E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Carla Foust, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note:
Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printer
errors have been changed and are listed at the end. All other
inconsistencies are as in the original.
THE TWELFTH HOUR
by
ADA LEVERSON
London
Chapman & Hall
Originally published 1907 by Grant Richards Ltd.
Reissued 1951 by arrangement with the Richards Press Ltd.
Printed by Brueder Rosenbaum, Vienna, Austria
Cat. No. 5090/4
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I FELICITY 7
II THE TRIALS OF WOODVILLE 23
III A LOVE SCENE 32
IV "AUNT WILLIAM" 40
V ARTHUR MERVYN AT HOME 55
VI AN AGREEABLE RATTLE 70
VII THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY 82
VIII FELICITY AND HER CLIENTS 100
IX A DINNER AT WILLIS'S 112
X THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE 125
XI SAVILE AND SYLVIA 138
XII AT THE STUDIO 148
XIII AT MRS. OGILVIE'S 155
XIV LORD CHETWODE 166
XV MADAME TUSSAUD'S 175
XVI A GOLDEN DAY 189
XVII SAVILE TAKES A LINE 195
XVIII FELICITY'S ENGAGEMENTS 202
XIX THE VELVET CASE 216
XX ZERO, THE SOOTHSAYER 232
XXI "THE OTHER GIRL" 246
XXII SAVILE AND JASMYN 255
XXIII SAVILE AND BERTIE 261
XXIV THE EXPLANATION 267
XXV THE QUARREL 274
XXVI VERA'S ADVENTURE 282
XXVII AUNT WILLIAM'S DAY 292
XXVIII THE TWELFTH HOUR 302
CHAPTER I
FELICITY
"Hallo, Greenstock! Lady Chetwode in?"
"Her ladyship is not at home, sir. But she is sure to see you, Master
Savile," said the butler, with a sudden and depressing change of manner,
from correct impassibility to the conventional familiarity of a
patronising old retainer.
"Dressing, eh? You look all right Greenstock."
"Well, I am well, and I am not well, Master Savile, if you can
understand that, sir. My harsthma" (so he pronounced it), "'as been
exceedingly troublesome lately."
"Ah, that's capital!" Not listening, the boy--he was sixteen, dark, and
very handsome, with a determined expression, and generally with an air
of more self-control than seemed required for the occasion--walked up
deliberately, three steps at a time, knocked, with emphasis, at his
sister's dressing-room door, and said--
"I say, Felicity, can I come in?"
"Who's there? Don't come in!"
Upon which invitation he entered the room with a firm step.
"Oh, it's you, Savile darling. I am glad to see you! Dear pet! Come and
tell me all about everything--papa and the party--and, look out, dear,
don't tread on my dresses! Give Mr. Crofton a chair, Everett. Even you
mustn't sit down on a perfectly new hat!"
Felicity was a lovely little blonde creature about twenty-five years
old, dressed in a floating Watteau-like garment of vaporous blue,
painted with faded pink roses. She was seated in a large carved and
gilded chair, opposite an excessively Louis-Quinze mirror, while her
pale golden hair was being brushed out by a brown, inanimate-looking
maid. Her little oval face, with its soft cloudy hair growing low on the
forehead, long blue eyes, and rosebud mouth, had something of the
romantic improbability of an eighteenth-century miniature. From the age
of two Felicity had been an acknowledged beauty. She profited by her
grasp of this fact merely by being more frank than most charming people,
and more natural than most disagreeable ones. With little
self-consciousness, she took a cool sportsmanlike pleasure in the effect
she produced, and perhaps enjoyed the envy and admiration she had
excited in her perambulator in Kensington Gardens almost as much as her
most showy successes in later life.
The most effective of these (so far) had been her marriage. Hopelessly
bowled over, as he called it, by her detailed loveliness, and not even
frightened by her general brilliance, Lord Chetwode had insisted on her
making the match of the previous season. He was a good-looking, amiable,
and wealthy young man, who was as lavish as if he had not had a penny,
and who showed his extravagantly long descent chiefly by being (for a
racing man) rather eccentrically interested in the subject of
decoration.
He was an owner of racehorses and a collector of curiosities, and these
tastes gave him certain interests apart from his wife. He was, however,
very much in love with her, and showed it chiefly by writing her nearly
every day long, elaborate, and conspicuously illegible love-letters. She
was not an expert in handwriting, nor had she time or patience to
decipher them. So she merely treasured them (unread) in a green and
white striped silk box. For under all her outward sentimentality,
Felicity was full of tenderness, especially for her husband. This was
not surprising, for he was a most agreeable companion, a great friend,
quite devoted to her, to his pretty home in London, and his picturesque
old house in the country, from all of which, however, he was as a rule
markedly absent. If one asked after Chetwode, the answer was nearly
always that he was away.
He had chosen every detail of the house in Park Street with a patience
worthy of his passion. In the bedroom, especially, not a concession was
made, not a point stretched. All was purest Louis-Quinze. But in spite
of this, and amidst all her tapestry and old French furniture, Felicity
had a very contemporary air. About everything was the recent look
characteristic of the home of a lately married couple. The room looked
as if it had been decorated the day before for a twentieth-century
Madame de Pompadour. But, if the background was almost archaeological,
the atmosphere was absolutely modern. In this incongruity was a certain
fascination.
Though the bridal freshness still lingered, a more wilful element was
also observable. Invitation-cards, race-cards, the _Daily Mail_,
magazines, English and French novels, and cigarettes were freely
scattered about, and an expert would have seen at a glance that the
dresses lying in every direction could not have formed part of any
trousseau. They had obviously been chosen with (or against) the advice
of Lord Chetwode.
Savile sat down on a pink curved sofa, and said definitely--
"Look here, Felicity, I want to speak to you."
"Yes, darling?"
"Does Chetwode know what's going to win the Cambridgeshire?"
"How can he know, darling? Would it be fair? Of course he has some vague
_idea_. Candid Friend he said was the favourite. He says it's a
certainty. But _his_ certainties! (Everett, look out. You've been
overdoing the waving lately. Remember how careful I have to be not to
look like a wax-doll in a hair-dresser's shop ... with _my_ complexion)!
Go on, Savile,--what's the party going to be like?"
"Like nothing on earth, my dear, as usual. One of the governor's
baffling entertainments."
"Well, I don't care what people say, Savile! I think papa's parties are
the greatest fun one can get anywhere. It's a wonderful mixture,--a sort
of Russian salad. How exciting it is, for instance, never being quite
sure whether one is going to be taken to dinner by--Lord Rosebery,
or--Little Tich!"
"As it happens, my dear, they've both refused," said Savile ironically.
"Oh, Savile, don't be funny when I've no time to laugh. Do you deny
papa's peculiar talent for celebrities? Is De Valdez coming?"
"The Spanish composer? Oh, rather! He's coming over about his new opera.
He's all right. At least, I bear him rather, but girls like him."
"And who will be the great card this time, Savile?"
"Of course, Roy Beaumont, the inventor."
"What on earth's he invented?"
"Himself, I should think. He's only about twenty-one. Roy's a capital
chap, really. The only thing is, he wears hats that he thinks suit him.
Otherwise he dresses rather well, for a dandy."
"Why on earth shouldn't his hats suit him?" said Lady Chetwode in
surprise.
"Oh, never mind! I can't go into all that. Why, because you ought to
wear things, because they're _right_, not because----Oh, girls don't
understand dress! Don't let's fatigue ourselves discussing it. Any one
can see you've never been to Eton."
"Well, I should rather hope they could," murmured Felicity, looking in
the glass.
"F. J. Rivers and Arthur Mervyn, the actor, are coming, and--oh, a lot
more."
"I see, it's a clever party. Isn't it fun, Savile, being the only stupid
person in a crowd of clever people? They make such a fuss about one.
Aren't any real people coming?"
"A few. Some heavy M.P.'s and their wives, and Aunt William, and of
course old Ridokanaki."
"Oh, the Greek millionaire,--the banker?"
"Don't call him the banker; it reminds me of _The Hunting of the
Snark_."
Felicity laughed.
"Yes; Mr. Ridokanaki is rather like a sort of Snark, and you and papa
are hunting him for Sylvia. Will it come off?"
"Shouldn't think so," said Savile thoughtfully. "He's rather a bore, but
he's a good sort. Of course, Sylvia ought to marry him. All the pretty
girls are marrying these Anglo-Aliens. He's very keen. But about my
affairs--I say, Everett, do take away these fluffy rustling things."
Everett having completed her task, with a stiff smile, and a rainbow of
chiffons over her arm, faded away.
Felicity, completely dressed, turned her chair round and put up her
absurd little high-heeled shoes.
"Now then, fire away, old boy."
Savile, taking this command literally, stretched out his hand for the
cigarettes. Felicity snatched them away.
"How dare you! You won't grow any more! Here, have a chocolate!"
Savile looked at her with a pitying smile and said slowly--
"What rot! Grow! As if I wanted to grow! As if I had the time! I've got
more serious things than that to do I can tell you. I have two rather
awful troubles. Look here. Things are a bit off at home just now. The
Governor is furious about Chetwode not coming to the party."
Lady Chetwode's colour deepened.
"Well, what about me, Savile? Do you think I'm pleased? Is it my fault
the Cambridgeshire's run on Wednesday? Do be just to me! Do I make the
racing engagements? You can't pretend that I can alter the rules of
Newmarket because papa chooses to give a lot of absurd parties!"
"I know, old girl--but can't you make him give it up?"
"Who ever yet made Chetwode give up anything he wants to do? Besides,
it's not like a dinner-party, or his wedding, or anything like that,
Savile, you know. After all, he isn't _bound_ to be there!"
"All right; only it's the first thing we've given since your marriage
and----"
"I know, dear. I'm very angry about it. Very. Besides, I'm sure I don't
care if the darling prefers racing! Don't you know by this time that
whenever Chetwode is particularly wanted he is sure to be either at
Kempton or at Christie's?"
"Spending at Christie's what he's lost at Kempton, I suppose."
"Naturally, Savile. And if he prefers his horses, and his jockeys, and
his bookmakers, and even his old furniture, to taking his own wife to
her own father's party----"
"Hallo, old girl, don't tell me you haven't everything under the sun you
want! Because that would be a bit too thick," said Savile, sitting up.
"Who says I haven't?"
"No one, if you don't."
"I should hope not!"
Then Felicity murmured relentingly--
"Dear Chetwode! He's so heavenly in some ways. No, I won't worry and
oppose him, it's a fatal mistake. We'll make it up to you later--stay
with you on the river in August or something. What price you, dear?
What's your trouble?"
Savile fumbled a good deal with a tassel, laughed mirthlessly, frowned
gloomily, and then said with a jerk: "What price me? No price. It's her.
You know."
Felicity replied patiently.
"You always say that, and you never get any further,--never."
"Well, my dear, don't you see--there's two things."
"Go on."
"What ought a chap to do who,--I've consulted men of the world, and yet
I think you know best. You're so celebrated as a confidante."
"Well?" said his sister.
"What ought a chap to do--who ... oh, well ... if a chap--say a chap
has--well--a girl, say, frightfully keen on him (for the sake of the
argument), and she's a decent sort of girl, and at the same time the
poor chap is frightfully keen on another girl, who is frightfully keen
on another chap--who is a very decent chap too, mind you ... what ought
he to do?"
"Which chap, Savile?"
"Oh, don't be so muddle-headed, Felicity! Pull yourself together, can't
you? _Me_, of course!"
"Oh, you!"
"Yes."
"You mean Dolly Clive is in love with you" (Savile winced at the
feminine explicitness), "and you are in love with some one else, and
it's quite hopeless."
"I don't quite say that. But there are tremendous difficulties."
"Is she married? Oh, I do believe she's married. Oh, Savile! How
extraordinary and horrid of you!"
"Oh, it's all right, Felicity," said Savile, with a reassuring nod, at
which she laughed.
"I'm sure it is, dear. But who on earth is it?"
Savile took a photograph out of his pocket, and blushingly showed it to
his sister, with his head turned away.
As she looked at it her face expressed the most unfeigned bewilderment.
"Aunt William? But this is very sudden.... Oh, it's some mistake,
surely! You _can't_ be in love with Aunt William!"
With a howl of fury Savile snatched the portrait from her.
It was a quaint, faded photograph of an elderly aunt of his taken in the
early seventies. It represented a woman with an amiable expression and a
pointed face; parted hair, with a roll on the top, and what was in those
days known as an Alexandra curl on the left shoulder. She was leaning
her head on her hand, and her elbow on a vague shelf or balcony. The
photograph was oval in shape, and looked as if the lady were looking out
of a window. At the base of the window was a kind of board, on which was
written in her own handwriting, magnified (in white letters, relieved on
black), the beautiful words, "Yours truly, Mary Crofton."
"You are an idiot, Felicity!" said Savile angrily. "You make fun of
everything! I gave it you by mistake. I took it from Aunt William's
album for a joke. Give it me."
"Don't snatch! I want another prehistoric peep--and now tell me the real
person, dear," said Felicity, trying not to laugh.
"Oh no, you don't! I just shan't now."
"Mayn't I see the real one?"
Savile, after a glance at Aunt William, gave a short laugh, and said,
putting it away--
"Look here, and try to listen. This is how I stand. Last holidays, at
Christmas, I proposed to Dolly Clive in the square. She accepted me.
Very well. This holidays, I saw some one else; what is a fellow to do?
And then I went completely off my head about her, as any chap with a
grain of sense would do, and Doll's no more to me now than----"
"Aunt William," said Lady Chetwode.
"As a gentleman, I'm bound to Dolly; though, _don't_ forget I always
told her that if when she came out she met a chap she liked better, she
was quite free; (not but what I jolly well intended to punch the chap's
head). Still, there it was! Then this happens! And this time I fell
really in love."
"Where?"
"Never mind where. At a concert."
"But what concert, Savile?"
"_A_ concert."
"Whose concert? You've only been to one in your life. I know----the
Albert Hall!"
"You've hit in once, my dear."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Adelina Patti."
Savile got up and looked out of the window.
Felicity looked serious. Then she said gaily--
"Poor old boy! I think, dear, you should try and forget it."
"I can't, Felicity! She haunts me! Oh, the way she sings 'Comin through
the Rye!' She's simply--well, ripping's the only word!"
"It's hereditary. You're just like papa. He was madly in love with her
once."
"Only once!" Savile was contemptuous.
"Well, Savile dear, anyhow I advise you to break it off definitely with
Dolly. She's only just fourteen now, and it would interfere with her
lessons. Besides, I know her mother wants her to go in for Physical
Culture during the holidays. What are those exercises--Swedenborgian or
something--anyhow, it takes up time. Besides, I somehow feel that that
(the affair with Dolly) was more a sort of boy-and-girl fancy. Don't you
think so? This, of course, is the great romance of your life. It will
probably last for ever. Of course I know it's only a kind of distant
worship and adoration, but still----"
"How well you know, by Jove! Felicity, I tell you what--I'm not going to
think about it any more. I _know_ there's no hope. Is she likely to
sing again this season?"
"Perhaps."
"Oh, Felicity, let me come with you!... No, I won't. I'd rather go alone
in the balcony."
"We'll see, dear. Now, what's the other trouble?"
"Well, I'm rather worried about Sylvia."
"Oh, my dear boy, that's a mania of yours! You're always harping on
about her marrying Mr. Ridokanaki."
"Why shouldn't she?"
"Why should she, Savile? It wouldn't amuse her. And Sylvia is very happy
at home; the head of papa's house, perfect liberty, and only twenty----"
"I know; but do you know I sometimes suspect ... look here. Do you think
Woodville--don't you think Sylvia ... likes him?"
Felicity sat up with a jerk.
"Frank Woodville! That highly-principled, highly-strung,
highly-cultivated, intellectual young man? Oh _no_! _Oh_ no! Why he, as
papa's secretary, would no more try to----"
"Who says he would? She might like him all right, I suppose. Besides, if
he _is_ highly cultivated, as you call it, and all that, it's not his
fault, is it? He's a good-looking chap all the same. Face facts, I say!
and if the truth were known, and every one had their rights, he _may_
be human! You never know!"
Felicity laughed, and then said--
"I do hope he's not. It would be so impossible! Rather romantic too, a
puritanical secretary with a figure and a profile in love with the
pretty daughter of a pompous politician. He teaches her Latin too. Sort
of Abelard and Francesca--or something--But oh! I don't believe it."
"Abelard! Oh, what rot! Do shut up! Well, remember I've given you a
hint, and I don't ask you not to tell--I treat you as an officer and a
gentleman."
"Don't worry about me," said Felicity, smiling, "I talk so much that I
never have time to repeat a single thing about anybody--to the wrong
person."
"I know. Will you dine with us to-morrow, as Chetwode's out of town?"
"No, Savile darling, I can't. I'm dining with Mrs. Ogilvie. You needn't
mention it."
Savile arranged his tie in the mirror, and said in his slow, impressive
way--
"I don't mention things. But the Governor doesn't care for that go-ahead
set. And he's not wrong, either."
"We're only going to dine at Ranelagh,--to try her new motor, dear,"
said Felicity coaxingly.
"Does Chetwode know?"
"I thought you knew he was at Newmarket."
"Well! Take it as you like, and think me an interfering ass if you
choose, but if I were you I'd somehow get Chetwode back from
Newmarket,--and not go about so much with Mrs. Ogilvie."
"Why not, Savile?"
"Well, I shouldn't begin that drifting apart business, _just_ yet. It's
really rather rot, quite so soon. You're too young, and so on--been
married a year, and I'm hanged if he's not fond of you still! Why do it?
That's what I say----"
"A person may be very devoted, _and_ a perfect husband, and sweet in
every way, and not dream of drifting apart for ages and ages, and yet
want to see Tobacco Trust run, darling!"
"I know,--and I've put my last shilling on Penultimate!"
"Naughty boy! I hope it was really your last shilling,--not your last
sovereign!"
He laughed, kissed her, and walked downstairs, softly humming to
himself, "Gin a body meet a body...."
When he had gone, Felicity looked quite sensible for a little while as
she pondered indulgently on the weaknesses of her husband, cheerfully on
the troubles of her brother, and with some real sisterly anxiety
concerning the alarming attractions of Frank Woodville.