A rather uncomfortable thing happened the other day which threatened a
schism in my acquaintance and put me in a decidedly awkward position. It
was no other than this: Mrs. Hilary Musgrave had definitely informed me
that she did not approve of Lady Mickleham. The attitude is, no doubt, a
conceivable one, but I was surprised that a woman of Mrs. Hilary’s large
sympathies should adopt it. Besides, Mrs. Hilary is quite good-looking
herself.
The history of the affair is much as follows: I called on Mrs. Hilary
to see whether I could do anything, and she told me all about it. It
appears that Mrs. Hilary had a bad cold and a cousin up from the country
about the same time (she was justly aggrieved at the double event), and
being unable to go to the Duchess of Dexminster’s “squash,” she asked
Dolly Mickleham to chaperon little Miss Phyllis. Little Miss Phyllis, of
course, knew no one there--the Duchess least of all--(but then very few
of us--yes, I was there--knew the Duchess, and the Duchess didn’t know
any of us; I saw her shake hands with a waiter myself, just to be on
the safe side), and an hour after the party began she was discovered
wandering about in a most desolate condition. Dolly had told her that
she would be in a certain place; and when Miss Phyllis came, Dolly was
not there. The poor little lady wandered about for another hour, looking
so lost that one was inclined to send for a policeman; and then she sat
down on a seat by the wall, and, in desperation, asked her next-door
neighbor if he knew Lady Mickleham by sight, and had he seen her lately?
The next-door neighbor, by way of reply, called out to a quiet elderly
gentleman who was sidling unobtrusively about, “Duke, are there any
particularly snug corners in your house?” The Duke stopped, searched
his memory, and said that at the end of the Red Corridor there was
a passage, and that a few yards down the passage, if you turned very
suddenly to the right, you would come on a little nook under the stairs.
The little nook just held a settee, and the settee (the Duke thought)
might just hold two people. The next-door neighbor thanked the Duke, and
observed to Miss Phyllis--
“It will give me great pleasure to take you to Lady Mickleham.” So
they went, it being then, according to Miss Phyllis’ sworn statement
precisely two hours and five minutes since Dolly had disappeared; and,
pursuing the route indicated by the Duke, they found Lady Mickleham. And
Lady Mickleham exclaimed, “Good gracious, my dear, I’d quite forgotten
you! Have you had an ice? Do take her to have an ice, Sir John.” (Sir
John Berry was the next-door neighbor.) And with that Lady Mickleham is
said to have resumed her conversation.
“Did you ever hear anything more atrocious?” concluded Mrs. Hilary. “I
really cannot think what Lord Mickleham is doing.”
“You surely mean, what Lady Mickleham--?”
“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Hilary, with extraordinary decision. “Anything
might have happened to that poor child!”
“Oh, there were not many of the aristocracy present,” said I soothingly.
“But it’s not that so much as the thing itself. She’s the most
disgraceful flirt in London.”
“How do you know she was flirting?” I inquired with a smile.
“How do I know?” echoed Mrs. Hilary.
“It is a very hasty conclusion,” I persisted. “Sometimes I stay talking
with you for an hour or more. Are you, therefore, flirting with me?”
“With you!” exclaimed Mrs. Hilary, with a little laugh.
“Absurd as the supposition is,” I remarked, “it yet serves to point the
argument. Lady Mickleham might have been talking with a friend, just in
the quiet rational way in which we are talking now.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” said Mrs. Hilary; and--well, I do not
like to say that she sniffed--it would convey too strong an idea, but
she did make an odd little sound something like a much etherealized
sniff.
I smiled again, and more broadly. I was enjoying beforehand the little
victory which I was to enjoy over Mrs. Hilary. “Yet it happens to be
true,” said I.
Mrs. Hilary was magnificently contemptuous.
“Lord Mickleham told you so, I suppose?” she asked. “And I suppose Lady
Mickleham told him--poor man!”
“Why do you call him ‘poor man’?”
“Oh, never mind. Did he tell you?”
“Certainly not. The fact is, Mrs. Hilary--and really, you must excuse me
for having kept you in the dark a little--it amused me so much to hear
your suspicions.”
Mrs. Hilary rose to her feet.
“Well, what are you going to say?” she asked.
I laughed, as I answered: “Why, I was the man with Lady Mickleham when
your friend and Berry inter--when they arrived, you know.”
Well, I should have thought--I should still think--that she would have
been pleased--relieved, you know, to find her uncharitable opinion
erroneous, and pleased to have it altered on the best authority. I’m
sure that is how I should have felt. It was not, however, how Mrs.
Hilary felt.
“I am deeply pained,” she observed after a long pause; and then she held
out her hand.
“I was sure you’d forgive my little deception,” said I, grasping it. I
thought still that she meant to bury all unkindness.
“I should never have thought it of you,” she went on.
“I didn’t know your friend was there at all,” I pleaded; for by now I
was alarmed.
“Oh, please don’t shuffle like that,” said Mrs. Hilary.
She continued to stand, and I rose to my feet. Mrs. Hilary held out her
hand again.
“Do you mean that I’m to go?” said I.
“I hope we shall see you again some day,” said Mrs. Hilary; the tone
suggested that she was looking forward to some future existence, when
my earthly sins should have been sufficiently purged. It reminded me for
the moment of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.
“But I protest,” I began, “that my only object in telling you was to
show you how absurd--”
“Is it any good talking about it now?” asked Mrs. Hilary. A discussion
might possibly be fruitful in the dim futurity before mentioned--but not
now--that was what she seemed to say.
“Lady Mickleham and I, on the occasion in question--” I began with
dignity.
“Pray, spare me,” quote Mrs. Hilary, with much greater dignity.