THE LINES OF LIFE
The glorious frost lasted a glorious week, generous measure for an
English frost, and long enough for Arthur to make considerable
improvement in the art of skating; since Margaret maintained her
attitude of not caring about it, he had the benefit of the professor's
undivided attention. Long enough too it lasted for the new vision to
stamp itself deep on his mind. For companion picture he recalled from
memory another, which at the outset had made no such vivid
impression--Judith crying over the failure of the farce. His mind had
passed it by lightly when it was first presented to him; it had not
availed to turn his amused thoughts from Miss Ayesha Layard and her
medicine. It came back now, at first by what seemed only a chance or
freak of memory, but presently establishing for itself a relation with
its sister-vision of triumphant grace. Between them they gave to Judith
in his eyes something that he had not discerned before--something which
had always been there, though not in such full measure in the earlier
days of their acquaintance, before disaster and grief, and love and
sympathy, had wrought upon her spirit. He saw her now--he was idealising
again, no doubt, to some degree, after that generous fashion of his
which no cold steel of experience could quite eradicate--as capable of
the depths and heights of emotion; no longer as tethered too tight by
reason and good sense, somewhat too critical, a trifle too humdrum in
her notions--that was the conception of her which he had in the days of
Bernadette's reign. The solid merits of that type he left to her still;
and in this he was indeed on the firm ground of experience; he had tried
and tested them. But now he decked them with bright ornaments and
blended their sober useful tints with richer colouring--with tenderness
of heart, a high brave joy in life, the grace of form and charm of face
in which the eye delights.
Subtly and delightfully sure of his changed vision of her, she dared now
to be wholly herself with him, to maintain no shy reserves where
prudence held pleasure in bondage, and affection took refuge from the
fear of indifference. She borrowed of him too, though this
unconsciously, in an instinct to adapt herself to him. As she had lent
to him from her stores of fortitude and clear-sightedness, she levied
toll for herself on his wealth of persistent and elastic cheerfulness,
his gust for life and all that life brings with it.
Yet her old self was not eclipsed nor wholly transformed. Her caution
remained, and her healthy distrust of sudden impulses. The satiric smile
was still on her lips, to check transports and cool the glow of
fascination. She had been so wont to think him Bernadette's man--whether
in joy or in delusion, or in the cruel shock of sudden enlightenment--so
wont to think Bernadette invincible, that even Bernadette's memory
seemed a thing that could hardly be displaced. She craved a probation, a
searching test both of her own feelings and of Arthur's. She feared
while she enjoyed, and of set purpose nursed her doubts. There was not
always skating--not always bright sun, keen air, and the rapture of
motion, incentives to hot blood. If he deluded himself, she would have
compassion ready and friendship for him unimpaired; but if she, with
open eyes, walked into a trap, her judgment of herself would be bitter,
and friendship would scarcely stand against the shame.
Arthur went back to town ten days before the Christmas vacation ended,
to look after his work and, incidentally, to attend Marie Sarradet's
wedding. He left Hilsey cheerfully, with no real sense of a parting or
of separation. He was still keen and excited about his work, about the
life that seemed now to lie before him in the law, and Hilsey--with all
it meant to him--figured no longer as a distraction from that life, or
even an enemy to it, but rather as its background and complement, so
much a part of it as to seem with him while he worked. And so it was
with Judith herself--the new Judith of the new vision. She was no enemy
to work either. However bedecked and glorified, she was still Judith of
the cool head and humorous eyes, the foe of extravagance and vain
conceits.
"Back to my dog!" he said gaily. "Holding on to his tail, I'll climb the
heights of fortune! And I hope one or two more will find their way to
chambers--some little puppies, at all events."
"Ambition is awake! I seem to see a dawning likeness to Mr. Norton
Ward."
"I seem to see, as in a golden dream, enough to pay his rent, confound
him!"
"I discern, as it were from afar off, a silk gown gracefully hanging
about your person!"
"I discern money in my pocket to pay a railway fare to Switzerland!"
"There rises before my eyes a portly man in a high seat! He administers
Justice!"
"Before mine, a lady, gracious and ample, who----" But that final vision
was promptly dispelled by a cushion which Judith hurled at him with
unerring aim.
Marie Sarradet and Sidney Barslow were married at Marylebone Church, and
after the ceremony there was a gathering of old friends at the house in
Regent's Park--the family (including Mrs. Veltheim), Amabel Osling,
Mildred Quain, Joe Halliday, and Mr. Claud Beverley, the last-named (and
so named still in the Sarradet circle) blushing under congratulations;
for the drama of real life had met with a critical success, though the
London run had not as yet followed. Indeed, as befitted the occasion, a
sense of congratulation pervaded the air. It seemed as though more than
a wedding were celebrated. They toasted in their champagne the restored
stability of the family and the business also. The bridegroom, Managing
Director of Sarradet's Limited, showed signs of growing stout; there was
a very solid settled look about him; order, respectability, and a
comfortable balance at the bank were the suggestions his appearance
carried. Far, far in the past the rowdy gaieties of Oxford Street! Old
Sarradet basked in the sun of recovered safety and tranquillity. Even
Raymond, still nominally "on appro," used, all unrebuked, such airs of
possession towards Amabel that none could doubt his speedy acceptance.
Marie herself was in a serene content which not even the presence of her
aunt could cloud. She greeted Arthur with affectionate friendship.
"It is good of you to come. It wouldn't have seemed right without you,"
she told him, when they got a few words apart.
"I had to come. You don't know how glad I am of your happiness, Marie."
She looked at him frankly, smiling in a confidential meaning. "Yes, I
think I do. We've been very great friends, haven't we? And we will be.
Yes, I am happy. It's all worked in so well, and Sidney is so good to
me." She blushed a little as she added, with frank simplicity, "I love
him, Arthur."
He knew why she told him; it was that no shadow of self-reproach should
remain with him. He pressed her hand gently. "God bless you, and send
you every happiness!"
She lowered her voice. "And you? Because I've a right to wish you
happiness too."
"Fretting about me! And on your wedding day!" he rebuked her gaily.
"Yes, just a little," she acknowledged, laughing.
"Well, you needn't. No, honestly you needn't." He laughed too. "I'm
shamefully jolly!"
"Then it's all perfect," she said with a sigh of contentment.
Arthur had missed seeing _Jephthah's Daughter_ owing to his mother's
death, but since not having seen or read the work is not always a
disadvantage when congratulations have to be offered to the author, he
expressed his heartily to Mr. Beverley. "Next time it's put up, I shall
be there," he added.
"I don't know that it ever will be--and I don't much care if it isn't.
It's not bad in its way--you've seen some of the notices, I
daresay?--but I'm not sure that it's my real line. I'm having a shot at
something rather different. If it succeeds----"
Arthur knew what was coming. "You shan't chuck the office before we've
found the dog, anyhow!" he interrupted, laughing. But none the less he
admired the sanguine genius. "Only there won't be enough 'lines' to last
him out at this rate," he reflected.
At the end--when bride and bridegroom had driven off--Arthur suddenly
found his hand seized and violently shaken by old Mr. Sarradet, who was
in a state of excited rapture. "The happiest day of my life!" he was
saying. "What I've always hoped for! Always, Mr. Lisle, from the
beginning!"
He seemed to have no recollection of a certain interview in Bloomsbury
Street--an interview abruptly cut short by the arrival of a lady in a
barouche. He was growing old, his memory played him tricks. He had found
a strong arm to lean on and, rejoicing in it, forgot that it had not
always been the thing which he desired.
"Yes, you know a good thing when you see it, Mr. Sarradet," Arthur
smilingly told the proud old man. But he did it with an amused
consciousness that Mrs. Veltheim, who stood by, eyeing him rather
sourly, had a very clear remembrance of past events.
"We'll give 'em a dinner when they come back. You must come, Mr. Lisle.
Everybody here must come," old Sarradet went on, and shuffled round the
room, asking everyone to come to the dinner. "And now, one more glass of
champagne! Oh yes, you must! Yes, you too, Amabel--and you, Mildred!
Come, girls, a little drop! Here's a health to the Happy Pair and to
Sarradet's Limited!"
"The Happy Pair and Sarradet's Limited!" repeated everybody before they
drank.
"_And_ Sarradet's Limited!" reiterated the old man, taking a second
gulp.
"I don't know when he'll stop," whispered Joe Halliday.
"If we don't want to get screwed, we'd better make a bolt of it,
Arthur."
So they did, and went for a stroll in the Park to cool their heads.
"Well, that's good-bye to them!" said Joe, when he had lit his cigar.
"And it's good-bye to me for a bit too. I'm sailing the day after
to-morrow. Going to Canada."
"Are you? Rather sudden, isn't it? Going to be gone long?"
"I don't know. Just as things turn out. I may be back in a couple of
months; I may not turn up again till I'm a Colonial Premier or something
of that sort. The fact is, I've got into no end of a good thing out
there. A cert.--well, practically a cert. I wish I'd been able to put
you in for a thou. or two, old fellow."
"No, thanks! No, thanks!" exclaimed Arthur, laughing.
"But it wasn't to be done. All I could do to get in myself! Especially
as I'm pretty rocky. However they wanted my experience----"
"Of Canada? Have you ever been there?"
"I suppose Canada's much like other places," said Joe, evading the
direct question. "It's my experience of business they wanted, of course,
you old fool. I'm in for a good thing this time, and no mistake! If I
hadn't had too much fizz already, I'd ask you to come and drink my
health."
"Good luck anyhow, old fellow! I'm sorry you're going away, though. I
shan't enjoy seeing Trixie Kayper half as much without you."
Joe suddenly put his arm in Arthur's. "You're a bit of a fool in some
ways, in my humble judgment," he said. "But you're a good chap, Arthur.
You stick to your pals, you don't squeal when you drop your money, and
you don't put on side. As this rotten old world goes, you're not a bad
chap."
"This sounds like a parting testimonial, Joe!"
"Well, what if it does? God knows when we shall eat a steak and drink a
pot of beer together again! A good loser makes a good winner, and you'll
be a winner yet. And damned glad I shall be to see it! Now I must
toddle--get in the Tube and go to the City. Good-bye, Arthur."
"Good-bye, Joe. I say, I'm glad we did _Did You Say Mrs.?_ Perhaps
you'll run up against Ayesha Layard over there. Give her my love."
"Oh, hang the girl! I don't want to see her! So long then, old chap!"
With a final grip he turned and walked away quickly.
Arthur saw him go with a keen pang of regret. They had tempted fortune
together, and each had liked what he found in the other. Joe's equal
mind--which smiled back when the world smiled, and, when it frowned,
thought a cheerful word of abuse notice enough to take of its
tantrums--made him a good comrade, a good stand-by; his humour, crude
though it was and pre-eminently of the market-place, put an easier face
on trying situations. He had a faithful, if critical, affection for his
friends, and Arthur was not so rich in friends as to lose the society of
one like this without sorrow. As it chanced, his intimates of school and
university days had drifted into other places and other occupations
which prevented them from being frequent companions, and he had as yet
not replaced them from the ranks of his profession, from among the men
he met in the courts and in the Temple; up to now courts and Temple had
been too much places to get away from, too little the scene of his spare
hours and his real interests, to breed intimacies, though, of course,
they had produced acquaintances. As he walked down to the Temple now,
after parting from Joe Halliday--and for how long Heaven alone could
tell!--he felt lonely and told himself that he must get to know better
the men among whom his life was cast. He found himself thinking of his
life in the Temple as something definitely settled at last, not as a
provisional sort of arrangement which might go on or, on the other hand,
might be ended any day and on any impulse. The coils of his destiny had
begun to wind about him.
It was vacation still, and chambers were deserted; Henry and the boy
departed at four o'clock in vacation. He let himself in with his key,
lit his fire, induced a blaze in it, and sat down for a smoke before it.
Marie Sarradet came back into his mind now--Marie Barslow; the new name
set him smiling, recalling, wondering. How if the new name had not been
Barslow but another? Would that have meant being the prop of the family
and the business, being engulfed in Sarradet's Limited? That was what it
meant for Sidney Barslow--among other things, of course. But who could
tell what things might mean? Suppose the great farce had succeeded, had
really been a gold mine--of the sort with gold in it--really a second
_Help Me out Quickly!_ Where would he be now--he and his thousands of
pounds--if that had happened? Would he have been producing more farces,
and giving more engagements to infectious Ayesha Layard and
indefatigable Willie Spring?
_Dis aliter visum_--Fate decreed otherwise. Detached from the fortunes
of Sarradet's Limited, rudely--indeed very rudely--repulsed from the
threshold of theatrical venture, he had come back to his Legitimate
Mistress. He knew her ways--her rebuffs, her neglect, her intolerable
procrastination; but he had enjoyed just a taste of her favour and
attractions too--of the interest and excitement, of the many-sided view
of life, that she could give. Because of these, and also because of her
high dignity and great traditions--things in which Sarradet's Limited
and theatrical ventures seemed to him not so rich--he made up his mind
to follow the beckoning of fate's finger and to stick to her, even
though she half-starved him, and tried him to the extreme limit of his
patience--after her ancient wont.
But his renewed allegiance was to be on terms; so at least he tried to
pledge the future. He did not want his whole life and thought swallowed
up. Here his own temperament had much to say, but his talks with Sir
Christopher a good deal also. He would not be a sleuth-hound on the
track of success (a Norton Ward, as he defined it to himself privily),
nose to the ground, awake to that scent only, with no eyes for the world
about him--or again, as it might be put, he would not have his life just
a ladder, a climb up the steep side of a cliff, in hope of an eminence
dizzy and uncertain enough even if he got there, and with a handsome
probability of tumbling into the tomb half-way up. Could terms be made
with the exacting Mistress about this? Really he did not know. So often
she either refused all favours or stifled a man under the sheer weight
of them. That was her way. Still, Sir Christopher had dodged it.
Suddenly he fell to laughing over the ridiculousness of these
meditations. Afraid of too much work, when but for that dog he was
briefless still! Could there be greater absurdity or grosser vanity? Yet
the idea stuck--thanks perhaps to Sir Christopher--and under its
apparent inanity possessed a solid basis. There was not only a career
which he wished to run; there was a sort of man that he wanted to be, a
man with broad interests and far-reaching sympathies, in full touch with
the varieties of life, and not starved of its pleasures. Thus hazily,
with smiles to mock his dreams, in that quiet hour he outlined the
future of his choice, the manner of man that he would be.
The ringing of the telephone bell recalled him sharply to the present.
With a last smiling "Rot!" muttered under his breath at himself, with a
quick flash of hope that it was Wills and Mayne again, he went to answer
the call. A strange voice with a foreign accent enquired his number,
then asked if Mr. Arthur Lisle were in, and, on being told that it was
that gentleman who was speaking, begged him to hold the line. The next
moment another voice, not strange at all though it seemed long since he
had heard it, asked, "Is that you, Cousin Arthur?"
"Yes, it's me," he answered, with a sudden twinge of excitement.
"I'm at the Lancaster--over here on business with the lawyers, just for
a day or two. Oliver's in Paris. I want to see you about something, but
I hardly hoped to find you in town. I thought you'd be at Hilsey. How
lucky! Can you come and see me some time?"
"Yes, any time. I can come now, if you like. I'm doing nothing here."
A slight pause--Then--"Are you alone there, or is Frank Norton Ward
there too?"
"There's absolutely nobody here but me."
"Then I think I'll come and see you. It's only a step. Will you look out
for me?"
"Yes, I'll be looking out for you."
"In about a quarter of an hour then. Good-bye."
Arthur hung up the receiver and returned to his room--the telephone was
in Henry's nondescript apartment. A smile quivered about his lips; he
did not sit down again, but paced to and fro in a restless way. Strange
to hear her voice, strange that she should turn up to-day! Of all the
things he had been thinking about, he had not been thinking of her. She
recalled herself now with all the effectiveness of the unexpected. She
came suddenly out of the past and plunged him back into it with her
"Cousin Arthur." He felt bewildered, yet definitely glad of one thing--a
small one to all seeming, but to him comforting. He was relieved that
she was coming to chambers, that he would not have to go to the
Lancaster, and ask for her with proper indifference; ask for her by an
unfamiliar name--at least he supposed she used that name! He felt
certain that he would have blushed ridiculously if he had had to ask for
her by that name. He nodded his head in relief; he was well out of that
anyhow! And--she would be here directly!