Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Half an hour later, she came out from her room, dressed for the party, faultlessly beautiful. She had put on the diamonds she had worn two nights ago at the opera, and they lay on her breast like a living embodiment of light. Just as she came out on to the landing, a man came upstairs to say the carriage was round, and she turned aside to go to her husband’s room to tell him.

  She opened the door, and to her surprise found the room was dark. Then she called him, but got no answer. The man who had announced the carriage was still standing on the landing, and she turned to him.

  “Where is Lord Hayes?”

  “His Lordship went into the room an hour ago, my lady,” he said. “I have not seen him come out. He is not in his dressing-room.”

  Eva stood for a moment with her hand still grasping the door, for the space in which a new thought may strike the mind. Her eyebrows contracted, and the diamonds on her breast were suddenly stirred by a quick-drawn breath.

  “There is no light in there,” she said. “Bring me a lamp quickly.”

  She waited in the same position while the man fetched a lamp.

  “Take it in there,” she said; “no, give it me.”

  The man followed her in.

  By the writing-table, with his face fallen forward on the paper, sat her husband. His arms sprawled on each side, and every joint was relaxed. Eva looked at him for a moment, and then touched him.

  “Hayes!”

  There was no answer.

  “Hayes, Hayes!” she said, raising her voice.

  She set the lamp down on the table, close to the thing that sprawled there, and, taking him round the shoulders, dragged him up off the table. But the head fell back over one shoulder, and the two hands rattled against the wood-work of the chair, as his arms slipped off his knees.

  “Quick, quick!” she cried to the man. “What are you standing there for? Don’t you see he is ill? Let the carriage go off to the doctor’s and bring him back. You fool, run! Send a man here at once!”

  Eva ran to the bell and rang it furiously. There was a sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs, and two men came running up.

  “Lord Hayes is ill,” said Eva. “Take him to his room, and lay him on the bed.”

  She could not bear to stop in the room to see that nerveless thing being moved, and went out to the passage, where her maid met her. The atmosphere of terror had spread through the whole house, and servants were running up.

  “Oh! my lady, what is the matter — is he dead?” asked that somewhat hysterical young woman, clasping her hands.

  Eva turned fiercely on her.

  “Nothing is the matter. What do you mean by saying that? Run downstairs and get some brandy. Quick! do you hear?”

  The two men passed out close to Eva with their grim burden. She shuddered as they moved slowly along to the bedroom door. Then, after a moment she followed them. They had laid him on the bed, but, even in that attitude, the limpness was not that of a living man.

  “Leave me, wait till the doctor comes, and bring him up,” said she.

  When she was alone, she lit the candles and brought them near his face. She took up one of the open hands, and felt for the pulse, but found it not. Then, looking up suddenly, she saw her own face in the glass, set in a half circle of light from the diamonds on her neck. For a long moment she gazed, and then, setting the candles down, she unclasped the necklace, and dashed it on to the ground.

  BOOK III.

  CHAPTER I.

  Mrs. Carston was a widow, with only one daughter. She was a woman to whom querulousness had, by habit, become a second nature, but she had, as she often remarked, cause enough for complaint. Her husband, of whom she had been very fond, died suddenly, leaving her with one girl, a younger son, and less income than she could comfortably manage on. Then, two months later, her son died, leaving her alone with Gertrude. Her health, never very good, was much weakened by the double shock, and of late years she had become a habituée at Aix for four or five weeks every May, when there were plenty of English people there, with whom she used to talk gossip, and bemoan her unfortunate health.

  Gertrude managed to be very happy during the earlier part of that month. The enchanted valley, in which there falls not hail nor rain nor any snow, had a great charm for her, and she used to avail herself of the early morning hours, when her mother was undergoing her baths and douches and treatment, to wander far among the thick, dewy meadows, over which the mountains keep watch. She would pick great bunches of the early gentians and meadow sweet, and tall, tasselled grasses, and make their sitting-room bright with their wild, free beauty. The flowers sold in the market place had less attraction for her; they reminded her of towns, and she found it sweeter in the country. She had, too, at first, a very happy background to this pure joy of living, in the thought of Reggie. Ever since the winter, her love for him had been undergoing a slow, steady change; it had deepened and widened imperceptibly from day to day, and, looking back on the early days of their courting, the hours now seemed to her to have been unmomentous and shallow, save that they held the germ which had ripened into this. And he was going to join them, as he had said, in a few weeks, and she felt she particularly wished to be with him again, in the way that she would be at Lucerne — away from his world and her world. Those quiet hours had for her in anticipation a glorious possibility. She would make Reggie feel all that he was to her, make him understand the new depths which she knew had been opened by her love in her nature.

  She did not usually see her mother till the twelve o’clock déjeuner, and one morning, about five days after their arrival, she had got up earlier than usual and walked down to the lake. The day before, Reggie’s letter, announcing Lady Hayes’s sudden desire to have her photograph, had arrived, and for an hour or two she had been filled with perplexing doubts, of which she felt ashamed. But her true and deep loyalty had soon reasserted itself, and she had chased them from her mind. She told herself that she was absolutely unjustified in ever letting the vaguest uneasiness rise into her thoughts. Whatever her feeling was, it had sprung from that irrational pique with which she had received Reggie’s remarks concerning Eva six months ago. She had then conceived in her mind a dislike and distrust for a woman she had never seen, and that weed she had allowed to grow until, just before she left London, she had refused to go to lunch with her for no reason at all. Decidedly it was time to pull the weed up.

  So she went out next morning feeling a wider happiness than ever. That act of loyalty was finding a full reward, and the meadows had never looked so green, nor the water so lovely, nor the background of her thoughts so satisfying. The post had not come in when she left the hotel, and the certainty of a letter from Reggie awaiting her return added its solid contribution to her happiness.

  The tall, graceful figure, walking swiftly along the poplar avenue out of the town, was very characteristically English. Several French women, as she passed through the streets, turned to look at her, wondering who was that English demoiselle, who walked so fast; why she was at Aix at all, and, above all, for what conceivable reason she should want to walk. But none of them failed to smile pleasantly when Gertrude gave them a “bon jour”; her face was so irresistibly happy and handsome, and they went back to their work smiling, and forgetting for the moment to scold Jean or Pierre for putting their dirty little fingers in the washtub.

  Gertrude got down to the lake while the sun was still behind the big range of hills to the east, though, looking back, she could see the tops of the mountains behind, and even the lower pastures beneath them touched by the new gold. She sat down on the landing-stage and watched the glory spreading downwards, till it reached the clear, white town she had left, and finally the sun itself swung into sight over the serrated outline of the eastern hills. The small, blue ripples tapped an invitation on the sides of the pleasure boats lying at anchor, and Gertrude determined to have a short row before going back. The boat-keeper expressed astonishment and dismay when he heard that mademoiselle proposed to r
ow herself, but Gertrude stripped off the light jacket she was wearing and told him to get two light sculls, and, with a laugh, disdaining his outstretched hand, she jumped into the boat and pushed off.

  Life was very sweet that morning. She was going to write to Reggie and tell him to come very soon, before they left Aix, for it was a nice place, and he could row as much as he liked, and go for long walks, and there were horses to be had. As she paddled quietly along, she pictured herself here again with him in a week or two. He would be sure to come. Had he not said he did not care for London, and he did happen to care for her? She wanted her mother to know him too, for she had only seen him at present on fugitive visits, and her “ideas” about him were vaguer than Gertrude wished.

  The sun was already high when she landed again, but the dusty mile of road up to Aix was short in her anticipations. There would be a letter for her from someone she cared about, infinitely dear to her, but, as the advertisements often say, “of no value but to the owner.” So she walked up not feeling the sun, only conscious of an inward glow of happiness which nothing could touch.

  Yes — the post had come in, and the polite porter looked through the letters. Miss Carston? No; none had come this morning. “Was he quite sure?” Yes; but perhaps mademoiselle would like to look through them for herself. Mademoiselle did like to do so, and she went upstairs to see her mother, feeling that the doubts, which she had buried the day before, had celebrated a private resurrection on their own account.

  “Summer had stopped.” There are no words for it but those. Was the sky still as blue? Possibly, but not for her. And when the sky is not blue for us, it is noticeable that we do not care very much, even the most unselfish of us, whether it is blue for others or not.

  Gertrude, in fact, passed on the stairs a colonial bishop and his wife, whom she had been accustomed to make the sharers of her intense joy in its blue spring; but when the lady recorded her opinion that it was a lovely day, Gertrude felt that the remark was singularly ill-chosen.

  She found her mother upstairs, preparing to come down. It was one of her bad days, and Gertrude knew that even greater attention than usual would be required of her.

  “I have been wanting you ever so long — these two hours at least,” said her mother, as she entered. “I wish you could manage to think about me sometimes. But that is always the way. Invalids never matter. They can look after themselves.”

  Gertrude kissed her mother and took off her hat.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, “I went a longer walk than usual, right down to the lake, and had a short row. Did you have your massage earlier this morning? You are not usually ready till twelve, and it is not twelve yet.”

  “No, I had it at ten, as usual. Why should I have it earlier?”

  “I thought you said you had been waiting for me so long. However, here I am now. I won’t be out so late another morning. What did you want me to do?”

  “Mrs. Rivière met me at the bath,” said her mother, “and wanted me to go for a picnic this afternoon, and you. I think I shall go. I want a breath of fresh air; they are going up to the Monastery, on the far side of the lake. We shall have to dress up, I suppose. Princess Villari is going, and the Prince too, I think.”

  Gertrude frowned slightly. She detested Mrs. Rivière with all the power with which a healthy, honest mind can detest mondaines of a certain description.

  “Did you say we would come?” she asked.

  “Why, of course I did. I suppose you don’t want to go now. Really, considering what I have to go through, it might be expected that my only daughter would not object to coming with me for a picnic, where perhaps I may get a little distraction. And the doctor particularly told me to get up in the hills now and then.”

  “Mother, why do you judge me so hastily?” said Gertrude. “Of course I will come; I only asked you whether you had accepted. What time shall we start? It will be delicious up there. Must I put on my very best frock?”

  “Gracious me, yes,” said Mrs. Carston. “I wish you had a better. And you’re getting dreadfully brown. Gertrude, I wish you would take a little more care of your complexion. You won’t be fit to be seen in a low dress when we get back to England. Ah, there’s the bell. Give me your arm, dear, I am a mass of aches to-day. Have you heard from Reggie this morning?”

  “No, there were no letters for me to-day,” said Gertrude, cheerfully. “I shall have to blow Reggie up when I write again. Or shall I not write until he writes to me?”

  “I forget whether you know Princess Villari,” asked her mother. “You’ve seen the Prince, haven’t you?”

  “I never spoke to her,” said Gertrude. “But I saw her last night at the Cercle; she was going into the baccarat room, talking at the top of her voice, and smoking.”

  “It’s becoming quite the thing to smoke,” remarked Mrs. Carston. “I should smoke, if I were you, this afternoon, if everybody else does. It is no use making an obvious exception of oneself. It looks so odd.”

  “Oh! I think it’s horrid for women to smoke,” said Gertrude. “It’s unfeminine. Don’t you think it is?”

  “Nonsense; I wish you would, if others do,” said her mother; “but you are always so determined. If you don’t wish to do a thing, you won’t do it. Take me to that seat at the small table. I can’t talk to Mrs. Mumford any more.”

  The rest of the party were all coming from the “Splendide,” the great hotel at the top of the hill overlooking Aix, and as the road from there went by the Beau Site, where Gertrude and her mother were staying, it had been arranged that the party from the upper hotel should call for them as they passed, and pick them up. Mrs. Carston told Gertrude that they were going to drive down to the lake in the Prince’s four-in-hand, take boats there, and walk up to the Monastery, where they would have tea.

  Gertrude and her mother were sitting in the verandah, facing the road, after lunch, when the brake drew up at the entrance to the hotel. A woman, brilliantly beautiful and marvellously dressed, was driving, whom Gertrude recognised as the Princess. She was smoking a cigarette, and held her whip and reins in the most professional manner. By her side sat Mrs. Rivière, and, in the centre of the seat just behind, a handsome, foreign-looking man, who, when they stopped, and he saw Gertrude and her mother coming down the steps, leaned forward to the Princess, and said, —

  “Who is that very handsome girl there, Mimi? Is she coming with us?”

  The Princess turned to look, and gave a shrill, voluble greeting to Mrs. Carston.

  “Charmed to see you! Get up and sit next my husband. Villari, you know Mrs. Carston, don’t you? And is that your daughter with you? I am so glad you were able to come, too. Steady, you brutes! Bring the steps, quick! These animals won’t stand quiet. Villari, get down and help them up.”

  “It’s Miss Carston,” she said to him, as he passed her; “isn’t she handsome? Very ingénue, I imagine. Do you know her, Mrs. Rivière?”

  “I met her the other day,” she replied. “I don’t think they’ve been here very long. How beautifully you drive!”

  “That’s one of my English accomplishments,” said the Princess; “and I haven’t forgotten it, you see. Dear me! it’s more than a year since I’ve been to England. We’re going in November. Villari’s bought a country place there, you know. Are you right behind there? Go on, you brutes, then! Ah! you would, would you?”

  The Princess gave a savage cut with her whip at one of the leaders, who appeared to want to go home, and they started off at a hand-gallop.

  “For God’s sake, take care, Mimi!” said the Prince, leaning forward, as they swung round a corner with about three-quarters of an inch to spare; “the streets will be full to-day — it’s Saturday.”

  “Blow the horn, old boy!” remarked the Princess. “Tell them we’re coming. I must go fast through here, you know, because I’ve got the reputation of driving like the son of Nimshi. Do you know who the son of Nimshi was, Mrs. Rivière? He comes in the Bible.”

  By about an
equal mixture of the favour of Providence and the dexterity of the Princess, they got through the town in safety, without impairing the reputation of the latter as being a furious driver, and the horses settled down to a steady pace on the road to the lake.

  The Prince had managed to seat himself next Gertrude, leaving Mrs. Carston to the attentions of Mr. Rivière. The rest of the party were composed of English visitors staying at the “Splendide,” and the whole party numbered ten or twelve. A second glance assured him that she was even handsomer than he supposed, and, as it was one of the Princess’s maxims that husband and wife were, both of them, perfectly free to receive or administer any attentions they pleased, without injuring their mutual relations, it followed, naturally, that he made himself agreeable.

  “I hope you and your mother are not given to nervousness,” he asked, when it was plain that the Princess intended to keep her reputation up, “for my wife is a perfectly reckless driver. However, she is also the best driver I ever saw, and she has never had an accident yet.”