CHAPTER VI

Mr. and Mrs. Waxford's present was to be a grand piano--or possibly a semi-grand, since the drawing-room was not extensive--and with a son being educated for the musical profession, it was natural that they shouldn't select it till he returned; they wished for the advantage of his judgment.

He was travelling. He was on the Continent with Pincocca, the master under whom he studied. On hearing of his sister's engagement, he had at once despatched affectionate letters, and now he was expected home in two or three days to make Mr. Kent's acquaintance, and tender his felicitations in person.

The better Kent learnt to know the Walfords, the more clearly he perceived how inordinately proud they were of their son. Cæsar's arrival, and Cæsar's approaching debut were topics discussed with a frequency he found tedious. Even Cynthia was so much excited by the prospect of reunion that a tête-à-tête with her lost a little of its fascination. He occasionally feared that if his prospective brother-in-law did not arrive without delay, he would have been bored into a cordial dislike for him by the time they met. He foresaw himself telling him so, at a distant date, and their joking over the matter together. Miss Wix alone appeared untainted by the prevailing enthusiasm, and the first ray of friendliness for the spinster of which he had been conscious was due to a glance of comprehension from her eyes one afternoon when Cæsar had been discussed energetically for upwards of half an hour. It struck him that there was even a gleam of ironical humour in her gaze.

"Enthralling, isn't it?" she seemed to say. "What do you think of 'em?"

He said to Cynthia later:

"They do talk about your brother and his voice an awful lot, dearest, don't they?"

She looked somewhat startled.

"Well, I suppose we do," she answered slowly, "now you point it out. But I didn't know. You see, ever since his voice was discovered, Cæsar's been brought up for the profession. When you've heard it, you'll understand."

"Is it really so wonderful?" he asked respectfully.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll say so. Signor Pincocca told mamma it would be a _crime_ if she didn't let him study seriously for the career. And Cæsar has been under him years since then. Pincocca says when he 'comes out' people 'll rave about him. If he had had just a 'fine voice,' he would have gone on the Stock Exchange, you know, with papa; but--but there could be no question about it with a gift like that."

Kent acknowledged that it was natural they should be profoundly interested by the young fellow's promise. Privately he wished that a literary man could also leap into fame and fortune with his debut.

The next afternoon when he reached The Hawthorns he heard that Cæsar had already come--indeed, he had divined as much by Mrs. Walford's jubilant air. At the moment the gentleman was not in the room; Cynthia ran to fetch him. Humphrey awaited his entrance with considerable curiosity, and the mother kept looking impatiently towards the door.

"I don't know what's keeping him," she said in her most staccato tones. "He went to fetch my book. Oh, he'll be here in a minute--or shall we go and look for him? Perhaps he's in the garden, and Cynthia can't find him. What do you say?"

"Just as you please," said Kent.

But as he spoke the girl returned, to announce that her brother was following her, and the next moment there was an atmosphere of brillantine and tuberoses, and Humphrey found his finger-tips being gently pressed in a large, moist palm.

"I am charmed," said Cæsar Walford with a lingering smile. "Charmed."

Kent saw a fat young man of six or seven and twenty, with an enormous chest development, and a waist that suggested that he wore stays and was already wrestling with his figure. His hair, which had been grown long, was arranged on his forehead in a negligent curl, and his shirt-collar, low in the neck, surmounted a flowing bow.

"I'm very pleased to meet you," said the author with disgust.

"I am charmed!" repeated Cæsar tenderly. "It's quite a delight. And it's you who are going to take Cynthia away from us, eh?" He glanced from one to the other, and shook a playful forefinger. "You bad man!... O wicked puss!"

Mrs. Walford viewed these ponderous antics beamingly.

"There's grace!" her expression cried. "There's dramatic gesture for you!"

Again Humphrey's gaze sought the sour spinster's, and--yes, her own was eloquent.

He sipped his tea abstractedly. So this was the gifted being of whom he had heard so much--this dreadful creature who bulged out of his frock coat, and minced, and posed, and was alternately frisky and pompous. What a connection to have! Was it possible that his voice was so magnificent as they all declared, or would that be a disappointment too? In any case, his self-complacence made a stranger ill.

It was about two hours after dinner that the young man was begged to oblige the company, and Humphrey, who was now truly eager to hear him, feared for a long while that the persuasions would not succeed, for the coming bass objected in turn to Wagner, and Verdi, and all the songs in his repertoire. He shrugged his shoulders pityingly at this one, had forgotten another, and was "not equal" this evening to a third. At last, however, Cynthia rose, and insisted that he should give them "Infelice." _Ernani_ was "intolerable," but, since they would not let him alone He crossed languidly to her side.

A hush of suspense settled upon the long drawing-room. Sam Walford fixed Kent with a stare, as if he meant to watch the admiration begin to bubble in him. Louisa, the hilarious and untruthful, appeared to be experiencing some divine emotion even before the first note, Miss Wix closed her eyes, with her mouth to one side. Then the young man languished at the gasalier, and roared.

It was a prodigious roar. No one could dispute that he possessed a voice of phenomenal power, if it were once conceded to be a voice, in the musical sense, at all. It seemed as if he must burst his corsets, and shift the furniture--that the ceiling itself must split with the noise that he hurled up. Perspiration broke out on him, and rolled down his face, as he writhed at the gas-globes. His large body was contorted with exertion. But he never faltered. Bellow upon bellow he produced, to the welcome end--till Cynthia struck the final chord and he bowed.

"A performance?" asked Walford, swollen with pride.

Kent said indeed it was.

The compliments were effusive. It was discussed whether he was, or was not, "in voice" to-night. He explained that to "lose himself" when he sang he needed Pincocca at the piano. He sank into his chair again, and mopped his wet curl.

"The amateur accompaniment is very painful," he said winningly.

Kent took leave of the family earlier than was his custom, asserting that he had work to do.

The momentous date was now close at hand, and Turquand, who had not refused to be best man, had made a present that was lavish, all things considered. In the days that intervened, Humphrey and he found it impracticable to taboo the subject of the wedding; it was arranged that on the eve of the ceremony they should have a "bachelor dinner" by themselves, and subsequently smoke a few cigars together in a music-hall. Neither wanted anybody else, nor, in point of fact, did Humphrey know many men to invite. For time to attend the wedding the journalist had applied to his Editor on the grounds of "a bereavement," and as he watched Kent collect possessions, and pore over a Continental Bradshaw, and fondle the sacred ring, he was more than ever convinced that he had used the right term.

It was a wet evening--the eve of the wedding-day. A yellow mist hung over Soho, and a light rain had fallen doggedly since noon, turning the grease of the pavements to slush. On the moist air the smell of the jam clung persistently, and along the narrow streets fewer children played tip-cat than was usual in the district.

Kent's impedimenta were packed and labelled, and a brown-paper parcel among the litter contained the best man's new suit. The coat would be creased by the morrow, and he knew it; but he had a repugnance to undoing the parcel sooner than was compulsory, and once, when Kent was not looking, he had kicked it.

The two men put up their collars, and made their way across the square.

"Are you sure we'll go to the Suisse?" asked Kent. "It isn't festive, Turk."

"Yes, let's go to the Suisse," said Turquand grumpily. "It's close."

Both knew that its proximity was not the reason that it had been chosen, but the pretence was desirable.

"We'll have champagne, of course," said Humphrey, as they passed in, and took their seats at their customary little table, with its half-yard of crusty bread and damp napkins. "We'll have champagne, and--and be lively. For Heaven's sake don't look as if you were at a funeral, Turk! This is to be an enjoyable evening. Where's the wine-list?"

"Champagne? What for?" said Turquand. "Auguste will think you're getting at him."

Auguste was prevailed upon to believe that the demand was made in sober earnest. That being the case, he could run out for champagne no less easily than for "bittare"! Madame, at the semi-circular counter, waved her fat hand in their direction gaily. Monsieur had inherited a fortune, it was evident!

"Well," said Turquand, when the cork had popped, "here's luck! Wish you lots of happiness, old chap, I'm sure."

"Same to you," murmured Kent. "God knows I do!... It's awful muck, this stuff, isn't it? What's he brought?"

"It's what you ordered. Your mouth's out of taste. Eat some more kidneys."

Humphrey shook his head.

"I suppose you'll come here to-morrow evening--the same as usual, eh?"

"May as well, I suppose. One's got to feed somewhere. _You'll_ be all rice and rapture then. I'll think of you."

"Do! I don't know how it is, but--but just now, somehow, between ourselves But perhaps I oughtn't to say that.... I say, don't think I was going to--to----I wouldn't have you think I meant I wasn't fond of her, old boy, for the world! You don't think _that_, do you? She--oh, Heaven!--she's a perfect angel, Turk!... Fill up your glass, for goodness' sake, man, and do look jolly! Turk, next time we dine together it'll be at Streatham, and there'll be a little hostess to make you welcome; and--and: there'll always be a bottle of Irish, old man, and we'll keep a pipe in the rack with the biggest bowl we can find, and call it yours. By God, we will!"

"Yes," said Turquand huskily.... "Going to have any more of this stew?"

"I've had enough. Help yourself!"

"No, I'm not ravenous either--smoked too much, perhaps. I say, madame doesn't know yet; better tell her."

She was induced to join them presently, and to drink a glass of champagne, enchanted by the invitation. Monsieur Kent was always _si gentil_. But champagne! Was it that he celebrated already another romance? _Comment?_ he was going to be married--_nevare?_ But yes--to-morrow? Ah, mon Dieu! She rocked herself to and fro, and screamed the intelligence down the dinner-lift to her husband in the kitchen. Alors, they must drink a chartreuse with her--she insisted. Yes, and she would have one of monsieur Kent's cigarettes. To the health of the happy pair!

Outside, the rain was still falling as they left the Restaurant Suisse and tramped to a music-hall. Here their entrance was unfortunately timed. Some good turns appeared earlier in the programme, some good turns figured lower down; but during the half-hour that they remained the monotony of the material that the average music-hall "comedian" regards as humorous struck Kent more forcibly than ever. Wives eloped with the lodgers, or husbands beat their wives and got drunk with "the boys." There seemed nothing else--nothing but conjugal infelicity; it was rang-tang-tang on the one vulgar, discordant note.

"I've had enough of this," he said; "let's go. What time is it?"

"Time for a quiet pipe at home, and then to turn in early. Let's cab it!"

They were glad to take off their wet boots and to find themselves back in their own shabby chairs. But Cornelia had let the fire out, and the dismantled room was chilly. Turquand produced the whisky and the glasses, and, blowing a cloud, they drew up to the cold hearth, remarking that the weather had "turned muggy" and that a fire would have been out of place on such a night.

"It looks bare without my things, doesn't it?" observed Kent. "One wouldn't have believed they made so much difference."

"Yes," assented Turquand.

"You'll have to get some books for that shelf over there, you know--it's awful empty."

Turquand shivered, and said that he should.

"You aren't cold?"

"Cold? Not a bit--no. You were saying---?"

"I don't know, I wasn't saying anything particular. I'll write you from Mentone, old fellow--not at once, but you shall have a line."

"Thanks," answered Turquand; "be glad to hear from you."

"Not that there'll be anything to say."

"No, of course not. Still, you may just as well twaddle, if you will."

There was a pause, while the pair smoked slowly, each busy with his thoughts, and considering if anything of what he felt could be said without its sounding sentimental. Both were remembering that they would never be sitting at home together in the room again, and though it had many faults, it assumed to the one who was leaving it a "tender grace" now. He had written his novel at that table; his first review had come to him here. Associations crept out and trailed across the floor; he felt that this room must always contain an integral portion of his life. And Turquand would miss him.

"Be dull for you to-morrow evening, rather, I'm afraid, won't it?" he said in a burst.

"Oh, I was alone while you were at Dieppe, you know. I shall jog along all right.... You've bought a desk for yourself, haven't you?"

"Yes. Swagger, eh?"

"You won't 'know where yer are'.... What's that--do you feel a draught?"

"No--I--well, perhaps there is a draught now you mention it. Yes, I shall work in style when we come back. Strange feeling, going to be married, Turk!"

"Is it?" said Turquand. "Haven't had the experience. Hope Mrs. Kent will like me--they never do in fiction. You ... you might tell her I'm not a bad sort of a damned fool, will you? And--er--I want to say, don't have the funks about asking me to your house once in a way, old chap, when I shan't be a nuisance; take my oath I'll never shock your wife, Humphrey ... too fond of you.... Be as careful as--as you can, I give you my word."

His teeth closed round his pipe tightly. Neither man looked at the other; Humphrey put out his hand without speaking, and Turquand gripped it. There was a silence again. Both stared at the dead ashes. The clock of St. Giles-in-the-Fields tolled twelve, and neither commented on it, though each reflected that it was now the marriage morning.

"Strikes me we were nearly making bally asses of ourselves," said Turquand at last, in a shaky voice. "Finish your whisky, and let's to bed!"