The Way of Ambition Part 37

"Were you? How nice of you."

She laid her cheek against his shoulder.

"You'll be able to work here?"

"Why not?"

"Let's shut the door, and just _feel_ the room for a minute."

"All right."

He shut the door.

"Don't let us speak for a moment," she whispered.

She was sitting now on the deep sofa just beyond the writing-table.

Claude stood quite still. And in the silence which followed her words he strove to realize whether he would be able to work in the little room.

Would anything come to him here? His eyes rested on Anchises, crouched on the back of his son, on the burning city of Troy. He felt confused, strange, and then _depayse_. That word alone meant what he felt just then. Ah, the little house with the one big room looking out on to the sc.r.a.p of garden, yellow-haired Fan, Harriet discreet unto dumbness, Mrs.

Searle with her sc.r.a.ps of wisdom--he with his freedom!

The room was a cage, wire bars everywhere. Never could he work in it!

"It is good for work, isn't it, Claudie? Even poor little I can feel that. What wonderful things you are going to do here. As wonderful as--"

She checked herself abruptly.

"As what?" he asked, striving to force an interest, to banish his secret desperation.

"I won't tell you now. Some day--in a year, two years--I'll tell you."

Her eyes shone. He thought they looked almost greedy.

"When my man's done something wonderful!"

CHAPTER XV

In Charmian's conception of the perfect helpmate for a great man self-sacrifice shone out as the first of the virtues. She must sacrifice herself to Claude, must regulate her life so that his might glide smoothly, without any friction, to the appointed goal. She must be patient, understanding, and unselfish. But she must also be firm at the right moment, be strong in judgment, be judicious, the perfect critic as well as the ardent admirer. During her life among clever and well-known men she had noticed how the mere fact of marriage often seems to make a man think highly of the intellect of his chosen woman. Again and again she had heard some distinguished writer or politician, wedded to somebody either quite ordinary, or even actually stupid, say: "I'd take my wife's judgment before anyone's," or "My wife sees more clearly for a man than anyone I know." She had known painters and sculptors submit their works to the criticism of women totally ignorant in the arts, simply because those women had had the faultless taste to marry them. If such women exercised so strong an influence over their men, what should hers be over Claude? For she had been well educated, was trained in music, had always moved in intellectual and artistic sets, and was certainly not stupid. Indeed, now that the main stream of her life was divided from her mother's, she often felt as if she were decidedly clever. Susan Fleet, long ago, had roused up her will. Since that day she had never let it sleep. And her success in marrying Claude had made her rely on her will, rely on herself. She was a girl who could "carry things through," a girl who could make of life a success. As a young married woman she showed more of a.s.surance than she had showed as an unmarried girl. There was more of decision in her expression and her way of being. She was resolved to impress the world, of course for her husband's sake.

Life in the house in Kensington had to be arranged for Claude with every elaborate precaution. That must be the first move in the campaign secretly planned out by Charmian, and now about to be carried through.

On the morning after the house-warming, when a late breakfast was finished, but while they were still at the breakfast-table in the long and narrow dining-room, which looked out on the quiet square, Charmian said to her husband:

"I've been speaking to the servants, Claude. I've told them about being very quiet to-day."

He pushed his tea-cup a little away from him.

"Why?" he asked. "I mean why specially to-day?"

"Because of your composing. Alice is a good girl, but she is a little inclined to be noisy sometimes. I've spoken to her seriously about it."

Alice was the parlor-maid. Charmian would have preferred to have a man to answer the door, but she had sacrificed to economy, or thought she had done so, by engaging a woman. As Claude said nothing, Charmian continued:

"And another thing! I've told them all that you're never to be disturbed when you're in your own room, that they're never to come to you with notes, or the post, never to call you to the telephone. I want you to feel that once you are inside your own room you are absolutely safe, that it is sacred ground."

"Thank you, Charmian."

He pushed his cup farther away, with a movement that was rather brusque, and got up.

"What about lunch to-day? Do you eat lunch when you are composing? Do you want something sent up to you?"

"Well, I don't know. I don't think I shall want any lunch to-day. You see we've breakfasted late. Don't bother about me."

"It isn't a bother. You know that, Claudie. But would you like a cup of coffee, tea, anything at one o'clock?"

"Oh, I scarcely know. I'll ring if I do."

He made a movement. Charmian got up.

"I do long to know what you are going to work on," she said, in a changed, almost mysterious, voice, which was not consciously a.s.sumed.

She came up to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

"Ever since I first heard your music--you remember, two days after we were engaged--I've longed to be able to do a little something to help you on. You know what I mean. In the woman's way, by acting as a sort of buffer between you and all the small irritations of life. We who can't create can sometimes be of use to those who can. We can keep others from disturbing the mystery. Let me do that. And, in return, let me be in the secret, won't you?"

Claude stood rather stiffly under her hands.

"You are kind, good. But--but don't make any bother about me in the house. I'd rather you didn't. Let everything just go on naturally. I don't want to be a nuisance."

"You couldn't be. And you will let me?"

"Perhaps--when I know it myself."

He made a little rather constrained laugh.

"One's got to think, try. One doesn't always know directly what one wishes to do, can do."

"No, of course not."

She took away her hands gently.

"Now I don't exist till you want me to again."

Claude went up to the little room at the back of the house. At this moment he would gladly, thankfully, have gone anywhere else. But he felt that he was expected to go there. Five women, his wife and the four maids, expected him to go there. So he went. He shut himself in, and remained there, caged.

It was a still and foggy day of frost. In the air, even within the house, there was a feeling of snow, light, thin, and penetrating. London seemed peculiarly silent. And the silence seemed to have something to do with the fog, the frost, and the coming snow. When the door of his room was shut Claude stood by his table, then before the fire, feeling curiously empty headed, almost light headed. He stared at the fire, listened to its faint crackling, and felt as if his life were a hollow sh.e.l.l.