WHY NOT?
Claudia asked the usual question of the nurse who met her in the hall of
the flat. It was now three weeks since Fay’s accident.
“Sir Richard said definitely to-day that everything has now been tried,”
said the nurse sadly, for both the day and the night nurse had grown
fond of their odd little patient. “I think they always knew it was
hopeless.... I fear she is growing suspicious. She cried a good deal of
last night, and only slept for a couple of hours. Nurse Calderon said she
thought she heard her whisper to herself in the night: ‘Oh, God! I can’t!
I can’t! Let me get better!’ Poor little thing! It’s too horrible, and,
of course, everything will—will get worse.”
Claudia, who had read up the progress of such cases in a medical book she
had found in Gilbert’s library, gave assent. She knew that the end of
such cases is the abject humiliation of human flesh where so many of the
functions of the body are paralysed. The account had made her feel sick
in the reading, and she shrank from the thought of all that lay before
the girl—she was little more—who lay in the bedroom beyond.
Claudia opened the bedroom door full of misgivings, her heart very heavy
as the thought of Fay’s night vigil, so that she was unprepared for
the sight that met her gaze. The room always was a bower of flowers,
generally coloured ones, for Fay said bluntly that white ones reminded
her of a funeral; but this afternoon it presented an unusually gay
aspect. The apartment was almost gaudy, and at first Claudia did not take
in why it was so bright. Fay was propped up among a nest of pillows, her
tiny face, very little changed, hidden under an enormous black hat with
three great blue feathers floating over it. The bed was strewn with hats,
the chairs were littered with them. Pink cardboard boxes of various sizes
stood everywhere.
“Darling, you’ve come in the nick of time,” called out Fay excitedly.
“Isn’t this a duck of a hat? You see, I must have some new hats. I shall
be better soon now, and it’s no good getting up and finding you’ve got
nothing to put on your cocoanut. And Madame Rose has got all her new
models for the summer. This is French. You can see that with half an eye,
can’t you? I call it shick, don’t you? Something like a hat.”
A dark-eyed Jewess, who had evidently brought the hats, was standing at
the foot of the bed, and broke in with:
“Straight from Parry, Miss Morris,” she said glibly, though it was
evident that it had been concocted in some cheap London warehouse. “Very
latest thing. Real style there. I thought of you as soon as I saw it.
It’s too good for anyone else, I said.”
“Ah! did you? Give me the hand-glass. I want to see how my dial looks
under it. Ugh! like an under-done muffin left out in the rain. Give us
over the rouge and the powder-puff. And the bunch of curls out of the
drawer. Where’s that eyebrow pencil I had this morning? I rub the blessed
stuff off on the pillow. There! that’s better, cocky. Now I’ve got a bit
of bloom. We’re not forty and in the cupboard yet, thank the Lord! It
saves a lot of trouble if you’ve got dark eyebrows. Yours don’t rub off
and get smeary, do they?”
“It’s curious,” smiled Claudia, removing one of the hats in order to sit
down, “that your eyebrows are so light when your hair is so dark.”
Fay gave a whoop that showed her lungs were not affected.
“You dear holy innocent! Did you think my hair was really this colour?
Not much. The hair-dresser does it, and jolly expensive it is. My hair,
as a child, was a silly soppy sort of light shade, so I improved on it.
I’m much more effective with black hair. Makes a bit of a contrast. Got
the idea out of a story where a man was raving over blue eyes and black
hair. First of all, I tried red. But it’s so difficult with hats and all
the boys call you Ginger.”
She might have been discussing the colour of a parasol, so impersonal and
frank was her tone. Evidently it never occurred to her that these were
what is called in ladies’ papers, “secrets of the toilet-table.”
Fay turned to the girl, who was adjusting the trimming on another hat,
equally large and covered with roses of a nightmare shade of pink.
“You remember my hair when it was red, don’t you, Vera?” She chuckled.
“I remember you didn’t know me when I came into the shop, and you was so
polite”—she gave Claudia a wink—“that I knew you hadn’t spotted me. I’d
run up the devil of a bill, and Madame Rose was giving me the frozen eye
just then. I think I shall keep to black now. It does suit me, doesn’t
it?”
“Admirably,” returned her sister-in-law, controlling a desire to laugh.
“I like your hair,” commented Fay; “there are sort of coloury bits in it.
I thought at first you must dye it, only Jack told me you didn’t, and
that it was like that when you were a kid. It’s real pretty. Darling, try
on this hat. I want to see it on someone else. There’s no doubt it’s
stylish. I hate the sort of hats nobody notices. When I pay big money I
like to get the goods.”
Claudia good-naturedly removed her own smart little toque of white
brocade and skunk, and placed the top-heavy _confection_ upon her head.
Fay’s face was a study in astonishment and dismay as she looked at the
other woman.
“Well, I’m blowed! It looks—oh! sort of funny—and”—she shook her
head—“Vera, are you sure it’s good style? All right, keep your hair on, I
didn’t say it wasn’t, only—— Crickey Bill, does it look like that on me?”
The girl from the shop eyed Claudia with no great favour. Her small,
beady eyes looked sourly and enviously at the perfectly-cut, black velvet
gown and elegant skunk and ermine furs. She was cute enough to realize
that Claudia’s clothes were the “real thing” and spelt not only money—her
own wares were absurdly overpriced—but taste. She was accustomed to
serving “ladies” in the profession, who familiarly called her “Vera, my
dear,” and asked, and generally took her advice, as well as swallowed her
fulsome flattery.
“Take it off,” said Fay almost sharply. “I hate it now. It’s too large,
it’s too——” Then, with a sudden change to wistfulness, she added, “but
it’s you that makes it wrong. You’re good style, and I’m not. I’m common,
dead common. I don’t wonder you didn’t want me in the family.”
“Fay, dear, don’t.” Claudia glanced at the sulky Vera, who was packing up
the hats. Apparently Fay had never heard of the undesirability of washing
dirty linen in public.
“You’re a lady. A blind man could see that. If you hadn’t been so sweet
I’d have hated you directly I saw you. I knew what you were at once.
Of course, Jack is a perfect gentleman, but that’s different somehow,
except”—vaguely—“I liked him a bit extra for it. He looks different in
his clothes to the other men, and yet those men spend a lot of money too.
I knew a man once, he owned a couple of halls in the Midlands, and he
told me he had fifty-two waistcoats, one for every week of the year. I
don’t suppose Jack’s got as many as that?”
She was adjusting a saucy matinée cap, a dainty affair of pink ribbon and
lace.
“I am sure he hasn’t.”
“Won’t you take no hat at all?” said the annoyed shop-girl, breaking in
rudely. “You might take this one with the pink roses. I’m sure that’s
quite enough.”
“No, no, I’ll wait till I can come to the shop. Here, my dear, here’s a
half a crown for your trouble. I’ll come in—soon.” She looked quickly
from the shop-girl to Claudia, a desperate question in her blue eyes.
“That’s a much better arrangement,” returned Claudia cheerfully. “We’ll
go together, shall we?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Fay eagerly, clapping her hands. “But, I say,” as the
door closed behind the girl and her hat-boxes, “will you take me to
_your_ hat shop where that came from?”
“With pleasure.”
“What; come here.” Fay beckoned her imperiously to her side. “Do you mean
you are not ashamed of me? I could keep my mouth dead shut, you know. Do
you mean that you’d let me wear the same sort of hats as you, that you’ll
try and make a lady of me?”
Claudia could not speak, she gently nodded.
“Well,” said Fay huskily, her eyes suspiciously moist, “you’re _it_ all
right, that’s all I can say. I—you can touch me for anything you want.
You’ve only got to ask me. I say, hand me over that leather case from the
chest of drawers—yes, that’s the one.”
Wonderingly, Claudia obeyed, and handed her the case which was a cheap
leather imitation.
Fay opened the case with a key from under her pillow and rummaged inside.
Presently she produced a small box.
“There! I want to show you this. It’s for you. It’s quite straight; you
needn’t think I got it in any—any way you wouldn’t like. I bought it off
someone who was hard up.” “It” was a diamond and ruby brooch, and quite a
tasteful affair in the form of two hearts, transfixed by an arrow.
“Oh! but Fay, I couldn’t——”
“Take it, I say, or I shall think you don’t mean what you said just now.
Two hearts, d’yer see—you and me! Quite romantic, isn’t it? Put it on
that lacy thing at your throat. Yes, it looks nice. No, you’re not going
to thank me. Just give me a kiss, that’s all.”
For a few moments the lips of the two met, so different in their
upbringing and views of life, but strangely brought together by the hand
of Fate.
“Now look at my joolery. Never seen it, have you? Well, it aint so dusty,
if I says it. I’ve always got them to shell out all right. After all,”
with a quaint little touch of vanity, “when you top the bill you’re worth
it, and I don’t believe in making yourself cheap or making men meaner
than they are. Not that I exactly like them for what they give you, but
it shows they do like you, because a man doesn’t stump up easily....
There, that’s a stunning pendant, isn’t it? It cost two hundred and
fifty, because I went and chose it.”
Claudia was astounded at the value of the jewellery that reposed in the
shabby, unremarkable leather case. She saw that Fay loved the things by
the way she touched them. Some of them were beautiful. But presently Fay
gave a sigh and, selecting a large diamond pendant which she put round
her neck, over her nightdress, she shut up the case. “Put the things
back,” she said queerly. “I—I——” Then, to Claudia’s dismay, she began to
sob rather pitifully like a frightened child. Claudia drew the little
head to her breast.
“Hush, dear, you mustn’t excite yourself. It’s bad for you. Nurse will
say it’s my fault, you know.”
“I’m not very old,” sobbed Fay, “I’m only twenty-two. Some people live to
be very old.”
Claudia tried to think of a laughing reply, but no words would come. She
could only rearrange the matinée cap and put her own cool cheek against
the one wet with tears.
“Fay, dear, to please me—you said you’d do anything for me—don’t cry so.
Are you—are you in pain?”
She wiped the tears away gently with her handkerchief, the rouge from the
cheeks coming off too.
Presently Fay grew a little calmer.
“Claudia, I want to ask you something because you are honest.” Oh! how
Claudia’s heart sank! She dreaded what the next words would be, but as
usual the unexpected came from Fay.
“Do you think _this_ is a punishment for—for not being good? Nurse has
got a Bible, and I—just for fun—asked her to read me a bit. It frightened
me. I’m not what you call bad, am I?”
“No, Fay,” said Claudia steadily, determined that not all the religion or
moral teaching in the world should make her distress the doomed woman.
“No, Fay, don’t distress yourself. I don’t believe for an instant this is
a punishment.” She tried to speak simply, but the task was difficult. Her
own religion was a very vague one. She believed that if there were a God,
as so many Christians averred, a God who was all-loving, understanding
beyond finite conception, there could never be any question of punishment
such as Fay suggested. Fay’s mind and morals were stunted, undeveloped.
Since she had come in contact with the queer people who were her fellow
“pros,” Claudia had come very clearly to recognize that the lives of
such artistes, especially those like Fay, who had been born practically
on the boards of a music-hall, were not subject to the ordinary judgments
of society. Theirs was a little world of its own, with its obligations,
its own ideas of right and wrong. To do another artiste out of a job, to
queer her turn, to refuse to put your hand in your pocket for a deserving
case, to crib another person’s business or her “fancy boy,” those were
unpardonable sins in Fay’s world. To have flitted from lover to lover—in
her case without any breaking of hearts or ugly recriminations—was only a
venial one.
Fay gave a huge relieved sigh. “If you say so, I won’t worry about that
any more. Of course, mind you, I ought to have kept straight. Mother told
me that when I was a kid. But I don’t know. Men always liked me, you see,
and I’m fond of them. Of course, I know _you_ wouldn’t do the things I’ve
done.”
Claudia inwardly winced. That very morning she had had an impassioned
lover-like letter from Frank complaining that she never came for the
sittings now. “I know you have been a great deal with your sister-in-law,
but sometimes I fear you cannot care for me when you can live without
seeing me. To me, you are the whole world.”
“I expect Jack and I are pretty poor tripe,” continued Fay calmly. Then a
new thought struck her. “I say, that night I fainted, I thought I heard a
nice voice in the hall, a man’s voice. It wasn’t the doctor, because he’s
got a down-in-your-boots voice, and it wasn’t none of my pals. Was it
someone, or did I fancy it?”
“I think it was probably a friend of mine, Colin Paton. He got the
specialist and nurse for you, and often inquires after you.”
“That’s jolly decent of him, because he doesn’t know me from Adam.” She
looked round her at the many vases crowded with flowers. “But people have
been nice to me, haven’t they? It shows I’m liked, doesn’t it?” It was
such harmless vanity that Claudia smiled. “Is your friend a great swell,
Sir Somebody or other?”
“Oh, dear, no.” Claudia found herself laughing at the idea of anyone
calling Colin Paton “a great swell.” She must remember to tell him, he
would enjoy the joke too. Then she stiffened a little. No, she would not
tell him _anything_. He left her out of his life. “He’s the simplest and
kindest of men, a friend one can always rely on.” Her sense of fairness
prompted her to say so much.
“He’s old, then?”
“No, about thirty-eight. Did my description sound like a greybeard?”
“Yes, ‘kind’ sounds so old somehow. Of course, he’s gone on you. He must
be. Would he come and see me, do you think? Why,” with a sudden flash
of inspiration, “it must be the man Polly said was here that night and
treated her as if she was a duchess, and thanked her for everything.
Polly flopped immediate. She’s had a balmy look ever since. Oh, yes, I
don’t think! Is he handsome?”
“No, only nice looking.”
“Well, I should like him to have black, flashing eyes—don’t you love
black, flashing eyes—and dark curly hair, and long, white hands like the
man in the novel, ‘Did He Love Her.’ I’ll just have to listen to his
voice.... Must you go now? Oh, well, I suppose I mustn’t be selfish. Jack
will be in soon. It’s rough on Jack me being like this, isn’t it? Only
a log for a wife.... He’s better than I expected, because”—with a canny
wag of her head—“Jack didn’t marry me to have me lying here, like this.
Men like their women to be pretty lively and ‘on the go,’ especially when
they marry someone of my sort. Poor old boy! I’m really fond of Jack, you
know. He’s always treated me decently. I hope I’ll get well or else——
All right, yes, of course, I won’t worry. Come again to-morrow. Where are
you going?”
“To my mother’s. She’s got a musical afternoon, and I must look in.
Several grand opera stars and a great pianist. It will be very fireworky,
I’m sure. Good-bye, dear.”
Fay kissed her hand gaily as Claudia smilingly withdrew.
In the hall she met Jack coming in.
“Hallo! Claud.” He heaved a deep sigh. “I say, this is breaking my heart.”
“Don’t think about _your_ heart, think about hers,” said Claudia, putting
her hand on his shoulder. He looked very dejected and some of the youth
had gone out of his face. The contented, well-fed expression was flecked
with something closely resembling unhappiness. “She is not likely to live
for many years, and let’s try and make the best of it for her, Jacky boy.”
“It’s hell hearing her talk about her new songs and going to Paris with
me.... I shall blurt out the truth one day, sure as Fate. It’s lucky I’ve
got a stolid sort of look, but it breaks me up inside. I remember talking
to you once about thinking too much and rootling about for meanings in
life. Why should Fay have to die like this? She hasn’t harmed anyone!”
Claudia shook her head and was silent. Many greater minds than poor
Jack’s had wrestled with that problem, and there had never been, and
never would be, any answer. With Jack, his belated questioning was rather
pathetic. He had never wanted to ask questions, he had been content just
to live, and now his happy-go-lucky love for Fay had turned into tragedy.
As they stood there they could faintly hear the parrot in the distance
still calling, “Chuck it! Chuck it!” accompanied by a hoarse chuckle
that seemed to mock them with some uncanny knowledge. The little hall
was tidy now, but it meant that its volatile mistress would never dash
through it any more.
“I say, Claud,” said Jack, taking off his coat, “what’s come over
Gilbert? I went into court to-day—a fellow I know was interested in
an arbitration case, had money invested—and when we got there I found
Gilbert had been briefed. He started splendidly in that ‘listen to me’
sort of manner, and then he got muddled. He couldn’t remember the name of
the firm he was speaking about, and he had to ask his junior. Everybody
was noticing it. Why, he used to have such a ripping memory! What’s wrong
with the works?”
Claudia was not so alarmed as she well might have been had she known the
symptoms of nerve breakdown.
“Perhaps he took the case up in a hurry, sometimes he has to do that, you
know.”
“No, he didn’t, because the fellow with me told me that he knew he had
been secured for the case a long time ago. I heard someone say he was
going to pieces.”
“He wants a holiday.... Mother will think I am never coming. Go in and
talk to Fay.”
He saw her into her car, and a few minutes later Claudia found herself
alighting on the red carpet outside her old home. The sounds of a violin
played by a master hand reached her as she entered. The Rivingtons were
just going, Mrs. Rivington very shrill and chatty, and the General rather
tottery and deaf.
“I say,” said Mrs. Rivington, with a glint of malice in her eye, “is it
true your friend Frank Hamilton is going to marry Mrs. Jacobs? Good thing
for him, I should say. She’s just rolling in money, almost indecent, and
anyone can see she’s madly in love with him. It’s all very well to talk
art,” sneeringly, “but it usually spells money, doesn’t it? Artists are
just like the rest of us, only they pretend a bit more. He’s always with
her, so I suppose the engagement will be announced soon.”
Claudia attributed the remarks to ill-nature on Mrs. Rivington’s part,
for her chief occupation in life was planting arrows as often as she
could in the weak spots in her friends’ armour. Claudia could afford
to smile serenely in reply. Did she not know whom Frank loved? A woman
rather enjoys a clandestine love-affair, and Claudia hugged to herself
her closer knowledge of Frank’s inner life. She knew she was the core of
it.
“Mr. Hamilton’s in there now, talking to the Duchess of Roxford,”
continued Mrs. Rivington. “Ridiculous how artists are run after, isn’t
it? I don’t suppose he was anyone in particular. Artists never are. Some
people find that interesting, but I must say, personally, I prefer good
breeding. So unmistakable. Good-bye. It’s too dreadful about The Girlie
Girl, but I was right, after all, wasn’t I?”
Claudia stood quietly in the doorway until the violinist, the great
Ysaye, had finished playing. There were many well-known people present,
great names in the social and artistic firmaments, for Circe had always
held a little court all her life, and she had cleverly managed to pursue
her uneven way without offending any of the powerful social leaders, who,
though they always remembered her trespasses against her, generously
spoke with more or less indulgence of them. She was hated by a few, like
Lady Currey, but they did not count for very much. Circe had never been
actively malicious, and she had always been too immersed in her own
affairs to find time to be inquisitive about other people’s, hence she
had acquired a certain reputation for fair dealing and generosity of
character not altogether deserved. Now she very seldom entertained, but
when she did so, she did it superlatively well, and many artists she had
encouraged in their young and aspiring days were glad to do her honour.
The music stopped and she found Frank at her side.
“At last! I have been waiting for you all the afternoon. I was afraid
you were not coming. Claudia, this cannot go on. You are driving me mad.
It is deliberate? Have you all the time just been playing with me?”
“Hush! don’t be so indiscreet.” She smiled, for Mrs. Rivington’s
words returned to her mind. Frank Hamilton attracted by Mrs. Jacob’s
money-bags! “I’ll talk to you later. You shall get me some tea. I must go
over and speak to mother.”
She threaded her way, with handshakes and smiles, to where Circe, in a
most exquisite frock, sat in a shaded corner, among a lot of scented
cushions. She was talking with more animation than usual to a man whose
back was towards Claudia. With her quick eye for beauty, she noticed
that he had a particularly well-shaped head, which was finely set on his
shoulders. Circe was talking in French to him.
“_Eh bien, mon cher, Claudia est très belle, et elle est—_”
Circe caught sight of her, and stopped short. Had it not been almost
impossible, Claudia would have thought that her mother looked distinctly
embarrassed and taken aback. Then the well-known sweet smile drifted over
her still beautiful mouth, and the momentary impression vanished.
“Claudia, we were just talking of you. You are late, child. Let me
introduce to you an old friend, Mr. Mavrocopoulos.”
The man rose and bowed with unusual grace, and Claudia saw a very
well-preserved man of about fifty-five, with black hair flecked with
grey, and remarkably fine dark eyes. She returned his evident look of
interest, and again she received a peculiar impression as of something
that was vaguely familiar and yet somewhat dreamlike. She was aware that
Circe was watching them.
“Have I not met you before?” inquired Claudia. “Your face seems familiar
to me, somehow.”
Something flashed into his eyes, and his lips smiled as he turned to
Circe.
“No, Claudia, I don’t think you can remember Mr. Mavrocopoulos. He has
not been in England for many years.”
“But I saw you when you were a child of three,” said the man. “I remember
you well, very well. I do not pretend that I should have known you as
that child, but I remember you well.”
Claudia knew his name as that of a famous and very wealthy Greek family,
and she recalled a rumour that had once linked it with her mother’s. Had
they found happiness together? Were there golden memories between them?
She wondered curiously how a man and woman felt in such a case, who,
after the lapse of many years, met again. Did yesterday seem as to-day?
Was memory sharp or dulled by time, did they remember the high-water-mark
of their passion, or the moment when they had said good-bye? Were they
glad to meet again? If she and Frank met after many years, would they——?
Then suddenly she heard Fay’s voice saying confidently: “I know you
wouldn’t do the things I’ve done.” But Circe had done them, too, and she
had not had the excuse poor Fay could bring forward.
There were no signs of regret on her mother’s face. She never spoke as
one who finds any bitterness in the dregs of such a past. Indeed, she
always spoke as one who felt that she had fulfilled her destiny, who
has eaten stolen fruit joyously, without a scruple, without a fear. Her
mother’s contempt was for women who looked longingly over the hedge and
were afraid to jump.
With a few more words Claudia left the two together.
Circe’s slanting eyes, carefully made up, but in the shaded light still
siren-like and magnetic, looked for some seconds into the eyes of the man
beside her.
“She is like you, Demetrius, and she has always been my favourite,” she
murmured.
His only answer was to take her hand in his, and raise it to his lips.
“I return to Rome next week, but I take back with me a living picture,
the incarnation of a dream.”
Claudia was sipping the cup of tea that Frank had procured for her, when
she bethought herself that she had not yet seen Patricia.
“Have you seen Pat? It is not humanly possible that she has tucked
herself in a corner!”
His eyes were hungrily devouring her face, and lingering on her lips, so
that she had the pleasant sensation of a secret caress. Mrs. Jacobs! How
ridiculous!
“I saw her disappear half an hour ago in a conspirator-like manner with
Mr. Colin Paton, into that room over there.”
He pointed to a closed door, which was the door of the library.
“Nonsense. What have they got to conspire about?”
There was a little frown between her brows. Colin was _her_ friend.
“Why do men and women usually conspire to be alone together?”
Without answering, Claudia crossed the hall, and abruptly turned the
handle of the library-door.
Seated close together, talking very earnestly, Pat more excited than she
had ever seen her, were the two whom Frank had seen disappear half an
hour before. As a matter of fact, it had only been ten minutes, but Frank
had always had his doubts of Colin’s friendship.
“ ... bushels of apples and immense quantities of ...” Pat was saying,
when her sister came in. “Oh! Claudia, you have come. We’d almost given
you up.”
In an utterly different style from her own, Patricia was looking most
attractive that afternoon. She had on a soft white charmeuse gown, which
showed the long lines of her figure, and clung around her in a manner
calculated to send her admirers crazy. The cool nonchalant look which
she usually wore had given place to something more intense, more human.
Something seemed to have aroused her from her virginal slumber, and is
not that brightness in the eyes, that flush on the cheek, generally
aroused by a male? Claudia took all this in at a glance, and it was not
till afterwards that she had time to reflect on the odd subject-matter of
their earnest conversation.
“I wondered where you were,” said Claudia, rather frigidly. “How do you
do, Colin? I think mother wants you, Pat.” It was a fib, but she had to
explain her entrance.
Then she turned with a sweet but cold smile to Colin Paton, who had
quietly risen.
“I hear you have written a great book and are going to become famous.
Congratulations! I must buy a copy as soon as it comes out.... Frank, I
want some more tea. I’m so thirsty.”
Pachmann was playing as they made their way back to the tea-room, his
fairy-like fingers lightly caressing the keys into exquisite joyousness.
“I want you to come to the studio to dinner next Monday,” said Frank
eagerly. “You always said you’d like to meet Henry Bridgeman and his
wife if I could arrange it?” Claudia was a great admirer of Bridgeman’s
etchings. “Well, they are coming to dinner at the studio on Monday. Will
you come too?”
“Of course, I shall be delighted,” returned Claudia, not even troubling
to think of her engagements. “I shall love it. And”—with a hard
laugh—“I’ll come for a sitting to-morrow if you like, before I go to
Fay.... Dear, you mustn’t say such things here. It’s compromising.” A
loud chord on the piano, immediately followed by the sound of a man’s
voice, made her raise a warning finger. “Hush!”
The words came clearly enough to both of them as they stood together.
“Ah! fill the Cup, what boots it to repeat,
How Time is slipping underneath our feet:
Better be jocund with the fruitful grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter fruit.”
It was Liza Lehmann’s setting, and the accompaniment thundered and
rumbled, and then softened down to a plaintive, appealing melody.
It might have been the voice of Circe herself, beckoning, alluring,
promising....
“Ah! love, could you and I with Fate conspire
To grasp the sorry scheme of things entire
Would we....”
After all, why had she so many scruples? How did she come to be possessed
of them? Why did she hesitate to grasp her happiness?
She looked up and found Colin Paton’s eyes fixed upon her, and they wore
an expression she did not know.
Then she heard Frank’s voice murmuring in her ear. “Claudia, if you only
knew how much I love you. If you would only trust yourself to me. Why are
you afraid?”
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully, “I don’t know.”
She gave him a particularly tender smile, out of sheer feminine
perverseness, impelled by something that rankled and festered within her.
Colin Paton should be made to understand that there was at least one man
who was a real friend to her, yes, and might be more.
“Turn down an empty Glass....”
Why not?