by E. F. Benson
Edith just now, working her way through the entire orchestra, was engaged on the cor anglais which, while Hugh was still so ill, Dodo insisted should not be played in the house. It gave rather melancholy notes, and was productive of moisture. But she finished a passage which seemed to have no end, before she acknowledged these compliments. Then she emptied the cor anglais into the heather.
“Poor Bertie is a drone,” she said; “he never thinks it worth while to do anything well. Berts is better: he thinks it worth while to sit on his father really properly. I thought my energy might wake Bertie up, and that was chiefly why I married him. But it only made him go to sleep. Lichfield is about his level. I don’t know anything about Lichfield, and I don’t know much about Bertie. But they seem to me rather suitable. And much more can be done with the cor anglais than Wagner ever imagined. The solo in Tristan is absolute child’s play. I could perform it myself with a week’s practice.”
Dodo had been engaged in a small incendiary operation among the heather, with the match with which she had lit her cigarette. For the moment it seemed that her incendiarism was going to fulfil itself on larger lines than she had intended.
“Jack, I have set fire to Wales, like Lloyd George,” she cried. “Stamp on it with your great feet. What great large strong feet! How beautiful are the feet of them that put out incendiary attempts in Wales! About Bertie, Edith, if you will stop playing that lamentable flute for a moment—”
“Flute?” asked Edith.
“Trombone, if you like. The point is that your vitality hasn’t inspired Bertie; it has only drained him of his. You set out to give him life, and you have become his vampire. I don’t say it was your fault: it was his misfortune. But Berts is calm enough to keep your family going. The real question is about mine. Yes, Jack, that was where Hughie went into the sea, when the sea was like Switzerland. And those are the reefs, before which, though it’s not grammatical, he had to reach the boat. He swam straight out from where your left foot is pointing. A Humane Society medal came for him yesterday, and Nadine pinned it upon his bed-clothes. He says it is rot, but I think he rather likes it. She pinned it on while he was asleep, and he didn’t know what it meant. He thought it was the sort of thing that they give to guards of railway trains. The dear boy was rather confused, and asked if he had joined the station-masters.”
Jack shaded his eyes from the sun.
“And a big sea was running?” he asked.
“But huge. It broke right up to the cliffs at the ebb. And into it he went like a duck to water.”
Edith got up.
“I have heard enough of Hugh’s trumpet blown,” she said.
“And I have heard enough of the cor anglais,” said Dodo. “Dear Edith, will you go away and play it there? You see, darling, Jack came out this morning to talk to me, and I came out to talk to him. Or we will go away if you like: the point is that somebody must.”
“I shall go and play golf,” said Edith with dignity. “I may not be back for lunch. Don’t wait for me.”
Dodo was roused to reply to this monstrous recommendation.
“If I had been in the habit of waiting for you,” she said, “I should still be where I was twenty years ago. You are always in a hurry, darling, and never in time.”
“I was in time for dinner last night,” said Edith.
“Yes, because I told you it was at eight, when it was really at half past.”
Edith blew a melancholy minor phrase.
“Leit-motif,” she said, “describing the treachery of a friend.”
“Tooty, tooty, tooty,” said Dodo cheerfully, “describing the gay impenitence of the same friend.”
Edith exploded with laughter, and put the cor anglais into its green-baize bag.
“Good-by,” she said, “I forgive you.”
“Thanks, darling. Mind you play better than anybody ever played before, as usual.”
“But I do,” said Edith passionately.
Dodo leaned back on the springy couch of the heather as Edith strode down the hillside.
“It’s not conceit,” she observed, “but conviction, and it makes her so comfortable. I have got a certain amount of it myself, and so I know what it feels like. It was dear of you to come down, Jack, and it will be still dearer of you if you can persuade Nadine to go back with you to Winston.”
“But I don’t want to go back to Winston. Anyhow, tell me about Nadine. I don’t really know anything more than that she has thrown Seymour over, and devotes herself to Hugh.”
“My dear, she has fallen head over ears in love with him.”
“You are a remarkably unexpected family,” Jack allowed himself to say.
“Yes; that is part of our charm. I think somewhere deep down she was always in love with him, but, so to speak, she couldn’t get at it. It was like a seam of gold: you aren’t rich until you have got down through the rock. And Hugh’s adventure was a charge of dynamite to her; it sent the rock splintering in all directions. The gold lies in lumps before his eyes, but I am not sure whether he knows it is for him or not. He can’t talk much, poor dear; he is just lying still, and slowly mending, and very likely he thinks no more than that she is only sorry for him, and wants to do what she can. But in a fortnight from now comes the date when she was to have married Seymour. He can’t have forgotten that.”
“Forgotten?” asked Jack.
“Yes; he doesn’t remember much at present. He had severe concussion as well as that awful breakage of the hip.”
“Do they think he will recover completely?” asked Jack.
“They can’t tell yet. His little injuries have healed so wonderfully that they hope he may. They are more anxious about the effects of the concussion than the other. He seems in a sort of stupor still; he recognizes Nadine of course, but she hasn’t, except on that first night, seemed to mean much to him.”
“What was that?”
“He so nearly died then. He kept calling for her in a dreadful strange voice, and when she came he didn’t know her for a time. Then she put her whole soul into it, the darling, and made him know her, and he went to sleep. She slept, or rather lay awake, all night by his bed. She saved his life, Jack; they all said so.”
“It seems rather perverse to refuse to marry him when he is sound, and the moment he is terribly injured to want to,” said Jack.
“My darling, it is no use criticizing people,” said Dodo, “unless by your criticism you can change them. Even then it is a great responsibility. But you could no more change Nadine by criticizing her, than you could change the nature of the wildcat at the Zoo by sitting down in front of its cage, and telling it you didn’t like its disposition, and that it had not a good temper. You may take it that Nadine is utterly in love with him.”
“And as he has always been utterly in love with her, I don’t know why you want me to take Nadine away. Bells and wedding-cake as soon as Hugh can hobble to church.”
“Oh, Jack, you don’t see,” she said. “If I know Hughie at all, he wouldn’t dream of offering himself to Nadine until it is certain that he will be an able-bodied man again. And she is expecting him to, and is worrying and wondering about it. Also, she is doing him no good now. It can’t be good for an invalid to have continually before him the girl to whom he has given his soul, who has persistently refused to accept it. It is true that they have exchanged souls now—as far as that goes my darling Nadine has so much the best of the bargain—but Hugh has to begin the—the negotiations, and he won’t, even if he sees that Nadine is a willing Barkis, until he knows he has something more than a shattered unmendable thing to offer her. Consequently he is silent, and Nadine is perplexed. I will go on saying it over and over again if it makes it any clearer, but if you understand, you may signify your assent in the usual manner. Clap your great hands and stamp your great feet: oh, Jack, what a baby you are!”
“Do you suppose she would come away?” said Jack, coughing a little at the dust his great feet had raised from the loose soil.
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br /> “Yes, if you can persuade her that her presence isn’t good for Hugh. So you will try; that’s all right. Nadine has a great respect for Papa Jack’s wisdom, and I can’t think why. I always thought a lot of your heart, dear, but very little of your head. You mustn’t retort that you never thought much of either of mine, because it wouldn’t be manly, and I should tell you you were a coward as the Suffragettes do when they hit policemen in the face.”
“And why should it be I to do all this?” asked Jack.
“Because you are Papa Jack,” said Dodo, “and a girl listens to a man when she would not heed a woman. Oh, you might tell her, which is probably true, that Edith is going away tomorrow, and you want somebody to take care of you at Winston. I think even Nadine would see that it would not quite do if she was left here alone with Hughie. At least it is possible she might see that: you could use it to help to preach down a stepdaugher’s heart. You must think of these things for yourself, though, because in my heart I am really altogether on Nadine’s side. I think it is wonderful that she should now be waiting so eagerly and humbly for Hugh, poor crippled Hugh, as he at present is, to speak. She has chosen the good part like Mary, and I want you for the present to take it away from her. It’s wiser for her to go, but am I,” asked Dodo grammatically, “to supply the ruthless foe, which is you, with guns and ammunition against my daughter?”
“You can’t take both sides,” remarked Jack.
“Jack, I wish you were a woman for one minute, just to feel how ludicrous such an observation is. Our lives—not perhaps Edith’s—are passed in taking both sides. My whole heart goes out to Hugh, who has been so punished for his gallant recklessness, and then the moment I say ‘punished’ I think of Nadine’s awakened love and shout, ‘No, I meant rewarded.’ Then I think of Nadine, and wonder if I could bear being married to a cripple, and simultaneously, now that she has shown she can love, I cannot bear the thought of her being married to anybody else. After all Nelson had only one eye and one arm, and though he wasn’t exactly married to Lady Hamilton, I’m sure she was divinely happy. But then, best of all, I think of Hugh making a complete recovery, and once more coming to Nadine with his great brown doggy eyes, and telling her.… Then for once I don’t take both sides, but only one, which is theirs, and if it would advance their happiness, I would even take away from poor little Seymour his jade and his Antoinette, which is all that Nadine left him with, without a single qualm of regret.”
Jack considered this a moment.
“After all, she has left him where she found him,” said Jack, who had rather taken Edith’s view about their marriage. “He had only his Antoinette and his jade when she accepted him, and until you make a further raid, he will have them still.”
Dodo shook her head.
“Jack, it is rather tiresome of you,” she said. “You are making me begin to have qualms for Seymour. She had found his heart for him, you see, and now having taken everything out of it, she has gone away again, leaving him a cupboard as empty as Mother Hubbard’s.”
“He will put the jade back—and Antoinette,” said Jack hopefully.
Dodo got up.
“That is what I doubt,” she said. “Until we have known a thing, we can’t miss it. We only miss it when we have known it, and it is taken away, leaving the room empty. Then old things won’t always go back into their places again; they look shabby and uninteresting, and the room is spoiled. It is very unfortunate. But what is to happen when a girl’s heart is suddenly awakened? Is she to give it an opiate? What is the opiate for heart-ache? Surely not marriage with somebody different. Yet jilt is an ugly word.”
Dodo looked at Jack with a sort of self-deprecation.
“Don’t blame Nadine, darling,” she said. “She inherited it; it runs in the family.”
Jack jumped up, and took Dodo’s hands in his.
“You shall not talk horrible scandal about the woman I love,” he said.
“But it’s true,” said Dodo.
“Therefore it is the more abominable of you to repeat it,” said he.
But there was a certain obstinacy about Dodo that morning.
“I think it’s good for me to keep that scandal alive in my heart,” she said. “Usen’t the monks to keep peas in their boots to prevent them from getting too comfortable?”
“Monks were idiots,” said Jack loudly, “and any one less like a monk than you, I never saw. Monk indeed! Besides, I believe they used to boil the peas first.”
Dodo’s face, which had been a little troubled, cleared considerably.
“That showed great commonsense,” she said. “I don’t think they can have been such idiots. Jack, if I boil that pea, would you mind my still keeping it in my boot?”
“Rather messy,” said he. “Better take it out. After all, you did really take it out when you married me.”
Dodo raised her eyes to his.
“David shall take it out,” she said.
Jack had not at present heard of this nomenclature. In fact, it does him credit that he instantly guessed to whom allusion was being made.
“Oh, that’s settled, is it?” he said. “And now, David’s mother, give me a little news of yourself. Is all well?”
Dodo’s mouth grew extraordinarily tender.
“Oh, so well, Jesse,” she said, “so well!”
She was standing a foot or so above him, on the steep hillside, and bending down to him, kissed him, and was silent a moment. Then she decided swiftly and characteristically that a few words like those that had just passed between them were as eloquent as longer speeches, and became her more usual self again.
“You are such a dear, Jack,” she said, “and I will forgive your dreadful ignorance of the name of David’s mother. Oh, look at the sea-gulls fishing for their lunch. Oh, for the wings of a sea-gull, not to fly away and be at rest at all, but to take me straight to the dining-room. And I feel certain Nadine will listen to you, and it would be a good thing to take her away for a little. She is living on her nerves, which is as expensive as eating pearls like Cleopatra.”
“Drinking,” said Jack. “She dissolved them—”
“Darling, vinegar doesn’t dissolve pearls: it is a complete mistake to suppose it does. She took the pearls like a pill, and drank some vinegar afterwards. Jack, pull me up the hill, not because I am tired, but because it is pleasanter so. I am sorry you are going tomorrow, and I shall make love to Hughie after you’ve gone and pretend it’s you. I do pray Hughie may get quite well, and he and Nadine, and you and I all have our heart’s desire. Edith too: I hope she will write a symphony so beautiful that by common consent we shall throw away all the works of Beethoven and Bach and Brahms just as we throw away antiquated Bradshaws.”
She was rather out of breath after delivering herself of this series of remarkable statements, and Jack got in a word.
“And who was David’s mother?” he asked, with a rather tiresome reversion to an abandoned topic.
“I don’t know or care,” said Dodo with dignity. “But I’m going to be.”
* * * *
It required all Jack’s wisdom to persuade Nadine to go away with him, more particularly because at the first opening of the subject, Edith, who was present, and whom Jack had unfortunately forgotten to take into his confidence, gave a passionate denial to the fact that she was departing also. But in the end she yielded, for during this last fortnight she had felt (as by the illumination of her love she could not help doing) that at present she ‘meant’ very little to Hugh. Her presence, which on that first critical night had not done less than set his face towards life instead of death, had, she felt, since then, dimly troubled and perplexed him. Every day she had thought that he would need her, but each day passed, and he still lay there, with a barrier between him and her. Yet any day he might want her, and she was loth to go. But she knew how tired and overstrained she felt herself, and the ingenious Papa Jack made use of this.
“You have given him all you can, my dear, for the prese
nt,” he said. “Come away and rest, and—what is Dodo’s phrase?—fill your pond again. You mustn’t become exhausted; you will be so much wanted.”
“And I may come back if Hughie wants me?” she asked.
That was easy to answer. If Hugh really wanted her, the difficult situation solved itself. But there was one thing more.
“I don’t suppose I need ask it,” said Nadine, “but if Hughie gets worse, much worse, then I may come? I—I couldn’t be there, then.”
Jack kissed her.
“My dear girl,” he said, “what do you take me for? An ogre? But we won’t think about that at all. Please God, you will not come back for that reason.”
Nadine very rudely dried her eyes on his rough homespun sleeve.
“You are such a comfort, Papa,” she said. “You’re quite firm and strong, like—like a big wisdom-tooth. And when we are at Winston, will you let Seymour come down and see me if he wants to? And—and if he comes will you come and interrupt us in half-an-hour? I’ve behaved horribly to him, but I can’t help it, and it—that we weren’t to be married, I mean—was in the Morning Post today, and it looked so horrible and cold. But whatever he wants to say to me, I think half-an-hour is sufficient. I wonder—I wonder if you know why I behaved like such a pig.”
“I think I might guess,” said Jack.
“Then you needn’t, because there’s only one possible guess. So we’ll assume that you know. What a nuisance women are to your poor, long-suffering sex. Especially girls.”
Jack laughed.
“They are just as much a nuisance afterwards,” said he. “Look at your mother, how she is making life one perpetual martyrdom to me.”
“But she used to be a nuisance to you, Papa Jack,” said Nadine.
“There again you are wrong,” he said. “I always loved her.”