IV
Clementine Rendall spent the morning in a peculiar fashion. He first called on his banker, and, armed with many banknotes, took a cab to the Vandyke Theatre. At the stage door he inquired for Miss Esme Waybury.
“Just gone,” said the doorkeeper, “half an hour ago.”
“Unfortunate. Now I wonder when I could see her. Comes out about eleven at night, I s’pose?”
“Get out ’bout nine. Understudyin’, she is.”
“I wonder if you could ask her to wait a little tonight.”
The doorkeeper negatived the idea: “Wouldn’t be any good. She’s a-goin’ to Brighton by the 9.15, and won’t be back till Monday. Ast me to have a cab ready.”
“I see. ’Safternoon I’m engaged. But you could give me her address, no doubt.”
“Couldn’t. ’Tisn’t allowed.”
“Nonsense. I’m her uncle. Right to know.”
He produced silver in generous quantities, to which the doorkeeper succumbed.
Miss Esme had a flat in Maida Vale, whither Clementine Rendall proceeded with all dispatch.
In the taxi he reflected that he had set himself a foolish and a hopeless task. Even supposing he succeeded in buying off Miss Esme, nothing would have been achieved. To postpone a crisis is not to avert it. Accordingly he thrust his head from the window and addressed the driver:
“Look here—I don’t want to go to Maida Vale. Drive me to Whatshisname Mansions—one of the turnings off Baker Street. I’ll rap on the glass to show you.” And as he subsided on the cushions again: “Heaven knows what I shall do when I get there.”
He found a porter, who directed him to Wynne’s flat, and though assailed by many doubts, he beat a cheerful tattoo upon the knocker.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed, when Eve opened the door.
“Can you do with a visitor?”
Without waiting for the answer he kissed her very cordially, and putting a friendly arm round her shoulders carried her off to the sitting-room.
“As you never come and see me I came to see you,” he announced. “Well, how’s things?”
“Oh, they are all right.”
There was a restraint in her manner, which even his cheeriness was unable to break down. He could feel a sense of crisis in the atmosphere.
“And Wynne?”
“He’s out.”
“Out to lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Brain storm!—we’ll go out too.”
“You and I?”
“As ever is! Get yer hat.”
Eve hesitated. “I—”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t a hat.”
She laughed. “No; but it’s so long since I went out to lunch, probably I shouldn’t know how to behave.”
“I never could,” he answered. “Eat peas with my knife, talk with my mouth full—never was such a fellar as me. Come on—lively does it. What ’ud you like to do afterwards?”
“Anything.”
“ ’Cos I’ve an idea—more’n that, I’ve the means of carrying it out. Listen to the program: Taxi; a sole and a cutlet at the Berkeley Grill, with just a little Rhine wine to help it along. Then what? I suggest a picture gallery, and you nod—I suggest a theatre, and you nod a bit more agreeably. Finally, I suggest a shopping excursion up Bond Street and down Regent Street, with a taxi rolling from door to door to carry the parcels; at this you nod vigorously—and perhaps you smile. You shall have a Crême de Cacao after your ice, and then you will smile. The third and last proposal is carried unanimously, and before we start we make out a complete trousseau on the back of the menu card. Outside and inside we’ll get the lot. What do you say?”
Eve leant over and touched his hand.
“It sounds so lovely,” she said in a trembling voice; “but what do I want with a trousseau?”
“Want with it? Every one wants a trousseau.”
“If anybody cared how you looked in it.”
Uncle Clem’s forehead clouded, and his eyes rested upon her. As he looked he noted how sadly she was dressed.
“Little Eve,” he said, “has he ever seen you in a trousseau? I mean—look here, my dear, we men are such poor trivial, sleepy beings. We only wake up when something bangs us in the eye. Have you never thought it might be worth while to bang him in the eye with all that beauty of yours in the setting it deserves? You see we get used to things as they are, and never bother our heads with things as they might be. Don’t answer. I know it’s all quite indefensible, and I know you know it too. But just for fun—for a lark—a spree, let’s go out and do this thing. He’ll be in later, yes?”
“He said he would come to dinner.”
“Then we’ll fill in the time between then and now, and I’ll take charge.”
Eve stood up suddenly.
“Why—why do you always make me feel it will be all right?”
“It will. There, be off and get your hat.”
“Very well.” At the door she turned. “I have a frock if you’ll let me put it on. You won’t have to take me out in this old thing.”
“Have you worn it for him?”
“No.”
“Silly girl. Wear it for me, then. I’ll wait.”
As the door closed he muttered to himself:
“Wonder why the devil I’m buoying up her hopes. Wonder where we’ll be this time tomorrow?”
Clementine Rendall was a wonderful host, and he ordered the most delicious luncheon. He and monsieur, the faultless monsieur, laid their heads together and made decisions over the menu with a deliberation Downing Street might have envied. Monsieur would touch the title of some precious dish with the extreme point of pencil, and Clem would nod or query the suggestion. At last the decision was made, brought up for amendment, and finally approved.
The cooking was incomparable, and Uncle Clem matched his spirits to its perfection. Gradually he drew Eve out, and by the time the last course was set before them she was full of exquisite plans for the things they would buy together. The harmony of the surroundings, the attention, the good food, and the subtle white wine worked a miracle of change. Her eyes softened and took fresh lustre, her cheeks glowed with a gentle colour, and her voice warmed.
Noting these matters Uncle Clem was glad, but feared greatly.
“Now for the shops,” she said.
They had scarcely turned the corner of Piccadilly before he rapped against the glass of the taxi.
“Barrett’s!” he cried; “we mustn’t pass poor old Barrett’s without giving them a look in.”
Next instant they were in those pleasant leather-smelling showrooms, and an attentive assistant was directing their gaze to rows of dressing bags, both great and small.
“Make your choice—mustn’t lose time.”
“Am I really to have one of those bright bottley things?”
“ ’Course you are; what’s old Barrett run the place for? Choose, and quick about it.”
Long economy prompted Eve to decide upon the smallest and cheapest. Whereupon Clementine pointed to another with his stick, and cried:
“Sling it in the taxi—you know me! Right! On we go.”
But he did not go on before he had purchased a great spray of malmaisons at Solomon’s.
“Hats, dresses, and all the rest of it! Bond Street, cabby.”
In Bond Street he was at his best. He insisted on following Eve through all manner of extraordinary departments.
“Oh, go on with you. I’m old enough to have been married years ago. I’ll look out of the window if you like—but if the bill ain’t big enough I shall turn round. Get busy!”
Infected by his enthusiasm Eve got busy, and two great boxes of exquisite frillies floated down to the taxi.
“When we’ve filled this cab we’ll get another,” he declared as they clambered in and took their seats.
At Redfern’s, in Conduit Street, he showed that he was a man of discrimination. He paraded the mannequins, and bought four dresses after a deal of inspection and deliberation.
“But four’s such a heap!” said Eve.
“Nonsense. I’ll make it six if you say another word. Here, bundle off and put on that fawn thing—know it’ll suit you—want to see how you look! I’ll go and choose hats. I’m a whaler on hats.”
So while she changed he went off hatting, to the great joy of the department, and returned with many.
Eve was very quick, and as she came from the little changing-room he had a wild desire to cheer.
“Lord! You look lovely! Here, try some of these. Ain’t I a chooser? This one! Ain’t it a tartar—the very devil of a little hat.”
He was right.
“It!” he cried. “It! Clicks with the dress every time! Keep it on. Here, some of you kind young ladies, this lot for the taxi. Bill! Splendid.”
He shovelled out a handful of notes and they followed their purchases to the street.
“No more,” begged Eve, between laughter and tears. “Not any more today.”
“Gloves—shoes—’brollies must be bought.”
He was inexorable, and it was six o’clock before the laden taxi rolled them to the door of the Mansions.
“You’ve given me my most wonderful day,” she said.
“You child!” he answered, and pressed her hand. “There are lots more wonderful days ahead—remember that.”
Then he and she, and the driver, each burdened sky-high with packages, mounted the stairs to the flat.
As Uncle Clem paid the fare, Eve stooped and picked up a note from the door-mat. She opened it as he closed the door.
“God!” she said, in a very little voice.
He took the note and read it.