MISS SARRADET'S CIRCLE
A hundred and fifty years ago or thereabouts a certain Jacques Sarradet
had migrated from his native Lyons and opened a perfumer's shop in
Cheapside. The shop was there still, and still a Sarradet kept it, and
still it was much esteemed and frequented by City men, who bought
presents or executed commissions for their wives and daughters there. To
folk of fashion the Bond Street branch was better known, but which was
the more profitable only the master knew. Together, at all events, they
were very profitable, and the present Mr. Clement Sarradet was a warm
man--warmer than he let the world know, or even his own family, so far
as he could keep the knowledge from them. He had preserved his French
frugality, and, although his house in Regent's Park was comfortably and
hospitably conducted, the style in which he lived was a good deal less
sumptuous than English notions would have considered his income to
warrant. He had preserved too, in spite of mixed marriages in the family
history, something of his French air, of the appearance of a prosperous
_bon bourgeois_, with his short thick-set figure, his round paunch, his
stiff upstanding white hair (he had married late in life and was now
over sixty), his black brows and moustache, and his cheeks where blue
and red seemed, after a tussle, to have blended harmoniously into a
subdued purple.
Something French, though differently French, survived also in his
cherished daughter Marie, writer of the note already set forth, and
mistress of the house in Regent's Park since her mother's death five
years ago. Here it was manner rather than looks (she was a brunette, but
not markedly); she had a vivacity, a provocativeness, a coquetry, which
in less favoured races often marks a frivolous or unstable character,
but in the French finds no difficulty in blending with and adorning
solid good sense, sturdy business-like qualities, and even sometimes a
certain toughness of tissue more certainly valuable than attractive.
The evening party to which Arthur Lisle had been bidden was drawing to
its close. They had played cards; they had had some music; they had
ended up with a couple of "topping" comic songs from Joe Halliday, and
they were still laughing over these as they munched sandwiches and
sipped, according to sex, lemonade or whisky-and-soda. Mr. Sarradet
watched them benevolently, thinking them a very pleasant set of young
people, and admiring the way in which his daughter exercised a pretty
dominion over this little band of chosen friends. The two girls, Mildred
Quain and Amabel Osling, openly acknowledged her leadership; the men
deferred to her, not only as the hostess (a position which she generally
occupied), but as the centre of attraction and the deviser of pleasures,
the organiser of visits to theatres and concerts, and of their
lawn-tennis at the Acton ground in the spring and summer. But there was
a touch of shrewd anxiety in his watching. Young men were wont to aspire
to more than friendship where they found metal attractive to their eyes.
Mr. Sarradet was ambitious for his daughter.
"Next Monday, then, we'll all meet at His Majesty's," Marie
announced--or commanded. She turned to Joe Halliday. "You get the
tickets. And anybody who likes can come back here to supper afterwards."
"Splendid, dear!" said Amabel Osling, a dark girl with large eyes and a
rather intense manner; she wore what might be described as an art-frock.
"An evening out, an evening out!" chanted Joe Halliday, a big young
fellow with a shock of light brown hair and a manner of exuberant
good-nature and heartiness.
"I'm afraid I can't come," said Arthur Lisle apologetically.
"Why not, Mr. Lisle?" Marie's voice sounded certainly disappointed,
perhaps rather resentful.
"I'm dining out."
Sidney Barslow looked at him with a smile, in which Arthur detected an
ironical flavour. Between these two members of the circle there was, in
truth, no love lost. Barslow resented in Arthur a superiority of
breeding which all his own vanity could not enable him to ignore. Arthur
found this handsome fellow, with his carefully sleek hair, his bold
challenging eyes, his lady-killerish airs, in the end a 'bounder' with
only a veneer of elegance; all the same he wished he had half Barslow's
easy assurance and self-confidence.
"Oh, Learned Counsel is dining out?" In the Sarradet circle, being of
the Bar was felt to be enough of a distinction to warrant a little
chaff. "May one ask who with? The Lord Chancellor perhaps?"
They all laughed. "Presently, presently!" said Joe, patting Arthur's
head. "The lad will make his way in society."
"Don't be an ass, Joe." But Arthur liked Joe as much as he disliked
Barslow, and his protest was quite free from annoyance.
"Don't you want to tell us who it is, Mr. Lisle?" asked Amabel.
"Well, I don't suppose you'll be any the wiser; it's the man whose
chambers I share--Norton Ward."
Now, as it chanced, Mildred Quain's uncle lived in the suburban
constituency which Norton Ward was 'nursing' and was of the same
political colour as the prospective candidate. Mildred had heard the
candidate speak at the opening of a bazaar--and had seen the Honourable
Mrs. Norton Ward perform the ceremony.
"You are among the swells, Mr. Lisle!" said Mildred, and proceeded to
describe the extreme political and social eminence of the Norton Wards.
Arthur, who had gratefully accepted his invitation as a human kindness,
was amused at finding it regarded as a promotion, as a cause for
congratulation and envy; he grew afraid that his mention of it might be
taken for a boast.
"I think it was pure charity on Norton Ward's part," he laughed. "I
expect he thought I was lonely."
"I dare say. He couldn't be expected to know about the likes of us,"
said Barslow.
"Oh, shut up, Sidney!" cried Joe Halliday. "Can't Arthur go out to
dinner without your permission?"
A sudden flush spread over Barslow's face; he glared angrily at Joe. Mr.
Sarradet had taken up the evening paper, and noticed nothing; but all
the rest were conscious that a storm threatened the serenity of the
gathering. On a trivial occasion latent jealousies had leapt to light.
Marie looked round her company with a smile which included all and
betrayed no partisanship. "We'll choose another night for His
Majesty's," she said. "That's quite simple. Then we can all go. And now
shall we have one more song before we break up? One more from you, Joe!"
As they moved towards the piano, she contrived to touch the irate Mr.
Barslow lightly on the arm, to give him an arch glance, and to
murmur--very low--the word "Silly!" Mr. Barslow's brow cleared
wonderfully.
She wanted no quarrel and was confident of her ability to prevent one.
If one came, she would have to be arbiter; she would have to take sides,
and that must almost certainly mean the loss of one of her
friends--either Sidney Barslow or Arthur Lisle. She did not want to lose
either, for each had an attraction for her--an attraction not of mere
solid friendship such as bound her to Joe Halliday, but an appeal of man
to woman. Barslow's boldness, his challenge, his powerful virility drew
one side of her nature with a strong magnet; to what was 'second-class'
and tawdry in him she was not, by birth or breeding, very sensitive
herself. On the other hand she knew that Arthur Lisle was, and admired
him because he was. Nay, in a sense she was afraid of him because he
was; if she did or said anything in his eyes amiss--if she shewed too
much favour to Sidney Barslow, for instance--he might feel about her
much as he did about the man himself. She knew all about Barslow, and
all about what Barslow felt for and about herself; it was very familiar,
one might say inherited, ground. With regard to Arthur Lisle all this
was different; he was still, in spite of their apparent intimacy, _terra
incognita_. Though he constantly frequented the house, though from a
chance acquaintance of her brother's he had grown into a familiar
friend, though they were fast comrades, even though she knew that he
admired her, there was so much about him which she vaguely divined to be
there, but could not value or analyse--notions, instincts, spots of
sensitiveness, to which she remained really a stranger. How strong were
they, what was their verdict on her, what their influence on him? Would
a tide of admiration or passion sweep them all away? Or would they make
such a tide impossible, or, even if it came, dam its course with
impalpable insurmountable obstacles? In fine, would he, in spite of any
feeling for her that he might have, hold her "out of the question"?
He was the last to leave that night--as he often was, for the solitude
of his lodgings had no attraction for him--and she went with him to the
door. The stars shone now over Regent's Park, and they lingered a moment
in astronomical conversation. Then she gave him her hand, saying:
"I'm so sorry about Monday. But you must tell me all about your party
afterwards!"
"I don't suppose there'll be anything to tell. Well, Mildred Quain may
be interested, because of her uncle!"
"I shall be interested too--though not because of my uncle," she said
with a laugh and a fleet upward glance at him. "I consider I've
introduced you to London society, and I take a maternal interest in you,
Mr. Lisle."
"Why do you say 'Mr. Lisle' to me? You always say 'Joe' and 'Sidney' to
the others."
"So I do. I don't know!"
"Well, then, don't do it," laughed Arthur. "It makes me jealous, you
know."
She looked at him for a moment, not now in provocation, rather in
thought, perhaps in puzzle. "It needn't do that, anyhow," at last she
said.
"Is it then a mark of respect?" he asked banteringly, finding pleasure
in the perplexed little frown which persisted on her pretty face.
"Well, I speak of you as I feel about you, and I can't say any more,"
she answered, half laughing, but protesting too that this sort of
inquisition was unfair.
"You shall do as you like then! What you do is always right." He spoke
affectionately and held out his hand to her again.
She did not give him hers. She drew back a little, blushing. "Ah, if you
really thought that!" After a pause, she said rather sharply, "Why don't
you like Sidney Barslow?"
"I don't exactly dislike him, but sometimes he----" He waved his arm,
wanting a word.
"Grates?" she suggested briefly.
"Thank you," said Arthur with a laugh. "Just every now and then,
perhaps!"
She stood there a moment longer with an expression on her face which was
new to him there; she looked as if she wanted to say something or ask
him something, but did not dare. Though her lips smiled, there was
appeal, almost timidity, in her eyes. But she turned away with no more
than "Well, good-night."
Scores of times in the last year-and-a-half, since he had come to know
her, he had called her "a good sort" for all the kindness and friendship
she had shewn him; he had conceived for her, and her clever capable
ways, an amused admiration. After these feelings there had grown up in
him, by familiarity, a sort of mental friendship for her face and figure
too. He never reckoned her beautiful or even very pretty, but she had a
piquancy of face and a grace of figure which had gradually become very
pleasant to him. That she was physically attractive had been an
after-thought, but, when once it had come, it stayed. To-night he was
particularly conscious of it, perhaps because of the air of timidity or
self-distrust which softened her, and, softening her, flattered in him
the latent masculine pride.
Though not entirely, he had been to a large extent free from boyish
flirtations and philandering. The necessity of hard work, shyness and
fastidiousness, bodily temperament, had all combined to keep him out of
such things. One passion of a glorious Oxford summer term he had counted
the real thing and remembered even now with a tender exultation; for the
girl's heart had been touched, though not to the point of defying either
prudence or propriety--even had he ventured to urge such courses. Save
for this episode, now remote since such age quickly, he was in essence a
stranger in the field of love. He did not recognise nor analyse the
curious little stir which was in him as he walked home that night--the
feeling of a new gaiety, a new joyfulness, a sense of something
triumphant and as it were liberated and given wings. He did not even get
so far as to associate it explicitly and consciously with Marie
Sarradet, though he did know that never had she seemed a dearer friend
or a more winning girl than she had that night. He stood by the brink of
the spring of love, but had not yet drunk of it nor recognised the hand
that had led him there.
The girl had gone back to her father and mixed him his 'night-cap' of
hot toddy, as her custom was. While he sipped it, she stood beside him,
looking down into the fire, still and meditative. Presently she became
aware of his bright beady eyes set on her with a glance
half-apprehensive, half-amused; she interpreted it easily.
"A long time saying good-night, was I, Pops? And you think I've been
flirting? Well, I haven't, and I couldn't have if I'd wanted to. Mr.
Lisle never flirts. Joe pretends to sometimes, and Sidney--does. But Mr.
Lisle--never!"
"That needn't mean that a man has no serious intentions," Mr. Sarradet
opined.
She smiled. "With the English I think it does. We're not quite English,
even after all this time, are we? At least you and I aren't; Raymond is,
I think."
"Raymond's a goose, English or not," said the father impatiently. "He's
in debt again, and I have to pay! I won't leave my business to a
spendthrift."
"Oh, he'll get over it. He is silly but--only twenty-two. Pops!"
"And at twenty you've as shrewd a head as I know on your shoulders! Get
over it he must or----!" An indignant gulp of his 'night-cap' ended the
sentence.
"If you let him go in for something that he liked better than the
business----" she began.
"What business has he not to like the business! It's kept us in
comfort for a hundred and fifty years. Isn't it good enough for
him? It's been good enough for me and my forefathers. We've known
what we were; we've never pretended to be anything else. We're
honest merchants--shop-keepers. That's what we are."
"Have patience, dear, I'll talk to him," she promised gently, and
soothed the old fellow, whose bark was worse than his bite.
"Well, he'll come to me for a cheque once too often, that's all," he
grumbled, as he kissed his daughter and took himself off to bed.
"Honest merchants--shop-keepers. That's what we are." The words echoed
through Marie Sarradet's head. It was easy to smile at them, both at
their pride and at their humility, easy to call ideas of that kind quite
out of date. But what if they did represent a truth, irrelevant perhaps
nowadays for public or political purposes, but having its relevance and
importance in personal relations, in its influence on mind and feeling?
This was the direction her thoughts took, though she found no words, and
only dim ideas by which to grope. Presently the ideas grew concrete in
the word which she had herself suggested to Arthur Lisle and he had
accepted with alacrity. Sidney Barslow 'grated' on Arthur. It was not
impossible to see why, though even this she acknowledged grudgingly and
with a sense of treachery--she herself found so much to like in Sidney!
Exactly! There she seemed to lay her finger on the spot. If she liked
Sidney, and Sidney grated on Arthur Lisle so badly--the question which
she had not dared to ask at the door rose to her lips again--"Do I
grate?" And was that why Arthur Lisle never flirted? Never with her, at
least--for that was all she could really know on the subject.