HONORIA AGAIN
7, Fig Tree Court, Temple.
_March_ 20, 1902.
DEAR HONORIA,--
I am going down to spend Easter with my people in South
Wales. Before I leave I should so very much like a long talk
with you where we can talk freely and undisturbed. That is
impossible at the Office for a hundred reasons, especially
now that Beryl Claridge has taken to working early in her
new-found zeal, while Bertie Adams deems it his duty to stay
late. I am--really, truly--grieved to hear that your mother
is so ill again. I would not ask to meet her--even if she
was well enough to receive people--because she does not know
me and when one is as ill as she is, the introduction to a
stranger is a horrid jar. But if you _could_ fit in say an
hour's detachment from her side--is it "bed-side" or is she
able to get up?--and could receive me in your own
sitting-room, why then we could have that full and free talk
I should like on your affairs and on mine and on the joint
affairs of _Fraser and Warren_.
Yours sincerely,
D. V. W.
DEAR DAVID,--
Come by all means. The wish for a talk is fully reciprocated
on my side. Mother generally tries to sleep in the afternoon
between three and six, and a Nurse is then with her.
Yours sincerely,
H. F.
"Mr. David Williams wishes to see you, Miss," said a waiter,
meeting Honoria on a Thursday afternoon, as she was emerging into
their tiny hall from her mother's room.
"Show him up, please.... Ah _there_ you are, _David_. We must both
talk rather low as mother is easily waked. Come into my study;
fortunately it is at the other end of the flat."
* * * * *
They reach the study, and Honoria closes the door softly but firmly
behind them.
"We never do kiss as a rule, having long ago given up such a messy
form of greeting; but certainly we wouldn't under these
circumstances lest we could be seen from the opposite windows and
thought to be 'engaged'; but though I may seem a little frigid in
greeting you, it is only because of the clothes you are
wearing'--You understand, don't you--?"
"Quite, dearest. We cannot be too careful. Besides we long ago
agreed to be modern and sanitary in our manners."
"Won't you smoke?"
"Well, perhaps it would be more restful," said David, "more manly;
but as a matter of fact of late I have been rather 'off' smoking. It
is very wasteful, and as far as I am concerned it never produced
much effect--either way--on the nerves. Still, it gives one a nice
manly flavour. I always liked the smell of a smoking-room.... And
your mother: how is she?"
"Very bad, I fear. The doctor tells me she can't last much longer,
and hypocritical as the phrase sounds I couldn't wish her to, unless
these pains can be mitigated, and this dreadful distress in
breathing.... I wonder if some day _I_ shall be like that, and if
behind my back a daughter will be saying she couldn't wish me to
live much longer, unless, etc. I shall miss her _frightfully_, if
she does die.... Armstrong has been more than kind. He has got a
woman's heart for tenderness. He thinks every day of some fresh
palliative until the doctors quite dislike him. Fortunately his
kindness gives mother a fleeting gleam of pleasure. She wants me to
marry him--I don't know, I'm sure.... Whilst she's so bad I don't
feel I could take any interest in love-making--and I suppose we
_should_ make love in a perfunctory way--We're all of us so bound by
conventions. We try to feel dismal at funerals, when often the
weather is radiant and the ride down to Brookwood most exhilarating.
And love-making is supposed to go with marriage ... heigh-ho! What
should you say if I _did_ marry--Major Armstrong...? Did you ever
hear of such a ridiculous name as Petworth? I should have to call
him 'Pet' and every one would think I had gone sentimental in middle
age. How _can_ parents be so unthinking about Christian names? He
can't see the thing as I do; it is almost the only subject on which
he is 'huffy.' _You_ are the other, about which more anon. He says
the Petworth property meant _everything_ to the Armstrongs, to _his_
branch of the Armstrongs. But for that, they might have been any
other kind of Armstrong--it always kept him straight at school and
in the army, he says, to remember he was an Armstrong of Petworth.
They have held that poor little property (_I_ call it) alongside the
Egmonts and the Leconfields for three hundred years, though they've
been miserably poor. His second name is James--Petworth James
Armstrong. But he loathes being called 'Jimmy.'
"Of course, dear, I've no illusions. I'm not bad to look at--indeed
I sometimes quite admire my figure when I see myself after my bath
in the cheval glass--but I'm pretty well sure that one of the
factors in Pet's admiration for me was my income. Mother, it seems,
has a little of her own, from one of her aunts, and if the poor
darling is taken--though it is simply horrid considering that
_if_--only that she has talked so freely to Army--I think I like
'Army' far better than 'Pet'--Well I mean she's been trying to tell
him ever since he first came to call that when she is gone I shall
have, all told, in my own right, Five thousand a year. So I took the
first opportunity of letting _him_ know that Two thousand a year of
that would be held in reserve for the work of the firm and for the
Woman's Cause generally.... Look here, I won't babble on much
longer.... I know you're dying to make _me_ confidences.... We'll
ring for tea to be sent in here, and whilst the waiter is coming and
going--Don't they take _such_ a time about it, when they're _de
trop_?--we'll talk of ordinary things that can be shouted from the
_house tops_.
"I haven't been to the Office for three days. Does everything seem
to be going on all right?"
_David_: "Quite all right. Bertie Adams tries dumbly to express in
his eyes his determination to see the firm and me through all our
troubles and adventures. I wish I could convey a discreet hint to
him not to be so _blatantly_ discreet. If there were a Sherlock
Holmes about the place he would spot at once that Adams and I shared
a secret.... But about Beryl--" (Enter waiter....)
_Honoria_ (to waiter): "Oh--er--tea for two please. Remember it must
be China and the still-room maids _must_ see that the water has been
fresh-boiled. And buttered toast--or if you've got muffins...? You
have? Well, then muffins; and of course jam and cake. And--would you
mind--you always try, I know--bringing the things in very
quietly--here--? Because Lady Fraser is so easily waked..."
(The Swiss waiter goes out, firmly convinced that Honoria's anxiety
for her lady mother is really due to the desire that the mother
should not interrupt a flirtation and a clandestine tea.)
_Honoria_: "Well, about Beryl?"
_David_: "Beryl, I should say, is going to become a great woman of
business. But for that, and--I think--a curious streak of fidelity
to her vacillating architect ('How happy could I be with either,'
don't you know, _he_ seems to feel--just now they say he is living
steadily at Storrington with his wife No. 1, who is ill, poor
thing) ... but for that and this, I think Beryl would enjoy a
flirtation with me. She can't quite make me out, and my unwavering
severity of manner. Her cross-questioning sometimes is maddening--or
it might become so, but that with both of us--you and me--retiring
so much into the background she has to lead such a strenuous life
and see one after the other the more important clients. Of
course--here's the tea..."
(Brief interval during which the waiter does much unnecessary laying
out of the tea until Honoria says: "Don't let me keep you. I know
you are busy at this time. I will ring if we want anything.") David
continues: "Of course I come in for my share of the work after six.
On one point Beryl is firm; she doesn't mind coming at nine or at
eight or at half-past seven in the morning, but she _must_ be back
in Chelsea by half-past five to see her babies, wash them and put
them to bed. She has a tiny little house, she tells me, near
Trafalgar Square, and fortunately she's got an excellent and devoted
nurse, one of those rare treasures that questions nothing and is
only interested in the business in hand. She and a cook-general make
up the establishment. Before Mrs. Architect No. 1 became ill, Mr.
Architect used to visit her there pretty regularly, and is assumed
to be Mr. Claridge.... Well: to finish up about Beryl: I think
you--we--can trust her. She may be odd in her notions of morality,
but in finance or business she's as honest--as--a man."
"My dear Vivie--I mean David--what a strange thing for _you_ to
say! I suppose it is part of your make-up--goes with the clothes and
that turn-over collar, and the little safety pin through the tie--?"
_David_: "No, I said it deliberately. Men are mostly hateful things,
but I think in business they're more dependable than women--think
more about telling a lie or letting any one down. The point for you
to seize on is this--if you haven't noticed it already: that Beryl
has become an uncommonly good business woman. And what's more, my
dear, you've improved _her_ just as you improved _me_" (Honoria
deprecates this with a gesture, as she sits looking into the fire).
"Beryl's talk is getting ever so much less reckless. And she takes
jolly good care not to scandalize a client. She finds Adams--she
tells me--so severe at the least jest or personality that she only
talks to him now on business matters, and finds him a great
stand-by; and the other day she told Miss A.--as you call the senior
clerk--she ought to be ashamed of herself, bringing in a copy of the
_Vie Parisienne_. The way she settled Mrs. Gordon's affairs--you
remember, No. 3875 you catalogued the case--was masterly; and Mrs.
G. has insisted on paying 5 per cent. commission on the recovered
property. And it was Beryl who found out that leakage in the
'Variegated Tea Rooms' statement of accounts. I hadn't spotted it.
No. I think we needn't be anxious about Beryl, especially whilst I
am in Wales and you are giving yourself up--as you ought to do--to
your mother. But it's coming to _this_, Honoria--" (Enter waiter.
David says "Oh, damn," half audibly. Waiter is confirmed in his
suspicions, but as he likes Honoria immensely resolves to say
nothing about them in the Steward's room. She is such a kind young
lady. He explains he has come to take the tea things away, and
Honoria replies "Capital idea! Now, David, you'll be able to have
the whole table for your accounts!").... "It's coming to _this_,
Honoria," says David, clearing his throat, "that you will soon be
wanting not to be bothered any more with the affairs of _Fraser and
Warren_, and after I really get into the Law business I too shall
require to detach myself. Let us therefore be thankful that Beryl is
shaping so well. I rather think this summer you will have to get
more office accommodation and give her some more responsible women
to help her.... _Now_ finish what you were saying about Major
Armstrong."
_Honoria_: "Of _course_ I shall marry him some day. I suppose I felt
that the day after I first met him. But it amuses me to be under no
illusion. I am sure this is what happened two years ago--or whenever
it was he came back wounded from your favourite haunt, South Africa.
Michael Rossiter--who likes 'Army' enormously--I think they were at
school or college together--said to Linda, his wife: 'Here's
Armstrong. One of the best. Wants to marry. Wife must have a little
money, otherwise he'll have to go on letting Petworth Manor. And
here's Honoria Fraser, one of the finest women I've ever met.
Getting a little long in the tooth--or will be soon. Let's bring 'em
together and make a match of it.'
"So we are each convoked for a luncheon, with a projected
adjournment to Kew--which _you_ spoilt--and there it is. But joking
apart, 'Army' is a dear and I am sure by now he wants me even more
than my money--and I certainly want him. I'm rising thirty and I
long for children and don't want 'em to come to me too late in
life."
_David_: "You said he didn't like _me_..."
_Honoria_: "Oh that was half nonsense. When we all met last Sunday
at the Rossiters he became very jealous and suspicious. Asked who
was that whipper-snapper--I said you neither whipped nor snapped,
especially if kindly treated. He said then who was that Madonna
young man--a phrase it appears he'd picked up from Lord Cromer,
who used to apply it to every new arrival from the Foreign
Office--Armstrong was once his military secretary. I was surprised
to hear he thought you womanish--I spoke of your fencing,
riding,--was just going to add 'hockey,' and 'croquet': then
remembered they might be thought feminine pastimes, so referred to
your swimming. Military men always respect a good swimmer; I fancy
because many of them funk the water.... I was just going on to
explain that you were a cousin of a great friend of mine and helped
me in my business, when a commissionaire came from Quansions in a
hansom to say that mother was feeling very bad again. 'Army' and I
went back in the hansom, but I was crying a little and being a
gentleman he did not press his suit..."
Enter Lady Fraser's nurse on tiptoe. Says in a very hushed voice
"Major Armstrong has called, Miss Fraser. He came to ask about Lady
Fraser. I said if anything she was a bit better and had had a good
sleep. He then asked if he might see you."
_Honoria_: "Certainly. Would you mind showing him in here? It will
save my ringing for the waiter."
Enter Major Armstrong. At the sight of David he flushes and looks
fierce.
_Honoria_: "So glad you've come, dear Major. I hear mother has had a
good nap. I must go to her presently. You know David Vavasour
Williams?--Davy! You really _must_ leave out your second name! It
gets so fatiguing having to say it every time I introduce you."
Armstrong bows stiffly and David, standing with one well-shaped foot
in a neat boot on the curb of the fireplace, looks up and returns
the bow.
_Honoria_: "This won't do. You are two of my dearest friends, and
yet you hardly greet one another. I always determined from the age
of fifteen onwards I would never pass my life as men and women in a
novel do--letting misunderstandings creep on and on where fifty
words might settle them. _Army!_ You've often asked me to marry
you--or at least so I've understood your broken sentences. I never
refused you in so many words. Now I say distinctly 'Yes'--if you'll
have me. Only, you know quite well I can't actually marry you whilst
mother lies so ill..."
Major Armstrong, very red in the face, in a mixture of exultation,
sympathy and annoyance that the affairs of his heart are being
discussed before a whipper-snapper stranger--says: "_Honoria!_ Do
you _mean_ it? Oh..."
_Honoria_: "Of course I mean it! And if I drew back you could now
have a breach-of-promise-of-marriage action, with David as an
important witness. D.V.W.--who by the bye is a cousin of my
_greatest friend_--my friend for life, whether you like her--as you
ought to do--or not--Vivie Warren.... David is reading for the Bar;
and besides being your witness to what I have just said, might--if
you deferred your action long enough--be your Counsel.... Now look
here," (with a catch in the voice) "you two dear things. My nerves
are all to bits.... I haven't slept properly for nights and nights.
David, dear, if you _must_ talk any more business before you go down
to Wales, you must come and see me to-morrow.... Darling mother! I
can't _bear_ the thought you may not live to see my happiness."
(David discreetly withdraws without a formal good-bye, and as he
goes out and the firelight flickers up, sees Armstrong take Honoria
in his arms.)