The best of times come to an end. And they have a trick of coming to
an end abruptly. Such was Mame’s thought, when on the morning of the
thirteenth day of Dunkeldie, or to be a little more precise, on the
morning after the visit to Prospero’s magic island, there came a knock
on her bedroom door, while she was sewing lace on a camisole. Lady
Violet entered.
She was a bearer of ill tidings. “We must pack up to-morrow.”
Mame’s countenance fell. She had been cherishing a hope that her clever
friend would be able to wangle at least one week more. It was the good
life; everything was going swimmingly; this was the first suggestion
that it was about to end so soon.
“Won’t your Aunt Emily stand for us a bit longer?” Mame was inclined to
question the fates.
“It isn’t altogether that. Aunt Emily would like us to stay on, but
there’s bread and butter to consider, you know.”
Ruefully Mame supposed there was. Still the firm seemed to be carrying
on pretty well at Dunkeldie. And their locum tenens, one Gerty Smith,
was diligent and trustworthy.
“But aren’t we rather taking chances? There’s New York to think of
now. It won’t do to be too much behind with our information.”
“We’re not so behind as all that. There’s nothing much doing in London,
and what there is Gerty Smith can attend to. Seems to me an extra seven
days here isn’t going to matter.”
Disappointment was in Mame’s tone and there was no attempt to conceal
it. She had counted on another magic week. But Celimene was adamant.
“There’s that new play on Monday at the St. James’s, also one on
Tuesday at the Shaftesbury.”
“Gerty can fix those.”
“Unfortunately they are both American pieces. And New York won’t like
it if we don’t give of our best.”
“Shucks!” protested Mame. “Gerty can mug up a notice as slick as we
can. If you tell her just what to say beforehand--uproarious welcome,
speeches before the curtain and all the rest of the dope--New York’ll
never know the difference.”
“I don’t quite agree.” Celimene’s voice had grown particularly calm and
quiet.
Once before and once only had Mame heard that voice. On that occasion
it was the prelude to trouble. She looked shrewdly at her mentor. And
what she saw gave her pause.
The gay and laughing eyes had hardened. They were still gay and
laughing, but behind them was an elusive something Mame did not like.
Her keen perception had noted for some days past a subtle change in the
manner of Bill’s sister. The thought had already crossed Mame’s mind
that those prize cats had been getting at the friend to whom she owed
so much.
“Davis will give you a hand with your packing.” The tone, light and
gentle as it was, sounded absolutely final. “To-morrow morning we must
catch the ten o’clock from Inverauchty.”
There was nothing to be done. Short of open defiance, to which Mame was
sorely tempted, and yet was wise enough not to yield, no alternative
was left.
Bill was bitterly disappointed when he heard the bad news. He had
taken it for granted that Mame was staying on. But in his way he was a
philosopher.
“I’ll be in London about ten days from now. And then--and then we’ll
roll along to Cartier’s and choose a ring.”
Mame’s eyes shone. It was the tangible evidence of her triumph and of
her happiness. Yes, there was magic in the air of Dunkeldie. Life might
be a long round of daily disappointment, but back of everything was
always the Big Stuff, if only one had the luck and the pluck to be able
to pull it.
“Have you told Violet?” She was able to ask that serious question in
spite of a tumultuous heart. There was reason to suppose that he had.
“Not yet. I’ll tell my mother first, if you don’t mind. No need to set
tongues wagging too soon. You can tell Vi when you like, of course; but
people when they get publicly engaged look and feel such fools, don’t
they?”
Mame supposed they did. And her triumph would keep. The announcement,
when it came, would be rather like exploding a bomb in the new world
she had entered. Gwendolen Childwick would be furious. So would the
other furry ones. And Violet certainly was not going to like it.
How could she? Mame did not disguise from herself that she was worried
by the thought of the friend to whom she owed so much. An uncomfortable
feeling overtook her. To have caught this much-cherished bird was
perilously akin to ingratitude.
Disappointing as it was to cut short the time of one’s life at
Dunkeldie, out of regard for another’s caprice, London, on Mame’s
return, did not seem so bad. She had found it a funny old burg and in
some respects an overrated one; yet it is the sort of place to which
most people don’t mind going back once in a while. There is usually
something doing in London in the early fall.
To begin with, there was the question of daily bread. And Mame’s
heart was really in her job. She had made good in the highlands; yet
one glamorous hour, no matter how crowded and glorious, cannot undo
the mental habits of a lifetime. She was now the bride-elect of a
marquis, but first and foremost she remained a go-getter. It gave her a
wonderful thrill to receive every morning a rather illiterate-looking
letter with a Scotch postmark; but it was still her nature to be up and
coming.
She liked the true London-and-New York sort of feeling of being a busy
young bee; of doing the work of the hive. There was a sense of power in
gathering news first-hand; of putting it in tabloid form; of sending
it over the wires of divers oceans and continents. She had lived magic
hours. But wise folks don’t put their trust in magic. London and the
daily round were a useful antidote.
Life had suddenly grown big and rich and beautiful. All the same it
was not without its peril. Mame had a keen desire to confide the great
secret to her housemate and partner. Yet her courage was not equal to
the task. She could not help thinking, from her friend’s perceptible
change of attitude, that she must know what was in the air. Arid
silence upon the subject of Bill lent colour to this theory. Once or
twice, greatly daring, Mame had broached it stealthily, in the hope of
finding out how the land lay. But on each occasion Lady Violet hastened
to talk of something else.
The friendship, which to Mame had always been delightful, seemed to
wear quite thin in the fortnight which elapsed before Bill, true to his
promise, was again in London. An ever-growing coolness was discernible
in his sister. Conscience may have played its part in the matter;
yet there was no disguising that icicles were around. Mame was not
unheedful. She could not forget the recent past; she could not forget
how much she owed to a true friend. Bill was Bill; he was just lovely;
but without the sanction of his family it might be difficult for their
happiness to be really complete.
The young man had not been home ten hours from Scotland when he rang
up Mame in Half Moon Street. She must be at the Berkeley or the Ritz,
whichever she preferred, at a quarter past one; they would have a bit
of lunch and then toddle round into Bond Street and choose the ring.
How good to hear that gay voice on the phone. What a rare power he had
of keying one up. He was so responsive. Everything one said, the most
commonplace remarks, seemed to tickle his sense of humour.
“The Ritz, a quarter after one, honey. I’ll be around.”
At twelve Mame downed tools.
“I’ve got to go out to lunch,” she announced casually. “So I guess I’ll
go and doll up a bit.”
“Right-o.” Celimene was curt. She had already said that she was
lunching out. For that matter she had only once lunched at the Ladies
Imperium since the return from Scotland; so that the old friendly habit
of the partnership of reserving a table near the window with a view of
the Green Park no longer held.
Did Violet know what was in the wind? She was marvellous at reading
signs. With all her casualness and her rather aristocratic viewpoint,
which was such a handicap to getting money, she was just as clever as
she could stick. Anyhow, she would have to be told soon. And there sure
would be a dandy fuss.
Each time Mame ventured a glance at Celimene, the less she fancied the
cut of her distinguished jib.