A COMPLICATION
Bernadette Lisle's foray on the shops of Paris, undertaken in
preparation for the London season, was of so extensive an order as to
leave her hardly an hour of the day to herself; and in the evenings the
friends with whom she was staying--Mrs. and Miss Stacey Jenkinson,
Europeanised Americans and most popular people--insisted on her society.
So it was with the greatest difficulty that she had at last got away by
herself and was able to come to lunch.
"Though even now," she told Oliver Wyse, as they sat down together at
the Café de Paris, "it's a secret assignation. I'm supposed to be trying
on hats!"
"All the sweeter for secrecy, and I suppose we're not visible to more
than two hundred people."
He had a fine voice, not loud but full and resonant. There were many
things about him that Bernadette liked--his composure, his air of being
equal to all things, his face and hands browned by the sun in southern
climes, his keen eyes quickly taking in a character or apprehending a
mood. But most of all to her fancy was his voice. She told him so now
with her usual naturalness.
"It is pleasant to hear your voice again." She gave him a quick merry
glance. "Do you mind my saying that?"
"Yes, I hate compliments."
"I'm sorry." She was chaffing him, but she did it with a subtle little
touch of deference, quite unlike anything in her manner towards either
her husband or her new toy, Cousin Arthur. In this again she was, while
pretty, natural. Oliver Wyse was a dozen years her senior, and a
distinguished man. He had a career behind him in the Colonial Service, a
career of note, and was supposed to have another still in front of him
in the directorate of a great business with world-wide interests. To
take up this new work--very congenial and promising much wealth, which
had not hitherto come his way--he had bade farewell to employment under
Government. Some said his resignation had been hailed with relief since
he did not count among his many virtues that of being a very docile
subordinate. His representations were apt to be more energetic, his
interpretation of orders less literal, than official superiors at the
other end of the cable desired. So with many compliments and a Knight
Commandership of the appropriate Order he was gracefully suffered to
depart.
"But a jolly little lunch like this is worth a lot of meetings at
squashes and so on, isn't it? By the way, you didn't come to mine the
other day, Sir Oliver." (She referred to the party which Mr. Arthur
Lisle had attended.)
"I don't like squashes."
"Compliments and squashes! Anything else? I want to know what to avoid,
please." She rested her chin on her hand and looked at him with an air
of wondering how far she could safely go in her banter.
"I'm not sure I like handsome young cousins very much."
"I haven't any more--at least I'm afraid not! Even Arthur was quite a
surprise. I believe I should never have known of him but for Esther
Norton Ward."
"Meddling woman! For a fortnight after his appearance I was obviously
_de trop_."
"I was afraid he'd run away again; he's very timid. I had to tie him
tight at first."
"Suppose I had run away? You don't seem to have thought of that."
Her changeful lips pouted a little. "I might run after you, I shouldn't
after Arthur--and then I could bring you back. At least, could I, Sir
Oliver? Oh, dear, I've very nearly paid you another compliment!"
"I didn't mind that one so much. It was more subtle."
"I don't believe you mind them a bit, so long as they're--well,
ingenious enough. You've been spoilt by Begums, or Ranees, or whatever
they're called, I expect."
"That's true. You must find me very hard to please, of course."
"Well, there's a--a considering look in your eyes sometimes that I don't
quite like," said Bernadette. She laughed, sipped her wine, and turned
to her cutlet with good appetite.
She spoke lightly, jestingly, but she laid her finger shrewdly on the
spot. She charmed him, but she puzzled him too; and Oliver Wyse, when he
did not understand, was apt to be angry, or at least impatient. A man of
action and of ardour, of strong convictions and feelings, he could make
no terms with people who were indifferent to the things he believed in
and was moved by, and who ordered their lives--or let them drift--along
lines which seemed to him wrong or futile. He was a proselytiser, and
might have been, in other days, a persecutor. Not to share his views and
ideals was a blunder bordering on a crime. Even not to be the sort of
man that he was constituted an offence, since he was the sort of man of
whom the Empire and the World had need. Of this offence Godfrey Lisle
was guilty in the most heinous degree. He was quite indifferent to all
Oliver's causes--to the Empire, to the World, to a man's duty towards
these great entities; he drifted through life in a hazy æstheticism,
doing nothing, being profoundly futile. His amiability and faithful
affections availed nothing to save him from condemnation--old maids'
virtues, both of them! Where were his feelings? Had he no passion in
him? A poor, poor creature, but half a man, more like a pussy-cat, a
well-fed old pussy-cat that basks before the fire and lets itself be
stroked, too lazy to catch mice or mingle in affrays at midnight. An old
house-cat, truly and properly contemptible!
But inoffensive? No, not to Oliver's temper. Distinctly an offence on
public and general grounds, a person of evil example, anathema by
Oliver's gospel--and a more grievous offender in that, being what he
was, he was Bernadette's husband. What a fate for her! What a waste of
her! What emptiness for mind and heart must lie in existence with such a
creature--it was like living in a vacuum! Her nature must be starved,
her capacities in danger of being stunted. Surely she must be supremely
unhappy?
But to all appearances she was not at all unhappy. Here came the puzzle
which brought that "considering look" into his eyes and tinged it with
resentment, even while he watched with delight the manifold graces of
her gaiety.
If she were content, why not leave her alone? That would not do for
Oliver. She attracted him, she charmed his senses. Then she must be of
his mind, must see and feel things as he did. If he was bitterly
discontented for her, she must be bitterly discontented for herself. If
he refused to acquiesce in a stunted life for her, to her too the
stunted life must seem intolerable. Otherwise what conclusion was there
save that the fair body held a mean spirit? The fair body charmed him
too much to let him accept that conclusion.
"Enjoying your holiday from home cares?" he asked.
"I'm enjoying myself, but I haven't many home cares, Sir Oliver."
"Your husband must miss you very much."
She looked a little pettish. "Why do you say just the opposite of what
you mean? You've seen enough of us to know that Godfrey doesn't miss me
at all; he has his own interests. I couldn't keep that a secret from
you, even if I wanted to; and I don't particularly want. You're about my
greatest friend and----"
"About?"
"Well, my greatest then--and don't look as if somebody had stolen your
umbrella."
He broke into a laugh for an instant, but was soon grave again. She
smiled at him appealingly; she had been happier in the light banter with
which they had begun. That she thoroughly enjoyed; it told her of his
admiration, and flattered her with it; she was proud of the friendship
it implied. When he grew serious and looked at her ponderingly, she
always felt a little afraid; and he had been doing it more and more
every time they met lately. It was as though he were thinking of putting
some question to her--some grave question to which she must make answer.
She did not want that question put. Things were very well as they stood;
there were drawbacks, but she was not conscious of anything very
seriously wrong. She found a great deal of pleasure and happiness in
life; there were endless small gratifications in it, and only a few
rubs, to which she had become pretty well accustomed. Inside the fair
body there was a reasonable little mind, quite ready for reasonable
compromises.
They had finished their meal, which Bernadette at least had thoroughly
appreciated. She lit a tiny cigarette and watched her companion; he had
fallen into silence over his cigar. His lined bronzed face looked
thoughtful and worried.
"Oh, you think too much," she told him, touching his hand for an instant
lightly. "Why don't you just enjoy yourself? At any rate when you're
lunching with a friend you like!"
"It's just because I like the friend that I think so much."
"But what is there to think so much about?" she cried, really rather
impatiently.
"There's the fact that I'm in love with you to think about," he answered
quietly. It was not a question, but it was just as disconcerting as the
most searching interrogatory; perhaps indeed it differed only in form
from one.
"Oh, dear!" she murmured half under her breath, with a frown and a pout.
Then came a quick persuasive smile. "Oh, no, you're not! I daresay you
think me pretty and so on, but you're not in love." She ventured
further--so far as a laugh. "You haven't time for it, Sir Oliver!"
He laughed too. "I've managed to squeeze it in, I'm afraid, Bernadette."
"Can't you manage to squeeze it out again? Won't you try?"
"Why should I? It suits me very well where it is."
She made a little helpless gesture with her hands, as if to say, "What's
to be done about it?"
"You're not angry with me for mentioning the fact?"
"Angry? No. I like you, you see. But what's the use?"
He looked her full in the eyes for a moment. "We shall have to discuss
that later."
"What's the use of discussing? You can't discuss Godfrey out of
existence!"
"Not out of existence--practically speaking?"
"Oh, no! Nonsense! Of course not!" She was genuinely vexed and troubled
now.
"All right. Don't fret," he said, smiling. "It can wait."
She looked at him gravely, her lips just parted. "You do complicate
things!" she murmured.
"You'd rather I'd held my tongue about it?"
"Yes, I would--much."
"I couldn't, you see, any longer. I've been wanting to say it for six
months. Besides, I think I'm the sort of fellow who's bound to have a
thing like that out and see what comes of it--follow it to the end, you
know."
She thought that he probably was; there lay the trouble. The thing
itself was pleasant enough to her, but she did not want to follow it
out. If only he would have left it where it was--under the surface, a
pleasant sub-consciousness for them both, blending with their friendship
a delightful sentiment! Dragged into the open like this, it was very
hard to deal with.
"Can't you try and forget about it?" she whispered softly.
"Oh, my dear!" he muttered, laughing in a mixture of amusement and
exasperation.
She understood something of what his tone and his laugh meant. She gave
him a quick little nod of sympathy. "Is it as bad as that? Then my
question was stupid," she seemed to say. But though she understood, she
had no suggestion to offer. She sat with her brows furrowed and her lips
pursed up, thoroughly outfaced by the difficulty.
"You go back home to-morrow, don't you?" he asked.
"Yes. And you?"
"In a few days. I've not quite finished my business. Do you want me to
come to the house as usual?"
"Oh yes," she answered quickly, her brow clearing.
"In the hope that I shall get over it?"
"Yes."
"I shan't, you know."
"You can never tell. Godfrey was in love with me once. I was in love
with him too." Her expression plainly added what her lips refrained
from: "Isn't that funny?"
He shrugged his shoulders, in refusal to consider so distasteful a
subject. Her mind appeared to dwell on it a little, for she sat smiling
reflectively. She had recovered quickly from her alarmed discomfort; in
fact she seemed so at ease, so tranquil, that he was prompted to
say--saying it, however, with a smile--"I didn't introduce the topic
just to pass the time after lunch, you know." He paused and then added
gravely but simply, "I want you to look back on this as the greatest day
in your life."
Ever so slightly she shook her head. The room was nearly empty now; the
few who lingered were no less absorbed than themselves. He put his hand
on the top of her right hand on the table. "There's my pledge for life
and all I'm worth--if you will," he said.
At this she seemed moved by some feeling stronger than mere
embarrassment or discomfort. She gave a little shiver and raised her
eyes to his with a murmured "Don't!" It was as though she now, for the
first time, realised to some extent not only what he meant but what he
felt, and that the realisation caused her a deeper alarm. She sighed as
though under some weight and now, also for the first time, blushed
brightly. But when they were going to the door, she put her arm inside
his for a moment, and gave him a friendly little squeeze. When he looked
round into her face, she laughed rather nervously. "We're dear friends,
anyhow," she said. "You can walk with me to my hat shop, if you like."
"I won't come in," he protested, in a masculine horror that she liked.
"Nobody asked you. I expect to find Laura Jenkinson waiting for me
there. As it's your fault I'm so late, she'd be very cross with you."
They walked up the street together in silence for a little way. Then his
attention was caught by a wonderful gown in a shop-window and he turned
to her to point it out, with a laugh; he had determined to press her no
further that day. To his surprise he saw that her eyes were dim; a tear
trickled down her cheek.
"Why, Bernadette----!" he began in shocked remorse.
"Yes, I know," she interrupted petulantly. "Well, you frightened me.
I'm--I'm not used to things like that." Then she too saw the startling
frock. "Look at that, Sir Oliver! I don't believe I should ever dare to
wear it!"
"I fancy it's meant to appeal to ladies of another sort."
"Is it? Don't they wear just what we do? Well, just a little more so,
perhaps!" She stood eyeing the gown with a whimsical smile. "It is
rather naughty, isn't it?" She moved on again. He watched her face now.
She had wiped away the tear, no more came; she was smiling, not
brightly, but yet with a pensive amusement. Presently she asked him a
question.
"By what you said there--in the café, you know--did you mean that you
wanted me to run away with you?"
He was rather surprised at her returning to the subject. "I meant that I
wanted to take you away with me. There'd be no running about it."
"What, to do it,--openly?"
"Anything else wouldn't be at all according to my ideas. Still----" He
shrugged his shoulders again; he was not sure whether, under stress of
temptation, he would succeed in holding to his point.
She began to laugh, but stopped hastily when she saw that he looked
angry. "Oh, but you are absurd, you really are," she told him in a
gentle soothing fashion.
"I don't see that anybody could call it absurd," he remarked, frowning.
"Some good folk would no doubt call it very wicked."
"Well, I should, for one," said Bernadette, "if that's of any
importance."
She made him laugh again, as she generally could. "I believe I could
convince you, if that's the obstacle," he began.
"I don't suppose it is really--not the only one anyhow. Oh, here's the
shop!"
She stopped, but did not give him her hand directly. She was smiling,
but her eyes seemed large with alarm and apprehension.
"I do wish you'd promise me never to say another word about this." There
was no doubt of her almost pitiful sincerity. It made him very
remorseful.
"I wish to God I could, Bernadette," he answered.
"You're very strong. You can," she whispered, her face upturned to his.
He shook his head; now her eyes expressed a sort of wonder, as if at
something beyond her understanding. "I'm very sorry," he muttered in
compunction.
She sighed, but gave him her hand with a friendly smile. "No, don't be
unhappy about it--about having told me, I mean. I expect you couldn't
help it. _Au revoir_--in London!"
"Couldn't we dine, or go to the play, or something, to-night?" It was
hard to let her out of his sight.
"I'm engaged, and----" She clasped her hands for a moment as though in
supplication. "Please not, Oliver!" she pleaded.
He drew back a little, taking off his hat. Her cheeks were glowing again
as she turned away and went into the shop.