Alymer knew directly he entered the house, and saw his mother, that
something had upset her, but he did not associate it with Lorraine, and
kissed her with his usual warm affection.
It was not until after dinner, when they were alone in the
drawing-room, that the subject was broached, and then, with very little
preliminary, Mrs. Hermon—bending Divine Guidance to her own will—made a
merciless attack on “the painted woman.”
It was no doubt the most unwise course of action conceivable; but Mrs.
Hermon, with her quiet and philosophical husband, and her only son, had
led a sheltered, smoothly flowing married life, after a yet more
sheltered girlhood, far removed from the passionate upheavals of
society, and she had neither practical worldly knowledge nor experience
to aid her.
She told him the story that had reached her ears through the jealousy
of a sister, whose only son was very plain, and a scapegrace, and who
had been fiendishly glad to have an opportunity to cast a slur upon the
doings of the successful, handsome, steady young barrister.
“Douglas says he is always with her,” had been her sister’s
conclusion—“and that every one is talking about it, and there is a
dreadful lot of scandal. I thought it was only kind to tell you, as if
he goes on in the same way he will certainly ruin his career.”
Then had come the parting shot.
“We all think so much of Alymer, that I would not believe such a story
of him without proof. Douglas said he usualy went to her flat in
Chelsea about five, when he leaves Chambers, and I went twice to see if
he came; and on each occasion he strode along, and swung into the
building almost as if he lived there.”
Mrs. Hermon did not at first tell her son the source of her
information, and he did not ask her. Neither, somewhat to her surprise,
did he attempt to exculpate himself, nor to make any denial.
He stood up on the hearth with that straight, strong look he had, when
all his faculties were acute, and heard her through to the end. Then
she said in a hurt voice: “You don’t deny it, Alymer. I have been
hoping you went to the flat on business, and there was some mistake.”
“I deny everything that you have implied against Miss Vivian. The story
of the friendship is true.”
His quiet self-possession seemed to disconcert her a little. She was
prepared for indignant denial, or angry remonstrance even; but this
calm self-possession was something almost new to her. True, he had
always been calm and philosophical, like his father; but this was
something deeper and stronger than she had yet known in him.
“The fact is, mother,” he went on after a pause, “you have run away
with a totally wrong idea of Miss Vivian. If she were the sort of
actress you picture, you might perhaps be anxious; but all the same I
think you might have given me credit for rather better taste.”
“My dear, an actress is an actress—and everyone knows what that is; and
the mere fact of her calling, or whatever you like to name it, is
sufficient to seriously hurt your position.”
He smiled a little.
“I dispute the dictum that everyone knows whant an actress is, in the
sweeping sense you mean. I do not think you know, for one. I shall have
to try and persuade Miss Vivian to come and see you.”
“Indeed I hope you will do no such thing.”
Again he smiled.
“In any case I should not succeed. She is very proud, and would resent
patronage even more than you.”
Mrs. Hermon gave a significant sniff of incredulity, but she only said:
“Well, Alymer dear, you will give me a promise not to see her any
more—won’t you?”
“I can’t do that, mother.”
“Why not?”
“It is out of the question. For one thing, I owe too much to Miss
Vivian; and for another, I am too fond of her.”
“All the more reason you should try to break off the friendship at
once, before she has succeeded in any of her schemes to entangle you.”
“She has no schemes to entangle me, as you put it. She has been a
splendid friend. I owe my first brief to her, and a good deal else
beside.”
“Well, and no doubt you have already given her a good deal in return.
Quite as much as she deserves. There is no necessity for you to ruin
your whole career, just because she happens to like being seen out with
you.”
There was a silence, in which Alymer seemed to be cogitating how best
to disarm his mother’s fears; and also to be reminding himself of her
natural ignorance on theatrical matters, and his own need to be patient
therefore. At last he said quietly:
“Miss Vivian only wants to help me in my profession; and I can only
tell you again she has been a splendid friend to me. Aunt Edith has
told you a great deal of nonsense. She has always been glad to pick
holes in me if she could. Most of it is lies, and you must take my word
for it. It is useless to discuss the matter. I am sorry you have been
so worried, but I don’t know how to make you understand.”
“I understand far better than you think; and I know you ought to end
the friendship at once. I want you to do so.”
“It is out of the question. But you need not worry. You must just
forget. No...” as she attempted further remonstrance; “don’t go on. I
cannot listen to any more against Miss Vivian. I think I will go and
smoke a pipe with the pater. Shall you come and sit with us?” And a
certain expression in his eyes that reminded her of his father in his
most decisive moods told her he meant to say no more. She rose at once.
She had failed, and she knew it, but she had not the smallest intention
of giving in. She had started on the wrong tack, that was all. Of
course the boy was too chivalrous to go back on a friend, particularly
as he believed he was under some obligation to her. Her plan of
mercilessly tearing the lady to pieces had not been a good one, but she
would think of something else, and save him in spite of himself.
And comforting herself with this reflection, she allowed the subject to
drop, and went with him to the library. Her next plan should be a more
sure one. She would work in secret with an agent to help her, who could
see the enormity of the danger, and appreciate more thoroughly than his
father the urgent need to interfere. She had already a vague plan in
her head that she believed an excellent one, and which she could put
into execution immediately.
It was an old-fashioned, time-worn plan, but Mrs. Hermon was a woman of
old-fashioned ideas, and she did not know but that she was the
originator. She had not the least idea that quite the commonplace
course of action in these questions was to send a secret emissary to
the lady, to reason with her, or plead with her, or bribe her,
according to her status, on behalf of the innocent young victim of her
charms. The great thing, she imagined, was to find a suitable agent.
Now, besides the sister who was jealous, she had a bachelor brother of
a certain well-known stamp. A good-looking, aristocratic,
well-preserved man of independent means; and though over sixty years of
age, still a gallant, with not much in his handsome head beyond a
pathetic desire to continue to captivate, and a belief that he was as
invincible as ever.
Very shady stories had more than once been written down to his account,
but he had the wit always to rise above them and sail serenely on to do
more mischief.
His sister rightly surmised that he would have considerable knowledge
concerning actressess and the theatrical world, and without troubling
to consult her husband, she took him into her confidence and unburdened
all her trouble.
“Phew!” murmured the elderly beau, “so the young scamp has got
entangled with an actress, has he? Shocking!… shocking!… But don’t
worry, Ailsa; we’ll soon square the lady one way or another. Do
you—er—happen to know if she is of the nature one can offer money to?”
“I think not. Alymer insists she is a lady in the real sense; though,
if so, why did she go on the stage?”
“Love of excitement, I dare say. Is she, by any chance, a chorus girl?”
“No, not exactly; though really I fail to see any difference in degree
between one actress and another. They are all on the stage; and no
doubt they all paint their faces and snare good-looking young men.”
“No doubt,” agreed the man, who had more than once made it his business
to snare an unsuspecting, trusting girl.
“And you will go to see her, and persuade her to drop him; won’t you,
Percy? It is no use talking to his father; he does not see the matter
in a serious enough light. He believes Alymer will soon tire of her. So
he may, but in the meantime she may irredeemably injure his career. Of
course, if it is a question of money we will find it all right; but
whatever it is, try to cut the whole matter off entirely. Make love to
her yourself, Percy, if that is what she wants—you know you have always
been rather good at that sort of thing”; and she smiled at her own
astonishing wordly wisdom, feeling almost rakish at having framed such
a sentence.
“Ah!” with a deprecatory shake of his head, that did not, however, hide
a certain fitful gleam in his eyes, “I am getting too old for those
kinds of pranks now, but I will do my best to—er—” For a moment he
wondered whether he meant to do his best to make love to the actress
himself, or try to rescue Alymer, and finally finished: “follow out
your wishes and suggestions.”
“I knew you would, Percy. It was a good idea of mine to ask you. Don’t
mince matters at all, will you? Make her thoroughly understand she has
got to give him up under any circumstances, or we shall, well—er—take
proceedings if it is possible. Anyhow, Alymer must be guarded against
himself, and his father is too unpractical to help, so we must do it
alone.”
“I quite agree. Alymer is an exceptionally fine fellow, with an
exceptionally promising future; and if he cannot see for himself how
foolish a scandal would be just at the outset, we must, as you say,
save him on our own account. I am fond of Alymer, very fond, and very
proud, and I will do all in my power over the matter. What is the
actress’s name, did you say?”
“I don’t think I mentioned it; but Edith told me in her letter. I will
look for it.”
She went to a writing-table, and returned with the epistle in her hand,
glancing through it until she came to the required information, when,
without looking up, she read, “Lorraine Vivian.”
At the same time a sudden, curious, startled expression crossed the
faded eyes of the white-haired gallant, and he turned quickly aside,
stroking his moustache with a slightly nervous air.
“Eh? Do you mean the well-known celebrity?” he asked. “Surely not Miss
Vivian of the Queen’s Theatre?”
“I suppose so. I never go to the theatre, so I never hear these names.
Edith certainly writes as if she were well known. Does it makes any
difference?” she asked, as he was silent. “Don’t you want to go? If you
don’t I must find some one else; that is all.”
“But certainly I will go. I was only a little surprised. She must be a
good deal older than Alymer.”
“That only makes it worse. No doubt she is no longer pretty enough for
older men, so she has to set her cap at young ones, who are flattered
by her attention. I certainly thought Alymer had more sense—but
there—one never knows, and these women are very clever, I believe.”
“D—d—I mean—extraordinarily clever; but we can be clever too, and I
dare say we can contrive to outwit her.”
A little later he went away to catch a train back to town, leaving his
sister reassured and hopeful; but as he went he repeated to himself in
a low, incredulous voice: “Lorraine Vivian… Lorraine Vivian… How
strange that I should be asked to undertake a mission that will cause
us to meet again. I wonder if you will recognise me quickly? I flatter
myself, even white hair has not destroyed my claims to a woman’s
favour.”