Fate Cannot Harm Me

by J. C. Masterman

  “Yes, the cat!” muttered Mrs. Vanhaer, who had followed the tale with the closest attention.

  “On the day of which I am speaking, Mrs. Millabie was sitting in the living-room of her flat. I’d like you to have a picture of that room in your minds too. It was essentially a woman’s room; the chintzes were bright, the flowers fresh and skilfully arranged, the books, though not numerous, seemed to be just those which a visitor would wish to read. There was nothing noticeable in the furniture, yet everything was in good taste—everything in the room indeed was bright, cheerful, welcoming. And though the atmosphere was subtly feminine it was in no sense, fussily or obtrusively so. I should describe it rather as a room where a man would like to be entertained by a woman; there were few ornaments or knick-knacks to disturb, the chairs were comfortable, the cigarettes lay to hand on a table by the fire. You felt instinctively as you entered that Mrs. Millabie would never hand you a stale box of Turkish when you needed a fresh Virginian; you felt, too, that if she opened the door of the corner cupboard she would bring out for you just the drink which you needed to restore a tired mind or to tickle a jaded palate.

  “I said that there were few ornaments and hardly any knick-knacks and that the furniture was unobtrusive. All that is true, but there was one thing there which was in an altogether different category from the rest. On a low bookshelf behind the writing-table stood a single silver vase. Yes, Mrs. Millabie’s Vase! It was beautiful, truly beautiful—I’m tempted to call it, small though it was, a superb work of art.”

  Basil made an almost apologetic gesture with his hands as though to excuse his own enthusiasm.

  “How strange it is that one thing of beauty can outshine and eclipse everything else near it! Sometimes I think it’s the same with people; one doesn’t like to be a snob, but don’t you all feel that the person of real breeding somehow stands out in spite of himself wherever he is and makes less fortunate people seem a little—well—a little unworthy?”

  “Yes, indeed, it’s no good pretending that one person’s as good as another, even nowadays,” said Lady Dormansland with decision. Twenty-five years of married life had made it easy for her to forget the wealthy draper whose only child she was.

  “I’ve often thought that too,” lisped Angela Greyne, confident that no one present had any knowledge of her parentage. Robin Hedley scowled, but said nothing.

  “Well, Mrs. Millabie’s vase was like that. It was an aristocrat among vases, if I may put it so, and it dominated the room. It had the sort of calm strength allied with delicacy which a beautiful work in silver can have; I don’t know its history, nor how it came to be there, but Benvenuto Cellini would not, I think, have disowned it. Yes, in its way, it was superb. And Mrs. Millabie loved it; always, as she sat writing or talking or reading, her eyes would stray towards it, and she would feel refreshed and gladdened and comforted.

  “And yet on the day of which I speak, though the vase appeared more beautiful than ever in the afternoon sunshine, Mrs. Millabie was clearly dissatisfied and unhappy. She was unwrapping a parcel, and a frown of annoyance had displaced her habitual smile. From the parcel, when it was undone, she took a silver flower-vase of modern design; she held it up and examined it critically—with growing dissatisfaction she glanced from it to her own beautiful ornament. And she gave a sigh of disappointment and disapproval. The new vase was a wedding present for her friend, Margot Forbes, and it had cost her a great deal of trouble to choose. In the shop where she had paid five pounds for it, it had appeared to Mrs. Millabie, in the current phrase, to look twice its price. Now that she had bought, it and could examine it at leisure it seemed to her rather common and pretentious. And how her own vase killed it by comparison!

  “It’s proper now, I think, that I should let you into some of Mrs. Millabie’s secrets, for after all this isn’t a drama, but only, as I told you, a simple and unpretentious tale. It pains me to expose her, but the truth must out. First of all, then, Mrs. Millabie was not a widow at all. The husband, to whose memory she was so romantically and self-sacrificingly attached, had in fact left the country rather hurriedly some years ago, and had betaken himself to, I think, Majorca, where he was living—and drinking—under a suitable alias. And secondly, the ‘comfortable’ income which Mrs. Millabie was supposed to possess was in reality very, very small indeed. Exactly how she contrived to keep up the appearance of affluence I do not propose to explain to you in detail. No doubt the bridge which she played with so much charm and good nature brought her in quite a little income; no doubt if you had examined her household books you would have realized that her host of friends provided her with most of her food and drink. Well, she was a clever woman. You can cast stones if you like, and call her an adventuress, but I’m bound to say that I admire her courage and her skill. Of all her friends Margot Forbes was the most devoted. Margot lived with her old father in Grosvenor Street, and at their house Mrs. Millabie was the ever-welcome guest. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Sundays, she dined there, once, twice, three times a week she would drop in to lunch. Then suddenly the blow had fallen; Margot had become engaged to be married. Of course Mrs. Millabie had foreseen that danger, indeed it would not be unfair to say that she had twice before averted it, for she was an experienced campaigner. But now she realized that she must make the best of a bad job; ruefully she realized that the dinners and the lunches and the parties of Grosvenor Street were lost to her; well, she must make it her business to keep Margot as a friend, and hope in time to insinuate herself into the life of her friend’s new home. For that reason she had given long and anxious thought to her wedding present; the cards had been unkind of late and money was very short, still she hoped and believed that she could buy with five pounds something which Margot would believe to have cost eight or ten at the least. And now, after days of consideration and inspection, she had spent her money—and the result was profoundly disappointing.

  “Almost savagely she pushed the purchase back into its box.

  “The bell rang, and after a pause her aunt was shown into the room. Her aunt …”

  “Emily,” suggested Mrs. Vanhaer eagerly, “do let it be Emily!”

  Basil made a little bow.

  “It was; of course it was Aunt Emily. She was a woman of about seventy, talkative, fussy, kind-hearted but a little tiresome. Still, she lived in solid comfort in Knightsbridge, and Mrs. Millabie, though she was bored by her, was accustomed to fall back on her for occasional meals when more attractive invitations failed. (“My great-uncle, my Lord Strafford, left it as a maxim to our family, that an Englishman can’t have too many friends,” quoted Monty to himself.) So now she summoned up her most charming smile of welcome, rang for tea, and made much of dear Aunt Emily and her kindness in coming so far to cheer up a lonely niece.

  “‘My dear,’ said Aunt Emily, ‘I like to see you and to hear about my friends. Now tell me all about everybody.’

  “The old lady loved gossip, and Mrs. Millabie exerted herself to satisfy her curiosity. Her diplomacy was rewarded; in half an hour she had secured an invitation to dinner for the following Thursday (a day which had threatened to conclude with a poached egg in her own flat) and had both heard and imparted a great deal of personal information. Then, just as she was about to go, Aunt Emily flung a bombshell into the little room.

  “‘Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, my dear, a most exciting piece of news. I’ve just called on the Hewetsons and they told me about that friend of yours, Margot Forbes. Her engagement’s being broken off.’

  “‘What?’ exclaimed Mrs. Millabie.

  “‘Yes, indeed, a terrible shock and so sudden. The man turns out to have done something quite shady in the City; I don’t know what it was, but it must be quite dreadful. Anyhow Mr. Hewetson found it out himself, and felt that he must tell Margot’s father. And he did, and of course the engagement’s broken. The notice will be in the paper to-morrow morning. But think, my dear, how awful it would have been if they’d not found it out in time. I think tha
t Margot is really very fortunate.’ And Aunt Emily, collecting her parcels, her umbrella and her bag, fussed her way out of the room.

  “For a few minutes after she had gone Mrs. Millabie tasted almost perfect happiness. The hated engagement broken, her friend miraculously preserved for her, the hospitable door of Grosvenor Street still ready to open at her ring, and five pounds saved as well—for that brigand in Bond Street would surely take back his odious silver vase. She gazed at her own lovely vase on the bookshelf, and uttered a little sigh of contentment.

  “And then, suddenly a beautiful—an inspired—idea flashed through her mind. Might not this unexpected turn of fortune’s wheel be made yet happier? Might she not, by the exercise of a little diplomacy, bind Margot even more closely to her in friendship? It was only three weeks to the date of the wedding—the wedding which now would never take place; already the house in Grosvenor Street must be filled with presents; and to-morrow the brief bald announcement would appear in The Times and all those presents would be returned to their senders. And so—why not? She seized her pen and wrote, at lightning speed, one of her little notes.

  “‘DEAREST, DEAREST MARGOT,—For days and weeks I have tried to find the right present for your wedding, and to-day, suddenly, I knew what I wanted to give you. You know, dearest, that my silver vase is the most cherished of all my possessions; that is why I want it to belong to you; it comes with all the loving wishes of your

  ‘DOROTHY.’

  “She glanced at the note; yes—it would do. Then with almost breathless haste she took her treasured vase from its place, packed it in the box in which the other vase had come, inserted her note, tied the box, sealed it, addressed it; rang the bell. Her maid answered it.

  “‘Quickly, Emma, take this parcel to the Post Office and register it, I want it to go off this evening.’

  “On the bookshelf she placed the modern vase. How miserably inadequate it appeared, how trumpery in the place of its predecessor! Well, in a couple of days the old vase would return, and fill the room with its beauty. And Margot would remember, even in the sorrow of her broken engagement, that she, Dorothy Millabie, had wished to give her the thing of all others that she loved most. Really she might almost count on three dinners a week at Grosvenor Street instead of two. A slow smile, the smile of the successful strategist, the smile of the Mona Lisa, spread over Mrs. Millabie’s face; she sat on her sofa, thinking of her handiwork, and she knew that she had done well.

  “It was half an hour later when the bell rang again, and the door opened once more to admit Aunt Emily.

  “‘My dear,’ she began, as she scattered more parcels over the room, ‘I’m sorry to come all the way back, but I believe I must have left one of my gloves here—quite a new one, and very dark brown—ah, there it is, lying under the chair I sat in. I am glad to find it. Now I must be really getting home. Oh!—I nearly forgot to tell you! I made such a stupid mistake when you were giving me tea. You’ll be so pleased to hear this! It’s not your friend Margot Forbes whose engagement is broken off, but Margot Elliman’s. I can’t think why girls nowadays take these silly foreign names; it always makes me muddle them up! I felt I must tell you at once, for I know how fond you are of dear Margot Forbes. Dear, dear, I shall forget my own name next. Anyhow, dearest, it’s quite all right; your Margot’s engagement is all roses. Good-bye, again, my dear, and don’t forget that you dine with me on Thursday.’

  “Mrs. Millabie sank on to the sofa and lifted her eyes towards the bookshelf, where the new vase gleamed in all its hideous modernity. She was an indomitable woman, but she buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.”

  There was a chorus of congratulation as Basil finished his story, marred by a mutter of “Just A. A. Milne and water” from Sir Smedley Patteringham. Opinion was sharply divided as to the justice of Mrs. Millabie’s punishment.

  “Damned bad luck on her, what?” declared Bertie Blenkinsop, voicing the preponderant male opinion.

  “Nonsense, Bertie,” said Lady Dormansland, “the woman deserved all she got. Now who’s going to tell the next story? Doesn’t anyone know a good ghost story? Mrs. Vanhaer, you travel all over the world—surely you must have seen a ghost?”

  Mrs. Vanhaer shook her head regretfully.

  “I’ve often tried to,” she admitted, “but I’m most always mortified to find that the ghost ain’t a ghost at all when I meet him. Whenever that happens I think of my great-uncle back in North Carolina.”

  “What happened to him?” said Monty hopefully.

  “He was a very holy man, and a very powerful preacher too. The number of services he used to have in his church was something phenomenal, and the pictures he’d paint of the wrath to come were lurid, or so I’ve always been told. One night in the winter some of the young folk thought they’d scare the old man as he came home through the churchyard, so they got a sheet and fixed up some kind of a guy with nasty looking eyes and a skull that some young doctor lent them. It was a darkish night, and the ghost looked horrid when the old man’s lantern showed it up beside the yew tree. But my great-uncle wasn’t the sort of man to be scared by any sort of ghost or bugaboo. Besides, he made a pretty good guess as to that ghost’s home burg. So he turned towards it and he said, ‘Is this a general uprising, or just a dander of your own?’”

  “What’s a dander?” inquired Bertie.

  “Don’t be silly, Bertie,” retorted Lady Dormansland. “I think your great-uncle was a lovely man, Mrs. Vanhaer. Now, Mr. Hedley, I’m sure you must be ready now.”

  “I’m sorry, Lady Dormansland,” Robin replied sulkily. “You force me to the unpleasant necessity of a positive refusal. You see, I’m not a public entertainer.” He flashed at Basil a look which was almost venomous.

  Lady Dormansland flushed. She hated to be baulked of her purpose, and she was unaccustomed to resistance on the part of her guests.

  Almost incredibly, it was Sir Smedley Patteringham who saved the situation. No one could accuse him of wishing to avoiding unpleasantness, and it was not in his nature to contribute to the enjoyment or ease of others; but he, even more than his hostess, wished to postpone the inevitable bridge. For the last two nights he had cut persistently with Lady Dormansland, and had lost heavily in consequence. He had no intention of repeating the performance if it were possible to avoid it, and he therefore roused himself to an unwonted effect. Removing his cigar from his thin and cynical lips, he turned towards his hostess.

  “I always think,” he said sourly, “that the amateur (I use the word in no pejorative sense) tells a story much better than a professional. You ought to insist on Pindle telling you the admirable tale about a doctor which he told me before dinner.”

  He removed the ash from his cigar, and settled himself in his chair with the air of a man who had contributed handsomely to the general good.

  Sir William Pindle needed no pressing. Truth to tell he had found a form of amusement which had condemned him to silence extremely galling. As a Cabinet Minister he greatly preferred talking to listening. So he cleared his throat and began.

  “I’m afraid that I’m more accustomed to making speeches—to rather large and critical audiences sometimes—than to telling stories. Still, a history that has won Patteringham’s approval cannot be wholly without merit, so I will gladly try to tell it to you. Of course, you mustn’t expect from a—a statesman the literary graces of a Paraday-Royne.”

  “Oh, no, of course not,” said Sir Smedley, rather unnecessarily.

  Sir William Pindle ignored the interruption.

  “I, too, will choose a title. Let me call the story ‘Advantage rarely comes of it.’ You all recognize the quotation, no doubt?”

  “Of course,” said Monty hastily, lest the general ignorance should become obvious. “It’s verse seven of Landor’s ‘New Decalogue,’ isn’t it?

  Do not adultery commit;

  Advantage rarely comes of it.

  “Precisely. That gives the motif of my story.”

&n
bsp; “It sounds very old-fashioned,” hazarded Angela Greyne. Possibly she felt that Sir William was trespassing on her own special subject.

  Accustomed to dealing with or ignoring hecklers, he paid no attention to this criticism.

  “The dramatis personœ are three—an eminent doctor and his wife, and a wealthy young man. What names shall I give them?”

  “In cross-words there’s a fellow called Harvey, who’s always circulating blood,” suggested Bertie, anxious to parade his knowledge, “and of course, there was that man Jenner, who invented small-pox.”

  Sir William smiled patronizingly.

  “Yes, those distinguished names will serve as well as any others. Let me then call my characters William and Gertrude Harvey—that is to say the doctor and his wife—and George Jenner. Harvey was the most eminent among the younger heart specialists of his day; his wife was young, beautiful and pleasure-loving; Jenner was handsome, idle, a fine athlete, and blessed with twenty thousand a year. He was also something of a libertine, a sensualist of a rather common type. He fell in love, if I may prostitute that beautiful word, with Gertrude Harvey, and he found her an easy conquest. So far the story does not, I admit, deviate from the orthodox lines. Of course, as a heart specialist, living in Harley Street, and with a large practice, Harvey was making a considerable income, but he was also a poor man. He had contracted debts in his earlier days, which he was gradually paying off, he had advanced money to an embarrassed relative, and he had invested unwisely in American securities. Consequently, he was unable to provide his wife with all the money which her extravagance demanded, and it was, I think, partly for that reason that she had, if I may use a phrase current, I believe, among the younger generation, fallen so easily for George Jenner, who thought nothing of squandering a thousand pounds where Harvey would have hesitated at the idea of spending ten. Besides, it must be admitted that Harvey contributed to his own wretchedness. He was, to put it bluntly, something of a worm. Naturally a doctor is the last person who can allow the scandal of divorce to touch his life, but Harvey had not been man enough to keep his own wife; he had not dared to warn Jenner off in the early stages of his infatuation. A man who cannot protect his own womankind is despicable.”