THE AFFAIR OF SIR GEORGE
The irruption of Mrs. Oliver Boyce could not easily have been foretold.
That the past life of Colonel Boyce was likely to throw shadows over his
son Harry might have considered, but the nature of the lady and her care
and the successful opportunity of her malice were hardly to be
calculated. There is less excuse for him in the affair of Sir George
Anville. Given the conditions of that hasty marriage and the state into
which it had brought them and the society about them, some Sir George or
other was a natural consequence.
The ugly quarrel which Mrs. Oliver Boyce had made for them was never
composed. When they met again in the morning they were coldly and
haughtily civil, and so they chose to remain. Mrs. Weston, not being
blind, saw that something was amiss and tried with blundering motherly
affection to push them back into one another's arms. She hardened, as is
usual, their hostility. Each was mortally afraid of weakening, each
suspected the other at once of softness and of guile and so held aloof
and fed upon scorn. They had both enough of that pride of sex which gives
one pleasure in the sufferings of the other. And of course the quarrel
was poisoned with a sordid taint. The colder, the haughtier Harry was,
the more Alison inclined to believe that he had wanted nothing of her but
her money. The haughtier, the colder Alison was, the more Harry raged
against her for a mean creature who desired to make him feel his
dependence upon her money bags.
In himself Sir George Anville was of no importance. If Harry had been
comfortable he could never have taken the trouble to be angry over the
man. It is certain that Alison never thought him worth any thought of
hers, still less worth one finger's surrender. And yet Sir George
contrived to be disastrous to the pair of them.
That was not, as Lady Mary Wortley Montagu said of him in another matter,
altogether his fault. "The fool has excuses," quoth she, "which others
have not. He is so great a fool that you hardly believe his folly is but
folly." Sir George was a man born without impulse or capacity for
anything. Lady Mary, who was fond of using him for her wit, made a
grammarian's jest on him, "The creature's an anomaly: active in form,
passive in meaning." He was bred in a society which made it a fashion to
be vicious. He affected to follow the fashion. If vice must needs be
something active, or at least, something of the will, Sir George Anville
must escape punishment. But he was to a wholesome taste more offensive
than sinners who did more damage. It was Harry's worst blunder in the
affair that he treated Alison as if she did not feel that.
Sir George knew no other way of passing his life than in dangling about
women. He was generally tolerated as a butt, and being impervious to
contempt, supposed that his fascinations procured him immunity. He
did--it must be reckoned the first of his two accomplishments--he did
know a pretty woman from a plain one, and therefore as soon as he knew
Alison much resorted to her. His other accomplishment was to dress well.
He was lean and had an air of languor which was not affected, but a
natural lack of vigour. It may be believed that Alison tolerated him
because he made a not disagreeable decoration to her rooms. But at this
era she was cynical, and perhaps told herself that Sir George was as good
a man as another.
He began to come at hours when she could be found alone and was sometimes
admitted. So Harry caught him once or twice, was ironically obsequious to
him (which Sir George took for solemn earnest), and afterwards amused
himself by congratulating Mrs. Alison on the power of her charms. "Odds
fish, I can't tell where you'll stop, ma'am. You'll have a corpse on his
knees to you yet. Maybe the corpse of a lord. I vow I'm proud of you."
Which was not likely to get the door shut on Sir George.
So that dangling gentleman became convinced that Alison was yielding to
his embraces. He was, in a limp way, gratified. A devilish fine woman to
be sure. She might be a trifle exhausting to a man of _ton_. But what
would you? Women were greedy and must be satisfied with what one could
spare them. And it was pleasant to see the pretty creatures pining. He
would lure madame on with a few tit-bits. In this kindly mood he went to
her on a wet April day when Alison was fretting for a wild walk or a
wilder ride in wind and rain. But even to herself she would not confess
that she was tired of the town. It would have assimilated her to Harry.
Sir George sat himself down by Alison's side, simpered at her, sniffed,
put his thin hands on his thin knees and ogled them. Alison held out to
him a cup of tea. He arranged his rings before he took it and then again
simpered at her. After some humming and hawing, "D'ye go to the play
to-night, ma'am?" he drawled.
"What play is it?"
"Ah--some curst play or other," said Sir George; and exhausted by that
effort relapsed for a while into silence.
Alison did not help him out. It is possible that she was wondering how a
creature so vapid could go on existing. She looked Sir George over with
an odd, close inspection. Sir George, who had some perceptions, became
aware of it and according to his nature misunderstood it. He sniffed
again, and "Pray, ma'am, what perfume do you use?" Alison stared at him.
"I am delicate in such things," said he, and smelt his own handkerchief.
Alison hesitated between disgust and amusement. To be sure the creature
was such a fool that it was not fair to think of him save as a buffoon.
So unfortunately she chose amusement. "Oh, I vow, Sir George, your
delicacy is rare," she laughed.
The poor creature took it for a compliment. He leered at her: "But you
are exquisite, my Indamora."
"Who?"
"It's an amorous lady in a play," Sir George explained. "Pretty
creature," he patted Alison's arm, and leaned upon her to kiss her neck.
She was so surprised that his lips had almost time to reach her. "Lord,
sir, are you mad?" she cried, as she thrust him off.
"Pretty creature," Sir George giggled, and clung to her.
"Your carriage is at the door, Sir George." Harry stood over them. His
face was as much a mask as ever, his voice placid.
Alison started up and stood to face him with a lowering brow. He did not
appear to see her. Sir George shook down his ruffles. "Carriage? What
d'ye mean?" says he. "I ha' had no carriage this year. I came in a
hackney coach."
Harry turned away from him and opened the door.
"Eh? Oh, stap me!" Sir George giggled and got on to his feet, "Madame,
your eternally devoted." He went out with a strut, waving his scented
handkerchief in the direction of Harry.
Then Alison spoke. Her eyes were furious. "You--oh, you boor! How
dare you?"
"Egad, that's very good!" Harry laughed.
She beat her foot on the floor. "Oh, you are not to be borne! To make a
noise of it! To make a scandal of me and that--that creature!"
"To be sure, I came untimely. Well, ma'am, if you wanted to be quiet
about it, I had rather it made a noise."
"My God!" she was white. "You dare say that to me! Be careful, Harry."
"Pray, ma'am, no heroics."
"I warn you, there are things I'll not bear."
"Is it possible?" Harry sneered.
She swept past him and away.