"MORE WAS LOST AT MOHACKSFIELD"
Eastminster House was ablaze. A large dinner had been fixed for this
October evening, and only just before half-past eight Jasmine entered
the drawing-room to receive her guests. She had completely forgotten
the dinner till very late in the afternoon, when she observed
preparations for which she had given instructions the day before. She
was about to leave the house upon the mission which had drawn her
footsteps in the same direction as those of Ian Stafford, when the
butler came to her for information upon some details. These she gave
with an instant decision which was part of her equipment, and then,
when the butler had gone, she left the house on foot to take a cab at
the corner of Piccadilly.
When she returned home, the tables in the dining-room were decorated,
the great rooms were already lighted, and the red carpet was being laid
down at the door. The footmen looked up with surprise as she came up
the steps, and their eyes followed her as she ascended the staircase
with marked deliberation.
"Well, that's style for you," said the first footman. "Takin' an airin'
on shanks' hosses."
"And a quarter of an hour left to put on the tirara," sniggered the
second footman. "The lot is asked for eight-thirty."
"Swells, the bunch, windin' up with the brother of an Emperor--'struth!"
"I'll bet the Emperor's brother ain't above takin' a tip about shares
on the Rand, me boy."
"I'll bet none of 'em ain't. That's why they come--not forgetting th'
grub and the fizz."
"What price a title for the Byng Baas one of these days! They like tips
down there where the old Markis rumbles through his beard--and a lot of
hands to be greased. And grease it costs a lot, political grease does.
But what price a title--Sir Rudyard Byng, Bart., wot oh!"
"Try another shelf higher up, and it's more like it. Wot a head for a
coronet 'ers! W'y--"
But the voice of the butler recalled them from the fields of
imagination, and they went with lordly leisure upon the business of the
household.
Socially this was to be the day of Jasmine's greatest triumph. One of
the British royal family was, with the member of another great reigning
family, honouring her table--though the ladies of neither were to be
present; and this had been a drop of chagrin in her cup. She had been
unaware of the gossip there had been of late,--though it was unlikely
the great ladies would have known of it--and she would have been slow
to believe what Ian had told her this day, that men had talked lightly
of her at De Lancy Scovel's house. Her eyes had been shut; her wilful
nature had not been sensitive to the quality of the social air about
her. People came--almost "everybody" came--to her house, and would
come, of course, until there was some open scandal; until her husband
intervened. Yet everybody did not come. The royal princesses had not
found it convenient to come; and this may have meant nothing, or very
much indeed. To Jasmine, however, as she hastily robed herself for
dinner, her mind working with lightning swiftness, it did not matter at
all; if all the kings and queens of all the world had promised to come
and had not come, it would have meant nothing to her this night of
nights.
In her eyes there was the look of one who has seen some horrible thing,
though she gave her orders with coherence and decision as usual, and
with great deftness she assisted her maid in the hasty toilette. Her
face was very pale, save for one or two hectic spots which took the
place of the nectarine bloom so seldom absent from her cheeks, and in
its place was a new, shining, strange look like a most delicate
film--the transfiguring kind of look which great joy or great pain
gives.
Coming up the staircase from the street, she had seen Krool enter her
husband's room more hastily than usual, and had heard him greeted
sharply--something that sounded strange to her ears, for Rudyard was
uniformly kind to Krool. Never had Rudyard's voice sounded as it did
now. Of course it was her imagination, but it was like a voice which
came from some desolate place, distant, arid and alien. That was not
the voice in which he had wooed her on the day when they heard of
Jameson's Raid. That was not the voice which had spoken to her in
broken tones of love on the day Ian first dined with her after her
marriage--that fateful, desperate day. This was a voice which had a
cheerless, fretful note, a savage something in it. Presently they two
would meet, and she knew how it would be--an outward semblance, a
superficial amenity and confidence before their guests; the smile of
intimacy, when there was no intimacy, and never, never, could be again;
only acting, only make-believe, only the artifice of deceit.
Yet when she was dressed--in pure white, with only a string of pearls,
the smallest she had, round her neck--she was like that white flower
which had been placed on her pillow last night.
Turning to leave the bedroom she caught sight of her face and figure
again in the big mirror, and she seemed to herself like some other
woman. There was that strange, distant look of agony in her eyes, that
transfiguring look in the face; there was the figure somehow gone
slimmer in these few hours; and there was a frail appearance which did
not belong to her.
As she was about to leave the room to descend the stairs, there came a
knock at the door. A bunch of white violets was handed in, with a
pencilled note in Rudyard's handwriting.
White violets--white violets!
The note read, "Wear these to-night, Jasmine."
White violets--how strange that he should send them! These they send
for the young, the innocent, and the dead. Rudyard had sent them to
her--from how far away! He was there just across the hallway, and yet
he might have been in Bolivia, so far as their real life was concerned.
She was under no illusion. This day, and perhaps a few, a very few
others, must be lived under the same roof, in order that they could
separate without scandal; but things could never go on as in the past.
She had realized that the night before, when still that chance of which
she had spoken to Stafford was hers; when she had wound the coil of her
wonderful hair round her throat, and had imagined that self-destruction
which has tempted so many of more spiritual make than herself. It was
melodramatic, emotional, theatrical, maybe; but the emotional, the
theatrical, the egotistic mortal has his or her tragedy, which is just
as real as that which comes to those of more spiritual vein, just as
real as that which comes to the more classical victim of fate. Jasmine
had the deep defects of her qualities. Her suffering was not the less
acute because it found its way out with impassioned demonstration.
There was, however, no melodrama in the quiet trembling with which she
took the white violets, the symbol of love and death. She was sure that
Rudyard was not aware of their significance and meaning, but that did
not modify the effect upon her. Her trouble just now was too deep for
tears, too bitter for words, too terrible for aught save numb
endurance. Nothing seemed to matter in a sense, and yet the little
routine of life meant so much in its iron insistence. The habits of
convention are so powerful that life's great issues are often obscured
by them. Going to her final doom a woman would stop to give the last
careful touch to her hair--the mechanical obedience to long habit. It
is not vanity, not littleness, but habit; never shown with subtler
irony than in the case of Madame de Langrois, who, pacing the path to
her execution at Lille, stooped, picked up a pin from the ground, and
fastened it in her gown--the tyranny of habit.
Outside her own room Jasmine paused for a moment and looked at the
closed door of Rudyard's room. Only a step--and yet she was kept apart
from him by a shadow so black, so overwhelming, that she could not
penetrate it. It smothered her sight. No, no, that little step could
not be taken; there was a gulf between them which could not be bridged.
There was nothing to say to Rudyard except what could be said upon the
surface, before all the world, as it were; things which must be said
through an atmosphere of artificial sounds, which would give no
response to the agonized cries of the sentient soul. She could make
believe before the world, but not alone with Rudyard. She shrank within
herself at the idea of being alone with him.
As she went down-stairs a scene in a room on the Thames Embankment,
from which she had come a half hour ago, passed before her vision. It
was as though it had been imprinted on the film of her eye and must
stay there forever.
When would the world know that Adrian Fellowes lay dead in the room on
the Embankment? And when they knew it, what would they say? They would
ask how he died--the world would ask how he died. The Law would ask how
he died.
How had he died? Who killed him? Or did he die by his own hand? Had
Adrian Fellowes, the rank materialist, the bon viveur, the man-luxury,
the courage to kill himself by his own hand? If not, who killed him?
She shuddered. They might say that she killed him.
She had seen no one on the staircase as she had gone up, but she had
dimly seen another figure outside in the terrace as she came out, and
there was the cabman who drove her to the place. That was all.
Now, entering the great drawing-room of her own house she shuddered as
though from an icy chill. The scene there on the Embankment--her own
bitter anger, her frozen hatred; then the dead man with his face turned
to the wall; the stillness, the clock ticking, her own cold voice
speaking to him, calling; then the terrified scrutiny, the touch of the
wrist, the realization, the moment's awful horror, the silence which
grew more profound, the sudden paralysis of body and will.... And
then--music, strange, soft, mysterious music coming from somewhere
inside the room, music familiar and yet unnatural, a song she had heard
once before, a pathetic folk-song of eastern Europe, "More Was Lost at
Mohacksfield." It was a tale of love and loss and tragedy and despair.
Startled and overcome, she had swayed, and would have fallen, but that
with an effort of the will she had caught at the table and saved
herself. With the music still creeping in unutterable melancholy
through the room, she had fled, closing the door behind her very softly
as though not to disturb the sleeper. It had followed her down the
staircase and into the street, the weird, unnatural music.
It was only when she had entered a cab in the Strand that she realized
exactly what the music was. She remembered that Fellowes had bought a
music-box which could be timed to play at will--even days ahead, and he
had evidently set the box to play at this hour. It did so, a strange,
grim commentary on the stark thing lying on the couch, nerveless as
though it had been dead a thousand years. It had ceased to play before
Stafford entered the room, but, strangely enough, it began again as he
said over the dead body, "He did not die by his own hand."
Standing before the fireplace in the drawing-room, awaiting the first
guest, Jasmine said to herself: "No, no, he had not the courage to kill
himself."
Some one had killed him. Who was it? Who killed him--Rudyard--Ian--who?
But how? There was no sign of violence. That much she had seen. He lay
like one asleep. Who was it killed him?
"Lady Tynemouth."
Back to the world from purgatory again. The butler's voice broke the
spell, and Lady Tynemouth took her friend in her arms and kissed her.
"So handsome you look, my darling--and all in white. White violets,
too. Dear, dear, how sweet, and oh, how triste! But I suppose it's
chic. Certainly, it is stunning. And so simple. Just the weeny, teeny
string of pearls, like a young under-secretary's wife, to show what she
might do if she had a fair chance. Oh, you clever, wonderful Jasmine!"
"My dressmaker says I have no real taste in colours, so I compromised,"
was Jasmine's reply, with a really good imitation of a smile.
As she babbled on, Lady Tynemouth had been eyeing her friend with swift
inquiry, for she had never seen Jasmine look as she did to-night, so
ethereal, so tragically ethereal, with dark lines under the eyes, the
curious transparency of the skin, and the feverish brightness and
far-awayness of the look. She was about to say something in comment,
but other guests entered, and it was impossible. She watched, however,
from a little distance, while talking gaily to other guests; she
watched at the dinner-table, as Jasmine, seated between her two
royalties, talked with gaiety, with pretty irony, with respectful
badinage; and no one could be so daring with such ceremonious respect
at the same time as she. Yet through it all Lady Tynemouth saw her
glance many times with a strange, strained inquiry at Rudyard, seated
far away opposite her; at another big, round table.
"There's something wrong here," Lady Tynemouth said to herself, and
wondered why Ian Stafford was not present. Mennaval was there, eagerly
seeking glances. These Jasmine gave with a smiling openness and
apparent good-fellowship, which were not in the least compromising.
Lady Tynemouth saw Mennaval's vain efforts, and laughed to herself, and
presently she even laughed with her neighbour about them.
"What an infant it is!" she said to her table companion. "Jasmine Byng
doesn't care a snap of her finger about Mennaval."
"Does she care a snap for anybody?" asked the other. Then he added,
with a kind of query in the question apart from the question itself:
"Where is the great man--where's Stafford to-night?"
"Counting his winnings, I suppose." Lady Tynemouth's face grew soft.
"He has done great things for so young a man. What a distance he has
gone since he pulled me and my red umbrella back from the Zambesi
Falls!"
Then proceeded a gay conversation, in which Lady Tynemouth was quite
happy. When she could talk of Ian Stafford she was really enjoying
herself. In her eyes he was the perfect man, whom other women tried to
spoil, and whom, she flattered herself, she kept sound and unspoiled by
her frank platonic affection.
"Our host seems a bit abstracted to-night," said her table companion
after a long discussion about what Stafford had done and what he still
might do.
"The war--it means so much to him," said Lady Tynemouth. Yet she had
seen the note of abstraction too, and it had made her wonder what was
happening in this household.
The other demurred.
"But I imagine he has been prepared for the war for some time. He
didn't seem excessively worried about it before dinner, yet he seemed
upset too, so pale and anxious-looking."
"I'll make her talk, make her tell me what it is, if there is
anything," said Lady Tynemouth to herself. "I'll ask myself to stay
with her for a couple of days."
Superficial as Lady Tynemouth seemed to many, she had real sincerity,
and she was a friend in need to her friends. She loved Jasmine as much
as she could love any woman, and she said now, as she looked at
Jasmine's face, so alert, so full of raillery, yet with such an
undertone of misery:
"She looks as if she needed a friend."
After dinner she contrived to get her arm through that of her hostess,
and gave it an endearing pressure. "May I come to you for a few days,
Jasmine?" she asked.
"I was going to ask if you would have me," answered Jasmine, with a
queer little smile. "Rudyard will be up to his ears for a few days, and
that's a chance for you and me to do some shopping, and some other
things together, isn't it?"
She was thinking of appearances, of the best way to separate from
Rudyard for a little while, till the longer separation could be
arranged without scandal. Ian Stafford had said that things could go on
in this house as before, that Rudyard would never hint to her what he
knew, or rather what the letter had told him or left untold: but that
was impossible. Whatever Rudyard was willing to do, there was that
which she could not do. Twenty-four hours had accomplished a complete
revolution in her attitude towards life and in her sense of things.
Just for these immediate days to come, when the tragedy of Fellowes'
death would be made a sensation of the hour, there must be temporary
expedients; and Lady Tynemouth had suggested one which had its great
advantages.
She could not bear to remain in Rudyard's house; and in his heart of
hearts Rudyard would wish the same, even if he believed her innocent;
but if she must stay for appearance' sake, then it would be good to
have Lady Tynemouth with her. Rudyard would be grateful for time to get
his balance again. This bunch of violets was the impulse of a big,
magnanimous nature; but it would be followed by the inevitable
reaction, which would be the real test and trial.
Love and forgiveness--what had she to do with either! She did not wish
forgiveness because of Adrian Fellowes. No heart had been involved in
that episode. It had in one sense meant nothing to her. She loved
another man, and she did not wish forgiveness of him either. No, no,
the whole situation was impossible. She could not stay here. For his
own sake Rudyard would not, ought not, to wish her to stay. What might
the next few days bring forth?
Who had killed Adrian Fellowes? He was not man enough to take his own
life--who had killed him? Was it her husband, after all? He had said to
Ian Stafford that he would do nothing, but, with the maggot of revenge
and jealousy in their brains, men could not be trusted from one moment
to another.
The white violets? Even they might be only the impulse of the moment,
one of those acts of madness of jealous and revengeful people. Men had
kissed their wives and then killed them--fondled them, and then
strangled them. Rudyard might have made up his mind since morning to
kill Fellowes, and kill herself, also. Fellowes was gone, and now might
come her turn. White violets were the flowers of death, and the first
flowers he had ever given her were purple violets, the flowers of life
and love.
If Rudyard had killed Adrian Fellowes, there would be an end to
everything. If he was suspected, and if the law stretched out its hand
of steel to clutch him--what an ignominious end to it all; what a mean
finish to life, to opportunity, to everything worth doing!
And she would have been the cause of everything.
The thought scorched her soul.
Yet she talked on gaily to her guests until the men returned from their
cigars; as though Penalty and Nemesis were outside even the range of
her imagination; as though she could not hear the snap of the handcuffs
on Rudyard's--or Ian's--wrists.
Before and after dinner only a few words had passed between her and
Rudyard, and that was with people round them. It was as though they
spoke through some neutralizing medium, in which all real personal
relation was lost. Now Rudyard came to her, however, and in a
matter-of-fact voice said: "I suppose Al'mah will be here. You haven't
heard to the contrary, I hope? These great singers are so whimsical."
There was no time for Jasmine to answer, for through one of the far
entrances of the drawing-room Al'mah entered. Her manner was
composed--if possible more composed than usual, and she looked around
her calmly. At that moment a servant handed Byng a letter. It contained
only a few words, and it ran:
"DEAR BYNG,--Fellowes is gone. I found him dead in his rooms. An
inquest will be held to-morrow. There are no signs of violence; neither
of suicide or anything else. If you want me, I shall be at my rooms
after ten o'clock to-night. I have got all his papers." Yours ever,
"IAN STAFFORD."
Jasmine watched Rudyard closely as he read. A strange look passed over
his face, but his hand was steady as he put the note in his pocket. She
then saw him look searchingly at Al'mah as he went forward to greet her.
On the instant Rudyard had made up his mind what to do. It was clear
that Al'mah did not know that Fellowes was dead, or she would not be
here; for he knew of their relations, though he had never told Jasmine.
Jasmine did not suspect the truth, or Al'mah would not be where she
was; and Fellowes would never have written to Jasmine the letter for
which he had paid with his life.
Al'mah was gently appreciative of the welcome she received from both
Byng and Jasmine, and she prepared to sing.
"Yes, I think I am in good voice," she said to Jasmine, presently. Then
Rudyard went, giving his wife's arm a little familiar touch as he
passed, and said:
"Remember, we must have some patriotic things tonight. I'm sure Al'mah
will feel so, too. Something really patriotic and stirring. We shall
need it--yes we shall need cheering very badly before we've done. We're
not going to have a walk-over in South Africa. Cheering up is what we
want, and we must have it."
Again he cast a queer, inquiring look at Al'mah, to which he got no
response, and to himself he said, grimly: "Well, it's better she should
not know it--here."
His mind was in a maze. He moved as in a dream. He was pale, but he had
an air of determination. Once he staggered with dizziness, then he
righted himself and smiled at some one near. That some one winked at
his neighbour.
"It's true, then, what we hear about him," the neighbour said, and
suggestively raised fingers to his mouth.
Al'mah sang as perhaps she had seldom sung. There was in her voice an
abandon and tragic intensity, a wonderful resonance and power, which
captured her hearers as they had never been captured before. First she
sang a love-song, then a song of parting. Afterwards came a lyric of
country, which stirred her audience deeply. It was a challenge to every
patriot to play his part for home and country. It was an appeal to the
spirit of sacrifice; it was an inspiration and an invocation. Men's
eyes grew moist.
And now another, a final song, a combination of all--of love, and loss
and parting and ruin, and war and patriotism and destiny. With the
first low notes of it Jasmine rose slowly from her seat, like one in a
dream, and stood staring blindly at Al'mah. The great voice swelled out
in a passion of agony, then sank away into a note of despair that
gripped the heart.
"But more was lost at Mohacksfield--"
Jasmine had stood transfixed while the first words were sung, then, as
the last line was reached, staring straight in front of her, as though
she saw again the body of Adrian Fellowes in the room by the river, she
gave a cry, which sounded half laughter and half torture, and fell
heavily on the polished floor.
Rudyard ran forward and lifted her in his arms. Lady Tynemouth was
beside him in an instant.
"Yes, that's right--you come," he said to her, and he carried the limp
body up-stairs, the white violets in her dress crushed against his
breast.
"Poor child--the war, of course; it means so much to them."
Thus, a kindly dowager, as she followed the Royalties down-stairs.