Chapter 3

“So can I, if you come to that.”

“And she must have known his money wasn’t his own.”

“Why must she?” I asked. “According to what he told Hilary, she didn’t.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Hilary, with decision.

“Hilary believed it!”

“Oh, Hilary!”

“But, then Hilary knew the girl.”

“Hilary knew--! You mean to say Hilary knew--?

“No one better,” said I composedly.

Mrs. Hilary rose to her feet. “Who was the creature?” she asked sharply.

“Come,” I expostulated, “how would you like it if your young man had taken to theft and--”

“Oh, nonsense. Tell me her name, please, Mr. Carter.”

“Johnny told Hilary that just to see her and talk to her and sit by her side was ‘worth all the money’--but then, to be sure, it was somebody else’s money--and that he’d do it again to get what he had got over again. Then, I’m sorry to say, he swore.”

“And Hilary believed that stuff?”

“Hilary agreed with him,” said I. “Hilary, you see, knows the lady.”

“What’s her name, Mr. Carter?”

“Didn’t you notice his attentions to any one?”

“I notice! You don’t mean that I’ve seen her?”

“Certainly you have.”

“Was she ever here?’

“Yes, Mrs. Hilary. Hilary takes care of that.”

“I shall be angry in a minute, Mr. Carter. Oh, I’ll have this out of Hilary!”

“I should.”

“Who was she?”

“According to what he told Hilary, she was the most fascinating woman in the world, Hilary thought so, too.”

Mrs. Hilary began to walk up and down.

“Oh, so Hilary helped to let him go, because they both--?”

“Precisely,” said I.

“And you dare to come and tell me?”

“Well, I thought you ought to know,” said I. “Hilary’s just as mad about her as Johnny--in fact, he said he’d be hanged if he wouldn’t have done the same himself.”

I have once seen Madame Ristori play Lady Macbeth. Her performance was recalled to me by the tones in which Mrs. Hilary asked:

“Who is this woman, if you please, Mr. Carter?”

“So Hilary got him off--gave him fifty pounds too.”

“Glad to get him away, perhaps,” she burst out, in angry scorn.

“Who knows?” said I. “Perhaps.”

“Her name?” demanded Lady Macbeth--I mean Mrs. Hilary--again.

“I shan’t tell you, unless you promise to say nothing to Hilary.”

“To say nothing! Well, really--”

“Oh, all right!” and I took up my hat.

“But I can watch them, can’t I?”

“As much as you like.”

“Won’t you tell me?”

“If you promise.”

“Well, then, I promise.”

“Look in the glass.”

“What for?”

“To see your face, to be sure.”

She started, blushed red, and moved a step towards me.

“You don’t mean--?” she cried.

“Thou art the woman,” said I.

“Oh, but he never said a word--”

“Johnny had his code,” said I. “And in some ways it was better than some people’s--in some, alas! worse.”

“And Hilary?”

“Really you know better than I do whether I’ve told the truth about Hilary.”

A pause ensued. Then Mrs. Hilary made three short remarks, which I give in their order:

(1) “The little wretch!” (2) “Dear old Hilary!” (3) “Poor little man!”

I took my hat. I knew that Hilary was due from the city in a few minutes. Mrs. Hilary sat down by the fire.

“How dare you torment me so?” she asked, but not in the least like Lady Macbeth.

“I must have my little amusements,” said I.

“What an audacious little creature!” said Mrs. Hilary. “Fancy his daring!--Aren’t you astounded?”

“Oh, yes, I am. But Hilary, you see--”

“It’s nearly his time,” said Mrs. Hilary.

I buttoned my left glove and held out my right hand.

“I’ve a good mind not to shake hands with you,” said she. “Wasn’t it absurd of Hilary?”

“Horribly.”

“He ought to have been all the more angry.”

“Of course he ought.”

“The presumption of it!” And Mrs. Hilary smiled. I also smiled.

“That poor old mother of his,” reflected Mrs. Hilary. “Where did you say she lived?”

“Hilary knows the address,” said I.

“Silly little wretch!” mused Mrs. Hilary, still smiling.

“Goodbye,” said I.

“Goodbye,” said Mrs. Hilary.

I turned toward the door and had laid my hand on the knob, when Mrs. Hilary called softly:

“Mr. Carter.”

“Yes,” said I, turning.

“Do you know where the little wretch has gone?”

“Oh, yes,” said I.

“I--I suppose you don’t ever write to him?”

“Dear me, no,” said I.

“But you--could?” suggested Mrs. Hilary.

“Of course,” said I.

She jumped up and ran towards me. Her purse was in one hand, and a bit of paper fluttered in the other.

“Send him that--don’t tell him,” she whispered, and her voice had a little catch in it. “Poor little wretch!” said she.

As for me, I smiled cynically--quite cynically, you know; for it was very absurd.

“Please do,” said Mrs. Hilary.

And I went.

Supposing it had been another woman? Well, I wonder!

AN EXPENSIVE PRIVILEGE

A rather uncomfortable thing happened the other day which threatened a schism in my acquaintance and put me in a decidedly awkward position. It was no other than this: Mrs. Hilary Musgrave had definitely informed me that she did not approve of Lady Mickleham. The attitude is, no doubt, a conceivable one, but I was surprised that a woman of Mrs. Hilary’s large sympathies should adopt it. Besides, Mrs. Hilary is quite good-looking herself.

The history of the affair is much as follows: I called on Mrs. Hilary to see whether I could do anything, and she told me all about it. It appears that Mrs. Hilary had a bad cold and a cousin up from the country about the same time (she was justly aggrieved at the double event), and being unable to go to the Duchess of Dexminster’s “squash,” she asked Dolly Mickleham to chaperon little Miss Phyllis. Little Miss Phyllis, of course, knew no one there--the Duchess least of all--(but then very few of us--yes, I was there--knew the Duchess, and the Duchess didn’t know any of us; I saw her shake hands with a waiter myself, just to be on the safe side), and an hour after the party began she was discovered wandering about in a most desolate condition. Dolly had told her that she would be in a certain place; and when Miss Phyllis came, Dolly was not there. The poor little lady wandered about for another hour, looking so lost that one was inclined to send for a policeman; and then she sat down on a seat by the wall, and, in desperation, asked her next-door neighbor if he knew Lady Mickleham by sight, and had he seen her lately? The next-door neighbor, by way of reply, called out to a quiet elderly gentleman who was sidling unobtrusively about, “Duke, are there any particularly snug corners in your house?” The Duke stopped, searched his memory, and said that at the end of the Red Corridor there was a passage, and that a few yards down the passage, if you turned very suddenly to the right, you would come on a little nook under the stairs. The little nook just held a settee, and the settee (the Duke thought) might just hold two people. The next-door neighbor thanked the Duke, and observed to Miss Phyllis--

“It will give me great pleasure to take you to Lady Mickleham.” So they went, it being then, according to Miss Phyllis’ sworn statement precisely two hours and five minutes since Dolly had disappeared; and, pursuing the route indicated by the Duke, they found Lady Mickleham. And Lady Mickleham exclaimed, “Good gracious, my dear, I’d quite forgotten you! Have you had an ice? Do take her to have an ice, Sir John.” (Sir John Berry was the next-door neighbor.) And with that Lady Mickleham is said to have resumed her conversation.

“Did you ever hear anything more atrocious?” concluded Mrs. Hilary. “I really cannot think what Lord Mickleham is doing.”

“You surely mean, what Lady Mickleham--?”

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Hilary, with extraordinary decision. “Anything might have happened to that poor child!”

“Oh, there were not many of the aristocracy present,” said I soothingly.

“But it’s not that so much as the thing itself. She’s the most disgraceful flirt in London.”

“How do you know she was flirting?” I inquired with a smile.

“How do I know?” echoed Mrs. Hilary.

“It is a very hasty conclusion,” I persisted. “Sometimes I stay talking with you for an hour or more. Are you, therefore, flirting with me?”

“With you!” exclaimed Mrs. Hilary, with a little laugh.

“Absurd as the supposition is,” I remarked, “it yet serves to point the argument. Lady Mickleham might have been talking with a friend, just in the quiet rational way in which we are talking now.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” said Mrs. Hilary; and--well, I do not like to say that she sniffed--it would convey too strong an idea, but she did make an odd little sound something like a much etherealized sniff.

I smiled again, and more broadly. I was enjoying beforehand the little victory which I was to enjoy over Mrs. Hilary. “Yet it happens to be true,” said I.

Mrs. Hilary was magnificently contemptuous.

“Lord Mickleham told you so, I suppose?” she asked. “And I suppose Lady Mickleham told him--poor man!”

“Why do you call him ‘poor man’?”

“Oh, never mind. Did he tell you?”

“Certainly not. The fact is, Mrs. Hilary--and really, you must excuse me for having kept you in the dark a little--it amused me so much to hear your suspicions.”

Mrs. Hilary rose to her feet.

“Well, what are you going to say?” she asked.

I laughed, as I answered: “Why, I was the man with Lady Mickleham when your friend and Berry inter--when they arrived, you know.”

Well, I should have thought--I should still think--that she would have been pleased--relieved, you know, to find her uncharitable opinion erroneous, and pleased to have it altered on the best authority. I’m sure that is how I should have felt. It was not, however, how Mrs. Hilary felt.

“I am deeply pained,” she observed after a long pause; and then she held out her hand.

“I was sure you’d forgive my little deception,” said I, grasping it. I thought still that she meant to bury all unkindness.

“I should never have thought it of you,” she went on.

“I didn’t know your friend was there at all,” I pleaded; for by now I was alarmed.

“Oh, please don’t shuffle like that,” said Mrs. Hilary.

She continued to stand, and I rose to my feet. Mrs. Hilary held out her hand again.

“Do you mean that I’m to go?” said I.

“I hope we shall see you again some day,” said Mrs. Hilary; the tone suggested that she was looking forward to some future existence, when my earthly sins should have been sufficiently purged. It reminded me for the moment of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.

“But I protest,” I began, “that my only object in telling you was to show you how absurd--”

“Is it any good talking about it now?” asked Mrs. Hilary. A discussion might possibly be fruitful in the dim futurity before mentioned--but not now--that was what she seemed to say.

“Lady Mickleham and I, on the occasion in question--” I began with dignity.

“Pray, spare me,” quote Mrs. Hilary, with much greater dignity.

I took my hat.

“Shall you be at home as usual on Thursday?” I asked.

“I have a great many people coming already,” she remarked.

“I can take a hint,” said I.

“I wish you’d take warning,” said Mrs. Hilary.

“I will take my leave,” said I--and I did, leaving Mrs. Hilary in a tragic attitude in the middle of the room. Never again shall I go out of my way to lull Mrs. Hilary’s suspicions.

A day or two after this very trying interview, Lady Mickleham’s victoria happened to stop opposite where I was seated in the park. I went to pay my respects.

“Do you mean to leave me nothing in the world,” I asked, just by way of introducing the subject of Mrs. Hilary. “One of my best friends has turned me out of her house on your account.”

“Oh, do tell me,” said Dolly, dimpling all over her face.

So I told her; I made the story as long as I could for reasons connected with the dimples.

“What fun!” exclaimed Dolly. “I told you at the time that a young unmarried person like you ought to be more careful.”

“I am just debating,” I observed, “whether to sacrifice you.”

“To sacrifice me, Mr. Carter?”

“Of course,” I explained; “if I dropped you, Mrs. Hilary would let me come again.”

“How charming that would be!” cried Dolly. “You would enjoy her nice serious conversation--all about Hilary!”

“She is apt,” I conceded, “to touch on Hilary. But she is very picturesque.”

“Oh, yes, she’s handsome,” said Dolly.

There was a pause. Then Dolly said, “Well?”

“Well?” said I in return.

“It is goodbye?” asked Dolly, drawing down the corners of her mouth.

“It comes to this,” I remarked. “Supposing I forgive you--”

“As if it was my fault?”

“And risk Mrs. Hilary’s wrath--did you speak?”

“No; I laughed, Mr. Carter.”

“What shall I get out of it?”

The sun was shining brightly; it shone on Dolly; she had raised her parasol, but she blinked a little beneath it. She was smiling slightly still, and the dimple stuck to its post--like a sentinel, ready to rouse the rest from their brief repose. Dolly lay back in the victoria, nestling luxuriously against the soft cushions. She turned her eyes for a moment on me.

“Why are you looking at me?” she asked.

“Because,” said I, “there is nothing better to look at.”

“Do you like doing it?” asked Dolly.

“It is a privilege,” said I politely.

“Well, then!” said Dolly.

“But,” I ventured to observe, “it’s rather an expensive one.”

“Then you mustn’t have it very often.”

“And it is shared by so many people.”

“Then,” said Dolly, smiling indulgently, “you must have it--a little oftener. Home, Roberts, please.”

I am not yet allowed at Mrs. Hilary Musgrave’s.

A VERY DULL AFFAIR

“To hear you talk,” remarked Mrs. Hilary Musgrave--and, if any one is surprised to find me at her house, I can only say that Hilary, when he asked me to take a pot-luck, was quite ignorant of any ground of difference between his wife and myself, and that Mrs. Hilary could not very well eject me on my arrival in evening dress at ten minutes to eight--“to hear you talk one would think that there was no such thing as real love.”

She paused. I smiled.

“Now,” she continued, turning a fine, but scornful eye upon me, “I have never cared for any man in the world except my husband.”

I smiled again. Poor Hilary looked very uncomfortable. With an apologetic air he began to stammer something about Parish Councils. I was not to be diverted by any such maneuver. It was impossible that he could really wish to talk on that subject.

“Would a person who had never eaten anything but beef make a boast of it?” I asked.

Hilary grinned covertly. Mrs. Hilary pulled the lamp nearer, and took up her embroidery.

“Do you always work the same pattern?” said I.

Hilary kicked me gently. Mrs. Hilary made no direct reply, but presently she began to talk.

“I was just about Phyllis’s age--(by the way, little Miss Phyllis was there)--when I first saw Hilary. You remember, Hilary? At Bournemouth?”

“Oh--er--was it Bournemouth?” said Hilary, with much carelessness.

“I was on the pier,” pursued Mrs. Hilary. “I had a red frock on, I remember, and one of those big hats they wore that year. Hilary wore--”

“Blue serge,” I interpolated, encouragingly.

“Yes, blue serge,” said she fondly. “He had been yachting, and he was beautifully burnt. I was horribly burnt--wasn’t I, Hilary?”

Hilary began to pat the dog.

“Then we got to know one another.”

“Stop a minute,” said I. “How did that happen?” Mrs. Hilary blushed.

“Well, we were both always on the pier,” she explained. “And--and somehow Hilary got to know father, and--and father introduced him to me.”

“I’m glad it was no worse,” said I. I was considering Miss Phyllis, who sat listening, open-eyed.

“And then you know, father wasn’t always there; and once or twice we met on the cliff. Do you remember that morning, Hilary?”

“What morning?” asked Hilary, patting the dog with immense assiduity.

“Why, the morning I had my white serge on. I’d been bathing, and my hair was down to dry, and you said I looked like a mermaid.”

“Do mermaids wear white serge?” I asked; but nobody took the least notice of me--quite properly.

“And you told me such a lot about yourself; and then we found we were late for lunch.”

“Yes,” said Hilary, suddenly forgetting the dog, “and your mother gave me an awful glance.”

“Yes, and then you told me that you were very poor, but that you couldn’t help it; and you said you supposed I couldn’t possibly--”

“Well, I didn’t think--!”

“And I said you were a silly old thing; and then--” Mrs. Hilary stopped abruptly.

“How lovely,” remarked little Miss Phyllis in a wistful voice.

“And do you remember,” pursued Mrs. Hilary, laying down her embroidery and clasping her hands on her knees, “the morning you went to see father?”

“What a row there was!” said Hilary.

“And what an awful week it was after that! I was never so miserable in all my life. I cried till my eyes were quite red, and then I bathed them for an hour, and then I went to the pier, and you were there--and I mightn’t speak to you!”

“I remember,” said Hilary, nodding gently.

“And then, Hilary, father sent for me and told me it was no use; and I said I’d never marry any one else. And father said, ‘There, there, don’t cry. We’ll see what mother says.’”

“Your mother was a brick,” said Hilary, poking the fire.

“And that night they never told me anything about it, and I didn’t even change my frock, but came down, looking horrible, just as I was, in an old black rag--no, Hilary, don’t say it was pretty!”

Hilary, unconvinced, shook his head.

“And when I walked into the drawing room there was nobody there but just you; and we neither of us said anything for ever so long. And then father and mother came in and--do you remember after dinner, Hilary?”

“I remember,” said Hilary.

There was a long pause. Mrs. Hilary was looking into the fire; little Miss Phyllis’s eyes were fixed, in rapt gaze, on the ceiling; Hilary was looking at his wife--I, thinking it safest, was regarding my own boots.

At last Miss Phyllis broke the silence.

“How perfectly lovely!” she said.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hilary, reflectively. “And we were married three months afterwards.”

“Tenth of June,” said Hilary reflectively.

“And we had the most charming little rooms in the world! Do you remember those first rooms, dear? So tiny!”

“Not bad little rooms,” said Hilary.

“How awfully lovely,” cried little Miss Phyllis.

I felt that it was time to interfere.

“And is that all?” I asked.

“All? How do you mean?” said Mrs. Hilary, with a slight start.

“Well, I mean, did nothing else happen? Weren’t there any complications? Weren’t there any more troubles, or any more opposition, or any misunderstandings, or anything?”

“No,” said Mrs. Hilary.

“You never quarreled, or broke it off?”

“No.”

“Nobody came between you?”

“No. It all went just perfectly. Why, of course it did.”

“Hilary’s people made themselves nasty, perhaps?” I suggested, with a ray of hope.

“They fell in love with her on the spot,” said Hilary.

Then I rose and stood with my back to the fire.

“I do not know,” I observed, “what Miss Phyllis thinks about it--”

“I think it was just perfect, Mr. Carter.”

“But for my part, I can only say that I never heard of such a dull affair in all my life.”

“Dull!” gasped Miss Phyllis.

“Dull!” murmured Mrs. Hilary.

“Dull!” chuckled Hilary.

“It was,” said I severely, “without a spark of interest from beginning to end. Such things happen by thousands. It’s commonplaceness itself. I had some hopes when you father assumed a firm attitude, but--”

“Mother was such a dear,” interrupted Mrs. Hilary.

“Just so. She gave away the whole situation. Then I did trust that Hilary would lose his place, or develop an old flame, or do something just a little interesting.”

“It was a perfect time,” said Mrs. Hilary.

“I wonder why in the world you told me about it,” I pursued.

“I don’t know why I did,” said Mrs. Hilary dreamily.

“The only possible excuse for an engagement like that,” I observed, “is to be found in intense post-nuptial unhappiness.”

Hilary rose, and advanced towards his wife.

“Your embroidery’s falling on the floor,” said he.

“Not a bit of it,” said I.

“Yes, it is,” he persisted; and he picked it up and gave it to her. Miss Phyllis smiled delightedly. Hilary had squeezed his wife’s hand.

“Then we don’t excuse it,” said he.

I took out my watch. I was not finding much entertainment.

“Surely it’s quite early, old man?” said Hilary.

“It’s nearly eleven. We’ve spent half-an-hour on the thing,” said I peevishly, holding out my hand to my hostess.

“Oh, are you going? Good night, Mr. Carter.”

I turned to Miss Phyllis.

“I hope you won’t think all love affairs are like that,” I said; but I saw her lips begin to shape into “lovely,” and I hastily left the room.

Hilary came to help me on with my coat. He looked extremely apologetic, and very much ashamed of himself.

“Awfully sorry, old chap,” said he, “that we bored you with our reminiscences. I know, of course, that they can’t be very interesting to other people. Women are so confoundedly romantic.”

“Don’t try that on me,” said I, much disgusted. “You were just as bad yourself.”

He laughed, as he leant against the door.

“She did look ripping in that white frock,” he said, “with her hair--”

“Stop,” said I firmly. “She looked just like a lot of other girls.”

“I’m hanged if she did!” said Hilary.

Then he glanced at me with a puzzled sort of expression.

“I say, old man, weren’t you ever that way yourself?” he asked.

I hailed a hansom cab.

“Because, if you were, you know, you’d understand how a fellow remembers every--”

“Good night,” said I. “At least I suppose you’re not coming to the club?”

“Well, I think not,” said Hilary. “Ta-ta, old fellow. Sorry we bored you. Of course, if a man has never--”

“Never!” I groaned. “A score of times!”

“Well, then, doesn’t it--?

“No,” said I. “It’s just that that makes stories like yours so infernally--”

“What?” asked Hilary; for I had paused to light a cigarette.

“Uninteresting,” said I, getting into my cab.

STRANGE, BUT TRUE

The other day my young cousin George lunched with me. He is a cheery youth, and a member of the University of Oxford. He refreshes me very much, and I believe that I have the pleasure of affording him some matter for thought. On this occasion, however, he was extremely silent and depressed. I said little, but made an extremely good luncheon. Afterwards we proceeded to take a stroll in the Park.

“Sam, old boy,” said George suddenly, “I’m the most miserable devil alive.”

“I don’t know what else you expect at your age,” I observed, lighting a cigar. He walked on in silence for a few moments.

“I say, Sam, old boy, when you were young, were you ever--?” he paused, arranged his neckcloth (it was more like a bed-quilt--oh, the fashion, of course, I know that), and blushed a fine crimson.

“Was I ever what, George?” I had the curiosity to ask.

“Oh, well, hard hit, you know--a girl, you know.”

“In love, you mean, George? No, I never was.”

“Never?”

“No. Are you?”

“Yes. Hang it!” Then he looked at me with a puzzled air and continued:

“I say, though, Sam, it’s awfully funny you shouldn’t have--don’t you know what it’s like, then?”

“How should I?” I inquired apologetically. “What is it like, George?”

George took my arm.

“It’s just Hades,” he informed me confidentially.

“Then,” I remarked, “I have no reason to regret--?”

“Still, you know,” interrupted George, “it’s not half bad.”

“That appears to me to be a paradox,” I observed.

“It’s precious hard to explain it to you if you’ve never felt it,” said George, in rather an injured tone. “But what I say is quite true.”

“I shouldn’t think of contradicting you, my dear fellow,” I hastened to say.

“Let’s sit down,” said he, “and watch the people driving. We may see somebody--somebody we know, you know, Sam.”

“So we may,” said I, and we sat down.

“A fellow,” pursued George, with knitted brows, “is all turned upside down, don’t you know?”

“How very peculiar?” I exclaimed.

“One moment he’s the happiest dog in the world, and the next--well, the next, it’s the deuce.”

“But,” I objected, “not surely without good reason for such a change?”