PERCY
"I've had such a lovely letter from Rupert, Bertha. I'm so excited, I
can't read it almost!"
Bertha held out her hand. Madeline was looking agitated.
"He says," said Madeline, looking closely at the letter in her
short-sighted way, "that he wishes he could burn me like spice on the
altar of a life-long friendship! Fancy!"
"Rather indefinite, isn't it?"
"Oh, but listen!" And Madeline read aloud eagerly: "_Yesterday evening
was perfect: but to-day and for several days I shall be unable to see
you. Why is a feast day always followed by a fast?_"
"Is it Doncaster to-morrow?" asked Bertha.
"Don't be absurd, that's nothing to do with it. Listen to this. _What a
curiously interesting nature you have! Am I not right when I say that I
fancy in time, as you develop and grow older, you may look at life eye
to eye with me?_"
"Madeline dear, _please_ don't mistake that for a proposal. I assure you
that it isn't one."
Madeline looked up sharply. "Who said it was? But, anyhow, it shows
interest. He must be rather keen--I mean interested--in me. It's all
very well to say it means nothing, but for a man nowadays to sit down
and write a long letter all about nothing at all, it must have some
significance. Look how easily he might have rung up! I know you're
afraid of encouraging me too much, and it's very kind of you--but I must
confess I _do_ think that letters mean a great deal. Think of the
trouble he's taken. And there's a great deal about himself in it, too."
"Of course, Madeline, I don't deny that it does show interest, and he
probably must be a little in love with someone--perhaps with himself--to
write a letter about nothing. As you say, it's unusual nowadays. But you
mustn't forget that, though Rupert's young, he belongs to the '95
period. Things were very different then. People thought nothing of
writing a long letter; and a telegram about nothing was considered quite
advanced and American."
"Oh, bother!" said Madeline, "I hate being told about the period he
belongs to. It makes it seem like ancient history. Listen to what he
says about you--such lovely things! '_Mrs. Kellynch is a delightful
contrast to you, and is all that is charming and brilliant, in a
different way. Is she not one of those (alas, too few) who are always
followed by the flutes of the pagan world?_'"
"That's really very sweet of him. I say, I wonder what it means
exactly?"
"I have no idea. But it just shows, doesn't it?"
With a satisfied smile, Madeline put the letter away. Bertha did not
press to see it, but remarked: "I see he didn't sign himself very
affectionately. Evidently there's nothing compromising in the letter."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you put it away. Otherwise you would have shown it to me.
Nobody cares to show an uncompromising love-letter--with a lukewarm
signature."
"At any rate," said Madeline, gliding over the point and leaving the
letter in its cover, "your taking us out last night was a very great
help. I feel I've made progress; he thinks more of me."
"Yes, I thought it would be a good thing to do. Now you'd better not
answer the letter, and please don't show any anxiety if you don't see
him for a little while, either."
"I sha'n't be a bit anxious, Bertha, especially if it's only racing, or
something of that sort. Or, in fact, anything, unless I get afraid he's
seeing Miss Chivvey. Do you ever think that Rupert still takes an
interest in Miss Chivvey?"
"A little, but I don't think it matters. I think she's needed as a
contrast to you. She surprises and shocks him, and that amuses him, but
she isn't his real taste. I don't think Miss Chivvey's dangerous,
seriously. She uses cheap scent."
"Oh!" cried Madeline, delighted. "There's nothing so awful as cheap
scent!"
"Except expensive scent, because it's stronger," said Bertha.
Madeline looked at her admiringly.
"How extraordinary you are, Bertha! It's wonderfully sweet of you to
take such an interest in my wretched little romance. You might have so
many of your own, if you cared to."
"Ah, but I don't care to. I'm rather exacting in a way, but I don't want
variety. I've no desire for an audience. I don't want a little of
everybody. All I want is the whole of one person."
"Is that all! Well, you've got it," replied Madeline.
"I hope so," she answered, rather seriously. "I'm not altogether
satisfied. I can't settle down to the idea of a dull, humdrum sort of
life--and of Percy's being fond of me casually."
"Oh, good gracious, I'm sure he isn't casual! What a strange idea of
yours!"
"I hope I'm wrong. I believe I want something that's very nearly
impossible. I've always had a sort of ideal or dream of making an
ordinary average married life into a romance."
"Well, and can't it be?"
"I don't really see why it shouldn't. But there's no doubt there are
immense difficulties in the way. It seems to be necessary, first of all,
for there to be not only one exceptional temperament, but two. And
that's a good deal to expect. Of course, the obvious danger is the
probability of people getting tired of anything they've got. I'm afraid
that's human nature. The toys the children see in the shop-window always
seem much less wonderful when they're home in the nursery. As a brother
of mine used to say a little vulgarly, 'You don't run after an omnibus
when once you've caught it.'"
"Perhaps not."
"As soon as you belong to a person, obviously, Madeline, they don't
value you _quite_ in the same kind of way. The glamour seems to go."
"But you don't want necessarily always to be _run after_, surely? You
want to be treasured and valued--all that sort of thing."
"Yes, I know! But my ideal would be that there should be just as much
excitement and romance and _fun_ after marriage as before--if it were
possible."
"Oh, good heavens, Bertha! then, if one were to go by that horrible
theory of your brother's, one ought never to marry the person one loves,
if one wants to keep them."
"No, in theory, one ought not. But then, where are you if he goes and
marries someone else? After all, you'd rather he got tired of _you_ than
of the other person! Wouldn't you prefer he should make _your_ life
miserable than any other woman's? Besides, one must take a risk. It's
worth it."
"I should think it is, indeed!" cried Madeline. "Why, I would marry
Rupert if I thought I should never see him again after a month or
two--if I knew for a fact he would get tired of me!"
"Of course you would, and quite right too. But remember people are not
all alike. There are any number of men who are absolutely incapable of
being really in love with anyone who belongs to them. They simply can't
help it. It's the instinct of the chase. And it's mere waste of time and
energy to attempt to change them."
"Are you speaking of men or husbands?"
"Either, really. But don't let's forget that there are a great many
others, on the other hand, who care for nothing and no one who isn't
their own. Collectors, rather than hunters. Surely you've noticed that,
Madeline? It's a passion for property. The kind of man who thinks _his_
house, _his_ pictures, _his_ cook, even his mother, everything connected
with him must be better than the possessions of anyone else. Well, this
kind of man is quite capable of remaining very devoted to his own wife,
and in love with her, if she's only decently nice to him; and even if
she's not. I mean the sort of man one sometimes sees at a party,
pointing out some utterly insignificant person there, and declaring that
Gladys or Jane, or whoever it is, takes the shine out of everyone else,
and that there's no one else in the room to touch her. His wife, of
course. I don't mean out of devotion--that's another, finer
temperament--but simply and solely because she belongs to him."
"Well, Bertha, I don't care what his reason is, I _like_ that man!"
"Oh, rather! So do I. And very often he's not a bit appreciated; though
he would be by us. Perhaps the most usual case of all is for the
husband, if he's married for love, to remain in love for the first two
or three years, and for the love then to turn gradually into a warm
friendship, or even a deep affection, which may go on growing
deeper--it's only the romance and the glamour and sparkle that seems to
go--the excitement. And that's such a pity. I can't help thinking in
many cases it really needn't be. More often than not, I believe, it's
the woman's mistake. Just at first, she's liable to take too much
advantage of the new sort of power she feels."
"Do you mean, Bertha, that the woman generally doesn't take enough
trouble with the house to make it pleasant for him at home--and all
that?"
"I _didn't_ mean that, though it might be so. But sometimes it's just
the other way. More often than not she takes a great deal too much
trouble about the home, and bothers him about it. There's far too much
domesticity. It's like playing at houses at first, but soon it grows
tedious. At any rate the whole thing is worth studying very deeply. I
can tell you I haven't given it up yet."
"You? Oh, Bertha, I can't think what fault you have to find. You, as you
say, certainly are exacting."
"I blame myself, solely. I feel that, somehow or other, I've allowed
things to get too prosaic. Percy takes everything for granted:
everything goes on wheels. Of course, if I were satisfied to settle down
at twenty-eight with complete contentment at the prospect of a humdrum
existence, it would be all right; but I'm not. In another few years
Percy will be getting on very well as a barrister, taking himself
seriously, and regarding me just as part of the furniture at home. You
know he always calls me a canary; that shows his point of view. Well,
then, he might get a little interested in a wilder kind of bird, and I
shouldn't like it!"
"What would your idea be, then? Would you flirt to make him jealous?"
"No, I certainly shouldn't. That's frightfully obvious and common. If I
ever did flirt, it wouldn't be for such a silly reason as that. It would
be for my own amusement and for nothing else, but I don't think I ever
shall. I think it's a fatal mistake for a woman to lower herself in any
way in the other person's eyes. Her lasting hold and best one, is that
he must think her perfection; it's the safest link with a really nice
man. Anyone can be worse than you are, but it's not easy when you take
the line that none can be _better_! because no one else is going to try!
But if, after all, he still gets tired of her, as they sometimes do,
well--it's very hard--but I am afraid she must manage badly."
"I never should have dreamed you thought of all these things, Bertha.
You seem so serene and happy."
"I am. It's the one subject I ever worry about. I'm always prepared for
the worst."
"And I'm quite sure you've no cause to be. Why not wait till trouble
comes?" suggested Madeline.
"Why, then it would be too late. No, I want to ward it off long before
there's any danger."
"I think it's very unlike you--almost morbid--bothering about
possibilities that will never happen."
"I daresay it is, in a way. But, you know, I fancy I've second sight
sometimes. What I feel with us is that things are too smooth, too calm,
a little dull. Something ought to happen."
"You're looking so pretty, too," said Madeline rather irrelevantly.
"I'm glad to hear it; but I only want one person to think so."
"But it's obvious that he does; he's very proud of you."
"I sometimes think he's too much accustomed to me. He takes me as a
matter of course."
"If that is so, I daresay you'll be able to alter matters," said
Madeline, getting up to go.
"Yes, I daresay I shall; it only needs a little readjusting," Bertha
said.
They shook hands in cordial fashion. They did not belong to the gushing
school, and, notwithstanding their really deep mutual affection, neither
would ever have dreamed of kissing the other.
As soon as Madeline had gone Bertha went and looked steadily and
seriously in the glass, for some considerable time. She thought on the
whole that it was true that she was looking pretty: on this subject she
was perfectly calm, cool and unbiassed, as if judging the appearance of
a stranger. For, though she naturally liked to be admired, as all women
do, she was entirely without that fluffy sort of vanity, that weak
conceit, so indulgent to itself, that makes nearly all pretty women
incapable of perceiving when they are beginning to go off, or unwilling
to own it to themselves.
The one person for whose admiration and interest she cared for more and
more, her Percy, she fancied was growing rather cooler. This crumpled
rose-leaf distressed her extremely.
At this moment he arrived home. She heard his voice and his step, and
waited for him to come up, with an increasing vividness of colour and
expression, with a look of excited animation, that in so sophisticated a
woman was certainly, after ten years, a remarkable tribute to a
husband.
Percy, who was never very quick, was this evening much longer coming
upstairs than usual. He was looking at the letters in the hall. With his
long, legal-looking, handsome face, his even features, his fine figure
and his expression of mild self-control, and the large, high brow, he
had a certain look of importance. He appeared to have more personality
then he really had. His manner was impressive, even when one knew--as
Bertha certainly did--that he was the mildest, the most amiable and
good-natured of serious barristers.
With one of those impulses that are almost impossible to account for,
Percy took one of the letters up before the others. It was directed in
type. He half opened it, then put it in his pocket. He felt anxious to
read it; for some quite inexplicable reason he felt there was something
about it momentous, and of interest. It was not a circular, or a bill.
It made him feel uncomfortable. After waiting a moment he opened it and
read part of it. Then he replaced it in his pocket, and ran up to his
room, taking the other unopened letters with him.
"Percy!" called Bertha, as he passed the drawing-room.
"I shall be down in a few minutes," he called out.
He went upstairs and shut himself into his room.
She also felt unaccountably uncomfortable and anxious, as if something
had happened, or was going to happen. Why was Percy so long?
When he came down at last she gave him his tea and a cigarette and
noticed, or perhaps imagined, that he looked different from usual. He
was pale. Yes, he was distinctly a little pale. Poor Percy!
* * * * *
Instead of telling him he was not looking very well, and asking him what
was the matter, complaining that he had not taken any notice of her, or
behaving otherwise idiotically, after the usual fashion of affectionate
wives, she remained silent, and waited till he seemed more as usual.
Then he said: "Has anyone been here to-day?"
"No one but Madeline. She's only just gone."
"Oh yes--been out at all?"
"I went out this morning for a little while."
He seemed absent.
"You enjoyed yourself last night, didn't you?" he asked.
"Oh yes, it was rather fun. Yet, somehow, the Russian Ballet never
leaves me in good spirits for the next day. It doesn't really leave a
pleasant impression somehow--an agreeable flavour."
"Doesn't it--why?"
"One wants to see it, one is interested, from curiosity, and then,
afterwards, there's a sort of Dead Sea-fruitish, sour-grapes,
autumn-leaves, sort of feeling! It's too remote from real life and yet
it hasn't an uplifting effect. At any rate it always depresses me."
He gave her a rather searching look, and then said:
"Did Hillier like it?"
"I think he enjoys everything. He's always so cheery."
"And to-night we're dining at home?"
"Oh yes, I hope so. We'll have a quiet evening."
After a moment Percy said, in a slightly constrained way:
"I think I shall have to go out for half-an-hour. I want to see a man at
the club."
"Oh, must you? But it's raining so much. Why don't you ring him up and
ask him to come here?"
She was anxious not to betray a womanish fear that he might be getting
influenza, as she knew that nothing would annoy him so much as bothering
about him.
"No; I must go out."
She dropped the subject. He took up a new book she had been reading and
talked about it somewhat pompously and at great length. The whole time
it struck her he was not like himself. Something was wrong. He was
either worried, or going to be ill. He had either a temper or a
temperature. But she did not refer to it. Dinner was sometimes a good
cure for such indispositions.
He continued to make conversation in a slightly formal way until he went
out. After he had gone she observed to herself that his manner had
varied from polite absent-mindedness to slight irritability. He had gone
out without telling her anything about his plans. He had not even kissed
her.