CHALLIS'S _adieu_ TO MISS ARKROYD. A LONG RIDE HOME, AND A COLD
WELCOME. BUT IT WAS JOLLY TO BE BACK, AT ANY RATE. MISS ARKROYD'S
MESSAGE DELIVERED
Marianne's loving Tite did not come back at the time he had
appointed--not by many days. He postponed doing so in order to go
back on the same day as Mr. Brownrigg, whose society he had begun to
find rather amusing. Their departure together was again postponed in
order that they might travel up in company with William Rufus and Lord
Felixthorpe, with whom both had come to be on the best of terms, after
each had denounced either to the other, in the strictest confidence, as
purse-proud, rank-proud, toffish, and standoffish. They had collated
their respective observations of the ingrained vices of Aristocracy,
and found that they agreed. But, then, after they had unpacked their
hearts with unprejudiced and candid criticism, they had suddenly _volte
face_'d, and discerned that there was always a Something you could not
define about people of this sort. They had both noticed this singular
fact, and each was supplied by it with an insight into the unusual
powers of penetration of the other. It was a curious coincidence that
both had acquired a consciousness of this Something by comparing the
courteous demeanour and graceful hospitality of their host with what
they found it impossible to describe as anything but the Plebeian
Vulgarity of the sitting Conservative member for the borough. Mr.
Ramsey Tomes caught it hot. Then look at the indescribable grace of
Lady Arkroyd, and contrast it with the dowdy _personnel_ and awkward
manners of the political gentleman's wife. Why!--_there_ was a woman,
her ladyship to wit, who could be as rude as she pleased to anyone, and
the indefinable Something came in and carried it off!
Was it the indefinable Something, or a very easily definable
Nothing-of-the-Sort, that brought about a still further delay in
Alfred Challis's return home? Probably the latter, in the form of the
gradual cordiality that comes to folk living in the same house under
auspicious circumstances, and goes on growing till quarrelling time. It
was of less importance when once he had overstayed his return-ticket;
and the final outcome of two or three postponements, each to await a
reinforcement to the homeward-bound Londoners, was that the bulk of the
Royd house-party caught the two o'clock train ten days behind the date
of Mr. Challis's promised return to his domestic hearth, and arrived at
Euston in a drizzling mist, which knew that summer had gone, and had
the atmosphere all to itself.
The porter that carried his portmanteau and his game--a hare and
partridges, with which was associated a promise of pheasants next
month--to a four-wheeler, might have noticed that the literary-looking
gentleman and the good-looking young lady in blue said good-bye a great
deal--in fact, until a carriage called out to know whether the latter
was coming or not. But this porter's name was Onions, and he had no
soul, except one that was wrapped up in remuneration. So he accepted
fourpence and saw nothing.
But he might have. And also he might have heard the following
conversation between the good-looking--or best-looking--young lady
and the gentleman, after the latter had made sure that his selected
four-wheeler was prepared to go as far as Wimbledon.
"Now, Mr. Challis, I know you're not to be trusted to give my message
to your wife...."
"Yes, I am. She's to write you a line to say when she'll be at home."
"Stupid man! Now you know quite well it was nothing as bold as that.
No, dear Mr. Challis, tell her I don't want to make a formal 'call.' I
want to know her--as well as I know you. And I never shall unless we
see each other quietly, when there's no one else there. Oh dear!--if
only people I want to know would give me a cup of tea and say 'not at
home' to everyone else!"
"I should myself! But I quite understand. I'll wrap up the message to
Marianne exactly to that effect. She shall write and fix a day. And I'm
not to be there--that's it, isn't it?"
"That's it. Good man! And you understand that I'm entirely in earnest
about Aminta Torrington--(all right! Nobody can hear. They're all in
the carriage)--and you're to speak to Mr. Magnus at the Megatherium
about it."
"Oh yes! I'm going to speak. Honour bright!"
"Very well, then! Now good-bye, Mr. Challis."
"Good-bye. I _have_ had a pleasant time." But Mr. Onions heard none of
this, as, while he was disposing of the portmanteau, his attention was
engaged by conversation with the cabman.
"Where's Wimbledon, Honey?" the latter had said, as he took the box
from him. He seemed over-ripe, did this cabman. He could not fall off
the box, though, for he had bound himself to it by tarpaulins of an
inflexible nature. "Honey" was not Irish: it was short for "Onions."
"What's the use of askin' me, when you know yourself? Mean to say you
don't?"
"I was born there, my son. I've lived there ever since. Likewise, I'm
going to hend my days there, exceptin' I should 'appen to live for
ever. I was just a-puttin' the question to see if _you_ knew."
"Couldn't say to harf an inch where it is. But it's a place _you_ get a
pint at, every wisit."
"Right you are, my son!... All right, governor--just off, as soon as
these cloths are tucked in. You never mentioned any 'urry, or I'd have
seen to it!"
And then Royd and its luxurious life have finally vanished, and
everyday life has come back, as the cab growls through its rather long
ride. Challis was paying the penalty of coming home by a different
route, and now almost wished he hadn't made up his mind to cab the
whole way. But you know what it is when you have a large portmanteau
that won't go on a hansom.
If it had not been for the hare and partridges, he could have managed
to consider the whole thing a dream. This would have been an advantage;
for no one stickles at finding waking life dull after a fascinating
sleep-experience. Do not we all rather love to rub it into our waking
surroundings how sweet that place was in the dream, how bright those
skies and seas were, how lovable that--well, usually--person of the
opposite sex was? Are you, if you are a lady, prepared to deny this
last item? Not that this concerns the story, for there they were--the
hare and partridges. And the memories they brought back clashed
with the long perspectives of street-lamps in the drizzle, and the
reflections of them; and the male umbrellas and female umbrellas
bobbing endlessly past below them, or waiting for a bus that somebody
may get out of, just there; and the busses that stopped to shed their
passengers and fill up again with Heaven-favoured fresh ones--while
they, the umbrellas, waited--and made the hearts of those no umbrella
could keep dry sick with Hope deferred. This hare and partridges,
fur-soft and feather-soft, though cold to the touch, were full of
suggestions of the life that had been switched off finally just now at
Euston Station. But then, of course--Challis ought to have recollected
this, and he felt it--they were equally full of suggestion of where
they were going to be devoured. Was he not going home to Marianne,
and the children, and his snug little writing-room looking out on the
Common across the garden, where he was on no account to be disturbed?
The very word "home" had a magic in it, and so forth: consult
Literature, _passim_!...
No, really, it was too absurd to allow his nasty cynical tone to creep
into his thoughts--here in Hyde Park; for that was the Marble Arch, and
the cab was making a good record--when in less than an hour he would be
back among his Lares and Penates. As he got nearer home he found that
the fire of pleasurable anticipation he had lighted began to crackle
and burn up of its own accord, without further effort on his part.
How he wished he could invent a word for that confounded hypothetical
wickedness--treachery or what not--that nervous imaginatives impute to
themselves, knowing its unreality all the while!
He had never allowed himself to believe for one moment that Royd owed
any of its charm for him to anything but ... well!--a sort of general
summary of the charms of a big wealthy country-house full of pleasant
people with balances at their Bankers'. So he expressly vetoed the idea
that in the dream he was now waking from, as he neared the Hermitage
and Marianne, there was any one individual that played a predominant
part. He vetoed it in obedience to that groundless guilt of conscience
he was going to find a name for. But for that he would have let it
alone.
He would have to find that name, to brand the intolerable nuisance;
to denounce it by it, when it appeared. Then he might look it in
the face unflinchingly, when it told him to snub his memory for
remembering so vividly the sunset-glow on his companion's face, that
day they walked back from the Rectory. What a luxury it would be
to give this phenomenon its proper place! As, for instance, Mental
Astigmatism--something of that sort! The more syllables the better!
Let him see!--didn't _aischune_ in Greek mean disgrace, or guilt? How
would _pseudoeschynomorphism_ serve the turn? Long enough, anyhow, to
convince a Grand Jury....
Well, it was this--no need to say the long name every time; at least,
until the Jury should be empanelled!--that was galling the kibe of
his mind at every chance thought of Judith Arkroyd that came into it.
Why, in Heaven's name, should he not dwell with pleasure on her eyes,
which were public property; on her lips, which he did not propose to
interfere with; on the touch of her hand at parting, which, by-the-bye,
had gone the round of the male units as the party broke up? He was not
going to appropriate a larger share than Felixthorpe, for instance,
whom he thought a very nice chap; or Brownrigg, for that matter!
Or ... but no!--one must draw a line somewhere. Let Mr. Ramsey Tomes
keep his fat hand to himself! At which point Pseudetcetera--(that would
do for the present)--said aloud: "Come, Alfred Challis, what business
have you with the word _desecration_ in your mind in connection with
this part of the business?" He rebuked the phenomenon, giving it its
name in full.
He was no match for it, though; and it ended by scoring. "Should I be
here at all," it said, "if Marianne were...?" He brushed the question
aside, but his heart knew the end of it. Marianne wasn't....
However, it was all Pseudetcetera, anyhow! Judith Arkroyd was
cultivating him from a purely selfish motive--this rather bitterly; and
as for Marianne, was he not really glad to be back again, and wouldn't
it be a pleasure to ... to present her with the hare and partridges,
and facilitate the housekeeping?
As to Miss Arkroyd's proposal to call, he did not know how it would be
received. Perhaps he would have to tell Marianne that she really must
be a sensible woman, and a Woman of the World.
Anyhow--and he drifted into a self-interested channel with some sense
of relief--it would never do to have what might be a golden prospect
for his play thwarted. He had only imperfect means, so far, of guessing
what Judith would sound like behind the footlights; but as to what
she would _look_ like, that was a thing there could be _no_ misgiving
about.... Why!--the horse was walking. Actually, Putney Hill! What a
much better lot of four-wheelers had come on the streets lately! In a
quarter of an hour he would be at home; and really very glad--honour
bright!--to be back with Marianne.
* * * * *
When any lady or gentleman comes back from an absence, in a cab with
luggage on it--however passionate may have been her or his longing
for a corresponding him or her who may have been (or might have been)
watching at the door for its arrival, or however much the two of them
may feel disposed to
"Stand tranced in long embraces
Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter
Than anything on earth"--
they usually find, in practice, that it is necessary to stand matters
over, because of the cab. This does not, of course, apply to where
a man-servant is kept, who can pay fares dogmatically, and conduct
himself like the Pope in Council. But where the yearnings of both
parties have to be suppressed all through a discussion of the fare
and a repulse of the unemployed, whose services have been anticipated
by your own mercenaries ... well!--do what you will in the way of
cordiality afterwards, it _is_ chilling, and you can't deny it. We know
we are putting this in a very homely way, but this is a very homely
subject.
If that over-ripe cabman had shown a different spirit, and accepted the
shilling or so too much that Challis offered him, and gone his way in
silence, who knows what course events would have taken in the Challis
household? But he not only said, "_My_ fare's nine shillings!" but
came down from his box as one comes down from a box when one's mind
is thoroughly made up, and one ain't going to stand any more of one's
ex-fare's trifling. He also unbuttoned a series of coats, and produced
from his inner core a pocket-book, supposed to contain documentary
evidence of some sort. It was eight mile o' ground, and three on 'em
outside the radius. Challis was irritated at the low valuation put on
his understanding by this cabman, and disputed a point he would have
given way on had an appeal been made to the goodness of his heart
to shut his eyes to obvious truth in the interest of extortion. He
was also obsessed by a woe-begone creature who had run all the way
from Putney Bridge to assist with the one portmanteau, but had been
headed off by Martha and Elizabeth Barclay. Who, thus intercepted, had
substituted a moral claim on account of the distance no one had asked
him to cover for a legal claim for carrying a portmanteau into a house,
and making the latter smell of his wardrobe till properly aired and the
mats shook next day. The consequence of which was that, when the cabman
had reconstituted himself on his box, under protest, and departed,
Challis, eager to make up for the postponement of his greeting by a
good husbandly _accolade_, found himself met by, "As soon as you've
done with the man!" and, turning, perceived an injured being touching
a soaked cap, and awaiting recognition or execration in a spirit of
meekness, but quite determined not to go away without a settlement.
"Run all the way from Putney, have you? What the devil did you do it
for? Nobody asked you." Here a gratuity, of coppers.
"Won't you make it up a shillin', Captain? It _is_ 'ard, when a
man's been out all day looking for a chance, and walked all over
Battersea and Chelsea and round Brixton--ask anybody if I ain't!--and
nobody to 'elp me to a job or say the word for me.... Thank ye
kindly, Captain!"--here more coppers; this mode of address proving
irresistible--"only if it was made up to a shillin' I could get my
tools out of pawn, being a carpenter by trade...."
Challis pushed the door to in the man's face with something like an
oath. Then at last he got a moment's leisure for his overdue kiss,
which he paid liberally, as he said: "Well, it _is_ jolly to be
back, at any rate! How are the kids?" For, whatever the malady he
had made the awkward name for had been, he wasn't going to show any
consciousness of it.
"The children you mean? There's nothing the matter with them that I
know of. Now make haste; because it's a small leg. If I'd thought you
were going to be so late it could have been rump-steak."
Challis looked at his watch. "H'm!" said he. Which meant that
seven-forty was not so enormously late, and really more elastic
arrangements might have been contrived. "I shouldn't have time for a
warm bath, should I?"
"I must tell Elizabeth Barclay, then. I dare say she can keep the meat
back. Only say!"
"Oh, it don't matter, if there's any difficulty...."
"My dear!--why should there be any difficulty! You've only got to
_say_.... Well!--am I to tell Elizabeth Barclay, or am I not?"
Challis decided, and said. That is, he did not formulate special
instructions, his words being merely, "Half-past, then. I'll be sure
not to be later," and went straight away to get a bath. It is the
greatest of luxuries, as we all know, after a journey, and Challis
had made up his mind to have one the moment he detected a flavour of
roasting, because that implied plenty of hot water in the bath-room.
Those who measure events only by the bounce they manifest--by their
rapidity, or unexpectedness, or by the clamour that accompanies
them--will wonder why any narrator of a story should think such flat
incident worth recording. But observe!--it was the very flatness of
this conversation that gave it its importance, coming as it did on the
top of the exhilaration of Mr. Challis's visit, and his parting with
that large and lively company of friends less than two hours ago. It
has its place--this flatness has--in the lives of these two folk we
write of, and really accelerates the story, although it is certainly
slow in itself.
How very much Challis would have preferred it if his wife had said,
"I won't kiss you if you swear," and had then done it _quandmême_!
His mind--a fictionmonger's--reconstructed his reception with things
more palatable for Marianne to say, this one among them. Another
thing he would have liked, quite inexplicably, was, "Well!--how's the
fascinating Judith?" Possibly this was because he would have welcomed
help from without to convince him he was indifferent about the young
woman. The answer he imagined for himself, which would have been
pleasant for him to give, was, "She's coming to see you next week,
Polly Anne. So get your best bib and tucker ready!" But there had been
none of this, nor the laughter--purely imaginary--that he garnished it
with. Only the flatness as recorded.
"Perhaps it was all that confounded cabman," said Challis to himself
and a bath-towel like a _toga_, after a very respectable warm bath--not
equal to that at Royd, though--and a cold douche. He had to hurry up to
keep his word at half-past eight. But he kept it.
"Well!" said he, as he joined his wife in the drawing-room, where she
was awaiting the announcement of dinner, Challis conceived.
"Well what?" She touched the nearest bell-handle. "They'll know it's
for dinner," she said, and the remark seemed relative. "Why well?"
"Well everything! Tell me all about the kids, about who's called,
about where you've been, about everything. Come, Polly Anne, I think
you might unbutton a little and be jolly when a chap's been away three
weeks. How are John and Charlotte Eldridge?"
"Yes!--I think you might have asked about them. John has been at
death's door. There's dinner!..." Challis made a sympathetic noise
about Mr. Eldridge, but postponed inquiry. Nothing made it easy until
he found himself a lonely soup-consumer; because, you see, Marianne
wasn't hungry.
"What has it been?" Too concise, perhaps. But really death's door, with
John on the step, had been the last thing mentioned.
"What has what been?"
"What you told me. What's been the matter with John?"
"Peritonitis. But he's going on well now. Dr. Kitt says he'll have to
live very carefully for some time.... I know what you mean, but it's
very unfeeling to laugh. Besides, I don't believe he eats more than
other people." Challis felt indefensible. Just fancy!--there he was,
eating gravy soup all by himself!
"I wasn't laughing, old girl," said he. "Poor Jack Eldridge!
Peritonitis is no joke. I'll go round to-morrow."
"It won't be any use. He won't be able to see you. Yes--you can take
the soup, Harmood. Mr. Challis isn't going to have any more...."
A mere rough sample of the conversation. It was not unlike others of
the same sort on like occasions. But was Challis wrong in imagining
that, this time, it was a little accentuated! Was it only his
imagination, gathering suggestions from the atmosphere that his home
had been that of self-denying endurance during his absence, and that
his own selfish indulgences elsewhere were being actively forgiven for
his sake? What had he done to deserve forgiveness? If he had known that
he was incurring it, would he have committed the offence at all?
Also he did feel that Marianne hadn't played fair. What could have
been more genial than her send-off, three weeks ago?--more apparently
genuine than her refusal to accompany her husband to Royd on the ground
of a real dislike for Society? To be sure, a throb of conscience
reminded him of a certain breath of relief--almost--that he drew at the
decisiveness of this refusal. Had Marianne been sharp enough to see it?
His instinct told him that a woman might have a sharp department in
her mind on points of this sort, and yet make a poor show in logic and
mental philosophy.
The sense that he was a naughty boy that had been eating three-cornered
jam-tarts, and giving no one else any, hung about him, and made
him unlike himself. If only that abominable cabman had not spoiled
the part he had sketched out for himself on his first arrival, one
of exaggerated self-denunciation for his beastly selfishness, and
tragi-comical commiseration for Marianne as Penelope or Andromeda!
It would then have come so much easier to deliver that message from
Judith Arkroyd. And now! Just look at _now_! Now, when he actually
found himself fallen so low as to half-ask if he might smoke in the
drawing-room! Not quite, of course; that would have been too absurd!
But he said something or other, or Marianne would not have replied as
she did.
"As if I ever minded! How can you be so ridiculous!" This was good and
lubricative. But she spoilt it by adding that there was the little
ash-pan. Nevertheless, by the time the incense from her husband's
cigar, and an atmosphere of consolatory coffee, were bringing back the
flavour of a thousand and one post-prandial hours of peace in days gone
by, the malignant influence of that cabman began to lose its force,
and there was concession in the way she added: "I suppose you weren't
allowed to smoke in the drawing-room at Boyd's--Royd's--whatever it
was?"
"Royd. Cigarettes--yes! Hardly cigars. At least, nobody did it. The
young women smoked cigarettes."
"Those sort of people do it now. At least, Charlotte Eldridge says so.
_I_ don't know."
"Wish you'd smoke, Polly Anne! Have a cigarette now."
"Oh no!--I've tried often enough to know I don't like it. You must go
away to some of your Grosvenor Squares if you're not happy smoking by
yourself."
Things were pleasanter. Why couldn't Challis let it alone, instead
of at once discerning an opportunity of delivering Judith's message?
To say, as he did, "No--I've had enough of the Grosvenor Squares for
some time to come," wasn't unblemished truth, but it was an excusable
stepping-stone under the circumstances, with poor dear slow Polly
Anne waiting for consolation. The mistake was in what followed. Our
own belief is he would have done much better to make a forget of that
message until his life was running again in a married channel. He began
badly for one thing. You should never say "By-the-bye!" in order to
introduce the thing uppermost in your mind.
"By-the-bye, Polly Anne, it won't do to forget that the young female
Grosvenor Square wants to call on you." To this Marianne made no
answer, and her husband had to add: "Miss Arkroyd--Judith!"
It became difficult not to answer. Marianne fidgeted. "I suppose she'll
have to come," she said.
"Well!--I suppose so." There was a shade of asperity in this. But what
followed softened it. "You know, really, Polly Anne darling, you'll
have to put up with the fascinating Judith a little, for the sake of
the play. Besides, she sent you such a very nice message."
"Very kind of her!" However, Mrs. Challis has quite her share of
human inquisitiveness, and if she wants to hear the message after her
sardonic speech, she must make concession. "What _was_ the very nice
message?" she asks grudgingly.
Perhaps Challis's powers of fiction made him able to imagine exactly
how he would have behaved if Judith Arkroyd had been merely a showy,
smart-set sort of a girl--or merely an intelligent young woman, without
a figure to speak of--or, still more merely, one of those excruciating
well-informed persons of importance phrenologically, but with no figure
at all. On this occasion he felt he knew exactly what his conduct would
have been had he undertaken an embassage from the merest of these
three--the last. And he modelled his conduct accordingly.
"Don't be miffy with the poor woman, Polly Anne," said he. He had
thought of "poor girl," but decided on something bonier, with hair
brushed on to the shape of the head, and a black dress. This refers, of
course, to the provisional lay-figure he elected to give his message
from.
"The poor woman!" Marianne repeated, looking rather suspicious over
it. But the image of the lay-figure in his mind, telepathically
communicated, produced a certain softening, so he thought. He moved
from the bent wood rocking-chair he was smoking in to the sofa beside
his wife.
"I'll tell you exactly her message word for word," he said. He did so,
as from the lay-figure. And, indeed, he almost wished that fiction had
been a reality, as far as this message went. He could have sketched out
the proposed visit so much more easily, in his inmost mind; which was,
to say truth, incredulous about its turning out satisfactory to either
lady, their respective personalities being as supplied.
"I suppose she'll have to come," said Marianne drearily. "Why can't she
come when other people are here?"
"Because she wants to see _you_, my dear. She doesn't want to see the
other people."
"Why need I be in it at all? Can't you introduce her to Mr. Magnus, and
let them settle it between them?" For in his last letter Challis had
enlarged on the Aminta Torrington scheme, and his wife was quite _au
fait_ of the position so far.
He hummed and hawed, and flushed slightly. The removal of a column of
ash from his cigar seemed to absorb him for a moment. "I don't think
you quite see all the ins and outs of the situation, Polly Anne. Don't
you understand?..."
"Understand what?"
"Well--I'm sure Miss Arkroyd really wishes to know you. You see, I've
talked so much about you." This was not really a _true_ truth, for
conversation about Marianne had always been at Judith's instigation.
"But there are other considerations, apart from that...."
"What considerations?"
"Well, you know, we _do_ live in a world! Don't we now, Polly Anne?"
"I thought it was something of that sort. Charlotte Eldridge said it
would be."
"What did Charlotte Eldridge say? I wish she'd keep her tongue to
herself...."
"But you're getting angry before you know what she _did_ say."
"No, I'm not! I mean I'm not getting angry at all. Why should I get
angry? Come, old girl, be reasonable! What did Charlotte Eldridge
say?" Nevertheless, it is clear that Mr. Challis is keeping his
temper--keeping it admirably, perhaps, but still, keeping it! His
wife's answer shows painfully how well she is keeping hers.
"Charlotte Eldridge said I should be wanted the moment I told her about
Aminta Torrington.... No!--it's no use pretending, Tite!... Besides,
I'm _not_ hurt. Why should I be? Only I don't see why there need be a
make-believe friendship between me and this young lady--and me to have
to put on my black silk, and a new Madeira cake--and to give Harmood
directions to say not at home! Charlotte Eldridge and I have talked it
all over...."
"Oh!--you've talked it all over?" Challis either is, or pretends to be,
inclined to laugh.
"Yes, we have. And you know how sensible Charlotte is about things of
this sort.... No, Titus, you can try to make what I say ridiculous, and
I dare say you'll succeed, but you know what a good friend Charlotte
has been to me from the beginning...." Marianne pulls up short suddenly
in the middle of her speech, with a suggestion in it of a tear corked
in at its source. She gets the cork well in, and ends with: "I won't
say any more about it. You shall arrange it just as you like your
own way"--but this with the amenability of a traction-engine making
concession to its handle.
Challis, who had felt it rather hard that a tearfulness derived from
tender memories of Mrs. Eldridge's loyalty in past years should
slop over into his department, became awake to the fact that brisk
strategy would be needed to prevent that cork coming out. "Come, I
say now, Polly Anne!" said he with jovial remonstrance. "Fancy you
and me falling out about a Grosvenor Square young lady!" He burst
out laughing, roundly. "We _have_ shot up in the world. My word!" He
got his arm round an unresponsive invertebrate waist, in spite of a
collision with a hook, which rather took the edge off his caress. Why
cannot ladies have some sort of little smooth tie, just at that point,
in case? It was a very slight blot on the scutcheon, however, and,
indeed, would have counted for nothing with Challis had not Marianne
offered him her mole to kiss instead of her lips. For she had a mole--a
small one, certainly--just on the cheek-bone. Now a liberal, unreserved
warmth in this act of the drama would have been invaluable. It would
have helped Challis to snap his fingers at whatever it was that was
taunting him with having effected for politic purposes a half-derision
of Judith as a Grosvenor Squarian--and that, too, after the cordial
message to his wife!
However, it was quite impossible to pretend--it would not be fair to
say admit--that they were quarrelling, after that. In fact, it was so
established an assumption that their old confidence was again on its
old footing, that Challis felt it would be ungenerous to Marianne to
change the subject for safety's sake. Besides, he wanted an answer to a
question.
"You didn't tell me what it was Charlotte _did_ say, Polly Anne....
I dare say she was all right, you know." The use of her Christian
name alone was a concession--showed good-will. Speech is full of such
niceties.
Marianne got up and broke a coal on the fire. She couldn't think of two
things at once, naturally. This made a pause before answering, and a
pretence of having omitted an answer because of the slightness of its
subject was plausible.
"Oh--Charlotte? It really was the merest talk by the way. She only said
it would keep people from talking nonsense."
"What would?"
"If the Grosvenor Square young lady and I were bosom friends. She was
joking, you know."
"I see what she meant," said Challis; and seemed to, reflectively. But
really he was crossing Mrs. Eldridge out of one or two passages in
his good books where her name still occurred. Confound her! Couldn't
she leave it to _him_ to instruct Marianne--who was much too slow to
find out anything for herself--on this point? However, it was best
to confirm her, on the whole. He continued: "Of course, if it were
thought that you and she were at daggers drawn, spiteful people would
say things. They always do if they get a chance. But what I look at is
that she _is_ Aminta Torrington. It's quite miraculous. You never saw
anything so happy." He quite forgot that lay-figure.
Marianne waived discussion of the dramatic aspect of the question. She
knew nothing about these things--was an outsider. But she seemed to
register concession on the main point. She supposed the young woman
must come, and she could tell Charlotte and Maria Macculloch and Lewis
Smithson to be sure not to call that day, and then Harmood could say
"not at home." Better make it Thursday, and get it over.
"Didn't Charlotte say anything else?" This was chiefly conciliation on
Challis's part. He did not wish to seem in a hurry to get away from
Mrs. Eldridge, or to resent her discussion of his affairs.
"Oh--she _talked_, of course! You mean when I saw her yesterday? Only
she was still so anxious about John."
"He'll be all right, won't he? Did you say peritonitis? Are you sure?
Because peritonitis is the dooce's own delight."
"The doctor says there is no occasion for the slightest uneasiness."
Whereupon Challis settled in his own mind that John Eldridge would
be spared to his wife and relatives, for the present at any rate.
Peritonitis inside a week, and no need for uneasiness at the end of
it! He allowed the medical report to lapse, and referred again to what
Charlotte had said. It certainly seemed, to judge by Marianne's reply,
"I thought she was quite mistaken, you know," that Charlotte _had_
"talked, of course," although she _was_ so uneasy about John.
"What about?" But he didn't want to seem to catechize, so he discovered
that his cigar--which he was quite half through--didn't draw well, and
lit another. Then he was able to say, "Let's see!--what were we talking
about? What Charlotte said." He resumed his place beside his wife, too
manifestly to receive the answer for her to withhold it.
"It was only general conversation, about what Miss Arkroyd's
family--with all their ideas--would think of her going on the stage."
"My dear! I must say I do wish you hadn't mentioned Miss Arkroyd to her
at all. I hope you made her understand she must be quiet about it?"
"Oh, _she_ won't mention it--except perhaps to John." Challis looked
alarmed. However, John couldn't talk much at present, even if
peritonitis only meant obstruction. "Besides, I didn't really tell
her anything. It was an accident. I showed her something else in your
letter a week ago, and by the merest chance she read it by mistake. It
wasn't her fault."
"Nor yours. I see! But what did she read?"
"Only where you said you would have to talk to the old boy about his
daughter's stage-mania ... nothing that could possibly do any harm."
Now, Challis's conscience had been uneasy about the part he was going
to play in helping Judith towards a secret arrangement which was sure
to outrage the feelings of her family. So, when he said "Oh!" to this,
he had to jump abruptly on to make it seem a casual, ordinary "Oh!" He
succeeded pretty well. "What was Charlotte's idea?" said he.
"The same idea, of course. As long as Sir Thingummy knew all about it,
no one could possibly blame _you_."
"I don't know that it's really my concern. I don't know that it's any
of our...." A pause here is due to his duty to syntax.... "I mean
to say--that it is the business of any one of us. Miss Arkroyd is no
chicken. In fact, I'm not sure that her age won't stand in her way--for
training, I mean. However, of course I shall take care that her family
knows all about it." Challis's voice sounded well in his own ears, and
he was convinced that no fault could be found with his behaviour so
far. As to anyone saying he should not have made the promise about Mr.
Magnus of the Megatherium while he was a trusted guest at Royd, that
was sheer nonsense. He felt quite nettled with Marianne for saying,
"Oh, haven't you done it?" But he wasn't going to prolong discussion
about it.
He felt nettled, too, with himself for feeling, when Marianne left him
to read, before going to bed, the letters that had come for him--with
a charge to him not to make a noise when he came up--nettled for
feeling that he had got through the evening well, which was absurd;
and that to do so he had assumed a certain roughness in reference to
Judith, to accentuate his equable indifference to her personally,
which was absurder. What was it all about?--was the question he asked
himself. And then another that arose from it naturally, What was _what_
all about? The distraction afforded by a handful of miscellaneous
correspondence gave him an excuse for ignoring the latter question,
which, indeed, seemed to him the more unanswerable of the two.
One thing, however, he was glad of having achieved. Marianne would
write that letter, he felt sure. Only he would just keep his eye on her
to see that she did it. He would not have to write to Judith, "Please
don't come and see my wife!" in any form, transparent or otherwise.
For anything the story shows at this point, Alfred Challis and Marianne
might have tided over any little difficulties arising out of the visit
to Royd, if they had only been judiciously let alone. It was those
blessed Peacemakers!