That same evening Edith Staines and Miss Grantham were seated together
in a box at the opera. The first act was just over, and Edith, who had
mercilessly silenced every remark Miss Grantham had made during it,
relaxed a little. Miss Grantham's method of looking at an opera was
to sit with her hack to the stage, so as to command a better view of
the house, and talk continuously. But Edith would not stand that. She
had before her a large quarto containing the full score, and she had a
pencil in her hand with which she entered little corrections, and now
and then she made comments to herself.
"I shall tell Mancinelli of that," she murmured. "The whole point of
the motif is that rapid run with the minim at the end, and he actually
allowed that beast to make a rallentando."
But the act was over now, and she shut the book with a bang.
"Come outside, Grantie," she said, "it's so fearfully hot. I had to
hurry over dinner in order to get here in time. The overture is one of
the best parts. It isn't like so many overtures that give you a sort of
abstract of the opera, but it hints at it all, and leaves you to think
it out."
"Oh, I didn't hear the overture," said Miss Grantham. "I only got here
at Mephistopheles' appearance. I think Edouard is such a dear. He
really looks a very attractive devil. I suppose it's not exactly the
beauty of holiness, but extremes meet, you know."
"I must open the door," said Edith. "I want to sit in a draught."
"There's Mr. Broxton," remarked Miss Grantham. "I think he sees us. I
hope he'll come up. I think it's simply charming, to see how devoted he
still is to Dodo. I think he is what they call faithful."
"I think it's scandalous," said Edith hotly. "He's got no business to
hang about like that. It's very weak of him--I despise weak people.
It's no use being anything, unless you're strong as well; it's as bad
as being second-rate. You may be of good quality, but if you're watered
down, it's as bad as being inferior."
Jack meantime had made his way up to the box.
"We've just been saying all sorts of nice things about you," remarked
Miss Grantham sweetly. "Have you seen Dodo to-day?"
"Haven't you heard?" asked Jack.
Edith frowned.
"No; what?" she asked.
"Their baby died this morning," he said.
Edith's score fell to the ground with a crash.
"Good heavens! is it true?" she asked. "Who told you?"
"I was riding with Dodo this morning," said he, "and Mrs. Vivian met
Dodo and told her. I knew something had happened, so I went to inquire.
No one has seen either of them again."
"Did you try and see her?" said Edith severely.
"Yes, I went this evening."
"Ah!" Edith frowned again. "How does he take it?" she asked.
"I don't know," he said; "no one has seen them since."
Edith picked up her score.
"Good-night, Grantie," she said. "Good-night, Mr. Broxton. I must go."
Miss Grantham looked up in astonishment. Edith was folding her opera
cloak round her. Jack offered to help her.
"Thanks, I can do it," she said brusquely.
"What are you going for?" asked Miss Grantham, in surprise.
"It's all right," said Edith. "I've got to see someone. I shall come
back, probably."
The door closed behind her.
"Of course it's awfully sad," remarked Miss Grantham, "but I don't
see why Edith should go like that. I wonder where she's gone. Don't
you adore the opera, Mr. Broxton? I think it's simply lovely. It's so
awfully sad about Marguerite, isn't it? I wish life was really like
this. It would be so nice to sing a song whenever anything important
happened. It would smooth things so. Oh, yes, this is the second act,
isn't it? It's where Mephisto sings that song to the village people. It
always makes me feel creepy. Poor Dodo!"
"I am more sorry for him," said Jack; "you know he was simply wrapped
up in the baby."
"Dodo certainly finds consolation quickly," said Miss Grantham. "I
think she's sensible. It really is no use crying over spilt milk.
I suppose she won't go out again this season. Dear me, it's Lady
Bretton's ball the week after next, in honour of Lucas's coming of age.
Dodo was to have led the cotillion with Lord Ledgers. That was a good
note. Isn't the scene charming?"
"I don't know what Dodo will do," said Jack. "I believe they will leave
London, only--only--"
Miss Grantham looked at him inquiringly.
"You see Dodo has to be amused," said Jack. "I don't know what she
would do, if she was to have to shut herself up again. She was
frightfully bored after the baby's birth."
Miss Grantham was casting a roving London eye over the occupants of the
stalls.
"There's that little Mr. Spencer, the clergyman at Kensington," she
said. "I wonder how his conscience lets him come to see anything so
immoral. Isn't that Maud next him? Dear me, how interesting. Bring them
up here after the act, Mr. Broxton. I suppose Maud hasn't heard?"
"I think she's been with her father somewhere in Lancashire," said
Jack. "She can only have come back to-day. There is Mrs. Vane, too.
Dodo can't have telegraphed to them."
"Oh, that's so like Dodo," murmured Miss Grantham; "it probably never
occurred to her. Dear me, this act is over. I am afraid we must have
missed the 'Virgo.' What a pity. Do go, and ask them all to come up
here."
"So charmed,", murmured Mrs. Vane, as she rustled into the box. "Isn't
it a lovely night? Dear Prince Waldenech met me in the hall, and he
asked so affectionately after Dodo. Charming, wasn't it? Yes. And do
you know Mr. Spencer, dear Miss Grantham? Shall we tell Miss Grantham
and Mr. Broxton our little secret, Maud? Cupid has been busy here,"
she whispered, with a rich elaborateness to Miss Grantham. "Isn't it
charming? We are delighted. Yes, Mr. Spencer, Miss Grantham and Mr.
Broxton, of course--Mr. Spencer."
Mr. Spencer bowed and smiled, and conducted himself as he should. He
was a fashionable rector in a rich parish, who had long felt that the
rich deserved as much looking after as the poor, and had been struck
with Maud's zeal for the latter, and thought it would fit in very well
with his zeal for the former, had won Maud's heart, and now appeared as
the happy accepted lover.
Mrs. Vane was anxious to behave in the way it was expected that she
should, and, finding that Miss Grantham sat with her back to the stage
and talked, took up a corresponding attitude herself. Miss Grantham
quickly decided that she did not know about the death of Dodo's baby,
and determined not to tell her. In the first place, it was to be
supposed that she did not know either, and in the second, she was
amused by the present company, and knew that to mention it was to break
up the party.
Mr. Spencer had a little copy of the words, with the English on one
side and the Italian on the other. When he came to a passage that he
thought indelicate, he turned his attention to the Italian. Maud sat
between him and Miss Grantham.
"I am so delighted, Maud," Miss Grantham was saying, "and I am sure
Dodo will be charmed. She doesn't know yet, I suppose? When is it to
be?"
"Oh, I don't quite know," said Maud confusedly. "Algy, that is Mr.
Spencer, is going to leave London, you know, and take a living at
Gloucester. I shall like that. There is a good deal of poverty at
Gloucester."
Miss Grantham smiled sympathetically.
"How sweet of you," she said; "and you will go and work among the poor,
and give them soup and prayer-books, won't you? I should love to do
that. Mrs. Vivian will tell you all about those things, I suppose?"
"Oh, she took me to an awful slum before we left London," said Maud, in
a sort of rapture--"you know we have been away at Manchester for a week
with my father--and I gave them some things I had worked. I am doing a
pair of socks for Dodo's baby."
Miss Grantham turned her attention to the stage.
"The Jewel song is perfectly lovely," she remarked. "I wish Edith was
here. Don't you think that girl sings beautifully? I wonder who she is."
At that moment the door of the box opened, and Edith entered. She
grasped the situation at once, and felt furiously angry with Miss
Grantham and Jack. She determined to put a stop to it.
"Dear Mrs. Vane, you can't have heard. I only knew this evening, and
I suppose Mrs. Vivian's note has missed you somehow. I have just left
her, and she told me she had written to you. You know Dodo's baby has
been very ill, quite suddenly, and this morning--yes, yes--"
Mrs. Vane started up distractedly.
"Oh, my poor Dodo," she cried, "I never knew! And here I am enjoying
myself, when she--Maud, did you hear? Dodo's baby--only this morning.
My poor Dodo!"
She began crying in a helpless sort of way.
Maud turned round with a face full of horror.
"How awful! Poor Dodo! Come, mother, we must go."
Mr. Spencer dropped his English and Italian version.
"Let me see you to your carriage," he said. "Let me give you an arm,
Mrs. Vane."
Maud turned to Jack, and for once showed some of Dodo's spirit.
"Mr. Broxton," she said, "I have an idea you knew. Perhaps I am wrong.
If I am, I beg your pardon; if not, I consider you have behaved in a
way I didn't expect of you, being a friend of Dodo's. I think--" she
broke off, and followed the others. Jack felt horribly uncomfortable.
He and Edith and Miss Grantham stood in silence for a moment.
"It was horrible of you, Grantie," said Edith, "to let them sit here,
and tell them nothing about it."
"My dear Edith, I could do nothing else," said Miss Grantham, in an
even, calm voice. "There would have been a scene, and I can't bear
scenes. There has been a scene as it is, but you are responsible for
that. You are rather jumpy to-night. Where have you been?"
"I have been to see Mrs. Vivian," said Edith. "I wanted to know about
this. I told her I was coming back here, and she gave me this for you,
Mr. Broxton."
She handed him a note. Then she picked up her big score, and sat down
again with her pencil.
The note contained only two lines, requesting Mr. Broxton to come and
see her in the morning. Jack read it and tore it up. He felt undecided
how to act. Edith was buried in her score, and gave no sign. Miss
Grantham had resumed her place, and was gazing languidly, at the box
opposite. He picked up his hat, and turned to leave. Edith looked up
from her score.
"I think I ought to tell you," she said, "that Mrs. Vivian and I talked
about you, and that note is the result. I don't care a pin what you
think."
Jack opened his eyes in astonishment. Edith had always struck him as
being rather queer; and this statement seemed to him very queer indeed.
Her manner was not conciliatory.
He bowed.
"I feel complimented by being the subject of your conversation," he
replied with well-bred insolence, and closed the door behind him.
Miss Grantham laughed. A scene like this pleased her; it struck her as
pure comedy.
"Really, Edith, you are very jumpy; I don't understand you a bit. You
are unnecessarily rude. Why did you say you did not care a pin what he
thought?"
"You won't understand, Grantie," said Edith. "Don't you see how
dangerous it is all becoming? I don't care the least whether I am
thought meddlesome. Jack Broxton is awfully in love with Dodo, anyone
can see that, and Dodo evidently cares for him; and that poor, dear,
honest fool Chesterford is completely blind to it all. It was bad
enough before, but the baby's death makes it twice as bad. Dodo will
want to be amused; she will hate this retirement, and she will expect
Mr. Broxton to amuse her. Don't you see she is awfully bored with her
husband, and she will decline to be entirely confined to his company.
While she could let off steam by dancing and riding and so on, it was
safe; she only met Mr. Broxton among fifty other people. But decency,
even Dodo's, will forbid her to meet those fifty other people now. And
each time she sees him, she will return to her husband more wearied
than before. It is all too horrible. I don't suppose she is in love
with Jack Broxton, but she finds him attractive, and he knows it, and
he is acting disgracefully in letting himself see her so much. Everyone
knows he went abroad to avoid her--everyone except Dodo, that is, and
she must guess. I respected him for that, but now he is playing the
traitor to Chesterford. And Mrs. Vivian quite agrees with me."
"Oh, it's awfully interesting if you're right," said Miss Grantham
reflectively; "but I think you exaggerate. Jack is not a cad. He
doesn't mean any harm. Besides, he is a great friend of Chesterford's."
"Well, he's got no business to play with fire," said Edith. "His sense
of security only increases the real danger. If Chesterford knew exactly
how matters stood it would be different, but he is so simple-hearted
that he is only charmed to see Jack Broxton, and pleased that Dodo
likes him."
"Oh, it's awfully interesting," murmured Miss Grantham.
"I could cry when I think of Chesterford," said Edith. "The whole thing
is such a fearful tragedy. If only they can get over this time safely,
it may all blow over. I wish Dodo could go out again to her balls and
concerts. She finds such frantic interest in everything about her,
that she doesn't think much of any particular person. But it is this
period, when she is thrown entirely on two or three people, that is so
dangerous. She really is a frightful problem. Chesterford was a bold or
a blind man to marry her. Oh, I can't attend to this opera to-night.
I shall go home. It's nearly over. Faust is singing hopelessly out of
tune."
She shut her book, and picked up her fan and gloves.
"Dear Edith," said Miss Grantham languidly, "I think you mean very
well, but you are rather over-drawing things. Are you really going? I
think I shall come too."
Jack meantime was finding his way home in a rebellious and unchristian
frame of mind. In the first place, he had just lost his temper, which
always seemed to him to be a most misdirected effort of energy; in the
second place, he resented Edith's interference with all his heart and
soul; and in the third, he did not feel so certain that she was wrong.
Of course he guessed what Mrs. Vivian's wish to see him meant, for it
had occurred to him very vividly what consequences the death of the
baby would have on him and Dodo: and he anticipated another period like
that which had followed the birth. Jack could hardly dare to trust
himself to think of that time. He knew it had been very pleasant to
him, and that he had enjoyed Dodo's undisturbed company during many
days in succession, but it was with a certain tingling of the ears that
he thought of the events of the morning, and his mad confession to
her. "I have a genius for spoiling things," thought Jack to himself.
"Everything was going right; I was seeing Dodo enough to keep me happy,
and free from that hateful feeling of last autumn, and then I spoilt
it all by a stupid remark that could do no good, nor help me in any
conceivable way. How will Dodo have taken it?"
But he was quite sure of one thing--he would not go and see Mrs.
Vivian. He was, he felt, possessed of all the facts of the case, and he
was competent to form a judgment on them--at any rate Mrs. Vivian was
not competent to do it for him. No, he would give it another chance. He
would again reason out the pros and cons of the case, he would be quite
honest, and he would act accordingly.
That he should arrive at the same conclusion was inevitable. The one
thing in the world that no man can account for, or allow for, is change
in himself. If Jack had been able to foresee, when he went abroad, that
he would be acting thus with regard to Dodo, he would have thought
himself mad, and it would have been as impossible for him to act thus
then, as it was inevitable for him to act thus now. If we judge by
our own standards, and our own standards alter, we cannot expect our
verdicts to remain invariable. Under a strong attachment a man drifts,
and he cannot at any one moment allow for, or feel the force of the
current, for he is moving in it, though he thinks himself at rest. The
horrible necessities of cause and effect work in us, as well as around
us. As Edith had said, his sense of security was his danger, for his
standard of security was not the same as it had been.
He sat down and wrote a note to Mrs. Vivian, saying that he regretted
being unable to call on her to-morrow, and purposely forebore to give
any reason. He had considerable faith in her power of reading between
the lines, and the fact, baldly stated, was an unnecessary affront to
her intellect.
Mrs. Vivian read the note with very little surprise, but with a good
deal of regret. She was genuinely sorry for him, but she had other
means at her disposal, though they were not so pleasant to use. They
involved a certain raking up of old dust-heaps, and a certain awakening
of disagreeable memories. But it never occurred to her to draw back.
Naturally enough she went to see Dodo next morning, and found her
alone. Mrs. Vivian had her lesson by heart, and she was only waiting
for Dodo to tell her to begin, so to speak. Dodo hailed her with
warmth; she had evidently found matters a little tedious.
"Dear Vivy," she said, "I'm so glad you've come; and Chesterford told
me to ask you to see him, before you went away, in case you called. So
you will, won't you? But I must have you for a long time first."
"How is he?" asked Mrs. Vivian.
"Oh, he's quite well," said Dodo, "but he feels it frightfully. But he
is fortunate, he has spiritual consolation as his aid. I haven't, not
one atom. It's a great nuisance, I know, but I don't see how to help
it. Can the Ethiopian change his skin?"
"Ah, Dodo," said she, with earnestness in her tone, "you have a great
opportunity--I don't think you realise how great."
"Why, what do you mean?" said Dodo.
"Of course I know what you feel," said Mrs. Vivian, "and it is
necessary that with your grief there must be mixed up a great deal of
vexation and annoyance. Isn't it so?"
"Yes, yes," said Dodo. "You don't despise me for feeling that?"
"Despise you!" said Mrs. Vivian. "You know me better than that. But
you must not dwell on it. There is something more important than the
cancelling of your smaller engagements. You have a big engagement, you
know, which must not be cancelled."
Dodo rose from her chair with wide eyes.
"Ah, Vivy," she said, "you have guessed it, have you? It is quite true.
Let me tell you all about it. It is just that which bothers me. These
days when I only see Chesterford bore me more than I can say. I don't
know why I tell you this; it isn't want of loyalty to him, but I want
help. I don't know how to deal with him.. Yes, he bores me. I always
foresaw this, but I hoped I shouldn't mind. I was wrong and Jack was
right. He warned me of it, but he must never know he was right. Of
course you see why. I think I did not expect that Chesterford's love
for me would last. I thought he would cease being my lover, and I am
terribly wrong. It gets stronger and stronger. He told me so last
night, and I felt a brute. But I comforted him and deceived him again.
Ah, what could I do? I don't love him. I would give anything to do so.
I think I felt once what love was, but only once, and not for him."
Mrs. Vivian looked up inquiringly.
"No, I shan't tell you about that," said Dodo, speaking rapidly and
excitedly; "it would be a sort of desecration. There is something
divine about Chesterford's feeling for me. I know it, but it doesn't
really touch me. I am not capable of it, and what happens is that I
continue to amuse myself on my own lines, and all that goes over my
head. But I make him believe I understand. It makes him happy. And
I know, I know, that when I am out of this, I shall go on just as
usual, except that I shall feel like a prisoner escaped, and revel in
my liberty. I know I shall. Sometimes I almost determine to make some
sacrifice for him in a blind sort of way, like a heathen sacrificing
to what he fears, yes, fears, but then that mood passes and I go on
as usual. I long to get away from him. Sometimes I am afraid of hating
him, if I see him too much or too exclusively."
"Yes, Dodo, I know, I know," said Mrs. Vivian. "I don't see how you are
to learn it, unless it comes to you; but what you can do, is to act as
if you felt it, not only in little tiny ways, like calling him an 'old
darling,' but in living for him more."
"Ah, those are only words," said Dodo impatiently. "I realise it all,
but I can't do it."