CHAPTER IX
Ebenezer Cadell was one of those men—daily becoming more rare—who, after a life of strenuous work, can face, at breakfast, a mutton chop. In this nervous age the fact in itself stands for an attribute of success. For next to money a good digestion will thrust an ambitious man far.
He did not even take his chop in obedience to his doctor's wishes, but out of a healthy appetite for that peculiar delicacy. He liked it as a second course, after eggs or fish or bacon, rather underdone and large, remembering lean years of porridge.
Breakfast over, he filled his pipe before the fire, where his boots were warming, and steeped his soul in the Liberal papers with the air of governing the Empire.
Mrs. Cadell, naturally, took in the Morning Post to keep in touch with that social world where names mean more than personal effort.
Cydonia was given the Daily Mirror, generally left unread by her and devoured in the Servants' Hall. Once a week Punch arrived and an unwieldy Ladies' journal, while into the depths of the smoking-room was smuggled a certain apricot paper.
On this particular winter morning the master of the house had failed to find the notice of a sale in his beloved Chronicle. Slightly aggrieved, he made his way into the morning-room beyond, where Helen was occupied poring over household matters. He begged the loan of those crisp sheets, white and pleasant to the touch, that seem to hold a faint suggestion of the class they represent.
He was leaving the room when his wife turned and stopped him with an imperious gesture.
"Can you spare me a moment, Ebenezer?" The request was in truth a command. "I want to talk about Cydonia?"
Cadell, unwillingly, glanced at the clock.
"Well—five minutes—if that will do. What's the trouble about, my dear? Hope there's nothing wrong with the child?"
"Oh, no. I'm thinking of giving a dance. Cydonia's birthday falls next month. It would be a 'coming-out' affair and I want it—naturally—well done."
"Quite right. Dear me!"—the man sighed. "It seems only the other day she was running about in pinafores! I can't think of her as grown-up."
The tender look came into his face that only his daughter could evoke. Mrs. Cadell saw it and smiled, as he added in his pompous manner:
"If it's a question of money, my dear, you needn't spare it. Order the best. I'll settle the bills."
"Thank you. There'll be a good deal to arrange ... But since you approve I'll take it in hand."
The old man lingered at the door.
"Who are you going to invite?" he asked—"You're not counting on me for men?"
"Oh, no!"—She spoke hurriedly, with a faint note of satire he knew full well—"But I'm counting on you for good champagne."
"H'm ... I see. But I always thought it didn't matter much at a dance—more quantity than quality."
"A popular mistake," said Helen, "or rather most unpopular! It's like this"—she explained—"we don't know many dancing-men—at least not of the kind I want! But it's quite easy nowadays. You ask people to make up parties. Only they're not your guests, you see, but friends of the people who dine and bring them; and they feel they can grumble openly at any flaw in the entertainment. So I want the arrangements and the wine—(it's more important than the food) to be quite—well, above suspicion. Then, you see," she smiled enigmatically, "the men will come again—by themselves."
Ebenezer's face grew red.
"I'd like to see them grumble here! Dash it all!—we make no charge—it's my hospitality."
He bristled visibly at the thought.
"That counts for nothing nowadays." Helen's voice was quite composed. "They come to enjoy themselves—for what they can get out of it! The only people who can give small parties and consider themselves the attraction are artists or Royalty. They can afford simplicity."
"H'm!—A pretty state of affairs. And what about Cydonia? You'd think any man would be proud to dance with my lovely girl."
"Ah! you're her father." Helen laughed. "I don't say, mind, that I approve of the present-day attitude. But the fact remains that the modern youth considers that his presence at a party confers a favour ... and, in return, he demands a first-class entertainment."
She met his eyes, smiled again, and turned to her desk with an air of dismissal.
"What about presenting the child? I'd like that done, you know, Helen. It don't mean much to my mind to bob down before Royalty, but I gather it's a sort of hall-mark."
He gave a gruff, contented laugh.
"That will come later," said Mrs. Cadell. "I was talking to Lady Leason about it, and she knows of a certain friend of hers who arranges these little matters. For a consideration, of course."
"I didn't know you had to pay?" Ebenezer was interested. Secretly he admired his wife's steady assault on Society.
"My dear, one pays for everything. Look at the people who get honours! It will mean, I should say, about three figures to get a well-known name to present her—a titled woman of good standing; and then there will be Lady Leason's present—and the commission..." She knit her brows. "Anyhow, Cydonia's worth it."
"That she is—bless her pretty face! She's the crowning gem of my collection! And I mean her to make a fine marriage! If it costs me every penny I've got."
He turned his sharp, near-set eyes shrewdly on Helen's countenance.
"What's this young man who's always around? McTaggart, I think, is his precious name. A tall fellow with blue eyes and a damned cool manner when I meet him!"
"He's all right," said the mother quickly, "and rather useful just now. He's a great friend of Lady Leason's and moves in a very good set."
"Well—don't allow any nonsense there. He don't come here to see me! And he don't seem to do any work—I can't stand his 'haw, haw' style."
The door banged behind him loudly.
Mrs. Cadell took up her pen, but held it a moment, absently, gazing out on the Mayfair street, empty at this early hour.
Did her daughter like McTaggart? That was the question she asked herself. Was his society the reason that Cydonia of late had seemed to quicken, to lose her slumbering childish calm?
And if so...? She frowned at the thought. Then she sighed. Ebenezer was right. But the mother-love warred within her with the ambition of her life. All the happiness she had missed!—she reached for it with nervous hands, longing to pile it, height on height, into the lap of her only child.
And, as if her thoughts had drawn the girl, Cydonia, that moment, entered the room.
"Am I disturbing you, Madre, dear?"
She stood there, radiant, in coat and hat; the fair face full of life, an eager look in the soft brown eyes. There seemed a little suppressed air of excitement in her bearing.
Helen stretched out her hand. Her daughter took it indifferently, pressed it lightly and let it fall.
"It's just to ask may I go out?—with Mason, of course—to do some shopping?"
"Wouldn't you rather wait for me? I shall be ready about twelve."
"Well ... you see, Madre,"—a faint flush stole into the clear skin as she spoke. "Christmas is getting very near and I've no presents at all, as yet. And——" a sudden excuse seemed to strike her—"I rather thought ... I'd get yours."
"Oh, very well." Helen laughed, "I mustn't trespass on any 'secret.'"
Cydonia averted her brown eyes, conscious of a twinge of conscience.
"Thank you, Madre, dear." She stooped and kissed her mother gratefully, hesitated for a moment, and breathed an indistinct "Good-bye."
But once outside the front door her spirits began to rise. She looked unusually animated, beautiful in her costly furs.
The maid shuffled along beside her, a subdued black form of indeterminate shape, rather like an unwilling retriever, dragged by an invisible leash.
They crossed Berkeley Square and swerved up to the right into Bond Street. Here Cydonia's step quickened as she glanced eagerly about her. She paused once or twice before a shop, gazing abstractedly into the window, and bought a bunch of Parma violets, which she pinned on to her white fox.
Then, with the gold head proudly carried, shining in the wintry sun like a halo under her black hat, she moved on, very sedate, avoiding all admiring glances.
"Hullo! Here's a stroke of luck."
McTaggart barred her further progress.
"What are you doing out so early?" His blue eyes were mischievous.
"How do you do?" she said demurely. "I'm shopping." Conversation failed her.
"Can I come, too?" McTaggart asked. He turned without waiting for permission.
The maid, with dog-like fidelity, fell to heel behind the pair, and, lowering his voice, he added:
"I began to think I must have missed you."
"Am I late?" said Cydonia. "I shall really have to buy something. I told Mother it was Christmas presents... And I shouldn't like to tell a lie."
"We'll buy the whole street," said McTaggart, ministering to the wounded conscience. "Let's cross over and look at Asprey's—their window's bursting with 'suitable gifts.'"
They dodged across between the taxis, heedless of the nervous maid.
"Can't we lose her?" he suggested. "I'm not used to a royal escort."
Glancing round him, he observed a Gallery close at hand where an Exhibition was advertised, and jumped at the way of escape.
"Come in and see the pictures." He raised his voice as he spoke.
"You really ought to—they're fine!—done by that man..." he spelled out the name.
Cydonia giggled, recovered herself and turned to the reluctant maid.
"Mason—we're going in here. Do you think, meanwhile, that you'd have time to run up to Marshall's and match that satin for my frock?"
"Yes, miss." The girl's face brightened. She much preferred to shop alone and dawdle down the long counters. "I'd be back within half-an-hour."
"Excellent," said McTaggart. As Cydonia passed through the doors he slipped his hand into his pocket and noiselessly tipped the maid.
"Take your time," he said kindly. The pale, subdued Cockney thanked him.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"I'll bet you do!" thought the man.
They passed down a narrow passage and into the long empty room with its crude top-light, so trying to many a fair-haired woman.
But Cydonia stood the test triumphantly, her skin shell-like above her furs.
A single sad-faced man was standing in possession of the scene, gazing with ardent eyes at a violent blue seascape.
"I'll guarantee that's the artist." McTaggart whispered in her ear. "Don't let's break into his dreams—— That sofa looks comfortable."
They sat down on the green plush, side by side, and Cydonia played with the violets at her breast, conscious of McTaggart's eyes.
"Don't you want to see the pictures?" She made an effort at small talk. "I thought—you said—they were rather fine."
"Never heard of them in my life! Besides, I'm looking at a picture."
Cydonia vainly pretended to miss the meaning of his speech. She pointed a slender finger at the portrait of a Spanish girl, facing the pair with a bold smile, a red rose behind her ear.
"I like the colour of her hair—that glossy black which looks blue..."
"So do I." McTaggart smiled, "but it's not black—it's ... spun sunshine! And the only blue that I can see is a tiny vein near the temple."
"I wonder," said Cydonia desperately, "how much we've made by those Tableaux?"
"Fifteen pounds, four and tuppence."
"Really? ... Not more than that?" She turned a bewildered face toward him.
"Ah ... that's better," said McTaggart. "To tell you the truth," he admitted, "I haven't the faintest idea of the sum. But I was getting tired of your profile." He saw her frown and stopped short.
"All right! I'll be good. But it's such fun, now, isn't it? When I think of the patient Mason matching yards of satin up at Marshall's."
Cydonia laughed. The soft note echoed through the empty room, for the artist had quietly slipped away into a further one beyond.
One quick glance he had given them, and his sensitive mind had received the impression. The girl, with her apple-blossom face, Spring incarnate, wooed by Summer.
"It isn't often I have the chance of your company without Mamma. Don't you ever go to dances?" He watched her lips move as she answered.
"Not yet—but, Peter, I forgot! I've such a lovely piece of news. I'm going to have a birthday party next month ... You'll come, won't you?"
"Rather. I say, that's ripping! A dance? Good," as she nodded her head. "I'll bet your people will do it well." Unconsciously he voiced the sentiments expressed that morning by Mrs. Cadell.
"How many dances may I have? I suppose you can't spare the lot?"
The infection of his mood was catching.
"One and an extra..." Cydonia laughed.
"Nonsense!" He hunted for a pencil and pulled out his cuff aggressively.
"Five at least. And supper too. Oh, Cydonia! you really might..."
But over the girl's merry face a shadow fell. She turned her head with startled eyes and a quick "Hush!" as a voice outside, loud and harsh, echoed down the long passage.
"It's Father!" She gave a gasp. "Oh, Peter, what shall we do?"
McTaggart was on his feet.
"The inner room"—he grasped her arm—"don't speak!" On tiptoe they fled.
"Stand here—in this corner—it's hidden from either door." He whispered the words, his lips brushing the soft hair drawn over her ears.
"Worth it—even if we're caught!" He said to himself with inward joy, conscious of the girl's hand, tightly clasped in his own.
They heard the heavy step pass and enter the room beyond; then a sound of men's voices broke across their strained attention.
McTaggart crept to the curtain that half veiled their hiding-place, then back to Cydonia, his smile showing his vast relief.
"He's talking to that artist chap. Now, softly into the passage, and then we'll make a bolt for it."
But he paused for a moment, very near her, his eyes on her frightened face.
"You dear thing—don't worry! I hate to see you look like that."
For a second's space he fought hard against the temptation of her answering smile. Then, drawing back, he led the way noiselessly into the hall.
The ruse succeeded, but outside a further problem awaited them. For Mason was "taking her time" conscientiously earning her tip.
"I can't leave you here alone." McTaggart's glance swept the street. "What shall we do? Walk to Marshall's? or—isn't that your car there?" He pointed out a landaulette, drawn up against the curb.
"Is Willcox safe, do you think?"
Willcox was the Cadells' chauffeur. He despised the family whom he served, realizing with the flair of his kind their status as parvenu. But he made an exception of Cydonia. Her sweet voice and well-bred face induced in him the belief of blue blood—achieved by some worthy misdemeanor!
The girl, aware of his silent worship, welcomed the sight of him with relief.
"He'll say nothing—how splendid! I'll just get into the car and wait."
McTaggart agreed. "You can explain you saw your Father go into the Gallery. And, as you felt tired, dispatched Mason to do your shopping, while you rested."
"Yes. That's it." She nodded her head. "Please go now. He might come out. You know what a rush he's always in."
She reached the carriage breathlessly, with a glance at the chauffeur's impassive face.
"Willcox—I'll wait inside. Mr. Cadell won't be long."
McTaggart tucked the rug around her.
"To-morrow," he whispered, "at Lady Leason's." Then, out loud, "Good-bye, Miss Cadell—I won't forget your Mother's dance."
"Good-bye, Mr. McTaggart." She smiled at the formal address.
Stiff and discreet on the box Willcox was smiling too. He was conscious of the whole manoeuvre, and in his heart he approved. He watched McTaggart stride away, with his careless, well-bred walk, pause at the corner and glance back surreptitiously through the crowd.
And then he heard his young mistress call in a low, quick voice, "Mason!"
And the maid's excuse, rather frightened.
"I hope I'm not late, miss—I've got the satin."
"A little," Cydonia calmly replied, "but you needn't wait. Give me the parcel. I'm driving home with Mr. Cadell when he's bought that picture we went to see."