She was living in the avenue Wagram--she had taken a small furnished
flat there for a few months--and when he saw her on the Boulevard,
about a week afterwards, Kent was puzzled to discover the reason that
he had not availed himself of her invitation. He called a day or two
later, and found her cynical but stimulating. In recalling the visit,
it appeared to him that she was more entertaining in conversation
than in print, which suggested that her good things were not so good
as they sounded, but while she talked he was amused. He left the flat
with the consciousness of having spent a very agreeable half-hour,
and was sorry that her "day," which she had mentioned to him, was a
fortnight ahead. She seemed to know many persons in Paris whom he would
be glad to meet, and apart from the hostess, with whom he had drunk
"English tea" and smoked Egyptian cigarettes, the entree to the little
yellow drawing-room promised to be enjoyable. That she was a widow he
had taken for granted from the first, and his assumption had proved
to be correct. She was a woman who struck one as born to be a widow;
it was difficult to conceive her either with a husband or living in
her parents' home. As to her children, she spoke of them frequently,
and saw them seldom. Kent decided that she was too fashionable and
a trifle hard, but this did not detract from the pleasure that the
visits afforded him; perhaps his perception of her character was
indeed responsible for much of the pleasure, for it rendered it more
complimentary still that she was nice to him.
She was surprised to learn that he was married, and declared that she
looked forward to knowing his wife. She did not, however, take any
steps to gratify the desire, and Kent was not regretful. He felt that
few things more productive of boredom for two could be devised than a
tête-à-tête between Mrs. Deane-Pitt and Cynthia; and, though he was
reluctant to acknowledge it to himself, he had a feeling also that, if
it occurred, the lady would be a little contemptuous of him afterwards.
He knew her opinion of young men's marriages in the majority of cases,
and was uncomfortably conscious that she would not pronounce his own to
be one of the exceptions.
Mrs. Walford's letters to her daughter had hitherto been in her
most enthusiastic vein. Mr. McCullough had given the disappointed
bass a berth in Berlin, and in her letters this was alluded to as a
"position," upon which she showered her favourite adjectives of "jolly"
and "extraordinary" and "immense." Cæsar was "McCullough's right hand,"
the "best houses in Berlin" were open to him, and his prospects, social
and financial, were dazzling. Of late, however, he had been dwelt on
less, and one morning there came a letter that contained a confession
of personal anxiety. The recent heavy drop in American stocks, and the
failure of two or three brokers, had seriously affected the jobber.
They thought of trying to let The Hawthorns, which was much too large
for them now, and moving out of the neighbourhood. Cæsar remained
McCullough's "right hand," but briefly; and it was evident that the
writer was in great distress.
Cynthia was terribly grieved and startled. She dashed off eight pages
of love and inquiries by the evening mail, and when the news was
confirmed, with more particulars, she felt that she could do no less
than run over to utter her sympathy in person.
Kent agreed that it was perhaps advisable, and raised the money that
was necessary cheerfully enough by pawning his watch and chain.
Only when she sent him a rather lengthy telegram from Streatham,
detailing her mother's frame of mind, did he feel that she was
exaggerating his share in her solicitude.
The chilly salon, where the ladies played forfeits after dinner, or
where the vivacious daughter thumped the piano, was not attractive
during Cynthia's absence. Neither was it lively to smoke alone in his
room, or to go to a theatre or a music-hall by himself; and when,
in calling on Mrs. Deane-Pitt, he mentioned his loneliness and she
proposed that he should take her to the Variétés, he accepted the
suggestion with alacrity.
As he obtained the tickets for nothing, his only expense was cabs, and
the liqueurs between the facts; and it was so enjoyable, laughing with
her on the lounge of the café, that the recollection of their being
paid for out of the balance of his loan from the mont-de-piété was
banished. Mrs. Deane-Pitt made some more of her happy remarks while
they sipped the chartreuse, and her teeth and eyes flashed superbly.
The piece was a great success, but Kent thought the entr'actes were
even gayer. And when the curtain had fallen and they reached the avenue
Wagram, she would not hear of his leaving her before going in and
having some supper.
His liqueurs looked very paltry to him contrasted with the table
that exhibited mayonnaise and champagne, and his exhilaration was
momentarily damped by envy. Fiction meant a good deal when one was
lucky; how jolly to be able to live as this woman did! Her maid took
away her cloak and hat, and he opened the bottle. She drew off her long
gloves, and patted her hair before the mirror with fingers on which
some rings shone.
"Let's sit down! Am I all right?"
He thought he had never seen her look so charming or so young.
"You have a colour," he said.
"A proof it's natural; when we went out I was as pale as a ghost! I
work too hard, I do--what are you smiling at?--I work horribly hard.
Life's so dear--yes, 'expensive'--don't say it, it would be unworthy of
you. And I can't do a fifth part of what's offered me, with all my fag."
"Am I supposed to sympathise with you for that?"
"Certainly you should sympathise; what de you suppose I tell you
for--to be felicitated? Do you think it's agreeable to have to refuse
work when one needs the money it would bring in? The trials of Tantalus
were a joke to it. I had to let a twenty-thousand-word story for _The
Metropolis_ slide only the other day, and I could place half a dozen
shorter stories every week if I'd the time to write them."
"You do write a great many," said Kent, "and you seem fairly
comfortable."
"'Wise judges are we of each other!' You ought to see my bills; that
music-stand over there is full of them! That's the place I always keep
them in--I'm naturally tidy, it's one of my virtues. I had to turn out
Chopin's Mazurkas yesterday to make room for some more. I only came to
Paris because people don't write you so many abusive letters when they
have to pay two-pence-halfpenny postage. Oh, I'm comfortable enough
in a fashion, but I've my worries like my neighbours. I suppose I'm
extravagant, but I can't help it. Besides, I'm not! Do you think I'm
extravagant?"
He looked at her, and nodded, smiling.
"No," she said, "not really? Why?"
"Heavens! you haven't the illusion that you're economical? I believe
you spend a small fortune on cabs alone."
"I don't spend a solitary franc on one when I'm _not_ alone."
"You never walk, so far as I can ascertain----"
"No; not so far as that, but I toddle a bit."
"Your champagne is above criticism, and you dress like--like an angel.
The simile is bad----"
"And improper. Go on; what other faults have I? I like to know my
friends' opinion of me."
"'If to her share some human errors fall----'" he murmured.
"Don't look, then! Shall I hide it behind my table-napkin? That's
sheer cowardice. Fill your glass, and mine, please. Go on; tell me how
I strike you frankly! I know; you think I don't approach literature
reverently enough and ought to devote twelve months to a book, and let
my poor little children go barefoot in the meanwhile? Well, I did give
twelve months to a book once; but I had a husband when I wrote _Two
and a Passion_, and he provided the shoes. Now, if I didn't work as I
do, I should have to live at Battersea, and buy my clothes at Brixton,
and take my holidays at Southend. You wouldn't calmly condemn me to
Southend? My income, apart from what I make, barely pays my rent."
"Your rent is somewhat heavy," suggested Kent, "with two flats going at
once."
"Wretch! do you lecture me because I couldn't find a tenant for the
Victoria Street place? He blames me for my misfortunes!"
She caught the long gloves up, and swirled them round on his cheek.
Like the others, they were perfumed; but now their scent was in his
face. They looked in each other's eyes an instant, smiling across
the corner of the table. Then, as the smile died away, they remained
looking in each other's eyes attentively. He drew the gloves from her
hold, and played with them. Her hand lay upturned to take them back,
and in restoring them his own rested on it. She averted her gaze, but
her palm did not slip away so quickly as it might have done.
"You know you may smoke," she said, rising and going over to the fire.
"I'll have one, too."
"Isn't it too late?" he asked, joining her.
His voice was not quite steady, and now he didn't look at her as he
spoke.
"You can have one cigarette," she said, sinking into an armchair, and
crossing her feet on the fender. "How's the paper going? Eclipsing _Le
Petit Journal_?"
"Of course," he said. "Did you ever know anybody's paper that wasn't?"
"You count Paris your home, I suppose? You mean to stop here
permanently? _I_ go back in March; the people are returning here then.
I loathe London after Paris, but I shall have escaped most of the
winter there, that's one thing. Where did you live in town?"
"_My_ neighbourhood _was_ Battersea, that is to say, it was suburban
wilds. We had a villa at Streatham--have it now, in fact," he added,
remembering with dismay that there was a quarter's rent due. "No, I'm
afraid I can't condole with you, Mrs. Deane-Pitt."
"'Pride sleeps in a gilded crown, contentment in a cotton night-cap,'"
she said. "An address is only skin-deep, after all; besides, Streatham
is pretty."
"Pretty _well_. And it looks prettier out of a big house."
"Get money, my friend," she said languidly; "you are young enough, and
I think you're clever enough. When all things were made, nothing was
made better. And it's really very easy; as soon as you are popular, the
editors will take anything."
"'First catch your hare,'" he observed. "I'm not popular."
The clock on the mantelshelf struck one, and he threw away his
cigarette-end and got up.
"Good-night, Mrs. Deane-Pitt."
"Good-night," she said.
Her touch lingered again, and her personality dominated him as he
walked back to the pension de famille through the silent streets. He
was angry with himself to perceive that it was so. What the devil had
he been about in that business with the gloves over the table? She had
let him do it, too! Did she like him. He wouldn't go to see her any
more! Well, that was absurd, but he would not go so frequently as he
had. And he must keep a rein on himself. Nothing could come of it, he
was convinced, even if he wished; and he did not wish. It would be too
beastly to deceive a girl like Cynthia ... and their baby only a year
old! He decided, as he mounted the stairs, to tell Cynthia when she
came back that he had been to the Variétés with Mrs. Deane-Pitt. It
would not disturb her to hear that, and, though it was juggling with
his conscience, he would feel cleaner afterwards. There was a letter
from her waiting for him on the bedroom table, and he washed his hands
before he opened it.
Cynthia wrote to say that she should be home the next evening but one,
and that her parents had been rejoiced to see her. On the whole, things
did not seem to be so desperate as she had feared; but it was quite
determined that The Hawthorns should be let, for, fortunately, there
was a Peruvian family who were prepared to take it just as it stood,
and mamma had already been to view a house at Strawberry Hill which was
quite nice, and far cheaper. Whether Miss Wix would remove with them
was doubtful.
"Mamma's temper is naturally not of the best just now, and I gather
that the dissensions have been rather bad. Papa talks of allowing Aunt
Emily a pound a week to live by herself, and really she seems to prefer
it."
She added, underlined, that Cæsar was still "the right hand of
McCullough." She had learnt to smile a little at Cæsar, and Kent winced
as he came to that allusion to a mutual joke. And then there followed
a dozen affectionate injunctions: he was not to be dull, "poor boy who
had no watch and chain!" but to go somewhere every night; he was to hug
baby for her, and to give and keep a score of kisses. She was "Always
his loving wife." He read it under the paraffin lamp with his overcoat
on, and wished that it hadn't arrived till the morning.
Mrs. Deane-Pitt's inquiry how _The World and his Wife_ was going had
had more significance than Kent's careless reply. The band of Paris
Correspondents in the vicinity of the boulevard Magenta and elsewhere
were already beginning to talk about Billy Beaufort, for, not only
was he neglecting the first chance of a competence that had fallen
his way for years--he was squandering the whole of a very handsome
salary, and getting into difficulties, besides. The amount of energy
which this man, when in his deepest waters, expended upon a search for
opportunities was equalled only by the abysmal folly by which he ruined
all that he obtained. He was one of the fools who devote their lives
to disproving the adage that experience teaches them. The circulation
of the paper was purely nominal, and the Baronet had constantly to be
applied to for further funds; indeed, the only work in connection with
the journal which Billy did now was to write euphemistic reports to the
proprietor. The money did not supply the journal's deficiencies alone.
Card debts had to be settled somehow; and an ephemeral attachment to a
girl who tied herself in knots at the Nouveau Cirque was responsible
for some embarrassment.
Hitherto, however, Beaufort had always spared the hundred and
seventy-five francs at the end of the week to his assistant-editor.
But on the Saturday after Cynthia's return he asked him casually if he
would mind waiting for it a few days.
"Sorry if it puts you out at all," he said. "I can't help myself. You
shall have it for certain Wednesday or Thursday. I suppose you can
finance matters in the meanwhile, eh?"
Kent could do no less than answer that he would try. On Monday morning,
though, madame Garin's bill would come up with the first breakfast,
and he saw that he would be compelled either to make an excuse to her,
or to pretend to forget it till he could pay.