Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Claude was of a very simple and straightforward nature, but he felt none the less keenly because he was not capable of feeling in any subtle or complicated manner. Love had come into his life, and his part in that burned within him still, in no way less ardently. He believed that Dora had loved him also: believed it, that is to say, in a sacred sense: it had been a creed to him, just as his own love for her was a creed. With body and soul he loved her, not fantastically, but deeply, and as he left her this afternoon it seemed to him that his love was being poured into a vessel in which was bitterness. They had talked only about what to him was a trivial thing — namely, the completeness with which Jim had made himself at home in the flat; but in the earlier days it made no difference what they talked about: tenderness, love came through it all, like water through a quicksand, engulfing them. Their days had been passed in such a quicksand; they were always joyfully foundering in it. But now it was not so. Some bitter encrustation had come on it which bore their weight quite easily, and there was no risk of going through, nor any chance of it. Honestly, he did not believe that he was responsible for the formation of that crust. He had not changed; was not other than he had always been. Once for a moment his mind poised and hovered above the truth, and he half said to himself, “I wonder if she finds me common?” But he rejected that: it was the wildest freak of imagination. Besides, she had not found him common at first, and he had not grown commoner. On the contrary, she had taught him much — little things, no doubt, but many of them. He had noticed she was always polite to servants and shop people, and though a year ago his tendency had been to be rather short with them, as inferiors, he had instinctively followed her example. That was only one instance out of many. But, so the poor fellow told himself, they were all little things like that, which could make no real difference to anybody.

  Yet he thought over this a little longer. He himself, for instance, had always known that his father and mother and Per were, so to speak, “common” beside him. That seemed perfectly natural, for he had been sent to Eton and Oxford, and had picked up all sorts of things as to the way “gentlemen behaved,” which they did not know. He would not press his guests to have more wine, as his father did, when they had refused, nor tempt them to a second helping, as his mother did. There were little tricks of language, too, infinitesimal affairs, but he, so he thought, had got into the way of it, whereas they had not. He, for instance, never said “Lor’,” as his father constantly did, and his mother, if she “was not on the watch.” But he said, “Good Lord,” because fellows said that, and not the other. But what did that really matter? There was a certain boisterousness of manner also that characterized them, which be and Mrs.

  Per, for instance, who was certainly a perfect lady, did not practise. Often, half in jest, his father had said, “Old Claude’s getting too much of a swell for me”; and though he deprecated such a conclusion, he understood what was meant, and knew that if half was jest, half was serious. But all this made it the more impossible that Dora should find him common. Eton and Oxford, he felt quite sure, had taken all the commonness out of him.

  And how little it mattered! He saw a hundred things, day by day, in which, if he had been disposed to peer and dissect and magnify, he would have felt that there was a difference between his father and himself. But how measure so small a thing? But what did that matter? He saw the kindness, the honour, the truth of his parents, and he was as likely to cease respecting and caring for them because of that difference as he was likely to cease to love Dora because once he had found a gray hair in her golden head. Besides — and his mind came back to that — if she found him common now, she must always have found him common. But nothing was short of perfection in their early weeks in Venice.

  Once, on his way downstairs to be ready to greet Per and his wife, who were expected that evening, he half turned on his foot, intending to go back to Dora and try to get to the bottom of it all. But he knew that he would find nothing to say, for there was nothing he could suggest in which he had fallen short. And even as he paused, wondering if it would be enough that he should go back and say, “Dora, what is it?” he heard the sound of the hall door opening. That was Per, no doubt; he must go down and welcome him.

  CHAPTER IX.

  THE question of the title had at length been settled: the simplest solution was felt to be the best; and Mrs. Osborne need not have felt so strange at the thought of changing her name, for she only changed the “Mrs.” into “Lady.” The eminently respectable name of Osborne, after all, was associated, as seen on the labels in the fish market at Venice, with the idea of hardware all the world over, a thing which Mr. Osborne had been anxious to “bring in,” and, at the same time, it had a faintly territorial sound. Lady Osborne, however, was a little disappointed; she would so much have enjoyed the necessity of getting quantities of table linen with the new initial worked on it. As it was, it was only necessary to have a coronet placed above it. Indeed, within a week coronets blossomed everywhere, with the suddenness of the coming of spring in the South — on the silver, on the hot-water cans, on writing paper and envelopes, on the panels of carriages and cars, and an enormous one, cut solid in limestone (the delivery of which seriously impeded for a while the traffic in Park Lane), was hoisted into its appropriate niche above the front door of No. 92 by the aid of a gang of perspiring workmen and a small steam crane. It had been a smart morning’s work, so said Lord Osborne, who looked out from the Gothic windows of his snuggery every now and then to see how it was getting on; and it became even smarter in the afternoon when gold-leaf had been thickly laid on it.

  It was on the evening of that day that Lady Osborne had only a family party. She had planned that from the very beginning of the settlement of the summer campaign, had declined a very grand invitation indeed in order not to sacrifice it, and was going to send it to the Morning Post and other papers, just as if it had been a great party. Lady Austell was there and Jim, Dora and Claude, Uncle Alf, Per and Mrs. Per, and her husband and herself. That was absolutely all, and there was nobody of any description coming in afterward; nor was any form of entertainment, except such as they would indulge in among themselves, to be provided. The idea was simply to have a family gathering, and not heed anybody else, for just this one evening; to be homely and cosy and comfortable.

  So there they all were, as Lady Osborne thought delightedly to herself, as she sat down with Jim on her right and Alfred on her left, just a family party, and yet they were all folk of title now except Alfred. It showed that money was not everything, for Alfred was the richest of them all, while the Austells, who were the “highest,” were also the poorest. She had looked forward immensely to this evening, but not without trepidation, for if Alfred was “worried” he could spoil any party. Alfred, however, seemed to be in the most excellent humour, and when, as they sat down, she said to him, “Well, Alfred, it’s your turn next to be made something,” he had replied that he had just received a most pressing offer of a dukedom. And the witticism was much appreciated.

  There was no keeping relations apart, of course, since they were all relations, and Claude was sitting next his father, with Mrs. Per between him and Jim, and it was his voice that his mother most listened for with the unconscious ear that hearkens for sounds that are most beloved. He was apologizing to his father for the mislaying of some key.

  “I’m really awfully sorry,” he said, “but I’m such a bad hand at keys. I never lock anything up myself. Everything’s always open in the flat, isn’t it, Dora? But I’m very sorry, Dad. It was careless.”

  “Ah, well, never mind,” said his father. “And I’m not one as locks up overmuch either. Give me the key of my wine cellar and my cash box, and the drawer of your mother’s letters to me when I was a-courting her, and the Tantalus, and the drawer where I keep my cheque-book and cash box, and I don’t ask for more. I’m no jailer, thank Heaven! But don’t you even have a key to your cellar, my boy?”

  “Oh, I suppose there is one, and I suppose Parker
has it,” he said.

  Jim, too, had caught some of this and turned to Lady Osborne.

  “By Jove! that’s so like Claude,” he said.

  Lady Osborne beamed delightedly upon him.

  “Well, and it is,” she said. “There never was a boy so free with his things. Lor’! he used to get into such hot water with his father when first he went to Oxford. There was no question, as you may guess, of his being kept short of money, but naturally his father wanted to hear where it went, and there’s no denying he was a bit extravagant when he first went up, as they say. But when Claude got his cheque-book, to look where and how it had all gone, why, there wasn’t as much as a date or anything on one of the bits you leave in. I never can remember the name.”

  “Counterfoils?” suggested Jim.

  “Yes, to be sure. And I’ll be bound he doesn’t enter half of them now. And his uncle here played him a trick the other day — didn’t pay in his quarter’s allowance, did you, Alf? And Claude never knew till he was told; just said he was hard up and didn’t know why, bless him. Well, he being his father’s son, it would be queer if he was tight-handed.”

  Jim laughed.

  “I shall be down on Mr. — Lord Osborne like a knife,” he said, “if he doesn’t pay me his rent.”

  “I’ll be bound you will, and quite right too, for money is money when all’s said and done,” said Lady Osborne cordially. “Well, I’m sure that sea trout is very good. I feel as I can take a mouthful more, Thoresby; and give Lord Austell some more. I’m sure I can tempt you, Lord Austell.”

  “Nothing easier,” said Jim.

  Uncle Alf came and sat next Dora in the drawing room when, after a rather prolonged discussion of the’40 port, the gentlemen joined the rest of the circle again.

  “I came up here from Richmond, making no end of smart speeches in the carriage, my dear,” he said, “in order to make Maria and Eddie jump, but I’ve not said one. She’s a good old sort, is Maria, and she was enjoying herself so. My dear, what’s that great big gold thing they’ve put up above the front door?”

  “Oh! a coronet, I think,” said Dora.

  “I thought it was, but I couldn’t be sure. Lord, what a set out! But those two are having such a good time. I hadn’t the heart to make them sit up. And I daresay they’ve got a lot of men in the House of Lords not half so honest as Eddie.”

  “I should never have forgiven you, Uncle Alf,” said she, “if you’d vexed them.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t, then,” said he. “And what’s going to happen now? You don’t mean to say Mrs. Per’s going to sing?”

  It appeared that this was the case. Naturally she required a certain amount of pressing, not because she had any intention of not singing but because a little diffidence, a little fear that she had been naughty, and hadn’t sung for weeks, was the correct thing.

  Uncle Alfred heard this latter remark.

  “She’s been practising every day. Per told us in the dining room,” he said. “Lord, if Sabincourt would paint her as she looks when she sings I’d give him his price for it. That woman will give me the indigestion if I let my mind dwell on her.”

  Mrs. Per sang with a great deal of expression such simple songs as did not want much else. Indeed, her rendering of “Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be cle-he-ver,” was chiefly expression. There was a great deal of expression, too, in the concluding line, which she sang with her eyes on the ceiling and a rapt smile playing about her tight little mouth. “One lorng sweet sorng,” she sang on a quavering and throaty F: “One lorng sweet sorng.” And she touched the last chord with the soft pedal down and continued smiling for several seconds, with that “lost look,” as Per described it, “that Lizzie gets when she is singing.”

  Her mother-in law broke the silence.

  “If that isn’t nice!” she said. “And I declare if I know whether I like the words or the music best. One seems to fit the other so. Lizzie, my dear, you’re going to give us another, won’t you now?”

  Lizzie had every intention of doing so, but again a little pressing was necessary, and she finally promised to sing once more, just once, if Claude would “do” something afterward. So she ran her hands over the keys, and became light and frolicsome, and sang something about a shower and a maid and a little kissing, which was very pretty and winsome. After that she sang again and again.

  Jim had seated himself opposite Dora, and in the middle of this their eyes met for a moment. A faint smile quivered on the corner of Jim’s mouth, but the moment after Mrs. Per came to the end of a song and he warmly complimented her. Eventually she left the piano and called upon Claude for the fulfilment of his promise.

  Claude on occasion recited; he did so now. The piece he chose was a favourite of his father’s, a little hackneyed, perhaps, for it was “The Sands of Dee,” and Lord Osborne blew his nose when it was finished.

  “Thank ye, my boy,” he said. “You said that beautiful. Just to think of it, poor thing, her caught by the tide like that, and her hair getting into the salmon nets. I’m glad we didn’t have that before dinner. I couldn’t have eaten a morsel of that salmon.”

  “My dear, you’re so fanciful,” said his wife, “and it was sea trout. But Claude said it beautiful. I’m sure I’ve heard them at the music halls, often and often, not half so good as that, for all that they are professionals.”

  “So that if your uncle cuts you off with a shilling, Claude,” said his father, “you can still make a home for Dora; hey, Dora?”

  And then Per did several very remarkable conjuring tricks, which nobody could guess. You put a watch into a handkerchief and held it quite tight, and then there wasn’t any, or else it was a rabbit, or something quite different. Again, whatever card you chose, and wherever you put it back into the pack, Per was cm it in no time. Or you thought of something, and Per blindfold, with the help of Mrs. Per, told you what you had thought of. And the Zanzics were held not to be in it.

  After the strain and bewilderment of these accomplishments it was almost a relief to sit down to a good round game, the basis of which was a pack of cards, some counters, a system of forfeits, and plenty of chaff.

  And about twelve, after a little light supper, the party broke up, Alf driving down to Richmond, and Lady Austell, who had made up her little disagreement with Jim, dropping him at his rooms. It was but a step from Park Lane there, but they held a short and pointed conversation on their way.

  “A delightful, charming evening,” she said; “all so genuine and honest, with no forced gaiety or insincere welcome. How happy and content Dora ought to be.”

  “The question being whether she is,” remarked Jim. “My dear, have you noticed anything?” asked his mother rather quickly. “Certainly during that recitation she looked a little — a little inscrutable. What a deplorable performance, was it not? And if that odious woman had sung any more I think I should have screamed. But Dora and Claude? Do you think the dear fellow is a little on her nerves?”

  “Yes, I think the dear fellow is a little on her nerves,” said Jim, with marked evenness of tone. “Can you not imagine the possibility of that? Consider.”

  It was very likely that Lady Austell considered. She did not, however, think good to inform Jim of the result of this consideration.

  “And he?” she asked.

  “I am not in his confidence,” said Jim. “I am only in his flat. And here it is. Thanks so much, dear mother, for the lift. Won’t you come in? No?”

  “I must speak to Dora,” said she, as the brougham stopped.

  “I think that would be very unwise of you. She knows all you would say, about his honour, his kindness, and so on. But at the present moment I think she feels that all the cardinal virtues do not make up for — well, for things like that recitation.”

  Lady Austell thought over this for a moment as Jim got out “You are friends with Claude?” she asked. “Real friends, I mean?”

  “No, I can’t stand him, and I think he can’t st
and me.”

  Lady Austell could not resist giving her son a little dab.

  “And yet you use his flat?” she said.

  “Oh, yes, and drink his wine and smoke his cigars. You would rather have liked the flat, wouldn’t you? Perhaps he’ll lend it you another time. He likes doing kind things that don’t incommode him. I think he likes feeling it doesn’t matter to him, and I feel that the fact that we dislike each other gives a certain piquancy to them. Good night; I’m so glad you liked your party. It is refreshing after the glitter and hollowness of the world to get close to family affection again.”

  It seemed to her that a little flame of true bitterness, quite unlike his usually genial cynicism and insouciance, shone in these words.