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The Unbearable Bassington

by Saki · English · Gutenberg #555 · 300,162 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Unbearable Bassington

Author: Saki


        
Release date: June 1, 1996 [eBook #555]
                Most recently updated: October 5, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/555

Credits: Transcribed from the 1913 John Lane edition by David Price


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNBEARABLE BASSINGTON ***






                              THE UNBEARABLE
                                BASSINGTON


                      :: BY H. H. MUNRO (“SAKI”) ::

                                * * * * *

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                                * * * * *

                    LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

                       NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY

                    TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN.  MCMXIII

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

                             _SIXTH EDITION_

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

               PRINTED BY JAS. TRUSCOTT & SON, LTD.  LONDON

                                * * * * *




AUTHOR’S NOTE


This story has no moral.

If it points out an evil at any rate it suggests no remedy.




CHAPTER I


FRANCESCA BASSINGTON sat in the drawing-room of her house in Blue Street,
W., regaling herself and her estimable brother Henry with China tea and
small cress sandwiches.  The meal was of that elegant proportion which,
while ministering sympathetically to the desires of the moment, is
happily reminiscent of a satisfactory luncheon and blessedly expectant of
an elaborate dinner to come.

In her younger days Francesca had been known as the beautiful Miss
Greech; at forty, although much of the original beauty remained, she was
just dear Francesca Bassington.  No one would have dreamed of calling her
sweet, but a good many people who scarcely knew her were punctilious
about putting in the “dear.”

Her enemies, in their honester moments, would have admitted that she was
svelte and knew how to dress, but they would have agreed with her friends
in asserting that she had no soul.  When one’s friends and enemies agree
on any particular point they are usually wrong.  Francesca herself, if
pressed in an unguarded moment to describe her soul, would probably have
described her drawing-room.  Not that she would have considered that the
one had stamped the impress of its character on the other, so that close
scrutiny might reveal its outstanding features, and even suggest its
hidden places, but because she might have dimly recognised that her
drawing-room was her soul.

Francesca was one of those women towards whom Fate appears to have the
best intentions and never to carry them into practice.  With the
advantages put at her disposal she might have been expected to command a
more than average share of feminine happiness.  So many of the things
that make for fretfulness, disappointment and discouragement in a woman’s
life were removed from her path that she might well have been considered
the fortunate Miss Greech, or later, lucky Francesca Bassington.  And she
was not of the perverse band of those who make a rock-garden of their
souls by dragging into them all the stoney griefs and unclaimed troubles
they can find lying around them.  Francesca loved the smooth ways and
pleasant places of life; she liked not merely to look on the bright side
of things but to live there and stay there.  And the fact that things
had, at one time and another, gone badly with her and cheated her of some
of her early illusions made her cling the closer to such good fortune as
remained to her now that she seemed to have reached a calmer period of
her life.  To undiscriminating friends she appeared in the guise of a
rather selfish woman, but it was merely the selfishness of one who had
seen the happy and unhappy sides of life and wished to enjoy to the
utmost what was left to her of the former.  The vicissitudes of fortune
had not soured her, but they had perhaps narrowed her in the sense of
making her concentrate much of her sympathies on things that immediately
pleased and amused her, or that recalled and perpetuated the pleasing and
successful incidents of other days.  And it was her drawing-room in
particular that enshrined the memorials or tokens of past and present
happiness.

Into that comfortable quaint-shaped room of angles and bays and alcoves
had sailed, as into a harbour, those precious personal possessions and
trophies that had survived the buffetings and storms of a not very
tranquil married life.  Wherever her eyes might turn she saw the embodied
results of her successes, economies, good luck, good management or good
taste.  The battle had more than once gone against her, but she had
somehow always contrived to save her baggage train, and her complacent
gaze could roam over object after object that represented the spoils of
victory or the salvage of honourable defeat.  The delicious bronze
Fremiet on the mantelpiece had been the outcome of a Grand Prix
sweepstake of many years ago; a group of Dresden figures of some
considerable value had been bequeathed to her by a discreet admirer, who
had added death to his other kindnesses; another group had been a
self-bestowed present, purchased in blessed and unfading memory of a
wonderful nine-days’ bridge winnings at a country-house party.  There
were old Persian and Bokharan rugs and Worcester tea-services of glowing
colour, and little treasures of antique silver that each enshrined a
history or a memory in addition to its own intrinsic value.  It amused
her at times to think of the bygone craftsmen and artificers who had
hammered and wrought and woven in far distant countries and ages, to
produce the wonderful and beautiful things that had come, one way and
another, into her possession.  Workers in the studios of medieval Italian
towns and of later Paris, in the bazaars of Baghdad and of Central Asia,
in old-time English workshops and German factories, in all manner of
queer hidden corners where craft secrets were jealously guarded, nameless
unremembered men and men whose names were world-renowned and deathless.

And above all her other treasures, dominating in her estimation every
other object that the room contained, was the great Van der Meulen that
had come from her father’s home as part of her wedding dowry.  It fitted
exactly into the central wall panel above the narrow buhl cabinet, and
filled exactly its right space in the composition and balance of the
room.  From wherever you sat it seemed to confront you as the dominating
feature of its surroundings.  There was a pleasing serenity about the
great pompous battle scene with its solemn courtly warriors bestriding
their heavily prancing steeds, grey or skewbald or dun, all gravely in
earnest, and yet somehow conveying the impression that their campaigns
were but vast serious picnics arranged in the grand manner.  Francesca
could not imagine the drawing-room without the crowning complement of the
stately well-hung picture, just as she could not imagine herself in any
other setting than this house in Blue Street with its crowded Pantheon of
cherished household gods.

And herein sprouted one of the thorns that obtruded through the rose-leaf
damask of what might otherwise have been Francesca’s peace of mind.
One’s happiness always lies in the future rather than in the past.  With
due deference to an esteemed lyrical authority one may safely say that a
sorrow’s crown of sorrow is anticipating unhappier things.  The house in
Blue Street had been left to her by her old friend Sophie Chetrof, but
only until such time as her niece Emmeline Chetrof should marry, when it
was to pass to her as a wedding present.  Emmeline was now seventeen and
passably good-looking, and four or five years were all that could be
safely allotted to the span of her continued spinsterhood.  Beyond that
period lay chaos, the wrenching asunder of Francesca from the sheltering
habitation that had grown to be her soul.  It is true that in imagination
she had built herself a bridge across the chasm, a bridge of a single
span.  The bridge in question was her schoolboy son Comus, now being
educated somewhere in the southern counties, or rather one should say the
bridge consisted of the possibility of his eventual marriage with
Emmeline, in which case Francesca saw herself still reigning, a trifle
squeezed and incommoded perhaps, but still reigning in the house in Blue
Street.  The Van der Meulen would still catch its requisite afternoon
light in its place of honour, the Fremiet and the Dresden and Old
Worcester would continue undisturbed in their accustomed niches.
Emmeline could have the Japanese snuggery, where Francesca sometimes
drank her after-dinner coffee, as a separate drawing-room, where she
could put her own things.  The details of the bridge structure had all
been carefully thought out.  Only—it was an unfortunate circumstance that
Comus should have been the span on which everything balanced.

Francesca’s husband had insisted on giving the boy that strange Pagan
name, and had not lived long enough to judge as to the appropriateness,
or otherwise, of its significance.  In seventeen years and some odd
months Francesca had had ample opportunity for forming an opinion
concerning her son’s characteristics.  The spirit of mirthfulness which
one associates with the name certainly ran riot in the boy, but it was a
twisted wayward sort of mirth of which Francesca herself could seldom see
the humorous side.  In her brother Henry, who sat eating small cress
sandwiches as solemnly as though they had been ordained in some
immemorial Book of Observances, fate had been undisguisedly kind to her.
He might so easily have married some pretty helpless little woman, and
lived at Notting Hill Gate, and been the father of a long string of pale,
clever useless children, who would have had birthdays and the sort of
illnesses that one is expected to send grapes to, and who would have
painted fatuous objects in a South Kensington manner as Christmas
offerings to an aunt whose cubic space for lumber was limited.  Instead
of committing these unbrotherly actions, which are so frequent in family
life that they might almost be called brotherly, Henry had married a
woman who had both money and a sense of repose, and their one child had
the brilliant virtue of never saying anything which even its parents
could consider worth repeating.  Then he had gone into Parliament,
possibly with the idea of making his home life seem less dull; at any
rate it redeemed his career from insignificance, for no man whose death
can produce the item “another by-election” on the news posters can be
wholly a nonentity.  Henry, in short, who might have been an
embarrassment and a handicap, had chosen rather to be a friend and
counsellor, at times even an emergency bank balance; Francesca on her
part, with the partiality which a clever and lazily-inclined woman often
feels for a reliable fool, not only sought his counsel but frequently
followed it.  When convenient, moreover, she repaid his loans.

Against this good service on the part of Fate in providing her with Henry
for a brother, Francesca could well set the plaguy malice of the destiny
that had given her Comus for a son.  The boy was one of those untameable
young lords of misrule that frolic and chafe themselves through nursery
and preparatory and public-school days with the utmost allowance of storm
and dust and dislocation and the least possible amount of collar-work,
and come somehow with a laugh through a series of catastrophes that has
reduced everyone else concerned to tears or Cassandra-like forebodings.
Sometimes they sober down in after-life and become uninteresting,
forgetting that they were ever lords of anything; sometimes Fate plays
royally into their hands, and they do great things in a spacious manner,
and are thanked by Parliaments and the Press and acclaimed by gala-day
crowds.  But in most cases their tragedy begins when they leave school
and turn themselves loose in a world that has grown too civilised and too
crowded and too empty to have any place for them.  And they are very
many.

Henry Greech had made an end of biting small sandwiches, and settled down
like a dust-storm refreshed, to discuss one of the fashionably prevalent
topics of the moment, the prevention of destitution.

“It is a question that is only being nibbled at, smelt at, one might say,
at the present moment,” he observed, “but it is one that will have to
engage our serious attention and consideration before long.  The first
thing that we shall have to do is to get out of the dilettante and
academic way of approaching it.  We must collect and assimilate hard
facts.  It is a subject that ought to appeal to all thinking minds, and
yet, you know, I find it surprisingly difficult to interest people in
it.”

Francesca made some monosyllabic response, a sort of sympathetic grunt
which was meant to indicate that she was, to a certain extent, listening
and appreciating.  In reality she was reflecting that Henry possibly
found it difficult to interest people in any topic that he enlarged on.
His talents lay so thoroughly in the direction of being uninteresting,
that even as an eye-witness of the massacre of St. Bartholomew he would
probably have infused a flavour of boredom into his descriptions of the
event.

“I was speaking down in Leicestershire the other day on this subject,”
continued Henry, “and I pointed out at some length a thing that few
people ever stop to consider—”

Francesca went over immediately but decorously to the majority that will
not stop to consider.

“Did you come across any of the Barnets when you were down there?” she
interrupted; “Eliza Barnet is rather taken up with all those subjects.”

In the propagandist movements of Sociology, as in other arenas of life
and struggle, the fiercest competition and rivalry is frequently to be
found between closely allied types and species.  Eliza Barnet shared many
of Henry Greech’s political and social views, but she also shared his
fondness for pointing things out at some length; there had been occasions
when she had extensively occupied the strictly limited span allotted to
the platform oratory of a group of speakers of whom Henry Greech had been
an impatient unit.  He might see eye to eye with her on the leading
questions of the day, but he persistently wore mental blinkers as far as
her estimable qualities were concerned, and the mention of her name was a
skilful lure drawn across the trail of his discourse; if Francesca had to
listen to his eloquence on any subject she much preferred that it should
be a disparagement of Eliza Barnet rather than the prevention of
destitution.

“I’ve no doubt she means well,” said Henry, “but it would be a good thing
if she could be induced to keep her own personality a little more in the
background, and not to imagine that she is the necessary mouthpiece of
all the progressive thought in the countryside.  I fancy Canon Besomley
must have had her in his mind when he said that some people came into the
world to shake empires and others to move amendments.”

Francesca laughed with genuine amusement.

“I suppose she is really wonderfully well up in all the subjects she
talks about,” was her provocative comment.

Henry grew possibly conscious of the fact that he was being drawn out on
the subject of Eliza Barnet, and he presently turned on to a more
personal topic.

“From the general air of tranquillity about the house I presume Comus has
gone back to Thaleby,” he observed.

“Yes,” said Francesca, “he went back yesterday.  Of course, I’m very fond
of him, but I bear the separation well.  When he’s here it’s rather like
having a live volcano in the house, a volcano that in its quietest
moments asks incessant questions and uses strong scent.”

“It is only a temporary respite,” said Henry; “in a year or two he will
be leaving school, and then what?”

Francesca closed her eyes with the air of one who seeks to shut out a
distressing vision.  She was not fond of looking intimately at the future
in the presence of another person, especially when the future was draped
in doubtfully auspicious colours.

“And then what?” persisted Henry.

“Then I suppose he will be upon my hands.”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t sit there looking judicial.  I’m quite ready to listen to
suggestions if you’ve any to make.”

“In the case of any ordinary boy,” said Henry, “I might make lots of
suggestions as to the finding of suitable employment.  From what we know
of Comus it would be rather a waste of time for either of us to look for
jobs which he wouldn’t look at when we’d got them for him.”

“He must do something,” said Francesca.

“I know he must; but he never will.  At least, he’ll never stick to
anything.  The most hopeful thing to do with him will be to marry him to
an heiress.  That would solve the financial side of his problem.  If he
had unlimited money at his disposal, he might go into the wilds somewhere
and shoot big game.  I never know what the big game have done to deserve
it, but they do help to deflect the destructive energies of some of our
social misfits.”

Henry, who never killed anything larger or fiercer than a trout, was
scornfully superior on the subject of big game shooting.

Francesca brightened at the matrimonial suggestion.  “I don’t know about
an heiress,” she said reflectively.  “There’s Emmeline Chetrof of course.
One could hardly call her an heiress, but she’s got a comfortable little
income of her own and I suppose something more will come to her from her
grandmother.  Then, of course, you know this house goes to her when she
marries.”

“That would be very convenient,” said Henry, probably following a line of
thought that his sister had trodden many hundreds of times before him.
“Do she and Comus hit it off at all well together?”

“Oh, well enough in boy and girl fashion,” said Francesca.  “I must
arrange for them to see more of each other in future.  By the way, that
little brother of hers that she dotes on, Lancelot, goes to Thaleby this
term.  I’ll write and tell Comus to be specially kind to him; that will
be a sure way to Emmeline’s heart.  Comus has been made a prefect, you
know.  Heaven knows why.”

“It can only be for prominence in games,” sniffed Henry; “I think we may
safely leave work and conduct out of the question.”

Comus was not a favourite with his uncle.

Francesca had turned to her writing cabinet and was hastily scribbling a
letter to her son in which the delicate health, timid disposition and
other inevitable attributes of the new boy were brought to his notice,
and commanded to his care.  When she had sealed and stamped the envelope
Henry uttered a belated caution.

“Perhaps on the whole it would be wiser to say nothing about the boy to
Comus.  He doesn’t always respond to directions you know.”

Francesca did know, and already was more than half of her brother’s
opinion; but the woman who can sacrifice a clean unspoiled penny stamp is
probably yet unborn.




CHAPTER II


LANCELOT CHETROF stood at the end of a long bare passage, restlessly
consulting his watch and fervently wishing himself half an hour older
with a certain painful experience already registered in the past;
unfortunately it still belonged to the future, and what was still more
horrible, to the immediate future.  Like many boys new to a school he had
cultivated an unhealthy passion for obeying rules and requirements, and
his zeal in this direction had proved his undoing.  In his hurry to be
doing two or three estimable things at once he had omitted to study the
notice-board in more than a perfunctory fashion and had thereby missed a
football practice specially ordained for newly-joined boys.  His fellow
juniors of a term’s longer standing had graphically enlightened him as to
the inevitable consequences of his lapse; the dread which attaches to the
unknown was, at any rate, deleted from his approaching doom, though at
the moment he felt scarcely grateful for the knowledge placed at his
disposal with such lavish solicitude.

“You’ll get six of the very best, over the back of a chair,” said one.

“They’ll draw a chalk line across you, of course you know,” said another.

“A chalk line?”

“Rather.  So that every cut can be aimed exactly at the same spot.  It
hurts much more that way.”

Lancelot tried to nourish a wan hope that there might be an element of
exaggeration in this uncomfortably realistic description.

Meanwhile in the prefects’ room at the other end of the passage, Comus
Bassington and a fellow prefect sat also waiting on time, but in a mood
of far more pleasurable expectancy.  Comus was one of the most junior of
the prefect caste, but by no means the least well-known, and outside the
masters’ common-room he enjoyed a certain fitful popularity, or at any
rate admiration.  At football he was too erratic to be a really brilliant
player, but he tackled as if the act of bringing his man headlong to the
ground was in itself a sensuous pleasure, and his weird swear-words
whenever he got hurt were eagerly treasured by those who were fortunate
enough to hear them.  At athletics in general he was a showy performer,
and although new to the functions of a prefect he had already established
a reputation as an effective and artistic caner.  In appearance he
exactly fitted his fanciful Pagan name.  His large green-grey eyes seemed
for ever asparkle with goblin mischief and the joy of revelry, and the
curved lips might have been those of some wickedly-laughing faun; one
almost expected to see embryo horns fretting the smoothness of his sleek
dark hair.  The chin was firm, but one looked in vain for a redeeming
touch of ill-temper in the handsome, half-mocking, half-petulant face.
With a strain of sourness in him Comus might have been leavened into
something creative and masterful; fate had fashioned him with a certain
whimsical charm, and left him all unequipped for the greater purposes of
life.  Perhaps no one would have called him a lovable character, but in
many respects he was adorable; in all respects he was certainly damned.

Rutley, his companion of the moment, sat watching him and wondering, from
the depths of a very ordinary brain, whether he liked or hated him; it
was easy to do either.

“It’s not really your turn to cane,” he said.

“I know it’s not,” said Comus, fingering a very serviceable-looking cane
as lovingly as a pious violinist might handle his Strad.  “I gave Greyson
some mint-chocolate to let me toss whether I caned or him, and I won.  He
was rather decent over it and let me have half the chocolate back.”

The droll lightheartedness which won Comus Bassington such measure of
popularity as he enjoyed among his fellows did not materially help to
endear him to the succession of masters with whom he came in contact
during the course of his schooldays.  He amused and interested such of
them as had the saving grace of humour at their disposal, but if they
sighed when he passed from their immediate responsibility it was a sigh
of relief rather than of regret.  The more enlightened and experienced of
them realised that he was something outside the scope of the things that
they were called upon to deal with.  A man who has been trained to cope
with storms, to foresee their coming, and to minimise their consequences,
may be pardoned if he feels a certain reluctance to measure himself
against a tornado.

Men of more limited outlook and with a correspondingly larger belief in
their own powers were ready to tackle the tornado had time permitted.

“I think I could tame young Bassington if I had your opportunities,” a
form-master once remarked to a colleague whose House had the embarrassing
distinction of numbering Comus among its inmates.

“Heaven forbid that I should try,” replied the housemaster.

“But why?” asked the reformer.

“Because Nature hates any interference with her own arrangements, and if
you start in to tame the obviously untameable you are taking a fearful
responsibility on yourself.”

“Nonsense; boys are Nature’s raw material.”

“Millions of boys are.  There are just a few, and Bassington is one of
them, who are Nature’s highly finished product when they are in the
schoolboy stage, and we, who are supposed to be moulding raw material,
are quite helpless when we come in contact with them.”

“But what happens to them when they grow up?”

“They never do grow up,” said the housemaster; “that is their tragedy.
Bassington will certainly never grow out of his present stage.”

“Now you are talking in the language of Peter Pan,” said the form-master.

“I am not thinking in the manner of Peter Pan,” said the other.  “With
all reverence for the author of that masterpiece I should say he had a
wonderful and tender insight into the child mind and knew nothing
whatever about boys.  To make only one criticism on that particular work,
can you imagine a lot of British boys, or boys of any country that one
knows of, who would stay contentedly playing children’s games in an
underground cave when there were wolves and pirates and Red Indians to be
had for the asking on the other side of the trap door?”

The form-master laughed.  “You evidently think that the ‘Boy who would
not grow up’ must have been written by a ‘grown-up who could never have
been a boy.’  Perhaps that is the meaning of the ‘Never-never Land.’  I
daresay you’re right in your criticism, but I don’t agree with you about
Bassington.  He’s a handful to deal with, as anyone knows who has come in
contact with him, but if one’s hands weren’t full with a thousand and one
other things I hold to my opinion that he could be tamed.”

And he went his way, having maintained a form-master’s inalienable
privilege of being in the right.

                                * * * * *

In the prefects’ room, Comus busied himself with the exact position of a
chair planted out in the middle of the floor.

“I think everything’s ready,” he said.

Rutley glanced at the clock with the air of a Roman elegant in the
Circus, languidly awaiting the introduction of an expected Christian to
an expectant tiger.

“The kid is due in two minutes,” he said.

“He’d jolly well better not be late,” said Comus.

Comus had gone through the mill of many scorching castigations in his
earlier school days, and was able to appreciate to the last ounce the
panic that must be now possessing his foredoomed victim, probably at this
moment hovering miserably outside the door.  After all, that was part of
the fun of the thing, and most things have their amusing side if one
knows where to look for it.

There was a knock at the door, and Lancelot entered in response to a
hearty friendly summons to “come in.”

“I’ve come to be caned,” he said breathlessly; adding by way of
identification, “my name’s Chetrof.”

“That’s quite bad enough in itself,” said Comus, “but there is probably
worse to follow.  You are evidently keeping something back from us.”

“I missed a footer practice,” said Lancelot

“Six,” said Comus briefly, picking up his cane.

“I didn’t see the notice on the board,” hazarded Lancelot as a forlorn
hope.

“We are always pleased to listen to excuses, and our charge is two extra
cuts.  That will be eight.  Get over.”

And Comus indicated the chair that stood in sinister isolation in the
middle of the room.  Never had an article of furniture seemed more
hateful in Lancelot’s eyes.  Comus could well remember the time when a
chair stuck in the middle of a room had seemed to him the most horrible
of manufactured things.

“Lend me a piece of chalk,” he said to his brother prefect.

Lancelot ruefully recognised the truth of the chalk-line story.

Comus drew the desired line with an anxious exactitude which he would
have scorned to apply to a diagram of Euclid or a map of the
Russo-Persian frontier.

“Bend a little more forward,” he said to the victim, “and much tighter.
Don’t trouble to look pleasant, because I can’t see your face anyway.  It
may sound unorthodox to say so, but this is going to hurt you much more
than it will hurt me.”

There was a carefully measured pause, and then Lancelot was made vividly
aware of what a good cane can be made to do in really efficient hands.
At the second cut he projected himself hurriedly off the chair.

“Now I’ve lost count,” said Comus; “we shall have to begin all over
again.  Kindly get back into the same position.  If you get down again
before I’ve finished Rutley will hold you over and you’ll get a dozen.”

Lancelot got back on to the chair, and was re-arranged to the taste of
his executioner.  He stayed there somehow or other while Comus made eight
accurate and agonisingly effective shots at the chalk line.

“By the way,” he said to his gasping and gulping victim when the
infliction was over, “you said Chetrof, didn’t you?  I believe I’ve been
asked to be kind to you.  As a beginning you can clean out my study this
afternoon.  Be awfully careful how you dust the old china.  If you break
any don’t come and tell me but just go and drown yourself somewhere; it
will save you from a worse fate.”

“I don’t know where your study is,” said Lancelot between his chokes.

“You’d better find it or I shall have to beat you, really hard this time.
Here, you’d better keep this chalk in your pocket, it’s sure to come in
handy later on.  Don’t stop to thank me for all I’ve done, it only
embarrasses me.”

As Comus hadn’t got a study Lancelot spent a feverish half-hour in
looking for it, incidentally missing another footer practice.

“Everything is very jolly here,” wrote Lancelot to his sister Emmeline.
“The prefects can give you an awful hot time if they like, but most of
them are rather decent.  Some are Beasts.  Bassington is a prefect though
only a junior one.  He is the Limit as Beasts go.  At least I think so.”

Schoolboy reticence went no further, but Emmeline filled in the gaps for
herself with the lavish splendour of feminine imagination.  Francesca’s
bridge went crashing into the abyss.




CHAPTER III


ON the evening of a certain November day, two years after the events
heretofore chronicled, Francesca Bassington steered her way through the
crowd that filled the rooms of her friend Serena Golackly, bestowing nods
of vague recognition as she went, but with eyes that were obviously
intent on focussing one particular figure.  Parliament had pulled its
energies together for an Autumn Session, and both political Parties were
fairly well represented in the throng.  Serena had a harmless way of
inviting a number of more or less public men and women to her house, and
hoping that if you left them together long enough they would constitute a
_salon_.  In pursuance of the same instinct she planted the flower
borders at her week-end cottage retreat in Surrey with a large mixture of
bulbs, and called the result a Dutch garden.  Unfortunately, though you
may bring brilliant talkers into your home, you cannot always make them
talk brilliantly, or even talk at all; what is worse you cannot restrict
the output of those starling-voiced dullards who seem to have, on all
subjects, so much to say that was well worth leaving unsaid.  One group
that Francesca passed was discussing a Spanish painter, who was
forty-three, and had painted thousands of square yards of canvas in his
time, but of whom no one in London had heard till a few months ago; now
the starling-voices seemed determined that one should hear of very little
else.  Three women knew how his name was pronounced, another always felt
that she must go into a forest and pray whenever she saw his pictures,
another had noticed that there were always pomegranates in his later
compositions, and a man with an indefensible collar knew what the
pomegranates “meant.”  “What I think so splendid about him,” said a stout
lady in a loud challenging voice, “is the way he defies all the
conventions of art while retaining all that the conventions stand for.”
“Ah, but have you noticed—” put in the man with the atrocious collar, and
Francesca pushed desperately on, wondering dimly as she went, what people
found so unsupportable in the affliction of deafness.  Her progress was
impeded for a moment by a couple engaged in earnest and voluble
discussion of some smouldering question of the day; a thin spectacled
young man with the receding forehead that so often denotes advanced
opinions, was talking to a spectacled young woman with a similar type of
forehead, and exceedingly untidy hair.  It was her ambition in life to be
taken for a Russian girl-student, and she had spent weeks of patient
research in trying to find out exactly where you put the tea-leaves in a
samovar.  She had once been introduced to a young Jewess from Odessa, who
had died of pneumonia the following week; the experience, slight as it
was, constituted the spectacled young lady an authority on all things
Russian in the eyes of her immediate set.

“Talk is helpful, talk is needful,” the young man was saying, “but what
we have got to do is to lift the subject out of the furrow of
indisciplined talk and place it on the threshing-floor of practical
discussion.”

The young woman took advantage of the rhetorical full-stop to dash in
with the remark which was already marshalled on the tip of her tongue.

“In emancipating the serfs of poverty we must be careful to avoid the
mistakes which Russian bureaucracy stumbled into when liberating the
serfs of the soil.”

She paused in her turn for the sake of declamatory effect, but recovered
her breath quickly enough to start afresh on level terms with the young
man, who had jumped into the stride of his next sentence.

“They got off to a good start that time,” said Francesca to herself; “I
suppose it’s the Prevention of Destitution they’re hammering at.  What on
earth would become of these dear good people if anyone started a crusade
for the prevention of mediocrity?”

Midway through one of the smaller rooms, still questing for an elusive
presence, she caught sight of someone that she knew, and the shadow of a
frown passed across her face.  The object of her faintly signalled
displeasure was Courtenay Youghal, a political spur-winner who seemed
absurdly youthful to a generation that had never heard of Pitt.  It was
Youghal’s ambition—or perhaps his hobby—to infuse into the greyness of
modern political life some of the colour of Disraelian dandyism, tempered
with the correctness of Anglo-Saxon taste, and supplemented by the
flashes of wit that were inherent from the Celtic strain in him.  His
success was only a half-measure.  The public missed in him that touch of
blatancy which it looks for in its rising public men; the decorative
smoothness of his chestnut-golden hair, and the lively sparkle of his
epigrams were counted to him for good, but the restrained sumptuousness
of his waistcoats and cravats were as wasted efforts.  If he had
habitually smoked cigarettes in a pink coral mouthpiece, or worn spats of
Mackenzie tartan, the great heart of the voting-man, and the gush of the
paragraph-makers might have been unreservedly his.  The art of public
life consists to a great extent of knowing exactly where to stop and
going a bit further.

It was not Youghal’s lack of political sagacity that had brought the
momentary look of disapproval into Francesca’s face.  The fact was that
Comus, who had left off being a schoolboy and was now a social problem,
had lately enrolled himself among the young politician’s associates and
admirers, and as the boy knew and cared nothing about politics, and
merely copied Youghal’s waistcoats, and, less successfully, his
conversation, Francesca felt herself justified in deploring the intimacy.
To a woman who dressed well on comparatively nothing a year it was an
anxious experience to have a son who dressed sumptuously on absolutely
nothing.

The cloud that had passed over her face when she caught sight of the
offending Youghal was presently succeeded by a smile of gratified
achievement, as she encountered a bow of recognition and welcome from a
portly middle-aged gentleman, who seemed genuinely anxious to include her
in the rather meagre group that he had gathered about him.

“We were just talking about my new charge,” he observed genially,
including in the “we” his somewhat depressed-looking listeners, who in
all human probability had done none of the talking.  “I was just telling
them, and you may be interested to hear this—”

Francesca, with Spartan stoicism, continued to wear an ingratiating
smile, though the character of the deaf adder that stoppeth her ear and
will not hearken, seemed to her at that moment a beautiful one.

Sir Julian Jull had been a member of a House of Commons distinguished for
its high standard of well-informed mediocrity, and had harmonised so
thoroughly with his surroundings that the most attentive observer of
Parliamentary proceedings could scarcely have told even on which side of
the House he sat.  A baronetcy bestowed on him by the Party in power had
at least removed that doubt; some weeks later he had been made Governor
of some West Indian dependency, whether as a reward for having accepted
the baronetcy, or as an application of a theory that West Indian islands
get the Governors they deserve, it would have been hard to say.  To Sir
Julian the appointment was, doubtless, one of some importance; during the
span of his Governorship the island might possibly be visited by a member
of the Royal Family, or at the least by an earthquake, and in either case
his name would get into the papers.  To the public the matter was one of
absolute indifference; “who is he and where is it?” would have correctly
epitomised the sum total of general information on the personal and
geographical aspects of the case.

Francesca, however, from the moment she had heard of the likelihood of
the appointment, had taken a deep and lively interest in Sir Julian.  As
a Member of Parliament he had not filled any very pressing social want in
her life, and on the rare occasions when she took tea on the Terrace of
the House she was wont to lapse into rapt contemplation of St. Thomas’s
Hospital whenever she saw him within bowing distance.  But as Governor of
an island he would, of course, want a private secretary, and as a friend
and colleague of Henry Greech, to whom he was indebted for many little
acts of political support (they had once jointly drafted an amendment
which had been ruled out of order), what was more natural and proper than
that he should let his choice fall on Henry’s nephew Comus?  While
privately doubting whether the boy would make the sort of secretary that
any public man would esteem as a treasure, Henry was thoroughly in
agreement with Francesca as to the excellence and desirability of an
arrangement which would transplant that troublesome’ young animal from
the too restricted and conspicuous area that centres in the parish of St.
James’s to some misty corner of the British dominion overseas.  Brother
and sister had conspired to give an elaborate and at the same time cosy
little luncheon to Sir Julian on the very day that his appointment was
officially announced, and the question of the secretaryship had been
mooted and sedulously fostered as occasion permitted, until all that was
now needed to clinch the matter was a formal interview between His
Excellency and Comus.  The boy had from the first shewn very little
gratification at the prospect of his deportation.  To live on a remote
shark-girt island, as he expressed it, with the Jull family as his chief
social mainstay, and Sir Julian’s conversation as a daily item of his
existence, did not inspire him with the same degree of enthusiasm as was
displayed by his mother and uncle, who, after all, were not making the
experiment.  Even the necessity for an entirely new outfit did not appeal
to his imagination with the force that might have been expected.  But,
however lukewarm his adhesion to the project might be, Francesca and her
brother were clearly determined that no lack of deft persistence on their
part should endanger its success.  It was for the purpose of reminding
Sir Julian of his promise to meet Comus at lunch on the following day,
and definitely settle the matter of the secretaryship that Francesca was
now enduring the ordeal of a long harangue on the value of the West
Indian group as an Imperial asset.  Other listeners dexterously detached
themselves one by one, but Francesca’s patience outlasted even Sir
Julian’s flow of commonplaces, and her devotion was duly rewarded by a
renewed acknowledgment of the lunch engagement and its purpose.  She
pushed her way back through the throng of starling-voiced chatterers
fortified by a sense of well-earned victory.  Dear Serena’s absurd
_salons_ served some good purpose after all.

Francesca was not an early riser and her breakfast was only just
beginning to mobilise on the breakfast-table next morning when a copy of
_The Times_, sent by special messenger from her brother’s house, was
brought up to her room.  A heavy margin of blue pencilling drew her
attention to a prominently-printed letter which bore the ironical
heading: “Julian Jull, Proconsul.”  The matter of the letter was a cruel
dis-interment of some fatuous and forgotten speeches made by Sir Julian
to his constituents not many years ago, in which the value of some of our
Colonial possessions, particularly certain West Indian islands, was
decried in a medley of pomposity, ignorance and amazingly cheap humour.
The extracts given sounded weak and foolish enough, taken by themselves,
but the writer of the letter had interlarded them with comments of his
own, which sparkled with an ironical brilliance that was Cervantes-like
in its polished cruelty.  Remembering her ordeal of the previous evening
Francesca permitted herself a certain feeling of amusement as she read
the merciless stabs inflicted on the newly-appointed Governor; then she
came to the signature at the foot of the letter, and the laughter died
out of her eyes.  “Comus Bassington” stared at her from above a thick
layer of blue pencil lines marked by Henry Greech’s shaking hand.

Comus could no more have devised such a letter than he could have written
an Episcopal charge to the clergy of any given diocese.  It was obviously
the work of Courtenay Youghal, and Comus, for a palpable purpose of his
own, had wheedled him into foregoing for once the pride of authorship in
a clever piece of political raillery, and letting his young friend stand
sponsor instead.  It was a daring stroke, and there could be no question
as to its success; the secretaryship and the distant shark-girt island
faded away into the horizon of impossible things.  Francesca, forgetting
the golden rule of strategy which enjoins a careful choosing of ground
and opportunity before entering on hostilities, made straight for the
bathroom door, behind which a lively din of splashing betokened that
Comus had at least begun his toilet.

“You wicked boy, what have you done?” she cried, reproachfully.

“Me washee,” came a cheerful shout; “me washee from the neck all the way
down to the merrythought, and now washee down from the merrythought to—”

“You have ruined your future.  _The Times_ has printed that miserable
letter with your signature.”

A loud squeal of joy came from the bath.  “Oh, Mummy!  Let me see!”

There were sounds as of a sprawling dripping body clambering hastily out
of the bath.  Francesca fled.  One cannot effectively scold a moist
nineteen-year old boy clad only in a bath-towel and a cloud of steam.

Another messenger arrived before Francesca’s breakfast was over.  This
one brought a letter from Sir Julian Jull, excusing himself from
fulfilment of the luncheon engagement.




CHAPTER IV


FRANCESCA prided herself on being able to see things from other people’s
points of view, which meant, as it usually does, that she could see her
own point of view from various aspects.  As regards Comus, whose doings
and non-doings bulked largely in her thoughts at the present moment, she
had mapped out in her mind so clearly what his outlook in life ought to
be, that she was peculiarly unfitted to understand the drift of his
feelings or the impulses that governed them.  Fate had endowed her with a
son; in limiting the endowment to a solitary offspring Fate had certainly
shown a moderation which Francesca was perfectly willing to acknowledge
and be thankful for; but then, as she pointed out to a certain complacent
friend of hers who cheerfully sustained an endowment of half-a-dozen male
offsprings and a girl or two, her one child was Comus.  Moderation in
numbers was more than counterbalanced in his case by extravagance in
characteristics.

Francesca mentally compared her son with hundreds of other young men whom
she saw around her, steadily, and no doubt happily, engaged in the
process of transforming themselves from nice boys into useful citizens.
Most of them had occupations, or were industriously engaged in qualifying
for such; in their leisure moments they smoked reasonably-priced
cigarettes, went to the cheaper seats at music-halls, watched an
occasional cricket match at Lord’s with apparent interest, saw most of
the world’s spectacular events through the medium of the cinematograph,
and were wont to exchange at parting seemingly superfluous injunctions to
“be good.”  The whole of Bond Street and many of the tributary
thoroughfares of Piccadilly might have been swept off the face of modern
London without in any way interfering with the supply of their daily
wants.  They were doubtless dull as acquaintances, but as sons they would
have been eminently restful.  With a growing sense of irritation
Francesca compared these deserving young men with her own intractable
offspring, and wondered why Fate should have singled her out to be the
parent of such a vexatious variant from a comfortable and desirable type.
As far as remunerative achievement was concerned, Comus copied the
insouciance of the field lily with a dangerous fidelity.  Like his mother
he looked round with wistful irritation at the example afforded by
contemporary youth, but he concentrated his attention exclusively on the
richer circles of his acquaintance, young men who bought cars and polo
ponies as unconcernedly as he might purchase a carnation for his
buttonhole, and went for trips to Cairo or the Tigris valley with less
difficulty and finance-stretching than he encountered in contriving a
week-end at Brighton.

Gaiety and good-looks had carried Comus successfully and, on the whole,
pleasantly, through schooldays and a recurring succession of holidays;
the same desirable assets were still at his service to advance him along
his road, but it was a disconcerting experience to find that they could
not be relied on to go all distances at all times.  In an animal world,
and a fiercely competitive animal world at that, something more was
needed than the decorative _abandon_ of the field lily, and it was just
that something more which Comus seemed unable or unwilling to provide on
his own account; it was just the lack of that something more which left
him sulking with Fate over the numerous breakdowns and stumbling-blocks
that held him up on what he expected to be a triumphal or, at any rate,
unimpeded progress.

Francesca was, in her own way, fonder of Comus than of anyone else in the
world, and if he had been browning his skin somewhere east of Suez she
would probably have kissed his photograph with genuine fervour every
night before going to bed; the appearance of a cholera scare or rumour of
native rising in the columns of her daily news-sheet would have caused
her a flutter of anxiety, and she would have mentally likened herself to
a Spartan mother sacrificing her best-beloved on the altar of State
necessities.  But with the best-beloved installed under her roof,
occupying an unreasonable amount of cubic space, and demanding daily
sacrifices instead of providing the raw material for one, her feelings
were tinged with irritation rather than affection.  She might have
forgiven Comus generously for misdeeds of some gravity committed in
another continent, but she could never overlook the fact that out of a
dish of five plovers’ eggs he was certain to take three.  The absent may
be always wrong, but they are seldom in a position to be inconsiderate.

Thus a wall of ice had grown up gradually between mother and son, a
barrier across which they could hold converse, but which gave a wintry
chill even to the sparkle of their lightest words.  The boy had the gift
of being irresistibly amusing when he chose to exert himself in that
direction, and after a long series of moody or jangling meal-sittings he
would break forth into a torrential flow of small talk, scandal and
malicious anecdote, true or more generally invented, to which Francesca
listened with a relish and appreciation, that was all the more flattering
from being so unwillingly bestowed.

“If you chose your friends from a rather more reputable set you would be
doubtless less amusing, but there would be compensating advantages.”

Francesca snapped the remark out at lunch one day when she had been
betrayed into a broader smile than she considered the circumstances of
her attitude towards Comus warranted.

“I’m going to move in quite decent society to-night,” replied Comus with
a pleased chuckle; “I’m going to meet you and Uncle Henry and heaps of
nice dull God-fearing people at dinner.”

Francesca gave a little gasp of surprise and annoyance.

“You don’t mean to say Caroline has asked you to dinner to-night?” she
said; “and of course without telling me.  How exceedingly like her!”

Lady Caroline Benaresq had reached that age when you can say and do what
you like in defiance of people’s most sensitive feelings and most
cherished antipathies.  Not that she had waited to attain her present age
before pursuing that line of conduct; she came of a family whose
individual members went through life, from the nursery to the grave, with
as much tact and consideration as a cactus-hedge might show in going
through a crowded bathing tent.  It was a compensating mercy that they
disagreed rather more among themselves than they did with the outside
world; every known variety and shade of religion and politics had been
pressed into the family service to avoid the possibility of any agreement
on the larger essentials of life, and such unlooked-for happenings as the
Home Rule schism, the Tariff-Reform upheaval and the Suffragette crusade
were thankfully seized on as furnishing occasion for further differences
and sub-divisions.  Lady Caroline’s favourite scheme of entertaining was
to bring jarring and antagonistic elements into close contact and play
them remorselessly one against the other.  “One gets much better results
under those circumstances” she used to observe, “than by asking people
who wish to meet each other.  Few people talk as brilliantly to impress a
friend as they do to depress an enemy.”

She admitted that her theory broke down rather badly if you applied it to
Parliamentary debates.  At her own dinner table its success was usually
triumphantly vindicated.

“Who else is to be there?” Francesca asked, with some pardonable
misgiving.

“Courtenay Youghal.  He’ll probably sit next to you, so you’d better
think out a lot of annihilating remarks in readiness.  And Elaine de
Frey.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of her.  Who is she?”

“Nobody in particular, but rather nice-looking in a solemn sort of way,
and almost indecently rich.”

“Marry her” was the advice which sprang to Francesca’s lips, but she
choked it back with a salted almond, having a rare perception of the fact
that words are sometimes given to us to defeat our purposes.

“Caroline has probably marked her down for Toby or one of the
grand-nephews,” she said, carelessly; “a little money would be rather
useful in that quarter, I imagine.”

Comus tucked in his underlip with just the shade of pugnacity that she
wanted to see.

An advantageous marriage was so obviously the most sensible course for
him to embark on that she scarcely dared to hope that he would seriously
entertain it; yet there was just a chance that if he got as far as the
flirtation stage with an attractive (and attracted) girl who was also an
heiress, the sheer perversity of his nature might carry him on to more
definite courtship, if only from the desire to thrust other more
genuinely enamoured suitors into the background.  It was a forlorn hope;
so forlorn that the idea even crossed her mind of throwing herself on the
mercy of her _bête noire_, Courtenay Youghal, and trying to enlist the
influence which he seemed to possess over Comus for the purpose of
furthering her hurriedly conceived project.  Anyhow, the dinner promised
to be more interesting than she had originally anticipated.

Lady Caroline was a professed Socialist in politics, chiefly, it was
believed, because she was thus enabled to disagree with most of the
Liberals and Conservatives, and all the Socialists of the day.  She did
not permit her Socialism, however, to penetrate below stairs; her cook
and butler had every encouragement to be Individualists.  Francesca, who
was a keen and intelligent food critic, harboured no misgivings as to her
hostess’s kitchen and cellar departments; some of the human side-dishes
at the feast gave her more ground for uneasiness.  Courtenay Youghal, for
instance, would probably be brilliantly silent; her brother Henry would
almost certainly be the reverse.

The dinner party was a large one and Francesca arrived late with little
time to take preliminary stock of the guests; a card with the name, “Miss
de Frey,” immediately opposite her own place at the other side of the
table, indicated, however, the whereabouts of the heiress.  It was
characteristic of Francesca that she first carefully read the menu from
end to end, and then indulged in an equally careful though less open
scrutiny of the girl who sat opposite her, the girl who was nobody in
particular, but whose income was everything that could be desired.  She
was pretty in a restrained nut-brown fashion, and had a look of grave
reflective calm that probably masked a speculative unsettled temperament.
Her pose, if one wished to be critical, was just a little too elaborately
careless.  She wore some excellently set rubies with that indefinable air
of having more at home that is so difficult to improvise.  Francesca was
distinctly pleased with her survey.

“You seem interested in your _vis-à-vis_,” said Courtenay Youghal.

“I almost think I’ve seen her before,” said Francesca; “her face seems
familiar to me.”

“The narrow gallery at the Louvre; attributed to Leonardo da Vinci,” said
Youghal.

“Of course,” said Francesca, her feelings divided between satisfaction at
capturing an elusive impression and annoyance that Youghal should have
been her helper.  A stronger tinge of annoyance possessed her when she
heard the voice of Henry Greech raised in painful prominence at Lady
Caroline’s end of the table.

“I called on the Trudhams yesterday,” he announced; “it was their Silver
Wedding, you know, at least the day before was.  Such lots of silver
presents, quite a show.  Of course there were a great many duplicates,
but still, very nice to have.  I think they were very pleased to get so
many.”

“We must not grudge them their show of presents after their twenty-five
years of married life,” said Lady Caroline, gently; “it is the silver
lining to their cloud.”

A third of the guests present were related to the Trudhams.

“Lady Caroline is beginning well,” murmured Courtenay Youghal.

“I should hardly call twenty-five years of married life a cloud,” said
Henry Greech, lamely.

“Don’t let’s talk about married life,” said a tall handsome woman, who
looked like some modern painter’s conception of the goddess Bellona;
“it’s my misfortune to write eternally about husbands and wives and their
variants.  My public expects it of me.  I do so envy journalists who can
write about plagues and strikes and Anarchist plots, and other pleasing
things, instead of being tied down to one stale old topic.”

“Who is that woman and what has she written?” Francesca asked Youghal;
she dimly remembered having seen her at one of Serena Golackly’s
gatherings, surrounded by a little Court of admirers.

“I forget her name; she has a villa at San Remo or Mentone, or somewhere
where one does have villas, and plays an extraordinary good game of
bridge.  Also she has the reputation, rather rare in your sex, of being a
wonderfully sound judge of wine.”

“But what has she written?”

“Oh, several novels of the thinnish ice order.  Her last one, ‘The Woman
who wished it was Wednesday,’ has been banned at all the libraries.  I
expect you’ve read it.”

“I don’t see why you should think so,” said Francesca, coldly.

“Only because Comus lent me your copy yesterday,” said Youghal.  He threw
back his handsome head and gave her a sidelong glance of quizzical
amusement.  He knew that she hated his intimacy with Comus, and he was
secretly rather proud of his influence over the boy, shallow and negative
though he knew it to be.  It had been, on his part, an unsought intimacy,
and it would probably fall to pieces the moment he tried seriously to
take up the _rôle_ of mentor.  The fact that Comus’s mother openly
disapproved of the friendship gave it perhaps its chief interest in the
young politician’s eyes.

Francesca turned her attention to her brother’s end of the table.  Henry
Greech had willingly availed himself of the invitation to leave the
subject of married life, and had launched forthwith into the equally
well-worn theme of current politics.  He was not a person who was in much
demand for public meetings, and the House showed no great impatience to
hear his views on the topics of the moment; its impatience, indeed, was
manifested rather in the opposite direction.  Hence he was prone to
unburden himself of accumulated political wisdom as occasion presented
itself—sometimes, indeed, to assume an occasion that was hardly visible
to the naked intelligence.

“Our opponents are engaged in a hopelessly uphill struggle, and they know
it,” he chirruped, defiantly; “they’ve become possessed, like the
Gadarene swine, with a whole legion of—”

“Surely the Gadarene swine went downhill,” put in Lady Caroline in a
gently enquiring voice.

Henry Greech hastily abandoned simile and fell back on platitude and the
safer kinds of fact.

Francesca did not regard her brother’s views on statecraft either in the
light of gospel or revelation; as Comus once remarked, they more usually
suggested exodus.  In the present instance she found distraction in a
renewed scrutiny of the girl opposite her, who seemed to be only
moderately interested in the conversational efforts of the diners on
either side of her.  Comus who was looking and talking his best, was
sitting at the further end of the table, and Francesca was quick to
notice in which direction the girl’s glances were continually straying.
Once or twice the eyes of the young people met and a swift flush of
pleasure and a half-smile that spoke of good understanding came to the
heiress’s face.  It did not need the gift of the traditional intuition of
her sex to enable Francesca to guess that the girl with the desirable
banking account was already considerably attracted by the lively young
Pagan who had, when he cared to practise it, such an art of winning
admiration.  For the first time for many, many months Francesca saw her
son’s prospects in a rose-coloured setting, and she began, unconsciously,
to wonder exactly how much wealth was summed up in the expressive label
“almost indecently rich.”  A wife with a really large fortune and a
correspondingly big dower of character and ambition, might, perhaps,
succeed in turning Comus’s latent energies into a groove which would
provide him, if not with a career, at least with an occupation, and the
young serious face opposite looked as if its owner lacked neither
character or ambition.  Francesca’s speculations took a more personal
turn.  Out of the well-filled coffers with which her imagination was
toying, an inconsiderable sum might eventually be devoted to the leasing,
or even perhaps the purchase of, the house in Blue Street when the
present convenient arrangement should have come to an end, and Francesca
and the Van der Meulen would not be obliged to seek fresh quarters.

A woman’s voice, talking in a discreet undertone on the other side of
Courtenay Youghal, broke in on her bridge-building.

“Tons of money and really very presentable.  Just the wife for a rising
young politician.  Go in and win her before she’s snapped up by some
fortune hunter.”

Youghal and his instructress in worldly wisdom were looking straight
across the table at the Leonardo da Vinci girl with the grave reflective
eyes and the over-emphasised air of repose.  Francesca felt a quick throb
of anger against her match-making neighbour; why, she asked herself, must
some women, with no end or purpose of their own to serve, except the
sheer love of meddling in the affairs of others, plunge their hands into
plots and schemings of this sort, in which the happiness of more than one
person was concerned?  And more clearly than ever she realised how
thoroughly she detested Courtenay Youghal.  She had disliked him as an
evil influence, setting before her son an example of showy ambition that
he was not in the least likely to follow, and providing him with a model
of extravagant dandyism that he was only too certain to copy.  In her
heart she knew that Comus would have embarked just as surely on his
present course of idle self-indulgence if he had never known of the
existence of Youghal, but she chose to regard that young man as her son’s
evil genius, and now he seemed likely to justify more than ever the
character she had fastened on to him.  For once in his life Comus
appeared to have an idea of behaving sensibly and making some use of his
opportunities, and almost at the same moment Courtenay Youghal arrived on
the scene as a possible and very dangerous rival.  Against the good looks
and fitful powers of fascination that Comus could bring into the field,
the young politician could match half-a-dozen dazzling qualities which
would go far to recommend him in the eyes of a woman of the world, still
more in those of a young girl in search of an ideal.  Good-looking in his
own way, if not on such showy lines as Comus, always well turned-out,
witty, self-confident without being bumptious, with a conspicuous
Parliamentary career alongside him, and heaven knew what else in front of
him, Courtenay Youghal certainly was not a rival whose chances could be
held very lightly.  Francesca laughed bitterly to herself as she
remembered that a few hours ago she had entertained the idea of begging
for his good offices in helping on Comus’s wooing.  One consolation, at
least, she found for herself: if Youghal really meant to step in and try
and cut out his young friend, the latter at any rate had snatched a
useful start.  Comus had mentioned Miss de Frey at luncheon that day,
casually and dispassionately; if the subject of the dinner guests had not
come up he would probably not have mentioned her at all.  But they were
obviously already very good friends.  It was part and parcel of the state
of domestic tension at Blue Street that Francesca should only have come
to know of this highly interesting heiress by an accidental sorting of
guests at a dinner party.

Lady Caroline’s voice broke in on her reflections; it was a gentle
purring voice, that possessed an uncanny quality of being able to make
itself heard down the longest dinner table.

“The dear Archdeacon is getting so absent-minded.  He read a list of
box-holders for the opera as the First Lesson the other Sunday, instead
of the families and lots of the tribes of Israel that entered Canaan.
Fortunately no one noticed the mistake.”




CHAPTER V


ON a conveniently secluded bench facing the Northern Pheasantry in the
Zoological Society’s Gardens, Regent’s Park, Courtenay Youghal sat
immersed in mature flirtation with a lady, who, though certainly young in
fact and appearance, was some four or five years his senior.  When he was
a schoolboy of sixteen, Molly McQuade had personally conducted him to the
Zoo and stood him dinner afterwards at Kettner’s, and whenever the two of
them happened to be in town on the anniversary of that bygone festivity
they religiously repeated the programme in its entirety.  Even the menu
of the dinner was adhered to as nearly as possible; the original
selection of food and wine that schoolboy exuberance, tempered by
schoolboy shyness, had pitched on those many years ago, confronted
Youghal on those occasions, as a drowning man’s past life is said to rise
up and parade itself in his last moments of consciousness.

The flirtation which was thus perennially restored to its old-time
footing owed its longevity more to the enterprising solicitude of Miss
McQuade than to any conscious sentimental effort on the part of Youghal
himself.  Molly McQuade was known to her neighbours in a minor hunting
shire as a hard-riding conventionally unconventional type of young woman,
who came naturally into the classification, “a good sort.”  She was just
sufficiently good-looking, sufficiently reticent about her own illnesses,
when she had any, and sufficiently appreciative of her neighbours’
gardens, children and hunters to be generally popular.  Most men liked
her, and the percentage of women who disliked her was not inconveniently
high.  One of these days, it was assumed, she would marry a brewer or a
Master of Otter Hounds, and, after a brief interval, be known to the
world as the mother of a boy or two at Malvern or some similar seat of
learning.  The romantic side of her nature was altogether unguessed by
the countryside.

Her romances were mostly in serial form and suffered perhaps in fervour
from their disconnected course what they gained in length of days.  Her
affectionate interest in the several young men who figured in her affairs
of the heart was perfectly honest, and she certainly made no attempt
either to conceal their separate existences, or to play them off one
against the other.  Neither could it be said that she was a husband
hunter; she had made up her mind what sort of man she was likely to
marry, and her forecast did not differ very widely from that formed by
her local acquaintances.  If her married life were eventually to turn out
a failure, at least she looked forward to it with very moderate
expectations.  Her love affairs she put on a very different footing and
apparently they were the all-absorbing element in her life.  She
possessed the happily constituted temperament which enables a man or
woman to be a “pluralist,” and to observe the sage precaution of not
putting all one’s eggs into one basket.  Her demands were not exacting;
she required of her affinity that he should be young, good-looking, and
at least, moderately amusing; she would have preferred him to be
invariably faithful, but, with her own example before her, she was
prepared for the probability, bordering on certainty, that he would be
nothing of the sort.  The philosophy of the “Garden of Kama” was the
compass by which she steered her barque and thus far, if she had
encountered some storms and buffeting, she had at least escaped being
either shipwrecked or becalmed.

Courtenay Youghal had not been designed by Nature to fulfil the _rôle_ of
an ardent or devoted lover, and he scrupulously respected the limits
which Nature had laid down.  For Molly, however, he had a certain
responsive affection.  She had always obviously admired him, and at the
same time she never beset him with crude flattery; the principal reason
why the flirtation had stood the test of so many years was the fact that
it only flared into active existence at convenient intervals.  In an age
when the telephone has undermined almost every fastness of human privacy,
and the sanctity of one’s seclusion depends often on the ability for
tactful falsehood shown by a club pageboy, Youghal was duly appreciative
of the circumstance that his lady fair spent a large part of the year
pursuing foxes, in lieu of pursuing him.  Also the honestly admitted fact
that, in her human hunting, she rode after more than one quarry, made the
inevitable break-up of the affair a matter to which both could look
forward without a sense of coming embarrassment and recrimination.  When
the time for gathering ye rosebuds should be over, neither of them could
accuse the other of having wrecked his or her entire life.  At the most
they would only have disorganised a week-end.

On this particular afternoon, when old reminiscences had been gone
through, and the intervening gossip of past months duly recounted, a lull
in the conversation made itself rather obstinately felt.  Molly had
already guessed that matters were about to slip into a new phase; the
affair had reached maturity long ago, and a new phase must be in the
nature of a wane.

“You’re a clever brute,” she said, suddenly, with an air of affectionate
regret; “I always knew you’d get on in the House, but I hardly expected
you to come to the front so soon.”

“I’m coming to the front,” admitted Youghal, judicially; “the problem is,
shall I be able to stay there.  Unless something happens in the financial
line before long, I don’t see how I’m to stay in Parliament at all.
Economy is out of the question.  It would open people’s eyes, I fancy, if
they knew how little I exist on as it is.  And I’m living so far beyond
my income that we may almost be said to be living apart.”

“It will have to be a rich wife, I suppose,” said Molly, slowly; “that’s
the worst of success, it imposes so many conditions.  I rather knew, from
something in your manner, that you were drifting that way.”

Youghal said nothing in the way of contradiction; he gazed steadfastly at
the aviary in front of him as though exotic pheasants were for the moment
the most absorbing study in the world.  As a matter of fact, his mind was
centred on the image of Elaine de Frey, with her clear untroubled eyes
and her Leonardo da Vinci air.  He was wondering whether he was likely to
fall into a frame of mind concerning her which would be in the least like
falling in love.

“I shall mind horribly,” continued Molly, after a pause, “but, of course,
I have always known that something of the sort would have to happen one
of these days.  When a man goes into politics he can’t call his soul his
own, and I suppose his heart becomes an impersonal possession in the same
way.”

“Most people who know me would tell you that I haven’t got a heart,” said
Youghal.

“I’ve often felt inclined to agree with them,” said Molly; “and then, now
and again, I think you have a heart tucked away somewhere.”

“I hope I have,” said Youghal, “because I’m trying to break to you the
fact that I think I’m falling in love with somebody.”

Molly McQuade turned sharply to look at her companion, who still fixed
his gaze on the pheasant run in front of him.

“Don’t tell me you’re losing your head over somebody useless, someone
without money,” she said; “I don’t think I could stand that.”

For the moment she feared that Courtenay’s selfishness might have taken
an unexpected turn, in which ambition had given way to the fancy of the
hour; he might be going to sacrifice his Parliamentary career for a life
of stupid lounging in momentarily attractive company.  He quickly
undeceived her.

“She’s got heaps of money.”

Molly gave a grunt of relief.  Her affection for Courtenay had produced
the anxiety which underlay her first question; a natural jealousy
prompted the next one.

“Is she young and pretty and all that sort of thing, or is she just a
good sort with a sympathetic manner and nice eyes?  As a rule that’s the
kind that goes with a lot of money.”

“Young and quite good-looking in her way, and a distinct style of her
own.  Some people would call her beautiful.  As a political hostess I
should think she’d be splendid.  I imagine I’m rather in love with her.”

“And is she in love with you?”

Youghal threw back his head with the slight assertive movement that Molly
knew and liked.

“She’s a girl who I fancy would let judgment influence her a lot.  And
without being stupidly conceited, I think I may say she might do worse
than throw herself away on me.  I’m young and quite good-looking, and I’m
making a name for myself in the House; she’ll be able to read all sorts
of nice and horrid things about me in the papers at breakfast-time.  I
can be brilliantly amusing at times, and I understand the value of
silence; there is no fear that I shall ever degenerate into that fearsome
thing—a cheerful talkative husband.  For a girl with money and social
ambitions I should think I was rather a good thing.”

“You are certainly in love, Courtenay,” said Molly, “but it’s the old
love and not a new one.  I’m rather glad.  I should have hated to have
you head-over-heels in love with a pretty woman, even for a short time.
You’ll be much happier as it is.  And I’m going to put all my feelings in
the background, and tell you to go in and win.  You’ve got to marry a
rich woman, and if she’s nice and will make a good hostess, so much the
better for everybody.  You’ll be happier in your married life than I
shall be in mine, when it comes; you’ll have other interests to absorb
you.  I shall just have the garden and dairy and nursery and lending
library, as like as two peas to all the gardens and dairies and nurseries
for hundreds of miles round.  You won’t care for your wife enough to be
worried every time she has a finger-ache, and you’ll like her well enough
to be pleased to meet her sometimes at your own house.  I shouldn’t
wonder if you were quite happy.  She will probably be miserable, but any
woman who married you would be.”

There was a short pause; they were both staring at the pheasant cages.
Then Molly spoke again, with the swift nervous tone of a general who is
hurriedly altering the disposition of his forces for a strategic retreat.

“When you are safely married and honey-mooned and all that sort of thing,
and have put your wife through her paces as a political hostess, some
time, when the House isn’t sitting, you must come down by yourself, and
do a little hunting with us.  Will you?  It won’t be quite the same as
old times, but it will be something to look forward to when I’m reading
the endless paragraphs about your fashionable political wedding.”

“You’re looking forward pretty far,” laughed Youghal; “the lady may take
your view as to the probable unhappiness of a future shared with me, and
I may have to content myself with penurious political bachelorhood.
Anyhow, the present is still with us.  We dine at Kettner’s to-night,
don’t we?”

“Rather,” said Molly, “though it will be more or less a throat-lumpy
feast as far as I am concerned.  We shall have to drink to the health of
the future Mrs. Youghal.  By the way, it’s rather characteristic of you
that you haven’t told me who she is, and of me that I haven’t asked.  And
now, like a dear boy, trot away and leave me.  I haven’t got to say
good-bye to you yet, but I’m going to take a quiet farewell of the
Pheasantry.  We’ve had some jolly good talks, you and I, sitting on this
seat, haven’t we?  And I know, as well as I know anything, that this is
the last of them.  Eight o’clock to-night, as punctually as possible.”

She watched his retreating figure with eyes that grew slowly misty; he
had been such a jolly comely boy-friend, and they had had such good times
together.  The mist deepened on her lashes as she looked round at the
familiar rendezvous where they had so often kept tryst since the day when
they had first come there together, he a schoolboy and she but lately out
of her teens.  For the moment she felt herself in the thrall of a very
real sorrow.

Then, with the admirable energy of one who is only in town for a fleeting
fortnight, she raced away to have tea with a world-faring naval admirer
at his club.  Pluralism is a merciful narcotic.




CHAPTER VI


ELAINE DE FREY sat at ease—at bodily ease—at any rate—in a low wicker
chair placed under the shade of a group of cedars in the heart of a
stately spacious garden that had almost made up its mind to be a park.
The shallow stone basin of an old fountain, on whose wide ledge a
leaden-moulded otter for ever preyed on a leaden salmon, filled a
conspicuous place in the immediate foreground.  Around its rim ran an
inscription in Latin, warning mortal man that time flows as swiftly as
water and exhorting him to make the most of his hours; after which piece
of Jacobean moralising it set itself shamelessly to beguile all who might
pass that way into an abandonment of contemplative repose.  On all sides
of it a stretch of smooth turf spread away, broken up here and there by
groups of dwarfish chestnut and mulberry trees, whose leaves and branches
cast a laced pattern of shade beneath them.  On one side the lawn sloped
gently down to a small lake, whereon floated a quartette of swans, their
movements suggestive of a certain mournful listlessness, as though a
weary dignity of caste held them back from the joyous bustling life of
the lesser waterfowl.  Elaine liked to imagine that they re-embodied the
souls of unhappy boys who had been forced by family interests to become
high ecclesiastical dignitaries and had grown prematurely Right Reverend.
A low stone balustrade fenced part of the shore of the lake, making a
miniature terrace above its level, and here roses grew in a rich
multitude.  Other rose bushes, carefully pruned and tended, formed little
oases of colour and perfume amid the restful green of the sward, and in
the distance the eye caught the variegated blaze of a many-hued hedge of
rhododendron.  With these favoured exceptions flowers were hard to find
in this well-ordered garden; the misguided tyranny of staring geranium
beds and beflowered archways leading to nowhere, so dear to the suburban
gardener, found no expression here.  Magnificent Amherst pheasants, whose
plumage challenged and almost shamed the peacock on his own ground,
stepped to and fro over the emerald turf with the assured self-conscious
pride of reigning sultans.  It was a garden where summer seemed a
part-proprietor rather than a hurried visitor.

By the side of Elaine’s chair under the shadow of the cedars a wicker
table was set out with the paraphernalia of afternoon tea.  On some
cushions at her feet reclined Courtenay Youghal, smoothly preened and
youthfully elegant, the personification of decorative repose; equally
decorative, but with the showy restlessness of a dragonfly, Comus
disported his flannelled person over a considerable span of the available
foreground.

The intimacy existing between the two young men had suffered no immediate
dislocation from the circumstance that they were tacitly paying court to
the same lady.  It was an intimacy founded not in the least on friendship
or community of tastes and ideas, but owed its existence to the fact that
each was amused and interested by the other.  Youghal found Comus, for
the time being at any rate, just as amusing and interesting as a rival
for Elaine’s favour as he had been in the _rôle_ of scapegrace
boy-about-Town; Comus for his part did not wish to lose touch with
Youghal, who among other attractions possessed the recommendation of
being under the ban of Comus’s mother.  She disapproved, it is true, of a
great many of her son’s friends and associates, but this particular one
was a special and persistent source of irritation to her from the fact
that he figured prominently and more or less successfully in the public
life of the day.  There was something peculiarly exasperating in reading
a brilliant and incisive attack on the Government’s rash handling of
public expenditure delivered by a young man who encouraged her son in
every imaginable extravagance.  The actual extent of Youghal’s influence
over the boy was of the slightest; Comus was quite capable of deriving
encouragement to rash outlay and frivolous conversation from an anchorite
or an East-end parson if he had been thrown into close companionship with
such an individual.  Francesca, however, exercised a mother’s privilege
in assuming her son’s bachelor associates to be industrious in labouring
to achieve his undoing.  Therefore the young politician was a source of
unconcealed annoyance to her, and in the same degree as she expressed her
disapproval of him Comus was careful to maintain and parade the intimacy.
Its existence, or rather its continued existence, was one of the things
that faintly puzzled the young lady whose sought-for favour might have
been expected to furnish an occasion for its rapid dissolution.

With two suitors, one of whom at least she found markedly attractive,
courting her at the same moment, Elaine should have had reasonable cause
for being on good terms with the world, and with herself in particular.
Happiness was not, however, at this auspicious moment, her dominant mood.
The grave calm of her face masked as usual a certain degree of grave
perturbation.  A succession of well-meaning governesses and a plentiful
supply of moralising aunts on both sides of her family, had impressed on
her young mind the theoretical fact that wealth is a great
responsibility.  The consciousness of her responsibility set her
continually wondering, not as to her own fitness to discharge her
“stewardship,” but as to the motives and merits of people with whom she
came in contact.  The knowledge that there was so much in the world that
she could buy, invited speculation as to how much there was that was
worth buying.  Gradually she had come to regard her mind as a sort of
appeal court before whose secret sittings were examined and judged the
motives and actions, the motives especially, of the world in general.  In
her schoolroom days she had sat in conscientious judgment on the motives
that guided or misguided Charles and Cromwell and Monck, Wallenstein and
Savonarola.  In her present stage she was equally occupied in examining
the political sincerity of the Secretary for Foreign Affairs, the
good-faith of a honey-tongued but possibly loyal-hearted waiting-maid,
and the disinterestedness of a whole circle of indulgent and flattering
acquaintances.  Even more absorbing, and in her eyes, more urgently
necessary, was the task of dissecting and appraising the characters of
the two young men who were favouring her with their attentions.  And
herein lay cause for much thinking and some perturbation.  Youghal, for
example, might have baffled a more experienced observer of human nature.
Elaine was too clever to confound his dandyism with foppishness or
self-advertisement.  He admired his own toilet effect in a mirror from a
genuine sense of pleasure in a thing good to look upon, just as he would
feel a sensuous appreciation of the sight of a well-bred, well-matched,
well-turned-out pair of horses.  Behind his careful political flippancy
and cynicism one might also detect a certain careless sincerity, which
would probably in the long run save him from moderate success, and turn
him into one of the brilliant failures of his day.  Beyond this it was
difficult to form an exact appreciation of Courtenay Youghal, and Elaine,
who liked to have her impressions distinctly labelled and pigeon-holed,
was perpetually scrutinising the outer surface of his characteristics and
utterances, like a baffled art critic vainly searching beneath the
varnish and scratches of a doubtfully assigned picture for an
enlightening signature.  The young man added to her perplexities by his
deliberate policy of never trying to show himself in a favourable light
even when most anxious to impart a favourable impression.  He preferred
that people should hunt for his good qualities, and merely took very good
care that as far as possible they should never draw blank; even in the
matter of selfishness, which was the anchor-sheet of his existence, he
contrived to be noted, and justly noted, for doing remarkably unselfish
things.  As a ruler he would have been reasonably popular; as a husband
he would probably be unendurable.

Comus was to a certain extent as great a mystification as Youghal, but
here Elaine was herself responsible for some of the perplexity which
enshrouded his character in her eyes.  She had taken more than a passing
fancy for the boy—for the boy as he might be, that was to say—and she was
desperately unwilling to see him and appraise him as he really was.  Thus
the mental court of appeal was constantly engaged in examining witnesses
as to character, most of whom signally failed to give any testimony which
would support the favourable judgment which the tribunal was so anxious
to arrive at.  A woman with wider experience of the world’s ways and
shortcomings would probably have contented herself with an endeavour to
find out whether her liking for the boy outweighed her dislike of his
characteristics; Elaine took her judgments too seriously to approach the
matter from such a simple and convenient standpoint.  The fact that she
was much more than half in love with Comus made it dreadfully important
that she should discover him to have a lovable soul, and Comus, it must
be confessed, did little to help forward the discovery.

“At any rate he is honest,” she would observe to herself, after some
outspoken admission of unprincipled conduct on his part, and then she
would ruefully recall certain episodes in which he had figured, from
which honesty had been conspicuously absent.  What she tried to label
honesty in his candour was probably only a cynical defiance of the laws
of right and wrong.

“You look more than usually thoughtful this afternoon,” said Comus to
her, “as if you had invented this summer day and were trying to think out
improvements.”

“If I had the power to create improvements anywhere I think I should
begin with you,” retorted Elaine.

“I’m sure it’s much better to leave me as I am,” protested Comus; “you’re
like a relative of mine up in Argyllshire, who spends his time producing
improved breeds of sheep and pigs and chickens.  So patronising and
irritating to the Almighty I should think, to go about putting superior
finishing touches to Creation.”

Elaine frowned, and then laughed, and finally gave a little sigh.

“It’s not easy to talk sense to you,” she said.

“Whatever else you take in hand,” said Youghal, “you must never improve
this garden.  It’s what our idea of Heaven might be like if the Jews
hadn’t invented one for us on totally different lines.  It’s dreadful
that we should accept them as the impresarios of our religious dreamland
instead of the Greeks.”

“You are not very fond of the Jews,” said Elaine.

“I’ve travelled and lived a good deal in Eastern Europe,” said Youghal.

“It seems largely a question of geography,” said Elaine; “in England no
one really is anti-Semitic.”

Youghal shook his head.  “I know a great many Jews who are.”

Servants had quietly, almost reverently, placed tea and its accessories
on the wicker table, and quietly receded from the landscape.  Elaine sat
like a grave young goddess about to dispense some mysterious potion to
her devotees.  Her mind was still sitting in judgment on the Jewish
question.

Comus scrambled to his feet.

“It’s too hot for tea,” he said; “I shall go and feed the swans.”

And he walked off with a little silver basket-dish containing brown
bread-and-butter.

Elaine laughed quietly.

“It’s so like Comus,” she said, “to go off with our one dish of
bread-and-butter.”

Youghal chuckled responsively.  It was an undoubted opportunity for him
to put in some disparaging criticism of Comus, and Elaine sat alert in
readiness to judge the critic and reserve judgment on the criticised.

“His selfishness is splendid but absolutely futile,” said Youghal; “now
my selfishness is commonplace, but always thoroughly practical and
calculated.  He will have great difficulty in getting the swans to accept
his offering, and he incurs the odium of reducing us to a
bread-and-butterless condition.  Incidentally he will get very hot.”

Elaine again had the sense of being thoroughly baffled.  If Youghal had
said anything unkind it was about himself.

“If my cousin Suzette had been here,” she observed, with the shadow of a
malicious smile on her lips, “I believe she would have gone into a flood
of tears at the loss of her bread-and-butter, and Comus would have
figured ever after in her mind as something black and destroying and
hateful.  In fact I don’t really know why we took our loss so
unprotestingly.”

“For two reasons,” said Youghal; “you are rather fond of Comus.  And I—am
not very fond of bread-and-butter.”

The jesting remark brought a throb of pleasure to Elaine’s heart.  She
had known full well that she cared for Comus, but now that Courtenay
Youghal had openly proclaimed the fact as something unchallenged and
understood matters seemed placed at once on a more advanced footing.  The
warm sunlit garden grew suddenly into a Heaven that held the secret of
eternal happiness.  Youth and comeliness would always walk here, under
the low-boughed mulberry trees, as unchanging as the leaden otter that
for ever preyed on the leaden salmon on the edge of the old fountain, and
somehow the lovers would always wear the aspect of herself and the boy
who was talking to the four white swans by the water steps.  Youghal was
right; this was the real Heaven of one’s dreams and longings,
immeasurably removed from that Rue de la Paix Paradise about which one
professed utterly insincere hankerings in places of public worship.
Elaine drank her tea in a happy silence; besides being a brilliant talker
Youghal understood the rarer art of being a non-talker on occasion.

Comus came back across the grass swinging the empty basket-dish in his
hand.

“Swans were very pleased,” he cried, gaily, “and said they hoped I would
keep the bread-and-butter dish as a souvenir of a happy tea-party.  I may
really have it, mayn’t I?” he continued in an anxious voice; “it will do
to keep studs and things in.  You don’t want it.”

“It’s got the family crest on it,” said Elaine.  Some of the happiness
had died out of her eyes.

“I’ll have that scratched off and my own put on,” said Comus.

“It’s been in the family for generations,” protested Elaine, who did not
share Comus’s view that because you were rich your lesser possessions
could have no value in your eyes.

“I want it dreadfully,” said Comus, sulkily, “and you’ve heaps of other
things to put bread-and-butter in.”

For the moment he was possessed by an overmastering desire to keep the
dish at all costs; a look of greedy determination dominated his face, and
he had not for an instant relaxed his grip of the coveted object.

Elaine was genuinely angry by this time, and was busily telling herself
that it was absurd to be put out over such a trifle; at the same moment a
sense of justice was telling her that Comus was displaying a good deal of
rather shabby selfishness.  And somehow her chief anxiety at the moment
was to keep Courtenay Youghal from seeing that she was angry.

“I know you don’t really want it, so I’m going to keep it,” persisted
Comus.

“It’s too hot to argue,” said Elaine.

“Happy mistress of your destinies,” laughed Youghal; “you can suit your
disputations to the desired time and temperature.  I have to go and
argue, or what is worse, listen to other people’s arguments, in a hot and
doctored atmosphere suitable to an invalid lizard.”

“You haven’t got to argue about a bread-and-butter dish,” said Elaine.

“Chiefly about bread-and-butter,” said Youghal; “our great preoccupation
is other people’s bread-and-butter.  They earn or produce the material,
but we busy ourselves with making rules how it shall be cut up, and the
size of the slices, and how much butter shall go on how much bread.  That
is what is called legislation.  If we could only make rules as to how the
bread-and-butter should be digested we should be quite happy.”

Elaine had been brought up to regard Parliaments as something to be
treated with cheerful solemnity, like illness or family re-unions.
Youghal’s flippant disparagement of the career in which he was involved
did not, however, jar on her susceptibilities.  She knew him to be not
only a lively and effective debater but an industrious worker on
committees.  If he made light of his labours, at least he afforded no one
else a loophole for doing so.  And certainly, the Parliamentary
atmosphere was not inviting on this hot afternoon.

“When must you go?” she asked, sympathetically.

Youghal looked ruefully at his watch.  Before he could answer, a cheerful
hoot came through the air, as of an owl joyously challenging the sunlight
with a foreboding of the coming night.  He sprang laughing to his feet.

“Listen!  My summons back to my galley,” he cried.  “The Gods have given
me an hour in this enchanted garden, so I must not complain.”

Then in a lower voice he almost whispered, “It’s the Persian debate
to-night.”

It was the one hint he had given in the midst of his talking and laughing
that he was really keenly enthralled in the work that lay before him.  It
was the one little intimate touch that gave Elaine the knowledge that he
cared for her opinion of his work.

Comus, who had emptied his cigarette-case, became suddenly clamorous at
the prospect of being temporarily stranded without a smoke.  Youghal took
the last remaining cigarette from his own case and gravely bisected it.

“Friendship could go no further,” he observed, as he gave one-half to the
doubtfully appeased Comus, and lit the other himself.

“There are heaps more in the hall,” said Elaine.

“It was only done for the Saint Martin of Tours effect,” said Youghal; “I
hate smoking when I’m rushing through the air.  Good-bye.”

The departing galley-slave stepped forth into the sunlight, radiant and
confident.  A few minutes later Elaine could see glimpses of his white
car as it rushed past the rhododendron bushes.  He woos best who leaves
first, particularly if he goes forth to battle or the semblance of
battle.

Somehow Elaine’s garden of Eternal Youth had already become clouded in
its imagery.  The girl-figure who walked in it was still distinctly and
unchangingly herself, but her companion was more blurred and undefined,
as a picture that has been superimposed on another.

Youghal sped townward well satisfied with himself.  To-morrow, he
reflected, Elaine would read his speech in her morning paper, and he knew
in advance that it was not going to be one of his worst efforts.  He knew
almost exactly where the punctuations of laughter and applause would
burst in, he knew that nimble fingers in the Press Gallery would be
taking down each gibe and argument as he flung it at the impassive
Minister confronting him, and that the fair lady of his desire would be
able to judge what manner of young man this was who spent his afternoon
in her garden, lazily chaffing himself and his world.

And he further reflected, with an amused chuckle, that she would be
vividly reminded of Comus for days to come, when she took her afternoon
tea, and saw the bread-and-butter reposing in an unaccustomed dish.




CHAPTER VII


TOWARDS four o’clock on a hot afternoon Francesca stepped out from a shop
entrance near the Piccadilly end of Bond Street and ran almost into the
arms of Merla Blathlington.  The afternoon seemed to get instantly
hotter.  Merla was one of those human flies that buzz; in crowded
streets, at bazaars and in warm weather, she attained to the proportions
of a human bluebottle.  Lady Caroline Benaresq had openly predicted that
a special fly-paper was being reserved for her accommodation in another
world; others, however, held the opinion that she would be miraculously
multiplied in a future state, and that four or more Merla Blathlingtons,
according to deserts, would be in perpetual and unremitting attendance on
each lost soul.

“Here we are,” she cried, with a glad eager buzz, “popping in and out of
shops like rabbits; not that rabbits do pop in and out of shops very
extensively.”

It was evidently one of her bluebottle days.

“Don’t you love Bond Street?” she gabbled on.  “There’s something so
unusual and distinctive about it; no other street anywhere else is quite
like it.  Don’t you know those ikons and images and things scattered up
and down Europe, that are supposed to have been painted or carved, as the
case may be, by St. Luke or Zaccheus, or somebody of that sort; I always
like to think that some notable person of those times designed Bond
Street.  St. Paul, perhaps.  He travelled about a lot.”

“Not in Middlesex, though,” said Francesca.

“One can’t be sure,” persisted Merla; “when one wanders about as much as
he did one gets mixed up and forgets where one _has_ been.  I can never
remember whether I’ve been to the Tyrol twice and St. Moritz once, or the
other way about; I always have to ask my maid.  And there’s something
about the name Bond that suggests St. Paul; didn’t he write a lot about
the bond and the free?”

“I fancy he wrote in Hebrew or Greek,” objected Francesca; “the word
wouldn’t have the least resemblance.”

“So dreadfully non-committal to go about pamphleteering in those bizarre
languages,” complained Merla; “that’s what makes all those people so
elusive.  As soon as you try to pin them down to a definite statement
about anything you’re told that some vitally important word has fifteen
other meanings in the original.  I wonder our Cabinet Ministers and
politicians don’t adopt a sort of dog-Latin or Esperanto jargon to
deliver their speeches in; what a lot of subsequent explaining away would
be saved.  But to go back to Bond Street—not that we’ve left it—”

“I’m afraid I must leave it now,” said Francesca, preparing to turn up
Grafton Street; “Good-bye.”

“Must you be going?  Come and have tea somewhere.  I know of a cosy
little place where one can talk undisturbed.”

Francesca repressed a shudder and pleaded an urgent engagement.

“I know where you’re going,” said Merla, with the resentful buzz of a
bluebottle that finds itself thwarted by the cold unreasoning resistance
of a windowpane.  “You’re going to play bridge at Serena Golackly’s.  She
never asks me to her bridge parties.”

Francesca shuddered openly this time; the prospect of having to play
bridge anywhere in the near neighbourhood of Merla’s voice was not one
that could be contemplated with ordinary calmness.

“Good-bye,” she said again firmly, and passed out of earshot; it was
rather like leaving the machinery section of an exhibition.  Merla’s
diagnosis of her destination had been a correct one; Francesca made her
way slowly through the hot streets in the direction of Serena Golackly’s
house on the far side of Berkeley Square.  To the blessed certainty of
finding a game of bridge, she hopefully added the possibility of hearing
some fragments of news which might prove interesting and enlightening.
And of enlightenment on a particular subject, in which she was acutely
and personally interested, she stood in some need.  Comus of late had
been provokingly reticent as to his movements and doings; partly,
perhaps, because it was his nature to be provoking, partly because the
daily bickerings over money matters were gradually choking other forms of
conversation.  Francesca had seen him once or twice in the Park in the
desirable company of Elaine de Frey, and from time to time she heard of
the young people as having danced together at various houses; on the
other hand, she had seen and heard quite as much evidence to connect the
heiress’s name with that of Courtenay Youghal.  Beyond this meagre and
conflicting and altogether tantalising information, her knowledge of the
present position of affairs did not go.  If either of the young men was
seriously “making the running,” it was probable that she would hear some
sly hint or open comment about it from one of Serena’s gossip-laden
friends, without having to go out of her way to introduce the subject and
unduly disclose her own state of ignorance.  And a game of bridge, played
for moderately high points, gave ample excuse for convenient lapses into
reticence; if questions took an embarrassingly inquisitive turn, one
could always find refuge in a defensive spade.

The afternoon was too warm to make bridge a generally popular diversion,
and Serena’s party was a comparatively small one.  Only one table was
incomplete when Francesca made her appearance on the scene; at it was
seated Serena herself, confronted by Ada Spelvexit, whom everyone was
wont to explain as “one of the Cheshire Spelvexits,” as though any other
variety would have been intolerable.  Ada Spelvexit was one of those
naturally stagnant souls who take infinite pleasure in what are called
“movements.”  “Most of the really great lessons I have learned have been
taught me by the Poor,” was one of her favourite statements.  The one
great lesson that the Poor in general would have liked to have taught
her, that their kitchens and sickrooms were not unreservedly at her
disposal as private lecture halls, she had never been able to assimilate.
She was ready to give them unlimited advice as to how they should keep
the wolf from their doors, but in return she claimed and enforced for
herself the penetrating powers of an east wind or a dust storm.  Her
visits among her wealthier acquaintances were equally extensive and
enterprising, and hardly more welcome; in country-house parties, while
partaking to the fullest extent of the hospitality offered her, she made
a practice of unburdening herself of homilies on the evils of leisure and
luxury, which did not particularly endear her to her fellow guests.
Hostesses regarded her philosophically as a form of social measles which
everyone had to have once.

The third prospective player, Francesca noted without any special
enthusiasm, was Lady Caroline Benaresq.  Lady Caroline was far from being
a remarkably good bridge player, but she always managed to domineer
mercilessly over any table that was favoured with her presence, and
generally managed to win.  A domineering player usually inflicts the
chief damage and demoralisation on his partner; Lady Caroline’s special
achievement was to harass and demoralise partner and opponents alike.

“Weak and weak,” she announced in her gentle voice, as she cut her
hostess for a partner; “I suppose we had better play only five shillings
a hundred.”

Francesca wondered at the old woman’s moderate assessment of the stake,
knowing her fondness for highish play and her usual good luck in card
holding.

“I don’t mind what we play,” said Ada Spelvexit, with an incautious
parade of elegant indifference; as a matter of fact she was inwardly
relieved and rejoicing at the reasonable figure proposed by Lady
Caroline, and she would certainly have demurred if a higher stake had
been suggested.  She was not as a rule a successful player, and money
lost at cards was always a poignant bereavement to her.

“Then as you don’t mind we’ll make it ten shillings a hundred,” said Lady
Caroline, with the pleased chuckle of one who has spread a net in the
sight of a bird and disproved the vanity of the proceeding.

It proved a tiresome ding-dong rubber, with the strength of the cards
slightly on Francesca’s side, and the luck of the table going mostly the
other way.  She was too keen a player not to feel a certain absorption in
the game once it had started, but she was conscious to-day of a
distracting interest that competed with the momentary importance of leads
and discards and declarations.  The little accumulations of talk that
were unpent during the dealing of the hands became as noteworthy to her
alert attention as the play of the hands themselves.

“Yes, quite a small party this afternoon,” said Serena, in reply to a
seemingly casual remark on Francesca’s part; “and two or three
non-players, which is unusual on a Wednesday.  Canon Besomley was here
just before you came; you know, the big preaching man.”

“I’ve been to hear him scold the human race once or twice,” said
Francesca.

“A strong man with a wonderfully strong message,” said Ada Spelvexit, in
an impressive and assertive tone.

“The sort of popular pulpiteer who spanks the vices of his age and
lunches with them afterwards,” said Lady Caroline.

“Hardly a fair summary of the man and his work,” protested Ada.  “I’ve
been to hear him many times when I’ve been depressed or discouraged, and
I simply can’t tell you the impression his words leave—”

“At least you can tell us what you intend to make trumps,” broke in Lady
Caroline, gently.

“Diamonds,” pronounced Ada, after a rather flurried survey of her hand.

“Doubled,” said Lady Caroline, with increased gentleness, and a few
minutes later she was pencilling an addition of twenty-four to her score.

“I stayed with his people down in Herefordshire last May,” said Ada,
returning to the unfinished theme of the Canon; “such an exquisite rural
retreat, and so restful and healing to the nerves.  Real country scenery;
apple blossom everywhere.”

“Surely only on the apple trees,” said Lady Caroline.

Ada Spelvexit gave up the attempt to reproduce the decorative setting of
the Canon’s homelife, and fell back on the small but practical
consolation of scoring the odd trick in her opponent’s declaration of
hearts.

“If you had led your highest club to start with, instead of the nine, we
should have saved the trick,” remarked Lady Caroline to her partner in a
tone of coldly, gentle reproof; “it’s no use, my dear,” she continued, as
Serena flustered out a halting apology, “no earthly use to attempt to
play bridge at one table and try to see and hear what’s going on at two
or three other tables.”

“I can generally manage to attend to more than one thing at a time,” said
Serena, rashly; “I think I must have a sort of double brain.”

“Much better to economise and have one really good one,” observed Lady
Caroline.

“_La belle dame sans merci_ scoring a verbal trick or two as usual,” said
a player at another table in a discreet undertone.

“Did I tell you Sir Edward Roan is coming to my next big evening,” said
Serena, hurriedly, by way, perhaps, of restoring herself a little in her
own esteem.

“Poor dear, good Sir Edward.  What have you made trumps?” asked Lady
Caroline, in one breath.

“Clubs,” said Francesca; “and pray, why these adjectives of
commiseration?”

Francesca was a Ministerialist by family interest and allegiance, and was
inclined to take up the cudgels at the suggested disparagement aimed at
the Foreign Secretary.

“He amuses me so much,” purred Lady Caroline.  Her amusement was usually
of the sort that a sporting cat derives from watching the Swedish
exercises of a well-spent and carefully thought-out mouse.

“Really?  He has been rather a brilliant success at the Foreign Office,
you know,” said Francesca.

“He reminds one so of a circus elephant—infinitely more intelligent than
the people who direct him, but quite content to go on putting his foot
down or taking it up as may be required, quite unconcerned whether he
steps on a meringue or a hornet’s nest in the process of going where he’s
expected to go.”

“How can you say such things?” protested Francesca.

“I can’t,” said Lady Caroline; “Courtenay Youghal said it in the House
last night.  Didn’t you read the debate?  He was really rather in form.
I disagree entirely with his point of view, of course, but some of the
things he says have just enough truth behind them to redeem them from
being merely smart; for instance, his summing up of the Government’s
attitude towards our embarrassing Colonial Empire in the wistful phrase
‘happy is the country that has no geography.’”

“What an absurdly unjust thing to say,” put in Francesca; “I daresay some
of our Party at some time have taken up that attitude, but every one
knows that Sir Edward is a sound Imperialist at heart.”

“Most politicians are something or other at heart, but no one would be
rash enough to insure a politician against heart failure.  Particularly
when he happens to be in office.”

“Anyhow, I don’t see that the Opposition leaders would have acted any
differently in the present case,” said Francesca.

“One should always speak guardedly of the Opposition leaders,” said Lady
Caroline, in her gentlest voice; “one never knows what a turn in the
situation may do for them.”

“You mean they may one day be at the head of affairs?” asked Serena,
briskly.

“I mean they may one day lead the Opposition.  One never knows.”

Lady Caroline had just remembered that her hostess was on the Opposition
side in politics.

Francesca and her partner scored four tricks in clubs; the game stood
irresolutely at twenty-four all.

“If you had followed the excellent lyrical advice given to the Maid of
Athens and returned my heart we should have made two more tricks and gone
game,” said Lady Caroline to her partner.

“Mr. Youghal seems pushing himself to the fore of late,” remarked
Francesca, as Serena took up the cards to deal.  Since the young
politician’s name had been introduced into their conversation the
opportunity for turning the talk more directly on him and his affairs was
too good to be missed.

“I think he’s got a career before him,” said Serena; “the House always
fills when he’s speaking, and that’s a good sign.  And then he’s young
and got rather an attractive personality, which is always something in
the political world.”

“His lack of money will handicap him, unless he can find himself a rich
wife or persuade someone to die and leave him a fat legacy,” said
Francesca; “since M.P.’s have become the recipients of a salary rather
more is expected and demanded of them in the expenditure line than
before.”

“Yes, the House of Commons still remains rather at the opposite pole to
the Kingdom of Heaven as regards entrance qualifications,” observed Lady
Caroline.

“There ought to be no difficulty about Youghal picking up a girl with
money,” said Serena; “with his prospects he would make an excellent
husband for any woman with social ambitions.”

And she half sighed, as though she almost regretted that a previous
matrimonial arrangement precluded her from entering into the competition
on her own account.

Francesca, under an assumption of languid interest, was watching Lady
Caroline narrowly for some hint of suppressed knowledge of Youghal’s
courtship of Miss de Frey.

“Whom are you marrying and giving in marriage?”

The question came from George St. Michael, who had strayed over from a
neighbouring table, attracted by the fragments of small-talk that had
reached his ears.

St. Michael was one of those dapper bird-like illusorily-active men, who
seem to have been in a certain stage of middle-age for as long as human
memory can recall them.  A close-cut peaked beard lent a certain dignity
to his appearance—a loan which the rest of his features and mannerisms
were continually and successfully repudiating.  His profession, if he had
one, was submerged in his hobby, which consisted of being an
advance-agent for small happenings or possible happenings that were or
seemed imminent in the social world around him; he found a perpetual and
unflagging satisfaction in acquiring and retailing any stray items of
gossip or information, particularly of a matrimonial nature, that chanced
to come his way.  Given the bare outline of an officially announced
engagement he would immediately fill it in with all manner of details,
true or, at any rate, probable, drawn from his own imagination or from
some equally exclusive source.  The _Morning Post_ might content itself
with the mere statement of the arrangement which would shortly take
place, but it was St. Michael’s breathless little voice that proclaimed
how the contracting parties had originally met over a salmon-fishing
incident, why the Guards’ Chapel would not be used, why her Aunt Mary had
at first opposed the match, how the question of the children’s religious
upbringing had been compromised, etc., etc., to all whom it might
interest and to many whom it might not.  Beyond his industriously-earned
pre-eminence in this special branch of intelligence, he was chiefly
noteworthy for having a wife reputed to be the tallest and thinnest woman
in the Home Counties.  The two were sometimes seen together in Society,
where they passed under the collective name of St. Michael and All
Angles.

“We are trying to find a rich wife for Courtenay Youghal,” said Serena,
in answer to St. Michael’s question.

“Ah, there I’m afraid you’re a little late,” he observed, glowing with
the importance of pending revelation; “I’m afraid you’re a little late,”
he repeated, watching the effect of his words as a gardener might watch
the development of a bed of carefully tended asparagus.  “I think the
young gentleman has been before you and already found himself a rich mate
in prospect.”

He lowered his voice as he spoke, not with a view to imparting impressive
mystery to his statement, but because there were other table groups
within hearing to whom he hoped presently to have the privilege of
re-disclosing his revelation.

“Do you mean—?” began Serena.

“Miss de Frey,” broke in St. Michael, hurriedly, fearful lest his
revelation should be forestalled, even in guesswork; “quite an ideal
choice, the very wife for a man who means to make his mark in politics.
Twenty-four thousand a year, with prospects of more to come, and a
charming place of her own not too far from town.  Quite the type of girl,
too, who will make a good political hostess, brains without being brainy,
you know.  Just the right thing.  Of course, it would be premature to
make any definite announcement at present—”

“It would hardly be premature for my partner to announce what she means
to make trumps,” interrupted Lady Caroline, in a voice of such sinister
gentleness that St. Michael fled headlong back to his own table.

“Oh, is it me?  I beg your pardon.  I leave it,” said Serena.

“Thank you.  No trumps,” declared Lady Caroline.  The hand was
successful, and the rubber ultimately fell to her with a comfortable
margin of honours.  The same partners cut together again, and this time
the cards went distinctly against Francesca and Ada Spelvexit, and a
heavily piled-up score confronted them at the close of the rubber.
Francesca was conscious that a certain amount of rather erratic play on
her part had at least contributed to the result.  St. Michael’s incursion
into the conversation had proved rather a powerful distraction to her
ordinarily sound bridge-craft.

Ada Spelvexit emptied her purse of several gold pieces and infused a
corresponding degree of superiority into her manner.

“I must be going now,” she announced; “I’m dining early.  I have to give
an address to some charwomen afterwards.”

“Why?” asked Lady Caroline, with a disconcerting directness that was one
of her most formidable characteristics.

“Oh, well, I have some things to say to them that I daresay they will
like to hear,” said Ada, with a thin laugh.

Her statement was received with a silence that betokened profound
unbelief in any such probability.

“I go about a good deal among working-class women,” she added.

“No one has ever said it,” observed Lady Caroline, “but how painfully
true it is that the poor have us always with them.”

Ada Spelvexit hastened her departure; the marred impressiveness of her
retreat came as a culminating discomfiture on the top of her ill-fortune
at the card-table.  Possibly, however, the multiplication of her own
annoyances enabled her to survey charwomen’s troubles with increased
cheerfulness.  None of them, at any rate, had spent an afternoon with
Lady Caroline.

Francesca cut in at another table and with better fortune attending on
her, succeeded in winning back most of her losses.  A sense of
satisfaction was distinctly dominant as she took leave of her hostess.
St. Michael’s gossip, or rather the manner in which it had been received,
had given her a clue to the real state of affairs, which, however slender
and conjectural, at least pointed in the desired direction.  At first she
had been horribly afraid lest she should be listening to a definite
announcement which would have been the death-blow to her hopes, but as
the recitation went on without any of those assured little minor details
which St. Michael so loved to supply, she had come to the conclusion that
it was merely a piece of intelligent guesswork.  And if Lady Caroline had
really believed in the story of Elaine de Frey’s virtual engagement to
Courtenay Youghal she would have taken a malicious pleasure in
encouraging St. Michael in his confidences, and in watching Francesca’s
discomfiture under the recital.  The irritated manner in which she had
cut short the discussion betrayed the fact, that, as far as the old
woman’s information went, it was Comus and not Courtenay Youghal who held
the field.  And in this particular case Lady Caroline’s information was
likely to be nearer the truth than St. Michael’s confident gossip.

Francesca always gave a penny to the first crossing-sweeper or
match-seller she chanced across after a successful sitting at bridge.
This afternoon she had come out of the fray some fifteen shillings to the
bad, but she gave two pennies to a crossing-sweeper at the north-west
corner of Berkeley Square as a sort of thank-offering to the Gods.




CHAPTER VIII


IT was a fresh rain-repentant afternoon, following a morning that had
been sultry and torrentially wet by turns; the sort of afternoon that
impels people to talk graciously of the rain as having done a lot of
good, its chief merit in their eyes probably having been its recognition
of the art of moderation.  Also it was an afternoon that invited bodily
activity after the convalescent languor of the earlier part of the day.
Elaine had instinctively found her way into her riding-habit and sent an
order down to the stables—a blessed oasis that still smelt sweetly of
horse and hay and cleanliness in a world that reeked of petrol, and now
she set her mare at a smart pace through a succession of long-stretching
country lanes.  She was due some time that afternoon at a garden-party,
but she rode with determination in an opposite direction.  In the first
place neither Comus or Courtenay would be at the party, which fact seemed
to remove any valid reason that could be thought of for inviting her
attendance thereat; in the second place about a hundred human beings
would be gathered there, and human gatherings were not her most crying
need at the present moment.  Since her last encounter with her wooers,
under the cedars in her own garden, Elaine realised that she was either
very happy or cruelly unhappy, she could not quite determine which.  She
seemed to have what she most wanted in the world lying at her feet, and
she was dreadfully uncertain in her more reflective moments whether she
really wanted to stretch out her hand and take it.  It was all very like
some situation in an Arabian Nights tale or a story of Pagan Hellas, and
consequently the more puzzling and disconcerting to a girl brought up on
the methodical lines of Victorian Christianity.  Her appeal court was in
permanent session these last few days, but it gave no decisions, at least
none that she would listen to.  And the ride on her fast light-stepping
little mare, alone and unattended, through the fresh-smelling leafy lanes
into unexplored country, seemed just what she wanted at the moment.  The
mare made some small delicate pretence of being roadshy, not the staring
dolt-like kind of nervousness that shows itself in an irritating
hanging-back as each conspicuous wayside object presents itself, but the
nerve-flutter of an imaginative animal that merely results in a quick
whisk of the head and a swifter bound forward.  She might have
paraphrased the mental attitude of the immortalised Peter Bell into

    A basket underneath a tree
    A yellow tiger is to me,
             If it is nothing more.

The more really alarming episodes of the road, the hoot and whir of a
passing motor-car or the loud vibrating hum of a wayside
threshing-machine, were treated with indifference.

On turning a corner out of a narrow coppice-bordered lane into a wider
road that sloped steadily upward in a long stretch of hill Elaine saw,
coming toward her at no great distance, a string of yellow-painted vans,
drawn for the most part by skewbald or speckled horses.  A certain rakish
air about these oncoming road-craft proclaimed them as belonging to a
travelling wild-beast show, decked out in the rich primitive colouring
that one’s taste in childhood would have insisted on before it had been
schooled in the artistic value of dulness.  It was an unlooked-for and
distinctly unwelcome encounter.  The mare had already commenced a sixfold
scrutiny with nostrils, eyes and daintily-pricked ears; one ear made
hurried little backward movements to hear what Elaine was saying about
the eminent niceness and respectability of the approaching caravan, but
even Elaine felt that she would be unable satisfactorily to explain the
elephants and camels that would certainly form part of the procession.
To turn back would seem rather craven, and the mare might take fright at
the manœuvre and try to bolt; a gate standing ajar at the entrance to a
farmyard lane provided a convenient way out of the difficulty.

As Elaine pushed her way through she became aware of a man standing just
inside the lane, who made a movement forward to open the gate for her.

“Thank you.  I’m just getting out of the way of a wild-beast show,” she
explained; “my mare is tolerant of motors and traction-engines, but I
expect camels—hullo,” she broke off, recognising the man as an old
acquaintance, “I heard you had taken rooms in a farmhouse somewhere.
Fancy meeting you in this way.”

In the not very distant days of her little-girlhood, Tom Keriway had been
a man to be looked upon with a certain awe and envy; indeed the glamour
of his roving career would have fired the imagination, and wistful desire
to do likewise, of many young Englishmen.  It seemed to be the grown-up
realisation of the games played in dark rooms in winter fire-lit
evenings, and the dreams dreamed over favourite books of adventure.
Making Vienna his headquarters, almost his home, he had rambled where he
listed through the lands of the Near and Middle East as leisurely and
thoroughly as tamer souls might explore Paris.  He had wandered through
Hungarian horse-fairs, hunted shy crafty beasts on lonely Balkan
hillsides, dropped himself pebble-wise into the stagnant human pool of
some Bulgarian monastery, threaded his way through the strange racial
mosaic of Salonika, listened with amused politeness to the shallow
ultra-modern opinions of a voluble editor or lawyer in some wayside
Russian town, or learned wisdom from a chance tavern companion, one of
the atoms of the busy ant-stream of men and merchandise that moves
untiringly round the shores of the Black Sea.  And far and wide as he
might roam he always managed to turn up at frequent intervals, at ball
and supper and theatre, in the gay Hauptstadt of the Habsburgs, haunting
his favourite cafés and wine-vaults, skimming through his favourite
news-sheets, greeting old acquaintances and friends, from ambassadors
down to cobblers in the social scale.  He seldom talked of his travels,
but it might be said that his travels talked of him; there was an air
about him that a German diplomat once summed up in a phrase: “a man that
wolves have sniffed at.”

And then two things happened, which he had not mapped out in his route; a
severe illness shook half the life and all the energy out of him, and a
heavy money loss brought him almost to the door of destitution.  With
something, perhaps, of the impulse which drives a stricken animal away
from its kind, Tom Keriway left the haunts where he had known so much
happiness, and withdrew into the shelter of a secluded farmhouse lodging;
more than ever he became to Elaine a hearsay personality.  And now the
chance meeting with the caravan had flung her across the threshold of his
retreat.

“What a charming little nook you’ve got hold of,” she exclaimed with
instinctive politeness, and then looked searchingly round, and discovered
that she had spoken the truth; it really was charming.  The farmhouse had
that intensely English look that one seldom sees out of Normandy.  Over
the whole scene of rickyard, garden, outbuildings, horsepond and orchard,
brooded that air which seems rightfully to belong to out-of-the-way
farmyards, an air of wakeful dreaminess which suggests that here, man and
beast and bird have got up so early that the rest of the world has never
caught them up and never will.

Elaine dismounted, and Keriway led the mare round to a little paddock by
the side of a great grey barn.  At the end of the lane they could see the
show go past, a string of lumbering vans and great striding beasts that
seemed to link the vast silences of the desert with the noises and sights
and smells, the naphtha-flares and advertisement hoardings and trampled
orange-peel, of an endless succession of towns.

“You had better let the caravan pass well on its way before you get on
the road again,” said Keriway; “the smell of the beasts may make your
mare nervous and restive going home.”

Then he called to a boy who was busy with a hoe among some defiantly
prosperous weeds, to fetch the lady a glass of milk and a piece of
currant loaf.

“I don’t know when I’ve seen anything so utterly charming and peaceful,”
said Elaine, propping herself on a seat that a pear-tree had obligingly
designed in the fantastic curve of its trunk.

“Charming, certainly,” said Keriway, “but too full of the stress of its
own little life struggle to be peaceful.  Since I have lived here I’ve
learnt, what I’ve always suspected, that a country farmhouse, set away in
a world of its own, is one of the most wonderful studies of interwoven
happenings and tragedies that can be imagined.  It is like the old
chronicles of medieval Europe in the days when there was a sort of
ordered anarchy between feudal lords and overlords, and burg-grafs, and
mitred abbots, and prince-bishops, robber barons and merchant guilds, and
Electors and so forth, all striving and contending and counter-plotting,
and interfering with each other under some vague code of loosely-applied
rules.  Here one sees it reproduced under one’s eyes, like a musty page
of black-letter come to life.  Look at one little section of it, the
poultry-life on the farm.  Villa poultry, dull egg-machines, with records
kept of how many ounces of food they eat, and how many pennyworths of
eggs they lay, give you no idea of the wonder-life of these farm-birds;
their feuds and jealousies, and carefully maintained prerogatives, their
unsparing tyrannies and persecutions, their calculated courage and
bravado or sedulously hidden cowardice, it might all be some human
chapter from the annals of the old Rhineland or medieval Italy.  And
then, outside their own bickering wars and hates, the grim enemies that
come up against them from the woodlands; the hawk that dashes among the
coops like a moss-trooper raiding the border, knowing well that a charge
of shot may tear him to bits at any moment.  And the stoat, a creeping
slip of brown fur a few inches long, intently and unstayably out for
blood.  And the hunger-taught master of craft, the red fox, who has
waited perhaps half the afternoon for his chance while the fowls were
dusting themselves under the hedge, and just as they were turning
supper-ward to the yard one has stopped a moment to give her feathers a
final shake and found death springing upon her.  Do you know,” he
continued, as Elaine fed herself and the mare with morsels of
currant-loaf, “I don’t think any tragedy in literature that I have ever
come across impressed me so much as the first one, that I spelled out
slowly for myself in words of three letters: the bad fox has got the red
hen.  There was something so dramatically complete about it; the badness
of the fox, added to all the traditional guile of his race, seemed to
heighten the horror of the hen’s fate, and there was such a suggestion of
masterful malice about the word ‘got.’  One felt that a countryside in
arms would not get that hen away from the bad fox.  They used to think me
a slow dull reader for not getting on with my lesson, but I used to sit
and picture to myself the red hen, with its wings beating helplessly,
screeching in terrified protest, or perhaps, if he had got it by the
neck, with beak wide agape and silent, and eyes staring, as it left the
farmyard for ever.  I have seen blood-spillings and down-crushings and
abject defeat here and there in my time, but the red hen has remained in
my mind as the type of helpless tragedy.”  He was silent for a moment as
if he were again musing over the three-letter drama that had so dwelt in
his childhood’s imagination.  “Tell me some of the things you have seen
in your time,” was the request that was nearly on Elaine’s lips, but she
hastily checked herself and substituted another.

“Tell me more about the farm, please.”

And he told her of a whole world, or rather of several intermingled
worlds, set apart in this sleepy hollow in the hills, of beast lore and
wood lore and farm craft, at times touching almost the border of
witchcraft—passing lightly here, not with the probing eagerness of those
who know nothing, but with the averted glance of those who fear to see
too much.  He told her of those things that slept and those that prowled
when the dusk fell, of strange hunting cats, of the yard swine and the
stalled cattle, of the farm folk themselves, as curious and remote in
their way, in their ideas and fears and wants and tragedies, as the
brutes and feathered stock that they tended.  It seemed to Elaine as if a
musty store of old-world children’s books had been fetched down from some
cobwebbed lumber-room and brought to life.  Sitting there in the little
paddock, grown thickly with tall weeds and rank grasses, and shadowed by
the weather-beaten old grey barn, listening to this chronicle of
wonderful things, half fanciful, half very real, she could scarcely
believe that a few miles away there was a garden-party in full swing,
with smart frocks and smart conversation, fashionable refreshments and
fashionable music, and a fevered undercurrent of social strivings and
snubbings.  Did Vienna and the Balkan Mountains and the Black Sea seem as
remote and hard to believe in, she wondered, to the man sitting by her
side, who had discovered or invented this wonderful fairyland?  Was it a
true and merciful arrangement of fate and life that the things of the
moment thrust out the after-taste of the things that had been?  Here was
one who had held much that was priceless in the hollow of his hand and
lost it all, and he was happy and absorbed and well-content with the
little wayside corner of the world into which he had crept.  And Elaine,
who held so many desirable things in the hollow of her hand, could not
make up her mind to be even moderately happy.  She did not even know
whether to take this hero of her childhood down from his pedestal, or to
place him on a higher one; on the whole she was inclined to resent rather
than approve the idea that ill-health and misfortune could so completely
subdue and tame an erstwhile bold and roving spirit.

The mare was showing signs of delicately-hinted impatience; the paddock,
with its teasing insects and very indifferent grazing, had not thrust out
the image of her own comfortable well-foddered loose-box.  Elaine
divested her habit of some remaining crumbs of bun-loaf and jumped
lightly on to her saddle.  As she rode slowly down the lane, with Keriway
escorting her as far as its gate, she looked round at what had seemed to
her, a short while ago, just a picturesque old farmstead, a place of
bee-hives and hollyhocks and gabled cart-sheds; now it was in her eyes a
magic city, with an undercurrent of reality beneath its magic.

“You are a person to be envied,” she said to Keriway; “you have created a
fairyland, and you are living in it yourself.”

“Envied?”

He shot the question out with sudden bitterness.  She looked down and saw
the wistful misery that had come into his face.

“Once,” he said to her, “in a German paper I read a short story about a
tame crippled crane that lived in the park of some small town.  I forget
what happened in the story, but there was one line that I shall always
remember: ‘it was lame, that is why it was tame.’”

He had created a fairyland, but assuredly he was not living in it.




CHAPTER IX


IN the warmth of a late June morning the long shaded stretch of raked
earth, gravel-walk and rhododendron bush that is known affectionately as
the Row was alive with the monotonous movement and alert stagnation
appropriate to the time and place.  The seekers after health, the seekers
after notoriety and recognition, and the lovers of good exercise were all
well represented on the galloping ground; the gravel-walk and chairs and
long seats held a population whose varied instincts and motives would
have baffled a social catalogue-maker.  The children, handled or in
perambulators, might be excused from instinct or motive; they were
brought.

Pleasingly conspicuous among a bunch of indifferent riders pacing along
by the rails where the onlookers were thickest was Courtenay Youghal, on
his handsome plum-roan gelding Anne de Joyeuse.  That delicately stepping
animal had taken a prize at Islington and nearly taken the life of a
stable-boy of whom he disapproved, but his strongest claims to
distinction were his good looks and his high opinion of himself.  Youghal
evidently believed in thorough accord between horse and rider.

“Please stop and talk to me,” said a quiet beckoning voice from the other
side of the rails, and Youghal drew rein and greeted Lady Veula Croot.
Lady Veula had married into a family of commercial solidity and
enterprising political nonentity.  She had a devoted husband, some blonde
teachable children, and a look of unutterable weariness in her eyes.  To
see her standing at the top of an expensively horticultured staircase
receiving her husband’s guests was rather like watching an animal
performing on a music-hall stage.

One always tells oneself that the animal likes it, and one always knows
that it doesn’t.

“Lady Veula is an ardent Free Trader, isn’t she?” someone once remarked
to Lady Caroline.

“I wonder,” said Lady Caroline, in her gently questioning voice; “a woman
whose dresses are made in Paris and whose marriage has been made in
Heaven might be equally biassed for and against free imports.”

Lady Veula looked at Youghal and his mount with slow critical
appraisement, and there was a note of blended raillery and wistfulness in
her voice.

“You two dear things, I should love to stroke you both, but I’m not sure
how Joyeuse would take it.  So I’ll stroke you down verbally instead.  I
admired your attack on Sir Edward immensely, though of course I don’t
agree with a word of it.  Your description of him building a hedge round
the German cuckoo and hoping he was isolating it was rather sweet.
Seriously though, I regard him as one of the pillars of the
Administration.”

“So do I,” said Youghal; “the misfortune is that he is merely propping up
a canvas roof.  It’s just his regrettable solidity and integrity that
makes him so expensively dangerous.  The average Briton arrives at the
same judgment about Roan’s handling of foreign affairs as Omar does of
the Supreme Being in his dealings with the world: He’s a good fellow and
’twill all be well.’”

Lady Veula laughed lightly.  “My Party is in power so I may exercise the
privilege of being optimistic.  Who is that who bowed to you?” she
continued, as a dark young man with an inclination to stoutness passed by
them on foot; “I’ve seen him about a good deal lately.  He’s been to one
or two of my dances.”

“Andrei Drakoloff,” said Youghal; “he’s just produced a play that has had
a big success in Moscow and is certain to be extremely popular all over
Russia.  In the first three acts the heroine is supposed to be dying of
consumption; in the last act they find she is really dying of cancer.”

“Are the Russians really such a gloomy people?”

“Gloom-loving but not in the least gloomy.  They merely take their
sadness pleasurably, just as we are accused of taking our pleasures
sadly.  Have you noticed that dreadful Klopstock youth has been pounding
past us at shortening intervals.  He’ll come up and talk if he half
catches your eye.”

“I only just know him.  Isn’t he at an agricultural college or something
of the sort?”

“Yes, studying to be a gentleman farmer, he told me.  I didn’t ask if
both subjects were compulsory.”

“You’re really rather dreadful,” said Lady Veula, trying to look as if
she thought so; “remember, we are all equal in the sight of Heaven.”

For a preacher of wholesome truths her voice rather lacked conviction.

“If I and Ernest Klopstock are really equal in the sight of Heaven,” said
Youghal, with intense complacency, “I should recommend Heaven to consult
an eye specialist.”

There was a heavy spattering of loose earth, and a squelching of
saddle-leather, as the Klopstock youth lumbered up to the rails and
delivered himself of loud, cheerful greetings. Joyeuse laid his ears well
back as the ungainly bay cob and his appropriately matched rider drew up
beside him; his verdict was reflected and endorsed by the cold stare of
Youghal’s eyes.

“I’ve been having a nailing fine time,” recounted the newcomer with
clamorous enthusiasm; “I was over in Paris last month and had lots of
strawberries there, then I had a lot more in London, and now I’ve been
having a late crop of them in Herefordshire, so I’ve had quite a lot this
year.”  And he laughed as one who had deserved well and received well of
Fate.

“The charm of that story,” said Youghal, “is that it can be told in any
drawing-room.”  And with a sweep of his wide-brimmed hat to Lady Veula he
turned the impatient Joyeuse into the moving stream of horse and
horsemen.

“That woman reminds me of some verse I’ve read and liked,” thought
Youghal, as Joyeuse sprang into a light showy canter that gave full
recognition to the existence of observant human beings along the side
walk.  “Ah, I have it.”

And he quoted almost aloud, as one does in the exhilaration of a canter:

    “How much I loved that way you had
    Of smiling most, when very sad,
    A smile which carried tender hints
    Of sun and spring,
    And yet, more than all other thing,
    Of weariness beyond all words.”

And having satisfactorily fitted Lady Veula on to a quotation he
dismissed her from his mind.  With the constancy of her sex she thought
about him, his good looks and his youth and his railing tongue, till late
in the afternoon.

While Youghal was putting Joyeuse through his paces under the elm trees
of the Row a little drama in which he was directly interested was being
played out not many hundred yards away.  Elaine and Comus were indulging
themselves in two pennyworths of Park chair, drawn aside just a little
from the serried rows of sitters who were set out like bedded plants over
an acre or so of turf.  Comus was, for the moment, in a mood of
pugnacious gaiety, disbursing a fund of pointed criticism and unsparing
anecdote concerning those of the promenaders or loungers whom he knew
personally or by sight.  Elaine was rather quieter than usual, and the
grave serenity of the Leonardo da Vinci portrait seemed intensified in
her face this morning.  In his leisurely courtship Comus had relied
almost exclusively on his physical attraction and the fitful drollery of
his wit and high spirits, and these graces had gone far to make him seem
a very desirable and rather lovable thing in Elaine’s eyes.  But he had
left out of account the disfavour which he constantly risked and
sometimes incurred from his frank and undisguised indifference to other
people’s interests and wishes, including, at times, Elaine’s.  And the
more that she felt that she liked him the more she was irritated by his
lack of consideration for her.  Without expecting that her every wish
should become a law to him she would at least have liked it to reach the
formality of a Second Reading.  Another important factor he had also left
out of his reckoning, namely the presence on the scene of another suitor,
who also had youth and wit to recommend him, and who certainly did not
lack physical attractions.  Comus, marching carelessly through unknown
country to effect what seemed already an assured victory, made the
mistake of disregarding the existence of an unbeaten army on his flank.

To-day Elaine felt that, without having actually quarrelled, she and
Comus had drifted a little bit out of sympathy with one another.  The
fault she knew was scarcely hers, in fact from the most good-natured
point of view it could hardly be denied that it was almost entirely his.
The incident of the silver dish had lacked even the attraction of
novelty; it had been one of a series, all bearing a strong connecting
likeness.  There had been small unrepaid loans which Elaine would not
have grudged in themselves, though the application for them brought a
certain qualm of distaste; with the perversity which seemed inseparable
from his doings, Comus had always flung away a portion of his borrowings
in some ostentatious piece of glaring and utterly profitless
extravagance, which outraged all the canons of her upbringing without
bringing him an atom of understandable satisfaction.  Under these
repeated discouragements it was not surprising that some small part of
her affection should have slipped away, but she had come to the Park that
morning with an unconfessed expectation of being gently wooed back to the
mood of gracious forgetfulness that she was only too eager to assume.  It
was almost worth while being angry with Comus for the sake of
experiencing the pleasure of being coaxed into friendliness again with
the charm which he knew so well how to exert.  It was delicious here
under the trees on this perfect June morning, and Elaine had the blessed
assurance that most of the women within range were envying her the
companionship of the handsome merry-hearted youth who sat by her side.
With special complacence she contemplated her cousin Suzette, who was
self-consciously but not very elatedly basking in the attentions of her
fiancé, an earnest-looking young man who was superintendent of a People’s
something-or-other on the south side of the river, and whose clothes
Comus had described as having been made in Southwark rather than in
anger.

Most of the pleasures in life must be paid for, and the chair-ticket
vendor in due time made his appearance in quest of pennies.

Comus paid him from out of a varied assortment of coins and then balanced
the remainder in the palm of his hand.  Elaine felt a sudden
foreknowledge of something disagreeable about to happen and a red spot
deepened in her cheeks.

“Four shillings and fivepence and a half-penny,” said Comus,
reflectively.  “It’s a ridiculous sum to last me for the next three days,
and I owe a card debt of over two pounds.”

“Yes?” commented Elaine dryly and with an apparent lack of interest in
his exchequer statement.  Surely, she was thinking hurriedly to herself,
he could not be foolish enough to broach the matter of another loan.

“The card debt is rather a nuisance,” pursued Comus, with fatalistic
persistency.

“You won seven pounds last week, didn’t you?” asked Elaine; “don’t you
put by any of your winnings to balance losses?”

“The four shillings and the fivepence and the half-penny represent the
rearguard of the seven pounds,” said Comus; “the rest have fallen by the
way.  If I can pay the two pounds to-day I daresay I shall win something
more to go on with; I’m holding rather good cards just now.  But if I
can’t pay it of course I shan’t show up at the club.  So you see the fix
I am in.”

Elaine took no notice of this indirect application.  The Appeal Court was
assembling in haste to consider new evidence, and this time there was the
rapidity of sudden determination about its movement.

The conversation strayed away from the fateful topic for a few moments
and then Comus brought it deliberately back to the danger zone.

“It would be awfully nice if you would let me have a fiver for a few
days, Elaine,” he said quickly; “if you don’t I really don’t know what I
shall do.”

“If you are really bothered about your card debt I will send you the two
pounds by messenger boy early this afternoon.”  She spoke quietly and
with great decision.  “And I shall not be at the Connor’s dance
to-night,” she continued; “it’s too hot for dancing.  I’m going home now;
please don’t bother to accompany me, I particularly wish to go alone.”

Comus saw that he had overstepped the mark of her good nature.  Wisely he
made no immediate attempt to force himself back into her good graces.  He
would wait till her indignation had cooled.

His tactics would have been excellent if he had not forgotten that
unbeaten army on his flank.

Elaine de Frey had known very clearly what qualities she had wanted in
Comus, and she had known, against all efforts at self-deception, that he
fell far short of those qualities.  She had been willing to lower her
standard of moral requirements in proportion as she was fond of the boy,
but there was a point beyond which she would not go.  He had hurt her
pride besides alarming her sense of caution.

Suzette, on whom she felt a thoroughly justified tendency to look down,
had at any rate an attentive and considerate lover.  Elaine walked
towards the Park gates feeling that in one essential Suzette possessed
something that had been denied to her, and at the gates she met Joyeuse
and his spruce young rider preparing to turn homeward.

“Get rid of Joyeuse and come and take me out to lunch somewhere,”
demanded Elaine.

“How jolly,” said Youghal.  “Let’s go to the Corridor Restaurant.  The
head waiter there is an old Viennese friend of mine and looks after me
beautifully.  I’ve never been there with a lady before, and he’s sure to
ask me afterwards, in his fatherly way, if we’re engaged.”

The lunch was a success in every way.  There was just enough orchestral
effort to immerse the conversation without drowning it, and Youghal was
an attentive and inspired host.  Through an open doorway Elaine could see
the café reading-room, with its imposing array of _Neue Freie Presse_,
_Berliner Tageblatt_, and other exotic newspapers hanging on the wall.
She looked across at the young man seated opposite her, who gave one the
impression of having centred the most serious efforts of his brain on his
toilet and his food, and recalled some of the flattering remarks that the
press had bestowed on his recent speeches.

“Doesn’t it make you conceited, Courtenay,” she asked, “to look at all
those foreign newspapers hanging there and know that most of them have
got paragraphs and articles about your Persian speech?”

Youghal laughed.

“There’s always a chastening corrective in the thought that some of them
may have printed your portrait.  When once you’ve seen your features
hurriedly reproduced in the _Matin_, for instance, you feel you would
like to be a veiled Turkish woman for the rest of your life.”

And Youghal gazed long and lovingly at his reflection in the nearest
mirror, as an antidote against possible incitements to humility in the
portrait gallery of fame.

Elaine felt a certain soothed satisfaction in the fact that this young
man, whose knowledge of the Middle East was an embarrassment to Ministers
at question time and in debate, was showing himself equally well-informed
on the subject of her culinary likes and dislikes.  If Suzette could have
been forced to attend as a witness at a neighbouring table she would have
felt even happier.

“Did the head waiter ask if we were engaged?” asked Elaine, when
Courtenay had settled the bill, and she had finished collecting her
sunshade and gloves and other impedimenta from the hands of obsequious
attendants.

“Yes,” said Youghal, “and he seemed quite crestfallen when I had to say
‘no.’”

“It would be horrid to disappoint him when he’s looked after us so
charmingly,” said Elaine; “tell him that we are.”




CHAPTER X


THE Rutland Galleries were crowded, especially in the neighbourhood of
the tea-buffet, by a fashionable throng of art-patrons which had gathered
to inspect Mervyn Quentock’s collection of Society portraits.  Quentock
was a young artist whose abilities were just receiving due recognition
from the critics; that the recognition was not overdue he owed largely to
his perception of the fact that if one hides one’s talent under a bushel
one must be careful to point out to everyone the exact bushel under which
it is hidden.  There are two manners of receiving recognition: one is to
be discovered so long after one’s death that one’s grandchildren have to
write to the papers to establish their relationship; the other is to be
discovered, like the infant Moses, at the very outset of one’s career.
Mervyn Quentock had chosen the latter and happier manner.  In an age when
many aspiring young men strive to advertise their wares by imparting to
them a freakish imbecility, Quentock turned out work that was
characterised by a pleasing delicate restraint, but he contrived to
herald his output with a certain fanfare of personal eccentricity,
thereby compelling an attention which might otherwise have strayed past
his studio.  In appearance he was the ordinary cleanly young Englishman,
except, perhaps, that his eyes rather suggested a library edition of the
Arabian Nights; his clothes matched his appearance and showed no taint of
the sartorial disorder by which the bourgeois of the garden-city and the
Latin Quarter anxiously seeks to proclaim his kinship with art and
thought.  His eccentricity took the form of flying in the face of some of
the prevailing social currents of the day, but as a reactionary, never as
a reformer.  He produced a gasp of admiring astonishment in fashionable
circles by refusing to paint actresses—except, of course, those who had
left the legitimate drama to appear between the boards of Debrett.  He
absolutely declined to execute portraits of Americans unless they hailed
from certain favoured States.  His “water-colour-line,” as a New York
paper phrased it, earned for him a crop of angry criticisms and a shoal
of Transatlantic commissions, and criticism and commissions were the
things that Quentock most wanted.

“Of course he is perfectly right,” said Lady Caroline Benaresq, calmly
rescuing a piled-up plate of caviare sandwiches from the neighbourhood of
a trio of young ladies who had established themselves hopefully within
easy reach of it.  “Art,” she continued, addressing herself to the Rev.
Poltimore Vardon, “has always been geographically exclusive.  London may
be more important from most points of view than Venice, but the art of
portrait painting, which would never concern itself with a Lord Mayor,
simply grovels at the feet of the Doges.  As a Socialist I’m bound to
recognise the right of Ealing to compare itself with Avignon, but one
cannot expect the Muses to put the two on a level.”

“Exclusiveness,” said the Reverend Poltimore, “has been the salvation of
Art, just as the lack of it is proving the downfall of religion.  My
colleagues of the cloth go about zealously proclaiming the fact that
Christianity, in some form or other, is attracting shoals of converts
among all sorts of races and tribes, that one had scarcely ever heard of,
except in reviews of books of travel that one never read.  That sort of
thing was all very well when the world was more sparsely populated, but
nowadays, when it simply teems with human beings, no one is particularly
impressed by the fact that a few million, more or less, of converts, of a
low stage of mental development, have accepted the teachings of some
particular religion.  It not only chills one’s enthusiasm, it positively
shakes one’s convictions when one hears that the things one has been
brought up to believe as true are being very favourably spoken of by
Buriats and Samoyeds and Kanakas.”

The Rev. Poltimore Vardon had once seen a resemblance in himself to
Voltaire, and had lived alongside the comparison ever since.

“No modern cult or fashion,” he continued, “would be favourably
influenced by considerations based on statistics; fancy adopting a
certain style of hat or cut of coat, because it was being largely worn in
Lancashire and the Midlands; fancy favouring a certain brand of champagne
because it was being extensively patronised in German summer resorts.  No
wonder that religion is falling into disuse in this country under such
ill-directed methods.”

“You can’t prevent the heathen being converted if they choose to be,”
said Lady Caroline; “this is an age of toleration.”

“You could always deny it,” said the Rev. Poltimore, “like the Belgians
do with regrettable occurrences in the Congo.  But I would go further
than that.  I would stimulate the waning enthusiasm for Christianity in
this country by labelling it as the exclusive possession of a privileged
few.  If one could induce the Duchess of Pelm, for instance, to assert
that the Kingdom of Heaven, as far as the British Isles are concerned, is
strictly limited to herself, two of the under-gardeners at Pelmby, and,
possibly, but not certainly, the Dean of Dunster, there would be an
instant reshaping of the popular attitude towards religious convictions
and observances.  Once let the idea get about that the Christian Church
is rather more exclusive than the Lawn at Ascot, and you would have a
quickening of religious life such as this generation has never witnessed.
But as long as the clergy and the religious organisations advertise their
creed on the lines of ‘Everybody ought to believe in us: millions do,’
one can expect nothing but indifference and waning faith.”

“Time is just as exclusive in its way as Art,” said Lady Caroline.

“In what way?” said the Reverend Poltimore.

“Your pleasantries about religion would have sounded quite clever and
advanced in the early ’nineties.  To-day they have a dreadfully warmed-up
flavour.  That is the great delusion of you would-be advanced satirists;
you imagine you can sit down comfortably for a couple of decades saying
daring and startling things about the age you live in, which, whatever
other defects it may have, is certainly not standing still.  The whole of
the Sherard Blaw school of discursive drama suggests, to my mind, Early
Victorian furniture in a travelling circus.  However, you will always
have relays of people from the suburbs to listen to the Mocking Bird of
yesterday, and sincerely imagine it is the harbinger of something new and
revolutionising.”

“_Would_ you mind passing that plate of sandwiches,” asked one of the
trio of young ladies, emboldened by famine.

“With pleasure,” said Lady Caroline, deftly passing her a nearly empty
plate of bread-and-butter.

“I meant the plate of caviare sandwiches.  So sorry to trouble you,”
persisted the young lady.

Her sorrow was misapplied; Lady Caroline had turned her attention to a
newcomer.

“A very interesting exhibition,” Ada Spelvexit was saying; “faultless
technique, as far as I am a judge of technique, and quite a master-touch
in the way of poses.  But have you noticed how very animal his art is?
He seems to shut out the soul from his portraits.  I nearly cried when I
saw dear Winifred depicted simply as a good-looking healthy blonde.”

“I wish you had,” said Lady Caroline; “the spectacle of a strong, brave
woman weeping at a private view in the Rutland Galleries would have been
so sensational.  It would certainly have been reproduced in the next
Drury Lane drama.  And I’m so unlucky; I never see these sensational
events.  I was ill with appendicitis, you know, when Lulu Braminguard
dramatically forgave her husband, after seventeen years of estrangement,
during a State luncheon party at Windsor.  The old queen was furious
about it.  She said it was so disrespectful to the cook to be thinking of
such a thing at such a time.”

Lady Caroline’s recollections of things that hadn’t happened at the Court
of Queen Victoria were notoriously vivid; it was the very widespread fear
that she might one day write a book of reminiscences that made her so
universally respected.

“As for his full-length picture of Lady Brickfield,” continued Ada,
ignoring Lady Caroline’s commentary as far as possible, “all the
expression seems to have been deliberately concentrated in the feet;
beautiful feet, no doubt, but still, hardly the most distinctive part of
a human being.”

“To paint the right people at the wrong end may be an eccentricity, but
it is scarcely an indiscretion,” pronounced Lady Caroline.

One of the portraits which attracted more than a passing flutter of
attention was a costume study of Francesca Bassington.  Francesca had
secured some highly desirable patronage for the young artist, and in
return he had enriched her pantheon of personal possessions with a clever
piece of work into which he had thrown an unusual amount of imaginative
detail.  He had painted her in a costume of the great Louis’s brightest
period, seated in front of a tapestry that was so prominent in the
composition that it could scarcely be said to form part of the
background.  Flowers and fruit, in exotic profusion, were its dominant
note; quinces, pomegranates, passion-flowers, giant convolvulus, great
mauve-pink roses, and grapes that were already being pressed by gleeful
cupids in a riotous Arcadian vintage, stood out on its woven texture.
The same note was struck in the beflowered satin of the lady’s kirtle,
and in the pomegranate pattern of the brocade that draped the couch on
which she was seated.  The artist had called his picture “Recolte.”  And
after one had taken in all the details of fruit and flower and foliage
that earned the composition its name, one noted the landscape that showed
through a broad casement in the left-hand corner.  It was a landscape
clutched in the grip of winter, naked, bleak, black-frozen; a winter in
which things died and knew no rewakening.  If the picture typified
harvest, it was a harvest of artificial growth.

“It leaves a great deal to the imagination, doesn’t it?” said Ada
Spelvexit, who had edged away from the range of Lady Caroline’s tongue.

“At any rate one can tell who it’s meant for,” said Serena Golackly.

“Oh, yes, it’s a good likeness of dear Francesca,” admitted Ada; “of
course, it flatters her.”

“That, too, is a fault on the right side in portrait painting,” said
Serena; “after all, if posterity is going to stare at one for centuries
it’s only kind and reasonable to be looking just a little better than
one’s best.”

“What a curiously unequal style the artist has,” continued Ada, almost as
if she felt a personal grievance against him; “I was just noticing what a
lack of soul there was in most of his portraits.  Dear Winifred, you
know, who speaks so beautifully and feelingly at my gatherings for old
women, he’s made her look just an ordinary dairy-maidish blonde; and
Francesca, who is quite the most soulless woman I’ve ever met, well, he’s
given her quite—”

“Hush,” said Serena, “the Bassington boy is just behind you.”

Comus stood looking at the portrait of his mother with the feeling of one
who comes suddenly across a once-familiar half-forgotten acquaintance in
unfamiliar surroundings.  The likeness was undoubtedly a good one, but
the artist had caught an expression in Francesca’s eyes which few people
had ever seen there.  It was the expression of a woman who had forgotten
for one short moment to be absorbed in the small cares and excitements of
her life, the money worries and little social plannings, and had found
time to send a look of half-wistful friendliness to some sympathetic
companion.  Comus could recall that look, fitful and fleeting, in his
mother’s eyes when she had been a few years younger, before her world had
grown to be such a committee-room of ways and means.  Almost as a
re-discovery he remembered that she had once figured in his boyish mind
as a “rather good sort,” more ready to see the laughable side of a piece
of mischief than to labour forth a reproof.  That the bygone feeling of
good fellowship had been stamped out was, he knew, probably in great part
his own doing, and it was possible that the old friendliness was still
there under the surface of things, ready to show itself again if he
willed it, and friends were becoming scarcer with him than enemies in
these days.  Looking at the picture with its wistful hint of a long ago
comradeship, Comus made up his mind that he very much wanted things to be
back on their earlier footing, and to see again on his mother’s face the
look that the artist had caught and perpetuated in its momentary
flitting.  If the projected Elaine-marriage came off, and in spite of
recent maladroit behaviour on his part he still counted it an assured
thing, much of the immediate cause for estrangement between himself and
his mother would be removed, or at any rate, easily removable.  With the
influence of Elaine’s money behind him he promised himself that he would
find some occupation that would remove from himself the reproach of being
a waster and idler.  There were lots of careers, he told himself, that
were open to a man with solid financial backing and good connections.
There might yet be jolly times ahead, in which his mother would have her
share of the good things that were going, and carking thin-lipped Henry
Greech and other of Comus’s detractors could take their sour looks and
words out of sight and hearing.  Thus, staring at the picture as though
he were studying its every detail, and seeing really only that wistful
friendly smile, Comus made his plans and dispositions for a battle that
was already fought and lost.

The crowd grew thicker in the galleries, cheerfully enduring an amount of
overcrowding that would have been fiercely resented in a railway
carriage.  Near the entrance Mervyn Quentock was talking to a Serene
Highness, a lady who led a life of obtrusive usefulness, largely imposed
on her by a good-natured inability to say “No.”  “That woman creates a
positive draught with the number of bazaars she opens,” a
frivolously-spoken ex-Cabinet Minister had once remarked.  At the present
moment she was being whimsically apologetic.

“When I think of the legions of well-meaning young men and women to whom
I’ve given away prizes for proficiency in art-school curriculum, I feel
that I ought not to show my face inside a picture gallery.  I always
imagine that my punishment in another world will be perpetually
sharpening pencils and cleaning palettes for unending relays of misguided
young people whom I deliberately encouraged in their artistic delusions.”

“Do you suppose we shall all get appropriate punishments in another world
for our sins in this?” asked Quentock.

“Not so much for our sins as for our indiscretions; they are the things
which do the most harm and cause the greatest trouble.  I feel certain
that Christopher Columbus will undergo the endless torment of being
discovered by parties of American tourists.  You see I am quite old
fashioned in my ideas about the terrors and inconveniences of the next
world.  And now I must be running away; I’ve got to open a Free Library
somewhere.  You know the sort of thing that happens—one unveils a bust of
Carlyle and makes a speech about Ruskin, and then people come in their
thousands and read ‘Rabid Ralph, or Should he have Bitten Her?’  Don’t
forget, please, I’m going to have the medallion with the fat cupid
sitting on a sundial.  And just one thing more—perhaps I ought not to ask
you, but you have such nice kind eyes, you embolden one to make daring
requests, would you send me the recipe for those lovely
chestnut-and-chicken-liver sandwiches?  I know the ingredients of course,
but it’s the proportions that make such a difference—just how much liver
to how much chestnut, and what amount of red pepper and other things.
Thank you so much.  I really am going now.”

Staring round with a vague half-smile at everybody within nodding
distance, Her Serene Highness made one of her characteristic exits, which
Lady Caroline declared always reminded her of a scrambled egg slipping
off a piece of toast.  At the entrance she stopped for a moment to
exchange a word or two with a young man who had just arrived.  From a
corner where he was momentarily hemmed in by a group of tea-consuming
dowagers, Comus recognised the newcomer as Courtenay Youghal, and began
slowly to labour his way towards him.  Youghal was not at the moment the
person whose society he most craved for in the world, but there was at
least the possibility that he might provide an opportunity for a game of
bridge, which was the dominant desire of the moment.  The young
politician was already surrounded by a group of friends and
acquaintances, and was evidently being made the recipient of a salvo of
congratulation—presumably on his recent performances in the Foreign
Office debate, Comus concluded.  But Youghal himself seemed to be
announcing the event with which the congratulations were connected.  Had
some dramatic catastrophe overtaken the Government, Comus wondered.  And
then, as he pressed nearer, a chance word, the coupling of two names,
told him the news.




CHAPTER XI


AFTER the momentous lunch at the Corridor Restaurant Elaine had returned
to Manchester Square (where she was staying with one of her numerous
aunts) in a frame of mind that embraced a tangle of competing emotions.
In the first place she was conscious of a dominant feeling of relief; in
a moment of impetuosity, not wholly uninfluenced by pique, she had
settled the problem which hours of hard thinking and serious
heart-searching had brought no nearer to solution, and, although she felt
just a little inclined to be scared at the headlong manner of her final
decision, she had now very little doubt in her own mind that the decision
had been the right one.  In fact the wonder seemed rather that she should
have been so long in doubt as to which of her wooers really enjoyed her
honest approval.  She had been in love, these many weeks past with an
imaginary Comus, but now that she had definitely walked out of her
dreamland she saw that nearly all the qualities that had appealed to her
on his behalf had been absent from, or only fitfully present in, the
character of the real Comus.  And now that she had installed Youghal in
the first place of her affections he had rapidly acquired in her eyes
some of the qualities which ranked highest in her estimation.  Like the
proverbial buyer she had the happy feminine tendency of magnifying the
worth of her possession as soon as she had acquired it.  And Courtenay
Youghal gave Elaine some justification for her sense of having chosen
wisely.  Above all other things, selfish and cynical though he might
appear at times, he was unfailingly courteous and considerate towards
her.  That was a circumstance which would always have carried weight with
her in judging any man; in this case its value was enormously heightened
by contrast with the behaviour of her other wooer.  And Youghal had in
her eyes the advantage which the glamour of combat, even the combat of
words and wire-pulling, throws over the fighter.  He stood well in the
forefront of a battle which however carefully stage-managed, however
honeycombed with personal insincerities and overlaid with calculated
mock-heroics, really meant something, really counted for good or wrong in
the nation’s development and the world’s history.  Shrewd parliamentary
observers might have warned her that Youghal would never stand much
higher in the political world than he did at present, as a brilliant
Opposition freelance, leading lively and rather meaningless forays
against the dull and rather purposeless foreign policy of a Government
that was scarcely either to be blamed for or congratulated on its
handling of foreign affairs.  The young politician had not the strength
of character or convictions that keeps a man naturally in the forefront
of affairs and gives his counsels a sterling value, and on the other hand
his insincerity was not deep enough to allow him to pose artificially and
successfully as a leader of men and shaper of movements.  For the moment,
however, his place in public life was sufficiently marked out to give him
a secure footing in that world where people are counted individually and
not in herds.  The woman whom he would make his wife would have the
chance, too, if she had the will and the skill, to become an individual
who counted.

There was balm to Elaine in this reflection, yet it did not wholly
suffice to drive out the feeling of pique which Comus had called into
being by his slighting view of her as a convenient cash supply in moments
of emergency.  She found a certain satisfaction in scrupulously observing
her promise, made earlier on that eventful day, and sent off a messenger
with the stipulated loan.  Then a reaction of compunction set in, and she
reminded herself that in fairness she ought to write and tell her news in
as friendly a fashion as possible to her dismissed suitor before it burst
upon him from some other quarter.  They had parted on more or less
quarrelling terms it was true, but neither of them had foreseen the
finality of the parting nor the permanence of the breach between them;
Comus might even now be thinking himself half-forgiven, and the awakening
would be rather cruel.  The letter, however, did not prove an easy one to
write; not only did it present difficulties of its own but it suffered
from the competing urgency of a desire to be doing something far
pleasanter than writing explanatory and valedictory phrases.  Elaine was
possessed with an unusual but quite overmastering hankering to visit her
cousin Suzette Brankley.  They met but rarely at each other’s houses and
very seldom anywhere else, and Elaine for her part was never conscious of
feeling that their opportunities for intercourse lacked anything in the
way of adequacy.  Suzette accorded her just that touch of patronage which
a moderately well-off and immoderately dull girl will usually try to mete
out to an acquaintance who is known to be wealthy and suspected of
possessing brains.  In return Elaine armed herself with that particular
brand of mock humility which can be so terribly disconcerting if properly
wielded.  No quarrel of any description stood between them and one could
not legitimately have described them as enemies, but they never disarmed
in one another’s presence.  A misfortune of any magnitude falling on one
of them would have been sincerely regretted by the other, but any minor
discomfiture would have produced a feeling very much akin to
satisfaction.  Human nature knows millions of these inconsequent little
feuds, springing up and flourishing apart from any basis of racial,
political, religious or economic causes, as a hint perhaps to crass
unseeing altruists that enmity has its place and purpose in the world as
well as benevolence.

Elaine had not personally congratulated Suzette since the formal
announcement of her engagement to the young man with the dissentient
tailoring effects.  The impulse to go and do so now, overmastered her
sense of what was due to Comus in the way of explanation.  The letter was
still in its blank unwritten stage, an unmarshalled sequence of sentences
forming in her brain, when she ordered her car and made a hurried but
well-thought-out change into her most sumptuously sober afternoon
toilette.  Suzette, she felt tolerably sure, would still be in the
costume that she had worn in the Park that morning, a costume that aimed
at elaboration of detail, and was damned with overmuch success.

Suzette’s mother welcomed her unexpected visitor with obvious
satisfaction.  Her daughter’s engagement, she explained, was not so
brilliant from the social point of view as a girl of Suzette’s
attractions and advantages might have legitimately aspired to, but Egbert
was a thoroughly commendable and dependable young man, who would very
probably win his way before long to membership of the County Council.

“From there, of course, the road would be open to him to higher things.”

“Yes,” said Elaine, “he might become an alderman.”

“Have you seen their photographs, taken together?” asked Mrs. Brankley,
abandoning the subject of Egbert’s prospective career.

“No, do show me,” said Elaine, with a flattering show of interest; “I’ve
never seen that sort of thing before.  It used to be the fashion once for
engaged couples to be photographed together, didn’t it?”

“It’s _very_ much the fashion now,” said Mrs. Brankley assertively, but
some of the complacency had filtered out of her voice.  Suzette came into
the room, wearing the dress that she had worn in the Park that morning.

“Of course, you’ve been hearing all about _the_ engagement from mother,”
she cried, and then set to work conscientiously to cover the same ground.

“We met at Grindelwald, you know.  He always calls me his Ice Maiden
because we first got to know each other on the skating rink.  Quite
romantic, wasn’t it?  Then we asked him to tea one day, and we got to be
quite friendly.  Then he proposed.”

“He wasn’t the only one who was smitten with Suzette,” Mrs. Brankley
hastened to put in, fearful lest Elaine might suppose that Egbert had had
things all his own way.  “There was an American millionaire who was quite
taken with her, and a Polish count of a very old family.  I assure you I
felt quite nervous at some of our tea-parties.”

Mrs. Brankley had given Grindelwald a sinister but rather alluring
reputation among a large circle of untravelled friends as a place where
the insolence of birth and wealth was held in precarious check from
breaking forth into scenes of savage violence.

“My marriage with Egbert will, of course, enlarge the sphere of my life
enormously,” pursued Suzette.

“Yes,” said Elaine; her eyes were rather remorselessly taking in the
details of her cousin’s toilette.  It is said that nothing is sadder than
victory except defeat.  Suzette began to feel that the tragedy of both
was concentrated in the creation which had given her such unalloyed
gratification, till Elaine had come on the scene.

“A woman can be so immensely helpful in the social way to a man who is
making a career for himself.  And I’m so glad to find that we’ve a great
many ideas in common.  We each made out a list of our idea of the hundred
best books, and quite a number of them were the same.”

“He looks bookish,” said Elaine, with a critical glance at the
photograph.

“Oh, he’s not at all a bookworm,” said Suzette quickly, “though he’s
tremendously well-read.  He’s quite the man of action.”

“Does he hunt?” asked Elaine.

“No, he doesn’t get much time or opportunity for riding.”

“What a pity,” commented Elaine; “I don’t think I could marry a man who
wasn’t fond of riding.”

“Of course that’s a matter of taste,” said Suzette, stiffly; “horsey men
are not usually gifted with overmuch brains, are they?”

“There is as much difference between a horseman and a horsey man as there
is between a well-dressed man and a dressy one,” said Elaine, judicially;
“and you may have noticed how seldom a dressy woman really knows how to
dress.  As an old lady of my acquaintance observed the other day, some
people are born with a sense of how to clothe themselves, others acquire
it, others look as if their clothes had been thrust upon them.”

She gave Lady Caroline her due quotation marks, but the sudden
tactfulness with which she looked away from her cousin’s frock was
entirely her own idea.

A young man entering the room at this moment caused a diversion that was
rather welcome to Suzette.

“Here comes Egbert,” she announced, with an air of subdued triumph; it
was at least a satisfaction to be able to produce the captive of her
charms, alive and in good condition, on the scene.  Elaine might be as
critical as she pleased, but a live lover outweighed any number of
well-dressed straight-riding cavaliers who existed only as a distant
vision of the delectable husband.

Egbert was one of those men who have no small talk, but possess an
inexhaustible supply of the larger variety.  In whatever society he
happened to be, and particularly in the immediate neighbourhood of an
afternoon-tea table, with a limited audience of womenfolk, he gave the
impression of someone who was addressing a public meeting, and would be
happy to answer questions afterwards.  A suggestion of gas-lit
mission-halls, wet umbrellas, and discreet applause seemed to accompany
him everywhere.  He was an exponent, among other things, of what he
called New Thought, which seemed to lend itself conveniently to the
employment of a good deal of rather stale phraseology.  Probably in the
course of some thirty odd years of existence he had never been of any
notable use to man, woman, child or animal, but it was his
firmly-announced intention to leave the world a better, happier, purer
place than he had found it; against the danger of any relapse to earlier
conditions after his disappearance from the scene, he was, of course,
powerless to guard.  ’Tis not in mortals to insure succession, and Egbert
was admittedly mortal.

Elaine found him immensely entertaining, and would certainly have exerted
herself to draw him out if such a proceeding had been at all necessary.
She listened to his conversation with the complacent appreciation that
one bestows on a stage tragedy, from whose calamities one can escape at
any moment by the simple process of leaving one’s seat.  When at last he
checked the flow of his opinions by a hurried reference to his watch, and
declared that he must be moving on elsewhere, Elaine almost expected a
vote of thanks to be accorded him, or to be asked to signify herself in
favour of some resolution by holding up her hand.

When the young man had bidden the company a rapid business-like farewell,
tempered in Suzette’s case by the exact degree of tender intimacy that it
would have been considered improper to omit or overstep, Elaine turned to
her expectant cousin with an air of cordial congratulation.

“He is exactly the husband I should have chosen for you, Suzette.”

For the second time that afternoon Suzette felt a sense of waning
enthusiasm for one of her possessions.

Mrs. Brankley detected the note of ironical congratulation in her
visitor’s verdict.

“I suppose she means he’s not her idea of a husband, but, he’s good
enough for Suzette,” she observed to herself, with a snort that expressed
itself somewhere in the nostrils of the brain.  Then with a smiling air
of heavy patronage she delivered herself of her one idea of a damaging
counter-stroke.

“And when are we to hear of your engagement, my dear?”

“Now,” said Elaine quietly, but with electrical effect; “I came to
announce it to you but I wanted to hear all about Suzette first.  It will
be formally announced in the papers in a day or two.”

“But who is it?  Is it the young man who was with you in the Park this
morning?” asked Suzette.

“Let me see, who was I with in the Park this morning?  A very
good-looking dark boy?  Oh no, not Comus Bassington.  Someone you know by
name, anyway, and I expect you’ve seen his portrait in the papers.”

“A flying-man?” asked Mrs. Brankley.

“Courtenay Youghal,” said Elaine.

Mrs. Brankley and Suzette had often rehearsed in the privacy of their
minds the occasion when Elaine should come to pay her personal
congratulations to her engaged cousin.  It had never been in the least
like this.

On her return from her enjoyable afternoon visit Elaine found an express
messenger letter waiting for her.  It was from Comus, thanking her for
her loan—and returning it.

“I suppose I ought never to have asked you for it,” he wrote, “but you
are always so deliciously solemn about money matters that I couldn’t
resist.  Just heard the news of your engagement to Courtenay.  Congrats.
to you both.  I’m far too stoney broke to buy you a wedding present so
I’m going to give you back the bread-and-butter dish.  Luckily it still
has your crest on it.  I shall love to think of you and Courtenay eating
bread-and-butter out of it for the rest of your lives.”

That was all he had to say on the matter about which Elaine had been
preparing to write a long and kindly-expressed letter, closing a rather
momentous chapter in her life and his.  There was not a trace of regret
or upbraiding in his note; he had walked out of their mutual fairyland as
abruptly as she had, and to all appearances far more unconcernedly.
Reading the letter again and again Elaine could come to no decision as to
whether this was merely a courageous gibe at defeat, or whether it
represented the real value that Comus set on the thing that he had lost.

And she would never know.  If Comus possessed one useless gift to
perfection it was the gift of laughing at Fate even when it had struck
him hardest.  One day, perhaps, the laughter and mockery would be silent
on his lips, and Fate would have the advantage of laughing last.




CHAPTER XII


A DOOR closed and Francesca Bassington sat alone in her well-beloved
drawing-room.  The visitor who had been enjoying the hospitality of her
afternoon-tea table had just taken his departure.  The tête-à-tête had
not been a pleasant one, at any rate as far as Francesca was concerned,
but at least it had brought her the information for which she had been
seeking.  Her rôle of looker-on from a tactful distance had necessarily
left her much in the dark concerning the progress of the all-important
wooing, but during the last few hours she had, on slender though
significant evidence, exchanged her complacent expectancy for a
conviction that something had gone wrong.  She had spent the previous
evening at her brother’s house, and had naturally seen nothing of Comus
in that uncongenial quarter; neither had he put in an appearance at the
breakfast table the following morning.  She had met him in the hall at
eleven o’clock, and he had hurried past her, merely imparting the
information that he would not be in till dinner that evening.  He spoke
in his sulkiest tone, and his face wore a look of defeat, thinly masked
by an air of defiance; it was not the defiance of a man who is losing,
but of one who has already lost.

Francesca’s conviction that things had gone wrong between Comus and
Elaine de Frey grew in strength as the day wore on.  She lunched at a
friend’s house, but it was not a quarter where special social information
of any importance was likely to come early to hand.  Instead of the news
she was hankering for, she had to listen to trivial gossip and
speculation on the flirtations and “cases” and “affairs” of a string of
acquaintances whose matrimonial projects interested her about as much as
the nesting arrangements of the wildfowl in St. James’s Park.

“Of course,” said her hostess, with the duly impressive emphasis of a
privileged chronicler, “we’ve always regarded Claire as the marrying one
of the family, so when Emily came to us and said, ‘I’ve got some news for
you,’ we all said, ‘Claire’s engaged!’  ‘Oh, no,’ said Emily, ‘it’s not
Claire this time, it’s me.’  So then we had to guess who the lucky man
was.  ‘It can’t be Captain Parminter,’ we all said, ‘because he’s always
been sweet on Joan.’  And then Emily said—”

The recording voice reeled off the catalogue of inane remarks with a
comfortable purring complacency that held out no hope of an early
abandoning of the topic.  Francesca sat and wondered why the innocent
acceptance of a cutlet and a glass of indifferent claret should lay one
open to such unsparing punishment.

A stroll homeward through the Park after lunch brought no further
enlightenment on the subject that was uppermost in her mind; what was
worse, it brought her, without possibility of escape, within hailing
distance of Merla Blathington, who fastened on to her with the enthusiasm
of a lonely tsetse fly encountering an outpost of civilisation.

“Just think,” she buzzed inconsequently, “my sister in Cambridgeshire has
hatched out thirty-three White Orpington chickens in her incubator!”

“What eggs did she put in it?” asked Francesca.

“Oh, some very special strain of White Orpington.”

“Then I don’t see anything remarkable in the result.  If she had put in
crocodile’s eggs and hatched out White Orpingtons, there might have been
something to write to _Country Life_ about.”

“What funny fascinating things these little green park-chairs are,” said
Merla, starting off on a fresh topic; “they always look so quaint and
knowing when they’re stuck away in pairs by themselves under the trees,
as if they were having a heart-to-heart talk or discussing a piece of
very private scandal.  If they could only speak, what tragedies and
comedies they could tell us of, what flirtations and proposals.”

“Let us be devoutly thankful that they can’t,” said Francesca, with a
shuddering recollection of the luncheon-table conversation.

“Of course, it would make one very careful what one said before them—or
above them rather,” Merla rattled on, and then, to Francesca’s infinite
relief, she espied another acquaintance sitting in unprotected solitude,
who promised to supply a more durable audience than her present rapidly
moving companion.  Francesca was free to return to her drawing-room in
Blue Street to await with such patience as she could command the coming
of some visitor who might be able to throw light on the subject that was
puzzling and disquieting her.  The arrival of George St. Michael boded
bad news, but at any rate news, and she gave him an almost cordial
welcome.

“Well, you see I wasn’t far wrong about Miss de Frey and Courtenay
Youghal, was I?” he chirruped, almost before he had seated himself.
Francesca was to be spared any further spinning-out of her period of
uncertainty.  “Yes, it’s officially given out,” he went on, “and it’s to
appear in the _Morning Post_ to-morrow.  I heard it from Colonel Deel
this morning, and he had it direct from Youghal himself.  Yes, please,
one lump; I’m not fashionable, you see.”  He had made the same remark
about the sugar in his tea with unfailing regularity for at least thirty
years.  Fashions in sugar are apparently stationary.  “They say,” he
continued, hurriedly, “that he proposed to her on the Terrace of the
House, and a division bell rang, and he had to hurry off before she had
time to give her answer, and when he got back she simply said, ‘the Ayes
have it.’”  St. Michael paused in his narrative to give an appreciative
giggle.

“Just the sort of inanity that would go the rounds,” remarked Francesca,
with the satisfaction of knowing that she was making the criticism direct
to the author and begetter of the inanity in question.  Now that the blow
had fallen and she knew the full extent of its weight, her feeling
towards the bringer of bad news, who sat complacently nibbling at her
tea-cakes and scattering crumbs of tiresome small-talk at her feet, was
one of wholehearted dislike.  She could sympathise with, or at any rate
understand, the tendency of oriental despots to inflict death or
ignominious chastisement on messengers bearing tidings of misfortune and
defeat, and St. Michael, she perfectly well knew, was thoroughly aware of
the fact that her hopes and wishes had been centred on the possibility of
having Elaine for a daughter-in-law; every purring remark that his mean
little soul prompted him to contribute to the conversation had an easily
recognizable undercurrent of malice.  Fortunately for her powers of
polite endurance, which had been put to such searching and repeated tests
that day, St. Michael had planned out for himself a busy little
time-table of afternoon visits, at each of which his self-appointed task
of forestalling and embellishing the newspaper announcements of the
Youghal-de Frey engagement would be hurriedly but thoroughly performed.

“They’ll be quite one of the best-looking and most interesting couples of
the Season, won’t they?” he cried, by way of farewell.  The door closed
and Francesca Bassington sat alone in her drawing-room.

Before she could give way to the bitter luxury of reflection on the
downfall of her hopes, it was prudent to take precautionary measures
against unwelcome intrusion.  Summoning the maid who had just speeded the
departing St. Michael, she gave the order: “I am not at home this
afternoon to Lady Caroline Benaresq.”  On second thoughts she extended
the taboo to all possible callers, and sent a telephone message to catch
Comus at his club, asking him to come and see her as soon as he could
manage before it was time to dress for dinner.  Then she sat down to
think, and her thinking was beyond the relief of tears.

She had built herself a castle of hopes, and it had not been a castle in
Spain, but a structure well on the probable side of the Pyrenees.  There
had been a solid foundation on which to build.  Miss de Frey’s fortune
was an assured and unhampered one, her liking for Comus had been an
obvious fact; his courtship of her a serious reality.  The young people
had been much together in public, and their names had naturally been
coupled in the match-making gossip of the day.  The only serious shadow
cast over the scene had been the persistent presence, in foreground or
background, of Courtenay Youghal.  And now the shadow suddenly stood
forth as the reality, and the castle of hopes was a ruin, a hideous
mortification of dust and débris, with the skeleton outlines of its
chambers still standing to make mockery of its discomfited architect.
The daily anxiety about Comus and his extravagant ways and intractable
disposition had been gradually lulled by the prospect of his making an
advantageous marriage, which would have transformed him from a
ne’er-do-well and adventurer into a wealthy idler.  He might even have
been moulded, by the resourceful influence of an ambitious wife, into a
man with some definite purpose in life.  The prospect had vanished with
cruel suddenness, and the anxieties were crowding back again, more
insistent than ever.  The boy had had his one good chance in the
matrimonial market and missed it; if he were to transfer his attentions
to some other well-dowered girl he would be marked down at once as a
fortune-hunter, and that would constitute a heavy handicap to the most
plausible of wooers.  His liking for Elaine had evidently been genuine in
its way, though perhaps it would have been rash to read any deeper
sentiment into it, but even with the spur of his own inclination to
assist him he had failed to win the prize that had seemed so temptingly
within his reach.  And in the dashing of his prospects, Francesca saw the
threatening of her own.  The old anxiety as to her precarious tenure of
her present quarters put on again all its familiar terrors.  One day, she
foresaw, in the horribly near future, George St. Michael would come
pattering up her stairs with the breathless intelligence that Emmeline
Chetrof was going to marry somebody or other in the Guards or the Record
Office as the case might be, and then there would be an uprooting of her
life from its home and haven in Blue Street and a wandering forth to some
cheap unhappy far-off dwelling, where the stately Van der Meulen and its
companion host of beautiful and desirable things would be stuffed and
stowed away in soulless surroundings, like courtly émigrés fallen on evil
days.  It was unthinkable, but the trouble was that it had to be thought
about.  And if Comus had played his cards well and transformed himself
from an encumbrance into a son with wealth at his command, the tragedy
which she saw looming in front of her might have been avoided or at the
worst whittled down to easily bearable proportions.  With money behind
one, the problem of where to live approaches more nearly to the simple
question of where do you wish to live, and a rich daughter-in-law would
have surely seen to it that she did not have to leave her square mile of
Mecca and go out into the wilderness of bricks and mortar.  If the house
in Blue Street could not have been compounded for there were other
desirable residences which would have been capable of consoling Francesca
for her lost Eden.  And now the detested Courtenay Youghal, with his
mocking eyes and air of youthful cynicism, had stepped in and overthrown
those golden hopes and plans whose non-fulfilment would make such a world
of change in her future.  Assuredly she had reason to feel bitter against
that young man, and she was not disposed to take a very lenient view of
Comus’s own mismanagement of the affair; her greeting when he at last
arrived, was not couched in a sympathetic strain.

“So you have lost your chance with the heiress,” she remarked abruptly.

“Yes,” said Comus, coolly; “Courtenay Youghal has added her to his other
successes.”

“And you have added her to your other failures,” pursued Francesca,
relentlessly; her temper had been tried that day beyond ordinary limits.

“I thought you seemed getting along so well with her,” she continued, as
Comus remained uncommunicative.

“We hit it off rather well together,” said Comus, and added with
deliberate bluntness, “I suppose she got rather sick at my borrowing
money from her.  She thought it was all I was after.”

“You borrowed money from her!” said Francesca; “you were fool enough to
borrow money from a girl who was favourably disposed towards you, and
with Courtenay Youghal in the background waiting to step in and oust
you!”

Francesca’s voice trembled with misery and rage.  This great stroke of
good luck that had seemed about to fall into their laps had been thrust
aside by an act or series of acts of wanton paltry folly.  The good ship
had been lost for the sake of the traditional ha’porth of tar.  Comus had
paid some pressing tailor’s or tobacconist’s bill with a loan unwillingly
put at his disposal by the girl he was courting, and had flung away his
chances of securing a wealthy and in every way desirable bride.  Elaine
de Frey and her fortune might have been the making of Comus, but he had
hurried in as usual to effect his own undoing.  Calmness did not in this
case come with reflection; the more Francesca thought about the matter,
the more exasperated she grew.  Comus threw himself down in a low chair
and watched her without a trace of embarrassment or concern at her
mortification.  He had come to her feeling rather sorry for himself, and
bitterly conscious of his defeat, and she had met him with a taunt and
without the least hint of sympathy; he determined that she should be
tantalised with the knowledge of how small and stupid a thing had stood
between the realisation and ruin of her hopes for him.

“And to think she should be captured by Courtenay Youghal,” said
Francesca, bitterly; “I’ve always deplored your intimacy with that young
man.”

“It’s hardly my intimacy with him that’s made Elaine accept him,” said
Comus.

Francesca realised the futility of further upbraiding.  Through the tears
of vexation that stood in her eyes, she looked across at the handsome boy
who sat opposite her, mocking at his own misfortune, perversely
indifferent to his folly, seemingly almost indifferent to its
consequences.

“Comus,” she said quietly and wearily, “you are an exact reversal of the
legend of Pandora’s Box.  You have all the charm and advantages that a
boy could want to help him on in the world, and behind it all there is
the fatal damning gift of utter hopelessness.”

“I think,” said Comus, “that is the best description that anyone has ever
given of me.”

For the moment there was a flush of sympathy and something like outspoken
affection between mother and son.  They seemed very much alone in the
world just now, and in the general overturn of hopes and plans, there
flickered a chance that each might stretch out a hand to the other, and
summon back to their lives an old dead love that was the best and
strongest feeling either of them had known.  But the sting of
disappointment was too keen, and the flood of resentment mounted too high
on either side to allow the chance more than a moment in which to flicker
away into nothingness.  The old fatal topic of estrangement came to the
fore, the question of immediate ways and means, and mother and son faced
themselves again as antagonists on a well-disputed field.

“What is done is done,” said Francesca, with a movement of tragic
impatience that belied the philosophy of her words; “there is nothing to
be gained by crying over spilt milk.  There is the present and the future
to be thought about, though.  One can’t go on indefinitely as a
tenant-for-life in a fools’ paradise.”  Then she pulled herself together
and proceeded to deliver an ultimatum which the force of circumstances no
longer permitted her to hold in reserve.

“It’s not much use talking to you about money, as I know from long
experience, but I can only tell you this, that in the middle of the
Season I’m already obliged to be thinking of leaving Town.  And you, I’m
afraid, will have to be thinking of leaving England at equally short
notice.  Henry told me the other day that he can get you something out in
West Africa.  You’ve had your chance of doing something better for
yourself from the financial point of view, and you’ve thrown it away for
the sake of borrowing a little ready money for your luxuries, so now you
must take what you can get.  The pay won’t be very good at first, but
living is not dear out there.”

“West Africa,” said Comus, reflectively; “it’s a sort of modern
substitute for the old-fashioned _oubliette_, a convenient depository for
tiresome people.  Dear Uncle Henry may talk lugubriously about the burden
of Empire, but he evidently recognises its uses as a refuse consumer.”

“My dear Comus, you are talking of the West Africa of yesterday.  While
you have been wasting your time at school, and worse than wasting your
time in the West End, other people have been grappling with the study of
tropical diseases, and the West African coast country is being rapidly
transformed from a lethal chamber into a sanatorium.”

Comus laughed mockingly.

“What a beautiful bit of persuasive prose; it reminds one of the Psalms
and even more of a company prospectus.  If you were honest you’d confess
that you lifted it straight out of a rubber or railway promotion scheme.
Seriously, mother, if I must grub about for a living, why can’t I do it
in England?  I could go into a brewery for instance.”

Francesca shook her head decisively; she could foresee the sort of steady
work Comus was likely to accomplish, with the lodestone of Town and the
minor attractions of race-meetings and similar festivities always
beckoning to him from a conveniently attainable distance, but apart from
that aspect of the case there was a financial obstacle in the way of his
obtaining any employment at home.

“Breweries and all those sort of things necessitate money to start with;
one has to pay premiums or invest capital in the undertaking, and so
forth.  And as we have no money available, and can scarcely pay our debts
as it is, it’s no use thinking about

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