Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Mrs. Vivian felt a sudden impulse of anger, which melted into pity.

  “Poor Dodo,” she said, “leave the maggot alone, and he will die of inanition. At present give me some more tea. This really is very good tea, and you drink it the proper way, without milk or sugar, and with a little slice of lemon.”

  “Tea is such a middle-aged thing any other way,” said Dodo, pouring out another cup. “I feel like an old woman in a workhouse if I put milk and sugar in it. Besides, you should only drink tea at tea. It produces the same effect as tobacco, a slight soothing of the nerves. One doesn’t want to be soothed at breakfast, otherwise the tedious things we all have to do in the morning are impossible. Chesterford has a passion for the morning. He quoted something the other day about the divine morning. It isn’t divine, it is necessary; at least you can’t get to the evening without a morning, in this imperfect world. Now if it had only been ‘the evening and the evening were the first day,’ what a difference it would have made.”

  Mrs. Vivian laughed.

  “You always bring up the heavy artillery to defend a small position, Dodo,” she said. “Keep your great guns for great occasions.”

  “Oh, I always use big guns,” said Jack. “They do the work quicker. Besides, you never can tell that the small position is not the key to the large. The baby, for instance, that Dodo thinks very extremely insignificant now, may be horribly important in twenty years.”

  “Yes, I daresay Chesterford and I will quarrel about him,” said Dodo. “Supposing he falls in love with a curate’s daughter, Chesterford will say something about love in a cottage, and I shall want him to marry a duke’s daughter, and I shall get my way, and everybody concerned will be extremely glad afterwards.”

  “Poor baby,” said Mrs. Vivian, “you little think what a worldly mother you have.”

  “Oh, I know I am worldly,” said Dodo. “I don’t deny it for a moment. Jack and I had it out before my marriage. But I believe I am capable of an unworldly action now and then. Why, I should wish Maud to marry a curate very much. She would do her part admirably, and no one could say it was a worldly fate. But I like giving everybody their chance. That is why I have Maud to stay with me, and let her get a good look at idle worldly people like Jack. After a girl has seen every sort, I wish her to choose, and I am unworldly enough to applaud her choice, if it is unworldly; only I shouldn’t do it myself. I have no ideal; it was left out.”

  Jack was conscious of a keen resentment at Dodo’s words. He had accepted her decision, but he didn’t like to have it flaunted before him in Dodo’s light voice and careless words. He made an uneasy movement in his chair. Dodo saw it.

  “Ah, Jack, I have offended you,” she said; “it was stupid of me. But I have been so silent and lonely all these days, that it is such a relief to let my tongue wag at all, whatever it says. Ah, here’s Chesterford. What an age you have been! Here am I consoling myself as best I can. Isn’t it nice to have Jack again?”

  Chesterford saw the fresh light in her eyes, and the fresh vivaciousness in her speech, and he was so unfeignedly glad to see her more herself again, that no thought of jealousy entered his heart. He thought without bitterness, “How glad she must be to have her friends about her again! She looks better already. Decidedly I am a stupid old fellow, but I think Dodo loves me a little.”

  He shook hands with Jack, and beamed delightedly on Dodo.

  “Jack, it is good of you to come so soon,” he said; “Dodo has missed you dreadfully. Have you seen the boy? Dodo, may I have him down?”

  “Oh, he’s been down,” said she, “and has only just gone up again. He’s rather fractious to-day. I daresay it’s teeth. It’s nothing to bother about; he’s as well as possible.”

  Lord Chesterford looked disappointed, but ac-quiesced.

  “I should like Jack to see him all the same,” he remarked. “May he come up to the nursery?”

  “Oh, Jack doesn’t care about babies,” said Dodo, “even when they belong to you and me. Do you, Jack? I assure you it won’t amuse you a bit.”

  “I can’t go away without seeing the baby,” said Jack, “so I think I’ll go with Chesterford, and then I must be off. Good-bye, Dodo. Get well quickly. May I come and see you to-morrow?”

  “I wish Chesterford wouldn’t take Jack off in that way,” said Dodo rather querulously, as they left the room. “Jack came to see me, and I wanted to talk more to him — I’m very fond of Jack. If he wasn’t so fearfully lazy, he’d make no end of a splash. But he prefers talking to his friends to talking to a lot of Irish members. I wonder why he came after he said he wouldn’t. Jack usually has good reasons.”

  Dodo lay back in her chair and reflected.

  “You really are the most unnatural mother,” said Mrs. Vivian, with a laugh. “I am glad Mr. Broxton went with your husband, or he would have been disappointed, I think.”

  Dodo looked a little anxious.

  “He wasn’t vexed, was he?” she asked. “I hate vexing people, especially Chesterford. But he really is ridiculous about the baby. It is absurd to suppose it is interesting yet.”

  “I don’t suppose he would call it interesting,” said Mrs. Vivian. “But you know there are other things beside that.”

  Dodo grew a trifle impatient.

  “Ah, that’s a twice-told tale,” she said. “I consider I have done my duty admirably, but just now I confess I am pining for a little amusement. I have been awfully dull. You know one can’t exist on pure love.”

  Mrs. Vivian rose to go.

  “Well, I must be off,” she said. “Good-night, Dodo; and remember this, if ever anything occurs on which you want advice or counsel, come to me for it. You know I have been through all this; and — and remember Lord Chesterford loves you very deeply.”

  Dodo looked up inquiringly.

  “Yes, of course, I know that,” she said, “and we get on magnificently together. In any case I should always ask you for advice. You know I used to be rather afraid of you.”

  Mrs. Vivian stood looking out of the window. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

  “Ah, my dear, don’t be afraid of me,” she said.

  Dodo wondered, when she had gone, what made her so suddenly grave. Her own horizon was singularly free from clouds. She had been through an experience which she had looked forward to with something like dread. But that was over; she and the baby were both alive and well. Chesterford was more devoted than ever, and she? — well, she was thoroughly satisfied. And Jack had come back, and all was going delightfully.

  “They all talk about love as if it were something very dreadful,” she thought. “I’m sure it isn’t dreadful at all. It is rather a bore sometimes; at least one can have enough of it, but that is a fault on the right side.”

  The door opened softly, and Chesterford came in.

  “I am glad to find you alone, darling,” he said, “I haven’t seen you all day. You are looking much better. Get Jack to come and see you again as soon as he can.”

  Dodo smiled benignantly on him.

  “The baby really is wonderful,” he continued. “It was sitting up with its bottle just now, and I really believe it winked at me when it saw me. Do you think it knows me?”

  “Oh, I daresay it does,” said Dodo; “it sees enough of you anyhow.”

  “Isn’t it all wonderful,” he went on, not noticing her tone. “Just fancy. Sometimes I wonder whether it’s all real.”

  “It’s real enough when it cries,” said Dodo. “But it is rather charming, I do think.”

  “It’s got such queer little fists,” said he, “with nice pink nails.”

  Dodo laughed rather wearily.

  “Are you a little tired, darling?” he said. “Won’t you go to bed? You know you’ve been up quite a long time. Perhaps you’d like to see the baby before you go.”

  “Oh, I said good-night to the baby,” said Dodo. “I think I will go to bed. I wish you’d send Wilkins here.”

  He bent over her and kissed her fo
rehead softly.

  “Ah, my darling, my darling,” he whispered.

  Dodo lay with half-shut eyes.

  “Good-night, dear,” she said languidly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  The questions about which a man is apt to, say that he alone can judge, are usually exactly those questions in which his judgment is most likely to be at fault, for they concern him very intimately — a truth which he expresses by saying that he alone can judge about them, and for that very reason his emotions are apt to colour what he considers his sober decision.

  Jack was exactly in this position when he left the Chesterfords’ door that afternoon. It was only six o’clock when he went away, and he wished to be alone, and to think about it. But the house seemed stuffy and unsuggestive, and he ordered a horse, and sat fuming and frowning till it came round. It fidgeted and edged away from the pavement when he tried to mount it, and he said, “Get out, you brute,” with remarkable emphasis, and asked the groom whether he hadn’t yet learned to hold a horse quiet. This was sufficient to show that he was in a perturbed frame of mind.

  The Row was rather empty, for a great race meeting was going on, and Jack cantered quickly up to the end, and cursed his stupidity for not having gone to Sandown. Then he put his horse to a quiet pace, and determined to think the matter out.

  He had left the Chesterfords in January with a full realisation of his position. He was in love with Dodo, perhaps more deeply than ever, and Dodo was hopelessly, irrevocably out of his reach. The only thing left to be done was to get over it; but his ordinary circle and its leisurely duties were quite impossible just at present, and he adopted the traditional English method of travelling, and shooting unoffending animals. Whether the absence of faith was responsible, is an open question; at any rate, the remedy did not result in a cure. He was intensely bored with foreign countries; they were quite as distasteful as England, and, on the whole, had less to offer. And he came back to London again as suddenly as he had left it. He only remembered one incident in his four months abroad which gave him any pleasure; that was when he received a letter from Dodo at Berlin, which said nothing particular, and wound up with a little mild chaff on the absurdity of his going abroad at all. “I hope you are really better,” wrote Dodo, “though I didn’t know that you were in any immediate danger of breaking down when you left us. Anyhow, come back. London is particularly wholesome, and, to tell you the truth, it’s just a wee bit dull. Don’t be conceited.”

  Of course he came back; it was no good remaining abroad, and yawning in front of the Sistine Madonna, who, in her impossible serene mildness, had no message whatever for him. He wanted to see Dodo; why on earth shouldn’t he? She was the only thing he really cared about, and she was quite out of his reach. Where was the harm?

  For two days after his arrival in London he was still undecided, and made no effort to see her, and on the third day her note came. London was as bad as Dresden, and again, where was the harm? He wrote a note saying he would come, then he tore that up and sent a refusal, offering no excuse; and after all, he had gone, and parted from her with the words that he would come again the next day. But ah, how sweet it was to see her again! Such were the facts upon which Jack wished to form a conclusion. All this indecision was really too annoying. What was the use of a conscience that took the sugar out of your tea, and yet could not prevent you from drinking it? It was not strong enough to prevent him going to see Dodo, and it took the malicious line of making the visit as little enjoyable as possible. Well, it must be settled one way or the other.

  The problem obviously depended on one question. Did his desire for Dodo grow stronger with seeing her? He decided that it did not make much difference to the quality or degree of his longing, but, on the other hand, her society gave him an inestimable pleasure. When she had refused him a year ago, he had gone on seeing her day after day, without the horrible, unsatisfied emptiness he had felt abroad. That absorbing craving for her, he remembered, began when she was on her wedding tour. Then why not see her freely and frequently? No harm could possibly come out of it. Dodo, he thought, cared for him only as she cared for a dozen other friends, why should he, then, who cared so deeply for her, cut himself off from her? Again his deep-rooted affection and respect for her husband was an immense safeguard. Quixotism was a doubtful virtue at the best, and decidedly out of date, and besides, what would Dodo think if she suddenly found that one of her best friends invariably declined to meet her under any circumstances? She would certainly guess the reason, and if there was one possible solution of this stupid problem more undesirable than another, it was that. And Jack made up his mind.

  Well, that was settled, and here was Bertie riding down upon him. He felt as if he wished to record a deliberate and sober conclusion. They joined forces and rode up together.

  Then Jack said suddenly, —

  “Bertie, I have been making a fool of myself, but I am better now.”

  “That’s good,” said Bertie placidly.

  There was something indefinably soothing about Bertie’s manner. Jack determined to be more explicit. It is often a relief to tell a friend one’s own resolutions, especially if one does not expect unseasonable objections.

  “It’s about Dodo,” he said. “You see I’m dreadfully in love with her. Awkward, isn’t it?”

  “Devilish,” said Bertie, without a shade of emotion passing over his face.

  “And the less I see of her,” said Jack, “the worse I get, so I’ve determined that the more I see of her in the ordinary way, the better. It sounds an unusual treatment, I know, but you must acknowledge I gave the other method a fair chance. I went and killed pigs in Austria, and climbed the Matterhorn, but it wouldn’t do.”

  They rode on a little time in silence. Then Bertie said, —

  “Do you want my advice?”

  “Well, yes,” said Jack rather dubiously.

  “Then I’m dashed if I like it, Jack,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. Just think — —”

  But Jack broke in, —

  “Don’t you see my friendship for Chesterford is an absolute safeguard. Dodo gives me more pleasure than anyone I know, and when I can’t see her, life becomes unbearable. Chesterford is one of those men to whom one couldn’t do a mean thing, and, furthermore, Dodo doesn’t love me. If those two facts don’t ensure safety, I don’t know what would. Besides, Bertie, I’m not a rascal.”

  “I can’t like it,” said Bertie. “If one has a propensity for falling into the fire, it’s as well to keep off the hearthrug. I know you’re not a rascal, but this is a thing one can’t argue about. It is a matter of feeling.”

  “I know,” said Jack, “I’ve felt it too. But I think it’s outweighed by other considerations. If I thought any mischief could come of it, I should deserve to be horse-whipped.”

  “I don’t like it,” repeated Bertie stolidly.

  Jack went to see Dodo the next afternoon, and for many afternoons during the next fortnight he might have been seen on Chesterford’s doorstep, either coming or going. Her husband seemed almost as glad as Dodo that Jack should come often. His visits were obviously very pleasant to her, and she had begun to talk nonsense again as fluently as ever. With Jack, however, she had some rather serious talks; his future appeared to be exercising her mind somewhat. Jack’s life at this time was absolutely aimless. Before he had gone abroad he had been at the Bar, and had been called, but his chambers now knew him no more. He had no home duties, being, as Dodo expressed it, “a poor little orphan of six foot two,” and he had enough money for an idle bachelor life. Dodo took a very real interest in the career of her friends. It was part of her completeness, as I have said before, to be the centre of a set of successful people. Jack could do very well, she felt, in the purely ornamental line, and she by no means wished to debar him from the ornamental profession, but yet she was vaguely dissatisfied. She induced him one day to state in full, exactly the ideas he had about his own future.

  “You dangle very well inde
ed,” she said to him, “and I’m far from wishing you not to dangle, but, if it’s to be your profession, you must do it more systematically. Lady Wrayston was here yesterday, and she said no one ever saw you now. That’s lazy; you’re neglecting your work.”

  Jack was silent a few minutes. The truth of the matter was that he was becoming so preoccupied with Dodo, that he was acquiring a real distaste for other society. His days seemed to have dwindled down to an hour or two hours each, according to the time he passed with Dodo. The interval between his leaving the house one day and returning to it the next, had got to be merely a tedious period of waiting, which he would gladly have dispensed with. In such intervals society appeared to him not a distraction, but a laborious substitute for inaction, and labour at any time was not congenial to him. His life, in fact, was a series of conscious pulses with long-drawn pauses in between. He was dimly aware that this sort of thing could not go on for ever. The machine would stop, or get quicker or slower, and there were endless complications imminent in either case.

  “I don’t know that I really care for dangling,” said Jack discontentedly. “At the same time it is the least objectionable form of amusement.”

  “Well, you can’t dangle for ever in any case,” said Dodo. “You ought to marry and settle down. Chesterford is a sort of apotheosis of a dangler. By performing, with scrupulous care, a quantity of little things that don’t matter much, like being J.P., and handing the offertory plate, he is in a way quite a busy man, to himself at least, though nothing would happen if he ceased doing any or all of these things; and the dangler, who thinks himself busy, is the happiest of men, because he gets all the advantages of dangling, and none of the disadvantages, and his conscience — have you got a conscience, Jack? — so far from pricking him, tells him he’s doing the whole duty of man. Then again he’s married — to me, too. That’s a profession in itself.”

  “Ah, but I can’t be married to you too,” remarked Jack.