‘Well, perhaps I will. No, I’ll tell you what; if you like to come
down to the river mead, I will bring out the book and read a little
of it this afternoon. Now go; I don’t want the girl to see us come
in together.’ He obediently went on ahead. She sat on a stile for a
moment or two thinking. ‘Suppose I go off; suppose I get an engagement,
what then?’ Lord Kirkdale looked round as he turned the corner, which
took him out of her sight. And she wondered why he looked so heavy and
sheepish, and foolish.
In case my reader should get a wrong impression of Lord Kirkdale, they
must be here informed that he was an extremely well made young man, six
feet one in height, thirteen stone in weight, with fair hair and ruddy
complexion; there was nothing comic or unseemly about his appearance,
but to a woman who had taken it into her head to adore the type of
man represented by the Dancing Faun, no Hercules, however laboriously
devoted, need apply.
* * * * *
‘Who is this dreadful ineligible man Robert tells me was dining
here the other night?’ said Maisy. She had been lunching at Davies
Street with her mother and sister, and the three were sitting in the
drawing-room.
‘I don’t think you need trouble about his being detrimental, unless
it is on mamma’s account; he devotes himself entirely to her,’ said
Geraldine.
Lady Kirkdale laughed. ‘I was telling Geraldine the other day, that
in a few seasons no woman this side of fifty will have a chance in
society.’
‘I wonder what the meaning of it is,’ said Maisy.
‘Age has its advantages,’ said Lady Kirkdale. ‘Besides, as Edgar Allen
Poe says, “What man truly loves in woman is her womanhood.”’
‘That’s so true, dear mamma; a womanly woman can do anything she likes
with a man, the other sort sets his teeth on edge at once.’
‘A womanly woman indeed,’ broke out Geraldine; ‘it is only within the
last few years women have dared show their womanhood. At last they
are permitted to possess a small quota of human nature; they may be
something more than waxen masks of doll-like acquiescence without
disgracing themselves in the eyes of the world.’
‘My dear Geraldine, don’t be so disgustingly Ibsenish.’
‘You make me perfectly wild, Maisy. Do you suppose all these questions
haven’t been working in everybody’s mind for the last fifty years. You
may be pretty sure they have, if _we_ have come to hear of them. I
consider the whole machinery of society to be especially contrived to
keep an influential set of people sufficiently ignorant to effectually
counter-balance the work of men and women of genius, who see clearly
enough what the next stage of progress will be; and the mob would
follow them readily if the dead weight of authority and influence did
not keep them back.’
‘Mamma, what is becoming of her? My dear Geraldine, you’ll never get
married if you go on like this. You’ll have to take to lecturing on
temperance or something, like poor Emily.’
‘I hate marriage; I think it’s a degrading bargain, which can only be
carried out by unlimited lying on both sides.’
‘Really, mamma; why don’t you speak to her?’
‘Because I can’t deny the truth of what she says.’
‘But--look at Robert and me!’
‘Yes, look at you, that’s just what I mean----’
‘Geraldine, my dear, my dear, hush!’ cried Lady Kirkdale. ‘You mustn’t
talk like this, you distress Maisy. And after all, you needn’t be so
bitter about it. God knows, if you prefer not to marry, I am not the
woman to wish to force you to it. You’ve been upset, hadn’t you better
go and lie down?’
‘Oh no! I’m all right. One must speak sometimes, one can’t spend one’s
life grinning like a Cheshire cat, and pretending one thinks everything
perfect.’
‘Well, to change this very unpleasant subject,’ said Maisy, ‘what is
this Mr. George Travers like?’
‘He is tall and slight, I should say about forty, with a careworn face
and a charming smile: he can dance, ride, scull, and play billiards to
perfection. There is no subject on which he is not well informed,--in
fact, if he were only safely married, he would be a great acquisition
to society,’ replied Lady Kirkdale.
‘And Geraldine is in love with him,’ said Maisy.
‘How dare you say such things!’ cried Geraldine.
‘When a girl, who is generally good-tempered, becomes snappish and
disagreeable, you may be sure she is in love with a detrimental.
The detrimental is on the spot, you are snappish. The situation is
complete, my dear.’
Geraldine walked out of the room and banged the door loudly.
‘What is to be done about her, mamma?’
‘I must take her abroad, I suppose. Love is like bronchitis, a
thorough change is the only cure.’
At this moment Mr. Travers was announced.
‘I must apologise for this untimely call; but I have just been at
the club, and Lord Snordenham was mentioning that he must send round
to tell you that his coach had to start half an hour earlier for
Hurlingham to-morrow than was arranged. I said I should be passing your
door, and he commissioned me to deliver the message.’
‘Thank you very much. You are to be one of us, then?’
‘I have that honour.’
‘May I introduce you to my daughter, Lady Maisy Potter. She has just
returned from her honeymoon.’
‘O mamma, don’t give such a wrong impression! I must tell you, Mr.
Travers, my honeymoon lasted six months,’ she said, turning to him with
an engaging smile.
‘It ought to last for ever,’ he said, bowing. ‘At any rate it has
agreed with you splendidly.’
‘Oh, please don’t say that; I know I am terribly sunburnt. It is so
dreadful to come to London looking so healthy, late in the season,
isn’t it?’
‘I am afraid my tastes are not sufficiently æsthetic to allow me to
appreciate a sickly style of beauty.’
‘I am so glad to hear you say that. It is exactly what I think myself;
only it doesn’t do nowadays to say anything you think, or one might
be taken for one of those dreadful advanced people that are always
clamouring for free thought, and free speech, and free everything. I
feel it so very necessary to keep on thinking just what is right and
proper. Our responsibilities as leaders of thought are so grave. For we
are the leaders of thought, are we not, Mr. Travers?’
‘After a certain point necessarily so. Progress is made in circles;
and if you stand still long enough you will find yourself in the van.’
‘But,’ said Lady Kirkdale, ‘suppose it doesn’t come back to the same
point exactly, but goes onward in a spiral.’
‘That’s the whole problem of life. Is it a circle or a spiral?’ said
Travers.
‘If it’s the latter I am sorry for all of us.’
‘Oh, don’t be afraid, mamma, life is very nice as it is. We’ll take
it for granted it’s a circle, and sit still and not bother ourselves.
Spirals are such uncomfortable-looking things.’
The carriage was announced, and Lady Kirkdale asked Travers to drive
with them. He did so, sitting next to Geraldine and opposite Maisy.
They dropped Maisy at the hotel in Albemarle Street she and Mr. Potter
were staying at. Travers of course escorted her in, and as they parted
she hoped he would accept the invitation to come to Cowes that her
husband was going to send him for the yacht-week.
When he re-entered the carriage he said to Lady Geraldine, ‘I imagined
your sisters were all out of town.’
‘So they were when we last spoke of them, but Maisy and Mr. Potter
returned last month.’
‘Ah, I met Mr. Potter at your dinner-party on Thursday, of course. I
didn’t know he was a relation.’
‘He is an odd man. He has inherited a large fortune from his father. He
is what I call disgustingly rich; he never seems to do anything with
his money. His chief pleasure in life seems to be sitting still and
thinking.’
‘What does he think about?’
‘Nobody knows. I used to offer him a penny for his thoughts last year,
but he always made one answer.’
‘What was that?’
‘He only said, “My mind is a perfect blank.”’
‘Oh,’ cried Lady Kirkdale, ‘that is like those Indian people who sit
contemplating their big toes all day. What are they called?’
‘Do you mean the Yogis?’
‘Ah yes, that was it.’
‘I am never quite accurate about things. You see, Geraldine, dear, it’s
one of my womanly qualities.’
‘Are you going down to Cowes, Mr. Travers? I think I heard Maisy asking
you to join her party.’
‘Are you going?’
‘We have taken rooms in the hotel.’
‘Then I shall certainly take advantage of the proposal. That is, if Mr.
Potter sends the invitation. Does his mind ever cease to be a blank?’
‘No one knows.’
* * * * *
It was the first Sunday in August. Lady Kirkdale and Lady Geraldine
Fitzjustin had gone to spend a few days in Essex with Mary, the eldest
daughter of the family, before proceeding to Cowes. Lord Kirkdale, left
in possession at Davies Street, had invited Travers to dinner, and the
two men were sitting in the smoking-room ruminating over their cigars
and whisky and Seltzer. There had been a long pause in the conversation
when Kirkdale suddenly looked up and said, ‘Look here, Travers, who is
this girl down at the cottage?’
‘I’ve been waiting for that question for some time; I thought she must
have told you herself.’
‘Not a word.’
‘Well, I think perhaps I ought to let you know that she is secretly
married to a very dear friend of mine.’
‘Ah, I knew it; she is your wife.’
‘Ha! ha! ha! that’s good; my dear fellow, you never made such a mistake
in your life. I may be foolish, but I’m not such a fool as to go and
put my head into a noose like that.’
‘Travers, I don’t believe you. I am sure she loves you.’
‘That’s quite possible.’
‘Look here, you think you’re a very clever man; you think you are
deceiving the whole world, because you can deceive a parcel of women.
But the time has come for a little plain speaking, old fellow. I know
all about you. Clausen has told me. He recognised you that first day
you called in Davies Street. He was present when the card-party at
Canning’s ended your career in London society. Since then I have had
many proofs of how a fellow can go from bad to worse; how a man who
begins with cheating at cards can end by picking up half-crowns from
his friend’s dressing-table. No! no! old fellow, hitting me won’t put
it right,’ and he seized Travers by the wrists.
‘What are you going to do?’ said Travers, helpless and sullen in
Kirkdale’s powerful grasp.
‘I am going to hear the truth about this girl.’
‘And what else?’
‘Then I shall decide what to do. Who is she?’
‘My wife, you fool! Now are you satisfied?’
Kirkdale dropped his hands suddenly. Travers walked over to the
looking-glass, settled his cuffs, and wiped his forehead. Then he
leaned his back against the mantelpiece and surveyed Kirkdale, who had
thrown himself into an armchair on the other side of the room. After a
pause he spoke.
‘I need not tell you, Kirkdale, that I have long foreseen this
situation: I knew we should have to come to an understanding sooner or
later.’
‘And you played your cards accordingly?’
‘There is no necessity to be so bitter about it. When a man has
absolutely nothing but his wits to rely upon, he must cultivate them.
Because I have acquired some skill in the marshalling of events, I
don’t see that you need reproach me. We all have our temptations. Your
father succumbed to the temptations of idleness, I to the temptations
of necessity. I was brought up rather more luxuriously than yourself,
for my father’s vices did not make him bad-tempered; your father’s did,
and that always has a chastening effect upon a man’s offspring. As I
was saying, no want of mine was denied until I was practically cast on
my own resources, just at the age when one’s tastes are most expensive.
I needn’t tell you what it means to be in a crack regiment with no
private income. I had not learnt how to make money as a middleman, or
by gambling on the stock exchange; the only resources open to me I took
advantage of and kept afloat for some time, then luck deserted me and
the crash came. I went abroad; I associated with men not fit to black
my boots. My life was a perfect hell. My God! how do you suppose a man
brought up as I have been can earn enough to keep him going in a way
that makes life worth living? One must have at least five thousand a
year. Where is it to come from?’
‘Oh, go to the devil!’
‘Precisely, that is the only answer to my question. I have been.’
Kirkdale rose and walked up and down the room impatiently. He snapped
his fingers.
‘I don’t care that for you. I am thinking of her.’
‘I don’t think that is at all a proper way to talk to a man about his
wife, my dear boy.’
‘Oh, damn!’
‘By all means.’
Kirkdale walked towards Travers, who looked him straight in the face.
After a prolonged stare they both burst out laughing.
‘O what fools we are! what fools we are!’ cried Kirkdale almost
hysterically, as he flung himself into a chair.
‘Well, that’s agreed; now let’s clear the ground before us. You are in
love with my wife; I am as much in love with her myself as the holy
estate of matrimony will permit a man to be. She is in love with me,
and not with you, unless I am very much deceived.’
‘Yes, yes. I had no hope of that kind. I don’t know if you can
understand or not, but I would do anything on earth to save her pain
and to make her life happy.’
‘The feeling does you honour, my dear boy. It is one often roused by
unrequited affection. A woman who does not love you is always an angel,
a woman who does is often a devil.’
‘Look here, Travers, don’t keep her down in that wretched hole any
longer. Let her go on the stage.’
‘I can’t do that, old fellow.’
‘Why not?’
‘I know too much about it. The stage isn’t a fit place for a woman
unless she is a firstrate actress; she must be able to boss the show or
quit.’
‘But she could boss the show, she’d be firstrate.’
‘Not quite that, old fellow. I first saw her on the stage; I could see
all she had in her at a glance; it wasn’t good enough.’
‘She has been on the stage, then?’
‘Yes; you may have heard of her, there was some talk of her early in
the year. Grace Lovell was her name.’
‘I do vaguely remember hearing something or other about her.’
‘How long was she on the stage before you met her?’
‘Five or six years, I think. She has been working hard down in the
country.’
‘What at?’
‘Oh, reading things. I know I heard her read a bit of Shelley, which
fetched me more than anything I’ve ever heard on the stage.’
‘Well, I’ll see what we can do--with her.’
‘You may rely on me, if you want help.’
‘Thanks, old fellow.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘We shall meet at Cowes on Monday. By-the-bye, can I be of any use to
you?’ and Kirkdale took out his pocket-book.
‘Well, old man, if you like to make it a pony this time it would be
rather a weight off my mind.’
Kirkdale handed over some notes. Travers took them, folded them up
deliberately, buttoned his coat, took up his hat and stick, and walked
out of the room. He nodded pleasantly to Kirkdale as he closed the door
after him.
Kirkdale sat still for some time, then he lighted a cigar and began to
smoke. As he was finishing it the footman tapped and asked if he was at
home to Mr. Clausen. Kirkdale signified that he would see him, and Mr.
Clausen was shown up.
‘Stephen, my boy,’ he said, ‘this must be put a stop to. I have just
come round from the club, and that fellow Travers came in and is hand
in glove with every one. Potter was there, and they are sitting down to
_écarté_. You know what it will end in--there will be a devil of a row.’
‘I can’t help it, old fellow; I have tied my hands in the matter. I
must let things take their course. It won’t hurt Robert if he does lose
his money.’
‘But, my dear fellow, we can’t possibly countenance this sort of thing.
A man must draw the line somewhere, and I draw it at conniving at----’
‘It’s no use, I tell you. He must be left alone; at any rate, for the
present.’
‘Well, if nothing else will move you, I suppose I shall have to tell
you what I really fear from him. He will marry your sister----’
‘Oh no, he won’t.’
‘You don’t know her as well as I do. She is a woman who will have her
own way, whatever it costs.’
‘He cannot marry her.’
‘It is what he has been working for the whole time.’
‘You’re a fool!’ yelled Stephen. ‘No, no, no! I dare say you’re right.
I’ve been thinking about something else. I dare say he’s capable of it.
But I tell you she’s quite safe. He is already married.’
‘And therefore you consider she is quite safe.’
‘She is my sister, sir.’
‘And your father’s daughter.’
‘You will drive me wild between you all,’ cried Stephen.
‘My dear boy, it’s for your own sake.’
‘All the damnable things done under heaven are done for my sake it
would seem.’
‘Have you no regard for duty? Would you like to see your sister fall a
victim to this swindler?’
‘She must be told he is married, of course.’
‘And that he is a low cad no gentleman would associate with.’
‘Yes, Clausen, yes, anything you like--anything you like. Be off with
you and tell her all you told me and all I have told you. Be off now,
no time like the present.’
‘Stop a bit! not so fast, my young friend. I want a little more
explanation from you first. You say he is married. Where does he
conceal his wife?’
‘She is at Old Windsor.’
‘You have made several excursions there lately. What is she like?’
‘Oh, young and pretty; much too good for him.’
‘Too vague, my boy, describe her.’
‘I don’t know how to describe her.’
‘Well, is she dark or fair, tall or short?’
‘She’s dark. No though, her hair is black and curly, and her eyes are
brown, but she has a most beautifully fair complexion. As you sit and
watch her reading, you wonder which is the whitest, the little bit of
neck shown behind her ear, or the white lawn stuff she ties round her
throat.’
‘Is she tall?’
‘About a head shorter than I am; I suppose that is tallish for a woman.
Yes, she’s tall, and very, very graceful. She walks beautifully, makes
you remember all the old bits of poetry you learned at school.’
‘How does he treat her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I have never seen them together.’
‘But----’
‘She lives at the cottage, he at the house.’
‘He isn’t married to her.’
‘Oh yes, he is; I made him confess.’
‘What was she?’
‘An actress.’
‘No good, of course.’
‘Why?’
‘He’d be making money out of her if she were.’
‘Her name was Grace Lovell.’
‘What! that little girl? Why, she’s got the makings of a great actress
in her. How comes he to be so shortsighted as to let her remain idle?’
‘He tells me she’s not good enough.’
‘Much he knows! Why, she’s delicious; so fresh, so spontaneous. She’d
take the town in no time. How old is she?’
‘About twenty or twenty-one.’
‘Well, to think that rascal has got hold of her. I was wondering only
the other day what had become of her, and I asked Horsham what made
him part with her. He said she had insisted on leaving, and he fancied
she’d gone abroad with some man.’
‘I wish to God she had! Anything would be better for her than being
tied to such a devil as that.’ Then Kirkdale asked suddenly, ‘By the
way, didn’t you say Travers was the son of that old rascal Swanwick?’
‘Ah yes, capital actor he was; we don’t see that sort of thing now.
He knew his business thoroughly, and did it. No high-falutin about
intellect, imagination, and rubbish of that sort. He had the instinct
here’--and Mr. Clausen thumped his chest,--‘and let the new school say
what they like, that’s the place to find the link between an actor and
his audience.’
‘That girl has it _there_ too, if ever woman had,’ murmured Kirkdale
dreamily. ‘You should hear her read Shelley.’
‘Shelley, nonsense! she’s a comedy actress. No doubt she has the touch
of pathos necessary for that line; but no power, no passion.’
‘She may have altered since you saw her, she’s very young.’
‘Yes, that’s possible. It happened in the case of Décles. You sometimes
do get a surprise from a woman in that way.’
‘Now, Clausen, like a good fellow, think over what’s to be done. I am
determined to get her back on the stage. Shall I take a theatre for
her?’
‘What nonsense! As things are at present, you might just as well chuck
your capital into the gutter. She won’t draw until she’s done a good
deal more hard work, and if you gave him such an opportunity, Travers
would spend your money for you and she’d get none of the benefit.’
‘No, the first step is evidently to get rid of Travers.’
‘That is very easily done. I have only to say what I know.’
‘I wonder if he has anything up his sleeve: he’s always vaguely hinting
that certain personages are at his mercy,’ said Kirkdale.
‘Very likely he has a whole bundle of scurrilous gossip at his
finger-ends; but after all it doesn’t very much matter, people say all
they can now, and no respectable paper gives currency to these things.
Such stories serve two purposes: they give the radicals something to
talk about, and add considerably to the popular interest. “One touch of
nature makes the whole world kin,” and the poor sinner in the street
feels his heart go out to the weaknesses of the great, in a way never
to be invoked by the mere pompous exterior of public ceremonial.’
‘But think of the effect on public opinion.’
‘My dear boy, when Burke said a country was ruled by its public
opinion, he was right. The only difficulty about it is that the real
public opinion is never expressed; what is expressed is what each man
or woman thinks his or her neighbours consider ought to be his or her
opinion. But to return to Grace Lovell; what do you suppose she would
do if her husband was sent back into limbo?’
‘I’m terribly afraid she’d go with him.’
‘Have you ever discussed the position with her?’
‘She does not even know I am aware of the marriage, she has kept her
own counsel; all she has said to me was, that she was anxious to go on
the stage.’
‘Let’s go down and find out about her. I want a little country air, and
have nothing on earth to do on Monday.’
‘I was going down to Cowes, but I’m sick of the function there; if I go
down on Tuesday or Wednesday I shall see all I want,’ said Kirkdale.
‘Agreed; well, I’ll be off. Find out the best train, and call for me in
the morning.’
A loud knock at the front door delayed Clausen’s contemplated
departure. He looked at his watch and said, ‘By Jove, it’s two o’clock!
We’d better open the door, the servants will be in bed.’
Potter was standing on the doorstep. He entered, and said, ‘Sorry to
disturb you, but it’s rather important I should see you at once,
Kirkdale.’
Clausen offered to go. Potter stopped him, saying, ‘It doesn’t signify.
It’ll be all over the place to-morrow. Only I thought I owed it to
Kirkdale here to warn him.’
‘Well, come in; sit down and have a smoke.’
‘I don’t mind if I do; I want to settle myself a little. To tell the
truth, we’ve had a hell of a row.’
‘Ah!’ said Kirkdale, feeling his blood run cold, ‘it’s all out, then?’
‘What, you knew? And you allowed such a man to associate with your
mother and sisters. You must be mad.’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. What has occurred?’
‘I suspected Travers, from the first time I saw him. Then Maisy came
home charmed with him. You’ll pardon my saying so, but I always regard
that as a bad sign; I find she has a natural affinity for rogues.’
Clausen chuckled.
‘I admit it. I am no exception. I am no doubt a rogue myself, but that
doesn’t make me inclined to tolerate other rogues. I met this Travers
at the club two or three times, and I noticed him playing at cards.
To-night I proposed a game of _écarté_, and gave him a good chance for
his particular little game. I caught him in the very act, and, as I
have said, there was a devil of a row.’
‘What has become of him?’
‘Well, after we had made it sufficiently clear to him that we did not
desire more love and knowledge of him, he went out into the void. I
followed shortly after and came here, thinking he possibly might have
come to give you his version of the affair, and there might be another
chance of wigs on the green. My blood’s up now. That’s the worst of
a nature like mine. Just as I get thoroughly roused and interested
everything is over. And my blood has to simmer down again in a
desolation of peace and good humour.’
‘He hasn’t been here. But I’ll tell you what, Potter, I’d have given a
thousand pounds not to have had this happen to-night.’
‘I’m very sorry, Kirkdale, but next time you propose to bring a
cardsharper and blackguard into your family circle you had better take
us into your confidence, so that we can have some common basis of
operations. Good night, Clausen. Good night, Stephen. Better luck next
time, eh!’
* * * * *