When Sam Walford ran over to Dieppe, in obedience to his wife's
summons, he said:
"Well, what's this damn nonsense, Louisa, eh? There's nothing in this,
you know--this won't do."
"Cynthia is very cut up; you had better tell her so! I'm sure I wish we
had waited and gone to Brighton instead.... A lot of bother!"
"An author," he said, with amusement; "what do you do with authors? You
do 'find 'em,' my dear!"
"I don't know what you mean," she returned tartly. "I can't help a
young man taking a fancy to her, can I? If you're so clever, it's a
pity you didn't stop here with her yourself. If you don't think it's
good enough, you must say so and finish the matter, that's all. You're
her father!"
"I'll talk to her," he declared. "Where is she now? Let's go and see!
And where's Mr.-- what d'ye call him? What's he like?"
"Mr. Kent. He is a very nice fellow. If he had been in a different
position, it would have been most satisfactory. There's no doubt he's
very clever--highly talented--the newspapers are most complimentary
to him. And--er--of course a novelist is socially--er--he has a
certain----"
"Damn it! he can't keep a family on compliments, can he? I suppose he's
a bull of himself, eh? Thinks he ought to be snapped at?"
"Nothing of the sort; you always jump to such extraordinary
conclusions," she said. "He is a perfect gentleman and proposed for her
beautifully. After all, there aren't many young men who've got so much
as a thousand pounds in ready money."
"But he isn't making anything, you tell me," objected Mr. Walford;
"they'll eat up a thousand pounds before they know where they are....
He wouldn't expect anything with her, I suppose?"
She shook her head violently.
"No _earthly_ occasion. Oh _dear_ no!"
"Let me go and see Cynthia," he said again. "It's a funny thing a girl
like that hasn't ever had a good offer--upon my soul it is!"
"You ask home such twopenny-halfpenny men," retorted his wife. "She is
in her room; I'll let her know you're here."
Cynthia _was_ "cut up." She liked Humphrey Kent very much--and
everything is relative: she felt herself to be a Juliet. She considered
it very unkind of mamma to oppose their marriage, and said as much to
her father, with tears on her lashes and pathetic little sobs. Sam
Walford was sorry for her; his affection for his children was his best
attribute. He said "Damn it!" several times more. And then he patted
her on the cheek, and told her not to cry, and went out on the Plage to
commune with tobacco.
After his cigar, he sought a coiffeur--there is a very excellent one in
Dieppe; and he was shaved, an operation that freshened him extremely;
and he had his thin hair anointed with various liquids of agreeable
fragrance and most attractive hues, and submitted his moustache to the
curling-irons. The French barber will play with one for hours, and when
Mr. Walford had acquired a carnation for his buttonhole, and sipped a
vermouth over the pages of _Gil Blas_ it was time to think of returning
to the hotel. A pretty woman, who had looked so demure in approaching
that the impropriety was a sensation, lifted her eyes to him and
smiled as she passed. He momentarily hesitated, but remembered that it
was near the dinner-hour, and that he was a father with a daughter's
love-affair upon his hands. But he re-entered the hotel in a good
humour.
Cynthia went to bed radiantly happy that night, and kissed a bundle of
lilies that had cost fifty francs, for the Capulets had relented.
The two men had had a long conversation on the terrace over their
coffee, and the senior, who was favourably impressed, had ended by
being jovial and calling Kent "my boy," and smacking him on the
shoulder.
Mrs. Walford was not displeased by the decision, since it could never
be said that she had advocated it. "My daughter's fiancé, Mr. Kent,
the novelist, you know," sounded very well, and she foresaw herself
expatiating on his importance, and determined what his income should be
in her confidences to intimate friends. Really, if the house were nice,
he might be making anything she liked--who could dispute her assertions?
The Capulets had relented, and the sun shone--especially in Paris,
where Kent went in haste to get the engagement-ring; the thirsty trees
were shuddering in the glare, and the asphalt steamed. But to wait had
been impossible, though the stay at Dieppe was drawing to a close and
they would all be back in London soon. It seemed to him that it would
be as the signing of the agreement when Cynthia put her finger through
his ring; and he was resolved that it should be a better one than any
of those that her mother wore with such complacence. Poor devil of an
author though he was, her acquaintances shouldn't see that Cynthia was
marrying badly by the very emblem of his devotion!
In the rue de la Paix he spent an hour scrutinising windows before
he permitted himself to enter a shop. He chose finally a pearl and
diamonds--one big white pearl, and a diamond flashing on either side of
it. It was in a pale blue velvet case, lined with white satin. He was
satisfied with his purchase, and so was the salesman.
Cynthia's flush of delight as he disclosed it repaid him
superabundantly, and when the girl proudly displayed it to them, he was
gratified to observe her parents' surprise. The cries of admiration
into which Mrs. Walford broke were fervent, and instantaneously she
decided to say that he was making three thousand a year.
His days were now delicious to Kent. A magic haze enwrapped their
stereotyped incidents, so that the terrace of the Casino, the veranda
of the hotel, Nature, and the polyglot lounging crowd itself, were all
beatified. They were as familiar things viewed in a charming dream--
"the pleasant fields traversed so oft," which were still more pleasant
as they appeared to the sleeping soldier. A tenderness overflowing from
his own emotions was imparted to the scenes, and he found it almost
impossible to realise sometimes that the goddess beside him, who had
been so unapproachable a month ago, was actually to belong to him. It
dazzled him; it seemed incredible.
He had once sat down in the salon de lecture with the intention of
informing Turquand of his joy; but the knowledge that the news entailed
a defence, if he didn't wish to write formally, had resulted in his
writing nothing. Delicacy demanded that he should excuse his action
by word of mouth if excuses were required at all. To do such a thing
in permanent pen-strokes looked to him profanation of an angel and an
insult to the bounty of God.
Mr. Walford was not able to remain at Dieppe till the day fixed for the
others' return; nor, he said genially, was there any occasion for him
to put himself out now that he had a prospective son-in-law to take his
place. Humphrey was well content. He understood that the elder lady was
a bad sailor and clung obstinately to the saloon, and he anticipated
several golden hours to which the paternal presence would have proved
alloy.
He was not disappointed. Sustained by Heidsieck and the stewardess,
Mrs. Walford stayed below, as usual, and he tasted the responsibility
of having the girl in his charge. He let the flavour dissolve on his
palate slowly. It was as if they were already on the honeymoon, he
thought, as they paced the deck together, or he made her comfortable
in a chair and brought her strawberries; he watched her eat them with
amused interest, vaguely conscious that he found it wonderful to see
her mouth unclose and a delicate forefinger and thumb grow pinky.
"You are sure you have the address right?" she asked. "Humphrey, fancy
if you lost it and could never find us again after we said good-bye
to-day! Wouldn't it be awful?"
"Awful!"
"Such a thing might happen," she declared. "You try and try your
hardest to remember where we told you we lived, but you can't. It is
terrible! You go mad----"
"Or to a post-office," he said.
She laughed gaily.
"How could you write to me when you'd forgotten the address? You
_foolish_ fellow! There, _I_ was brighter than _you_ that time."
He felt it would be prolix to explain that he was thinking of a
directory, and not of stamps.
"Come, after that, I must really hear if you've learnt your lesson!
What is it? Quick!"
"You live in a house called The Hawthorns," he said--"one of the
houses. You would have called it The Cedars, only that was the name of
the house next door. I take the train to Streatham Hill--I must be very
particular to say 'Hill,' or catastrophes will happen. To begin with, I
shall lose an hour of your society----"
"And dinner--dinner will certainly be over!"
"Dinner will certainly be over. When I come out, I turn to the right,
pass the estate agent's, take the first to the left, and recollect that
I'm looking for a bow-window and a white balcony, and a fence that
makes it impossible to see them. Do I know it?"
"Not 'impossible.' But--yes, I'll trust you."
He parted from the women at Victoria, and, getting into a hansom, gave
himself up to reflection. The rooms that he shared with Turquand were
in the convenient, if unfashionable, neighbourhood of Soho, and an
all-pervading odour of jam reminded him presently that he was nearing
his destination. He wasn't sure of finding Turquand in at this hour.
He opened the door with his latchkey, and, dragging his portmanteaus
into the passage, ran upstairs. The journalist, in his shirt-sleeves,
was reading an evening paper, with his slippered feet crossed on the
window-sill.
"Hallo!" he said; "you've got back?"
"Yes," said Humphrey. "How the jam smells!"
"It's raspberry to-day. I've come to the conclusion that the
raspberry's the most penetrating. How are you?"
"Dry, and hungry too. Is there anything to drink in the place?"
"There's a very fine brand of water on the landing, and there's the
remainder of a roll, extra sec, in the cupboard, I believe; I finished
the whisky last night. We can go and have some dinner at the Suisse.
Madame is désolée; she's asked after you most tenderly."
"Good old madame! And her moustache?"
"More luxuriant."
There was a pause, in which Humphrey considered how best to impart his
tidings. The other shifted his feet, and contemplated the smoke-dried
wall--the only view attainable from the window. Kent stared at him. It
was displayed to him clearly for the first time that his marriage would
mean severance from Turquand and the Restaurant Suisse and all that had
been his life hitherto, and that Turquand might feel it more sorely
than he expressed. He was sorry for Turquand. He lounged over to the
mantelpiece and dipped his hand in the familiar tobacco-jar, and filled
a pipe before he spoke.
"Well," he said, with an elaborate effort to sound careless, "I suppose
you'll hardly be astonished, old chap--I'm engaged."