For several days she had not touched the violin. There was no time for
it. Correspondence, engagements, intrigues, whirled her through the
waking hours and agitated her repose. The newspaper paragraphs resulted
in a shower of letters, inquiring, congratulating, offering good
wishes, and all had to be courteously answered, lest the writers should
take offence. Invitations to luncheon, to dinner, to midnight 'at
homes', came thick and fast. If all this resulted from a few
preliminary 'puffs' what, Alma asked herself, would be the consequence
of an actual success? How did the really popular musicians contrive to
get an hour a day for the serious study of their art? Her severe
headache had left behind it some nervous disorder, not to be shaken off
by any effort--a new distress, peculiarly irritating to one who had
always enjoyed good health. When she wrote, her hand was unsteady, and
sometimes her eyes dazzled. This would be alarming if it went on much
longer; the day approached, the great day, the day of fate, and what
hope was there for a violinist who could not steady her hand?
The 'interviewer' called, and chatted for half an hour, and took his
leave with a flourish of compliments. The musicians engaged to play
with her at Prince's Hall's came down to try over pieces, a trio, a
duet; so that at last she was obliged to take up her instrument--with
results that did not reassure her. She explained that she was not
feeling quite herself; it was nothing; it would pass in a day or two.
Sibyl Carnaby had asked her and Harvey to dine next week, to meet
several people; Mrs. Rayner Mann had arranged a dinner for another
evening; and now Mrs. Strangeways, whom she had not seen for some weeks,
sent an urgent request that she would call in Porchester Terrace as
soon as possible, to speak of something 'very important'.
This summons Alma durst not disregard. Between Mrs. Strangeways and
Cyrus Redgrave subsisted an intimacy which caused her frequent
uneasiness. It would not have surprised her to discover that this
officious friend knew of all her recent meetings with Redgrave--at the
Crystal Palace and elsewhere; and, but for her innocence, she would
have felt herself at the woman's mercy. That she had not transgressed,
and was in no danger of transgressing, enabled her to move with head
erect among the things unspeakable which always seemed to her to be
lurking in the shadowed corners of Mrs. Strangeways' house. The day was
coming when she might hope to terminate so undesirable an acquaintance,
but for the present she must show a friendly face.
She made this call at three o'clock, and was received in that
over-scented, over-heated boudoir, which by its atmosphere invariably
turned her thoughts to evil. The hostess rose languidly, with a pallid,
hollow-eyed look of illness.
'Only my neuralgic something or other,' she said, in reply to a
sympathetic inquiry. 'It's the price one pays for civilisation. I've
had two terrible days and nights, but it's over for the present. But
for that I should have written to you before. Why, _you_ don't look
quite so well as usual. Be careful--do be careful!'
'I mean to be, if people will let me.'
'You have eight days, haven't you? Yes, just eight days. You ought to
keep as quiet as possible. We are all doing our best; but, after all,
success depends greatly upon yourself, you know.'
The voice, as always, seemed to fondle her, but Alma's ear detected the
usual insincerity. Mrs. Strangeways spoke in much the same way to
numbers of people, yet not quite so caressingly. Some interest she
undoubtedly had to serve by this consistent display of affection, and
with all but certainty Alma divined it. She shrank from the woman; it
cost her an unceasing effort not to betray dislike, or even hostility.
'Of course, you saw last week's _West End_?' pursued the hostess,
smiling. 'You know whose doing that was?'
'I only guessed that it _might_ be Mr. Redgrave's kindness.'
'I have the same suspicion. He was here the other day--we talked about
you. You haven't seen him since then?'
'No.'
'He hinted to me--just a little anxiety. I hardly know whether I ought
to speak of it.'
Alma looked an interrogation as unconcerned as she could make it, but
did not open her lips.
'It was with reference to--your man of business. It seems he has heard
something--I really don't know what--not quite favourable to Mr. Dymes.
I shall not offend you, dear?'
'I don't take offence, Mrs. Strangeways,' Alma answered, with a slight
laugh to cover her uneasiness. 'It's so old-fashioned.'
The hostess uttered a thin trill of merriment.
'One is always safe with people who have humour, dear. It _does_ make
life easier, doesn't it? Oh, the terrible persons who take everything
with tragic airs! Well, there's not a bit of harm in it. Between
ourselves, it struck me that our friend was just a little inclined to
be--yes, you understand.'
'I'm afraid I don't.'
'I hate the word--well, just a trifle jealous.'
Alma leaned back in her chair, glanced about her, and said nothing.
'Of course, he would never allow _you_ to suspect anything of the kind.
It will make no difference. You can count upon his utmost efforts. But
when one thinks how very much he has it in his power to do----. That
bit of writing in the _West End_, you know--only the highest influence
can command that kind of thing. The _West End_ can't be bought, I
assure you. And one has to think of the future. A good beginning is
much, but how many musicians are able to follow it up? My dear Alma,
let me implore you not to imagine that you will be able to dispense
with this kind of help.'
'Do you mean that Mr. Redgrave is likely to withdraw it?'
'Impossible for me to say, dear. I am only telling you how his
conversation struck me. He appeared to think--to be apprehensive that
you might in future look to Mr. Dymes rather than to him. Of course, I
could say nothing--I would not venture a syllable.'
'Of course not,' Alma murmured mechanically, her eyes wandering.
'Are you likely, I wonder, to see him in the next few days?'
'I hardly know--I think not.'
'Then let me--will you?--let me contrive a _chance_ meeting here.'
Loathing herself, and burning with hatred of the woman, in whose hands
she felt powerless, Alma gave an assenting nod.
'I am sure it will be a measure of prudence, dear. I thought possibly
you might be seeing him at Mrs. Carnaby's. He is there sometimes, I
believe?'
Alma looked at the speaker, detecting some special significance in her
inquiry. She replied that Redgrave of course called upon Mrs.
Carnaby--but not often, she thought.
'No?' threw out Mrs. Strangeways. 'I fancied he was there a good deal;
I don't quite know why.'
'Have you met him there?'
'No. It's quite a long time since I called--one has so many people to
see.'
Alma knew that Sibyl was now holding aloof from Mrs. Strangeways, and
it seemed not improbable that this had excited some ill-feeling in the
latter. But her own uneasiness regarding Sibyl's relations with
Redgrave, uneasiness never quite subdued; made her quick to note, and
eager to explore, any seeming suspicion on that subject in another's
mind. Mrs. Strangeways was a lover of scandal, a dangerous woman,
unworthy of confidence in any matter whatsoever. Common prudence, to
say nothing of loyalty to a friend, bade Alma keep silence; but the
subtly-interrogating smile was fixed upon her; hints continued to fall
upon her ear, and an evil fascination at length compelled her to speak.
'You know,' she said, as if mentioning an unimportant piece of news,
'that Mr. Redgrave has joined Mr. Carnaby in business?'
The listener's face exhibited a surprise of which there was no
mistaking the sincerity. Her very features seemed to undergo a change
as the smile vanished from them; they became on the instant hard and
old, lined with sudden wrinkles, the muscles tense, every line
expressive of fierce vigilance.
'In business?--what business?'
'Oh, I thought you would have heard of it. Perhaps Mr. Redgrave doesn't
care to have it known.'
'My dear, I am discretion itself.'
Everything was told, down to the last detail of which Alma had any
knowledge. As she listened and questioned, Mrs. Strangeways resumed her
smiling manner, but could not regain the perfect self-command with
which she had hitherto gossiped. That she attached great importance to
this news was evident, and the fact of its being news to her brought
fresh trouble into Alma's thoughts.
'How very interesting!' exclaimed Mrs. Strangeways at length. 'Another
instance of Mr. Redgrave's kindness to his friends. Of course, it was
done purely out of kindness, and that is why he doesn't speak of it.
Quite amusing, isn't it, to think of him as partner in a business of
that kind. I wonder whether----'
She broke off with a musing air.
'What were you wondering?' asked Alma, whose agitation increased every
moment, though the seeming tendency of her companion's words was to
allay every doubt.
'Oh, only whether it was _Mr_ Carnaby who first made known his
difficulties.'
'I am told so.'
'By Mrs. Carnaby? Yes, no doubt it was so. I don't think Mrs. Carnaby
could quite have--I mean she is a little reserved, don't you think? She
would hardly have spoken about it to--to a comparative stranger.'
'But Mr. Redgrave can't be called a stranger,' said Alma. 'They have
been friends for a long time. Surely you know that.'
'Friends in _that_ sense? The word has such different meanings. You and
Mr. Redgrave are friends, but I don't think you would care to tell him
if your husband were in difficulties of that kind--would you?'
'But Sibyl--Mrs. Carnaby didn't tell him,' replied Alma, with nervous
vehemence.
'No, no; we take that for granted. I don't think Mr. Carnaby is--the
kind of man----'
'What kind of man?'
'I hardly know him; we have met, that's all. But I should fancy he
wouldn't care to know that his wife talked about such things to Mr
Redgrave or any one else. There _are_ men'--her voice sank, and the
persistent smile became little better than an ugly grin--'there _are_
men who don't mind it. One hears stories I shouldn't like to repeat to
you, or even to hint at. But those are very different people from the
Carnabys. Then, I suppose,' she added, with abrupt turn, 'Mr. Carnaby
is very often away from home?'
Trying to reply, Alma found her voice obstructed.
'I think so.'
'How very kind of Mr. Redgrave, wasn't it! Has he spoken about it to
_you_?'
'Of course not.'
'Naturally, he wouldn't.--Oh, don't go yet, dear. Why, we have had no
tea; it isn't four o'clock. Must you really go? Of course, you are
overwhelmed with engagements. But do--do take care of your health. And
remember our little scheme. If Mr. Redgrave could look in--say, the day
after tomorrow? You shall hear from me in time. I feel--I really
feel--that it wouldn't be wise to let him think--you understand me.'
With scarce a word of leave-taking, Alma hastened away. The air of this
room was stifling her, and the low cooing voice had grown more
intolerable than a clanging uproar. From Porchester Terrace she walked
into Bayswater Road, her eyes on the pavement. It was a sunny
afternoon, but there had been showers, and now again large spots of
rain began to fall. As she was opening her umbrella, a cabman's voice
appealed to her, and fixed her purpose. She bade him drive her to
Oxford and Cambridge Mansions.
Sibyl was not at home. The maid-servant could not say when she might
return; she had been absent since yesterday morning. Unable to restrain
herself, Alma inquired whether Mr. Carnaby was in town. He was not; he
had been away for several days.
On the morrow a letter from Sibyl came to Pinner. She was grieved to
hear that Alma had called during her absence. Was it anything of
importance, or would it keep till she and Harvey came to dine on
Saturday? 'I have been down to Weymouth--not to enjoy myself, but to
see my mother. She _says_ she is very ill, and thinks it monstrous that
I don't feel inclined to devote myself to the care of her. Her illness,
I am sure, is nothing but discontent and bad temper, just because she
feels herself dropping out of society. She must get used to it. In any
case, we could never endure each other; and how can I be expected to
make any sacrifice for a mother who never gave me an hour of motherly
care from the day of my birth? But you know all about this, and don't
want to hear of it again just when you are so busy. If there is
anything in the world I can do for you, let me know at once.'
But for her conversation with Mrs. Strangeways, it would not have
occurred to Alma to doubt the truth of what Sibyl wrote; as it was, she
tortured herself with dark surmises. Jealousy without love, a passion
scarcely intelligible to the ordinary man, is in woman common enough,
and more often productive of disaster than the jealousy which
originates in nobler feeling. To suspect that she was the plaything of
Sibyl's subtlety, and that Redgrave smiled at her simplicity in never
having discovered an obvious rival, fired her blood to the fever point.
She could no longer balance probabilities; all the considerations which
hitherto declared for Sibyl's innocence lost their weight. Her
overexcited mind, her impaired health, were readily receptive of such
poison as distilled from the lips of Mrs. Strangeways. What she now
desired was proof. Only let evidence be afforded her, cost what it
might! After that, she saw her way.
No! Hugh Carnaby was assuredly not one of the men who wink at their
wives' dishonour, nor one of the men who go slinking for a remedy to
courts of law--or she mistook him strangely.
At receipt of the expected note from Porchester Terrace--it said
merely, 'Pray be here, if possible, at three tomorrow afternoon'--she
quivered with anticipation of seeing Redgrave. How it was to come
about, she did not ask, but Redgrave should not part from her before
she had obtained light upon his relations with Sibyl. She believed
herself irresistible if she chose to put forth all her power. With two
men, dangerous both of them, she had played the game of her own
interests, played it safely, and for a long time; she made them her
instruments, mocking at their hopes, holding them at arm's-length, in
spite of all their craft and their vehemence. Only a very clever woman
could do this. In giddiness of self-admiration, she felt everything to
be possible. Boldness was necessary--far more boldness than she had yet
dared to use. The rivalry of such a woman as Sibyl could not be
despised; it threatened her ambitions. But in the struggle now to be
decided she had a supreme advantage; for Sibyl, having gained her
object, assuredly had paid its price. Hence her pretended absorption in
study, hence the revival of her friendliness; what were these things
but blinds to mislead the only woman whose observation she had much
reason to fear?
How astonishing it now seemed to her that she could have accepted such
shallow explanations of Redgrave's partnership with Hugh Carnaby! Why,
Harvey himself, least suspicious of men, was perplexed, and avowed his
inability to understand it. As for Mrs. Strangeways--a woman of the
world, if there was one--the fact had but to be mentioned to her, and
on the moment she saw its meaning. No wonder the matter had been kept
so quiet. But for the honesty of the duped husband no one at all would
have heard of it.
Arriving at the house a little before her time, she found her hostess a
prey to vexation.
'My dear, he can't come. It's most annoying. Only an hour ago I had a
telegram--look----'
The despatch was from Coventry: 'Don't expect me. Detained on business.
Redgrave.' It rustled in Alma's hand, and she had much ado to keep
herself from tears of angry chagrin.
'He had promised to be here,' went on Mrs. Strangeways. 'I thought
nothing would have kept him away.'
'Do you mean,' asked Alma bluntly, 'that he knew I was coming?'
'I had said that I half expected you. Don't be vexed, dear. I did so
wish you to meet.'
'If he's at Coventry,' Alma continued, 'it must be on _that_ business.'
'It seems likely. Do sit down. You still look anything but yourself.
Pray, pray remember that you have only a day or two----'
'Don't worry me, please,' said Alma, with a contemptuous gesture.
She had thrown off reserve, caring only, now the first step was taken,
to make all possible use of this woman whom she detested. Her voice
showed the change that had been wrought in her; she addressed her
hostess almost as though speaking to an inferior.
'What do you think it means, his keeping away?'
'Business, possibly. More likely--the other thing I spoke of.'
In this reply Mrs. Strangeways modified her tone, discarding
mellifluous tenderness, yet not going quite so far as Alma in neglect
of appearances. She was an older woman, and had learnt the
injudiciousness of impulsive behaviour.
'Speak plainly--it saves time. You think he won't care to meet me at
all again?'
'I don't say that. I should be very sorry indeed to think it. But--to
speak as plainly as you wish, dear--I know that someone must have said
unpleasant things to him about your--your friendship with Mr. Dymes.'
'Are you hinting at anyone in particular?' Alma asked, salving her
self-respect with a poor affectation of haughtiness.
'Ask yourself, my dear, who is at all likely to give him such
information.'
'Information?' Alma's eyes flashed. 'That's a strange word to use. Do
you imagine there is any information of that kind to be given?'
'I spoke carelessly,' answered the other, smiling. 'Do sit down, dear
Mrs. Rolfe. I'm sure you will overtax your strength before Tuesday. I
meant nothing whatever, I assure you.'
Reluctantly Alma became seated, and the conversation was prolonged.
Without disguise they debated the probability that Redgrave was being
estranged from Alma by Sibyl Carnaby; of course, taking for granted
Sibyl's guilt, and presuming that she feared rivalry. From time to time
Alma threw out scornful assertion of her own security; she was bold to
the point of cynicism, and recklessly revealed herself. The other
listened attentively, still smiling, but without constraint upon her
features; at moments she appeared to feel something of admiration.
'There are several things in your favour,' she remarked deliberately,
when Alma had declared a resolve to triumph at all hazards. 'Above
all--but one need not mention it.'
'What? I don't understand.'
'Oh, I'm sure you do! You alluded to it the other day. Some women have
such tiresome husbands.'
The look which accompanied this struck Alma cold. She sat motionless,
staring at the speaker.
'What do you mean? You think that my husband----?'
'I meant only to encourage you, my dear.'
'You think that my husband has less sense of honour than Mr. Carnaby?'
Mrs. Strangeways looked wonderingly at her.
'How strange you are! Could I have dreamt of saying anything so
ill-mannered?'
'You implied it!' exclaimed Alma, her voice thrilling on the note of
indignation. 'How dare you so insult me! Is it possible that you have
such thoughts?'
Overcome by what seemed to her the humour of the situation, Mrs
Strangeways frankly laughed.
'I beg your pardon a thousand times, my dear Mrs. Rolfe! I have
misunderstood, I am afraid. You _are_ quite serious? Yes, yes, there
has been a misunderstanding. Pray forgive me.'
Alma rose from her chair. 'There _has_ been a misunderstanding. If you
knew my husband--if you had once met him--such a thought could never
have entered your mind. You compare him to his disadvantage with Mr
Carnaby? What right have you to do that? I believe in Mr. Carnaby's
honesty, and do you know why?--because he is my husband's friend. But
for _that_, I should suspect him.'
'My dear,' replied Mrs. Strangeways, 'you are wonderful. I prophesy
great things for you. I never in my life met so interesting a woman.'
'You may be as sarcastic as you please,' Alma retorted, in a low,
passionate voice. 'I suppose you believe in no one?'
'I have said, dear, that I believe in _you_; and I shall think it the
greatest misfortune if I lose your friendship for a mere indiscretion.
Indeed, I was only trying to understand you completely.'
'You do--now.'
They did not part in hostility. Mrs. Strangeways had the best of
reasons for averting this issue, at any cost to her own feelings, which
for the moment had all but escaped control. Though the complications of
Alma's character puzzled her exceedingly, she knew how to smooth over
the trouble which had so unexpectedly arisen. Flattery was the secret
of her influence with Mrs. Rolfe, and it still availed her. With
ostentation of frankness, she pointed a contrast between Alma and her
presumed rival. Mrs. Carnaby was the corrupt, unscrupulous woman, who
shrank from nothing to gratify a base selfishness. Alma was the artist,
pursuing a legitimate ambition, using, as she had a perfect right to
do, all her natural resources, but pure in soul.
'Yes, I understand you at last, and I admire you more than ever. You
will go far, my dear. You have great gifts, and, more than that, you
have principle. It is character that tells in the long run. And depend
upon me. I shall soon have news for you. Keep quiet; prepare yourself
for next Tuesday. As for all _that_--leave it to me.'
Scarcely had Alma left the house, when she suddenly stood still, as
though she had forgotten something. Indeed she had. In the flush of
loyal resentment which repelled an imputation upon her husband's
honour, she had entirely lost sight of her secret grievance against
Harvey. Suddenly revived, the memory helped her to beat down that
assaulting shame which took advantage of reaction in mind and blood.
Harvey was not honest with her. Go as far as she might, short of the
unpardonable, there still remained to her a moral superiority over the
man she defended. And yet--she was glad to have defended him; it gave
her a sense of magnanimity. More than that, the glow of an honest
thought was strangely pleasant.
She had sundry people to see and pieces of business to transact. What a
nuisance that she lived so far from the centre of things! It was this
perpetual travelling that had disordered her health, and made
everything twice as troublesome as it need be. Today, again, she had a
headache, and the scene with Mrs. Strangeways had made it worse.
In Regent Street she met Dymes. She was not afraid of him now, for she
had learnt how to make him keep his distance; and after the great day,
if he continued to trouble her, he might be speedily sent to the
right-about. He made an inspiriting report: already a considerable
number of tickets had been sold--enough, he said, or all but enough, to
clear expenses.
'What, advertising and all?' asked Alma.
'Oh, leave that to me. Advertising is a work of art. If you like just
to come round to my rooms, I'll----'
'Haven't time today. See you at the Hall on Monday.'
A batch of weekly newspapers which arrived next morning, Saturday,
proved to her that Dymes was sufficiently active. There were more
paragraphs; there were two reproductions of her portrait; and as for
advertisements, she tried, with some anxiety, to conjecture the cost of
these liberal slices of page, with their eye-attracting type. Naturally
the same question would occur to her husband, but Harvey kept his word;
whatever he thought, he said nothing. And Alma found it easier to be
good-humoured with him than at any time since she had read Mary
Abbott's letter; perhaps yesterday's event accounted for it.
They dined at the Carnabys', the first time for months that they had
dined from home together. Harvey would have shirked the occasion, had
it been possible. With great relief, he found that the guests were all
absolute strangers to him, and that they represented society in its
better sense, with no suggestion of the 'half-world'--no Mrs
Strangeways or Mrs. Rayner Mann. Alma, equally conscious of the fact,
viewed it as a calculated insult. Sibyl had brought her here to
humiliate her. She entered the doors with jealous hatred boiling in her
heart, and fixed her eyes on Sibyl with such fire of malicious scrutiny
that the answer was a gaze of marked astonishment. But they had no
opportunity for private talk. Sibyl, as hostess, bore herself with that
perfect manner which no effort and no favour of circumstance would ever
enable Mrs. Rolfe to imitate. Envying every speech and every movement,
knowing that her own absent behaviour and forced talk must produce an
unpleasant impression upon the well-bred strangers, she longed to
expose the things unspeakable that lay beneath this surface of social
brilliancy. What was more, she would do it when time was ripe. Only
this consciousness of power to crush her enemy enabled her to bear up
through the evening.
At the dinner-table she chanced to encounter Sibyl's look. She smiled.
There was disquiet in that glance--furtive inquiry and apprehension.
No music. Alma would have doubted whether any of these people were
aware of her claim to distinction, had not a lady who talked with her
after dinner hinted, rather than announced, an intention of being
present at Prince's Hall next Tuesday. None of the fuss and adulation
to which she was grown accustomed; no underbred compliments; no
ambiguous glances from men. It angered her to observe that Harvey did
not seem at all wearied; that he conversed more naturally than usual in
a mixed company, especially with the hostess. One whisper--and how
would Harvey look upon his friend's wife? But the moment had not come.
She left as early as possible, parting from Sibyl as she had met her,
with eyes that scarce dissembled their malignity.
When Hugh and his wife were left together, Sibyl abstained from remark
on Alma; it was Carnaby who introduced the subject. 'Don't you think
Mrs. Rolfe looked seedy?'
'Work and excitement,' was the quiet answer. 'I think it more than
likely she will break down.'
'It's a confounded pity. Why, she has grown old all at once. She's
losing her good looks. Did you notice that her eyes were a little
bloodshot?'
'Yes, I noticed it. I didn't like her look at all.'
Hugh, as his custom was, paced the floor. Nowadays he could not keep
still, and he had contracted an odd habit of swinging his right arm,
with fist clenched, as though relieving his muscles after some unusual
constraint.
'By Jove, Sibyl, when I compare her with you!--I feel sorry for Rolfe;
can't help it. Why didn't you stop this silly business before it went
so far?'
'That's a characteristic question, dear boy,' Sibyl replied merrily.
'There are more things in life--particularly woman's life--than your
philosophy ever dreamt of. Alma has quite outgrown me, and I begin to
suspect that she won't honour me with her acquaintance much longer.'
'Why?'
'For one thing, we belong to different worlds, don't you see; and the
difference, in future, will be rather considerable.'
'Well, I'm sorry. Rolfe isn't half the man he was. Why on earth didn't
_he_ stop it? He hates it, anyone can see. Why, if I were in his
place----'
Sibyl interrupted with her mellow laughter.
'You wouldn't be a bit wiser. It's the fate of men--except those who
have the courage to beat their wives. You know you came back to England
at my heels when you didn't want to. Now, a little energy, a little
practice with the horsewhip----'
Carnaby made pretence of laughing. But he turned away his face; the
jest had too serious an application. Yes, yes, if he had disregarded
Sibyl's wishes, and stayed on the other side of the world! It seemed to
him strange that she could speak of the subject so lightly; he must
have been more successful than he thought in concealing his true state
of mind.
'Rolfe tells me he has got a house at Gunnersbury.'
'Yes; he mentioned it to me. Why Gunnersbury? There must be some reason
they don't tell us.'
'Ask his wife,' said Hugh, impatiently. 'No doubt the choice is hers.'
'No doubt. But I don't think,' added Sibyl musingly, 'I shall ask Alma
that or anything else. I don't think I care much for Alma in her new
development. For a time I shall try leaving her alone.'
'Well, I'm sorry for poor old Rolfe,' repeated Hugh.