Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Fortune was favourable: it was that shawl that he brought, and she turned round for him to put it on her shoulders. Then she faced him again in the remembered position, underneath the light, smiling.

  “Now, I am ready, Lyndhurst,” she said.

  He opened the French window for her, and stood to let her pass out. Again she smiled at him, and waited for him to join her on the rather narrow gravel path. There was actually room for two abreast on it, for, on the evening of her dinner-party, Harry had walked here side by side with Mrs. Evans. But there was only just room.

  “You go first, Amy,” he said, “or shall I? We can scarcely walk abreast here.”

  But she took his arm.

  “Nonsense, my dear,” she said. “There: is there not heaps of room?”

  He felt vaguely uncomfortable. It was not only the necessity of putting his feet down one strictly in front of the other that made him so.

  “Anything the matter, my dear?” he asked.

  The question was not cruel: it was scarcely even careless. He could hardly be expected to guess, for his perceptions were not fine. Also he was thinking about somebody else, and wondering how late it was. But even if he had had complete knowledge of the situation about which he was completely ignorant, he could not have dealt with it in a more peremptory way. The dreary flatness to which she had been so impassive a prey directly after dinner, the sense of complete failure enveloped her like impenetrable fog. Out of that fog, she hooted, so to speak, like an undervitalized siren.

  “I am only so glad to get back,” she said, pressing his arm a little. “I hoped you were glad, too, that I was back. Tell me what you have been doing all the time I have been away.”

  This, like banns, was for the third time of asking. He recalled for her the days one by one, leaving out certain parts of them. Even at the moment, he was astonished to find how vivid his recollection of them was. On Thursday, when he had played golf in the morning, he had lunched with the Evans’ (this he stated, for Harry had lunched there too) and he had culled probably the last dish of asparagus in the afternoon. He had dined alone with Harry that night, and Harry had toothache. Next day, consequently, Harry went to the dentist in the morning, and he himself had played golf in the afternoon. That he remembered because he had gone to tea with Mrs. Evans afterwards, but that he did not mention, for he had been alone with her, and they had talked about being misunderstood and about affinities. On Saturday Harry had gone back to Cambridge, but, having missed his train, he had made a second start after lunch. He had met Dr. Evans in the street that day, going up to the golf links, and since he would otherwise be quite alone in the evening, he had dined with them, “en garçon.”

  This catalogue of trivial happenings took quite a long time in the recitation. But below the trivialities there was a lurking significance. He was not really in love with Millie Evans, and his assurance to himself on that point was perfectly honest. But (this he did not put so distinctly to himself) he thought that she was tremendously attracted by him. Here was an appeal to a sort of deplorable sense of gallantry — so terrible a word only can describe his terrible mind — and mentally he called her “poor little lady.” She was pretty, too, and not very happy. It seemed to be incumbent on him to interest and amuse her. His “droppings in” amused her: when he got ready to drop out again, she always asked when he would come to see her next. These “droppings in” were clearly bright spots to her in a drab day. They were also bright spots to him, for he was more interested in them than in all his sweet-peas. There was a “situation” come into his life, something clandestine. It would never do, for instance, to let Amy or the estimable doctor get a hint of it. Probably they would misunderstand it, and imagine there was something to conceal. He had the secret joys of a bloodless intrigue. But, considering its absolute bloodlessness, he was amazingly wrapped up in it. It was no wonder that he did not notice the restored colour of Amy’s hair.

  He, or rather Mrs. Evans, had made a conditional appointment for to-night. If possible, the possibility depending upon Amy’s fatigue, he was going to drop in for a chat. Primarily the chat was to be concerned with the lighting of the garden by means of Chinese lanterns, for a nocturnal fête that Mrs. Evans meant to give on her birthday. The whole garden was to be lit, and since the entertainment of an illuminated garden, with hot soup, quails and ices, under the mulberry-tree was obviously new to Riseborough, it would be sufficiently amusing to the guests to walk about the garden till supper-time. But there would be supererogatory diversions beyond that, bridge-tables in the verandah, a small band at the end of the garden to intervene its strains between the guests and the shrieks of South-Eastern expresses, and already there was an idea of fancy dress. Major Ames favoured the idea of fancy dress, for he had a red velvet garment, sartorially known as a Venetian cloak, locked away upstairs, which was a dazzling affair if white tights peeped out from below it. He knew he had a leg, and only lamented the scanty opportunities of convincing others of the fact. But the lighting of the garden had to be planned first: there was no use in having a leg in a garden, if the garden was not properly lit. But the whole affair was as yet a pledged secret: he could not, as a man of honour, tell Amy about it. Short notice for a fête of this sort was of no consequence, for it was to be a post-prandial entertainment, and the only post-prandial entertainment at present existent in Riseborough was going to bed. Thus everybody would be able to be happy to accept.

  A rapid résumé of this made an undercurrent in his mind, as he went through, in speaking voice, the history of the last days. Up and down the narrow path they passed, she still with her hand in his arm, questioning, showing an inconceivable interest in the passage of the days from which he had left out all real points of interest. His patience came to an end before hers.

  “Upon my word, my dear,” he said, “it’s getting a little chilly. Shall we go in, do you think? I’m sure you are tired with your journey.”

  There was nothing more coming: she knew that. But even in the midst of her disappointment, she found consolation. Daylight would show the re-establishment of her youthfulness more clearly than electric light had done. Every one looked about the same by electric light. And though, in some secret manner, she distrusted his visit to the club, she knew how impolitic it would be to hint, however remotely, at such distrust. It was much better this evening to acquiesce in the imputation of fatigue. Nor was the imputation groundless; for failure fatigues any one when under the same conditions success would only stimulate. And in the consciousness of that, her bitterness rose once more to her lips.

  “You mustn’t catch cold,” she said. “Let us go in.”

  It was still only half-past ten: all this flatness and failure had lasted but a couple of hours, and Major Ames, as soon as his wife had gone upstairs, let himself out of the house. His way lay past the doors of the club, but he did not enter, merely observing through its lit windows that there were a good many men in the smoking-room. On arrival at the Doctor’s he found that Elsie and her father were playing chess in the drawing-room, and that Mrs. Evans was out in the garden. He chose to go straight into the garden, and found her sitting under the mulberry, dressed in white, and looking rather like the Milky Way. She did not get up, but held out her hand to him.

  “That is nice of you,” she said. “How is Cousin Amy?”

  “Amy is very well,” said he. “But she’s gone to bed early, a little tired with the journey. And how is Cousin Amy’s cousin?”

  He sat down on the basket chair close beside her which creaked with his weight.

  “I must have a special chair made for you,” she said. “You are so big and strong. Have you seen Cousin Amy’s cousin’s husband?”

  “No: I heard you were out here. So I came straight out.”

  She got up.

  “I think it will be better, then, if we go in, and tell him you are here,” she said. “He might think it strange.”

  Major Ames jumped up with alacrity: with his alacrity was mingled a
pleasing sense of adventure.

  “By all means,” he said. “Then we can come out again.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Surely. He is playing chess with Elsie. I do not suppose he will interrupt his game.”

  Apparently Dr. Evans did not think anything in the least strange. On the whole, this was not to be wondered at, since he knew quite well that Major Ames was coming to talk over garden illumination with his wife.

  “Good evening, Major,” he said; “kind of you to come. You and my little woman are going to make a pauper of me, I’m told. There, Elsie, what do you say to my putting my knight there? Check.”

  “Pig!” said Elsie.

  “Then shall we go out, Major Ames?” said Millie. “Are you coming out, Wilfred?”

  “No, little woman. I’m going to defeat your daughter indoors. Come and have a glass of whisky and soda with me before you go, Major.”

  They went out again accordingly into the cool starlight.

  “Wilfred is so fond of chess,” she said. “He plays every night with Elsie, when he is at home. Of course, he is often out.”

  This produced exactly the effect that she meant. She did not comment or complain: she merely made a statement which arose naturally from what was going on in the drawing-room.

  But Major Ames drew the inference that he was expected to draw.

  “Glad I could come round,” he said. “Now for the lanterns. We must have them all down the garden wall, and not too far apart, either. Six feet apart, eh? Now I’ll step the wall and we can calculate how many we shall want there. I think I step a full yard still. Not cramped in the joints yet.”

  It took some half hour to settle the whole scheme of lighting, which, since Major Ames was not going to pay for it, he recommended being done in a somewhat lavish manner. With so large a number of lanterns, it would be easily possible to see his leg, and he was strong on the subject of fancy dress.

  “There’ll be some queer turn-outs, I shouldn’t wonder,” he said; “but I expect there will be some creditable costumes too. By Jove! it will be quite the event of the year. Amy and I, with our little dinners, will have to take a back seat, as they say.”

  “I hope Cousin Amy won’t think it forward of me,” said Millie.

  Major Ames said that which is written “Pshaw.” “Forward?” he cried. “Why, you are bringing a bit of life among us. Upon my word, we wanted rousing up a bit. Why, you are a public benefactor.”

  They had sat down to rest again after their labour of stepping out the brick walls under the mulberry-tree, where the grass was dry, and only a faint shimmer of starlight came through the leaves. At the bottom of the garden a train shrieked by, and the noise died away in decrescent thunder. She leaned forward a little towards him, putting up her face much as Amy had done.

  “Ah, if only I thought I was making things a little pleasant,” she said.

  Suddenly it struck Major Ames that he was expected to kiss her. He leaned forward, too.

  “I think you know that,” he said. “I wish I could thank you for it.”

  She did not move, but in the dusk he could see she was smiling at him. It looked as if she was waiting. He made an awkward forward movement and kissed her.

  There was silence a moment: she neither responded to him nor repelled him.

  “I suppose people would say I ought not to have let you,” she said. “But there is no harm, is there? After all, you are a — a sort of cousin. And you have been so kind about the lanterns.”

  Major Ames was thinking almost entirely about himself, hardly at all about her. An adventure, an intrigue had begun. He had kissed somebody else’s wife and felt the devil of a fellow. But with the wine of this emotion was mingled a touch of alarm. It would be wise to call a halt, take his whisky and soda with her husband, and get home to Amy.

  CHAPTER VI

  Mrs. Altham waited with considerable impatience next day for the return of her husband from the club, where he went on most afternoons, to sit in an armchair from tea-time to dinner and casually to learn what had happened while he had been playing golf. She had been to call on Mrs. Ames in the afternoon, and in consequence had matter of considerable importance to communicate. She could have supported that retarded spate of information, though she wanted to burst as soon as possible, but she had also a question to ask Henry on which a tremendous deal depended. At length she heard the rattle of his deposited hat and stick in the hall, and she went out to meet him.

  “How late you are, Henry,” she said; “but you needn’t dress. Mrs. Brooks, if she does come in afterwards, will excuse you. Dinner is ready: let us come in at once. Now, you were at the club last night, after dinner. You told me who was there; but I want to be quite sure.”

  Mr. Altham closed his eyes for a moment as he sat down. It looked as if he was saying a silent grace, but appearances were deceptive. He was only thinking, for he knew his wife would not ask such a question unless something depended on it, and he desired to be accurate.

  Then he opened them again, and helped the soup with a name to each spoonful.

  “General Fortescue,” he said. “Young Morton. Mr. Taverner, Turner, Young Turner.”

  That was five spoonfuls — three for his wife, two for himself. He was not very fond of soup.

  “And you were there all the time between ten and eleven?” asked his wife.

  “Till half-past eleven.”

  “And there was no one else?”

  Mr. Altham looked up brightly.

  “The club waiter,” he said, “and the page. The page has been dismissed for stealing sugar. The sugar bill was preposterous. That was how we found out. Did you mean to ask about that?”

  “No, my dear. Nor do I want to know.”

  At the moment the parlour-maid left the room, and she spoke in an eager undertone.

  “Mrs. Ames told me that Major Ames went up to the club last night, when she went to bed at half-past ten,” she said. “You told me at breakfast whom you found there, but I wanted to be sure. Call them Mr. and Mrs. Smith and then we can go on talking.”

  The parlour-maid came back into the room.

  “Yes, Mr. Smith apparently went up to the club at half-past ten,” she said. “But he can’t have gone to the club, for in that case you would have seen him. It has occurred to me that he didn’t feel well, and went to the doctor’s.”

  “It seems possible,” said Mr. Altham, not without enthusiasm, understanding that “doctor” meant “doctor,” and which doctor.

  “We have all noticed how many visits he has been paying to — to Dr. Jones,” said Mrs. Altham, “during the time Mrs. Smith was away. But to pay another one on the very evening of her return looks as if — as if something serious was the matter.”

  “My dear, there’s nothing whatever to show that Major Ames went to the doctor’s last night,” he said.

  Mrs. Altham gave him an awful glance, for the parlour-maid was in the room, and this thoughtless remark rendered all the diplomatic substitution of another nomenclature entirely void and useless.

  “Mrs. Smith, I should say,” added Mr. Altham in some confusion, proceeding to make it all quite clear to Jane, in case she had any doubts about it.

  “Suggest to me any other reasonable theory as to where he was, then,” said Mrs. Altham.

  “I can’t suggest where he was, my dear,” said Mr. Altham, finding his legal training supported him, “considering that there is no evidence of any kind that bears upon the matter. But to know that a man was not in one given place does not show with any positiveness that he was at any other given place.”

  “No doubt, then, he went shopping at half-past ten last night,” said Mrs. Altham, with deep sarcasm. “There are so many shops open then. The High Street is a perfect blaze of light.”

  Mr. Altham could be sarcastic, too, though he seldom exercised this gift.

  “It quite dazzles one,” he observed.

  Mrs. Altham no doubt was vexed at her husband’s sceptical attitude
, and she punished him by refraining from discussing the point any further, and from giving him the rest of her news. But this severity punished herself also, for she was bursting to tell him. When Jane had finally withdrawn, the internal pressure became irresistible.

  “Mrs. Ames has done something to her hair, Henry,” she said; “and she has done something to her face. I had a good mind to ask her what she had used. I assure you there was not a grey hair left anywhere, and a fortnight ago she was as grey as a coot!”

  “Coots are bald, not grey,” remarked her husband.

  “That is mere carping, Henry. She is brown now. Is this another fashion she is going to set us at Riseborough? What does it all mean? Shall we all have to plaster our faces with cold cream, and dye our hair blue?”

  Mr. Altham was in a painfully literal mood this evening and could not disentangle information from rhetoric.

  “Has she dyed her hair blue?” he asked in a slightly awestricken voice.

  “No, my dear: how can you be so stupid? And I told you just now she was brown. But at her age! As if anybody cared what colour her hair was. Her face, too! I don’t deny that the wrinkles are less marked, but who cares whether she is wrinkled or not?”

  These pleasant considerations were discontinued by the sound of the postman’s tap on the front door, and since the postman took precedence of everybody and everything, Mr. Altham hurried out to see what excitements he had piloted into port. Unfortunately, there was nothing for him, but there was a large, promising-looking envelope for his wife. It was stiff, too, and looked like the receptacle of an invitation card.

  “One for you, my dear,” he said.

  Mrs. Altham tore it open, and gave a great gasp.

  “You would not guess in a hundred tries,” she said.