CHAPTER XI
NEURASTHENIA CURED
I
Three days later Mr. Prohack came home late with his daughter in thesubstituted car. He had accompanied Sissie to Putney for the finaldisposition of the affairs of the dance-studio, and had witnessed herblighting politeness to Eliza Brating and Eliza Brating's blightingpoliteness to her. The last kiss between these two young women wouldhave desolated the heart of any man whose faith in human nature was lessstrong than Mr. Prohack's. "I trust that the excellent Eliza is notdisfigured for life," he had observed calmly in the automobile. "Whatare you talking about, father?" Sissie had exclaimed, suspicious. "I wasafraid her lips might be scorched. You feel no pain yourself, my child,I hope?" He made the sound of a kiss. After this there was no moreconversation in the car during the journey. Arrived home, Sissie saidnonchalantly that she was going to bed.
"Burn my lips first," Mr. Prohack implored.
"Father!" said she, having kissed him. "You are simply terrible."
"I am a child," he replied. "And you are my grandmother."
"You wait till I give you your next dancing-lesson," Sissie retorted,turning and threatening him from the stairs. "It won't be as mild asthis afternoon's."
He smiled, giving an imitation of the sphinx. He was happy enough asmortals go. His wife was perhaps a little better. And he was graduallylaunching himself into an industrious career of idleness. Also, he hadbroken the ice,--the ice, that is to say, of tuition in dancing. Not aword had been spoken abroad in the house about the first dancing-lesson.He had had it while Mrs. Prohack was, in theory at least, paying calls;at any rate she had set forth in the car. Mr. Prohack and Sissie hadrolled up the drawing-room carpet and moved the furniture themselves.Mr. Prohack had unpacked the gramophone in person. They had locked thedrawing-room door. At the end of the lesson they had relaid the carpetand replaced the furniture and enclosed the gramophone and unlocked thedoor, and Mr. Prohack had issued from the drawing-room like a criminal.The thought in his mind had been that he was no end of a dog and of abrave dog at that. Then he sneered at himself for thinking such afoolish thought. After all, what was there in learning to dance? But thesneer was misplaced. His original notion that he had done somethingcourageous and wonderful was just a notion.
The lesson had favoured the new nascent intimacy with his daughter.Evidently she was a born teacher as well as a born dancer. He perceivedin two minutes how marvellous her feet were. She guided him withpressures light as a feather. She allowed herself to be guided with anintuitive responsiveness that had to be felt to be believed. Herexhortations were delicious, her reprimands exquisite, her patience wasinfinite. Further, she said that he had what she called "naturalrhythm," and would learn easily and satisfactorily. Best of all, he hadbeen immediately aware of the physical benefit of the exercise. Thehousehold was supposed to know naught of the affair, but the kitchenknew a good deal about it somehow; the kitchen was pleasantly and rathercondescendingly excited, and a little censorious, for the reason thatnobody in the kitchen had ever before lived in a house the master ofwhich being a parent of adult children took surreptitious lessons indancing; the thing was unprecedented, and therefore of courseintrinsically reprehensible. Mr. Prohack guessed the attitude of thekitchen, and had met Machin's respectful glance with a self-consciouseye.
He now bolted the front-door and went upstairs extinguishing the lightsafter him. Eve had told her husband and child that she should go to bedearly. He meant to have a frolicsome, teasing chat with her, for thedoctor had laid it down that light conversation would assist the cure oftraumatic neurasthenia. She would not be asleep, and even if she wereasleep she would be glad to awaken, because she admired his style ofgossip when both of them were in the vein for it. He would describe forher the evening at the studio humorously, in such a fashion as toconfirm her in her righteous belief that the misguided Sissie had seenthe maternal wisdom and quitted dance-studios for ever.
The lamps were out in the bedroom. She slept. He switched on a light,but her bed was empty; it had not been occupied!
"Marian!" he called in a low voice, thinking that she might be in theboudoir.
And if she was in the boudoir she must be reclining in the dark there.He ascertained that she was not in the boudoir. Then he visited boththe drawing-room and the dining-room. No Marian anywhere! He stood amoment in the hall and was in a mind to ring for Machin--he could seefrom a vague illumination at the entrance to the basement steps that thekitchen was still inhabited--but just then all the servants came upwardson the way to the attics, and at the strange spectacle of their dancingmaster in the hall they all grew constrained and either coughed orhurried as though they ought not to be caught in the act of retiring tobed.
Mr. Prohack, as it were, threw a lasso over Machin, who was the last ofthe procession.
"Where is your mistress, Machin?" He tried to be matter-of-fact, butsomething unusual in his tone apparently started her.
"She's gone to bed, sir. She told me to put her hot-water bag in the bedearly."
"Oh! Thanks! Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
He could not persuade himself to call an alarm. He could not even informMachin that she was mistaken, for to do so would have been equivalent tocalling an alarm. Hesitating and inactive he allowed the black-and-whitedamsels and the blue cook to disappear. Nor would he disturbSissie--yet. He had first to get used to the singular idea that his wifehad vanished from home. Could this vanishing be one of the effects oftraumatic neurasthenia? He hurried about and searched all the roomsagain, looking with absurd carefulness, as if his wife were aninsignificant object that might have dropped unperceived under a chairor behind a couch.
Then he telephoned to her sister, enquiring in a voice of studiedcasualness. Eve was not at her sister's. He had known all the while thatshe would not be at her sister's. Being unable to recall the number, hehad had to consult the telephone book. His instinct now was to fetchSissie, whose commonsense had of late impressed him more and more; buthe repressed the instinct, holding that he ought to be able to managethe affair alone. He could scarcely say to his daughter: "Your motherhas vanished. What am I to do?" Moreover, feeling himself to be theguardian of Marian's reputation for perfect sanity, he desired not todivulge her disappearance, unless obliged to do so. She might return atany moment. She must return very soon. It was inconceivable thatanything should have "happened" in the Prohack family....
Almost against his will he looked up "Police Stations" in thetelephone-book. There were scores of police stations. The nearest seemedto be that of Mayfair. He demanded the number. To demand the number ofthe police station was like jumping into bottomless cold water. In adetestable dream he gave his name and address and asked if the policehad any news of a street accident. Yes, several. He described his wife.He said, reflecting wildly, that she was not very tall and rather plump;dark hair. Dress? Dark blue. Hat and mantle? He could not say. Age? Aqueer impulse here. He knew that she hated the mention of her real age,and so he said thirty-nine. No! The police had no news of such a person.But the polite firm voice on the wire said that it would telephone toother stations and would let Mr. Prohack hear immediately if there wasanything to communicate. Wonderful organisation, the London policeforce!
As he hung up the receiver he realised what had occurred and what he haddone. Marian had mysteriously disappeared and he had informed thepolice,--he, Arthur Prohack, C.B. What an awful event!
His mind ran on the consequences of traumatic neurasthenia. He put onhis hat and overcoat and unbolted the front-door as silently as hecould--for he still did not want anybody in the house to know thesecret--and went out into the street. What to do? A ridiculous move! Didhe expect to find her lying in the gutter? He walked to the end of thedark street and peered into the cross-street, and returned. He had leftthe front-door open. As he re-entered the house he descried in a cornerof the hall, a screwed-up telegraph-envelope. Why had he not noticed itbefore? He snatched at it. It was addressed to "Mrs. Prohack."
Mr. Prohack's soul was instantaneously bathed in heavenly solace.Traumatic neurasthenia had nothing to do with Eve's disappearance! Hisbliss was intensified by the fact that he had said not a word to theservants and had not called Sissie. And it was somewhat impaired by theother fact that he had been ass enough to tell the police. He was justpuzzling his head to think what misfortune could have called his wifeaway--not that the prospect of any misfortune much troubled him now thatEve's vanishing was explained--when through the doorway he saw a taxidrive up. Eve emerged from the taxi.
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