NEWS FROM VENICE
Madeline was sitting one afternoon with her mother in their little
Chippendale flat, all inlaid mahogany and old-fashioned chintz, china in
cabinets, and miniatures on crimson velvet; it was so perfectly in
keeping that the very parlourmaid's cap looked Chippendale, and it
somehow suggested Hugh Thomson's illustrations to Jane Austen's books.
Mrs. Irwin and Madeline were not, however, in the least degree like Miss
Austen's heroines and their mothers, except that Mrs. Irwin, though very
thin and elegant, had this one resemblance to the immortal Mrs. Bennet
in "Pride and Prejudice": "the serious object of her life was to get her
daughter married; its solace, gossiping and news." Also she had much of
the same querulousness, and complained every night of nerves, and each
morning of insomnia.
Madeline was reading John Addington Symonds' Renaissance and everything
that she could get on the subject of Italian history and cinquecento
art. These studies she pursued still as a sort of monument to Rupert, or
as a link with him. And to-day, as she was waiting for Bertha to call
and take her out, she received a letter from him, from Venice.
It was one of his long, friendly, cultured letters; making no allusion
to any thoughts of becoming more than friends to each other, and no
reference to the interlude of his proposal, or the episode of her
engagement to Charlie. This memory seemed to have faded away, and he
wrote in his old instructive way a long letter in his pretty little
handwriting, speaking of gondoliers, Savonarola, hotels, pictures,
lagoons, fashions and the weather. This last, he declared to be so
unbearable that he thought of coming back to London before very long. He
asked for an answer to his letter, and wished to know what she was
reading, what concerts she had been to, and whether she had seen the
exhibition at the Goupil Gallery.
But though it took her back to long before the period of his
love-letter, and he appeared to wish the whole affair to be forgotten,
it gave her considerable satisfaction. He wanted to hear of her, and,
what was more, he was coming back. Of course Mrs. Irwin saw that the
letter was from him, and she remarked that she had always said everyone
had a right to their own letters, and that after twenty-one, nowadays,
she supposed girls could do exactly what they liked, which she thought
was only fair; that mothers, very rightly, hardly counted in the present
day, were regarded as nobody, and were treated with no confidence of any
kind, of which she thoroughly approved; that Madeline's new coat and
skirt suited her very badly and did not fit; and that grey had never
been her colour.
Madeline's reply to this was to place the long letter into her mother's
hand.
Having read it, Mrs. Irwin said she did not wish to force anybody's
confidence, and she was evidently disappointed at its contents. However,
she advised her daughter to answer without loss of time.
The conversation was interrupted by Bertha's arrival.
"You know my brother-in-law, Clifford?" she said. "The funny boy has
'littery' tastes and began writing an historical play! But he got tired
of it and now he's taken to writing verses. I've brought you one of his
poems; they're so funny I thought it would amuse you. Fancy if a brother
of Percy's should grow up to be a 'littery gent'. I suspect it to be
addressed to the mother of his beloved friend, Pickering. He is devoted
to her."
"Where are you going to-day?" inquired Mrs. Irwin.
"I'm taking Madeline to see Miss Belvoir. She has rather amusing
afternoons. Her brother, Fred Belvoir, whom she lives with, is a curious
sort of celebrity. When he went down from Oxford they had a sort of
funeral procession because he was so popular. He's known on every
race-course; he's a great hunting man, an authority on musical comedy,
and is literary too--he writes for _Town Topics_. Miss Belvoir is the
most good-natured woman in the world, and so intensely hospitable that
she asks everyone to lunch or dinner the first time she meets them, and
sometimes without having been introduced, and she asks everyone to bring
their friends. They have a charming flat on the Thames Embankment and a
dear little country house called The Lurch, where her brother often
leaves her. They're mad on private theatricals, too, and are always
dressing up."
"It sounds rather fun," said Madeline.
"Not very exclusive," suggested her mother.
"No, not a bit. But it's great fun," said Bertha, "and I've heard people
say that you can be as exclusive as you like at Miss Belvoir's by
bringing your own set and talking only to them. People who go to her
large parties often don't know her by sight; she's so lost in the
crowd, and she never remembers anybody, or knows them again. To be ever
so little artistic is a sufficient passport to be asked to the
Belvoirs'. In fact if a brother-in-law of a friend of yours once sent an
article to a magazine which was not inserted, or if your second cousin
once met Tree at a party, and was not introduced to him, that is quite
sufficient to make you a welcome guest there. Now that my little
brother-in-law has written a poem, I shall have a _raison d'etre_ in
being there. You'll see, Madeline, you'll enjoy yourself."