LORD CHETWODE
"I have to go down to Fulham this morning; don't let me forget it," said
Lord Chetwode.
He was sitting in the green library with Felicity, markedly abstaining
from the newspapers surrounding him, and reading over an old catalogue.
He was a fair, delicate-looking young man of twenty-eight years the
amiability of whose expression seemed accentuated by the upward turning
of his minute blonde moustache. He had deep blue eyes, rather far apart,
regular features, and a full, very high forehead, on which the fair hair
was already growing scanty. Tall and slight, he had a rather casual,
boyish air, and beautiful but useful-looking white hands, the hands of
the artist. His voice and manner had the soft unobtrusive gentleness
that comes to those whose ancestors for long years have dared and
commanded. In time, when there's nothing more to fight for, the dash
naturally dies out.
"My dear boy, why Fulham?" said Felicity, who was sitting at her
writing-table not answering letters.
"About that bit of china."
"We don't want any more china, dear."
"It isn't a question of what we want! It is a question of what it would
be a crime to miss. Old Staffordshire going for nothing! Really,
Felicity!"
Felicity gave up the point. "I see.... How long are you going to stay in
London?" she said.
"Well, I was just thinking.... You know, I don't care much about the
season."
"You haven't had ten days of it," his wife answered. "Don't you think it
looks rather odd always letting me go to dances and things alone?"
"No. Why odd? You like them. I don't."
She looked rather impatient. "Has it ever struck you that I'm--rather
young--and not absolutely hideous?"
"Yes, very often," he said smiling. "Don't I show how it strikes me?
Why?"
"It's so difficult to say. Don't you see; people try to flirt with me,
and that sort of thing."
"Oh yes, they would. Naturally."
"Sometimes," said Felicity, darting a look at him like a needle, "I
shouldn't be surprised if people fell in love with me. So there!"
"You couldn't be less surprised than I should," said her husband, rather
proudly. "Shows their good taste."
"Well, for instance--you know Bertie Wilton, don't you?"
"Oh yes, I think I've seen him. A boy who rattles about in a staring red
motor-car. How any one on earth can stand those things when they can
have horses----"
"That's not the point, Chetwode. I think Bertie Wilton is really in love
with me. I really do."
Chetwode tried to look interested. "Is he though?"
"Well, I don't like it," she said pettishly.
"Then, don't stand it. But why? Isn't he a nice fellow?"
"Oh yes, he's very _nice_. But he seems to--sort of think you neglect
me."
"But other men go away, for months at a time, shooting big game, or
anything of that sort. Only shows he doesn't know.... _What_ an ass he
must be!" Chetwode's voice showed slight irritation.
"No he's not. He was quite disappointed that you came home the other
night when Savile went to fetch you. He went away at once."
"Poor chap!--Well, ask him to dinner," relented Chetwode.
She got up and went close to him. "You're hopeless! Chetwode, do you
really care for me--or do you like your curiosities and things better?"
Lord Chetwode looked slightly nervous. His one mortal horror was
anything that bore the most distant resemblance to a scene.
"My dear child, why, surely you know you are far and away the most
beautiful thing _I_ am ever likely to have in my collection!" he said,
most admiringly.
She turned away. She was terribly hurt; in her heart she had always
feared her husband regarded her as a bibelot. The subject was, to her,
too painful to discuss further. That he was sure of her--that showed
knowledge of her--that she deserved. But he ought to have _minded about
little things_ as she would. And he ought not always to be satisfied to
leave her safe as the gem of the collection--and just come and look at
it sometimes.
Chetwode returned to the catalogue, and then said, "Of course you know
I'm going to Teignmouth's for a week."
"And you don't want _me_ to go?"
"It's a man's party, darling! Only a week."
"But wouldn't you like me to go racing with you sometimes? I would. I
should love to."
He looked up lazily. "I don't think a racecourse is the place for a
woman. I like you better here. Of course, come if you like. Whenever you
like. Would you like to see Princess Ida run?"
"No, thanks.--Shall you be home to lunch?"
"Yes, I dare say I shall. Are you lunching at home?"
"I was going to Vera's, but I'd rather stay at home--for you."
"Oh, don't do that, dear," he said decidedly. "I may look in at
White's."
"Well, when shall I see you?"
"Why this evening, of course. Aren't we going to the opera, or
something?" he asked.
"Is it great agony for you to sit out Wagner?" She showed real sympathy.
"It's Tannhaeuser, you know."
"Can't say I'm keen about it," he answered in a depressed voice.
"If you _like_," she said, slightly piqued, "I could easily go with
Sylvia and papa."
"All right--or, I know--don't let us go at all!" said Chetwode. He was
now in the hall, and she followed him. "Anything I can do for you,
darling?" Then he added, "Don't move for a minute!" He was admiring her
golden hair against the tapestry, and smiled with the real pride of the
_collectionneur_. "Yes, you must really have your portrait painted,
Felicity," he said. "Sargent's the man, I think--or--well, we'll talk
it over." He went out, and the door banged relentlessly.
Felicity moved back to the library and looked in the little carved
silver mirror that lay on the table. She saw tears gradually stealing
into her beautiful blue eyes, enlarging them, and she grew so sorry for
the lovely little sad face--in fact for herself!--that she hastily put
down the looking-glass, ran upstairs, and rang for her maid to dress her
to go out.
* * * * *
Chetwode completely failed in his mission, as the china-man, not
expecting him to call so soon, had gone out for the day. He strolled
down the Brompton Road, stopping from time to time to look at various
pretty things in little curiosity shops, and then he thought, as a
contrast, he would have a look at the Albert Memorial. But, changing his
mind again, he went a little way into Kensington Gardens. Suddenly, he
thought he recognised two people, rather beautiful people, who were
sitting under a tree, talking together with animation. It was his
sister-in-law, Sylvia, with her little dog, and Woodville. Before they
saw him, Sylvia got up and walked quickly towards the Row with the dog.
Woodville looked after her, and then strolled slowly towards the bridge.
How well the sylvan surroundings suited them! Sylvia was a wood nymph
in a fashionable dress; Woodville, a faun in Bond Street clothes.
Chetwode smiled to himself. Then for a moment he was surprised.... It
seemed odd to see the secretary so far from his usual haunts. Why should
Sylvia sit in Kensington Gardens with him, and then go on alone to the
Row? However, he thought, it wasn't his business. As he walked towards
Knightsbridge, it struck him that he would tell Felicity. She would
understand, and explain. Then he thought he wouldn't tell Felicity. He
had a curious delicate dislike to mentioning anything he had seen
accidentally. He would chaff Sylvia about it when he saw her again....
No, he wouldn't; it would be a shame to make a girl uncomfortable. He
would mention it to Woodville. Yes, that was it; he would chaff
Woodville about it....
Seeing a hansom, he jumped into it and went to the Club. As he drove
there he remembered vaguely several little things that he had noticed
subconsciously before, and he began to think that probably Woodville and
Sylvia were in love with each other. What more natural! In that case one
wouldn't talk about it. It might annoy them. There was nothing on earth
Lord Chetwode disliked so much as the idea of anything that would annoy
any one.
So he never did tell Woodville nor anybody else. When it did not slip
his memory, his almost morbid dread of anything disagreeable prevented
his mentioning it, and he left London without having spoken of the
incident. Probably it was of no importance after all.
At this time Woodville was really miserable. Their position was more
difficult than ever. Of course he had kept his word to her, and written
to Ridokanaki that he could not accept the offer. They remained
privately engaged, and waiting; Savile their only confidant. He had got
rid of the little studio, and was half sorry and half relieved not to be
able to go there as a retreat. It had some painful but also some
exquisite associations. Since he had made the sacrifice of Athens for
Sylvia--for it was a sacrifice--he was, of course, more in love with her
than before. That quarter of an hour in Kensington Gardens this morning
was the only clandestine appointment they had ever made in the course of
five years.
How often he remembered the day he had first arrived at the Croftons!
Sylvia was fifteen then, and her governess, Miss Dawe, took the place,
as far as could be, of her dead mother, chaperoning Felicity and
teaching Sylvia. He remembered that it was bitterly cold and snowing
hard. As he passed the schoolroom, of which the door was open, to his
own room, escorted by the servant, he heard what sounded like a quarrel
going on. A poor old man with a battered accordion was making a pathetic
noise on the cold pavement.
"You shall _not_ do it, Sylvia!" Miss Dawe was speaking authoritatively.
"Your father did not give you five pounds to throw away. It isn't the
right thing for young ladies to run down to the hall." And Felicity's
voice said imperiously, he knew it afterwards, "Quick; ring the bell,
and tell Price to give him the money."
While the electric bell was being rung he distinctly heard the window
flung wide open, and a soft thud on the pavement. Sylvia had thrown her
purse into the street. From his own room next to the schoolroom, he saw
the man pick it up and go away. The doors were closed now, but he
imagined the governess's anger. The incident had afterwards seemed very
characteristic of the two girls, and he often thought of it.... That
evening at dinner he met Sylvia for the first time, and he felt now as
if he had loved her ever since. But it was not until three years ago,
when she was seventeen, that he betrayed himself, by some word or
look.... As she grew into a woman she filled his life, became his one
joy and torment. On Felicity's wedding-day he had told Sylvia of his
love, and they had become engaged. How was it to end?