Tenterhooks Part 27

Bruce didn't hear the last words, for he was flying out of the door.

Miss Argles was walking very slowly; he joined her.

'Pardon me,' he said, raising his hat. 'It's so very hot--am I going your way? Would you allow me to see you home?'

'Oh, you're very kind, I'm sure,' she said sadly. 'But I don't think--I live at Ravenscourt Park.'

Bruce thought there was plenty of time.

'Why how very curious! That's just where I was going,' said he boldly.

He put up his stick. Instead of a taxi a hansom drove up. Bruce hailed it.

'Always like to give these chaps a turn when I can,' he said. It would take longer.

'How kind-hearted you are,' murmured the girl. 'But I'd really rather not, thank you.'

'Then how shall you get back?'

'Walk to the Tube.'

'Oh no; it's far too hot. Let me drop you, as I'm going in your direction.'

He gave her a rather fixed look of admiration, and smiled. She gave a slight look back and got into the cab.

'What ripping red hair,' said Bruce to himself as he followed her.

Before the end of the drive, which for him was a sort of adventure, Mavis had promised to meet Bruce when she left her Art School next Tuesday at a certain tea-shop in Bond Street.

Bruce went home happy and in good spirits again. There was no earthly harm in being kind to a poor little girl like this. He might do a great deal of good. She seemed to admire him. She thought him so clever.

Funny thing, there was no doubt he had the gift; women liked him, and there you are. Look at Miss Mooney at the Mitch.e.l.ls' the other day, why, she was ever so nice to him; went for him like one o'clock; but he gave her no encouragement. Edith was there. He wouldn't worry her, dear girl.

As he came towards home he smiled again. And Edith, dear Edith--she, too, must be frightfully keen on him, when one came to think about it, to forgive him so readily about Margaret Tow--Oh, confound Miss Townsend. This girl was a picture, a sort of Rossetti, and she had had such trouble lately--terrible trouble. The man she had been devoted to for years had suddenly thrown her over, heartlessly.... What a brute he must have been! She was going to tell him all about it on Tuesday. That man must have been a fiend!...

'Holloa, Vincy! So glad you're still here. Let's have dinner, Edie.'

CHAPTER XXIII

At Lady Everard's

Lady Everard was sitting in her favourite att.i.tude at her writing-table, with her face turned to the door. She had once been photographed at her writing-table, with a curtain behind her, and her face turned to the door. The photograph had appeared in _The Queen, The Ladies' Field, The Sketch, The Taller, The Bystander, Home Chat, Home Notes, The Woman at Home_, and _Our Stately Homes of England_. It was a favourite photograph of hers; she had taken a fancy to it, and therefore she always liked to be found in this position. The photo had been called: 'Lady Everard at work in her Music-Room.'

What she was supposed to be working at, heaven only knew; for she never wrote a line of anything, and even her social notes and invitation cards were always written by her secretary.

As soon as a visitor came in, she rose from the suspiciously clean writing-table, put down the dry pen on a spotless blotter, went and sat in a large brocaded arm-chair in front of some palms, within view of the piano, and began to talk. The music-room was large, splendid and elaborately decorated. There was a frieze all round, representing variously coloured and somewhat shapeless creatures playing what were supposed to be musical instruments. One, in a short blue skirt, was blowing at something; another in pink drapery (who squinted) was strumming on a lyre; other figures were in white, with their mouths open like young birds preparing to be fed by older birds. They represented Harmony in all its forms. There were other attempts at the cla.s.sical in the decoration of the room; but Lady Everard herself had reduced this idea to bathos by huge quant.i.ties of signed photographs in silver frames, by large waste-paper baskets, lined with blue satin and trimmed with pink rosettes, by fans which were pockets, stuffed cats which were paperweights, oranges which were pincus.h.i.+ons, and other debris from those charitable and social bazaars of which she was a constant patroness.

With her usual curious combination of weak volubility and decided laying-down of the law, she was preparing to hold forth to young La France (whom she expected), on the subject of Debussy, Edvina, Marcoux, the appalling singing of all his young friends, his own good looks, and other subjects of musical interest, when Mr Cricker was announced.

She greeted him with less eagerness, if less patronage, than her other protege, but graciously offered him tea and permitted a cigarette.

Lady Everard went in for being at once _grande dame_ and Bohemian. She was truly good-natured and kind, except to rivals in her own sphere, but when jealous she was rather redoubtable.

'I'm pleased to see you, my dear Willie,' she said; 'all the more because I hear Mrs Mitch.e.l.l has taken Wednesdays now. Not _quite_ a nice thing to do, I think; although, after all, I suppose we could hardly really clash. True, we _do_ happen to know a few of the same people.' (By that Lady Everard meant she had s.n.a.t.c.hed as many of Mrs Mitch.e.l.l's friends away as she thought desirable.) 'But as a general rule I suppose we're not really in the same set. But perhaps you're going on there afterwards?'

That had been Mr Clicker's intention, but he denied it, with surprise and apparent pain at the suspicion.

She settled down more comfortably.

'Ah, well, Mrs Mitch.e.l.l is an extremely nice, hospitable woman, and her parties are, I know, considered _quite_ amusing, but I do think--I really do--that her husband carries his practical jokes and things a _little_ too far. It isn't good form, it really isn't, to see a man of his age, with his face blacked, coming in after dinner with a banjo, calling himself the Musical White-eyed Kaffir, as he did the last time I was there. I find it _deplace_--that's the word, _deplace_. He seemed to think that we were all children at a juvenile party! I was saying so to Lord Rye only last night. Lord Rye likes it, I think, but he says Mr Mitch.e.l.l's mad--that's what it is, a little mad. Last time Lord Rye was there everybody had a present given them hidden in their table napkins.

There had been some mistake in the parcels, I believe, and Miss Mooney--you know, the actress, Myra Mooney--received a safety razor, and Lord Rye a vanity bag. Everybody screamed with laughter, but I must say it seemed to me rather silly. I wasn't there myself.'

'I was,' said Mr Cricker. 'I got a very pretty little feather fan. I suppose the things really had been mixed up, and after all I was very glad of the fan; I was able to give it to--' He stopped, sighed and looked down on the floor.

'And is that affair still going on, Willie dear? It seems to me _such_ a pity. I _do_ wish you would try and give it up.'

'I know, but she _won't_,' he said in a voice hoa.r.s.e with anxiety.

'Dear Lady Everard, you're a woman of the world, and know everything--'

She smiled. 'Not everything, Willie; a little of music, perhaps. I know a good voice when I hear it. I have a certain _flair_ for what's going to be a success in that direction, and of course I've been everywhere and seen everything. I've a certain natural knowledge of life, too, and keep well up to date with everything that's going on. I knew about the Hendon Divorce Case long before anyone else, though it never came off after all, but that's not the point. But then I'm so discreet; people tell me things. At any rate, I always _know_.'

Indeed, Lady Everard firmly believed herself to be a great authority on most subjects, but especially on contemporary gossip. This was a delusion. In reality she had that marvellous talent for not knowing things, that gift for ignorance, and genius for inaccuracy so frequently seen in that cultured section of society of which she was so popular and distinguished a member. It is a talent that rarely fails to please, particularly in a case like her own. There is always a certain satisfaction in knowing that a woman of position and wealth, who plumes herself on her early knowledge and special information, is absolutely and entirely devoid of the one and incorrect in the other. A marked ignorance in a professionally well-informed person has always something touching and appealing to those who are able, if not willing, to set that person right. It was taken for granted among her acquaintances, and probably was one of the qualities that endeared her to them most, that dear Lady Everard was generally positive and always wrong.

'Yes, I do know most things, perhaps,' she said complacently. 'And one thing I know is that this woman friend of yours is making you perfectly miserable. You're longing to shake it off. Ah, I know you! You've far more real happiness in going to the opera with me than even in seeing her, and the more she pursues you the less you like it. Am I not right?'

'Yes, I suppose so. But as a matter of fact, Lady Everard, if she didn't--well--what you might call make a dash for it, I shouldn't worry about her at all.'

'Men,' continued Lady Everard, not listening, 'only like coldness; coldness, reserve. The only way in the world to draw a man on is to be always out to him, or to go away, and never even let him hear your name mentioned.'

'I daresay there's a lot in that,' said Cricker, wondering why she did not try that plan with young La France.

'Women of the present day,' she continued, growing animated, 'make such a terrible, terrible mistake I What do they do when they like a young man? Oh, I know! They write to him at his club; they call at his rooms and leave messages; they telephone whenever they can. The more he doesn't answer their invitations the more they invite him. It's appalling! And what's the result? Men are becoming cooler and cooler-- as a cla.s.s, I mean. Of course, there are exceptions. But it's such a mistake of women to run after the few young men there are. There are such a tremendous lot of girls and married women nowadays, there are so many more of them.'

'Well, perhaps that's why they do it,' said Cricker rather stupidly.

'At any rate--oh, well, I know if my friend hadn't been so jolly nice to me at first and kept it up so--oh, well, you know what I mean--kept on keeping on, if I may use the expression, I should have drifted away from her ages ago. Because, you see, supposing I'm beginning to think about something else, or somebody else, she doesn't stand it; she won't stand it. And the awkward part is, you see, her being _on_ the stage _and_ married makes the whole thing about as awkward as a case of that sort can possibly be.'

'I would not ask you her name for the world,' said Lady Everard smoothly. 'Of course I know she's a beautiful young comedy actress, or is it tragedy? I wonder if I could guess her first name? Will you tell me if I guess right?' She looked arch.

'Oh, I say, I can't tell you who it is, Lady Everard; really not.'

'Only the first name? I don't _want_ you to tell me; I'm discretion itself, I prefer not to know. The Christian name is not Margaretta, is it? Ah! no, I thought not. It's Irene Pettifer! There, I've guessed.

The fact is, I always knew it, my dear boy. Your secret is safe with me. I'm the tomb! I--'

'Excuse me, Lady Everard,' said Cricker, with every sign of annoyance, 'it's no more Irene Pettifer than it's you yourself. Please believe me.

First of all I don't _know_ Irene Pettifer; I've never even seen her photograph--she's not young, not married, and an entirely different sort of person.'

'What did I tell you? I knew it wasn't; I only said that to draw you.