a few invitation
cards, an engagement book, and a cheque-book. This latter was apparently
an old one, for it was stiff and full toward the back with counterfoils,
while the covers drooped together halfway down it.
Jim could not resist opening this, nor did he try to: he wanted to know
(and there was no harm done if he did) what sort of sums Claude spent.
But on opening it he saw that it was not quite empty of its cheques yet,
the last but one in the book had not been torn out, but was blank, as
was also the counterfoil. Then came the last counterfoil, on which was
written the date, which was yesterday, and a scrawled “Books, Dora,” and
an item of some £150. Then he turned over the earlier counterfoils:
there was a big cheque to Daimler, no doubt for his car, another
(scandalously large it seemed to Jim) to his tailor, more “Books,”
several entered simply as “Venice,” and several on which there was
nothing written at all. Apparently, in such instances, Claude had just
drawn a cheque and not worried to fill in the counterfoil. That again
was the sort of _insouciance_ that Jim envied: it was only possible to
very rich people or remarkably careless ones, whereas he was poor, but
remarkably careful as to the payment of money. The blank cheque,
forgotten apparently, for the cheque-book, tossed away with a heap of
old invitation cards, looked as if it was thought to be finished with,
was an instance the more of this enviable security about money matters.
And Jim felt more Socialistic than ever.
He shut the drawer up, and examined the rest of the room, having lit the
cigar which he had taken from the box and which he found to be as
excellent to the palate as it was to the nostril. The room reeked of
quiet opulence: there was a bookcase full of well-bound volumes, a
pianola of the latest type, two or three more prints, the overflow from
the dining room, and a couple of Empire arm-chairs, in which comfort and
beauty were mated, and on the floor was an Aubusson carpet. And though
feeling envious and Socialistic, Jim felt that it would be quite
possible to be very comfortable here for the next six or seven weeks.
Like most people who have suffered all their lives from want of money,
and have yet managed to live in a thoroughly extravagant manner, Jim had
been so often under obligations to others that Heaven, suiting, we must
suppose, the back to the burden, had made him by this time unconscious
of such. He accepted such offers as this of the flat with a gay
light-heartedness that was not without its charm, and made also the
undoubted difficulty of conferring, no less than accepting, a favour
gracefully, easy to the giver. But he did not like Claude, and had a
sufficiently firm conviction that Claude did not like him, to take the
edge off his enjoyment. Why Claude should not like him, he could not
tell: he had always been more than pleasant to his brother-in-law, and
when they met, they always, owing to a natural and easy knack of
volubility which Jim possessed, got on quite nicely together.
This minute inspection of the flat had taken Jim some time, and when it
was completed he strolled out to pay a call or two, see if there was any
racing news of interest, and go round to the Osbornes to have a talk to
Dora, whom he had not seen since she had returned from Venice, and in
person express his gratitude for the timely gift of the flat. He found
her in, but alone: Mr. and Mrs. Osborne were expected that afternoon.
“It was really extremely kind of Claude to think of it,” he said, “and
most opportune. I had the rottenest Epsom, and really was at my wits’
end. You are probably beginning to forget what that means. Oh, by the
way, I found a sovereign of Claude’s on his dressing table and gave it
to the cook in order to promote good feeling--or was it ten shillings?”
Dora laughed. This was characteristic of Jim, but she was used to it,
and did not make sermon to him.
“I feel quite certain it was a sovereign, Jim,” she said. “I will bet,
if you like. We will ask the cook what you gave her.”
“I daresay you are right. Ah, you expect Claude, though. I will give it
him when he comes in. Have you seen mother? She and I are not on terms
just now. But it does not matter, as I have Claude’s flat.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Nothing; she did it all. I hadn’t the least wish to cut her. In fact, I
wanted to stay in Eaton Place, until the flat came along, and when it
did, I wished to give her a slice of my luck, and I asked her to lunch.
She said ‘No,’ but sighed. The sigh was not about lunch but about the
flat. She would have liked it. By Jove, Dora, you’re nicely housed here.
It’s a neat little box, as Mr. O. would say.”
Dora gave a short laugh, not very merry in tone.
“Ah, that’s one of the things we mustn’t say,” she observed. “I’ve been
catching it from Claude. He says he’s respectful to my family, but I’m
not respectful to his.”
Jim paused with his cup in his hand.
“Been having a row?” he asked. “Make it up at once. Say you were wrong.”
“But I wasn’t,” said she.
“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you should let the
purseholders have everything all their own way. Then everything slips
along easily and comfortably.”
“Oh, money!” she said. “Who cares about the money?”
Jim opened his eyes very wide.
“I do very much,” he said, “and so did you up till a year ago. It is
silly to say that money doesn’t matter just because you have a lot. It’s
only the presence of a lot that enables you to say so.”
“Yes, that’s true,” she said, “and it adds to one’s pleasure. But it
doesn’t add to one’s happiness, not one jot. I’m just as capable of
being unhappy now as ever I was. Not that I am unhappy in the least.”
Jim nodded sympathetically.
“You look rather worried,” he said. “So you’ve been having a bit of a
turn-up with Claude. That’s the worst of being married; if I have a
shindy with anyone I walk away, and unless the other fellow follows, the
shindy stops. But you can’t walk away from your husband.”
Dora was silent a moment, considering whether she should talk to her
brother about these things which troubled her or not. She had tried to
find a solution for them by herself, but had been unable, and she had a
great opinion of his practical shrewdness. It was not likely that he
would suggest anything fine or altruistic because he was not of that
particular build, but he might be able to suggest something.
“Yes, we’ve been having a bit of a turn-up, as you call it,” she said.
“That doesn’t matter so much; but what bothers me rather is our totally
different way of looking at things. I’m awfully fond of Dad, I am
really, but it would be childish if I pretended that I don’t
see--well--humorous things about him. You see, one has either to be
amused by such things--I only learned that yesterday from Uncle Alf--or
else take them tragically. At Venice I took them tragically. I thought
it dreadful that he liked to see the sugar factory better than anything
else. And if it isn’t dreadful, it’s got to be funny: it’s either funny
or vulgar. There’s nothing else for it to be. And then Claude--oh, dear!
I told him he was at liberty to laugh at you and mother as much as he
chose, but he didn’t appear to want to. I don’t think he’s got any sense
of humour: there are heaps and heaps of ridiculous things about you
both.”
“Good gracious! You never thought he had any sense of humour, did you?”
asked Jim earnestly.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I thought about it at all. And that’s not
the worst.”
Jim put his head on one side, and Dora’s estimate of his shrewdness was
justified.
“Do you mean that you are beginning to mind about his being--er--not
quite----?” he asked delicately.
Dora nodded.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said.
“What a pity! I hoped you wouldn’t mind. You appeared not to at first.
One hoped you would get used to it before it got on your nerves. Can’t
you put it away, wrap it up and put it away?”
“Do you suppose I keep it in front of me for fun?” she asked. “Oh, Jim,
is it beastly of me to tell you? There’s really no one else to tell. I
couldn’t tell mother because she’s--well, she’s not very helpful about
that sort of thing, and talks about true nobility being the really
important thing, that and truth and honour and kindness. That is such
parrot-talk, you know; it is just repeating what we have all heard a
million of times. No doubt it is true, but what if one can’t realize it?
I used always to suppose Shakespeare was a great author, till I saw
‘Hamlet,’ which bored me. And I had to tell somebody. What am I to do?”
“Why, apply to Claude what you’ve been saying about Mr. Osborne,” said
he. “There are things about him which are dreadful unless you tell
yourself they are funny. Well, tell yourself they are funny. I hope they
are. Won’t that help?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it might. But there are things that are funny at
a little distance which cease to amuse when they come quite close. Uncle
Alf made me think that the humorous solution would solve everything. But
it doesn’t really; it only solves the things that don’t really matter.”
* * * * *
Dora dined quietly at home that night with Mr. and Mrs. Osborne and
Claude, and after dinner had a talk to her mother-in-law while the other
two lingered in the dining room.
“Why, it was like seeing a fire through the window to welcome you when
you got home of a cold evening,” said Mrs. Osborne cordially, “to see
your face at the head of the stairs, my dear. Mr. Osborne’s been
wondering all the way up whether you and Claude would be dining at home
to-night. Bless you, if he’s said it once he’s said it fifty times.”
“I love being wanted,” said Dora quickly.
“Well, it’s wanted that you are, by him and me and everyone else. And,
my dear, I’m glad to think you’ll be by my elbow at all my parties, to
help me, and say who’s who. And we lead off to-morrow with a big dinner.
There’s thirty to table and a reception after, just to let it be known
as how the house is open again, and all and sundry will be welcome. Of
course, you’ll have your own engagements as well, my dear, and many of
them, I’m sure, and no wonder, and there’s nothing I wish less than to
stand in the way of them, but whenever you’ve an evening to spare, you
give a thought to me, and say to yourself, ‘Well, if I’m wanted nowhere
else, there’s mother’ll be looking out for me at the head of the
stairs.’”
Dora laughed.
“I accept your invitations to all your balls, and all your concerts, and
as many as possible of your dinners,” she said. “You’ll get sick of the
sight of my face before the season is over.”
“That I never shall, my dear,” said Mrs. Osborne, “nor afterward,
neither. And you’ll come down to Grote, won’t you, after July, and stay
quiet there till the little blessed one comes, if you don’t mind my
alluding to it, my dear, as I’m going to be its grandmother, though
it’s a thing I never should do if there was anybody else but you and me
present. Lord, and it seems only yesterday that I was expecting my own
first-born, and Mr. O. in such a taking as you never see, and me so calm
and all, just longing for my time to come, and thinking nothing at all
of the pain, for such as there is don’t count against seeing your baby.
But you leave Claude to me, and I’ll pull him through. Bless him, I
warrant he’ll need more cheering and comforting than you. And are you
sure your rooms are comfortable here, dearie? I thought the suite at the
back of the house would be more to your liking than the front, being
quieter, for, to be sure, if you are so good as to come and keep us old
folks company, the least we can do is to see that you have things to
your taste and don’t get woke by those roaring motor-buses or the stream
of vegetables for the market.”
“But they are delightful,” said Dora. “They’ve given me the dearest
little sitting room with bedroom and bathroom all together.”
Mrs. Osborne beamed contentedly. She had had a couple of days without
any return of pain, and as she said, she had had a better relish for her
dinner to-night than for many days.
“Well, then, let’s hope we shall all be comfortable and happy,” she
said. “And I don’t mind telling you now, my dear, that I’ve been out of
sorts and not up to my victuals for a fortnight past, but to-day I feel
hearty again, though I get tired easily still. But don’t you breathe a
word of that, promise me, to Mr. Osborne or Claude, for what with the
honour as is going to be done to Mr. O. and the thought of his
grandchild getting closer, and him back to work again, which, after all,
suits him best, I wouldn’t take the edge off his enjoyment if you were
to ask me on your bended knees, which I should do, if he thought I was
out of sorts. Lord, there he comes now, arm-in-arm with Claude. I
declare he’s like a boy again, with the thought of all as is coming.”
The evening of the next day, accordingly, saw, with flare of light and
blare of band, the beginning of the hospitalities of No. 92 Park Lane,
the doors of which, so it appeared to Dora, were never afterward shut
day or night, except during the week-ends when the doors of Grote flew
open and the scene of hospitality changed to that of the country. Yet
cordial though it all was, it was insensate hospitality--hospitality
gone mad. Had some hotel announced that anyone of any consequence could
dine there without charge, and ask friends to dine on the same easy
terms, such an offer would have diverted the crowds of carriages from
Park Lane, and sent them to the hotel instead. Full as her programme
originally was, Mrs. Osborne could not resist the pleasure of added
hospitalities, and little dances, got up in impromptu fashion with much
telephoning and leaving of cards, were wedged in between the big ones,
and became big themselves before the night arrived. Scores of guests,
utterly unknown to their hosts, crowded the rooms, and for them all,
known and unknown alike, Mrs. Osborne had the same genial and genuine
cordiality of welcome. It was sufficient for her that they had crossed
her threshold and would drink Mr. O.’s champagne and eat her capons;
she was glad to see them all. She had a shocking memory for faces, but
that made no difference, since nothing could exceed the geniality of her
greeting to those whom she had never set eyes on before. It was a good
moment, too, when, not so long after the beginning of her hospitalities,
her secretary, whose duty it was to enter the names of all callers in
the immense volume dedicated to that purpose, reported that a second
calling book was necessary, since the space allotted to the letters with
which the majority of names began was full. She could not have imagined
a year ago that this would ever happen, yet here at the beginning of her
second season only, more space had to be found. And Dora’s name for the
second volume, “Supplement to the Court Guide,” was most gratifying.
Alf’s allusion to the “London Directory,” though equally true, would not
have been so satisfactory.
But her brave and cheerful soul needed all its gallantry, for it was an
incessant struggle with her to conceal the weariness and discomfort
which were always with her, and which she was so afraid she would, in
spite of herself, betray to others. There were days of pain, too, not as
yet very severe, but of a sort that frightened her, and her appetite
failed her. This she could conceal, without difficulty for the most
part, since the times were few on which her husband was not sitting at
some distance from her, with many guests intervening; but once or twice
when they were alone she was afraid he would notice her abstention, and
question her. Her high colour also began to fade from her cheeks and
lips, and she made one daring but tremulous experiment with rouge and
lip-salve to hide this. She sent her maid out of the room before the
attempt, and then applied the pigments, but with disastrous results.
“Lor, Mr. O. will think it’s some woman of the music halls instead of
his wife,” she said to herself, and wiped off again the unusual
brilliance.
But though sometimes her courage faltered, it never gave way. She had
determined not to spoil these weeks for her husband. It was to be a
blaze of triumph. Afterward she would go to the doctor and learn that
she had been frightening herself to no purpose, or that there was
something wrong.
And those endless hospitalities, this stream of people who passed in and
out of the house, though they tired her they also served to divert her
and take her mind off her discomforts and alarms. She had to be in her
place, though Dora took much of the burden of it off her shoulders, to
shake hands with streams of people and say--which was perfectly
true--how pleased she was to see them. Friends from Sheffield, for she
never in her life dropped an old acquaintance, came to stay, and the
pleasurable anticipation she had had of letting them see “a bit of real
London life” fell short of the reality. Best of all, Sir Thomas and Lady
Ewart were in the house when the list of honours appeared in the paper.
It happened dramatically, and the drama of it was planned and contrived
by Claude. He came down rather late to breakfast, having given orders
that this morning no papers were to be put in their usual place in the
dining room, and went straight up to his father.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said.
“Hey, what?” said Mr. Osborne. “Poking your fun at me, are you?”
“There’s something about you in the papers, my lord.”
“Well, I never! Let’s see,” said Mr. Osborne.
He unfolded the paper Claude had brought him.
“My lady,” he said across the table to his wife, “this’ll interest you.
List of honours. Peerages, Edward Osborne, Esquire, M. P.”
It was a triumphant success. Sir Thomas actually thought that it was
news to them both, and went so far as to lay down his knife and fork.
“Bless my soul!” he said. “Well, I’m sure there never was an honour more
deservedly won, nor what will be more dignifiedly worn.”
Mr. Osborne could not keep it up.
“Well, well,” he said, “of course we’ve known all along; but Claude
would have his joke and pretend it was news to us. Thank ye, Sir Thomas,
I’m sure. Maria, my dear, I’m told your new coronet’s come home. Pass it
to my lady, Claude.”
As if by a conjuring trick, he produced from under the table cloth an
all-round tiara of immense diamonds, which had been previously balanced
on his knees.
Mrs. Osborne had had no idea of this; that part of the ceremony had been
kept from her.
“Put it on, Maria, my dear,” he said, “and if there’s a peeress in the
land as better deserves her coronet than you, I should be proud to meet
her. Let the Honourable Claude settle it comfortable for you, my dear.
Claude, my boy, I’m jealous of you because you’re an honourable, which
is more than your poor old dad ever was.”
The deft hands of the Honourable adjusted the tiara for her and she got
up to salute the donor.
“If it isn’t the measure of my head exactly!” she said. “Well, I never,
and me not knowing a word about it!”
Meantime, as June drew to its close, in this whirl of engagements and
socialities, the estrangement between Dora and Claude grew (though not
more acute in itself) more of a habit, and the very passage of time,
instead of softening it, rendered it harder to soften. Had they been
alone in their flat, it is probable that some intolerable moment would
have come, breaking down that which stood between them, or in any case
compelling them to talk it out; or, a thing which would have been better
than nothing, bringing this cold alienation up to the hot level of a
quarrel, which could have been made up, and which when made up might
have carried away with it much of the cause of this growing constraint.
As it was, there was no quarrel, and thus there was nothing to make up.
Claude, on his side, believed that his wife still rather resented
certain remarks he had made to her at Venice and here on the subject of
her attitude toward his father, contrasting it unfavourably with the
appreciation and kindness which his family had shewn hers. In his rather
hard, thoroughly well-meaning and perfectly just manner he examined and
re-examined any cause of complaint which she could conceive herself to
have on the subject, and entirely acquitted himself of blame. He did not
see that he could have done differently: he had not been unkind, only
firm, and his firmness was based upon his sense of right.
But in this examination he, of course, utterly failed to recognize the
real ground of the estrangement, which was, as Dora knew, not any one
particular speech or action of his, but rather the spirit and the nature
which lay behind every speech, every action. This she was incapable of
telling him, and even if she had been able to do so, no good end would
have been served by it. She had married him, not knowing him, or at the
least blinded by superficialities, and now, getting below those, or
getting used to them, she found that there were things to which she
could not get used, but which, on the contrary, seemed to her to be
getting every day more glaringly disagreeable to her. He, not knowing
this, did his best to remove what he believed had been the cause of
their estrangement by praise and commendation of what he called to
himself her altered behaviour. For there was no doubt whatever that now,
at any rate, Dora was behaving delightfully to his parents. She took
much of the work of entertaining off Mrs. Osborne’s hands; made but few
engagements of her own, in order to be more actively useful in the
house; and was in every sense the most loyal and dutiful of
daughters-in-law. She also very gently and tactfully got leave to revise
Mrs. Osborne’s visiting list, and drew a somewhat ruthless lead pencil
through a considerable number of the names. For in the early days to
leave a card meant, as a matter of course, to be asked to the house.
This luxuriant and exotic garden wanted a little weeding.
All this seemed to Claude to be the happy fruits of his criticism, and
the consciousness of it in his mind did not improve the flavour of his
speeches to Dora. They were but little alone, owing to the high
pressure of their days; but one evening, about a fortnight after they
had moved into Park Lane, he found her resting in her sitting room
before dressing.
“There you are, dear,” he said. “How right of you to rest a little. What
have you been doing?”
“There were people to lunch,” said she; “and then I drove down with Dad
to the House. He was not there long, so I waited for him, and we had a
turn in the Park. Then a whole host of people came to tea, and I--I
multiplied myself.”
“They are ever so pleased with you,” said Claude, “and I’m sure I don’t
wonder. Ever since they came up you have simply devoted yourself to
them.”
In his mind was the thought, “Ever since I spoke to you about it.” It
was not verbally expressed, but the whole speech rang with it. Dora
tried for a moment, following Uncle Alf’s plan, to find something
humorous about it, failed dismally, and tried instead to disregard it.
“I’m glad,” she said, “that one is of use.”
Then she made a further effort.
“I think it was an excellent plan that we should come here,” she added.
“It suits us, doesn’t it? and it suits them.”
Claude smiled at her, leaning over the head of the sofa where she lay.
“I knew you would find it a success,” he said. “I felt quite certain it
would be.”
Again Dora tried to shut her ears to the personal note--this ring of
“How right I was!”
“It suits Jim, too,” she said. “It really was kind of you to let him
have the flat. May tells me she went to dine there last night. He had a
bridge party.”
Claude laughed.
“He’s certainly making the most of it,” he said; “just as I meant him to
do. I think I’m like Dad in that. Do you remember how he treated us over
the Venice house this year? Not a penny for us to pay. Jim’s giving lots
of little parties, I’m told, and Parker came round to me yesterday to
ask if he should order some more wine, as Jim’s nearly finished it. Also
cigars and cigarettes. Of course I told him to order whatever was
wanted. I hate doing things by halves. The household books will be
something to smile at. But he’s having a rare good time. It’s not much
entertaining he has been able to do all his life up till now.”
Dora sat up.
“But Claude, do you mean he’s drinking your wine and letting you pay for
all the food?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s my own fault. I ought to have locked up the cellar, and made
it clear that he would pay for his own chickens. As a matter of fact, it
never struck me that he wouldn’t. But as that hasn’t occurred to him, I
can’t remind him of it.”
“But you must tell him he’s got to pay for things,” said Dora. “Why, he
might as well order clothes and, just because he was in your flat,
expect you to pay for them!”
“Oh, I can’t tell him,” said Claude. “It would look as if I grudged him
things. I don’t a bit: I like people to have a good time at my expense.
Poor devil! he had a rotten Derby week; no wonder he likes living on
the cheap. And it must be beastly uncomfortable living on the cheap, if
it’s your own cheap, so to speak. I expect you and I would be just the
same if we were poor.”
But the idea was insupportable to Dora, and the more so because of the
way in which Claude took it. Generous he was, no one could be more
generous, but there was behind it all a sort of patronizing attitude. He
gave cordially indeed, but with the cordiality was a selfconscious
pleasure in his own open-handedness and a contempt scarcely veiled of
what he gave. And the worst of all was that Jim should have taken
advantage of this _insouciance_ about money affairs that sprang from the
fact that he had no need to worry about money. Claude did not like Jim,
Dora felt certain of that, and this made it impossible that Jim should
take advantage of his bounty. It was an indebtedness she could not
tolerate in her brother.
“What’s there to fuss about?” Claude went on. “If the whole thing runs
into a hundred and fifty pounds, it won’t hurt. And, after all, he’s
your brother, dear. I like being good to your kin.”
Dora was not doing Claude an injustice when she told herself that his
irreproachable conduct to her family was in his mind. It was there; he
did not mean it to be in evidence, but insensibly and unintentionally it
tinged his words. The whole thing was kind, kind, kind, but it was
consciously kind. That made the whole difference.
“But it can’t be,” she said. “If you won’t speak to Jim about it, I
will. It is impossible that he should drink your wine and smoke your
cigars and have dinner parties at your expense. I can’t let him do that
sort of thing, if I can possibly help it. I would much sooner pay
myself than that you should pay for him.”
“My dear, what a fuss about nothing!” said Claude. “It isn’t as if it
mattered to me whether I pay for his soup and cutlet----”
“No, that’s just it,” said Dora quickly. “That’s why you mustn’t. If it
cost you something---- Oh, Claude, I don’t think I can make you
understand,” she said. “Anyhow, I shall tell Jim what I think; and if
the poor wretch hasn’t got any money, then I must pay.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose he’s got any money,” said Claude; “and as for your
paying, my dear, what difference does that make? I give you your
allowance--and I wish you’d say you wanted more, for Uncle Alf’s always
wondering whether you’ve got enough--and you want to pay me out of that.
Well, it’s only out of one pocket and into another. Don’t fuss about it,
dear. I wish I hadn’t told you.”
“But it isn’t quite like that,” said Dora. “I could deny myself
something in order to pay, if Jim can’t. I can tell them not to send me
the dress----”
And then the hopelessness of it all struck her. She was in the same boat
as her husband; she could not deny herself anything she wanted, because
there was no need for self-denial. And without that she could not make
atonement for Jim’s behaviour. Nor could she say to herself that he had
done it without thinking; Jim always thought when there was a question
of money, for that he took seriously. It was only his own conduct, his
own character, and other little trifles of that sort for which he had so
light a touch, so easy a rein. He had been giving little dinners at his
flat, instead of dining out, as he usually did. He would never have done
that if he thought he was going to pay for the quails and the peaches.
That he should do it was the thing that was irremediable--that, and the
contemptuous kindness of Claude.
Claude saw there was some feeling in her mind of which he did not grasp
the force. She wanted to pay herself, or to think she paid, for Jim’s
hospitalities. It did not make a pennyworth of difference. He would pay
a cheque into her account, which would make her square again, and she
would never notice it.
“Just as you like, dear,” he said; “but you mustn’t tell Jim you are
doing it. He would think that I was reluctant to pay for his food and
drinks; and I’m not. I can’t stand being thought mean. There’s no excuse
for a fellow with plenty of shekels being mean.”
“Oh, you are not that,” said Dora quickly, her voice without volition
following the train of thought in her mind.
“No, dear, I hope not,” said he. “And, believe me, I haven’t got two ill
feelings to rub against each other with regard to Jim. It’s only by
chance I knew. If there’d been another box of cigars in the flat, and a
few more dozen champagne, Parker would never have come to me. As for the
household books----why, dear, they’d have been sent up to you, and I
bet you’d never have seen. No, it’s just a chance as has put us in the
knowledge of it all, and I for one should hate to take advantage of it.
So cheer up, dear! Pay me, if it makes you feel easier; but don’t say a
word to Jim. I like doing a thing thoroughly, as I’m doing this.”
He lingered a moment by the door.
“Perhaps that clears things up a bit, Dora,” he said, with a touch of
wistfulness in his voice.
And Dora tried, tried to think it did. She tried also to put all
possible simplicity into her voice as she answered:
“But what is there to clear up, dear?” she asked.
“That’s all right, then,” said he, and left her. But once outside the
door, he shook his head. Bottled simplicity, so to speak, is not the
same as simplicity from the spring. He was quite shrewd enough to know
the difference.
He was shrewd enough also to know that he did not quite understand what
had gone wrong. Something certainly had, and after his compliments to
her on the subject of the admirable way in which she was behaving to his
parents he knew that it was no longer his strictures on that subject
that made this barrier. True it was that during these past weeks neither
of them had had much leisure or opportunity for intimate conversation;
but there were glances, single words, silences even that had passed
between them when they were in Venice first that had taken no time if
measured by the scale of minutes or seconds, yet which had been enough
to fill the whole day with inward sunshine. And he had not changed to
her: that he knew quite well; it was not that he was less sensitive now,
less receptive of signals of that kind. For his part, he gave them in
plenty. Just now he had leaned over her, smiling, when she lay on her
sofa, a thing that in early days would have been sufficient to make her
glance at him, with perhaps a raised hand that just touched his face,
with perhaps an “Oh, Claude!” below her breath. Honestly, as far as any
man can be honest with himself, he was as hungry for that as ever; he
made his private code just as before, and no answer came. Something was
out of tune: the vibrations, wireless, psychical, did not pass from her
to him as they had done; and his own messages, so it seemed, throbbed
themselves out, and found none to pick them up, but were lost in the
unanswering air.
Claude was of a very simple and straightforward nature, but he felt none
the less keenly because he was not capable of feeling in any subtle or
complicated manner. Love had come into his life, and his part in that
burned within him still, in no way less ardently. He believed that Dora
had loved him also: believed it, that is to say, in a sacred sense: it
had been a creed to him, just as his own love for her was a creed. With
body and soul he loved her, not fantastically, but deeply, and as he
left her this afternoon it seemed to him that his love was being poured
into a vessel in which was bitterness. They had talked only about what
to him was a trivial thing--namely, the completeness with which Jim had
made himself at home in the flat; but in the earlier days it made no
difference what they talked about: tenderness, love came through it all,
like water through a quicksand, engulfing them. Their days had been
passed in such a quicksand; they were always joyfully foundering in it.
But now it was not so. Some bitter encrustation had come on it which
bore their weight quite easily, and there was no risk of going through,
nor any chance of it. Honestly, he did not believe that he was
responsible for the formation of that crust. He had not changed; was
not other than he had always been. Once for a moment his mind poised and
hovered above the truth, and he half said to himself, “I wonder if she
finds me common?” But he rejected that: it was the wildest freak of
imagination. Besides, she had not found him common at first, and he had
not grown commoner. On the contrary, she had taught him much--little
things, no doubt, but many of them. He had noticed she was always polite
to servants and shop people, and though a year ago his tendency had been
to be rather short with them, as inferiors, he had instinctively
followed her example. That was only one instance out of many. But, so
the poor fellow told himself, they were all little things like that,
which could make no real difference to anybody.
Yet he thought over this a little longer. He himself, for instance, had
always known that his father and mother and Per were, so to speak,
“common” beside him. That seemed perfectly natural, for he had been sent
to Eton and Oxford, and had picked up all sorts of things as to the way
“gentlemen behaved,” which they did not know. He would not press his
guests to have more wine, as his father did, when they had refused, nor
tempt them to a second helping, as his mother did. There were little
tricks of language, too, infinitesimal affairs, but he, so he thought,
had got into the way of it, whereas they had not. He, for instance,
never said “Lor’,” as his father constantly did, and his mother, if she
“was not on the watch.” But he said, “Good Lord,” because fellows said
that, and not the other. But what did that really matter? There was a
certain boisterousness of manner also that characterized them, which he
and Mrs. Per, for instance, who was certainly a perfect lady, did not
practise. Often, half in jest, his father had said, “Old Claude’s
getting too much of a swell for me”; and though he deprecated such a
conclusion, he understood what was meant, and knew that if half was
jest, half was serious. But all this made it the more impossible that
Dora should find him common. Eton and Oxford, he felt quite sure, had
taken all the commonness out of him.
And how little it mattered! He saw a hundred things, day by day, in
which, if he had been disposed to peer and dissect and magnify, he would
have felt that there was a difference between his father and himself.
But how measure so small a thing? But what did that matter? He saw the
kindness, the honour, the truth of his parents, and he was as likely to
cease respecting and caring for them because of that difference as he
was likely to cease to love Dora because once he had found a gray hair
in her golden head. Besides--and his mind came back to that--if she
found him common now, she must always have found him common. But nothing
was short of perfection in their early weeks in Venice.
Once, on his way downstairs to be ready to greet Per and his wife, who
were expected that evening, he half turned on his foot, intending to go
back to Dora and try to get to the bottom of it all. But he knew that he
would find nothing to say, for there was nothing he could suggest in
which he had fallen short. And even as he paused, wondering if it would
be enough that he should go back and say, “Dora, what is it?” he heard
the sound of the hall door opening. That was Per, no doubt; he must go
down and welcome him.