Mrs. Rushmore had not been at all surprised at Lushington's sudden
departure. She was accustomed to the habits of lions and was well aware
that they must be allowed to come and go exactly as they please if you
wish them to eat out of your hand from time to time; and when the
eminent young critic announced rather suddenly that he must leave early
the next morning the good lady only said that she was sorry, and that
she hoped he would come back soon. Sham lions love to talk about
themselves, and to excite curiosity, but real ones resent questions
about their doings as they would resent a direct insult. Mrs. Rushmore
knew that, too.
She was really sorry to lose him, however, and had counted on his
staying at least a week longer. She liked him herself, and she saw that
Margaret liked him very much; and it was more moral in a nice girl to
like an Englishman than a foreigner, just as it would be still more
moral of her to prefer an American to an Englishman, according to Mrs.
Rushmore's scale of nationalities. Next to what was moral, she was fond
of lions, who are often persons without any morals whatsoever. But
Lushington seemed to fill both requirements. He was a highly moral
lion. She was quite sure that he did not drink, did not gamble, and did
not secretly worship Ashtaroth; and he never told her naughty stories.
Therefore she was very sorry when he was gone.
At the present juncture, however, she was in considerable anxiety about
Margaret. She did not know one note from another, but she had heard all
the greatest singers of the last thirty years, in all the greatest
opera-houses from Bayreuth to New York, and it horrified her to be
obliged to admit that Margaret's singing sounded dreadfully like the
best. The girl meant to sing in opera, and if she could really do it
well it would be quite impossible to hinder her, as she had no means of
support and could not be blamed for refusing to live on charity.
Everything was combining to make an artist of her, for the chances of
winning the suit brought on her behalf were growing as slender as the
seven lean kine.
It was characteristic of Margaret that she had kept to herself most of
what Madame Bonanni had told her, but Mrs. Rushmore knew the girl well,
and guessed from her face that there was much more behind. The
appointment at the theatre confirmed this surmise, and when Margaret
telegraphed the next day that she was going to stay in town until the
afternoon, with Madame De Rosa, there was no longer any room for doubt.
As for poor Lushington, Margaret had told him nothing at all, and her
visit to Madame Bonanni had been a secret between herself and Mrs.
Rushmore. Logotheti had not made his appearance after all, but the
young archaeologist had brought assurances that the financier would be
honoured, charmed and otherwise delighted to be presented to Mrs.
Rushmore within a day or two, if convenient to her. So it happened that
Logotheti made his first visit after Lushington had left Versailles.
The latter went away in a very disconsolate frame of mind, and
disappeared into Paris. It is not always wise to follow a discouraged
man into the retirement of a shabby room in a quiet hotel on the left
bank of the Seine, and it is never amusing. Psychology in fiction seems
to mean the rather fruitless study of what the novelist himself thinks
he might feel if he ever got himself into one of those dreadful scrapes
which it is a part of his art to invent outright, or to steal from the
lives of men and women he has known or heard of. People who can analyse
their own feelings are never feeling enough to hurt them much; a
medical student could not take his scalpel and calmly dissect out his
own nerves. You may try to analyse pain and pleasure when they are
past, but nothing is more strangely and hopelessly undefined than the
memory of a great grief, and no analysis of pleasure can lead to
anything but the desire for more. The only real psychologists have been
the great lyric poets, before they have emerged from the gloom of
youth.
The outward signs of Lushington's condition were few and not such as
would have seemed dramatic to an acquaintance. When he was in his room
at the hotel in the Rue des Saints Peres, he got an old briar pipe out
of his bag, filled it and lit it, and stood for nearly a quarter of an
hour at the window, smoking thoughtfully with his hands in his pockets.
The subtle analyst, observing that the street is narrow and dull and
presents nothing of interest, jumps to the conclusion that Lushington
is thinking while he looks out of the window. Perhaps he is. The next
thing to be done is to unpack his bag and place his dressing things in
order on the toilet-table. They are simple things, but mostly made
expressly for him, of oxidised silver, with his initials in plain block
letters; and each object has a neat sole leather case of its own, so
that they can be thrown pell-mell into a bag and jumbled up together
without being scratched. But Lushington takes them out of their cases
and disposes them on the table with mathematical precision, smoking
vigorously all the time. This done, he unpacks his valise, his
shirt-case and other belongings, in the most systematic way possible,
looks through the things he left in the room when he went to
Versailles, to see that everything is in order, and at last rings for
the servant to take away the clothes and shoes that need cleaning. The
subtle analyst would argue from all this that Lushington was one of
those painfully orderly persons, who are made positively nervous by the
sight of a hair-brush lying askew, or a tie dropped on the floor.
It was at most true that he had acquired a set of artificially precise
habits to which he clung most tenaciously, and which certainly
harmonised with the natural appearance of neatness that had formerly
been his despair. Why he had taken so much trouble to become orderly
was his own business. Possibly he had got tired of that state of life
in which it is impossible to find anything in less than half an hour
when one wants it in half a minute. At all events, he had taken pains
to acquire orderliness, and, for reasons which will appear hereafter,
it is worth while to note the fact.
When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he sat down in the
most comfortable chair in the room, filled another of the three wooden
pipes that now lay side by side on the writing-table, and continued to
smoke as if his welfare depended on consuming a certain quantity of
tobacco in a given time. He must have had a sound heart and a strong
head, for he did not desist from his occupation for many hours, though
he had not eaten anything particular at breakfast, at Mrs. Rushmore's,
and nothing at all since.
The afternoon was wearing on when he knocked the ashes out of his pipe
very carefully, laid it in its place, rose from his seat and uttered a
single profane ejaculation.
'Damn!'
Having said this, he said no more, for indeed, if taken literally,
there could be nothing more to be said. The malediction, however, was
directed against nothing particular, and certainly against no person
living or dead; it only applied to the aggregate of the awkward
circumstances in which he found himself, and as he was alone he felt
quite sure of not being misunderstood.
He did not even take a servant with him when he travelled, though he
had an excellent Scotchman for a valet, who could do a great variety of
useful things, besides holding his tongue, which is one of the finest
qualities in the world, in man or dog. And he also had a dog in London,
a particularly rough Irish terrier called Tim; but as Tim would have
been quarantined every time he came home it was practically impossible
to bring him to the Continent. It will be seen, therefore, that
Lushington was really quite alone in the quiet hotel in the Rue des
Saints Peres.
He might have had company enough if he had wanted it, for he knew many
men of letters in Paris and was himself known to them, which is another
thing. They liked him, too, in their own peculiar way of liking their
foreign colleagues. Most of them, without affectation and in perfect
good faith, are convinced that there never was, is not, and never can
be any literature equal to the French except that of Edgar Poe; but
they feel that it would be rude and tactless of them to let us know
that they think so. They are the most agreeable men in the world, as a
whole, and considering what they really think of us--rightly or
wrongly, but honestly--the courtesy and consideration they show us are
worthy of true gentlemen. The most modest among ourselves seem a little
arrogant and self-asserting in comparison with them. They praise us,
sometimes, and not faintly either; but their criticism of us compares
us with each other, not with them. The very highest eulogy they can
bestow on anything we do is to say that it is 'truly French,' but they
never quite believe it and they cannot understand why that is perhaps
the very compliment that pleases us least, though we may have the
greatest admiration for their national genius. With all our vanity,
should we ever expect to please a French writer by telling him that his
work was 'truly English'?
Lushington liked a good many of his French colleagues in literature,
and had at least one friend among them, a young man of vast learning
and exquisite taste, who was almost an invalid. For a moment, he
thought of going to see this particular one amongst them all, but he
realised all at once that he did not wish to see any one at all that
day. He went out and wandered towards the Quai Voltaire, and smelt the
Seine and nosed an old book here and there at the stalls. Later he went
and ate something in an eating-house on the outskirts of the Latin
Quarter, and then went back to his hotel, smoked several more pipes by
the open window, and went to bed.
That was the first day, and the second was very like it, so that it is
not necessary to describe it in detail in order to produce an
impression of profound dulness in the reader's mind. Lushington's hair
continued to be as preternaturally smooth as before, his beard was as
glossy and his complexion as blooming and child-like, and yet the look
of pain that Margaret had seen in his face was there most of the time
during those two days.
But in the evening he crossed the river and went to hear _Romeo and
Juliet_, for he knew that it was the last night on which Madame Bonanni
would sing before she left for the London season. He sat in the second
row of the orchestra stalls, and never moved from his seat during the
long performance. No secret intuition told him that Margaret was in the
house, and that if he stood up and looked round after the second act he
might see her and Madame De Rosa going out and coming back again and
sitting at the end of a back row. He did not want to see any one he
knew, and the surest way of avoiding acquaintances was to sit perfectly
still while most people went out between the acts. His face only
betrayed that the music pleased him, by turning a shade paler now and
then; at the places he liked best, he shut his eyes, as if he did not
care to see Madame Bonanni or the fat tenor.
She sang very beautifully that night, especially after the second act,
and Lushington thought he had hardly ever heard so much real feeling in
her marvellous voice. Afterwards he walked home, and he heard it all
the way, and for an hour after he had gone to bed, when he fell asleep
at last, and dreamt that he himself had turned into a very fat tenor
and was singing Romeo, but the Juliet was Margaret Donne instead of
Madame Bonanni, and though she sang like an angel, she was evidently
disgusted by his looks; which was very painful indeed, and made him
sing quite out of tune and perspire terribly.
'You look hot,' said Margaret-Juliet, with cruel distinctness, just as
he was trying to throw the most intense pathos into the words, ''tis
not the lark, it is the nightingale!'
Perhaps dreaming nonsense is also a subject for the inquiries of
psychology. At the moment the poor man's imaginary sufferings were
positively frightful, and he awoke with a gasp. He had always secretly
dreaded growing fat, he had always felt a horror of anything like
singing or speaking in public, and the only thing in the world he
really feared was the possibility of being ridiculous in Margaret's
eyes. Of course the ingenious demon of his dreams found a way of
applying all these three torments at once, and it was like being saved
from sudden death to wake up in the dark and smell the stale smoke of
the pipe he had enjoyed before putting out his light.
Then he fell asleep again and did not awake till morning, being
naturally a very good sleeper. It was raining when he got up, and he
looked out disconsolately upon the dull street. It seemed to him that
if it was going to rain in Paris he might as well go back to London,
where he had plenty to do, and he began to consider which train he
should take, revolving the advantages and disadvantages of reaching
London early in the evening or late at night. He knew the different
time-tables by heart.
But it stopped raining while he was dressing, and the sun came out, and
a bird began to sing somewhere at a window high above the street, and
it was suddenly spring again. It was a great thing to be alone in
spring. If he went back to London he must see people he knew, and dine
with people he hardly knew at all, and be asked out by others whom he
had not even met, because he was the distinguished critic, flattered
and feared and asked to dinner by everybody who had a seventh cousin in
danger of literary judgment. He belonged to the flock of dramatic lions
and must herd with them, eat with them and roar with them, for the
greater glory of London society and his native country generally. Under
ordinary circumstances such an existence was bearable and at times
delightful, but just now he wanted to roar in the wilderness and assert
his leonine right of roaming in desolate places not less than two
geographical degrees east of Pall Mall.
He went out at last and strolled towards the bridge, and across it and
much farther, but not aimlessly, for though he did not always take the
shortest way, he kept mainly in the same direction till he came to the
Avenue Hoche.
At the end of the street he stopped and looked at his watch. It was
five minutes to eleven. Looking along the pavement in front of him his
eye was attracted by the striped awning that distinguished Madame
Bonanni's house from the others on the same side, and he noticed an
extremely smart brougham that stood just before the door. The handsome
black horse stood perfectly motionless in the morning sunshine, the
stony-faced English coachman sat perfectly motionless on the box,
looking straight between the horse's ears; he wore a plain black livery
that fitted to perfection and there was no cockade on his polished hat.
No turnout could have been simpler and yet none could have looked more
overpoweringly smart.
Lushington suddenly turned on his heel and walked off in the opposite
direction, as if he were not pleased, but he had not gone fifty yards
when he heard the brougham behind him, and in a few seconds it passed
him at a sharp pace. He caught sight of the elderly man inside--a
tremendous profile over a huge fair beard that was half grey, one large
and rather watery blue eye behind a single eyeglass with a broad black
ribbon, a gardenia in the button-hole of a smart grey coat, a cloud of
cigarette smoke, one very large and aristocratic hand, with a plain
gold ring, holding the cigarette and resting on the edge of the window.
He smelt the smoke after the brougham had passed, and he recognised the
fact that it was superlatively fragrant.
He turned back again in a few moments and saw that three men were just
coming out of Madame Bonanni's house. One was Schreiermeyer, whom he
knew, and one looked like a poor musician. The third was the Minister
of Fine Arts, whom he did not know but recognised. The Minister and the
pianist walked one on each side of Schreiermeyer, and were talking
excitedly, but the manager looked at neither of them and never turned
his head. They went down the Avenue Hoche away from Lushington, who
walked very slowly and looked at his watch twice before he reached
Madame Bonanni's door. There he stopped, rang and was admitted without
question, as if he were in the habit of coming and going as he pleased.
He apparently took it for granted that the prima donna must be alone
and already at her late breakfast, but he was stopped by the smiling
servant who came out of the dining-room, arrayed as usual in a frock
coat and a white satin tie.
'I will inform Madame,' he said.
'Is there any one there?' asked Lushington, evidently not pleased.
The servant shrugged his shoulders in a deprecatory way, and his smile
became rather compassionate.
'One young person to breakfast,' he said, 'a musician'.
'Oh, very well.' Lushington's brow cleared.
The servant left him and went in again. A screen was so placed as to
mask the interior of the dining-room when the door was open. Within,
Madame Bonanni and Margaret were seated at table. Encouraged by
circumstances the prima donna had on this occasion tied her napkin
round her neck as soon as she had sat down; the inevitable plovers'
eggs had already been demolished, and she was at work on a creamy puree
soup of the most exquisite pale green colour. It was clear that she had
not lost a moment in getting to her meal after the men had left.
Margaret was eating too, but though there was fresh colour in her
cheeks her eyes had a startled look each time she looked up, as if
something very unusual had happened.
The servant whispered something in Madame Bonanni's ear. She seemed to
hesitate a moment, and glanced at Margaret before making up her mind.
Then she nodded to the man without saying a word, and went on eating
her soup.
A few seconds later Lushington entered. Margaret faced the door and
their eyes met. Madame Bonanni dropped her spoon into her plate with a
clang and uttered a scream of delight, as if she had not known
perfectly well that Lushington was coming.
'What luck!' she cried. 'Little Miss Donne, this is my son!'
Margaret's jaw dropped in sheer amazement.
'Your son? Mr. Lushington is your son?'
'Yes. Ah, my child!' she cried, springing up and kissing Lushington on
both cheeks with resounding affection. 'What a joy it is to see you!'
Lushington was rather pale as he laid his hand quietly on Madame
Bonanni's.
'I have the pleasure of knowing Miss Donne already, mother,' he said
steadily, 'but she did not know that I was your son. She is a little
surprised.'
'Yes,' answered Margaret, faintly, 'a little.'
'Ah, you know each other?' Madame Bonanni seemed delighted. 'So much
the better! Miss Donne will keep our little secret, I am sure. Besides
she has another name, too. She is Senorita Margarita da Cordova from
to-day. Sit down, my darling child! You are starving! I know you are
starving! Angelo!' she screamed at the smiling servant, 'why do you
stand there staring like a stuffed codfish? Bring more plovers' eggs!'
Angelo smiled as sweetly as ever and disappeared for an instant. Madame
Bonanni took Lushington by the shoulders, as if he had been a little
boy, made him sit down in the vacant place beside her, unfolded the
napkin herself, spread it upon his knees, patted both his cheeks and
kissed the top of his head, precisely as she had done when he was six
years old. Margaret looked on in dumb surprise, and poor Lushington
turned red to the roots of his hair.
'You have no idea what a dear child he is,' she said to Margaret, as
she sat herself down in her own chair again. 'He has been my passion
ever since he was born! My dear, you never saw such a beautiful baby as
he was! He was all pink and white, like a little sugar angel, and he
had dimples everywhere--everywhere, my dear!' she repeated with
suggestive emphasis.
'I don't doubt it,' said Margaret, biting her lips and looking at her
plate.
By this time the plovers' eggs had come for Lushington and he was glad
of anything to do with his hands.
'My mother can never believe that I am grown up,' he said, with much
more self-possession than Margaret had expected; and suddenly he raised
his eyes and looked steadily and quietly at her across the table.
It must have cost him something of an effort, for his colour came and
went quickly. Margaret knew what he was suffering and her respect for
him increased a hundredfold in those few minutes, because he did not
betray the least irritation in his tone or manner. His mother evidently
worshipped him, but her way of showing it was such as must be horribly
uncomfortable to a man of his retiring character and sensitive taste.
He might easily have been forgiven if he had shown that it hurt him, as
well it might. Whatever reason he and Madame Bonanni might have had for
changing his name, he was brave enough not to be falsely ashamed of
her, in the presence of the woman he loved.
'You see,' Margaret said, looking at him, but speaking to the prima
donna, 'Mr. Lushington has been stopping with us at Versailles for a
good while, but I did not tell him that I had been to see you, and he
never even said that he knew you, though he often spoke of your
singing.'
'Did he?' asked Madame Bonanni with intense anxiety. 'What did he say?
Did he say that I was growing old and ought to give up the stage?'
'Mother!' exclaimed Lushington reproachfully.
'He never said anything of the kind!' cried Margaret, taking his part
with energy.
'Because he always says just what he thinks,' explained Madame Bonanni,
who seemed relieved. 'And the worst part of it is that he knows,' she
added, thoughtfully. 'I do not pretend to understand what he writes,
but I would take his opinion about music rather than anyone's. You
wretched little boy!' she cried, turning on Lushington suddenly. 'How
you frightened me!'
'I frightened you? How?'
'I was sure that you had told everybody that I was growing old! How
could you? My darling child, how could you be so unkind? Oh, you have
no heart!'
'But he never said so!' cried Margaret vehemently and feeling as if she
were in a madhouse. 'He has told me again and again that you are still
the greatest lyric soprano living----'
'Angelo,' said Madame Bonanni, with perfect calm, 'change my plate.'
Margaret glanced at Lushington, who seemed to think it all quite
natural. He was eating little bits of thin toast thoughtfully, and from
time to time he looked at his mother with a gentle expression. But he
did not meet Margaret's glance.
'You never sang better in your life than you did last night, mother,'
he observed.
The prima donna's face glowed with pleasure, and as she turned her big
eyes to his Margaret saw in them a look of such loving tenderness as
she had rarely seen in her life.
'I saw you, my dear,' said Madame Bonanni to her son. 'You were in the
second row of the stalls. I sang for you last night, for I thought you
looked sad and lonely.'
Lushington laid his hand on hers for a moment.
'Thank you,' he said simply.
There was a short silence, which was unusual when the prima donna was
present. Margaret had recovered from her first surprise, and had
understood that Madame Bonanni adored her son and that he felt real
affection for her, though he suffered a good deal from the manner in
which hers showed itself. If Lushington had fancied that he might fall
in Margaret's estimation through her discovery of his birth, he was
much mistaken. His patience and perfect simplicity did more to make her
love him than anything he had done before. She had learned his secret,
or a great part of it, and she understood him now, and the reason why
he had changed his name, and she felt that he had behaved very well to
her in going away, though she wished that he had boldly taken her into
his confidence before leaving Mrs. Rushmore's. But she did not know
all, though she was neither too young nor too innocent to guess a part
of the truth. Few young women of twenty-two years are. Madame Bonanni's
career as an artist had been a long series of triumphs, but her past as
a woman had been variegated, of the sort for which the French have
invented a number of picturesquely descriptive expressions, such as
'leading the life of Punch,' 'throwing one's cap over the windmills,'
and other much less elegant phrases. Margaret saw that Lushington was
not ashamed of his mother, as his mother; but she knew instinctively
that his mother's past was a shame which he felt always and to the
quick.
Madame Bonanni ate a good deal before she spoke again, feeling,
perhaps, that she had lost time.
'Schreiermeyer says she sings divinely,' she said at last, looking at
Lushington and then nodding at Margaret. 'You know what that means.'
'London?' inquired Lushington, who knew the manager.
'London next year, and an appearance this season if any one breaks
down. Meanwhile he signs for her _debut_ in Belgium and a three months'
tour. Twenty-four performances in three operas, fifty thousand francs.'
'I congratulate you,' said Lushington, looking at Margaret and trying
to seem pleased.
'You seem to think it is too little,' observed Madame Bonanni.
'Little?' cried Margaret. 'It's a fortune!'
'You may talk of a fortune when you get three hundred pounds a night,'
said Lushington. 'But it is a good beginning. I wonder that
Schreiermeyer agreed to it so easily.'
'Easily!' Madame Bonanni laughed. 'I wish you had been there, my dear
boy! He kicked and screamed, and we called him bad names. The King told
him he was a dirty little Jew, which he is not, poor man, but it had a
very good effect.'
'Oh!' Lushington did not seem surprised at the royal personage's
reported language. 'Then it was the King who passed me in that smart
brougham? I thought so.'
'Yes,' answered Madame Bonanni rather brusquely, and she became very
busy with some little birds.
'It's funny,' Margaret said to Lushington. 'One always imagines a king
with a crown and a sort of ermine dressing-gown, and a sceptre like the
Lord Mayor's mace! Of course it's perfectly ridiculous, isn't it?'
'I believe His Majesty possesses those things,' answered Lushington, as
if he did not like the subject.
'He looked and talked much more like an old friend than anything else,'
Margaret went on, remembering that Madame Bonanni had used the same
expression before Schreiermeyer.
To her surprise and sudden discomfiture neither of the two paid the
least attention to her remark.
'What train shall you take, mother?' asked Lushington so abruptly upon
Margaret's speech that she understood her mistake.
Though she had guessed something, it had somehow not occurred to her to
connect the royal personage with Madame Bonanni's past; but now she
scarcely dared to glance at Lushington. When she did, he seemed to be
avoiding her eyes again, and she saw the old look of pain in his face,
though he was talking about the timetables and the turbine
channel-boat.
'You must come over to London and see me before your _debut_, my dear,'
Madame Bonanni said, breaking off the discussion of trains and turning
to Margaret. 'That is, if Schreiermeyer will let you,' she added. 'You
will have to do exactly what he tells you, now, and he is always right.
He will be a father to you, now that he is going to make money out of
you.'
'Will he call me his "darling"?' inquired Margaret, with a shade of
anxiety.
'Of course he will! And when you sing well he will kiss you on both
cheeks.'
'Indeed he won't!' cried Margaret, turning red.
Madame Bonanni laughed heartily, but Lushington looked annoyed.
'My dear, why not?' asked the prima donna. 'Everybody kisses us
artists, when we have a triumph, and we kiss everybody! The author, the
manager, the dressmaker and the stage carpenter, besides all our old
friends! What difference can it make? It means nothing.'
'But it's such an unpleasant idea!' Margaret objected.
'Of course,' returned Madame Bonanni, licking her fingers between the
words, 'there are artists who ride the high horse and insist on being
treated like duchesses. The other artists hate them, and real society
laughs at them. It is far better to be simple, and kiss everybody. It
costs so little and it gives them so much pleasure, as Rachel said of
her lovers!'
'It was Sophie Arnould,' said Lushington, correcting her mistake.
'Was it? I don't care. I say it, and that is enough. Besides I hate
children who are always setting their parents right! It's my own fault,
because I was so anxious to have you well educated. If I had brought
you up as I was brought up, you would never have left me! As it
is'--she turned to Margaret with suddenly flashing eyes--'do you know,
my dear? that atrocious little wretch will never take a penny from me,
from me, his own mother! Ah, it is villainous! He is perfectly
heartless! He denies me the only pleasure I wish for. Even when he was
at school, at Eton, my dear, at the great English school, you know, he
worked like a poor boy and won scholarships--money! Is it not
disgusting? And at Oxford he lived on that money and won more! And then
he worked, and worked at those terrible books, and wrote for the
abominable press, and never would let me give him anything. Ah, you
ungrateful little boy!
She seemed perfectly furious with him and shook her fist in his face;
but the next moment she laughed and patted his cheek with her fat hand.
'And to say that I am proud of him!' she said, beaming with motherly
smiles. 'Proud of him, my dear, you don't know! He is beating them all,
as he always did! At the school, at the university, he was always the
best! He used to get what they call firsts and double firsts every
week!'
Margaret could not help laughing, and even Lushington smiled in his
agony.
'It was splendid,' said the young girl, looking at him. 'Did you really
get a double first?'
Lushington nodded.
'One?' screamed Madame Bonanni. 'Twenty, I tell you! A hundred----'
'No, no, mother,' interrupted Lushington. No one can get more than
one.'
'Ah, did I not tell you?' cried the prima donna, triumphantly. 'There is
only one, and he got it! What did I tell you? How can you expect me not
to be proud of him?'
'You ought to be,' answered Margaret, very much in earnest, and for the
first time Lushington saw in her eyes the light of absolutely
unreserved admiration.
It was not for the double first at Oxford that she gave it. There had
been a moment when it had hurt her to think that he probably accepted a
good deal of luxury in his existence out of his mother's abundant
fortune, but it was gone now. Even as a schoolboy he had guessed whence
at least a part of that wealth really came, and had refused to touch a
penny of it. But Lushington felt as if he were being combed with
red-hot needles from head to foot, and the perspiration stood on his
forehead. It would have filled him with shame to mop it with his
handkerchief and yet he felt that in another moment it would run down.
The awful circumstances of his dream came vividly back to him, and he
could positively hear Margaret telling him that he looked hot, so loud
that the whole house could understand what she said. But at this point
something almost worse happened.
Madame Bonanni's motherly but eagle eye detected the tiny beads on his
brow. With a cry of distress she sprang to her feet and began to wipe
them away with the corner of her napkin that was tied round her neck,
talking all the time.
'My darling!' she cried. 'I always forget that you feel hot when I feel
cold! Angelo, open everything--the windows, the doors! Why do you stand
there like a dressed-up doll in a tailor's window? Don't you see that
he is going to have a fit?'
'Mother, mother! Please don't!' protested the unfortunate Lushington,
who was now as red as a beet.
But Madame Bonanni took the lower end of her napkin by the corners, as
if it had been an apron, and fanned him furiously, though he put up his
hands and cried for mercy.
'He is always too hot,' she said, suddenly desisting and sitting down
again. 'He always was, even when he was a baby.' She was now at work on
a very complicated salad. 'But then,' she went on, speaking between
mouthfuls, 'I used to lay him down in the middle of my big bed, with
nothing on but his little shirt, and he would kick and crow until he
was quite cool.'
Again Margaret bit her lip, but this time it was of no use, and after a
conscientious effort to be quiet she broke into irrepressible laughter.
In a moment Lushington laughed too, and presently he felt quite cool
and comfortable again, feeling that after all he had been ridiculous
only when he was a baby.
'We used to call him Tommy,' said Madame Bonanni, putting away her
plate and laying her knife and fork upon it crosswise. 'Poor little
Tommy! How long ago that was! After his father died I changed his name,
you know, and then it seemed as if little Tommy were dead too.'
There was visible moisture in the big dark eyes for an instant.
Margaret felt sorry for the strange, contradictory creature, half
child, half genius, and all mother.
'My husband's name was Goodyear,' continued the prima donna
thoughtfully. 'You will find it in all biographies of me.'
'Goodyear,' Margaret repeated, looking at Lushington. 'What a nice
name! I like it.'
'You understand,' Madame Bonanni went on, explaining. '"Goodyear,"
"buon anno," "bonanno," "Bonanni"; that is how it is made up. It's a
good name for the stage, is it not?'
'Yes. But why did you change it at all for your son?'
Madame Bonanni shrugged her large shoulders, glanced furtively at
Lushington, and then looked at Margaret.
'It was better,' she said. 'Fruit, Angelo!'
'Can I be of any use to you in getting off, mother?' asked Lushington.
Margaret felt that she had made another mistake, and looked at her
plate.
'No, my angel,' said Madame Bonanni, answering her son's question, and
eating hothouse grapes; 'you cannot help me in the least, my sweet. I
know you would if you could, dear child! But you will come and dine
with me quietly at the Carlton on Sunday at half-past eight, just you
and I. I promise you that no one shall be there, not even
Logotheti--though you do not mind him so much.'
'Not in the least,' Lushington answered, with a smile which Margaret
thought a little contemptuous. 'All the same, I would much rather be
alone with you.'
'Do you wonder that I love him?' asked Madame Bonanni, turning to
Margaret.
'No, I don't wonder in the least,' answered the young girl, with such
decision that Lushington looked up suddenly, as if to thank her.
The ordeal was over at last, and the prima donna rose with a yawn of
satisfaction.
'I am going to turn you out,' she said. 'You know I cannot live without
my nap.'
She kissed Margaret first, and then her son, each on both cheeks, but
it was clear that she could hardly keep her eyes open, and she left
Margaret and Lushington standing together, exactly as she had left the
young girl with Logotheti on the first occasion.
Their eyes met for an instant and then Lushington got his hat and stick
and opened the door for Margaret to go out.
'Shall I call a cab for you?' he asked.
'No, thank you. I'll walk a little way first, and then drive to the
station.'
When they were in the street, Lushington stood still.
'You believe that it was an accident, don't you?' he asked. 'I mean my
coming to-day.'
'Of course! Shall we walk on?'
He could not refuse, and he felt that he was not standing by his
resolution; yet the circumstances were changed, since she now knew his
secret, and was warned.
They had gone twenty steps before she spoke.
'You might have trusted me,' she said.
'I should think you would understand why I did not tell you,' he
answered rather bitterly.
She opened her parasol so impatiently that it made an ominous little
noise as if it were cracking.
'I do understand,' she said, almost harshly, as she held it up against
the sun.
'And yet you complain because I did not tell you,' said Lushington in a
puzzled tone.
'It's you who don't understand!' Margaret retorted.
'No. I don't.'
'I'm sorry.'
They went on a little way in silence, walking rather slowly. She was
angry with herself for being irritated by him, just when she admired
him more than ever before, and perhaps loved him better; though love
has nothing to do with admiration except to kindle it sometimes, just
when it is least deserved. Now it takes generous people longer to
recover from a fit of anger against themselves than against their
neighbours, and in a few moments Margaret began to feel very unhappy,
though all her original irritation against Lushington had subsided. She
now wished, in her contrition, that he would say something
disagreeable; but he did not. He merely changed the subject, speaking
quite naturally.
'So it is all decided,' he said, 'and you are to make your _debut_.'
'Yes,' she answered, with a sort of eagerness to be friendly again.
'I'm a professional from to-day, with a stage name, a prey to critics,
reporters and photographers--just like your mother, except that she is
a very great artist and I am a very little one.'
It was not very skilfully done, but Lushington was grateful for what
she meant by it, and for saying 'your mother' instead of 'Madame
Bonanni.'
'I think you will be great, too,' he said, 'and before very long. There
is no young soprano on the stage now, who has half your voice or half
your talent.'
Margaret coloured with pleasure, though she could not quite believe
what he told her. But he glanced at her and felt sure that he was
right. She had voice and talent, he knew, but even with both some
singers fail; she had the splendid vitality, the boundless health and
the look of irresistible success, which only the great ones have. She
was not a classic beauty, but she would be magnificent on the stage.
There was a short silence, before she spoke.
'Two days ago,' she said, 'I did not think we would meet again so
soon.'
'Part again so soon, you ought to say,' he answered. 'It is nothing but
that, after all.'
She bit her lip.
'Must we?' she asked, almost unconsciously.
'Yes. Don't make it harder than it is. Let's get it over. There's a
cab.'
He held up his stick and signalled to the cabman, who touched his horse
and moved towards them. Margaret stood still, with a half-frightened
look, and spoke in a low voice.
'Tom, if you leave me, I won't answer for myself!'
'I will. Good-bye--God bless you!'
The cab stopped beside them, as he held out his hand. She took it
silently and he made her get in. A moment later she was driving away at
a smart pace, sitting bolt upright and looking straight before her, her
lips pressed tight together, while Lushington walked briskly in the
opposite direction. It had all happened in a moment, in a sort of
despairing hurry.