CHAPTER 26.
At a quarter past four in the afternoon, two days after thememorable dinner-party at which Lord Marshmoreton had behaved withso notable a lack of judgment, Maud sat in Ye Cosy Nooke, waitingfor Geoffrey Raymond. He had said in his telegram that he wouldmeet her there at four-thirty: but eagerness had brought Maud to thetryst a quarter of an hour ahead of time: and already the sadnessof her surroundings was causing her to regret this impulsiveness.Depression had settled upon her spirit. She was aware of somethingthat resembled foreboding.
Ye Cosy Nooke, as its name will immediately suggest to those whoknow their London, is a tea-shop in Bond Street, conducted bydistressed gentlewomen. In London, when a gentlewoman becomesdistressed--which she seems to do on the slightest provocation--shecollects about her two or three other distressed gentlewomen,forming a quorum, and starts a tea-shop in the West-End, which shecalls Ye Oak Leaf, Ye Olde Willow-Pattern, Ye Linden-Tree, or YeSnug Harbour, according to personal taste. There, dressed inTyrolese, Japanese, Norwegian, or some other exotic costume, sheand her associates administer refreshments of an afternoon with aproud languor calculated to knock the nonsense out of the cheeriestcustomer. Here you will find none of the coarse bustle andefficiency of the rival establishments of Lyons and Co., nor theglitter and gaiety of Rumpelmayer's. These places have anatmosphere of their own. They rely for their effect on aninsufficiency of light, an almost total lack of ventilation, aproperty chocolate cake which you are not supposed to cut, and thesad aloofness of their ministering angels. It is to be doubtedwhether there is anything in the world more damping to the spiritthan a London tea-shop of this kind, unless it be another Londontea-shop of the same kind.
Maud sat and waited. Somewhere out of sight a kettle bubbled in anundertone, like a whispering pessimist. Across the room twodistressed gentlewomen in fancy dress leaned against the wall.They, too, were whispering. Their expressions suggested that theylooked on life as low and wished they were well out of it, like thebody upstairs. One assumed that there was a body upstairs. Onecannot help it at these places. One's first thought on entering isthat the lady assistant will approach one and ask in a hushed voice"Tea or chocolate? And would you care to view the remains?"
Maud looked at her watch. It was twenty past four. She couldscarcely believe that she had only been there five minutes, but theticking of the watch assured her that it had not stopped. Herdepression deepened. Why had Geoffrey told her to meet him in acavern of gloom like this instead of at the Savoy? She would haveenjoyed the Savoy. But here she seemed to have lost beyond recoverythe first gay eagerness with which she had set out to meet the manshe loved.
Suddenly she began to feel frightened. Some evil spirit, possiblythe kettle, seemed to whisper to her that she had been foolish incoming here, to cast doubts on what she had hitherto regarded asthe one rock-solid fact in the world, her love for Geoffrey. Couldshe have changed since those days in Wales? Life had been soconfusing of late. In the vividness of recent happenings those daysin Wales seemed a long way off, and she herself different from thegirl of a year ago. She found herself thinking about George Bevan.
It was a curious fact that, the moment she began to think of GeorgeBevan, she felt better. It was as if she had lost her way in awilderness and had met a friend. There was something so capable, sosoothing about George. And how well he had behaved at that lastinterview. George seemed somehow to be part of her life. She couldnot imagine a life in which he had no share. And he was at thismoment, probably, packing to return to America, and she would neversee him again. Something stabbed at her heart. It was as if shewere realizing now for the first time that he was really going.
She tried to rid herself of the ache at her heart by thinking ofWales. She closed her eyes, and found that that helped her toremember. With her eyes shut, she could bring it all back--thatrainy day, the graceful, supple figure that had come to her out ofthe mist, those walks over the hills . . . If only Geoffrey wouldcome! It was the sight of him that she needed.
"There you are!"
Maud opened her eyes with a start. The voice had sounded likeGeoffrey's. But it was a stranger who stood by the table. And nota particularly prepossessing stranger. In the dim light of Ye CosyNooke, to which her opening eyes had not yet grown accustomed, allshe could see of the man was that he was remarkably stout. Shestiffened defensively. This was what a girl who sat about intea-rooms alone had to expect.
"Hope I'm not late," said the stranger, sitting down and breathingheavily. "I thought a little exercise would do me good, so Iwalked."
Every nerve in Maud's body seemed to come to life simultaneously.She tingled from head to foot. It was Geoffrey!
He was looking over his shoulder and endeavouring by snapping hisfingers to attract the attention of the nearest distressedgentlewoman; and this gave Maud time to recover from the frightfulshock she had received. Her dizziness left her; and, leaving, wassucceeded by a panic dismay. This couldn't be Geoffrey! It wasoutrageous that it should be Geoffrey! And yet it undeniably wasGeoffrey. For a year she had prayed that Geoffrey might be givenback to her, and the gods had heard her prayer. They had given herback Geoffrey, and with a careless generosity they had given hertwice as much of him as she had expected. She had asked for theslim Apollo whom she had loved in Wales, and this colossalchangeling had arrived in his stead.
We all of us have our prejudices. Maud had a prejudice against fatmen. It may have been the spectacle of her brother Percy, bulgingmore and more every year she had known him, that had caused thiskink in her character. At any rate, it existed, and she gazed insickened silence at Geoffrey. He had turned again now, and she wasenabled to get a full and complete view of him. He was not merelystout. He was gross. The slim figure which had haunted her for ayear had spread into a sea of waistcoat. The keen lines of his facehad disappeared altogether. His cheeks were pink jellies.
One of the distressed gentlewomen had approached with aslow disdain, and was standing by the table, brooding on thecorpse upstairs. It seemed a shame to bother her.
"Tea or chocolate?" she inquired proudly.
"Tea, please," said Maud, finding her voice.
"One tea," sighed the mourner.
"Chocolate for me," said Geoffrey briskly, with the air of onediscoursing on a congenial topic. "I'd like plenty of whippedcream. And please see that it's hot."
"One chocolate."
Geoffrey pondered. This was no light matter that occupied him.
"And bring some fancy cakes--I like the ones with icing onthem--and some tea-cake and buttered toast. Please see there'splenty of butter on it."
Maud shivered. This man before her was a man in whose lexicon thereshould have been no such word as butter, a man who should havecalled for the police had some enemy endeavoured to thrust butterupon him.
"Well," said Geoffrey leaning forward, as the haughty ministrantdrifted away, "you haven't changed a bit. To look at, I mean."
"No?" said Maud.
"You're just the same. I think I"--he squinted down at hiswaistcoat--"have put on a little weight. I don't know if you noticeit?"
Maud shivered again. He thought he had put on a little weight, anddidn't know if she had noticed it! She was oppressed by the eternalmelancholy miracle of the fat man who does not realize that he hasbecome fat.
"It was living on the yacht that put me a little out of condition,"said Geoffrey. "I was on the yacht nearly all the time since I sawyou last. The old boy had a Japanese cook and lived pretty high. Itwas apoplexy that got him. We had a great time touring about. Wewere on the Mediterranean all last winter, mostly at Nice."
"I should like to go to Nice," said Maud, for something to say. Shewas feeling that it was not only externally that Geoffrey hadchanged. Or had he in reality always been like this, commonplaceand prosaic, and was it merely in her imagination that he had beenwonderful?
"If you ever go," said Geoffrey, earnestly, "don't fail to lunch atthe Hotel Cote d'Azur. They give you the most amazing selection ofhors d'oeuvres
you ever saw. Crayfish as big as baby lobsters! Andthere's a fish--I've forgotten it's name, it'll come back tome--that's just like the Florida pompano. Be careful to have itbroiled, not fried. Otherwise you lose the flavour. Tell thewaiter you must have it broiled, with melted butter and a littleparsley and some plain boiled potatoes. It's really astonishing.It's best to stick to fish on the Continent. People can say whatthey like, but I maintain that the French don't really understandsteaks or any sort of red meat. The veal isn't bad, though I preferour way of serving it. Of course, what the French are real geniusesat is the omelet. I remember, when we put in at Toulon for coal, Iwent ashore for a stroll, and had the most delicious omelet withchicken livers beautifully cooked, at quite a small, unpretentiousplace near the harbour. I shall always remember it."
The mourner returned, bearing a laden tray, from which she removedthe funeral bakemeats and placed them limply on the table. Geoffreyshook his head, annoyed.
"I particularly asked for plenty of butter on my toast!" he said."I hate buttered toast if there isn't lots of butter. It isn'tworth eating. Get me a couple of pats, will you, and I'll spread itmyself. Do hurry, please, before the toast gets cold. It's no goodif the toast gets cold. They don't understand tea as a meal atthese places," he said to Maud, as the mourner withdrew. "You haveto go to the country to appreciate the real thing. I remember welay off Lyme Regis down Devonshire way, for a few days, and I wentand had tea at a farmhouse there. It was quite amazing! ThickDevonshire cream and home-made jam and cakes of every kind. Thissort of thing here is just a farce. I do wish that woman wouldmake haste with that butter. It'll be too late in a minute."
Maud sipped her tea in silence. Her heart was like lead within her.The recurrence of the butter theme as a sort of _leit motif_ in hercompanion's conversation was fraying her nerves till she felt shecould endure little more. She cast her mind's eye back over thehorrid months and had a horrid vision of Geoffrey steadilyabsorbing butter, day after day, week after week--ever becomingmore and more of a human keg. She shuddered.
Indignation at the injustice of Fate in causing her to give herheart to a man and then changing him into another and quitedifferent man fought with a cold terror, which grew as she realizedmore and more clearly the magnitude of the mistake she had made.She felt that she must escape. And yet how could she escape? Shehad definitely pledged herself to this man. ("Ah!" cried Geoffreygaily, as the pats of butter arrived. "That's more like it!" Hebegan to smear the toast. Maud averted her eyes.) She had told himthat she loved him, that he was the whole world to her, that therenever would be anyone else. He had come to claim her. How could sherefuse him just because he was about thirty pounds overweight?
Geoffrey finished his meal. He took out a cigarette. ("No smoking,please!" said the distressed gentlewoman.) He put the cigaretteback in its case. There was a new expression in his eyes now, atender expression. For the first time since they had met Maudseemed to catch a far-off glimpse of the man she had loved inWales. Butter appeared to have softened Geoffrey.
"So you couldn't wait!" he said with pathos.
Maud did not understand.
"I waited over a quarter of an hour. It was you who were late."
"I don't mean that. I am referring to your engagement. I saw theannouncement in the Morning Post. Well, I hope you will let meoffer you my best wishes. This Mr. George Bevan, whoever he is, islucky."
Maud had opened her mouth to explain, to say that it was all amistake. She closed it again without speaking.
"So you couldn't wait!" proceeded Geoffrey with gentle regret."Well, I suppose I ought not to blame you. You are at an age whenit is easy to forget. I had no right to hope that you would beproof against a few months' separation. I expected too much. But itis ironical, isn't it! There was I, thinking always of those dayslast summer when we were everything to each other, while you hadforgotten me--Forgotten me!" sighed Geoffrey. He picked a fragmentof cake absently off the tablecloth and inserted it in his mouth.
The unfairness of the attack stung Maud to speech. She looked backover the months, thought of all she had suffered, and ached withself-pity.
"I hadn't," she cried.
"You hadn't? But you let this other man, this George Bevan, makelove to you."
"I didn't! That was all a mistake."
"A mistake?"
"Yes. It would take too long to explain, but . . ." She stopped. Ithad come to her suddenly, in a flash of clear vision, that themistake was one which she had no desire to correct. She felt likeone who, lost in a jungle, comes out after long wandering into theopen air. For days she had been thinking confusedly, unable tointerpret her own emotions: and now everything had abruptly becomeclarified. It was as if the sight of Geoffrey had been the key to acipher. She loved George Bevan, the man she had sent out of herlife for ever. She knew it now, and the shock of realization madeher feel faint and helpless. And, mingled with the shock ofrealization, there came to her the mortification of knowing thather aunt, Lady Caroline, and her brother, Percy, had been rightafter all. What she had mistaken for the love of a lifetime hadbeen, as they had so often insisted, a mere infatuation, unable tosurvive the spectacle of a Geoffrey who had been eating too muchbutter and had put on flesh.
Geoffrey swallowed his piece of cake, and bent forward.
"Aren't you engaged to this man Bevan?"
Maud avoided his eye. She was aware that the crisis had arrived,and that her whole future hung on her next words.
And then Fate came to her rescue. Before she could speak, there wasan interruption.
"Pardon me," said a voice. "One moment!"
So intent had Maud and her companion been on their own affairs thatneither of them observed the entrance of a third party. This was ayoung man with mouse-coloured hair and a freckled, badly-shavenface which seemed undecided whether to be furtive or impudent. Hehad small eyes, and his costume was a blend of the flashy and theshabby. He wore a bowler hat, tilted a little rakishly to one side,and carried a small bag, which he rested on the table between them.
"Sorry to intrude, miss." He bowed gallantly to Maud, "but I wantto have a few words with Mr. Spenser Gray here."
Maud, looking across at Geoffrey, was surprised to see that hisflorid face had lost much of its colour. His mouth was open, andhis eyes had taken a glassy expression.
"I think you have made a mistake," she said coldly. She dislikedthe young man at sight. "This is Mr. Raymond."
Geoffrey found speech.
"Of course I'm Mr. Raymond!" he cried angrily. "What do you mean bycoming and annoying us like this?"
The young man was not discomposed. He appeared to be used to beingunpopular. He proceeded as though there had been no interruption.He produced a dingy card.
"Glance at that," he said. "Messrs. Willoughby and Son, Solicitors.I'm son. The guv'nor put this little matter into my hands. I'vebeen looking for you for days, Mr. Gray, to hand you this paper."He opened the bag like a conjurer performing a trick, and broughtout a stiff document of legal aspect. "You're a witness, miss, thatI've served the papers. You know what this is, of course?" he saidto Geoffrey. "Action for breach of promise of marriage. Our client,Miss Yvonne Sinclair, of the Regal Theatre, is suing you for tenthousand pounds. And, if you ask me," said the young man withgenial candour, dropping the professional manner, "I don't mindtelling you, I think it's a walk-over! It's the best little actionfor breach we've handled for years." He became professional again."Your lawyers will no doubt communicate with us in due course. And,if you take my advice," he concluded, with another of his swiftchanges of manner, "you'll get 'em to settle out of court, for,between me and you and the lamp-post, you haven't an earthly!"
Geoffrey had started to his feet. He was puffing with outragedinnocence.
"What the devil do you mean by this?" he demanded. "Can't you seeyou've made a mistake? My name is not Gray. This lady has told youthat I am Geoffrey Raymond!"
"Makes it all the worse for you," said the young man imperturbably,"making advances to our c
lient under an assumed name. We've gotletters and witnesses and the whole bag of tricks. And how aboutthis photo?" He dived into the bag again. "Do you recognize that,miss?"
Maud looked at the photograph. It was unmistakably Geoffrey. And ithad evidently been taken recently, for it showed the laterGeoffrey, the man of substance. It was a full-length photograph andacross the stout legs was written in a flowing hand the legend, "ToBabe from her little Pootles". Maud gave a shudder and handed itback to the young man, just as Geoffrey, reaching across the table,made a grab for it.
"I recognize it," she said.
Mr. Willoughby junior packed the photograph away in his bag, andturned to go.
"That's all for today, then, I think," he said, affably.
He bowed again in his courtly way, tilted the hat a little more tothe left, and, having greeted one of the distressed gentlewomen wholoitered limply in his path with a polite "If you please, Mabel!"which drew upon him a freezing stare of which he seemed oblivious,he passed out, leaving behind him strained silence.
Maud was the first to break it.
"I think I'll be going," she said.
The words seemed to rouse her companion from his stupor.
"Let me explain!"
"There's nothing to explain."
"It was just a . . . it was just a passing . . . It was nothing. . . nothing."
"Pootles!" murmured Maud.
Geoffrey followed her as she moved to the door.
"Be reasonable!" pleaded Geoffrey. "Men aren't saints!It was nothing! . . . Are you going to end . . . everything. . . just because I lost my head?"
Maud looked at him with a smile. She was conscious of anoverwhelming relief. The dim interior of Ye Cosy Nooke no longerseemed depressing. She could have kissed this unknown "Babe" whosebusinesslike action had enabled her to close a regrettable chapterin her life with a clear conscience.
"But you haven't only lost your head, Geoffrey," she said. "You'velost your figure as well."
She went out quickly. With a convulsive bound Geoffrey started tofollow her, but was checked before he had gone a yard.
There are formalities to be observed before a patron can leave YeCosy Nooke.
"If you please!" said a distressed gentlewomanly voice.
The lady whom Mr. Willoughby had addressed as Mabel--erroneously,for her name was Ernestine--was standing beside him with a slip ofpaper.
"Six and twopence," said Ernestine.
For a moment this appalling statement drew the unhappy man's mindfrom the main issue.
"Six and twopence for a cup of chocolate and a few cakes?" hecried, aghast. "It's robbery!"
"Six and twopence, please!" said the queen of the bandits withundisturbed calm. She had been through this sort of thing before.Ye Cosy Nooke did not get many customers; but it made the most ofthose it did get.
"Here!" Geoffrey produced a half-sovereign. "I haven't time toargue!"
The distressed brigand showed no gratification. She had the air ofone who is aloof from worldly things. All she wanted was rest andleisure--leisure to meditate upon the body upstairs. All flesh isas grass. We are here today and gone tomorrow. But there, beyondthe grave, is peace.
"Your change?" she said.
"Damn the change!"
"You are forgetting your hat."
"Damn my hat!"
Geoffrey dashed from the room. He heaved his body through the door.He lumbered down the stairs.
Out in Bond Street the traffic moved up and the traffic moved down.Strollers strolled upon the sidewalks.
But Maud had gone.
A Damsel in Distress Page 26