A SCENE IN THE HOME
Hubert Brett could never quite escape from business; he analysed
himself too much. His action sprung from impulse, education, ancestry,
whatever source philosophers may choose to say, but it was followed by
a sequel due to his own introspection. He tended in this way to set up
something like a chain--a sequence of states which might almost be
expected after any given act.
He might have owned, found in a candid vein, that selfishness was his
besetting fault. It had been so--this would be his excuse, if he
indeed admitted what certainly he knew--it had been so from birth; at
any rate since he recalled himself an only son and younger than his
only sister, pampered and indulged so far as even a small child could
wish. He always _had_ got what he wanted. Hence naturally sprang a
sort of self-centredom, a tendency to think first of what _he_ desired,
something which, well, hang it all, no, it wasn't selfishness, but
merely that self-confidence which all men who meant to get things done
must first of all possess....
None the less, every now and then (he noticed it more, since Helena had
been with him), he did, he knew, do things no doubt quite justifiable
if one were thinking only of success, efficiency, and so forth; but
rather beastly from the other person's--from Helena's--standpoint. It
was so easy, when defending your own interests (and otherwise you'd get
no work done ever), to be thoughtless, irritable, mean.
About those lectures or whatever they were of the poor little girl's,
for instance....
Ought he, came the doubt when he was back in his own den at one minute
past five o'clock--ought he to have given in to her for once, if she
was really so immensely keen to take him? After all there often were
days when he had finished work easily by six o'clock; whole months,
even, between books, when he did no work after tea; but there was such
a thing as System, and though a married man, he was quite bachelor
enough to love this time of solitude with pipe and books. Helena was
sweet; no man could ever have been luckier about his wife; but he saw
her for much more than one-half the day and all of it on Sundays.
Yes really, he could not see that she had any right to look for more.
Perhaps those City men took their wives to these precious causeries,
but they were ever so much more away. Oh yes, he saw a lot of her and
however much she might complain, he knew that she was really lucky....
All the same, as he never had and the dear child wanted it, perhaps----?
Whereat Hubert, having worked comfortably around his usual
circle--Selfishness, Remorse, Ample Self-Excuse, and Noble
Expiation--got up, feeling very light of heart, and went back to the
drawing-room.
Helena was startled. She never thought of tragedies, she had known
none in her well-sheltered days, or she might easily have feared that
there was something wrong. Never in these two years and more had he
come back, once gone, till dinner-time. Many modern wives might have
resented such a sudden entry. Luckily this specimen was in no more
compromising a position than that of eating the last jam sandwich, a
thing she never could resist before Lily came and took away the tea.
She waved it at him without shame.
"Hullo!" she said. "Why what's brought you back?"
He smiled indulgently. He liked her to be young.
"Look here, Helena," he said, "I've been feeling I was a bit of a brute
about those causeries of yours. I could easily spare an evening some
day, if you'd like me to. Let's see the list and then we'll fix on
one."
Many modern wives, again, might have been tiresome about an amende
honourable indeed but so obviously planned. Not Helena, however. She
leapt to get the circular, all thrilled excitement and babbling
gratitude.
Hubert ran a proud finger down the list. "Hullo," he said in
unflattering surprise. "They've got some quite good men."
He had always utterly ignored her ventures in self-education. He did
not, for one thing, approve of them; and he had vaguely thought they
were connected with the parish church, Pleasant Sunday Evenings, and
everything like that.
"I'm so glad you're pleased," she put in, quite without irony.
"That's the one we'll do together," he said, and read out--"'January
29: Art as a Religion.--G. K. Shaw.' And only ten days off, too!"
It was the best, far, on the list; he would perhaps be called on, as a
local author, to make some remarks; and he might meet the lecturer....
"Oh, but how splendid!" she cried, duly grateful. "Just the very one I
wanted you to come to. You really _are_ a dear! And that's a late one
too, at eight o'clock, because the lecturer objected, so your old work
won't suffer after all!"
She talked of it for days to come, what great fun it would be, till
Hubert felt even more guilty. He had never realised how much she felt
the fact of his not coming. He had not ever heard, you see, dear Mrs.
Boyd say: "What! No husband again? I don't think you keep him in at
_all_ good order; does she, Kenneth?"--as one who should say, "You have
no power over him, at all!" He did not guess how lonely she had felt
sometimes when Geoffrey Alison could not escort her. Still he saw her
great keenness now and told himself he would have gone to these
lectures before--if only he had known they were not University
Extension.
He was distinctly flattered by the way she harped upon this small
concession. Little things like that had a curious power of making
Hubert Brett well satisfied with life.
She could see that afresh, six mornings later.
He was opening his letters, a process which made breakfast quite a
nervous time for her, because one small reverse--no more than an
unflattering review--upset him so and sometimes ruined his whole
morning's work, which meant he would be silent and depressed at
lunch-time.
To-day, however, having opened first the only letter in an unknown hand
as promising the most adventure, he said with real exhilaration:
"Ah, that's encouraging. That bucks one up!"
"What, good news, Hugh dear?" she inquired, delighted.
"Yes, the Kit Kat Club has asked me as its guest of honour."
Inwardly she was a little disappointed; she had hoped it would be some
money.
"How excellent!" she said, good wife; and then, "What _is_ the Kit Kat
Club?"
"Why, it's a well-known literary club," he answered, slightly hurt.
"They meet"--he read the card again--"at Lewisham."
"Capital!" she said: not because she had ever heard of Lewisham as a
great literary centre, but because he was so terrifically pleased.
"And when is it to be?"
"Very short notice," he said, looking once more at the invitation.
"This very Tuesday, January 29th. Lucky we never dine out!"
"But Hugh," she began, oh so disappointed, and then stopped. She had
told every one--well, Mrs. Boyd--that she was bringing Hugh this
time....
He understood. "Why, it's the lecture or debate," he said. "I _am_
sorry." There clearly was no question which should go. Then, much
more gently, remembering her keenness: "Never mind, little girl: we'll
find another nice debate. Let's see the list and we will pick one now."
Treats, of course, are seldom a success the second time. Helena, now,
did not dash for the list. In fact Hubert, looking up, saw that great
tears were rolling down her cheeks.
She could have killed herself for shame. It only proved how difficult
it was to be grown up, if you began too late!
And Hubert was not even touched by it. The silly action had no
sanction in success.
He got up angrily, without a word, but making it clear that he had
thought her selfish. He sat on the armchair and took up the
_Spectator_. This announced that breakfast was now over.
Helena felt that his rebuke was thoroughly deserved. What must he
think of her, when they took place each week and he had offered to come
to another? Of course he didn't know about that rude pig, Mrs. Boyd!
"Hugh dear," she said, also getting up, "I am so sorry; I feel such a
beast. It's only I was disappointed. Of course my meeting's simply
nothing. I ought to have been glad about the Kit Kats, and I am."
Some men, after that, would possibly have changed their minds and taken
her to her dear meeting; but to Hubert nothing came before success.
"That's a dear unselfish little wife," he answered soothingly and gave
her a forgiving kiss. The episode was closed.
"You're sure it is the twenty-ninth of this month?" she therefore
angered him by asking. Helena could not believe in Fate being so
brutal.
"Well, there's the card," he answered brusquely.
She took it up, filled with an abrupt, unchristian desire to tear it
into fragments. It had a silly black cat in silhouette upon it and she
_had_ thought he would come at last....
"Why Klub with a K?" she did allow herself to ask.
"Just a literary conceit, I suppose," he answered, trying to control
his voice; and that silenced her, because she had no theories as to
what a literary conceit might be.
But Hubert could not quite allow the matter to rest there. He felt
that she was thinking he had acted selfishly and he must prove to her
that everything would be all right. What odd disguises can Remorse
assume!
"You can get Alison to take you," he threw out. "He's sure to be
going."
"Oh no," answered Helena. "I told him you were coming. He'll be
booked. No, I shan't go at all."
Face Mrs. Boyd exultant? No, not she. Afterwards, if needed, some
excuse. But anyhow not that! She had said she was bringing Hubert.
"That's silly, my dear." He did not often call her that. "Alison will
take you gladly, I know, or if not you can go alone. You often have
before."
"Yes," she retorted, "but not when I've told every one that you were
taking me. I have a little pride."
He shut his paper and got up. He never could bear scenes.
"Just as you like," he said, trying to speak evenly. "It's your
concern. I was only thinking of your comfort. Whatever you do won't
hurt _me_."
* * * * *
A man can escape everything except himself; and so it chanced that
Hubert Brett felt a brute twice, repented twice, about one causerie.
He felt it most acutely in his little room.
He very nearly went back to her now, a second time, and said so; but
then he remembered what a nasty scene it had been, about nothing. Of
course in the old anti-marriage days it had been his pet theory that
every wedded pair inevitably--by force of Nature, which meant every one
to dwell apart--ended in continued rows; but it had seemed so quite
impossible with Helena. Perhaps it always did!...
So sweet and pliable and ignorant of life she had been--yes, this was a
new Helena and more like the old Ruth!
No, he would not go back.
He would be hanged if he encouraged her.