THE FLAT NEAR THE EDGWARE ROAD
Geoffrey’s journey to town was not altogether a cheerful one. To begin
with, Effie wept copiously at parting with her beloved “auntie,” as she
called Beatrice, and would not be comforted. The prospect of rejoining
her mother and the voluble Anne had no charms for Effie. They all three
got on best apart. Geoffrey himself had also much to think about, and
found little satisfaction in the thinking. He threw his mind back over
the events of the past few weeks. He remembered how he had first seen
Beatrice’s face through the thick mist on the Red Rocks, and how her
beauty had struck him as no beauty ever had before. Then he thought of
the adventure of their shipwreck, and of the desperate courage with
which she had saved his life, almost at the cost of her own. He
thought, too, of that scene when on the following day he had entered
the room where she was asleep, when the wandering ray of light had
wavered from her breast to his own, when that strange presentiment of
the ultimate intermingling of their lives had flashed upon him, and
when she had awakened with an unearthly greeting on her lips. While
Effie slowly sobbed herself to silence in the corner opposite to him,
one by one, he recalled every phase and scene of their ever-growing
intimacy, till the review culminated in his mysterious experience of
the past night, and the memory of Beatrice’s parting words.
Of all men Geoffrey was among those least inclined to any sort of
superstition; from boyhood he had been noted for common sense, and a
somewhat disbelieving turn of mind. But he had intellect, and
imagination which is simply intellect etherealised. Without these, with
his peculiar mental constitution, he would, for instance, probably have
been a religious sceptic; having them, he was nothing of the sort. So
in this matter of his experience of the previous night, and generally
of the strange and almost unnatural sympathy in which he found himself
with this lady, common sense and the results of his observation and
experience pointed to the whole thing being nonsense—the result of
“propinquity, Sir, propinquity,” and a pretty face—and nothing more.
But here his intellect and his imagination stepped in, telling him
plainly that it was not nonsense, that he had not merely made a donkey
of himself over an hysterical, or possibly a love-sick girl. They told
him that because a thing is a mystery it is not necessarily a folly,
though mysteries are for the most part dealt in by fools. They
suggested that there may be many things and forces above us and around
us, invisible as an electric current, intangible as light, yet existent
and capable of manifestation under certain rare and favourable
conditions.
And was it not possible that such conditions should unite in a woman
like Beatrice, who combined in herself a beauty of body which was only
outpassed by the beauty of her mind? It was no answer to say that most
women could never inspire the unearthly passion with which he had been
shaken some ten hours past, or that most men could never become aware
of the inspiration. Has not humanity powers and perceptions denied to
the cattle of the fields, and may there not be men and women as far
removed from their fellows in this respect as these are from the
cattle?
But the weak point of mysterious occurrences is that they lead nowhere,
and do not materially alter the facts of life. One cannot, for
instance, plead a mystery in a court of law; so, dropping the
imaginative side of the question as one beyond him, Geoffrey came to
its practical aspect, only to find it equally thorny.
Odd as it may seem, Geoffrey did not to this moment know the exact
position which he occupied in the mind of Beatrice, or that she
occupied in his. He was not in love with her, at least not in a way in
which he had ever experienced the influence of that, on the whole,
inconvenient and disagreeable passion. At any rate he argued from the
hypothesis that he was not in love with her. This he refused to admit
now in the light of day, though he had admitted it fully in the watches
of the night. It would not do to admit it. But he was forced to
acknowledge that she had crept into his life and possessed it so
completely that then and for months afterwards, except in deep sleep or
in hours of severe mental strain, not a single half hour would pass
without bringing its thought of Beatrice. Everything that was
beautiful, or grand, or elevating, reminded him of her—and what higher
compliment could a mistress have? If he listened to glorious music, the
voice of Beatrice spoke to him through the notes; if he watched the
clouds rolling in heavy pomp across a broken sky he thought of
Beatrice; if some chance poem or novel moved him, why Beatrice was in
his mind to share the pleasure. All of which was very interesting, and
in some ways delightful, but under our current system not otherwise
than inconvenient to a married man.
And now Beatrice was gone, and he must come back to his daily toil,
sweetened by Honoria’s bitter complaints of their poverty, and see her
no more. The thought made Geoffrey’s heart ache with a physical pain,
but his reason told him that it was best so. After all, there were no
bones broken; there had been no love scenes, no kiss, no words that
cannot be recalled; whatever there was lay beneath the surface, and
while appearances were kept up all was well. No doubt it was an
hypocrisy, but then hypocrisy is one of the great pillars of
civilization, and how does it matter what the heart says while the lips
are silent? The Recording Angel can alone read hearts, and he must
often find them singularly contradictory and untrustworthy writings.
Die of them, die of her dreams! No, Beatrice would not die of them, and
certainly he should not. Probably in the end she would marry that pious
earthly lump, Owen Davies. It was not pleasant to think of, it was even
dreadful, but really if she were to ask him his opinion, “as a friend,”
he should tell her it was the best thing that she could do. Of course
it would be hypocrisy again, the lips would give his heart the lie; but
when the heart rises in rebellion against the intelligence it must be
suppressed. Unfortunately, however, though a small member, it is very
strong.
They reached London at last, and as had been arranged, Anne, the French
_bonne_, met them at the station to take Effie home. Geoffrey noticed
that she looked smarter and less to his taste than ever. However, she
embraced Effie with an enthusiasm which the child scarcely responded
to, and at the same time carried on an ocular flirtation with a ticket
collector. Although early in the year for yellow fogs, London was
plunged in a dense gloom. It had been misty that morning at Bryngelly,
and become more and more so as the day advanced; but, though it was not
yet four o’clock, London was dark as night. Luckily, however, it is not
far from Paddington to the flat near the Edgware Road, where Geoffrey
lived, so having personally instructed the cabman, he left Anne to
convoy Effie and the luggage, and went on to the Temple by Underground
Railway with an easy mind.
Shortly after Geoffrey reached his chambers in Pump Court the solicitor
arrived as had been arranged, not his uncle—who was, he learned, very
unwell—but a partner. To his delight he then found that Beatrice’s
ghost theory was perfectly accurate; the boy with the missing toe-joint
had been discovered who saw the whole horrible tragedy through a crack
in the blind; moreover the truth had been wrung from him and he would
be produced at the trial—indeed a proof of his evidence was already
forthcoming. Also some specimens of the ex-lawyer’s clerk’s handwriting
had been obtained, and were declared by two experts to be identical
with the writing on the will. One thing, however, disturbed him:
neither the Attorney-General nor Mr. Candleton was yet in town, so no
conference was possible that evening. However, both were expected that
night—the Attorney-General from Devonshire and Mr. Candleton from the
Continent; so the case being first on the list, it was arranged that
the conference should take place at ten o’clock on the following
morning.
On arriving home Geoffrey was informed that Lady Honoria was dressing,
and had left a message saying he must be quick and do likewise as a
gentleman was coming to dinner. Accordingly he went to his own
room—which was at the other end of the flat—and put on his dress
clothes. Before going to the dining-room, however, he said good-night
to Effie—who was in bed, but not asleep—and asked her what time she had
reached home.
“At twenty minutes past five, daddy,” Effie said promptly.
“Twenty minutes past five! Why, you don’t mean to say that you were an
hour coming that little way! Did you get blocked in the fog?”
“No, daddy, but——”
“But what, dear?”
“Anne did tell me not to say!”
“But I tell you to say, dear—never mind Anne!”
“Anne stopped and talked to the ticket-man for a long, long time.”
“Oh, did she?” he said.
At that moment the parlourmaid came to say that Lady Honoria and the
“gentleman” were waiting for dinner. Geoffrey asked her casually what
time Miss Effie had reached home.
“About half-past five, sir. Anne said the cab was blocked in the fog.”
“Very well. Tell her ladyship that I shall be down in a minute.”
“Daddy,” said the child, “I haven’t said my prayers. Mother did not
come, and Anne said it was all nonsense about prayers. Auntie did
always hear me my prayers.”
“Yes, dear, and so will I. There, kneel upon my lap and say them.”
In the middle of the prayers—which Effie did not remember as well as
she might have done—the parlourmaid arrived again.
“Please, sir, her ladyship——”
“Tell her ladyship I am coming, and that if she is in a hurry she can
go to dinner! Go on, love.”
Then he kissed her and put her to bed again.
“Daddy,” said Effie, as he was going, “shall I see auntie Beatrice any
more?”
“I hope so, dear.”
“And shall you see her any more? You want to see her, don’t you, daddy?
She did love you very much!”
Geoffrey could bear it no longer. The truth is always sharper when it
comes from the mouth of babes and sucklings. With a hurried good-night
he fled.
In the little drawing-room he found Lady Honoria, very well dressed,
and also her friend, whose name was Mr. Dunstan. Geoffrey knew him at
once for an exceedingly wealthy man of small birth, and less breeding,
but a burning and a shining light in the Garsington set. Mr. Dunstan
was anxious to raise himself in society, and he thought that
notwithstanding her poverty, Lady Honoria might be useful to him in
this respect. Hence his presence there to-night.
“How do you do, Geoffrey?” said his wife, advancing to greet him with a
kiss of peace. “You look very well. But what an immense time you have
been dressing. Poor Mr. Dunstan is starving. Let me see. You know Mr.
Dunstan, I think. Dinner, Mary.”
Geoffrey apologised for being late, and shook hands politely with Mr.
Dunstan—Saint Dunstan he was generally called on account of his rather
clerical appearance and in sarcastic allusion to his somewhat shady
reputation. Then they went in to dinner.
“Sorry there is no lady for you, Geoffrey; but you must have had plenty
of ladies’ society lately. By the way, how is Miss—Miss Granger? Would
you believe it, Mr. Dunstan? that shocking husband of mine has been
passing the last month in the company of one of the loveliest girls I
ever saw, who knows Latin and law and everything else under the sun.
She began by saving his life, they were upset together out of a canoe,
you know. Isn’t it romantic?”
Saint Dunstan made some appropriate—or, rather inappropriate—remark to
the effect that he hoped Mr. Bingham had made the most of such
unrivalled opportunities, adding, with a deep sigh, that no lovely
young lady had ever saved his life that he might live for her, &c., &c.
Here Geoffrey broke in without much ceremony. To him it seemed a
desecration to listen while this person was making his feeble jokes
about Beatrice.
“Well, dear,” he said, addressing his wife, “and what have you been
doing with yourself all this time?”
“Mourning for you, Geoffrey, and enjoying myself exceedingly in the
intervals. We have had a delightful time, have we not, Mr. Dunstan? Mr.
Dunstan has also been staying at the Hall, you know.”
“How could it be otherwise when you were there, Lady Honoria?” answered
the Saint in that strain of compliment affected by such men, and which,
to tell the truth, jarred on its object, who was after all a lady.
“You know, Geoffrey,” she went on, “the Garsingtons have re-furnished
the large hall and their drawing-room. It cost eighteen hundred pounds,
but the result is lovely. The drawing-room is done in hand-painted
white satin, walls and all, and the hall in old oak.”
“Indeed!” he answered, reflecting the while that Lord Garsington might
as well have paid some of his debts before he spent eighteen hundred
pounds on his drawing-room furniture.
Then the Saint and Lady Honoria drifted into a long and animated
conversation about their fellow guests, which Geoffrey scarcely tried
to follow. Indeed, the dinner was a dull one for him, and he added
little or nothing to the stock of talk.
When his wife left the room, however, he had to say something, so they
spoke of shooting. The Saint had a redeeming feature—he was somewhat of
a sportsman, though a poor one, and he described to Geoffrey a new pair
of hammerless guns, which he had bought for a trifling sum of a hundred
and forty guineas, recommending the pattern to his notice.
“Yes,” answered Geoffrey, “I daresay that they are very nice; but, you
see, they are beyond me. A poor man cannot afford so much for a pair of
guns.”
“Oh, if that is all,” answered his guest, “I will sell you these; they
are a little long in the stock for me, and you can pay me when you
like. Or, hang it all, I have plenty of guns. I’ll be generous and give
them to you. If I cannot afford to be generous, I don’t know who can!”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Dunstan,” answered Geoffrey coldly, “but I am
not in the habit of accepting such presents from my—acquaintances. Will
you have a glass of sherry?—no. Then shall we join Lady Honoria?”
This speech quite crushed the vulgar but not ill-meaning Saint, and
Geoffrey was sorry for it a moment after he had made it. But he was
weary and out of temper. Why did his wife bring such people to the
house? Very shortly afterwards their guest took his leave, reflecting
that Bingham was a conceited ass, and altogether too much for him. “And
I don’t believe that he has got a thousand a year,” he reflected to
himself, “and the title is his wife’s. I suppose that is what he
married her for. She’s a much better sort than he is, any way, though I
don’t quite make her out either—one can’t go very far with her. But she
is the daughter of a peer and worth cultivating, but not when Bingham
is at home—not if I know it.”
“What have you said to Mr. Dunstan to make him go away so soon,
Geoffrey?” asked his wife.
“Said to him? oh, I don’t know. He offered to give me a pair of guns,
and I told him that I did not accept presents from my acquaintances.
Really, Honoria, I don’t want to interfere with your way of life, but I
do not understand how you can associate with such people as this Mr.
Dunstan.”
“Associate with him!” answered Lady Honoria. “Do you suppose I want to
associate with him? Do you suppose that I don’t know what the man is?
But beggars cannot be choosers; he may be a cad, but he has thirty
thousand a year, and we simply cannot afford to throw away an
acquaintance with thirty thousand a year. It is too bad of you,
Geoffrey,” she went on with rising temper, “when you know all that I
must put up with in our miserable poverty-stricken life, to take every
opportunity of making yourself disagreeable to the people I think it
wise to ask to come and see us. Here I return from comfort to this
wretched place, and the first thing that you do is make a fuss. Mr.
Dunstan has got boxes at several of the best theaters, and he offered
to let me have one whenever I liked—and now of course there is an end
of it. It is too bad, I say!”
“It is really curious, Honoria,” said her husband, “to see what
obligations you are ready to put yourself under in search of pleasure.
It is not dignified of you to accept boxes at theatres from this
gentleman.”
“Nonsense. There is no obligation about it. If he gave us a box, of
course he would make a point of looking in during the evening, and then
telling his friends that it was Lady Honoria Bingham he was speaking
to—that is the exchange. I want to go to the theatre; he wants to get
into good society—there you have the thing in a nutshell. It is done
every day. The fact of the matter is, Geoffrey,” she went on, looking
very much as though she were about to burst into a flood of angry
tears, “as I said just now, beggars cannot be choosers—I cannot live
like the wife of a banker’s clerk. I must have _some_ amusement, and
_some_ comfort, before I become an old woman. If you don’t like it, why
did you entrap me into this wretched marriage, before I was old enough
to know better, or why do you not make enough money to keep me in a way
suitable to my position?”
“We have argued that question before, Honoria,” said Geoffrey, keeping
his temper with difficulty, “and now there is another thing I wish to
say to you. Do you know that detestable woman Anne stopped for more
than half an hour at Paddington Station this evening, flirting with a
ticket collector, instead of bringing Effie home at once, as I told her
to do. I am very angry about it. She is not to be relied on; we shall
have some accident with the child before we have done. Cannot you
discharge her and get another nurse?”
“No, I cannot. She is the one comfort I have. Where am I going to find
another woman who can make dresses like Anne—she saves me a hundred a
year—I don’t care if she flirted with fifty ticket collectors. I
suppose you got this story from Effie; the child ought to be whipped
for tale-bearing, and I daresay that it is not true.”
“Effie will certainly not be whipped,” answered Geoffrey sternly. “I
warn you that it will go very badly with anybody who lays a finger on
her.”
“Oh, very well, ruin the child. Go your own way, Geoffrey! At any rate
I am not going to stop here to listen to any more abuse. Good-night,”
and she went.
Geoffrey sat down, and lit a cigarette. “A pleasant home-coming,” he
thought to himself. “Honoria shall have money as much as she can
spend—if I kill myself to get it, she shall have it. What a life, what
a life! I wonder if Beatrice would treat her husband like this—if she
had one.”
He laughed aloud at the absurdity of the idea, and then with a gesture
of impatience threw his cigarette into the fire and went to his room to
try and get some sleep, for he was thoroughly wearied.