ROMER
Romer walked back, trying to throw off the irritating effect of his
mother's pin-pricks. As was his usual custom when he was a little
depressed, he went home and sat down in front of his wife's portrait. He
often sat there for an hour when she was out, looking at it. Any one
watching him would have thought he was in a state of calm and stupid
content. In reality, he was worshipping. His passion for his wife was
his one romance, his one interest, his one thought. He had been married
five years, and had never yet expressed it in words. He was one of the
unfortunate people who are not gifted with the power of expression,
either in word or look. He was practically inarticulate.
As he gazed at the picture--he was feeling a little sad--the sadness
melted away. The frail figure, bright yet dim, vaguely appearing through
vaporous curtains, holding an impossible gold flower, had the effect on
him of a beautiful Madonna on a deeply devout Catholic. It produced in
him a form of religious ecstasy. He adored her with passion, and with
the selfishness and jealousy of passion, but circumstances and his
temperament caused it to take the outward form, principally, of care for
her happiness. When she was actually present, she still dazzled him so
much that he could show his feeling only by listening to and agreeing
with every word she said, by doing what she asked him, and by trying to
protect her, often without her knowledge, from any kind of pain or
trouble. She would have been amazed had she realised the violence of his
devotion to her. Apparently cool and matter-of-fact, he was in reality a
reticent fanatic. He neither analysed nor showed his sentiment, nor did
he himself know its extent. He wondered why certain people, certain
subjects gave him pain. He trusted Valentia absolutely, nor could she in
his eyes do wrong, and it was only with the subconscious second sight of
love that he sometimes felt a curious and melancholy presentiment. He
did not know himself that this suffering was jealousy.
What nonsense his mother talked!...
Harry!... Harry was the best fellow in the world--almost like a brother,
his greatest friend, though not exactly an intimate friend. Romer was
too shy to be intimate with any one. Harry was lively, amusing, a
brilliant talker; kind, good-natured, a capital chap. He appreciated
Valentia, or he could not have painted that portrait. Romer was very
grateful for the portrait; yet it sometimes hurt him to think Harry had
painted it. It showed how well Harry understood Valentia.
This thought Romer always suppressed. He thought it was mean, and he
could not be mean.
He looked out of the window. It was raining--a chilly spring shower--but
there was a stir in the air, a rattle in the town, a sense of something
that was going to happen; summer was not far off, and in the summer, at
the end of the season, they would go down to the Green Gate, the lovely
country house with the dream garden as Valentia called it, all built,
planted, and arranged on purpose for her. Valentia was more herself at
the Green Gate than anywhere else. Leisure suited her, and roses.
Every year Romer silently counted the weeks until they went back there.
It was where he was happiest. Of course, they were not alone. Dear
little Daphne was always with them, dear little thing (she was nearly
six feet high)--and other people, very often, and Harry--always Harry.
Perhaps Daphne would marry soon, but what about Harry?
Romer felt rather wearied when he remembered Valentia had said Harry
was made to be a bachelor. Was he tired of Harry? Not a bit! Harry was a
capital chap; besides, he didn't see so very much of him in London.
Heaps of people admired Valentia, and that did not annoy Romer at all
(though it did not please him particularly), but he knew, again
subconsciously, that Valentia cared less than nothing for any admirers,
but she certainly was awfully fond of Harry. And no wonder! Harry was
the best fellow in the world--lively, amusing, quite a brilliant talker;
kind, good natured, and he appreciated Valentia, or he could not have
painted that portrait....
Round and round the same thoughts passed through his brain.
It was raining--a chilly spring shower. Had Valentia got her wrap with
her?
He got up, went into the hall, and saw her fur cloak hanging on a peg.
She evidently didn't care for it. She was tired of it--perhaps it was
out of fashion; if so, she would never wear it. She might catch cold.
He was not a prompt man, but he went at once to the telephone and gave
orders to a shop in Bond Street that would result in a collection of
fur-lined cloaks being sent for her choice that evening. This would
please her; she would smile and try them on. Besides, it would prevent
her catching cold.