CHAPTER XVII
Lady Blake had started evening receptions, and once a fortnight she was at home. She had some idea of founding a salon, but her ignorance of the necessary steps was appalling. She thought it would have something to do with school-books and asking questions on abstruse subjects.
Launa went frequently, and took Sylvia with her, who was now second leading lady in the new play “Some Cabbages and a Weed.” The interview in the Signal had been of much assistance to her career. Formerly she had an existence—now she had a career. Mr. George devoted himself to her. This evening they met at Lady Blake’s. Launa was quickly surrounded by her friends, by her enemies, and people who could be either, had they known her. She was charming—the self-possession of a duchess, combined with the amiability and cleverness of the unknown woman wishing to be successful.
Mr. George was amusing them by relating the triumphs of the interviewer.
He had been the one to hear the aims and aspirations of the newest “Lady Temperance Lecturer.”
“Is she a Lady Temperance Lecturer?” he asked, “or a Temperance Lady Lecturer? The last way sounds as if one might suspect her of imbibing, and a Lady Temperance Lecturer does not sound—well, is nice the word? Women like that word; it expresses untold things to them, daintinesses and pretty undergarments. To a man it means a woman does not bore him. He does not call his best beloved ‘nice’ merely—angels are not nice.”
“Tell me about the Temperate Lady,” said Launa.
“I think Temperate Lady Lecturer would be a good name,” said Sylvia. “She might have an idea when to stop.”
“It was late,” said Mr. George, “when I interviewed her. She had been lecturing. Her window blinds were not down, and the moon shone in. There appeared to be much temperance in her mansion. We observed the moon with attention and in silence. After she had told me several details of her own life, ‘There is no water in the moon,’ she said, with a solemn air, ‘and nothing to drink. The people in the moon have nothing to drink.’ This whole sentence was in the largest of italics. I suggested that our best astronomers are in doubt as to the fact of human beings living in the moon. ‘Such a beautifully mountainous world,’ she said, ‘must be inhabited. Think of their Switzerland and of their Himalayas! They never have typhoid, for there is no water.’
“ ‘No drinks,’ I said. ‘Nothing to drink,’ she replied. ‘Not even the sea to bathe in, to picnic by in summer,’ I suggested. I won’t publish it all. I asked if the moon were fruitful, and she said, ‘Undoubtedly.’ Then I replied, ‘They are obliged to drink their brandy raw. If it is fruitful there must be grapes, if grapes, brandy’—you see the connection? ‘There is no water to make brandy,’ she observed. ‘Pardon me,’ I said, ‘you do not require water to make brandy only to dilute it, if you have temperance yearnings.’ She gasped, and I left her.”
“How glad she must have been,” said Launa, moving as she spoke to talk to Mr. Wainbridge’s cousin.
The rooms were becoming empty. Sylvia, Launa, Mr. Wainbridge, and Mr. George were standing together. The Member for Hackney joined Launa. He had developed an affection, nay, an inclination towards her. He was too cold for affection; he admired her.
The Under-Secretary for the Home Department came up behind them.
“Bolton, have you heard?” he asked, and kept his eyes fixed on Launa. He might have kept his information to himself had not Mr. Bolton been occupied with her.
“What?” asked the Member for Hackney. He did not desire to know anything further. His interest in the Colonies, as exemplified by Launa, was absorbing.
She smiled at the Under-Secretary, who wondered if Mr. Bolton would leave her when he heard the news.
“There has been a skirmish somewhere in Africa, and Fairmouth is, the telegram says, dead. You are Lord Fairmouth. I thought you would like to hear it.”
He waited. Sylvia gave a sort of moan and put out her hands.
“I loved him,” she said.
The Member for Hackney started, and Launa said:
“Miss Cooper and I must go home. Mr. George, will you give her your arm? Hugh, you will get us our carriage?”
Mr. Bolton stayed by Launa; the Under-Secretary had vanished.
“So that is the girl,” he said; “I have heard of her. That was somewhat dramatic. May I not be of some use to you, Miss Archer? Shall I take you to Lady Blake? You will want to say good-night to her.”
He offered her his arm, and they found the hostess. Launa apologised for Sylvia. The Member for Hackney said she looked quite pale. Lady Blake suggested sal volatile, and expressed her great concern.
“I will come and see you to-morrow,” said the Member for Hackney, as he held Launa’s hand at parting. “I am much interested in the Colonies and in the New World.”
Mr. George stared after their carriage, then he lighted a cigarette. Mr. Wainbridge had disappeared.
“She has a blister on now,” said Mr. George, “I wonder if it will ever heal.”
Mr. Bolton nodded and said:
“Miss Archer is engaged to Mr. Wainbridge?”
“Yes,” replied George.
They walked away together.
“Sylvia, don’t try to talk,” said Launa, as they drove home.
“Let me alone,” she moaned. “I am a fool to break down. You cannot tell what a joy it has been to me to feel to be sure of his love. It was all I had—all—”
Launa left her alone, after giving her a brandy and soda.
Fortunately “Some Cabbages and a Weed” was over, and the theatre shut up. It would open with a new play in September. Sylvia had her part to study and could rest, but not with her mother.
Mrs. Cooper could not have believed her daughter was in trouble—trouble which she should not share. A mother’s heart is the resting and the confiding-place for her daughter. She forgot a mother’s tongue often prevents confidences. She would have labelled her daughter “lost” had she known.
Launa had decided on taking a house by the river—a cottage with drains and hot water, as well as roses!
Mrs. Cooper and Sylvia would come too. Launa hoped Mr. Bolton would not talk of this accident and betray Sylvia. She waited with apprehension for the morrow and the Member for Hackney.
Sylvia besought her to find out the circumstances.
“Find out if he is dead. How he died: when and where. Oh, God! It is torture! Torture! Find out all about him.”
Mr. Wainbridge, Mr. George, and Paul came next day. Launa dispatched them for particulars. There was nothing in the paper. Mr. Wainbridge went to the Club, Mr. George to his newspaper, and Paul to the High Commissioner for Canada. This was his first meeting with Launa since their day of confession. He asked for no further explanation and she gave none.
He returned in an hour. The High Commissioner had been gracious. It was said that Paul knew too much about him to allow of his being anything else. There were episodes; the lady was happily married, and the Commissioner was High. The news was confirmed—Lord Fairmouth was dead.
“I must tell her,” said Launa.
Paul went down to the cottage to inspect it and to order it to be immediately prepared for them.
In all this they had quite forgotten Mrs. Cooper.
The Member for Hackney arrived before tea. His business engagements were many, but he was in need of refreshment.
He found Launa in the music-room. He took her hand with sympathy. He knew how to express his emotion with the ease of a ladies’ doctor. Some people said he had no real emotions, only fictitious ones.
“What a charming room!” he said, as he viewed it and her with admiration. He changed his tone as he added, “How is she to-day?”
“Broken-hearted.”
“Ah! In what way?” His experience had not provided him with any symptoms of such a thing. “The defeat of a measure,” he began, when Launa interrupted him.
“Oh, Mr. Bolton, does anyone know? Did the other man tell of what happened last night?”
Fear of discovery is a woman’s broken heart, he made a note of it, while he answered:
“No one knows. You may be quite sure of that. I arranged it with my friend. You may tell Miss Cooper I am glad I can set her—mind at rest.”
He meant at first to say heart.
“She does not care, she does not think of that,” she answered. “She has not seen him for six months . . . she loves him, he loved her . . . she made him leave her.”
“Really!”
“It is terrible to hear her. She does not cry, she merely moans. . . . You will have some tea?”
“I would like some tea,” he answered. “I am very tired.”
He felt much refreshed. Miss Archer had discrimination, and evidently was a good housekeeper.
“You stay in town for some time?” he asked. “Miss Archer, are you not the hansom girl? Mr. George told me about it, I remember. It applies to you both with and without a ‘d’.”
She smiled, and did not thank him.
“I have taken a house at Shelton, and as Miss Cooper is so wretched I intend to take her there.”
“She is related to you?”
“No; I am sorry for her. She is my friend.”
“Ah, that is better. Will you not be sorry for me? I, too, am alone, and sometimes lonely.”
She had never associated any frivolity with the Member for Hackney. He was one of those mysterious men who assisted in the governing of the country, and as such beyond much emotion. She looked at him.
“Do you need my sorrow?”
“I want it.”
“We often want what we do not need. I want more tea, it is not good for me, I do not need it.”
“Can I do anything to help you?”
“If you would. I had forgotten Mrs. Cooper, her mother. You could interview her for me. She may hear Sylvia is ill. I do not want her to come to see her daughter. Mrs. Cooper would believe you. She is an old lady who believes in a man’s opinion.”
“ ‘Man was made in the image of God.’ She believes it still?”
“Yes,” said Launa, “and she accepts with thankfulness ideas from any man.”
“If she were a young woman this might be attractive and new. I will go to see this Adamite. What must I say?”
“Be indefinite.”
“Headache and weariness for disease; absolute quiet and rest for the remedies,” he replied. “I quite understand. May I come again? Above all I would like to be with you at Shelton.”
“Do come. I should be so glad.”
“I could wish you would not—could not express it so easily. Where does this lady live?”
“In the Fulham Road.”
He sighed. The prospect of the long drive did not cheer him.
“You will take my brougham. I have ordered it for you.”
“Thank you,” he replied, and let his glance say more.
The Colonies were interesting. It was the year of new fishery arrangements with America and France. The Member for Hackney made a point of knowing all about them. He intended to ask Launa for information; he felt singularly elated at the prospect of seeing her again.
He was not particularly fond of fishing nor of bills, but information on all subjects was acceptable to him. He prided himself on knowing the views of the people for whom he was legislating.