some pity. He was eating his dinner in tranquillity, and Patricia felt
a sudden suppression of anger in her breast.
"After all," she said, quietly. "He's a 'young man,' I don't know
which is more of a term of reproach. We can't help our age or our sex.
But for some reason women _cannot_ get men to think of them as human
beings. Always, they're regarded as women, and never as individuals."
"I think it's because men are rather new to the idea that they _are_
individuals, and because women also are rather self-conscious about it.
They haven't had an individual life for very long. Don't you think so,
Miss Quin?"
Patricia, recovering a little from her enthusiasm, shook her head,
smiling as if with greater wisdom.
"I think it's because women are simply rather conceited," remarked
Edgar, in a surprised tone. "The temptation to conceited men is to take
them down a peg."
A jerk seemed to shake Patricia. So that was what he thought! She
understood now the reason of her lack of sympathy with him. He was
indifferent. He cared for nothing but his own egotism. In that he
resembled other men, no doubt; but in his case the offence took an
extreme form. He did not appreciate Patricia Quin! He thought her
conceited. He did not take her seriously. It was unpardonable, since
it showed invincible stupidity. But what did it matter, after all?
Patricia decided suddenly that she did not like him, that she had never
liked him. When she looked at Edgar she could tell that such a man, so
free from human weakness, and so incapable of appreciating anything
which did not accord with his prejudices, would never be able to
inspire real affection.
vi
After dinner a number of Claudia's friends came either unexpectedly or
upon some casual invitation from Claudia. All were young men and women
of refined tastes; and for a short time during their restless incursion
there was a good deal of chatter. Patricia found herself not quite
so much at home as she had been. She wished it had not been thought
necessary--if that were indeed the case--for others to be invited. She
felt so much older than Claudia's friends, so much superior to them in
intelligence and knowledge of the world. They produced a superficial
air of bustle and jollity; but it was all so naïve as to be tiresome
and stupid. Claudia was different. She at least had brains and high
spirits. She also had vitality. But the others were so many boys and
girls, and not of the kind of boy and girl that Patricia had recently
begun to find amusing. These had no spice of danger about them; and
Patricia had developed of late a new craving for just this spice. The
girls were good suburban girls; the boys good suburban boys. Not one
of them seemed to have a lurking devil. Quickly the party became what
Patricia had feared it would be. It became insipid. Mrs. Mayne, from
even the teasing and mischievous old lady of the dinner, grew into
such a woman as her placid appearance would have indicated. Edgar and
his father both disappeared, the former to return after not more than
half-an-hour, during which--as he supposed that Patricia would be
amusingly employed--he had cleared off some arrears of work. If it had
not been for Claudia, Patricia's spirits would deeply have been sunk
into boredom.
But at last the evening took a turn. The visitors, having stayed an
hour, went as suddenly as they had come. Supper brought her once more
within the circle of the Maynes; and she and Claudia and Edgar were
at a table together. Edgar seemed preoccupied; but nothing could check
Claudia's high spirits. She and her mother sparred with considerable
spirit. Patricia delighted in the happy relationship. She found herself
as the evening advanced recovering all the zest that she had lost on
the coming of the juvenile visitors. Called upon to do so, she even
gave her impressions of those who had called, and during this period
she could not help glancing at Edgar to see whether he was amused
at her comments. To her chagrin, Edgar remained serious. Although
he smiled, his expression was grave. He was not attending. Patricia
hardened. Such neglect chilled her, so unusual was it. Swiftly her
resentment at his implied belief in her conceitedness returned and
increased. It was not known to her that during his absence from the
room Edgar had discovered something which had given him a great shock.
She judged only by her own egocentric knowledge, and she accordingly
misinterpreted his mood. Only to Edgar, therefore, was Patricia's
manner at all cold. But he presently shook off whatever had been
the matter which had made him thoughtful, and as he became animated
Patricia was lured farther and farther from her grievance, until at
last it was for the time altogether forgotten.
By then it was eleven o'clock, and the evening was ended. After warm
exchanges of kind expressions between herself and Claudia, and after
a further invitation from Mrs. Mayne, Patricia found herself walking
through the dark streets by Edgar's side.
"I'm very glad I came," she told him naïvely. "I think Claudia's
splendid."
"You were rather afraid, weren't you?" Edgar asked.
"I'm always afraid of meeting somebody new. I feel at a disadvantage.
I'm afraid of meeting people cleverer than myself."
"Oh, Claudia isn't that," she heard him say. Patricia's eyes opened in
the safe darkness. Oho! she wonderingly said to herself. That did not
sound much like an attempt to discourage a conceited young woman. How
strange he was!
"I think she is." A very subdued voice conveyed the disclaimer. Edgar
made no reply. Patricia, who believed him incapable of inspiring
affection, felt a remarkable little flood of liking fill her heart.
What a peculiar effect Edgar had upon her. He made her feel like a very
small girl, much younger than himself, much weaker and sillier and
less splendid than usual, but in no way distressed by the sensation.
Childishly, there darted into Patricia's mind the wish that she had
also possessed a brother--a brother something like Edgar, who could
understand what was said to him, who did not all the time make demands,
who was safe and sure and reliable.
A sigh shook her. It was so light as to be imperceptible to her
companion. Her eyes filled with tears. At times in Patricia's
conquering life there came instants when she would have given the world
to rest quite quietly upon some such strong human support. Moments of
loneliness sometimes assailed her, when a sustaining hand would have
been of all things the most welcome. She did not feel lonely with
Edgar--only happy and at ease. She was now very happy indeed. Then the
moment's mood passed, and she was once again alert, and, immediately
afterwards, troubled by another thought. She did not know that she was
hiding her heart even from herself.
vii
The walk from the Maynes' house was an affair of perhaps half-an-hour.
Their course lay almost directly south; but the intersection of the
streets was imperfect, so that they had occasionally to take sharp
turns. It was a fine starry night, and the stars seemed to yellow the
lamps which at regular intervals shed very definitely restricted rays
into the darkness. Tall houses stood erect upon each side of every
road, and every now and then the walkers passed loitering couples or
other pedestrians. Very few people, however, were in the streets; for
the night, although serene, was chilly and therefore untempting.
Patricia could see the lamps winking in the distance, and whenever she
came into that little glow which surrounded each of them she had a
curious sense of her own physical appearance, as though she could see
herself. She walked well, and enjoyed the swinging motion. She felt
strangely at peace, and spoke without effort. And then suddenly, when
they were close to a lamppost and could see all around them faintly
illuminated, two other people--a man and a girl--coming from the
opposite direction, were simultaneously within the circle of light. A
quick greeting passed, and the parties were once more separated, lost
in the immediate darkness.
Neither Edgar nor Patricia spoke--Patricia because a shock had gone
straight to her heart and left her breathless. The two who had thus
unexpectedly emerged and disappeared in that silent moment were Harry
and Rhoda Flower. The shock had been like a dagger in Patricia's heart.
All her talk ceased. She felt that all her happiness was extinguished.
She continued to walk by Edgar's side; but it was as one numbed and
bewildered by a tragic happening. They were both very silent for the
remainder of the journey, all the ease of their companionship destroyed.
At parting Patricia kept her betraying face half turned from Edgar, and
stayed only for the briefest and coldest "Good night, and thank you,"
before setting her key to the door and slipping into the house. But
Edgar had not failed to see that she was quite colourless, so that he
too had something to think about upon his return journey.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE SIBYL
i
During that evening Edgar had been away from the others for about
half-an-hour, seated in his room with bundles of papers belonging to
his business. This was enforced, because his absence from England had
led to great accumulations of work, and only by some such evening
trouble could he hope to make good the time lost from the daily
routine. So he had been busy. And quite by accident, Edgar had come
across a single sheet of paper which had disturbed him out of all
proportion to its size and importance among its fellows. It was with
other papers in a small bundle surrounded by an elastic band; and in
glancing through this bundle, flicking the letters apart, Edgar had
caught sight of an arresting address. Hastily, though still without
more than casual interest, he had stretched the band so as to see the
whole of the letter. It was the signature which, taken in conjunction
with the heading, had brought an exclamation to his lips. It had thrown
him quite unexpectedly into a revelation concerning Monty Rosenberg. It
opened to his investigation some at least of the interstices of Monty's
dark and secret mind.
The occasion of Monty's sudden need of money had been for Edgar a
curious puzzle. Monty's unwillingness to follow the obvious course,
which was to raise a loan from his bank to tide him over the emergency,
had been another puzzle. The third puzzle had been his reason for
approaching Edgar for assistance. Edgar had explained the third puzzle
by the fact that he had recently been engaged in business dealings
with Monty (over the transfer to himself of the "Antiquarian's
Gazette," in which no money had passed), and the possibility that
Monty, who was secretive by nature, had no friend intimate enough to
be asked--without explanation--for so large an amount as two-thousand
five-hundred pounds. And the other two puzzles were both explained by
the letter which Edgar had discovered.
The letter was written upon a single sheet of business note-paper, and
was an acknowledgment of some trivial communication. But the heading
was that of the South Hampstead branch of the Great Central Bank; and
the signature was plainly to be read as "Frederick Tallentyre, Branch
Manager." It became immediately clear why Monty should have wished to
conceal any adjustment of his affairs from the manager of his local
bank. Less clear was the immediate occasion. Frederick Tallentyre was
the husband of Blanche. And Blanche, unless Edgar's perceptions were at
fault, was Monty's present mistress. Now why should Monty want so large
a sum at short notice? And why should he wish the fact of his requiring
a loan concealed from the husband of his mistress?
That was one of Edgar's preoccupations as he walked homeward. As a
business man, he needed to know as much as possible about all those
with whom he was engaged in financial transactions, and he was not so
wealthy as to regard two-thousand five-hundred pounds as a negligible
sum. Had the money something to do with Blanche? And, if so, what had
it to do with her?
ii
The second and even more pressing preoccupation was with Patricia and
Harry. It had been clear to Edgar that Patricia, when he met her at
Monty's, was changed, that she was not at peace. She had been restless
and emotional beyond the ordinary. It seemed that her attitude to
himself was different, and less cordial. He loved her, and any change
was thus of importance to him. The same air of reluctance in her
glances and speeches had been apparent during this evening. Only upon
their walk had she seemed to return to an ordinary _cameraderie_. And
at the height of their newly-rediscovered ease this encounter with
Harry Greenlees had spoiled everything. Or had it been the encounter
with Rhoda? Could it be--and Edgar's heart leapt at the thought--that
Patricia had with chagrin noticed him in Rhoda's company at Monty's
party; had thought.... It was fantastic. Patricia was not crude enough
for that. Edgar brushed aside any notion so preposterous. Harry,
then.... His mouth became stern.
Edgar was not, outside of business, analytical; but he took intricate
views of whatever was unfamiliar. And Patricia was unfamiliar. She was
his new and precious delight. During the whole of the evening he had
watched her without direct scrutiny; had felt, and not calculated,
her changes of expression, the quick, gentle turns of her head, the
speedless flights of amusement, interest, disdain, hostility, and
sympathy which were so easily to be read. And in each reference to
himself he had discerned something unwelcome--flattering, perhaps,
as showing that she did not ignore him; but unwelcome. All the arch
curiosity which might have accompanied any consciousness of attraction
was absent. What if this should be explicable by some feeling for
Harry? It might easily be so. Edgar knew that, so far as he could
imagine the standards of a young girl's heart and mind, there was no
comparison between Harry and himself. Harry was a big fellow with a
handsome face, a ready tongue, charm--with the very qualities, in fact,
to make him the subject of sentimental dreams. And Edgar could not
refuse to suppose Patricia capable of sentimental dreams. He fought
against the notion; but common sense had greater power over him than
the instinct to idealise the beloved. He recognised that Patricia, like
other young girls, was probably romantic. Well, he was no figure of
romance. That was all. If she employed romantic standards he stood no
chance of winning her love in return for his devotion. The battle was
lost before issue was joined.
iii
He awoke still less sanguine, but with a grimness which was not
unfamiliar. After all, he had certain obvious advantages. He might be
less showy than Harry; but he was not insignificant. If it came to the
test of brain, his own was not inferior. His position was assured,
while Harry's was probably that of a freelance--delightful in youth,
but dwindling and even becoming precarious with the passing of each
year. More than that, however. Edgar had the knowledge that Harry
succeeded easily. He could tell that Harry took little heed for the
morrow. That unlined youthful face, in a man not much younger than
himself, told him a good deal. He put Harry down as thirty-five. And if
a man had not taken thought by the time he is thirty-five he will never
begin to take thought after that age. He may harden; but he will never
mature. Also, if a man is not married by the time he is thirty-five,
there is generally a reason. It might be, as it was in Edgar's own
case, that he has worked too hard, so that all his energy has been
absorbed. That was not Harry's position. He was not married because
he did not wish to be married. He pleased too easily, and he was not
the sort of man who finds marriage an excellent starting-point for
inexhaustible love-affairs.
No! Edgar was quite generous to Harry. He saw him as a man free
from that skidding of the mind which is called sentimentalism. Love
affairs--yes; but always sporting. As a man he had no objection to
Harry. Directly, however, Harry appeared in the neighbourhood of
Patricia, the situation changed. It would almost equally have changed
if Harry had begun to make love to Claudia. He did not know that
Claudia would have found Harry tiresome; but that was because he did
not perceive that in calling himself unattractive, he spoke without her
authority. And as for Patricia--who could tell what Patricia thought
or felt? For all Edgar knew she might have fallen in love with the man
whose dancing she so much admired; or with the pink and white baby who
performed with the fire-irons, or with Monty Rosenberg. She might be
incapable of falling in love with anybody, through self-infatuation,
which is a disease greatly in vogue in modern times. She might give her
love in time even to Edgar Mayne.
Edgar somehow thought, as he shaved, that this was not so improbable as
he had felt on the previous evening or upon his awakening.
iv
Claudia was the first person Edgar encountered that day. She was
sitting by the fire in the breakfast-room, eating an apple and reading
"The Daily Courier." A dress of blue serge with a small green collar
and green cuffs made her look very slim and juvenile. Her dark hair,
in a billow, hid part of her face as she bent over the paper; and
Edgar could barely catch a glimpse of her eyelashes and the rather
inquisitive tip of her nose. At the other end of her person there was
a considerable display of ankle, small and well-shaped.
"Hullo, good-morning!" said Claudia cheerfully. "Nobody else down
yet, my poor boy. And I only got up to see you. I think that girl's
splendid." She cast aside her paper. "You've got good taste in people,
Edgar. I've noticed it. She's got one fault; and I'm going to cure her
of it. I'm going to take that girl in hand."
"I wonder if she'd do the same for you," pondered Edgar aloud, as he
rang for breakfast.
"She may try. Don't you want to know her fault?" asked Claudia, with a
straight glance.
"Perhaps I know it."
"Perhaps you do." The acknowledgment was faintly puzzled. "But you like
her, don't you?"
"Very much."
"She's _almost_ good enough for you to marry." Claudia was reflective.
"Oh, not quite?" innocently asked Edgar. "No, I suppose not." He was
too well-acquainted with Claudia to be drawn, even if he had supposed
her to be angling for an admission, which she was not.
"Is she rich?"
"I've no idea."
"I shall find out. I think she's poor. And that's one reason why this
fault of hers is a danger."
They seated themselves at the table, and began to eat moderately warm
breakfast.
"Why do you think it's a danger?" asked Edgar.
"Well ..." Claudia spoke with her mouth full; but she was full of
candour, because she and Edgar were the best friends in the world. "You
see, Edgar, she's conceited. It may be only skin deep; but if it isn't,
then she's hopeless. I mean, if it's ingrained."
Edgar felt a creeping of the flesh. His grave expression of interest
did not change; but his breath was a little short.
"She's very young, of course," he objected. "Isn't conceit a phase with
some people?"
"I hope to cure her. But you'd admit it's a very dangerous thing to
have in the blood."
"You're very wise, Claudia," he said, after a pause.
"I'm vain; and you're proud (which is a sort of vanity); and we're
both obstinate. But we're not conceited. Now Patricia thinks no end of
herself. She's got the idea that there's something wonderful just in
the fact that she's herself. At least, I think so."
"She thought you were cleverer than she was. She liked you."
"Well, that's good," said Claudia. Edgar smiled. "No, don't you see,
it's good because it shows.... All the same, its wrong to compare
yourself."
"I've just been comparing myself with another man. I thought I came out
of it rather well, on the whole...."
"Silly! That sort of thing's...."
"I was quite serious."
"Then you're in love. That's all I can say. And I don't _want_ you to
be in love--yet I like Patricia awfully. I'm going to see her; and I
think I'm going to cure her of her fault. But if I _don't_ cure her,
then I'd sooner you didn't fall in love with her."
"I don't think we'll quite assume...."
"My dear Edgar. You can't bring a girl to this house without my
realising that something's up. You'll grant that, won't you? I don't
mean the ordinary inspection. Less crude than that, I hope. But none
the less pretty obvious."
"I can see that it was a very incautious thing to do," admitted Edgar,
solemnly.
"_Therefore_--" "Miaow!" cried Percy from outside the door.
Claudia rose to admit him, speaking as she crossed the room.
"Therefore--good-morning, Percy--I consider that I'm called on to
protect you. You're fortunate in having me. Of course, mother's fallen
in love with her on the spot; and _hopes_ she will attract you."
For the first time Edgar showed signs of embarrassed exasperation.
"She's idiotic!" he muttered.
"The older generation," calmly explained Claudia. "That's what _that_
is. You'd admit that I'm much more realistic. I'm not by any means
sure that Patricia's ... well, eager to attract you. She ought to be,
because you're the best man she's ever likely to meet. But you can't
tell. When a girl's conceited, she tries this man and that until she's
afraid of missing the train altogether. And then she plunges, and ...
well!"
"Claudia, you make me uncomfortable by your profundity," said Edgar,
respectfully.
She bowed to him across the table.
"Mother says I'm an _enfant terrible_. I have already told her that I'm
a child of my generation. In some ways I know much more than you do,
Edgar."
"In all, my dear. In all," was his modest rejoinder. "You also talk
more. But I hope you will save Patricia."
"If I don't, nobody can," said Claudia. "But she may have to have a ...
Well, we'll see. I was going to say she might have to burn her fingers.
I wonder how you'd like that. Not much, I expect. Edgar, there's
something I want to ask you...."
v
Edgar looked at his watch.
"I oughtn't to stay," he said. "Fill my cup first. I shall be
listening."
"What's a man's feeling about a girl?" Edgar waited. "I mean, about
things she does."
"What things?"
"Reckless things. Silly things. I expect men feel different things--and
different things about different girls--and different things about
different girls at different times. But what I mean is this. All girls
except me have very much more liberty than they used to do.--Well,
even me, then; but they use their freedom differently. They go about
freely, and so on. Don't they? Well, they do silly things--compromise
themselves."
"I should think it's harder to do that now than it used to be."
"It's very funny--I don't think it is, somehow. It's all a convention.
You can do certain things; but not others. It's odd. But that's not
what I wanted to ask you. What I meant was--if somebody had been
silly--had, we'll say, gone off with a man, found she didn't care for
him, left him.... How would you feel about ... about marrying her?"
"You alarm me!" cried Edgar, still a little amused, but with a
constriction of the heart. And then, for a moment, it crossed his
mind that she might even be hinting at something which he dared not
contemplate. His mind went straight to Harry, to the meeting.... He was
conscious of a cold sweat. The thing was so monstrous, and the feeling
it aroused in him so passionate, that he did not understand until he
had recovered composure what it was further that Claudia was saying.
"That _is_ how you feel?" Claudia was persisting. "You do feel ...
well, horror?"
Edgar looked at her. Gradually his expression lightened. Claudia's face
was so earnest, her concern to know his view was so obviously sincere.
"I couldn't possibly tell you how I should feel," he answered, smiling.
"Would you marry a girl who ... well, who wasn't quite ... wasn't quite
fresh?"
Forgetting the horror he had glimpsed, Edgar thought for an instant.
"It all depends on the girl's attitude," he ventured. "I think for me
it would be a question of whether there was any confusion in her mind
between me and the other man. If there were, I wouldn't marry her."
"You do admit the right of a girl to freedom of every kind of action?"
"In theory."
"Not in fact?" Claudia was very eager. Edgar answered definitely.
"Not in fact. Any more than I admit the same right in a man."