“Perfectly happy, dear.…”
“So am I,” said Henry contentedly.
So they were both happy. But a day or two later they were at odds again, and the reason for this was Adelaide’s discovery that she was not her husband’s only model.
4
Coming back from her morning’s shopping, Adelaide heard voices through the coach-house door: as she looked in they fell silent. Henry was standing before his easel, and over the bundle representing Moses in his basket stooped the red-haired slattern from Number 8.
“Come in,” said Henry at once. “This is your lady-in-waiting, who attends on Pharaoh’s daughter. My wife, Miss …”
He paused, evidently trying to remember the Blazer’s real name; in a husky, drawling voice she supplied it.
“Harriet O’Keefe.”
The two women looked at each other. Adelaide took in the buxom figure, the satiny skin, the flood of brazen hair. She said coldly, in the tone her mother used to a kitchen-maid, “How good of you, Harriet. I hope you won’t get tired, standing so still.”
The Blazer straightened her shoulders. There was something showy in the movement, a thrust forward of the bosom, that answered Adelaide’s tone. The latter turned away and mounted the steep iron steps and went indoors. It was an hour before Henry followed her; he came in with the virtuous air of a man who has put in a hard morning’s work.
“How much do you pay that woman?” asked Adelaide immediately.
“I don’t pay her. Modelling flatters her vanity, she does it for love.”
“I think she should be paid,” said Adelaide.
“Have we so much money to give away?”
“Otherwise we are accepting a favour from her.”
Henry grinned.
“Harriet’s favours aren’t expensive. I’ll stand her a drink at the Cock.”
“I would rather pay her myself. I will pay her, at the usual rate.”
“Then you owe her three and sixpence.”
Adelaide took her purse and went down into the Mews again. The Blazer was strolling towards the public-house; as she reached its door she turned; she was looking back at the Lamberts’ windows, and when she saw Adelaide she paused. So did Adelaide. For the moment, the incident was suddenly familiar; she suddenly remembered a morning, over ten years ago, when she had run out into the Mews while Treff and Miss Bryant waited for her, and she had given a little girl a penny. Then, as now, she was fumbling in her purse; then, as now, she felt a wave of hostility that seemed to emanate not only from another human being, but from the whole Mews. Was the woman Harriet that same child? It was quite possible; it was even likely. Did she too remember? Adelaide could not tell; the hostile gaze revealed no more than hostility. Adelaide took out a shilling and a half-crown.
“Harriet, here is your money.”
(“Little girl, here’s a penny for you.”)
This time Harriet answered.
“I’ve done nothing for you.”
“You have been modelling for my husband,” explained Adelaide coldly.
“Then let your husband pay me.”
This time it was Adelaide who traversed the distance between them. She walked swiftly up to the other woman and thrust the coins into her hand. But she knew better now than to expect thanks.
“Take it,” she said curtly, and turned her back.
This time no pebble flew after. With a certain bitter satisfaction Adelaide reflected that her married life had at least taught her something: it had taught her how to deal with a slut.
5
Henry Lambert had not been drinking for nearly a month. The novelty of being married, the restraint imposed by Adelaide’s constant presence, had restrained him; for nearly a month her confidence was justified. Then on the Saturday night he disappeared after supper and did not return until the Cock had closed its doors.
For the first few seconds Adelaide did not realize what was the matter. She had been sitting up, in a state of great anxiety, and when he stumbled in ran to meet him fully expecting to hear of some accident. When he fended her off she looked for blood on his coat, when he swayed on his feet she forcibly thrust him into a chair. At that she smelt his breath and recoiled.
“Henry, you’ve been drinking!”
“Sa’urday night,” murmured Henry apologetically.
Adelaide stared at him in horror. He looked like another man. All the lines of his face were slackened, his eyes held an expression she did not recognize. Another man had got into Henry’s skin, a man who looked back at her dispassionately, curiously, as though he wondered what she were doing there. He began to laugh.
“Li’l’ wife, li’l’ home,” he explained. “You don’ see the joke. They do in the old Cock.…”
“You’ve been talking about me in the Cock!” cried Adelaide, outraged.
“Jus’ tol’ them you’re bes’ wife in the world. Told ’em you’re going to keep me straight. Less go to bed, Addie.”
Only anger kept her from tears; and it was to be important to their future relations that anger was her first reaction. Had she wept then, she would have gone on weeping. Anger pulled her together; she saw that it was not of the least use to reproach or plead with him, all that would have to wait till morning. In the meantime he simply had to be secured. She walked to the outer door, locked it, and put the key in her pocket.
“Fas’n up for night,” said Henry approvingly. “I’ll wind clock. All householders wind clocks.…”
He looked round for one, but it was in their bedroom. As Adelaide saw him remember this she slipped ahead and shut the door in his face. This door had no lock, but she pulled up a chair and jammed its back under the knob. Henry beat on the panel.
“Wass matter, Addie? Le’ me in!”
“No,” said Adelaide. “You can sleep there.”
“Wife’s got no right to keep out her husband! Wass a man come home for? Le’ me in, I say!”
He beat again. The chair-back quivered, but his condition was lethargic rather than violent. Adelaide assured herself that the door would hold and began to undress. She heard Henry move away, try the outer door, and stumble back towards the sink: water was splashed noisily, and the pail let fall; but if by this means he hoped to bring her out again, he failed. At last all sounds subsided except for a heavy snoring; somehow, on the floor, or in a chair, Henry Lambert slept.
6
His condition next morning was all that could be desired. He looked himself again, rather shabby indeed, but like the Henry Adelaide knew; and was so ashamed of himself that she let him off more lightly than she had intended. All she asked was a promise that it should never happen again, and this Henry eagerly gave. He helped her tidy the flat, and afterwards accompanied her to morning service. This was the first time they had ever been to church together, and Adelaide did manage to feel a certain married-woman importance: she stepped into the porch before her husband instead of behind her mother. They sat of course at the back: not for them the prominent pew occupied, at St. Mark’s, by Culvers or Hambros. Looking up the aisle Adelaide saw the front pews in this church too filling with people who were Culvers or Hambros in all but name—women as richly dressed, men as high-collared, carrying top-hats: her own humble place was a forcible illustration of her drop in the social scale. For Adelaide, at bottom, had no illusions about all being equal in the house of God: the best people naturally sat in front. The thought made her hold her head higher than before. If not now, then quite soon, thought Adelaide, we shall take one of those pews ourselves … for I haven’t married a nobody, I have married a man of genius. She glanced sideways at Henry’s face, almost sheepish with good intentions, and thought that she could handle him. She had handled him last night. And then another and a more sardonic thought struck her: who now, looking at herself and Henry, would imagine that only a few hours before she had been forced to keep him out with a chair-back at the bedroom door?
Automatically sitting, standing or kneeling as the service required,
Adelaide meditated on the deceitfulness, and importance, of appearances. At all costs they must be kept up. This could hardly be done, in a conventional sense, in Britannia Mews, but she believed that the appearance, the persona of a great artist, could well include a short period of indigence. It was picturesque. It was, in fact, conventional.… One year, thought Adelaide. Until after the next Academy. Then we will move quickly as people begin to take us up, and the Mews will be a picturesque, entertaining story.…
All at once she saw herself at a dinner-table: the other guests were all vague, a mere blur of ribbons and tiaras, but Henry (on the right of his hostess) was in white tie and tails, with some sort of Order round his neck, and she herself (on the right of her host) wore dark blue velvet and diamond stars. (“What an amazing career your husband’s has been, Lady Lambert! What unbroken success!” “Ah, but we had our struggles, Duke; we began our married life in an old coach-house.” His Grace looked at her admiringly. “Astonishing!” he murmured. “No doubt that is why all our young artists to-day make their studios out of stables. You set the fashion …”)
Adelaide sighed with pleasure. From a religious point of view the service did not do much for her; but she came out from it considerably strengthened, and in a mood which considerably affected her meeting, next day, with Mrs. Culver.
CHAPTER III
1
Now Mrs. Culver, visualizing her daughter’s new home, saw Britannia Mews as she had seen it about ten years before; and indeed she had not seen it since. Her clearest recollection was of the Benson interior, humble enough to be sure, but cheerful and spotless; she remembered that it was at the right end, and quite respectable. Mrs. Culver thought it would do Adelaide no harm to spend a month in such surroundings, under the protection of her husband; she also thought that at the end of such a month Adelaide would be only too ready to come away. “We must be cruel to be kind, Will,” said Mrs. Culver. “You speak as though we had any option,” retorted Mr. Culver grimly. “Adelaide’s married to the man, isn’t she?”
Mrs. Culver did not argue with him. Her designs were so vague, so instinctive, that she could hardly have put them into words. She had seen her daughter and Henry Lambert together, and the sight had convinced her of two things: that nothing would induce Adelaide to leave him at that moment, and that very soon she would be glad to. Mrs. Culver’s judgment of her son-in-law was harsh, immediate and instinctive: the very good reasons for mistrusting him, such as his lack of income and prospects (also certain comments let fall by the twins, and a visit from Mrs. Ocock), weighed less than her simple conviction that he was a bad sort of man. She felt his very charm to be against him; a man should have no need to be charming. (Treff indeed was charming too, but then Treff was her son.) Adelaide had married a wastrel; other women had done the same thing. Their case was common enough to have a common solution: they learned their lesson and came home to their families, and settled down to a useful if frustrated life performing the duties that fell to the lot of unmarried daughters or aunts. Divorces were exceptional, almost unheard-of. The husbands remained in the background, and were often said to be abroad. If there were children, of course, the case was altered; but Mrs. Culver hoped that Adelaide would be back before these had to be thought about.
She paid her visit to Britannia Mews, therefore, in a fairly collected state of mind. Whether Adelaide would be ready to admit her mistake so soon was a matter for doubt; Mrs. Culver recognized her daughter’s stubbornness. But the way of retreat could be indicated, the road back to Platt’s End shown to be open and not too humiliating: Mrs. Culver meant to lay great stress on her own loneliness. To invite Adelaide for a visit was the most natural thing in the world; and once the first break was made, Mrs. Culver had no fears for the issue.
“I must be discreet,” she told herself, “I must be discreet, and very nice to Mr. Lambert. There shall be no hurry, and no reproaches.…”
But when she got out of her cab at the entrance to the Mews, and looked under the archway, and saw the changes brought about by the years, all these resolutions left her. For a moment she could hardly believe her eyes. It was a slum. Where were now the bright windows and clean curtains of her recollection? The clean carriages, the respectable coachmen hissing over their well-fed horses? For it was the horses, as Mrs. Culver unconsciously recognized, that had given Britannia Mews its countrified comfortable air, as of the stables of a big house. Now the town had swamped all, thrown up an engulfing wave of squalor; the few loungers round the Cock were its human jetsam.
As Mrs. Culver stood aghast, Adelaide came out of her door. Her first movement was one of amazement rather than pleasure, for her mother’s visit was unheralded. Then (as always when she had been taken by surprise) Adelaide straightened her back; and came slowly down the iron stair.
“Well, Mamma!” she said cheerfully. “So you’ve paid us a visit! It’s lucky I wasn’t out.”
They kissed. To Adelaide’s still greater astonishment she saw that her mother’s eyes were filled with tears, and this display of emotion, so unusual among the Culvers, thoroughly alarmed her.
“Is Papa ill?” she asked sharply. “Is that why you’ve come?”
Mrs. Culver shook her head. She said, “My dear, I’ve come to fetch you home.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them: but they had spoken themselves. At once Adelaide stiffened again.
“Indeed you have not, Mamma; and if that is how you have come to talk—”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Culver hastily. “It was a foolish thing to say. I’ve just come to see how you’re getting on.…”
“Splendidly,” said Adelaide.
“Won’t you ask me into your home?”
Adelaide turned and led the way back up the steps. She was not ashamed of her housewifery, she knew the room to be immaculate. What she did not realize was the extent to which she herself, in becoming used to it, had lowered her standard of domestic convenience. Mrs. Culver sat down in the basket chair (now repaired) and looked round without a word.
“I do it all myself,” said Adelaide.
“Is that necessary?”
Adelaide laughed.
“No, of course not. In fact, Henry objected very strongly, he wanted me to have a woman. But it’s so small and convenient, it just takes up enough of my time.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Culver. The monosyllable fell rather bleakly. She made haste to add, “How is Henry?”
“Very well. He’s out at the moment. He’s gone to see an art-dealer who is interested in his work.” (Adelaide had not in fact the least idea where Henry had gone; she was surprised herself at the fluency with which these statements flowed out.) “He’s working rather too hard, of course, but that is because he has several commissions.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Culver.
Her eye, travelling round the room, came to rest on the mantelpiece, on the Indian shell. If she recognized it, she made no comment. The silence grew. All freedom of speech had been made impossible by those first unforgivable words: mother and daughter, they sat like strangers.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Adelaide politely.
“No, thank you. I hoped you might come and have lunch with me, at Fuller’s.”
“I’m afraid I have my shopping to do. And of course Henry will be back.”
“Your father sends his love.”
“Please give him mine, Mamma.”
“He hopes—” by putting the words into her husband’s mouth Mrs. Culver at last found a line of approach—“he hopes you will soon come and pay us a visit. The garden is looking very pretty.”
“Of course we should enjoy it immensely,” said Adelaide. “But just now, while Henry is so busy … Do you like Platt’s End?”
“Oh, very much,” said Mrs. Culver, quite jumping at the topic; which indeed was so suitable and fruitful that each wondered why she had not thought of it sooner. About her new house and new neighbours Mrs. Culver could tal
k without constraint and with real enthusiasm. (It was an odd situation: she talked, in fact, as Adelaide should have been talking.) A quarter of an hour passed quite pleasantly as she described the distribution of the furniture, the aspect of the garden, the variety of callers, and the friendliness of the Vicar. Adelaide was really interested: these things were after all a great part of her life, they made up a world from which she had only temporarily absented herself. Sir Henry and Lady Lambert might well live in the country—in a rather grander house of course than Platt’s End—and come up to town only for important functions. But till then no visits would be paid. Adelaide knew well enough what her mother’s invitation meant, she knew it did not include Henry, and that she was being offered the conventional asylum of the daughter whose marriage fails. She rejected it. But the talk about Platt’s End produced a certain ease and amiability, and Adelaide ended it with an invitation of her own.
“Mamma, I must go out,” she said, “I really must. But come again soon, and let me know, so that I can have lunch for you.”
“No, you must lunch with me,” said Mrs. Culver.
It was her second mistake. Adelaide looked round the room and smiled bitterly.
“Then wait until we have moved into our own house, Mamma. That will be more suitable. Have you kept your cab?”
“I can pick one up in the Bayswater Road.”
Adelaide laughed.
“Take a hansom, Mamma; Henry and I always take hansoms. Good-bye, Mamma, my love to Papa and Treff!”
Had it been possible for Mrs. Culver to be wafted straight from the room on to the Bayswater Road, she would have gone home a happier woman, at least partly deluded; but it was not possible. She had to pass through Britannia Mews, and the sights and sounds—to say nothing of the smells—encountered on that brief passage undid all Adelaide’s work. Adelaide could not be happy there, no one could be happy there; she could not be allowed to remain. I’ll send Alice, thought Mrs. Culver suddenly; she was always Adelaide’s friend.… Or if Alice could not be sent to the Mews, she should ask Adelaide to tea, in a shop, by themselves, the sort of thing girls always enjoyed. For a moment Mrs. Culver wondered whether she should go at once to Kensington; then she remembered that Alice was again in Somerset; and moreover, though it was early in the day, she felt very tired; and in the end she went home.
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