CHAPTER XIII
London and December—fogs and fires—cosy rooms and misery, side by side.
Lily came to breakfast, and found her husband waiting with her letters.
“Good-morning,” she said politely.
“Bad-morning,” returned he morosely.
“Why have you come? I said neither of us was to disturb the other when either was ill.”
“I am not ill. I have arrived because you chose me for better, for worse, and now you let me have my breakfast alone. I hate breakfast, and I love you. You do not greet me with joy.”
He came over to put his arm round her.
“After breakfast. It is too early for anything except tea.”
“That cup which does not inebriate. I wish to Heaven it would or could inebriate you. You might be less cold, less—”
“Married.”
“You speak as though you expected this—as though this phase of ours is not new to you. Is it a phase?”
“I do not know. I fear—oh, Jack, why is it?”
This cry for information was at least human.
“It is this detestable flat system. Let us go and live in a house—with stairs,” said Jack.
She laughed.
“How amusing. The stairs would not make me—or you—different.”
“I am tired of being alone.”
“I thought you were going to say of being married. Loneliness is the philosopher’s joy.”
“I am a man, not a philosopher.”
“And my husband.”
“Yes, your husband.”
“Why do you sigh?”
“Did I sigh?”
“Have some more tea.”
“I will. I do feel cheered. Perhaps if I stayed here all day, and you made tea for me, I should feel contented.”
“You have not yet told me why you came.”
“Hans Breitmann gib ein barty. Where is that barty now?”
“Who is going to ‘gib ein barty’?”
“I am,” he replied.
“Am I to be invited?”
“If you are good.”
“I am always good. I am not always happy.”
“And the pious books say, if you were the one you would be the other. Bertie’s play is to come off on the 16th. He has got me a box. You want to see it?”
“Yes. It is said to be clever.”
“Bertie isn’t,” said Herbert.
“He did not write it, Miss Fisher did. She will get half the profits. But who are the ‘barty’?”
“You and I, Sylvia, George, Wainbridge, and Launa.”
“Too respectable, married and dull. We are to do wedded felicity, while they seek to imitate us. They are known to be desirous of so doing.”
“Who else can I ask?”
“Sir Ralph, Lady Hastings. Leave out Launa and Mr. Wainbridge. Sylvia and Mr. George will do, if she can come. She is still moon-struck, or lord-struck, or virtue-struck. Why did she send him away? She will never marry Mr. George.”
“I thought Launa was your friend?”
“So she is.”
“I do not advise anyone to marry, do you? It is an uncertain, disquieting bondage, even our way.”
“Even our way,” she repeated.
Jack thought he detected a sign of disappointment in her acquiescence. It is all very well to abuse oneself while seeking contradiction, but to have one’s husband call the joy of matrimony uncertain—that brings uneasiness into the mind of the wife.
Lily ate some toast, and felt disappointed. He did not love her more because of her inaccessibility.
“You will come to see the play with me? We shall have supper at the Savoy.”
“Very well. You will ask Sir Ralph and Lady Hastings?”
“I think not.”
“Sir Ralph is very fond of me.”
“So am I.”
“Are you? I want to sit next to him at supper.”
“You can sit by me, dear.”
“Why not call me ‘my love’? That is what a husband usually calls his wife, ‘my love’—it is a sort of mockery—‘my love’ when it is dead and gone.”
“My love is not dead nor gone.”
“Yet you will not please me about Sir Ralph. If we gave up this detestable flat system, the inviting and arranging of parties would be left to me, my lord.”
“You may ask all the people you like, dear. You may give a ball, if you will, only live in a house with stairs.”
“Not yet, dear.”
“I must go now, and leave you. Every time I leave you it grows harder. Why must it be?”
“I will come to your party on the 16th, and I will bring Sir Ralph.”
“I do not want him.”
“Yes, you do. Did you get my gloves?”
“They will come to-day. Good-bye.”
Quickly he put his arm round her and rapidly kissed her.
“There!”
“Go home,” she replied. “Matrimonial endearments thus early in the morning are unusual and uncomfortable.”
Then she sat down and read her letters.
“He won’t ask Sir Ralph,” she thought. “Shall I go? I am tired of Sir Ralph, and Jack never bores me.”
She ordered her husband’s favourite pudding for lunch, and arranged the flowers, but he did not come. He was afraid of wearying her, and sat in his rooms, wanting to go to what he called the Haven, but not daring. A drawn sword hovered over his Paradise. After lunch Lily wrote to him.
“My Dearest,—You thought me a cold brute this morning, I know. Can’t you understand how it is? I am so terribly afraid of your ceasing to care that I seem so indifferent? Marriage we all know does not increase love. And I feel that if I were once to show you how much I love you you would change. Your love would grow less; we cannot stand still; and I am trying to control fate, to hold you and to keep you forever. I know that my power over you would vanish if you were sure of me, and if we were to settle down in a house with stairs, you would soon regard me as an article of furniture—necessary perhaps to your comfort, but to be easily replaced if broken. You are such a husband now; that is what I resent, and you are too fond of coming to breakfast; why are you not my lover still? If I were your mistress you would come and dine with me, and we should be perfectly happy. You would not dream of inquiring what men or man had called, and the duration of each visit; you must make love to me as you used to do and trust me absolutely. I am yours—I think of you always, not sometimes but always, and I hunger for your presence, for your touch. But I could not bear your toleration, and I loathe the husband attitude you sometimes assume. Do you do it because you fear to weary me with your caresses? I think so, but you are wrong. I love you, love you. What a fool I am!—
“Yours,
“L.”
After writing this she went to call on her husband’s aunts. They as usual reduced her to a state of irritability, and she walked home full of reflections upon boredom. This was rapidly dispersed by Sir Ralph, who was waiting for her with a new book. Tea restored her mind to its normal balance, and conversation, with a cigarette, brought back her belief in herself. That morning she had been singularly near leaning on Jack. Sir Ralph amused her, he was so easily hurt, and in such open bondage to her. While talking with him, the impossibility of a grande passion in these days manifested itself to her. She got up and went to her writing-table—in a drawer was her letter to Jack. She had intended to send it to him after dinner; it would have brought him to her at once. For one night anyway she would have experienced exquisite happiness. She shut her eyes, remembering the perfect joy; it was almost pain to think of her love for him. Then she hurriedly tore up the letter, and burned it.
“It is strange how many phases one’s mind goes through in a day,” she said.
Her letter burned quickly and curled up, as if the flames hurt it, and it was in pain. She moved uneasily, for it almost hurt her.
“This morning I was different.”
“Were you?” asked Sir Ralph. “My mind never changes. I am always the same.”
“How very dull! I am never the same. Are you asked to the party of my lord and master on the 16th?”
“No.”
“You have heard nothing of it?”
“Not yet. I wanted you to come with me to see the new ballet on the 16th. I came to ask you. Now, I suppose, you will not come.”
“I know not. Shall I not? Yes, I will come—alone!”
“Alone! So much the better, and to supper afterwards at the Savoy?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You will wear?”
“Black.”
“I will send you some flowers.”
“The advantages of matrimony are supreme. I am enjoying it immensely.”
“Really? I should have thought it might be dull for you.”
“Oh, no; not with all of you to amuse me.”
After he left she dressed and went to a party, where she met him again. It was a cheerful entertainment, without any dull people to ask questions. Mrs. Herbert found several ladies took much interest in her affairs, and in her husband’s whereabouts. They did not ask such questions twice, but it annoyed her to know of what they thought. They blamed Jack. As a husband he ought to look after that young woman.
For the next few days, Mrs. Herbert avoided being alone with her husband. She invited him to lunch when other people were present, and he did not enjoy it, though he comforted himself by thinking of the 16th. Mr. Herbert made arrangements for his wife to stay all night at his abode, and found himself strung up to a pitch of joyful expectation.
In those days of waiting, her mood was uncertain, morose, absurd, and cross at intervals. Mr. Herbert waited for his day of reckoning; he intended to settle all things on that eventful night, to have all or nothing.
They were at the theatre watching the new play. Launa, Sylvia, Mr. George, and Mr. Wainbridge. Mr. Herbert was watching for Lily. She was often late.
A note was brought to him; he opened it with indifference, which did not last. His wife had sent it as she drove off with Sir Ralph to see the ballet.
Mr. Herbert left the theatre and walked up and down outside, mad with rage and heartache. Fool, fool, that he had been; to love her, to trust her. She had killed love and trust, he assured himself; while all the time he knew she had not, that was the greatest torture.
Mrs. Herbert and Sir Ralph had a box at the Grosvenor. Her dress was most becoming, which is the wine that maketh glad the heart of woman; but, strange to say, she could not forget her husband. It is usually so easy to forget.
She planned a breakfast party next day. Jack would come to take her out; she loved a cockney day with him, when they travelled first-class and called it cockney. There was skating, they would go together; and she would forgive him with effect and solemnity.
“Herbert’s party comprises Miss Archer as the only lady,” said Mrs. Herbert. “Well, she is beautiful.”
“He thinks so.”
“And so do I,” she replied. “Launa alone, how odd!”
“Why? I am very liberal; I cannot see why Launa and your husband should not have a party as you and I are doing.”
“We are old friends.”
“Yes. Are we anything else? We are old friends.”
“And they are new ones.”
“The length of time makes no difference,” he said. “I could love a new friend in a week better than an old friend in a year.”
“How true!”
How glad I am, she reflected, that Jack and I have two flats. If we were in one small space to-night we should quarrel.
She went home feeling sad. Would Jack be waiting for her? A few strong words, a few strong kisses, and where would her philosophy have been? Repentance would have replaced it.
The weather was very cold. Near Polton there was a lake, on which the skating was good. Launa and Lily had arranged to meet at Paddington, and go down there for a few days. Launa waited an hour for Lily, and then went without her.
The Polton Arms was a celebrated hotel, because the landlady was a celebrated cook. Launa took her maid, and resolved to stay and skate without Mrs. Herbert. Mr. Wainbridge did not know her address.
The luxury of solitude for a short space was pleasant to her, and the landlady had known her father. Launa spent all the day on the lake; the days were wonderfully clear and cold, and the air and the motion were as new life to her.
One day when she came back to the Polton Arms, and entered the big warm hall, in which burned a wood fire, Mr. Wainbridge came forward and took her hand.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Surprised, and well.”
“I have come to see you. I could not get on any longer without you.”
“How did you discover me? Come and have tea now.”
Her sitting-room was very pleasant, the usual hotel adornments had vanished. There was peace; and they sat and talked until it was time to dress for dinner.
“Propriety,” said Launa, “demands that you should dine downstairs, and I in my sitting-room alone; but the claims of propriety are not imperious. We will dine together.”
Wainbridge felt perfectly happy, perfectly content; Launa was feeling soothed and lulled by the sensation that someone cared excessively for her. It was so desolate to be always alone, and she wanted someone to take care of her.
For the rest of the week they met every day, and spent it together skating. As Mr. Wainbridge could not waltz on skates she taught him.
“This is a sort of honeymoon,” he said.
“Without any bother. Honeymoons are troublesome.”
“That depends on the moon and the honey. I like it in the comb.”
One day they were just starting for the lake when they met Captain Carden. Launa bowed to him, and did not appear uncomfortable at what he considered an inopportune meeting for her. Captain Carden went back to town that night, and told Mr. George, whom he met, that Launa was staying at Polton with Mr. Wainbridge.
“They are staying together,” he said. “How lucky for her she is not married, for I saw them.”
Mr. George promptly remarked that unless Captain Carden wanted kicking, he had better go, which he did.
The Cardens still felt a tender interest, an endless curiosity about Launa. They regretted her fall from grace, and Mrs. Carden felt with sorrow that she had wandered far from the safe haven of her protection; but when Charlie told her Launa was with Mr. Wainbridge, then did she mingle tears and rejoicings.
“We shall get her yet,” he said at last. “When no one else will know her, she will be glad to be Mrs. Carden.”
“A Mrs. Carden whom no one will know,” said his mother. “How terrible!”
“But her money,” he suggested.
They were drinking tea together—a pale, straw-coloured liquid. For once Mr. Carden had not grumbled; for the present they were united. The maid announced, “Mr. Harvey.”
Mrs. Carden rose and bowed. Mr. Harvey advanced with the self-possession of a Somebody, and the assurance of an American.
“I must apologise,” he said, “for troubling you. I came to get Miss Archer’s address. Her father once gave me yours as the means of finding him in town. I am a friend of theirs, and live near them in Canada.”
“Launa’s address?” repeated Carden.
“Address,” echoed his mother. “Please sit down.”
“Her address,” replied Harvey.
“Launa was in the country,” said Mrs. Carden. “She lives at Victoria Mansions, but I am sorry to say she is a very odd girl. She loves the world.”
“It is beautiful,” said the Canadian. “Then she has not changed.”
“Beautiful, is it?” observed Mrs. Carden.
“If you will kindly give me her exact address, I will not trouble you any further.”
Mrs. Carden went to her writing-table and wrote it. As she handed it to him she said:
“Are you her relation or her guardian? I believe my cousin married a Canadian.”
“I am not her guardian.”
“We—my son and I—are much worried about her. He met her down at Polton. She was staying there, and so was a man called Mr. Wainbridge.”
Here she paused for exclamations.
“Well?” said Paul.
“Not well,” said Mrs. Carden. “It is very wrong of Launa to stay at an hotel with a man—with—a—man. Do you understand?”
“No,” replied Paul. “Not what you mean me to understand.”
“They frequently had their meals together.”
“Quite right.”
“My son is in love with Miss Archer. He is as careful about her reputation as about his own.”
“He had better be,” answered Paul. “He should have held his tongue, and not have invented vile stories.”
Then he went away. Captain Carden immediately became furious, because Harvey had said he had invented stories.
Paul had been in London a week. He was determined to find Launa, to make her love him. It was only that one day she had been different. Her words, her look had been as if he were an outcast, a glance of loathing she had thrown at him. He remembered it always, but he loved her, longed for her intensely; and now he was determined to know what she had meant when she said she felt outraged. He had no reason to suppose she could care for him. Indeed, her absence from Canada, her rebuke the day after he had shot the horse, all showed that she did not love him. Yet she had not always seemed to hate him. Love and hate are closely connected, and he would know what she really felt, because he could not live without her. He had tried the North-West big game shooting; he had rushed madly about, and cried for madder music, stronger wine to help him forget; and through it all she was there.
Now these detestable people said untrue things about her; nevertheless he shuddered slightly as he remembered what they had insinuated.
He drove back to the Metropolis and walked past Victoria Mansions. Then he went in. He saw her name on the doorpost, and boldly marched up the stairs, disdaining the porter’s suggestion of the lift. Outside her door he could hear her playing and singing:
“Long is it I have loved thee,
Thee shall I love alway,
My dearest;
Long is it I have loved thee,
Thee shall I love alway.”
It was a Canadian song, he knew it well. He whistled it softly as he went down the stairs. Outside it was cold and beginning to rain. He did not feel it.
“Long is it I have loved thee.”