Guy Walbridge did not die. He was very ill, and many weeks passed before
his mother could bring him back to England; but after the first part of
her stay in Paris he was out of danger, and her letters, particularly
those she wrote to Caroline Breeze, showed that she was having a happy
time. One of these letters had perhaps better be given, as it explains a
good many things. She went to Paris on the 13th of February. This letter
was written the first Tuesday in March, and was dated at a
boarding-house in the Rue St. Ferdinand. One evening after dinner
Grisel, to whom Caroline had brought the letter in the afternoon,
according to directions in it, read it aloud to Oliver and Jenny Wick
and Sir John Barclay, as they sat round the fire in the girls' room.
"She really seems to be having a good time," Grisel began, taking the
thin sheets out of the envelope and throwing the end of her cigarette
into the fire. "I'm glad too. She needed a change."
Barclay smiled at her. "Isn't it," he asked, "the first change your
mother has ever had?"
She nodded. "Yes. I know you think we're awful, the way we treat her,
John," she added, "but she never wanted to go away. I think her best
holidays have always been when we were all off staying somewhere, and
she had the house to herself."
"I don't," commented Jenny Wick, with a shrewd little grimace. "I think
she likes best to have you one at a time--all to herself."
Oliver said nothing. It was the second time that he had been to the
house since his return, but the first in which he had been there quite
in this way--_en famille_--for the two brothers-in-law were there on the
other occasion, and there had been things about the journey to Paris
that he had not cared to tell them.
"Well, never mind that," he said. "Go on with the letter."
"'MY DEAR CAROLINE,'--The first part's about--oh, about Caroline's
landlady's twins--not very interesting. Let me see. Oh, here we are:
'_We've been for a long drive in the Bois de Boulogne. You've no idea
how different it is from Hyde Park, but it's very nice, just the
same._'"
"Speaks the Islander," from Wick.
"'_It is very cold here, colder, I think, than London, but it's clear
and sunny. I feel very well, and in the last few days I have begun to
get fatter; you'll be surprised to hear, Caroline, that I've had to let
out my afternoon dress. I got a very nice piece of----_' Oh, I won't
read this."
"Yes, do," shouted Oliver. "I want to know what she got a nice piece
of."
"'_Of lace at the Galleries Lafayette, and a little woman here has made
me a fichu that quite brightens up the old black satin._' Isn't she a
dear? '_I went to Notre Dame this morning. It's beautiful, and I like
the homely way poor people come in and say their prayers for a few
minutes and then go out again. There were two market baskets full of
vegetables just inside the door this morning, and a flower-girl burning
candles before a statue. Of course it's idolatrous, but it's a very
pretty custom._'"
Oliver laughed. "Imagine one of the Piccadilly Circus flower-girls
strolling in for a moment's spiritual comfort to Westminster Abbey!"
"'_I bought some very nice scones at a little shop near the Louvre, and
Guy did enjoy them with his tea. But guess what they cost, my dear.
Fifty centimes apiece--sixpence! The prices here are perfectly dreadful.
Oh, I bought E. V. Lucas's "Wanderer in Paris," and go out for a couple
of hours every day, when Guy doesn't want me, with it, and it's very
delightful. Paris must have changed very much, and no one could call it
gay now, and I never saw such deep mourning in my life. Half the women
are in black, real old-fashioned widows' weeds, not like our war widows'
little ballet skirts._
"'_It's quite as east-windy and dusty as London, and the taximen are
perfect fiends. They say that the family of anyone killed by a vehicle
is obliged to pay for obstructing the traffic. Of course if this is
true, it explains why they drive so fast._'"
Sir John laughed. "This, I take it, is the novelistic imagination of
which we hear so much."
"'_Thanks very much for sending me "Haycocks" and "Bess Knighthood."
I've read "Haycocks," and like it very much in some ways, but as for
"Bess Knighthood," how could it have taken that prize? Fancy getting a
thousand pounds for such a book! I saw it at Brentano's, and the man
told me everybody was reading it. I think it's rather a cruel book, and
I don't believe any family could really be quite so horrid._'"
Grisel looked up. "That's true. They were perfect brutes, weren't they?
Poor old Mum! I suppose she's a little jealous. I _loved_ it myself!"
"It's going to be dramatised. Did I tell you, Grisel?" Wick lighted a
cigarette as he spoke. "It'll make a splendid play. I never heard of the
author before, did you? E. R. East. Man or woman?"
"Oh, woman, of course. No, I don't think I ever heard of her before.
What a wonderful thing," Grisel added, "to get a thousand pounds prize
just for writing a story."
"Just for writing a story." Wick grinned. "Philistine!"
"Oh, mother speaks about that--listen:
"'_Do you remember that day, Caroline dear, when you wanted me to write
a book for the competition? Just imagine "Sunlight and Shadow" or "One
Maid's Word" being judged by the Committee that awarded that thousand
pounds!_"
"Poor mother. I mustn't forget to tell her when I write that Mr. Payne
wrote a very nice letter about her new book. It's coming out in a few
days. I do hope it'll be a success, poor darling. You know, it's a
dreadful thing, John, but I can't get through a book of mother's
nowadays."
"Can't you, my dear?"
"No. They _are_ about such dull people. I wish I liked them, because she
must know I don't."
"Oh, she's used to that," he answered. "Paul is remarkably frank about
it. But go on; finish the letter."
The next page was devoted to a description of the famous pictures and
statues which Mrs. Walbridge was making a point of seeing. It was
plainly a surprise to her that this had turned out to be not altogether
an unpleasant fulfilment of duty.
"'_I really love some of the pictures_,' she explained naïvely, '_and I
almost forgot to come home for lunch the day I went to the Luxembourg.
Some day I shall try to make time to go to the National Gallery._'"
Wick groaned. "Oh--oh dear! She's like a child," he said. "Why, do you
know, she positively trembled with excitement when the train stopped and
she first noticed one of those long, straight roads edged with
poplars--the kind that are always in illustrated magazines. She even
thought the fisher wives with their caps picturesque. I'm going to take
her on some sprees in London when she gets back. We're going to the
Tower together, and she wants to see the Cathedral at St. Albans."
"'_There's a lady in the house_,'" Grisel began again, after an
unamiable glance at the young man, "'_who's been buying clothes to go to
South America with. Yesterday I went with her to two or three
dressmakers, and the things really are lovely, Caroline. Of course they
seem very young, and one or two of this Mrs. Hammerton's would have
looked to me childish on Grisel, but it's the fashion here, and they
certainly do wear their clothes better than we do. I've got a lovely hat
for Grisel--black. (All the prettiest hats seem to be black.) And Hermy
will be delighted with an evening frock I have got for her. Maud's box
went off the other day. You never saw such darling little things in your
life. I wish I could be home to help nurse her, but Dr. Butler won't let
Guy come back for a long time yet, and he wants us to go to Cannes at
the end of next week. Doesn't it seem odd that I should be travelling
about like this at my time of life? I wonder if the Mediterranean really
is as blue as people say! I wish Oliver was going to be here. I rather
dread the journey, although Guy really speaks good French now._
"'_I wish, my dear, you would go and see Ferdie and look over his
things. It would be perfectly safe for you to go, as you aren't one of
the family. I had a very nice letter from him the other day--about Guy,
of course--but he seems to feel it rather difficult to look after his
own underclothes, and so on. I don't suppose he has a whole sock to his
name----_'"
Grisel broke off and looked round her audience. "Isn't that just like
Mum?" she said. "I suppose she'll be mending Mrs. Crichell's--no, Mrs.
Walbridge's--things by this time next year."
"I saw Crichell to-day," said Sir John gravely. "The case is down one of
the first in the Trinity term. They've got all the evidence and so on.
Ugh! What a beastly business it is! The woman ought to be whipped; and
as for your father, my dear----" He broke off, and Grisel laughed.
"Oh, go on. Don't spare father. I'm sure I don't mind what you say about
him. Paul saw him dining somewhere with the--lady who has sold herself
as scapegoat. I should think there would be a good deal of money in that
kind of job nowadays. Quite an idea!" she added flippantly.
"Oh, shut up, Grisel." It was Jenny who spoke.
But Grisel sat with the letter on her lap. An idea had occurred to
her--an idea that would have occurred to anyone less self-engrossed than
she many weeks before.
"John," she burst out, "is father still in that office of yours?"
"Yes."
"But--but how can he stay? Wouldn't you rather have him go?"
Barclay came back to his chair. "No," he said quietly. "I prefer to have
him stay."
"But----" She flushed and rose. "But how can he stay and take your money
when you feel about him as you do?"
"It's quite all right, my dear. Business is one thing and friendship
another."
But she over-rode his words. "Nonsense! You only gave him a job--well,
it's a kind of charity now that you're no longer friends."
"Nonsense, Grisel." It was Wick who spoke. "You don't seriously think
that Sir John would have given your father the job unless he knew he was
going to be useful? Business men don't do that kind of thing. Isn't that
right, sir?"
Barclay bowed his head. "Yes. It is your father's knowledge of French
that is of value to me. His domestic difficulties have made no change in
that."
Grisel had forgotten all about little Jenny, with whom she was not very
intimate, and went on rapidly, her pride aflame.
"Is he going to stay on in your--in your employ, then, after his
marriage to that disgusting woman?"
"I hope so. You forget," Barclay added in a grave voice, "that if your
father were not working he would be unable to continue to support your
mother and----" he hesitated a little "you."
She shivered and went to the fire. "I see. Yes, I see," she murmured.
Then she picked up the letter again, and read them a detailed account of
what the doctor had told her mother about Guy's condition. The letter
ended by asking Miss Breeze to take it to "Happy House," as the writer
was too busy to set it all down a second time.
Grisel folded it up, and put it back into the envelope.
"My mother had a note from her," Wick remarked, "two or three days ago,
it was. And she sent Jenny two pairs of gloves. I like to think," he
added, "of her there in Paris running about with the E. V. Lucas under
her arm, seeing things she has always heard of. She also," he added,
"wrote a charming note to Miss Perkins."
"Did she? Has Miss Perkins written to her?"
He nodded. "Yes. She was awfully touched by the letter. So was Mrs.
Perkins. Your mother's promised to go and see them as soon as she gets
home."
Grisel smiled with a touch of condescension. "By the way, as she's so
confined to the house by her mother's health, you might take me to see
her one afternoon. Or--or Sir John would let us go in the car."
Sir John nodded. "Any day you say, my dear."
Wick was terrified for a moment, and then agreed to the proposal with
becoming enthusiasm.
"That _would_ be kind of you," he answered. "I've been longing to
suggest it, but didn't quite like to."
She looked at him sideways, and he saw her knuckles whiten.
"When can you go?" he went on, pursuing his advantage with a beaming
face. "Could you go to-morrow?"
"I'm afraid I've got to go to Derby," Sir John put in. "I'm motoring two
men down on rather important business."
"And on Friday," Grisel added hastily, "I've an engagement."
"What about Saturday?" he insisted, thoroughly enjoying himself.
"Saturday I'm going to be with Maud all day."
He shrugged his shoulders. "There you are! Always busy. But I do want
you to meet Doll. I'm sure you'll like her. She's awfully interested in
you. I think," he added fatuously as his downright little sister stared
at him in amazement approaching open-mouthed astonishment, "she was
inclined to be--well, it sounds ridiculous, but girls are all alike--to
be a little jealous of you just at first, Grisel. But of course that's
all right now."
Grisel tossed her head. "I should think so," she retorted.
Sir John watched them with a puzzled look in his clear eyes. Their talk
seemed to him to be in surprisingly bad taste. He had noticed before
that the subject of Miss Perkins seemed to bring out in them both a
quality that he could not define, but that he greatly disliked, and it
was odd that Grisel at such moments displeased him far more than young
Wick. He was a clear-sighted man who had seen a good deal of the world,
and of course it had not escaped him that Wick must only very recently
have been in love with Grisel, for sometimes he had caught in the young
man's eyes a look that was at least reminiscent of a stronger feeling
than Miss Perkins might have approved of. He felt a mild curiosity about
Miss Perkins, whose photograph he had seen, and whose beauty was
undeniable, and he remembered that the last time Wick had been at the
house he had dropped on the floor, and left, a fat letter in a delicate
grey envelope, addressed in a pretty hand, and that Grisel, who had
found it, remarked, as he propped it up against a brass candlestick:
"Chiswick postmark. Miss Perkins, of course."
Barclay reflected, as he walked home that night, that if it were not for
Miss Perkins he should feel extremely sorry for young Wick. He liked the
boy. He liked him for his initiative and general air of success.
Incidentally he knew through a friend who was high up in the hierarchy
in Fleet Street, of which the head was a man whom Oliver called his
Chief, of this youth's recent and rapid promotion, and the confidential
position to which he had been raised over the heads of dozens of more
experienced and older men. He had said nothing of these things at "Happy
House," and so far as he could judge Oliver was regarded there still as
the unimportant, though pushful reporter, who had been sent to write up
Hermione's wedding in the previous July. Why the young man was
concealing his remarkable advance Barclay had no idea. But he did not
consider it his business to tell what he knew, and even Wick himself had
no idea of his rival's information. "The beautiful Miss Perkins," the
elder man thought, as he walked along in the bright moonlight, "will be
My Lady before she has been married five years, or I'm very much
mistaken."
Meantime, Wick, who now had a room in a little blind alley off Fleet
Street, was toiling upstairs thoroughly tired in every sense. He had
expected Miss Perkins to effect a quicker revolution than she had been
able to do. He was overworked, for the great man who had taken him in
hand was testing him at every point, and things were not being made easy
for him; that was not the great man's way. He had, moreover, to contend
with the very natural jealousy of a good many men at the office, over
whose resentful heads he had been promoted, and their protests were
none the less bitter because they were forced to be silent ones.
Criticism of the Chief's plans, or even whims, were not tolerated in
Fleet Street. Wick found his work hampered and retarded in every
possible way, but he was too clever to speak a word of protest during
his rare but fruitful interviews with the "Boss," whose eyes twinkled as
he asked him each time that they met: "Well, Mr. Wick, things going
well, I hope?" And Wick, knowing that he knew (for he knew everything),
that things were being made damnably hard for him, invariably answered
with a corresponding twinkle and a pugnacious tightening of the lips:
"Top-hole." But now, after this second evening he had spent at "Happy
House" since his return from Paris, he was worn out and discouraged, and
he sat down on the edge of his bed, the moonlight pouring in through the
uncurtained window, and allowed his face to drop and line without
restraint.
"I'll go and see mother to-morrow," he said aloud, "and tell her all
about it. She'll set me right, if I'm settable. The only decent thing in
the whole world is that Mrs. Walbridge is having the time of her life in
Paris, bless her! What a stupid letter!" He took a letter from his
pocket and tossed it on to the dressing-table. "I wonder what they would
say if they could read mine! Ah, well."
As he got into bed and blew out his candle, he groaned heavily. "Damn
Miss Perkins," he said.