Bird of Paradise Part 34

Miss Belvoir's brother, Fred, often declared that when he came home late, which he generally did--between six and nine in the morning were his usual hours--he always had to stop himself from getting a gun, and he was afraid that some day he might lose his self-control and be tempted to shoot the parrots. He was an excellent shot.

The room was full of low bookcases crammed with books, and large fat cus.h.i.+ons on the floor. They looked extremely comfortable, but as a matter of fact n.o.body ever liked sitting on them. When English people once overcame their natural shyness so far as to sit down on them, they were afraid they would never be able to get up again.

Three or four people were dotted about the room, but no one had ventured on the cus.h.i.+ons. There was one young lady whose hair was done in the early Victorian style, parted in the middle, with bunches of curls each side. As far as her throat she appeared to be strictly a Victorian--very English, about 1850--but from that point she suddenly became Oriental, and for the rest was dressed princ.i.p.ally in what looked like beaded curtains.

Leaning on the mantelpiece and smoking a cigarette with great ease of manner was a striking and agreeable-looking young man, about eight and twenty, whom Miss Belvoir introduced as Mr. Bevan Fairfield. He was fair and good-looking, very dandified in dress, and with a rather humorously turned-up nose and an excessively fluent way of speaking.

"I was just scolding Miss Belvoir," he said, "when you came in. She's been playing me the trick she's always playing. She gets me here under the pretext that some celebrity's coming and then they don't turn up.

Signor Semolini, the Futurist, I was asked to meet. And then she gets a telegram--or says she does--that he can't come. Very odd, very curious, they never can come--at any rate when I'm here. Some people would rather say, 'Fancy, I was asked to Miss Belvoir's the other day to meet Semolini, only he didn't turn up,' than not say anything at all. Some people think it's a distinction not to have met Semolini at Miss Belvoir's."

"It's quite a satisfactory distinction," remarked Bertha. "Semolini has been to see us once, but he really isn't very interesting."

"Ah, but still you're able to say that. I sha'n't be able to say, 'I met Semolini the other day, and, do you know, he's such a disappointment.'"

"Well, I couldn't help it, Bevan," murmured Miss Belvoir, smiling.

"No, I know you couldn't help it. Of course you couldn't help it. That's just it--you never expected the man. I went to lunch with another liar last week--I beg your pardon, Miss Belvoir--who asked me to meet Duse.

She was so sorry she couldn't come at the last minute. She sent a telegram. Well, all I ask is, let me see the telegram."

"But you couldn't; he 'phoned," objected Miss Belvoir.

"So you _say_," returned the young man, as he pa.s.sed a cup of tea to Bertha.

"Will you have China tea and lemon and be smart, or India tea and milk and sugar and enjoy it? I don't mind owning that I like stewed tea--I like a nice comfortable washer-woman's cup of tea myself. Well, I suppose we're all going to the Indian ball at the Albert Hall. What are you all going as? I suppose Miss Belvoir's going as a nautch-girl, or a naughty girl or something."

"I'm going as a Persian dancer," said Miss Belvoir.

"I'm not going as anything," said Bertha. "I hate fancy b.a.l.l.s. One takes such a lot of trouble and then people look only at their own dresses. If you want to dress up for yourself, you'd enjoy it just as much if you dressed up alone, I think."

"Well, of course it's not so much fun for women," said Mr. Fairfield.

"You are always more or less in fancy dress; it's no change for you. But for us it is fun. The last one I went to I had a great success as a forget-me-not. Miss Belvoir and I met an elephant, an enormous creature, galumphing along, knocking everybody down, and wasn't it clever of me? I recognised it! 'Good heavens!' I exclaimed, 'this must be the Mitch.e.l.ls!' And so it turned out to be. Mr. Mitch.e.l.l was one leg, Mrs.

Mitch.e.l.l the other, two others were their great friends and their little nephew was the trunk. Frightfully uncomfortable, but they did attract a great deal of attention. They nearly died of the stuffiness, but they took a prize. My friend Linsey usually takes a prize, though he always contrives some agonising torture for himself. The last time he was a letter-box, and he was simply dying of thirst and unable to move.

I saved his life by pouring some champagne down the slit for the letters, on the chance. Another friend of mine who was dressed in a real suit of armour had to be lifted into the taxi, and when he arrived home he couldn't get out. When he at last persuaded the cabman to carry him to his door--it was six o'clock in the morning--the man said, 'Oh, never mind, sir, we've had gentlemen worse than this!' And the poor fellow hadn't had a single drop or crumb the whole evening, because his visor was down and he couldn't move his arm to lift it up. If you went as anything, Mrs. Kellynch, you ought to be a China Shepherdess. I never saw anyone so exactly like one."

"And what ought I to go as?" asked Madeline.

"You would look your best as a Florentine page," replied Mr. Fairfield.

"Or both of you would look very nice as late Italians."

"I'm afraid we shall be late Englishwomen unless we go now," said Bertha. "I can only stay a very few minutes to-day, Miss Belvoir."

They persuaded her to remain a little longer, and Mr. Fairfield continued to chatter on during the remainder of their visit. He did not succeed in persuading them to join in making up the party for the Indian ball.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

MARY'S PLAN

Mary was so terrified that Nigel might keep his threat altogether and really leave her permanently that she made less opposition than he expected. She felt instinctively that it was her only chance of getting him back. She could see when he really meant a thing, and this time it was evident he intended to follow out his scheme, and she could not help reflecting that it might have been very much worse. How much more angry many husbands might have been! On the whole she had been let off fairly lightly. There was this much of largeness in Nigel's nature that he could not labour a point, or nag, or scold, or bully. He was really shocked and disgusted, besides being very angry at what she had done, and he did not at all like to dwell on it. He was even grateful that she spared him discussions of the subject, and sincerely thankful that she had admitted it. All men with any generosity in their temperament are disarmed by frankness, and most irritated by untruth. He wondered at her daring, and when she humbly owned she saw how dreadful it was--that she saw it in the right light and would never be tempted to do anything of the sort again--he was glad to forgive her. But he wanted to go away and forget it, and he certainly made up his mind to make the whole affair an excuse for having more freedom. He had never been away without her for more than a day, and he looked forward to it with great pleasure. He determined to let his journey help to cure him of his pa.s.sion for Bertha, though it seemed at present an almost impossible task.

He was resolved to strike when the iron was hot, and to get away while she was in this docile mood. She was gentle and quiet and seemed very unhappy, but made no objections to his plans; she would not, perhaps, have minded his leaving her for a day or two, since she felt uncomfortable and in the wrong, but she dreaded his being away for weeks. He said he would join Rupert at Venice; and this she rather preferred, as Rupert was known to be a quiet, steady, studious young man.

But when the last moment came and the packed trunks were put on the cab, he had said good-bye to her and the children and that last terrible bang of the hall door resounded in her heart, she could not look out of the window in her usual place. She had felt the agony known to all loving hearts, the conviction that a traveller is already at a distance before he goes. He is no longer with her when his thoughts are with stations and tickets--indeed the real parting is long before he starts. Then the unconscious sparkle of pleasure in his eyes as he imagines himself away!

He had gone already before he went; she did not want to see the last of him. She went up to her room and locked the door, and threw herself on the sofa in a terrible fit of despair and jealousy. Jealousy still, that was her great fear of his going away. He would forget her and be unfaithful, she thought. ...

She suffered terribly that evening, and the next day resolved to take a somewhat singular step. If she had been doing Bertha an injustice, as it seemed, if Bertha was not seeing him at all, why should she not go and see her? She felt instinctively that besides getting the truth out of her, and perhaps apologising for what had happened at the party, Bertha might give her some advice. Everyone said she was so kind and clever.

She decided not to write, but she rang up on the telephone and asked if Bertha would receive her at three o'clock. She felt a strange curiosity, a longing to see her. She received the answer, Mrs. Kellynch would be delighted to see her at any time in the afternoon.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

PRIVATE FIREWORKS AT THE PICKERINGS'

"I say, Clifford, when is your birthday?" This momentous question was asked of Clifford with the liveliest interest by Cissy Pickering, a remarkably pretty little girl of about his own age.

They were in the gigantic and gorgeous apartment set apart as a playroom for the young Pickerings in Hamilton Place, Park Lane, and arranged partly as a gymnasium--it had all the necessities--partly as a schoolroom. It contained a magnificent dolls' house fitted up with Louis Quinze furniture and illuminated with real electric light; a miniature motor car in which two small people could drive themselves with authentic petrol round and round the polished floor; a mechanical rocking-horse; a miniature billiard-table and croquet set; a gramophone; cricket on the hearth, roller-skates; a pianola, and countless other luxuries.

Decorated by ill.u.s.trations of fairy tales on the walls, it was altogether a delightful room; made for all a child could want.

It is all very well to say that children are happier with mud pies and rag dolls than with these elaborate delights. There may be something in this theory, but when their amus.e.m.e.nts are carried to such a point of luxurious and imaginative perfection it certainly gives them great and even unlimited enjoyment at the time. Whether such indulgence and realisation of youthful dreams have a good effect on the character in later life is a different question. At any rate, to go to tea with the Pickerings was the dream of all their young friends and gave them much to think of and long for, while it gave to the young host and hostess immense gratification and material pride.

"My birthday? Oh, I don't know--oh, it's on the twenty-seventh May,"

said Clifford, who was far more shy of the young lady than of her mother.

"Fancy! Just fancy! and mine's on the twenty-eighth June! _Isn't_ it funny!"

Cissy was surprised at almost everything. It added to her popularity.

"Not particularly."

"Oh, Clifford!"

"You must be born some time or other, I mean," he said, wriggling his head and twisting his feet, as he did when he felt embarra.s.sed. Miss Pickering made him feel embarra.s.sed because she asked so many direct personal questions, seemed so interested and surprised at everything, and volunteered so much private--but, it seemed to him, unimportant--information.

"My name is Cecilia Muriel Margaret Pickering. My birthday's on the twenty-eighth June, and Eustace's birthday is on the fifteenth February.

Isn't it funny?"

"No, not at all," said Clifford.

"His name is Eustace Henry John Pickering, after father. At least John's after father and Henry's after grandpapa--I mean, mummy's father, you know. Eustace is just a fancy name--a name mummy thought of. Do you like it?"