to her surprise claudia found that the assembled company included her father and mother-in-law. mrs. rivington’s set was absolutely antipodal to lady currey’s, but as the general was an old friend of sir john’s lady currey occasionally and stiffly countenanced the wife. since her marriage, the intercourse between claudia and gilbert’s family had been of the most formal description, for lady currey found nothing to like in claudia, and her daughter-in-law realized that she was taken on sufferance.
“so i shall not see my dear son to-night,” said the elder woman, as she presented a frosty cheek for claudia to kiss. “it is a disappointment.” she looked with sideways disapproval at claudia’s toilette. “as showy as her mother,” was her mental comment.
“you knew he was expected? he telephoned me at the last minute that he was detained at his chambers.”
lady currey’s eyebrows were of the fixture kind that cannot really be raised, only crumpled. she crumpled them now.
“ah! i remember when i was young no woman thought of going out without her husband. if john did not care to go to a function i stayed away. when he[115] had that fall from his horse i never took a meal outside the house for five months.”
claudia would have explained to anyone else that her hostess had insisted on her presence, and thus have soothed down old-fashioned prejudices, but lady currey’s tone annoyed her.
“oh!” she said carelessly, “women are neither treated as children nor inmates of a harem nowadays. we have progressed, you know. women are freeing themselves. did you never revolt in your heart of hearts?”
“my pleasure was always to do as my husband wished.”
“what is that about me?” said sir john, coming up to them. “how do you do, claudia. i am sorry gilbert is not able to come. but it shows the right spirit. i inculcated that into him when he was a boy.”
he looked at claudia fixedly under his heavy, bushy eyebrows. they always annoyed claudia, who longed to tell him to brush them. she knew the meaning of that look. it was to remind her that she had so far failed to provide him with a grandson.
“then the responsibility rests with you,” said claudia quietly.
“what do you mean? what responsibility? we are proud of him.”
“‘all work and no play——’” claudia began to quote, when he interrupted her.
“pooh! that was invented by some lazy rogue, i bet. work never yet hurt any man. it’s play—late hours, too rich food and too much drink—that plays old harry with the constitution. i impressed that on him early in life. marian, don’t fidget with your fan”—she carried an old-fashioned fan of black ostrich feathers—“it worries me. the husband to work and the wife to look after the house and the children, that is the proper division. you leave gilbert alone, and don’t worry him to come to silly dinner-parties. i’m getting on in years, and[116] it doesn’t matter about me. he’s carrying the name to the country. the youngest k.c.—it’ s a thing to be proud of in a husband, claudia.” he fixed his rather prominent cold grey eyes on her as she lightly shrugged her shoulders.
but her hostess fluttered up to her rescue. mrs. rivington never walked like other people, she always floated or fluttered.
“mrs. currey, may i present to you mr. littleton, who will take you in to dinner. it was too bad of your husband to desert us. but he is impervious to the charms of women, isn’t he?”
“obviously not,” said the tall, almost gaunt, fair-haired man who bowed before her. claudia knew by the accent that he was an american. “your husband is the new k.c., is he not? king’s counsel—it has a dignified but archaic sound to our ears.”
“don’t,” cried mrs. rivington shrilly, gauging in ten seconds the probable cost of claudia’s dress. “i’m an imperialist, and i wave flags and put up bunting and do all sorts of loyal things, and the red on a union jack doesn’t agree with my complexion, so i really am quite genuine and what-you-may-call-it. don’t run down the king to me.” she fluttered off, her eyes roving restlessly over the couples she was pairing.
left together, claudia and the american smiled. he was the type of american that suggests the mettlesome racehorse, lean-flanked, long-limbed, not a spare ounce of flesh on his bones, relying on training and determination to carry him through the race. he was unusually fair, with a suggestion that he might have had a viking ancestor, yet there was nothing colourless about him. claudia wondered what he might be, millionaire, financier, hoping to become one, railroad magnate, what? she was sure he was a worker, it was written in every line of him.
“i am certain women like our hostess are really and[117] truly the props of your empire,” he said gravely. “the sacrifice of a complexion, what can compare with it? sons, lands, money—what can touch it?”
they both laughed as they moved in to dinner. as claudia had predicted, mrs. rivington was spreading herself over frank hamilton. littleton caught the exchange of glances between him and his partner, and made a mental note. he was by way of studying englishwomen.
“are you here for long?” asked claudia, unfolding her serviette.
“maybe i’ll be here for six months or so. i know you are wondering what is my particular branch of money-making. i’m a publisher—littleton, robins and co., and we’re starting a branch over here as an experiment. i want to stay for a bit and direct it.”
her interest was aroused. everything to do with books had a fascination for her ever since colin paton had taught her to love them. and to her a publisher was not a merchant, a mere purveyor of books to the public, but something dedicated to the service of art. the glamour of the books was around the man who produced them. she knew of his firm as one that specialized in art books and good belles lettres. she had several books with his imprint on her shelves. so the talk flowed on smoothly after this happy opening, neither having to consider what they should say next to while away the dinner-hour. claudia found herself more interested than she had been for a long time at a dinner-table. he had not the delicate illuminating touch of colin paton, he lacked the subtleties of his imagination and sound classical scholarship, but he knew all the books of the day and was appreciative of the good in them.
towards the end of dinner he looked at her with a whimsical twinkle in his blue eyes and said, “i wonder if you will be amused or annoyed if i tell you something. i am not sure how an englishwoman takes such things.[118] personally i think the photograph of a beautiful woman should be public property, but i realize she may not.”
claudia turned a wondering face upon him.
“your photograph, in the shape of a coloured book-cover, has gone into every part of the united states, although”—with an appraisingly admiring glance—“the artist did not get your colouring correctly. he made your hair dead black and your skin and colouring too pink and commonplace.”
“but how——”
“it was like this. we were publishing a new book of henry roxton vanderling’s—you know him—and we wanted an attractive paper cover with a portrait of the heroine. i remember it was a very hot day when we were discussing the matter, and i told the artist i wanted something specially taking. i generally have the english illustrated papers sent out to me, and he was listlessly turning over the pages, when he struck your photograph. with a cry of ‘here it is—bully!’ he nabbed it. a few days later he brought me a coloured sketch suggested by your portrait. i have the original sketch framed in my office. are you offended?”
claudia laughed. it struck her as being humorous and something unusual in the way of introductions. and she was pleasantly aware, as any woman would be, of the compliment conveyed.
“i knew you the minute you came into the room, although i had forgotten your name. when you came in i said to myself, ‘vanderling’s “woman of the east!”’ i felt somehow we were already acquainted.”
“well, i think i ought to have a copy of the book.” said claudia promptly.
“sure. i’ll send you one to-morrow. i’m delighted you are amused, not angry. i took a big chance in telling you, but i had to.”
“you thought i’d find out and you’d better put the thing nicely, with the varnished side uppermost?”
[119]
he gave a hearty laugh. “well, you’ve guessed most of the truth. mrs. rivington spotted the resemblance, and as i come from the same country as george washington, i didn’t tell a lie.”
“no, it’s no good telling a lie when it is sure to be found out. only a good lie justifies the liar.”
mrs. rivington was collecting eyes by this time, and claudia rose. in the drawing-room, an apartment so crowded with furniture and bric-à-brac of various periods that it suggested a well-dusted shop in wardour street, her hostess seized on her.
“i was glad to see you getting on so well with mr. littleton. he wanted to meet you. he told you about the ‘woman of the east’? quite romantic, i think. he ought to fall in love with you.”
“to serve as an advertisement is hardly romantic, surely? i rank with the monkey advertising soap and a starved cat extolling a certain milk.”
“oh! how funny you are—and so cold and critical! now i should be thrilled. but you’re not a bit romantic, anyone can see that. oh! claudia, is it true about your brother?”
“my brother? what is it?” she wished mrs. rivington’s eyes would not wander so restlessly over her person.
“why don’t you know? they say he has married ‘the girlie girl!’”
“who on earth is ‘the girlie girl’?” laughed claudia, sipping her liqueur. “it sounds like a cross between a barrel organ and a seaside pier.”
“yes, doesn’t it? but don’t you know her—haven’t you seen her picture on the hoardings? she was playing at the pavilion last week. i don’t like her style myself, but i suppose most men would think her pretty. not, of course, that you can tell. paint goes such a long way, doesn’t it?”
“a music-hall artiste? what an absurd rumour!”
[120]
“are you sure it’s a rumour?” said her hostess, with a gleam of malice. “these girls are always entrapping rich young men, and i heard as a positive fact that the wedding took place at the registrar’s three weeks ago.”
“nonsense. jack amuses himself, but he wouldn’t do a thing like that. he’s an awful fool, but not such a fool as that.”
“well,” replied mrs. rivington, dabbing at her nose with a powder-puff; “i hope it’s not true, for your sake. fancy having a sister who calls herself ‘the girlie girl’! too awful to contemplate, isn’t it? thank goodness, i haven’t any children. i shouldn’t survive such a thing. i don’t believe in marrying out of your own class.” as the general had obviously married beneath him—it was rumoured that she had been employed as reception-clerk at an hotel—her scruples were understandable. “she figures on the hoardings in a sort of vivandière costume, and the men seem to admire her no end. but men always do admire such creatures. but really, claudia, i am afraid it is true. my sewing-maid knows one of her maids, and this girl told bertha in confidence that she went to the registrar’s with them, only nobody is to know at present. she heard all about the wedding-breakfast and the gallons of champagne and the flowers. these people live on champagne, i believe.”
claudia, though a little startled, hardly credited the story. at one time she had been afraid that jack would make some horrible mésalliance, but as the years had gone on and he had left the impressionable, callow stage behind him, she had ceased to feel any alarm. jack was an ass, but he was a conventional ass. once she hinted her fears to him, but he had taken the suggestion as such a deadly insult that she believed he realized the foolishness of such things. she remembered that he had proudly informed her that in the circle of “little ladies” he was nicknamed “the knowing kard,” and he gave her to understand that the nickname was not undeserved. every[121] now and then the family asked him when he was going to settle down and espouse some well-born, inexperienced girl, but jack invariably said airily that there was lots of time, and that a really nice wife would hamper a fellow horribly, and a third party was always such a nuisance. it was exceedingly unlikely that there was any foundation for mrs. rivington’s piece of gossip. claudia dismissed the idea with a laugh.
“jack has a large heart, if somewhat shallow,” she said lightly. “i don’t think i’ll worry about his wedding-present.”
“strange fascination these creatures have for men,” commented her hostess, glancing round to see that the other women were occupied. “never can understand it myself. how a man can fall in love with powder—several inches thick—and grease paint beats me. but men are so easily taken in, aren’t they? and of course we should be too proud to use their arts.”
claudia’s attention was wandering and her eyes were caught by a woman of about thirty-five, rather badly dressed, who did not seem to belong to the same galère as the other women. she was sitting apart, looking shy and a little uncomfortable. no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. claudia wondered who she could be. she had fine, expressive eyes and a sensitive mouth, and she could have been much better-looking had she been more fashionably dressed. mrs. rivington noticed the direction of her eyes.
“i do wish mrs. milton would look smarter,” she said rather irritably. “i hate réchaufféd dresses, don’t you? but she’s got a beautiful voice, and i thought she would amuse us after dinner. she and her husband are as poor as church mice. she can’t get any engagements. partly her dowdy dresses, i should think.”
“do you mean you have engaged her for the evening?” asked claudia.
“heavens, no! i give her a dinner in return for some[122] music. she wants to get known. it’s really doing her a kindness. i must go and talk to your mother-in-law now. she hates me, but i can see everyone else is tired of her. where are you going?”
“i am going to talk to mrs. milton.” claudia could not stand the sight of the solitary figure any longer, and she longed to tell her hostess what she thought of the practice of getting artistes to give their services for nothing. colin paton had opened her eyes to the injustice. she was filled with shame for the set which she represented, and she gave mrs. milton her most cordial smile—it could be very charming—as she sat down beside her.
“mrs. rivington tells me that you sing beautifully,” she said. “i am looking forward to hearing you. one so seldom hears music nowadays after dinner. it is usually that tiresome bridge.”
the woman flushed with pleasure; she had a fine skin that coloured easily. they were the first friendly words that had been addressed to her that evening, for she had been taken in to dinner by a deaf old major.
“how nice of you,” she said involuntarily. she had been admiring claudia all the evening. “i do hope i am in good voice, but my little boy has an attack of bronchitis and i was up with him most of the night. and when you are a little tired——”
claudia nodded sympathetically. “i know. it takes all the fullness and timbre out of the voice, doesn’t it? must you nurse your little boy yourself?” she noticed that the singer’s voice was infinitely more refined than that of her hostess, which had an unmistakable cockney twang.
“yes, we can’t afford a nurse,” said mrs. milton simply. “you see, my husband lost all his money two years ago. that’s why i come out to sing. when we were married i gave it up to please him, but now i want to help keep the house going.” the kind and real interest in claudia’s eyes warmed her to unwonted loquacity.
“and you have a little boy?”
[123]
“i have three children, two boys and a girl. they are such darlings.” her eyes lit up and the whole face was transformed to something almost beautiful in its brooding motherliness. “the boys are just like my husband, so plucky and good-tempered. oh! they are worth fighting for. we say that every night when we tip-toe into their room and see they are all right for the night. children make all the difference, don’t they?”
“i—i suppose they do.” claudia could visualize the picture of the man and woman, tired and anxious, looking with love and hope at their sleeping children and feeling that they made all the difference. she looked across at the chattering groups scattered about the room, most of the women, like her hostess, childless or having only one child. scraps of their conversation punctuated mrs. milton’s words. “i assure you, kitty, she lost eighty pounds in two rubbers, and everyone knows she can’t afford it. who pays her debts? i should like to know, and....” “her bill, my dear, was outrageous. she charged me twenty-two guineas for that little muslin frock, and then....” “—entirely new method of treating the complexion. no creams, only massage with....”
“you have none yet?” said mrs. milton gently.
“no ... but a husband counts also, doesn’t he?”
“oh, yes! rob is the best husband in the world. perhaps i love the boys so much because they are like him. he hates my having to sing again. you know how a man feels when his wife has to work, and he hoped to give me an easy time. but he’s working in the city all day, and i’d like to do something too. oh, yes! rob is splendid. i should think he did count.” a woman’s voice broke in shrilly: “i simply adore my dogs. wouldn’t be parted from them. don’t enjoy my meals unless they are with me and....”
claudia and mrs. milton looked at one another, and the mother-woman smiled. “isn’t it a pity?” she said.
“tell me where you live,” responded claudia. “i shall[124] want someone to sing at a little dinner i am giving soon. i will not encourage these dull bridge evenings. will you sing for me?... ah! here come the men.”
frank hamilton came straight across to her and commenced to talk, apparently not noticing her companion, who drew a little away, as though feeling she was not wanted any longer. but claudia interrupted hamilton’s rather ardent words and said, “mrs. milton, was mr. hamilton introduced to you?” he was forced to turn a little, and claudia noticed that mrs. milton bowed with a little embarrassment.
“i think mr. hamilton has forgotten me,” she replied quietly. “we were acquainted in our youth.”
“were you?” claudia looked at him in surprise, for she had been watching him all the evening out of the corner of her eyes, while apparently oblivious of his existence—a womanish trick—and she had not seen him speak to her. when hamilton spoke it was rather stiffly.
“i did not see you before, mrs. milton.” it was a stupid fib, and claudia noted it. “how do you do? yes, in our salad days we used to warble duets together, didn’t we?” the geniality of the last words was rather forced. claudia divined that he did not want those days recalled. the obvious reason momentarily occurred to her, but a glance at mrs. milton dissipated it. also, she was several years older than hamilton. hamilton had once confessed that he could never fall in love with a plain woman, and margaret milton would never be beautiful except to the man who loved her.
“i had hoped i should sit next to you,” he said in an undertone. mrs. milton had moved away to the piano. “it was too bad, and i couldn’t even see you properly because of that beastly erection in the middle.”
“oh! you were quite happy. you seemed to get on quite well with your hostess. who was that dark-complexioned lady next to you, with some truly wonderful diamonds?”
[125]
“mrs. jacobs, the wife of a south african millionaire. she told me that herself and that she was a widow!”
“ha! ha! do we want to sit for a dusky portrait?”
“don’t....” he tried to look very hurt, but it was not so successful as earlier in the evening. the dinner had been quite good and the champagne better. hamilton’s eyes were a little too bright to look very grieved.
“did she not give you a commission?”
“well, what if she did? why do you always sneer at me. and it’s your portrait i want to paint. what do i care for her commission, even if it is a lucrative one. parchment and diamonds—ugh! tell me, when will you come again to the studio?”
“hush, mrs. milton is going to sing. you must remain absolutely quiet.”
the first notes of brahms’ “sapphische ode” throbbed through the inharmonious room. margaret milton had the deep, pure contralto that makes the listener think of all things tender and true and intimate, the things that no man or woman says, even to his twin soul, but sometimes in the watches of the night whispers to the shadows. and the shadows enfold them and carry them away into the hinterland beyond the setting of the sun, with the poignant tears and the imperishable kisses, the pain and the joy and the passion of mortals.
the timbre of the voice was singularly sympathetic and emotional, and claudia instantly fell under its enchantment. somehow she felt that the woman was singing to her, guiding her, pleading with her. she sang several times, and then, after “still wie die nacht” by claudia’s request, she began to sing a song that always made claudia’s heart throb and ache intolerably. her throat swelled and burned on this night, and the tears waited on her eyelids. she forgot the indifferent, politely bored company, as she listened to the exquisite strains of that wonderful love-song, “ich liebe dich.”
and this plain, dowdy woman knew the real meaning[126] of that song. only a woman who knew the joy and the pain of love could have sung it as she sang it. the cry of love rang through the room like a clear clarion call. even the people who had wanted to play bridge felt it and looked vaguely uncomfortable. for a moment they were lured from their money-bags. the call was so clear that it penetrated the cotton-wool of everyday life.
claudia found herself looking at the shabby woman at the piano with fierce envy. once, she, claudia, had thought she knew, once her heart had triumphantly chanted “ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich,” like an eternal refrain. once? was it all quite over? something stirred within her, something touched her cold heart like the rosy finger of hope. once! perhaps she and gilbert had only drifted apart, perhaps she had not made due allowances for the inarticulate, more prosaic, unemotional nature of man. she had loved him very much—she did love him still, if only——
there was a bowl of red roses at her elbow. she did not notice them, but perhaps it was their perfume that mounted to her brain and brought back the remembrance just then of the garden at wargrave, when she had questioned gilbert and asked him if he had really loved her.... he had promised she should always come first ... she was right to demand that ... he had said that he was not good at pretty speeches and that she must take some things for granted ... that men were different from women.... her blood tingled in her veins as she felt in imagination again the fierce pressure of his arms around her, his kisses on her lips. surely he had really loved her then, she reiterated to herself. she knew more now than she did then. she had been initiated into the mysteries of life and death. she had begun to realize how large a part mere animal passion plays in a man’s life, how men take love (so called) where they find it, how “the worldly hopes men set their hearts upon” cheat women of their just dues, and leave them bankrupt. but[127] with the passionate echo of “ich liebe dich” in her ears, she felt she could not write that horrible word “finis” to this page of her life. perhaps she had been too exigeante, impatient; perhaps she could be more tactful now. eighteen months! why, it must be that she had not had time to master the game of love. their tastes were so different, perhaps that was partly the trouble. she remembered how he had talked her out of going to the enchanted palace at como and substituted a golfing honeymoon in scotland. but he had been very charming to her—humoring all her fancies, his own having been satisfied—he had made her feel that she had only to command and he would always obey love’s call. it had been an intoxication. was it all behind her? was love behind her for the rest of her life? no, she could not do without love. she had always wanted it, she had tasted its sweets, no, no, no! gilbert must love her again as he used to. he could not have entirely changed in eighteen months. he was at home probably. perhaps he was thinking of her, wanting her to come in——
she rose abruptly to her feet, filled with an uncontrollable blind desire for action, to pursue this elusive thing which seemed to have escaped from her hands.
but hamilton’s eyes fixed on her in surprise at her abrupt rising, drew her back to earth and the faded aubusson carpet on which she stood. he, too, had been moved by the music. his artistic pulses, so easily set beating, had responded to the call also. but his thoughts had been of the rather capricious woman by his side, the woman who so far had never listened to his words of love.
after his first surprise at her action, he came to the flattering conclusion that the music had warmed her heart towards him. an easy favourite with women, he did not doubt that she cared for him. he had always gained what he wanted, though he had never before aimed at such big game as claudia currey. but he was rapidly[128] becoming famous, he was sought after and flattered. women begged him to paint them on his own terms. he was not what he had been. mrs. milton knew what he had been. perhaps the game was not so difficult as he had begun to fear. he looked at her meaningly, with a rising sense of power, but she did not return his glance. that might be shyness.
he heard her make her adieux to their hostess, who protested at her going so early.
“it is only eleven o’clock.... i suppose you are going on somewhere else, you and”—markedly—“mr. hamilton.”
but her mother-in-law came to her rescue. “claudia is quite right. i daresay gilbert wants her. i know john is always fidgety when i am away from him.”
claudia did not laugh as she would have done half an hour previously. perhaps gilbert was wanting her. she wanted him to want her.
“mr. hamilton, you need not see me home. i can——”
“of course i am coming. good-bye, mrs. rivington, it has been a delightful evening. yes, i won’t forget about the portrait, mrs. jacobs.”
he followed claudia out into the hall, followed by mrs. milton with her roll of music.
“don’t you know i should come?” he whispered, not noticing her.
the maid helped claudia on with her cloak. mrs. milton was tucking herself—the maid, with the strange knowledge of the servants’ hall, did not trouble to help her—into a businesslike garment, long and warm. claudia heard her make some inquiry of one of the maids, and caught the words “last ’bus.”
frank came up to her at that moment, the dawning light of possession in his eyes, a subtle change in his manner.
“are you ready, madam?” he smiled to himself as he foresaw the long drive in the darkness, side by side in[129] the pleasant intimate warmth of the motor ... her hand would fall naturally into his and then....
“mrs. milton, can i not give you a lift in the motor?” her clear voice cut short his dreams. “where do you live? maida vale. oh! we can go that way quite easily. yes, i should like to take you home quickly to the bronchitisy child.”
only one of the maids, who giggled over it and mimicked him directly the hall-door was shut, saw the sudden scowl on hamilton’s brow, for claudia was bent on saving the tired woman an uncomfortable cold journey in the ’bus and mrs. milton was full of gratitude at the unexpected thoughtfulness.
“my! wasn’t that a sell for him,” said the pert parlour-maid. “thought he’d have a nice, cosy time with her all alone. but she wasn’t taking any. always does a man good to take him down a peg or two!”
