Chapter 8

Lady Seveley's house was a house of scent and soft carpets. The staircase was covered with pink silk, and in the recess on the first landing, or rather where the stairs paused, there was an aviary in which either hawks screeched or owls blinked; generally there was a magpie there, and the quaint bird now hopped to Frank's finger, casting a thievish look on his rings. The drawing-room was full of flowers. There was a grand piano, dark and bright; the skins of tigers Lord Seveley had shot carpeted the floor, and on their heads, Helen rested her feet, showing her plump legs to her visitors. On the walls there were indifferent water-colours, there were gold screens, the cabinets were full of china, there were three-volume novels on the tea-table--it was the typical rich widow's house, a house where young men lingered. Frank stood examining a portrait on china of Lady Seveley, it was happily hung with blue ribbon from the top of the mirror. It represented a woman inclined to stoutness, about three and thirty. The chestnut hair was piled and curled with strange art about the head. Above the face there was a mask, roses wreathed, and a swallow carrying a love missive, butterflies and arrows everywhere, and below the face there was a skull profusely wreathed and almost hidden in roses. This portrait would have stirred the imagination of many young men, but Frank thought nothing of it--the theatrical display displeased him, it seemed to him even a little foolish. He crossed over to the flowers.

“Lady Seveley will be down in a moment, sir,” said the maid. A few minutes after the door opened.

“How do you do? I am so glad to see you. Won't you sit down? I have been suffering terribly to-day--neuralgia; nothing for it but to lie down in a dark room.”

“I hope you are better now.”

“Oh, when I have had some champagne I shall be quite well. Now tell me something; talk to me.”

Helen was sitting thrown back on the little black satin sofa; she had crossed her legs, and her foot was set on a tiger's head. The ankle was too thick, the foot slightly fat, but stocking and shoe were perfect, and these drew Frank's eyes too attentively. Helen noticed this and was glad.

“So you like Maggie the best?”

“Oh, yes, I like her the best, Sally is too rough. How those girls do worry their father. He has to go up to town every day; he is in the City, and the girls give tennis parties, and drink his best wine. There was an awful row there the other day about the peaches; he had been going in for forcing, and was counting the days when they would be ripe. The young men ate them all.”

Helen laughed. “A sort of comic King Lear.”

“Just so, the girls will have large fortunes at their father's death. I have known them all my life. I used to spend my holidays with them when I was a small boy.”

“And you haven't seen them for a long time?”

“No, I was in Ireland two years, and then I went to Italy. This was the first time I saw them since they were really grown up.”

“And you say they are beautiful girls and will have large fortunes.”

“Yes, I suppose Maggie is a good-looking girl; she is more a fascinating girl than a beautiful girl.” A sudden remembrance of Lizzie Baker dictated this opinion of Maggie Brookes.

“Dinner is on the table, my lady.”

“I think you said in your letter that you were going to have two young girls staying with you.”

“Yes, but they could not come; they were to have been here on Monday. I am very sorry; had I known for certain that you were coming, I would have arranged to have some one to meet you.”

“I am very glad you didn't.” The conversation dropped. “You said you were going to the theatre. What theatre are you thinking of going to?”

“My neuralgia put all thoughts of the theatre out of my head. I have a box for the Gaiety. We will go if you like.”

The name of the theatre reminded him of Lizzie Baker, and he compared the pale, refined face of the bar girl with the over-coloured woman--his hostess. He had not seen Lizzie for a long time. Why had he not gone to the bar room the last time he was in London?

“You have not answered me--would you like to go to the Gaiety?”

“I am sure I beg your pardon,” and then, in a sudden confusion of memories and desires, he said: “I don't know that I care much about going to the theatre. You are not feeling well.”

“My neuralgia is almost all gone. There's nothing like champagne for it. Hardwick, Mr. Escott will take some more champagne.”

There were engravings after Burne Jones and Rossetti on the walls, and Frank stopped to look at them as he followed Lady Seveley upstairs. She went straight to the piano.

“Are you fond of music?” she said.

“Yes; there is nothing I like more than fiddling at the piano.”

“Then do play something.”

“Oh, no, not for worlds. I only strum, I don't know my notes. I strum on the piano as I strum on the violin.”

“Do you play the violin?”

“I can't call it playing, I was never taught.”

“How did you learn, then? It is a most difficult instrument; I couldn't get on with it at all; I will get mine out if you will play something.”

“If you promise not to laugh, I will try, but I assure you I know nothing about it. I borrowed a violin once, and I taught myself to play a tune; then I bought a violin, and I amuse myself when I am alone.”

“How very clever of you. There, you will find it under the piano behind that music; do play something, it will be so good of you.”

“What shall I play?”

“Anything you like.”

Frank had no knowledge of the instrument, but his ear was exquisitely just and appreciative; his artistic desire was febrile and foolish, but you thought less of this in his music than in his painting and poetry. His soul went out in the strain of melody sentimentally; and it leaned him in varying and beautiful attitudes. The sweeping, music-evoking arm was beautiful to behold, and the music seemed to cry for love; all about him was shadow; only the light fell on the long throat, so like a fruit to the eye; the charm was enervating and nervous. Helen looked at him again, and shuddering, she rose from the piano.

“What did you break off like that for? Was I playing so badly?”

“No, no--come and sit down here, come and sit by me. I want you to talk to me.” She stretched herself in a low wicker chair by the open window. There was a church opposite, the painted panes were now full of mitre and alb, and the vague tumult of the service came in contrast with the summer murmur of London and the light of the evening skies. The woman's body moved beneath the silk, and the faint odour of her person dilated the nostrils of the young man. “Talk to me.”

“I don't know what to talk to you about. You would not care for my conversation any more than you do for my music--one is as bad as the other.”

“No, pray--I assure you--I would not have you think that, no.” Helen made a movement as if she were going to lay her hand on his arm; checking herself, she said: “I do not think your playing bad; on the contrary, perhaps I think it too good. How shall I explain? There are times when I cannot bear music; the pleasure it brings is too near, too intense, too near to pain; and that 'Chanson d'Eglise' seems to bear away your very brain; you play it with such fervour, on the violin each phrase tears the soul.”

“But it is so religious.”

“Yes, that is just it; no sen--no; well, there is no other word; no sensuality is so terrible as religious sensuality.”

“I don't know what you mean. I can understand any one saying that Offenbach is sensual, but I don't see how the term can be applied to a hymn.”

“Perhaps not to a hymn, although--but 'La Chanson d'Eglise' is not a hymn.”

Her arm hung along the chair, the flesh showing through the silk as soft as a flower. He might take it in his hands and bear it to his lips and kiss it; he might lean and loll and kiss her. He wondered if he might dare it; but her air of ladyhood was so marked that it seemed impossible that she would not resent. He could not quite realise what her looks and words would be afterwards.

“I do not wish to flatter you, but I think you play beautifully. I do not mean to say that I have never heard any one play the violin better--that would be ridiculous. Your playing is full of emotion. That lovely passage thrilled me; I do not know why, nor can I exactly explain my feeling--nerves perhaps. Now I come to think of it I am ashamed. It was the summer evening, the perfume of those flowers; it was--” Helen fixed her eyes on Frank, as if she would like to say, “It was you.” With a sigh she said: “It was the music.” Then as if she feared she was showing too plainly what was passing in her mind, she said: “But it is nearly nine o'clock. Perhaps you would like to go to the theatre, the ticket for the box is on the table. I should not be more than a few minutes changing my dress. Would you like to go?”

“I don't much mind, just as you like. I heard that the new burlesque was very amusing.”

“Then let us go.”

Both regretted their words; and, embarrassed, each waited for the other to say No, let us stay here, it is far sweeter here. But it was difficult to draw back now without avowal. Helen had rung for her maid. She put on a white satin. Her opera cloak was edged with deep soft fur, and she came into the room putting on her long tan gloves.

“Were you ever in love?” Helen asked, and she leaned back behind the curtain of the box out of sight of the audience.

“I suppose I have been in love; but why do you ask?”

“It just occurred to me.”

“I have never been in love with a ballet girl, if you mean that.”

In blue tights and symmetrical rows the legs of the chorus ladies were arranged about the stage; the low comedians cracked jokes close to the footlights; the stalls laughed, the pit applauded.

“Haven't you? Is that really so? I shouldn't think it would be nice. And yet, if all we hear is true, young men do make love to low women; I'm not speaking now of ballet girls, but of cooks and housemaids. A lady, a friend of mine, cannot keep a housemaid under fifty in her house on account of her son, and she sent him to Eton.”

“Yes, I know; I have heard of such things, but I never could understand.”

“I am glad. But you say you have been in love. Tell me all about it. I want to know. What was she like? Was she fair or dark?”

“Fair. She used to wear a Gainsborough hat.”

“Did you like those great hats?”

“I did on her.”

“I suppose she was tall, then.”

“No, she was short.”

“Then I don't see how she would wear a Gainsborough hat.”

“She did, and looked exquisite in it too.”

“I suppose you were very much in love with her?”

“Yes; we were engaged, and going to be married.”

“Why was it broken off?”

“Her father was a brute.”

“Fathers generally are brutes on such occasions, and there are generally excellent reasons for their brutality.”

“Husbands, too, are brutes, and if all I have heard is correct, there are excellent reasons for their brutality.”

Lady Seveley turned pale. “I did not come to the theatre to be insulted,” she said, hesitating whether she should rise from her seat. Frank Escott was constantly guilty of such indelicate and stupid speeches, and it would be easy to cite instances in which his conduct was equally unpractical. Were friends to speak ill of any one he was especially intimate with, he would answer them in the grossest manner, forgetful that he was making formidable enemies for himself without in the least advancing the welfare of him or her whose defence he had undertaken. With some words and looks the storm was allayed, and they felt that the wind that might have capsized had carried their craft nearer the port where they were steering. Their eyes met, and for a moment they looked into each other's souls. Her arm hung by her side, white and pure, could he take it and press it to his lips the worst would be over--he would have admitted his desire. But the box curtain did not hide him, and the faces opposite seemed to watch; and then she spoke, and with her words brought a sense of distance, of conventionality.

“Tell me, did you fall in love with her the first time you saw her?”

“I think so.”

“Tell me all about it. When did you see her for the first time?”

“It was on the Metropolitan Railway. We were in the same carriage, she sat opposite to me; for some time we were alone, and I thought of speaking to her, but was afraid of offending her.”

“Are you always afraid of offending people?”

“I don't know--I don't think I am.” Then it struck him that she was alluding to his rudeness, which she declared she had forgiven, and he said: “I am sure I can't do more, I told you I was sorry--that I did not mean--”

“Oh, never mind, that is forgiven; tell me about her.”

A little perplexed, he continued: “She was dressed in white, and her face was like a flower under the great hat.”

“It is clear that you can admire no one who doesn't wear a Gainsborough hat. What will you do now that they have gone out of fashion? I am sure I can't gratify you.”

“I wondered where she was going. I wished I was going to the same house, I imagined what it would be like, and so the time went till we got to Kensington. She turned to the right, so did I; I hoped she did not think I was following her--”

“You were both going to the same house?”

“Yes. There were some carnations behind her in a vase, and you know how I love the perfume of a carnation--so did she. She told me of the flowers they had in their cottage at Maidenhead. I love the river, so did she, and we spoke of the river all the afternoon. And when the season was over I went up to Maidenhead too. I had my boat there (I must show you my boat one of these days, one of the prettiest boats on the river). We used to go out together, and, tying the boat under an alder, I used to read her Browning. Oh, it was a jolly time.” The conversation came to a pause, then Frank said “Were you ever in love?”

“I suppose I was.”

“With your husband?”

“No, I was not in love with my husband, he was twenty years older than I. When I was eighteen I was very much in love with a young fellow who used to come to play croquet at our place. But my parents wouldn't hear of it. I was not at all strong when I was a girl; they said I wouldn't live, so I didn't care what became of me. Lord Seveley admired me; it was a very good match, I was anxious to get away from home, so I married him. You are quite wrong in supposing I treated him badly.”

“Forgive me, don't say any more about that.”

“We had rows, it is true; he said horrible things about my mother, and I wouldn't stand that, of course.”

“What things?”

“Oh, I can't tell you--no matter. Once I said that I wouldn't have married him only I thought I was going to die. He never forgave me that. It was, I admit, a foolish thing to say.”

At that moment the curtain came down, and the young men moved out of the stalls. “There are two men I know,” she said, fixing her glass. “Do you see them? The elder of the two is Harding, the novelist, the other is Mr. Fletcher, an Irishman.”

“I know Fletcher--or, rather, I know of him. His father was a shopkeeper in Gort, the nearest town to Mount Rorke Castle.”

“He is a journalist, isn't he? I hear he is doing pretty well.”

“In London, I know, you associate with that class, but in Ireland we wouldn't think of knowing them.”

“I thought you were more liberal-minded than that. If they come up here, what shall I do? I mustn't introduce you?”

“I don't mind being introduced. I should like to know Harding.”

“I can't introduce you to Harding and not to his friend.”

“I don't mind being introduced to Fletcher; I'll bow and slink off to smoke a cigarette. Is it true what they say about him, that he is irresistible, that no woman can resist him? I don't think he is good-looking--a good figure, that's all.”

“He has the most lovely hands and teeth.”

“I see; perhaps you are in love with him?”

A knock came at the door; the young men entered. Lady Seveley introduced them to Frank; he bowed coldly, and addressed Harding. But Lady Seveley said: “O Mr. Harding, I want to speak to you about your last novel; I have just finished reading it.”

“What do you think of this piece?” Fletcher asked Escott, in a hesitating and conciliatory manner.

“I am afraid he will not be able to tell you; he hasn't ceased talking since we came into the theatre.”

“I should have done the same had I been in his place.”

Lady Seveley smiled, Frank thought the words presumptuous. “Who the devil would care to hear you talk--and that filthy accent.” And at that moment he remembered Lizzie Baker. Fletcher and Harding were now speaking to Lady Seveley, and taking advantage of the circumstance he slipped out, and, lighting a cigarette, entered the bar room. Behind the counter the young ladies stood in single file, and through odours of cigarettes and whisky their voices called “One coffee in order,” and the cry was passed on till it reached the still-room. Frank remembered having read a description of the place somewhere, he thought for a moment, and then he remembered that it was in one of Harding's novels. He could detect no difference in the loafers that leaned over the counter talking to the barmaids; they were dingy and dull, whereas the young men from the stalls of the theatre were black and white and clean; but the keenest eye could note nothing further, and a closer inspection showed that even a first division rested on no deeper basis than the chance of evening dress. Civilisation has given us all one face and mind. He walked to where Lizzie was serving; soldiers were ordering drinks of her, so he was obliged to apply to the next girl to her for his brandy and soda. He drank slowly, hoping her admirers would leave her, but one soldier was stationery, and this spot of red grew singularly offensive in Frank's eyes, from the clumsy, characterless boots, to the close-clipped hair set off with the monotonously jaunty cap. The man sprawled over the counter drinking a glass of porter. Frank tried to listen to what he was saying. Lizzie smiled, showing many beautifully shaped teeth, so beautifully shaped that they looked like sculpture. Behind her there were shelves charged with glasses and bottles, gilt elephants, and obelisks, a hideous decoration; she passed up and down with cups of coffee, she filled glasses from various taps, she saluted Frank.

“How are you this evening? Come to see the piece again?”

“Come to see you.”

“Get along; I don't believe you,” she said, and she passed back to her place, and continued talking to the soldier as steadily as her many occupations would allow her.

A few moments after the bell rang, and Frank went upstairs annoyed.

“Oh, so it is you; you have come back,” said Helen, turning; “sit down here. Nellie Farren has just sung such an exquisitely funny song; they have encored it; just listen to it, do,” and Helen fixed her opera glass on the actress. The light and shadow played about her neck andarm in beautiful variations, but noticing nothing, Frank leaned forward.

“Isn't it funny; isn't it delightfully funny?”

“Yes, it is funny.”

Having heard one song they listened to the rest of the act. “Now give me my cloak. Thank you, and now give me your arm.” Frank complied. “You will come home to Green Street with me, and have some supper?”

“I am afraid, I am sorry I can't; I must get home early to-night.”

“You have a key, you surely can get in at any hour.”

“Yes, but I am afraid--the fact is I am dreadfully tired.”

“Oh, just as you like.”

Then at the end of an irritating silence, “I am afraid you will have to wait, I do not think I shall be able to get your carriage yet awhile; in a few minutes this crowd will disperse. No use getting crushed to death! What became of Harding and Fletcher? Did they remain long with you?”

“No, not very, they went away just before you came. There is Mr. Harding. How did you like the piece, Mr. Harding?”

“I always enjoy these pieces, they are so conscientiously illiterate; what I can't bear is unconscientious illiterateness. Nellie Farren has caught something of the jangle of modern life; she has something of the freshness of the music-hall about her that appeals to me very sharply.”

“Do you like music-halls? I have always heard they were so vulgar.”

“Vulgarity is surely preferable to popularity. The theatre is merely popular.”

While Harding was thus exerting himself with epigram, Fletcher stood tall and slender, with a grey overcoat hanging over his arm, and his intense eyes fixed on Lady Seveley. His gaze troubled her, and when he withdrew his eyes she looked at him, anticipant and fearing. He spoke to her until Frank, feeling that he was receding out of all interest and attention, said abruptly, “If you will come now, Lady Seveley, I think I shall be able to get you your carriage. May I see you home?” he said, holding the door.

“No thank you, I will not take you out of your way. Go home at once and get rested, and come and see me one of these days; don't forget.” Lady Seveley smiled, but Frank felt that she was annoyed.

“I wonder if she wanted me to go home with her. That impertinent brute Fletcher daring to come up to speak to us! I was very nearly telling him to go and fetch the carriage.”

He pushed open the swinging doors with violence, nearly upsetting the fat porter. The bar was nearly empty, and he found Lizzie disengaged.

“You look very vexed. Has any one been pinching you?”

“I am not vexed.”

“What will you have to put you straight?”

“Well, that is a question. Let me see. I don't care about another brandy and soda, and if I have coffee it may keep me awake.”

“Have half milk.”

“Very well.” He hesitated, but the inclination to speak soon overpowered him. “I call it bad form, when you are with a lady for another fellow to come up and speak to her.”

“Three of Irish, miss.”

“Why, didn't he know her?”

“Of course he knew her, but that doesn't give him a right to come up and enter into a long conversation when I am with her. I wish I had knocked him down.”

“He might have knocked you down.”

“A glass of bitter, miss.”

“I should have had to take my chance of that. In London people don't seem to me to mind whom they speak to--a low-bred Irishman, who never spoke to a lady until he left his own country.”

“Oh! what a rage we are in.”

“No, I am not in a rage,” said Frank, who at that moment felt the folly of these confidences. “I don't care a hang. It isn't as if it were a woman I cared about. Had it been you--”

“Get along, don't you tell me.”

“I assure you I speak only in a general way, and you must admit that if you go out with a fellow it would not be nice of you to begin talking to some one else.”

“Oh! I never do that.”

“There, then you admit I was right, I was sure you would; I don't care a hang for the lady I was with, but I don't intend to allow any one to insult me. But I wonder how you can speak to soldiers.”

“They are no worse than the others. Besides, in our business we have to be polite to every one.”

“Polite, yes--but I wanted to speak to you, I came down from my box on purpose to speak to you, and I couldn't, you were so engaged with that soldier.”

“He was here before you; you would not like it if you were talking to me, and I were to rush off to speak to some one else.”

“One Scotch and three Irish, miss, and out of the bottle please, our friend here's most particular, he would like it in a thin glass, too--wouldn't you, Ted? and if he could have a go at that pretty mouth he would like it better still. A rare one after the ladies is Teddy. Aren't you, old chap?”

Full of scorn Frank watched this noisy group. Lizzie remained talking with them for some little time, and she did not return until he called to her twice for a cigar.

“How very impatient you are,” she said, handing him the box.

“You were talking to me, and you go away to talk to those cads.”

“I must serve the customers, you naughty man. You can't have me all to yourself. I believe you would like to.”