To Alma, on his return, he gave a full account of all he had heard and
done. The story of Hugh Carnaby's good fortune interested her greatly.
She elicited every detail of which Harvey had been informed; asked
shrewd questions; and yet had the air of listening only for her
amusement.
'Should you have thought Redgrave likely to do such a thing?' Rolfe
inquired.
'Oh, I don't know him at all well. He has been a friend of Sibyl's for
a long time--so, of course----'
Her voice dropped, but in a moment she was questioning again.
'You say that Mr. Redgrave went to see him at Coventry?'
'Yes. Redgrave must have heard he was there, from Sibyl, I suppose.'
'And that was two days ago?'
'So Carnaby said--Why?'
'Somebody--oh, I think it was Mrs. Rayner Mann, yesterday--said Mr
Redgrave was in Paris.'
Cecil Morphew's affairs had much less interest for her; but when Harvey
said that he was going to town again tomorrow, to look at the shop in
Westminster Bridge Road, she regarded him with an odd smile.
'You surely won't get mixed up in things of that kind?'
'It might be profitable,' he answered very quietly; 'and--one doesn't
care to lose any chance of that kind--just now----'
He would not meet her eyes; but Alma searched his face for the meaning
of these words, so evidently weighted.
'Are you at all uneasy, Harvey?'
'Not a bit--not a bit,' answered the weak man in him. 'I only meant
that, if we are going to remove----'
They sat for more than five minutes in silence. Alma's brain was
working very rapidly, as her features showed. When he entered, she
looked rather sleepy; now she was thrilling with vivid consciousness;
one would have thought her absorbed in the solution of some exciting
problem. Her next words came unexpectedly.
'Harvey, if you mean what you say about letting me follow my own
instincts, I think I shall decide to try my fortune--to give a public
recital.'
He glanced at her, but did not answer.
'We made a sort of bargain--didn't we?' she went on, quickly,
nervously, with an endeavour to strike the playful note. 'Hughie shall
go to Mrs. Abbott's, and I will attend to what you said about the
choice of acquaintances.'
'But surely neither of those things can be a subject of bargaining
between us? Isn't your interest in both at least equal to my own?'
'Yes--I know--of course. It was only a joking way of putting it.'
'Tell me plainly'--he looked at her now--'have you the slightest
objection, on any ground, to Hughie's being taught by Mrs. Abbott? If
so, do let us clear it up.'
'Dear, I have not a shadow of objection,' replied Alma, straightening
herself a little, and answering his gaze with excessive frankness. 'How
could I have? You think Mrs. Abbott will teach him much better than I
could, and in that you are quite right. I have no talent for teaching.
I haven't much patience--except in music. It's better every way, that
he should go to Mrs. Abbott. I feel perfect confidence in her, and I
shouldn't be able to in a mere stranger.'
Harvey gave a slow nod, and appeared to have something more of
importance to say; but he only asked how the child's cold had been
tonight. Alma replied that it was neither better nor worse; she spoke
absently.
'On whose encouragement do you principally rely?' was Rolfe's next
question.
'On that of twenty people!'
'I said "principally".'
'Herr Wilenski has often praised me; and he doesn't throw his praise
away. And you yourself, Harvey, didn't you say last might that I was
undoubtedly as good as most professionals?'
'I don't think I used quite those words; and, to tell you the truth, it
had never entered my head that you would take them for encouragement to
such a step as this.'
Alma bent towards him, smiling.
'I understand. You don't think me good enough. Now the truth, the
truth!' and she held up a finger--which she could not succeed in
keeping steady.
'Yes, you shall have the truth. It's too serious a matter for making
pretences. My own judgment is worthless, utterly; it should neither
offend nor encourage you. But it's very plain to me that you shouldn't
dream of coming before the public unless Wilenski, and perhaps some one
else of equal or better standing, actually urges you to it. Now, has he
done anything like that?'
She reddened, and hardly tried to conceal her vexation.
'This only means, Harvey, that you don't want me to come out.'
'Come now, be more reasonable. It does not _only_ mean that; in fact, I
can say honestly it doesn't mean that at all. If Wilenski tells you
plainly that you ought to become a professional violinist, there's no
one will wish you luck half so heartily as I. But if it's only the
encouragement of "twenty people"--that means nothing. I'm speaking
simply as the best friend you have. Don't run the risk of a horrible
disappointment. I know you wouldn't find that easy to bear--it would be
bad for you, in every way.
Impelled by annoyance--for the project seemed to him delusive, and his
sense of dignity rose against it--Harvey had begun with unwonted
decision, but he was soon uncomfortably self-conscious and
self-critical; he spoke with effort, vainly struggling against that
peculiar force of Alma's personality which had long ago subdued him.
When he looked at her, saw her distant smile, her pose of the head as
in one who mildly rebukes presumption, he was overcome with a feeling
of solemn ineptitude. Quite unaware that his last sentence was to Alma
the most impressive--the only impressive--part of his counsel, suddenly
he broke off, and found relief in unexpected laughter.
'There now, I've done my duty--I've discharged the pedagogue. Get rid
of your tragic mask. Be yourself; do as you wish. When the time comes,
just tell me what you have decided.'
So, once more, did he oust common-sense with what he imagined a riper
wisdom. One must not take things funereally. Face to face with a woman
in the prime of her beauty, he heard a voice warning him against the
pedantic spirit of middle age, against formalism and fogeyishness.
'Now I know you again,' said Alma, softening, but still reserved; for
she did not forget that he had thrown doubt upon her claims as an
artist--an incident which would not lose its importance as she pondered
it at leisure.
Harvey sat late. On going upstairs, instead of straightway entering his
own room, he passed it with soft step and paused by another door, that
of the chamber in which Hughie slept under the care of Miss Smith. The
child had coughed in the night during this last week. But at present
all was quiet, and with comfortable reassurance the father went to rest.
Alma had matters to occupy her more important than a child's passing
ailment. As she slowly unrobed herself by the fire, combed out her
warm, fragrant, many-rippled tresses, or held mute dialogue with her
eyes in the glass, from a ravel of uneasy thoughts there detached
itself, first and foremost, the discovery that Redgrave had not been in
Paris when Mrs. Strangeways said he was. What was the meaning of this
contradiction? Thereto hung the singular coincidence of Redgrave's
return home exactly at the time when she and Mrs. Strangeways happened
to be there. She had thought of it as a coincidence and nothing more;
but if Redgrave had deceived Mrs. Strangeways as to his movements, the
unlooked-for arrival took a suspicious significance. There remained a
dark possibility: that Mrs. Strangeways knew what was about to happen.
Yet this seemed inconceivable.
Was it inconceivable? Why should a woman of that age, and of so much
experience, feel nervous about going alone to her friend's house on
such a simple mission? It appeared odd at the time, and was more
difficult to understand the more she thought of it. And one heard such
strange stories--in society of a certain kind--so many whispered hints
of things that would not bear to be talked about.
Redgrave had not been in Paris, but at Coventry. There again was a
puzzling circumstance. Harvey himself declared his surprise at hearing
that Redgrave had entered into partnership with Hugh Carnaby. Had Sibyl
anything to do with this? Could she have hinted to her friend the
millionaire that her husband's financial position was anything but
satisfactory, and had Redgrave, out of pure friendship--of course, out
of pure friendship--hastened to their succour?
This perplexity was almost as disturbing as that which preceded it.
Knowing the man of money as she did, Alma found it disagreeable to
connect his name thus closely with Sibyl's. Disagreeable in a
complicated sense; for she had begun to think of Cyrus Redgrave as
intimately associated with her own ambitions, secret and avowed. He was
to aid her in winning fame as a violinist; and, to this end, all
possible use (within certain limits) was to be made of the power she
had over him. Alma viewed the position without the least attempt at
disguising its true nature. She was playing with fire; knew it; enjoyed
the excitement of it; trusted herself with the completest confidence to
come out of the game unscorched. But she felt assured that other women,
in similar circumstances, had engaged in much the same encounter with
Cyrus Redgrave; and could it be imagined that Sibyl Carnaby was one of
them--Sibyl, the woman of culture, of high principle, the critic of
society--Sibyl, to whom she had so long paid homage, as to one of the
chosen of her sex? That Redgrave might approach Sibyl with lawless
thought, she could well believe, and such a possibility excited her
indignation; that Sibyl would meet him on his own terms, she could not
for a moment have credited, but for a traitor-voice that spoke in her
for the first time, the voice of jealousy.
Where and how often did they meet? To ask this question was to touch
another motive of discontent. Ever since the return to London life,
Alma had felt dissatisfied with her social position. She was the wife
of a gentleman of independent means; in theory, all circles should be
open to her. Practically, she found herself very much restricted in the
choice of acquaintances. Harvey had hinted that she should be careful
where she went, and whom she knew; that she recognised the justice of
this warning served merely to irritate her against its necessity. Why,
then, did not her husband exert himself to obtain better society for
her? Plainly, he would never take a step in that direction; he had his
two or three friends, and found them sufficient; he would have liked to
see her very intimate with Mrs. Abbott--perhaps helping to teach babies
on the kindergarten system! Left to her own resources, she could do
little beyond refusing connections that were manifestly undesirable.
Sibyl, she knew, associated with people of much higher standing, only
out of curiosity taking a peep at the world to which her friend was
restricted. There had always been a slight disparity in this respect
between them, and in former days Alma had accepted it without
murmuring; but why did Sibyl, just when she could have been socially
helpful, show a disposition to hold aloof? 'Of course, you care nothing
for people of that kind,' Mrs. Carnaby had said, after casually
mentioning some 'good' family at whose country house she had been
visiting. It was intended, perhaps, as a compliment, with allusion to
Alma's theories of the 'simple life'; but, in face of the very plain
fact that such theories were utterly abandoned, it sounded to Alma a
humiliating irony.
Could it be that Sibyl feared inquiries, shrank from having it known
that she was on intimate terms with the daughter of the late Bennet
Frothingham--a name still too often mentioned in newspapers and
elsewhere? The shadow of this possibility had ere now flitted over
Alma's mind; she was in the mood to establish it as a certainty, and to
indulge the resentment that naturally ensued. For on more than one
occasion of late, at Mrs. Rayner Mann's or in some such house, she had
fancied that one person and another had eyed her in a way that was not
quite flattering, and that remarks were privately exchanged about her.
Perhaps Harvey himself saw in the fact of her parentage a social
obstacle, which made him disinclined to extend their circle of common
acquaintances. Was that what he meant by his grave air this evening?
Was he annoyed at the thought of a publicity which would reveal her
maiden name?
These currents of troubled feeling streamed together and bore her
turbidly onwards whither her desires pointed. In one way, and one way
only, could she hope to become triumphantly conspicuous, to raise
herself quite above petty social prejudices, to defeat ill-wishers and
put to shame faint-hearted friends. She had never been able to endure
the thought of mediocrity. One chance there was; she must grasp it
energetically and without delay. And she must make use of all
subsidiary means to her great conquest--save only the last dishonour.
That on her own merit she might rise to the first rank of musicians,
Alma did not doubt. Her difficulty lay in the thought that it might
require a long time, a wearisome struggle, to gain the universal
recognition which alone would satisfy her. Therefore must Cyrus
Redgrave be brought to the exertion of all his influence, which she
imagined would assist her greatly. Therefore, too, must Felix Dymes be
retained as her warm friend, probably (his own suggestion) as her man
of business.
It was January. Her 'recital' must take place in the coming season, in
May or June. She would sketch a programme at once--tomorrow
morning--and then work, work, work terrifically!
Saved by the fervour of this determination from brooding over mysteries
and jealousies, Alma lay down with a contented sigh, and was soon
asleep, thanks to the health she still enjoyed. Her excitability was of
the imagination rather than of the blood, and the cool, lymphatic flow,
characteristically feminine, which mingled with the sanguine humour,
traceable perhaps to a paternal source, spared her many an hour of
wakefulness, as it guarded her against much graver peril.
On Sunday morning she generally went to church--not because of any
spiritual impulse, but out of habit. In Wales, Harvey often accompanied
her; at Pinner he ceased to do so; but neither then nor now had any
talk on the subject passed between them. Alma took it for granted that
her husband was very 'broad' in matters of faith. She gathered from her
reading that every man of education nowadays dispensed with dogmas,
and, for her own part, it was merely an accident that she had not
sought to attract attention by pronounced freethinking. Sibyl Carnaby
went to church as a matter of course, and never spoke for or against
orthodoxy. Had Sibyl been more 'advanced' in this direction,
undoubtedly Alma would long ago have followed her example. Both of
them, in girlhood, had passed through a great deal of direct religious
teaching--and both would have shrunk amazed if called upon to make the
slightest sacrifice in the name of their presumed creed.
This morning, however, Alma remained at home, and one of the first
things she did was to write to Sibyl, asking when it would be
convenient for her friend to give her half-an-hour's private talk. Then
she wrote to Felix Dymes, addressing the letter to the care of his
publishers. At midday, as Harvey had gone to town on his business with
Cecil Morphew, she decided to run over to Kingsbury-Neasden and ask her
friends for lunch, in return for which she would make known to them her
startling project. It was a wretched day; Hughie must not go out, and
Pauline--good creature--would amuse him in one way and another all the
afternoon.
As it chanced, her surprise visit could not have been worse timed, for
Mrs. Leach was in a state of collapse after a violent quarrel, the day
before, with her cook-housekeeper, who quitted the house at a moment's
notice. Luncheon, in the admissible sense of the word, there was none
to be had. Mr. Leach, finding the house intolerable when he arrived on
Saturday afternoon, had gone back to his bachelor quarters, and the
girls, when Alma presented herself, were just sitting down alone to
what the housemaid chose to give them. But such an old friend could not
be turned away because of domestic mishap.
Not until they had despatched the unsatisfactory meal, and were cosy in
the drawing-room, did Alma reveal her great purpose. Dora Leach
happened to have a slight acquaintance with a professional pianist who
had recently come before the public, and Alma began by inquiring
whether her friend could obtain information as to the expenses of the
first 'recital' given by that lady.
'I'm afraid I don't know her quite well enough,' replied Miss Leach.
'What's it for? Are you thinking----? Really? You _really_ are?'
The sisters became joyously excited. Splendid idea! They had feared it
was impossible. Oh, she might count with certainty upon a brilliant
success! They began to talk about the programme. And what professionals
would she engage to take part in the concert? When Alma mentioned that
the illustrious Felix Dymes had offered to undertake the management of
her business, interest rose to the highest point. Felix Dymes would of
course be a tower of strength. Though tempted to speak of the support
she might expect from another great man, Alma refrained; her reason
being that she meant to ask Dora to accompany her to the Crystal Palace
next Saturday. If, as was almost certain, Redgrave met them there, it
would be unpleasant to let Dora surmise that the meeting was not by
chance.
They chattered for two or three hours, and, among other things, made
merry over a girl of their acquaintance (struggling with flagrant
poverty), who aimed at a professional career.
'It really would be kindness,' said Dora, 'to tell her she hasn't the
least chance; but one can't do that. She was here the other day playing
to us--oh, for _such_ a time! She said her bow would have to be
rehaired, and when I looked at it, I saw it was all greasy and black
near the frog, from her dirty fingers; it only wanted washing. I just
managed to edge in a hint about soap and water. But she's very touchy;
one has to be so careful with her.'
'It's dreadfully awkward, you know,' put in Gerda, 'to talk to people
who are so _poor_--isn't it? It came out one day that she had been
peeling potatoes for their dinner! It makes one so uncomfortable--she
really need not have mentioned it.'
The public halls were discussed. Which would Alma select? Then again
the programme. Would she play the Adagio?--meaning, of course, that in
Spohr's Concerto 9. No, _no_; not the Adagio--not on any account the
Adagio! Something of Bach's?--yes; perhaps the Chaconne. And Brahms?
There was the Sonata in A for violin and piano. A stiff piece, but one
must not be too popular--Heaven forbid that one should catch at cheap
applause! How about a trio? What was that thing of Dvorak's, at St
James's Hall not long ago? Yes, the trio in B flat--piano, violin, and
'cello. At least a score of pieces were jotted down, some from memory,
some picked out of old programmes, of which Dora produced a great
portfolio. Interruption came at length--a servant entering to say that
Mrs. Leach felt so ill, she wished the doctor to be summoned.
'Oh, bother Mamma and her illnesses!' exclaimed the vivacious Gerda
when the intruder was waved off. 'It's all nonsense, you know. She will
quarrel with servants and get herself into a state. It'll have to be a
boarding-house; I see it coming nearer every day.'
Having made an appointment with Dora for next Saturday, Alma took
leave, and went home in excellent spirits. Everything seemed to plan
itself; the time had come, the moment of destiny. Doubtless she had
been wise in waiting thus long. Had she come forward only a year or so
after her father's tragedy, people might have said she was making
profit of a vulgar sensation; it would have seemed in bad taste;
necessity would have appeared to urge her. Now, such remarks were
impossible. Mrs. Harvey Rolfe sounded much better than Miss Alma
Frothingham. By-the-bye, was it to be 'Mrs.', or ought she to call
herself 'Madame'? People did use the Madame, even with an English name.
Madame Rolfe? Madame Harvey Rolfe? That made her laugh; it had a touch
of the ridiculous; it suggested millinery rather than music. Better to
reject such silly affectations and use her proper name boldly.
It was to be expected, of course, that people in general would soon
discover her maiden name. Whispers would go round; facts might even get
into the newspapers. Well? She herself had done nothing to be ashamed
of, and if curiosity helped her to success, why, so much the better. In
all likelihood it _would_ help her; but she did not dwell upon this
adventitious encouragement. A more legitimate source of hope revealed
itself in Mrs. Strangeways' allusion to her personal advantages. She
was not ill-looking; on that point there needed no flatterer's
assurance. Her looks, if anything, had improved, and possibly she owed
something to her experiment in 'simplicity', to the air of mountain and
of sea. Felix Dymes, Cyrus Redgrave, not to speak of certain other
people--no matter. For all that, she must pay grave attention to the
subject of dress. Her recital would doubtless be given in the
afternoon, according to custom; so that it was not a case of _grande
tenue_; but her attire must be nothing short of perfection in its kind.
Could she speak about it with Sibyl? Perhaps--yet perhaps not. She was
very anxious to see Sibyl, and felt that a great deal depended upon
their coming interview.
This took place on Tuesday; for Sibyl replied at once to the note, and
begged her to come without delay. 'Tuesday at twelve. I do little in
these gloomy days but read--am becoming quite a bookworm. Why have you
been silent so long? I was on the very point of writing to you, for I
wish to see you particularly.'
And, when the servant opened her door, Sibyl was discovered in the
attitude of a severe student, bending over a table on which lay many
volumes. She would not have been herself had there appeared any neglect
or unbecomingness in her costume, but she wore the least pretentious of
morning gowns, close at throat and wrist, which aided her look of
mental concentration and alertness. She rose with alacrity, and the
visitor, using her utmost keenness in scrutiny of countenance, found
that her own eyes, not Sibyl's, were the first to fall.
'Yes--working as if I had an examination to pass. It's the best thing
in weather such as this--keeps one in health, I believe. You, of
course, have your music, which answers the same purpose. I'm going in
for the Renaissance; always wished to make a thorough study of it. Hugh
is appalled; he never imagined I had so much energy. He says I shall be
writing a book next--and why not?'
'Of course you could,' replied Alma. 'You're clever enough for
anything.'
Her suspicions evaporated in this cosy cloister. She wondered how she
could have conceived such a thought of Sibyl, who, dressed so simply,
had a girlish air, a beauty as of maidenhood. Exhilarated by her
ambitious hopes, she turned in heart to the old friendship, felt her
admiration revive, and spoke it freely.
'I know I'm not stupid,' said Sibyl, leaning back as if a little weary;
'and there's the pity of it, that I've never made more use of my
brains. Of course, those years abroad were lost, though I suppose I got
to know a little more of the world. And since we came back I have had
no peace of mind. Did you guess that? Perhaps your husband knew about
things from Hugh?'
'I was afraid you might be getting rather anxious; but as you never
said anything yourself----'
'I never should have done--I hate talking about money. And you know
that things are looking better?'
Sibyl's confident smile drew one of like meaning from Alma.
'Your husband had good news, I know, when Harvey met him on Saturday.'
'It sounds good,' said Sibyl, 'and I take it for granted it will be as
good as it sounds. If that's complicated, well, so is business, and I
don't profess to understand the details. I can only say that Hugh seems
to be a good deal shrewder and more practical than I thought him. He is
always making friends with what I consider the wrong kind of people;
now at last he has got hold of just the right man, and it very much
puzzles me how he did it. I have known Mr. Redgrave--you've heard it's
Mr. Redgrave?--I've known him for several years now, and, between
ourselves, I never expected to benefit by the acquaintance.'
Her laugh was so significant that Alma had much ado to keep a steady
face.
'I know--things are said about him,' she murmured.
'Things _are_ said about him, as you discreetly put it, my dear Alma.'
The voice still rippled with laughter. 'I should imagine Hugh has heard
them, but I suppose a man of the world thinks nothing of such trifles.
And after all'--she grew serious--'I would rather trust Hugh's judgment
than general gossip. Hugh thinks him a "very good fellow". They were
together a little in Scotland last autumn, you know, and--it's very
wrong to make fun of it, and I shouldn't repeat the story to anyone but
you--Mr. Redgrave confided to him that he was a blighted being, the
victim of an unhappy love in early life. Can you quite picture it?'
'It has an odd sound,' replied Alma, struggling with rather tense
nerves. 'Do you believe the story?'
'I can't see why in the world such a man should invent it. It seems he
wanted to marry someone who preferred someone else; and since then he
has----'
Sibyl rippled off again.
'He has--what?'
'Been blighted, my dear! Of course, people have different ways of
showing blight. Mr. Redgrave, it is rumoured, hides his head in a
hermitage, somewhere in the north of Italy, by one of the lakes. No
doubt he lives on olives and macaroni, and broods over what _might_
have been. Did you ever hear of that hermitage?'
Alma's colour heightened ever so little, and she kept her eyes on the
questioner with involuntary fixedness. The last shadow of doubt
regarding Sibyl having disappeared (no woman with an uneasy conscience,
she said to herself, could talk in this way), she had now to guard
herself against the betrayal of suspicious sensibilities. Sibyl, of
course, meant nothing personal by these jesting allusions--how could
she? But it was with a hard voice that Alma declared her ignorance of
Mr. Redgrave's habits, at home, or in retreat by Italian lakes.
'It doesn't concern us,' agreed her friend. 'He has chosen to put his
money into Hugh's business, and, from one point of view, that's a
virtuous action. Hugh says he didn't suggest anything of the kind, but
I fancy the idea must have been led up to at some time or other. The
poor fellow has been horridly worried, and perhaps he let fall a word
or two he doesn't care to confess. However it came about, I'm immensely
glad, both for his sake and my own. My mind is enormously relieved--and
that's how I come to be working at the Renaissance.'
Alma took the first opportunity of giving the conversation a turn. It
was not so easy as she had anticipated to make her announcement; for,
to her own mind, Cyrus Redgrave and the great ambition were at every
moment suggestive of each other, and Sibyl, in this peculiar mood,
might throw out disturbing remarks or ask unwelcome questions. Only one
recent occurrence called for concealment. Happily, Sibyl no longer met
Mrs. Strangeways (whose character had taken such a doubtful hue), and
Redgrave himself could assuredly be trusted for discretion, whatever
his real part in that perplexing scene at he bungalow.
'I feel the same want as you do,' said Alma, after a little
transitional talk, 'of something to keep me busy. Of course, it must be
music; but music at home, and at other people's homes, isn't enough.
You know my old revolt against the bonds of the amateur. I'm going to
break out--or try to. What would you give for my chances?'
'My dear, I am no capitalist,' replied her friend, with animation. 'For
such a bargain as that you must go among the great speculators. Hugh's
experience seems to point to Mr. Redgrave.'
'Sibyl, please be serious.'
'So I am. I should like to have the purchase of your chances for a
trifle of a few thousand pounds.'
Alma's flush of discomposure (more traitorous than she imagined)
transformed itself under a gratified smile.
'You really think that I might do something worth the trouble?--I don't
mean money-making--though, of course, no one despises money--but a real
artistic success?'
Sibyl made no half-hearted reply. She seemed in thorough agreement with
those other friends of Alma's who had received the project
enthusiastically. A dozen tickets, at least a dozen, she would at once
answer for. But, as though an unwelcome word must needs mingle with her
pleasantest talk today, she went on to speak of Alma's husband; what
did he think of the idea?
'He looks on, that's all,' Alma replied playfully. 'If I succeed, he
will be pleased; if I don't, he will have plenty of consolation to
offer. Harvey and I respect each other's independence--the great secret
of marriage, don't you think? We ask each other's advice, and take it
or not, as we choose. I fancy he doesn't quite like the thought of my
playing for money. But if it were _necessary_ he would like it still
less. He finds consolation in the thought that I'm just amusing myself.'
'I wish you would both come over and dine with us quietly,' said Sibyl,
after reflecting, with a smile. 'It would do us all good. I don't see
many people nowadays, and I'm getting rather tired of ordinary society;
after all, it's great waste of time. I think Hugh is more inclined to
settle down and be quiet among his friends. What day would suit you?'
Alma, engrossed in other thoughts, named a day at random. Part of her
scheme was still undisclosed: she had a special reason for wishing
Sibyl to know of her relations with Felix Dymes, yet feared that she
might not hit exactly the right tone in speaking of him.
'Of course, I must have a man of business--and who do you think has
offered his services?'
Sibyl was not particularly impressed by the mention of Dymes's name;
she had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, and cared little
for his reputation as a composer.
'I had a note from him this morning,' Alma continued. 'He asks me to
see him today at the Apollo--the theatre, you know. They're going to
produce his comic opera, "Blue Roses"--of course, you've heard of it. I
shall feel rather nervous about going there--but it'll be a new
experience. Or do you think it would be more discreet if I got him to
come to Pinner?'
'I didn't think artists cared about those small proprieties,' answered
Sibyl, laughing.
'No--of course, that's the right way to regard it. Let me show you his
letter.' She took it from her little seal-skin bag. 'A trifle impudent,
don't you think? Mr. Dymes has a great opinion of himself, and
absolutely no manners.'
'Well--if you can keep him in hand----'
They exchanged glances, and laughed together.
'No fear of that,' said Alma 'And he's just the kind of man to be very
useful. His music--ah well! But he has popularity, and a great many
people take him at his own estimate. Impudence does go a long way.'
Sibyl nodded, and smiled vaguely.
Dymes had suggested a meeting at three o'clock, and to this Alma had
already given her assent by telegraph. She lunched with Mrs.
Carnaby,--who talked a great deal about the Renaissance,--left
immediately after, to visit a few shops, and drove up to the Apollo
Theatre at the appointed time. Her name sufficed; at once she was
respectfully conducted to a small electric-lighted room, furnished only
with a table and chairs, and hung about with portraits of theatrical
people, where Dymes sat by the fire smoking a cigarette. The
illustrious man apologised for receiving her here, instead of in the
manager's room, which he had hoped to make use of.
'Littlestone is in there, wrangling about something with Sophy Challis,
and they're likely to slang each other for an hour or two. Make
yourself comfortable. It's rather hot; take off those furry things.'
'Thank you,' replied Alma, concealing her nervousness with malapert
vivacity, 'I shall be quite comfortable in my own way. It _is_ rather
hot, and your smoke is rather thick, so I shall leave the door a little
open.'
Dymes showed his annoyance, but could offer no objection.
'We're getting into shape for this day week. Littlestone calls the
opera "Blue Noses"--it has been so confoundedly cold at rehearsals.'
Alma was seized by the ludicrous suggestion, and laughed without
restraint; her companion joined in, his loud neigh drowning her more
melodious merriment. This put them on natural terms of comradeship, and
then followed a long, animated talk. Dymes was of opinion that the
hiring of a hall and the fees of supplementary musicians might be
defrayed out of the sale of tickets; but there remained the item of
advertisement, and on this subject he had large ideas. He wanted 'to do
the thing properly'; otherwise he wouldn't do it at all. But Alma was
to take no thought for the cost; let it all be left to him.
'You want to succeed? All right; let your fiddling be up to the mark,
and I answer for the public. It's all between you and me; you needn't
say who is doing the job for you. Ada Wellington comes off on May the
10th; I shall put you down for a fortnight later. That gives you nearly
four months to prepare. Don't overdo it; keep right in health; take
plenty of exercise. You look very well now; keep it up, and you'll
_knock 'em_. I only wish it was the stage instead of the platform--but
no use talking about that, I suppose?'
'No use whatever,' Alma replied, flushing with various emotions.
In the course of his free talk, it happened that he addressed her as
'Alma'. She did not check him; but when the name again fell from his
lips, she said quietly, with a straight look----
'I think not. The proper name, if you please.'
Dymes took the rebuke good-humouredly. When their conversation was
over, he wished her to go with him to a restaurant for tea; but Alma
insisted on catching a certain train at Baker Street, and Dymes had to
be satisfied with the promise of another interview shortly.