CHAPTER XXV
Mildred's big, heavily furnished room was as softly lighted as usual. As usual, she herself, in white, with a rug across her feet, lay on her couch, withdrawn from the rest. She never liked to have any one near her, unless it was Hugh; she never entered into general talk. When others were present she remained silent, as she did on this evening. Whatever passed through her mind she gave out to individuals when she was alone with them.
The rest of the party were scattered about, standing or sitting. There were Jack and Pauline, Jim and Ethel Rossiter, Mrs. Billing, Mrs. Brokenshire, Cissie Boscobel, who was now staying with the Brokenshires, and Hugh. The two banker guests had gone back to the smoking-room. As I entered, Mr. Brokenshire was standing in his customary position of command, a little like a pasha in his seraglio, his back to the empty fireplace. With his handsome head and stately form, he would have been a truly imposing figure had it not been for his increased stoutness and the occasional working of his face.
I had come up-stairs with some elation. The evening might have been called mine. Most of the men, on rejoining us in the drawing-room, had sought a word with me, and those who didn't know me inquired who I was. I could hardly help the hope that Mr. Brokenshire might see I was worth my salt, and that on becoming a member of his family I should bring my contribution.
But on the way up-stairs Hugh gave me a hint that in that I might be mistaken.
"Well, little Alix, you certainly gave poor old dad a shock this time."
"A shock?" I asked, in not unnatural astonishment.
"Your fireworks."
"Fireworks! What on earth do you mean?"
"It's always a shock when fireworks go off too close to you; and especially when it's in church."
As we had reached the door of Mildred's room, I searched my conduct during dinner to see in what I had offended.
It is possible my entry might have passed unnoticed if Mrs. Brokenshire, with the kindest intentions, had not come forward to the threshold and taken me by the hand. As if making a presentation, she led me toward the august figure before the fireplace.
"Our little girl," she said, in the hope of doing me a good turn, "distinguished herself to-night, didn't she?"
He must have been stung to sudden madness by the sight of the two of us together. In general he controlled himself in public. He was often cruel, but with a quiet subtle cruelty to which even the victims often didn't know how to take exception. But to-night the long-gathering fury of passion was incapable of further restraint. Behind it there was all the explosive force of a lifetime of pride, complacence, and self-love. The exquisite creature—a vision of soft rose, with six strings of pearls—who was parading her bargain, as you might say, without having paid for it, excited him to the point of frenzy. I saw later, what I didn't understand at the time, that he was striking at her through me. He was willing enough to strike at me, since I was the nobody who had forced herself into his family; but she was his first aim.
Having looked at me disdainfully, he disdainfully looked away.
"She certainly gave us an exhibition!" he said, with his incisive, whip-lash quietude.
Mrs. Brokenshire dropped my hand.
"Oh, Howard!"
I think she backed away toward the nearest chair. I was vaguely conscious of curious eyes in the dimness about me as I stood alone before my critic.
"I'm sorry if I've done anything wrong, Mr. Brokenshire," I said, meekly. "I didn't mean to."
He looked over my head, speaking casually, as one who takes no interest in the subject.
"All the great stupidities have been committed by people who didn't mean to—but there they are!"
I continued to be meek.
"I didn't know I had been stupid."
"The stupid never do."
"And I don't think I have been," I added, with rising spirit.
Though there was consternation in the room behind me, Mr. Brokenshire merely said:
"Unfortunately, you must let others judge of that."
"But how?" I insisted. "If I have been, wouldn't it be a kindness on your part to tell me in what way?"
He pretended not merely indifference, but reluctance.
"Isn't that obvious?"
"Not to me—and I don't think to any one else."
"What do you call it when one—you compel me to speak frankly—what do you call it when one exposes one's ignorance of—of fundamental things before a roomful of people who've never set eyes on one before?"
Since no one, not even Hugh, was brave enough to stand up for me, I had to do it for myself.
"But I didn't know I had."
"Probably not. It's what I warned you of, if you'll take the trouble to remember. I said—or it amounted to that—that until you'd learned the ways of the people who are generally recognized as comme il faut, you'd be wise in keeping yourself—unobtrusive."
"And may I ask whether one becomes obtrusive merely in talking of public affairs?"
"You'll pardon me for giving you a lesson before others; but, since you invite it—"
"Quite so, Mr. Brokenshire, I do invite it."
"Then I can only say that in what we call good society we become obtrusive in talking of things we know nothing about."
"But surely one can set an idea going, even if one hasn't sounded all its depths. And as for the relations between this country and the British Empire—"
"Well-bred women leave such subjects to statesmen."
"Yes; we've done so. We've left them to statesmen and"—I couldn't resist the temptation to say it—"and we've left them to financiers; but we can't look at Europe and be proud of the result. We women, well bred or otherwise, couldn't make things worse even if we were to take a hand; and we might make them better."
He was not moved from his air of slightly bored indifference.
"Then you must wait for women with some knowledge of the subject."
"But, Mr. Brokenshire, I have some knowledge of the subject! Though I'm neither English nor American, I'm both. I've only to shift from one side of my mind to the other to be either. Surely, when it comes to the question of a link between the two countries I love I'm qualified to put in a plea for it."
I think his nerves were set further on edge because I dared to argue the point, though he would probably have been furious if I had not. His tone was still that of a man deigning no more than to fling out an occasional stinging remark.
"As a future member of my family, you're not qualified to make yourself ridiculous before my friends. To take you humorously was the kindest thing they could do."
I saw an opportunity.
"Then wouldn't it be equally kind, sir, if you were to follow their example?"
Mrs. Billing's hen-like crow came out of the obscurity:
"She's got you there!"
The sound incited him. He became not more irritable, but cruder.
"Unhappily, that's beyond my power. I have to blush for my son Hugh."
Hugh spoke out of the darkness, his voice trembling with the fear of his own hardihood in once more braving Jove.
"Oh no, dad! You must take that back."
The father wheeled round in the new direction. He was losing command of the ironic courtesy he secured by his air of indifference, and growing coarser.
"My poor boy! I can't take it back. You're like myself—in that you can only be fooled when you put your trust in a woman."
It was Mrs. Brokenshire's turn:
"Howard—please!"
In the cry there was the confession of the woman who has vowed and not paid, and yet begs to be spared the blame.
Jack Brokenshire sprang to his feet and hurried forward, laying his hand on his father's arm.
"Say, dad—"
But Mr. Brokenshire shook off the hand, refusing to be placated. He looked at his wife, who had risen, confusedly, from her chair and was backing away from him to the other side of the room.
"I said poor Hugh was being fooled by a woman; and he is. He's marrying some one who doesn't care a hang about him and who's in love with another man. He may not be the first in the family to do that, but I merely make the statement that he's doing it."
Hugh leaped forward.
"She's not in love with another man!"
"Ask her."
He clutched me by the wrist.
"You're not, are you?" he pleaded. "Tell father you're not."
I was so sorry for Hugh that I hardly thought of myself. I was benumbed. The suddenness of the attack had been like a blow from behind that stuns you without taking away your consciousness. In any case Mr. Brokenshire gave me no time, for he laughed gratingly.
"She can't do that, my boy, because she is. Everybody knows it. I know it—and Ethel and Mildred and Cissie. They're all here and they can contradict me if I'm saying what isn't so."
"But she may not know it herself," Mrs. Billing croaked. "A girl is often the last to make that discovery."
"Ask her."
Hugh obeyed, still clutching my wrist.
"I'm asking you, little Alix. You're not, are you?"
I could say nothing. Apart from the fact that I didn't knew what to say, I was dumbfounded by the way in which it had all come upon me. The only words that occurred to me were:
"I think Mr. Brokenshire is ill."
Oddly enough. I was convinced of that. It was the one assuaging fact. He might hate me, but he wouldn't have made me the object of this mad-bull rush if he had been in his right mind. He was not in his right mind; he was merely a blood-blinded animal as he went on:
"Ask her again, Hugh. You're the only one she's been able to keep in the dark; but then"—his eyes followed his wife, who was still slowly retreating—"but then that's nothing new. She'll let you believe anything—till she gets you. That's always the game with women of the sort. But once you're fast in her clutches—then, my boy, look out!"
I heard Pauline whisper, "Jack, for Heaven's sake, do something!"
Once more Jack's hand was laid on his parent's arm, with his foolish "Say, dad—"
Once more the restraining hand was shaken off. The cutting tones were addressed to Hugh:
"You see what a hurry she's been in to be married, don't you? How many times has she asked you to do it up quick? She's been afraid that you'd slip through her fingers." He turned toward me. "Don't be alarmed, my dear. We shall keep our word. You've worked hard to capture the position, and I shall not deny that you've been clever in your attacks. You deserve what you've won, and you shall have it. But all in good time. Don't rush. The armies in Europe are showing us that you must intrench yourself where you are if you want, in the end, to push forward. You push a little too hard."
Poor Hugh had gone white. He was twisting my wrist as if he would wring it off, though I felt no pain till afterward.
"Tell me!" he whispered. "Tell me! You're—you're not marrying me for—for my money, are you?"
I could have laughed hysterically.
"Hugh, don't be an idiot!" came, scornfully, from Ethel Rossiter.
I could see her get up, cross the room, and sit down on the edge of Mildred's couch, where the two engaged in a whispered conversation. Jim Rossiter, too, got up and tiptoed his sleek, slim person out of the room. Cissie Boscobel followed him. They talked in low tones at the head of the stairs outside. I found voice at last:
"No, Hugh; I never thought of marrying you for that reason. I was doing it only because it seemed to me right."
Mr. Brokenshire emitted a sound, meant to be a laugh:
"Right! Oh, my God!"
Mrs. Brokenshire was now no more than a pale-rose shadow on the farther side of the room, but she came to my aid:
"She was, Howard. Please believe her. She was, really!"
"Thanks, darling, for the corroboration! It comes well from you. Where there's a question of right you're an authority."
Mrs. Billing's hoarse, prolonged "Ha-a!" implied every shade of comprehension. I saw the pale-rose shadow sink down on a sofa, all in a little heap, like something shot with smokeless powder.
Hugh was twisting my wrist again and whispering:
"Alix, tell me. Speak! What are you marrying me for? What about the other fellow? Is it Strangways? Speak!"
"I've given you the only answer I can, Hugh. If you can't believe in my doing right—"
"What were you in such a hurry for? Was that the reason—what dad says—that you were afraid you wouldn't—hook me?"
I looked him hard in the eye. Though we were speaking in the lowest possible tones, there was a sudden stillness in the room, as though every one was hanging on my answer.
"Have I ever given you cause to suspect me of that?" I asked, after thinking of what I ought to say.
Three words oozed themselves out like three drops of his own blood. They were the distillation of two years' uncertainty:
"Well—sometimes—yes."
Either he dropped my wrist or I released myself. I only remember that I was twisting the sapphire-and-diamond ring on my finger.
"What made you think so?" I asked, dully.
"A hundred things—everything!" He gave a great gasp. "Oh, little Alix!"
Turning away suddenly, he leaned his head against the mantelpiece, while his shoulders heaved.
It came to me that this was the moment to make an end of it all; but I saw Mrs. Rossiter get up from her conference with Mildred and come forward. She did it leisurely, pulling up one shoulder of her décolleté gown as she advanced.
"Hugh, don't be a baby!" she said, in passing. "Father, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
If the heavens had fallen my amazement might have been less. She went on in a purely colloquial tone, extricating the lace of her corsage from a spray of diamond flowers as she spoke:
"I'll tell you why she was marrying Hugh. It was for two or three reasons, every one of them to her credit. Any one who knows her and doesn't see that must be an idiot. She was marrying him, first, because he was kind to her. None of the rest of us was, unless it was Mrs. Brokenshire; and she was afraid to show it for fear you'd jump on her, father. The rest of us have treated Alix Adare like brutes. I know I have."
"Oh no!" I protested, though I could scarcely make myself audible.
"But Hugh was nice to her. He was nice to her from the start. And she couldn't forget it. No nice girl would. When he asked her to marry him she felt she had to. And then, when he put up his great big bluff of earning a living—"
"It wasn't a bluff," Hugh contradicted, his face still buried in his hands.
"Well, perhaps it wasn't," she admitted, imperturbably. "If you, father, hadn't driven him to it with your heroics—"
"If you call it heroics that I should express my will—"
"Oh your will! You seem to think that no one's got a will but you. Here we are, all grown up, two of us married, and you still try to keep us as if we were five years old. We're sick of it, and it's time some of us spoke. Jack's afraid to, and Mildred's too good; so it's up to me to say what I think."
Mr. Brokenshire's first shock having passed, he got back something of his lordly manner, into which he threw an infusion of the misunderstood.
"And you've said it sufficiently. When my children turn against me—"
"Nonsense, father! Your children don't do anything of the sort. We're perfect sheep. You drive us wherever you like. But, however much we can stand ourselves, we can't help kicking when you attack some one who doesn't quite belong to us and who's a great deal better than we are."
Mrs. Billing crowed again:
"Brava, Ethel! Never supposed you had the pluck."
Ethel turned her attention to the other side of her corsage.
"Oh, it isn't a question of pluck; it's one of exasperation. Injustice after a while gets on one's nerves. I've had a better chance of knowing Alix Adare than any one; and you can take it from me that, when it comes to a question of breeding, she's the genuine pearl and we're only imitations—all except Mildred."
Both of Mr. Brokenshire's handsome hands went up together. He took a step forward as if to save Mrs. Rossiter from a danger.
"My daughter!"
The pale-rose heap on the other side of the room raised its dainty head.
"It's true, Howard; it's true! Please believe it!"
Ethel went on in her easy way:
"If Alix Adare has made any mistake it's been in ignoring her own wishes—I may say her own heart—in order to be true to us. The Lord knows she can't have respected us much, or failed to see that, judged by her standards, we're as common as grass when you compare it to orchids. But because she is an orchid she couldn't do anything but want to give us back better than she ever got from us; and so—"
"Oh no; it wasn't that!" I tried to interpose.
"It's no dishonor to her not to be in love with Hugh," she pursued, evenly. "She may have thought she was once; but what girl hasn't thought she was in love a dozen times? A fine day in April will make any one think it's summer already; but when June comes they know the difference. It was April when Hugh asked her; and now it's June. I'll confess for her. She is in love with—"
"Please!" I broke in.
She gave me another surprise.
"Do run and get me my fan. It's over by Mildred. There's a love!"
I had to do her bidding. The picture of the room stamped itself on my brain, though I didn't think of it at the time. It seemed rather empty. Jack had retired to one window, where he was smoking a cigarette; Pauline was at another, looking out at the moonlight on the water. Mrs. Billing sat enthroned in the middle, taking a subordinate place for once. Mrs. Brokenshire was on the sofa by the wall. The murmur of Ethel's voice, but no words, reached me as I stooped beside Mildred's couch to pick up the fan.
The invalid took my hand. Her voice had the deep, low murmur of the sea.
"You must forgive my father."
"I do," I was able to say. "I—I like him in spite of everything—"
"And as for my brother, you'll remember what we agreed upon once—that where we can't give all, our first consideration must be the value of what we withhold."
I thanked her and went back with the fan. As I passed Mrs. Billing she snapped at me, with the enigmatic words:
"You're a puss!"
When I drew near to the group by the fireplace, Mrs. Rossiter was saying to Hugh:
"And as for her marrying you for your money—well, you're crazy! I suppose she likes money as well as anybody else; but she would have married you to be loyal. She would have married you two months ago if father had been willing; and if you'd been willing you could now have been in England or France together, trying to do some good. If a woman marries one man when she's in love with another the right or the wrong depends on her motives. Who knows but what I may have done it myself? I don't say I haven't. And so—"
But I had taken off the ring on my way across the room. Having returned the fan to Ethel, I went up to Hugh, who looked round at me over his shoulder.
"Hugh, darling," I said, very softly, "I feel that I ought to give you back this."
He put out his hand mechanically, not thinking of what I was about to offer. On seeing it he drew back his hand quickly, and the ring dropped on the floor. I can hear it still, rolling with a little rattle among the fire-irons.
In making my curtsy to Mr. Brokenshire I raised my eyes to his face. It seemed to me curiously stricken. After all her years of submission Mrs. Rossiter's rebellion must have made him feel like an autocrat dethroned. I repeated my curtsy to Mrs. Billing, who merely stared at me through her lorgnette—to Jack and Pauline, who took no notice, who perhaps didn't see me—to Mrs. Brokenshire, who was again a little rose-colored heap—and to Mildred, who raised her long, white hand.
In the hall outside Cissie Boscobel rose and came toward me.
"You must look after Hugh," I said to her, breathlessly, as I sped on my way.
She did. As I hurried down the stairs I heard her saying:
"No, Hugh, no! She wants to go alone."