Just then Mr. Howard peered around the door.
“I was writing some letters,” he said, “but I heard Fanny was here so I came upstairs. How are you, my dear?”
He kissed Fanny on the forehead. Fanny regrettably winked at Mrs. Howard, who nearly spoilt the idyll by laughing, as she remembered Aurea’s charge against her father.
“Quite well, Mr. Howard,” said Fanny piously.
“That’s right. Now come and tell me about the children.”
“If you don’t mind, Will, I have a letter to finish,” said Mrs. Howard. “You won’t disturb me. But don’t be too long, because we are dining early and you haven’t dressed yet.”
“Very well, very well,” said Mr. Howard, rather impatiently, as his wife sat down at her writing table.
“The children are quite well, thank you,” said Fanny. “We shall be having them home for the holidays soon. They are going to Arthur’s mother for most of the time. I should love to have them, but I’m so highly strung that I can’t stand them for long. The very thought of the darlings makes me look at wreck.”
“You look delightful,” said Mr. Howard.
“That’s because they are still at school. I am so much better when they are away, though, of course, it’s very sad. I am much fatter than I was. I haven’t lost any rings since you gave me the new one.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Howard, gratified.
“Will you have lunch with me one day?” continued Fanny. “I really feel I owe you a lunch for the one you gave me when we got the ring.”
“With pleasure.”
“All right, then. What about Friday, and I’ll take you to the Vampire again.”
“That will be delightful, my dear.”
“And then I’ll see if Mrs. Howard can come too.” said Fanny pleasantly. She watched Mr. Howard’s face, where politeness and loyalty struggled with truthfulness, with some amusement.
“I think,” said he, glancing a little nervously at his wife, “that Mary would hardly care for the Vampire. It might be better for us just to lunch there together, and we will ask her another day to some place she would like better. Then after lunch we might go to the exhibition of Obscure and Justly Neglected Copyists of the Early Eighteenth Century in Old Burlington Street. I hear it has points of interest.”
“That would be lovely,” said Fanny, quite determined that as far as she was concerned the copyists should remain in their Just Neglect.
By this time Aurea had changed into the rag, which looked perfectly adequate. Fanny’s remark about Valentine’s twenty love affairs had not improved her spirits. It was only too obvious that as Valentine had been married for some years, she could not possibly be his first and only love. Nor was it reasonable to expect that he should have had such a prophetic vision of her charm that he went about with his eyes shut until she burst upon his view. No, one must look at things sensibly and realize that Valentine had loved perhaps not twenty people, but at any rate a great many, and that it was no dishonor to one’s own attractions that, by a mere accident of time, one happened to come late on the list. Frankly, it was Fanny’s way of putting it that jarred. Fanny, who would assume proprietary airs about Valentine; whom one couldn’t put in her place because one wasn’t going to betray one’s own secret. Fanny, who had everything she wanted and avoided everything she didn’t want. Fanny who, when Aurea was far away and forgotten, would be lunching with Valentine and dancing with him, and probably flirting with him. For the moment she almost hated Fanny.
When she came down she met Arthur outside the drawing-room door. He looked a little paler and more somber than usual, she thought, but perhaps that was only because she felt pale and somber herself. In any case she forgot about it as she entered the drawing room.
“Hello, love, how are you?” said Fanny.
“How are you, Fanny dear?”
“Was the car locked, Arthur?” said his wife.
“Yes,” said Arthur shortly, “it was, and the key is in my pocket, so now you know.”
“And where is Val?” continued the insufferable Fanny. “Doing something he oughtn’t to, I’ll be bound.”
“Ringing someone up downstairs,” said Arthur.
“He would be. He hasn’t a telephone at his rooms, Mrs. Howard, and his conversations are all too private for his club or his office, so he uses other people’s telephones.”
Aurea couldn’t help saying, “You seem to know a lot about it, Fanny.”
“And why not?” said Fanny, staring at her. “What that man owes me in twopences for all the telephoning he does at my house would pay the drink bill for six months. And if you try to ring him up at his bank he never knows who you are because he has so many charming friends with refined voices like one’s own.”
Aurea, sick with alarm, and off her guard for a moment, said, “But I thought he didn’t like one to ring him up at his office.”
Fanny looked at her searchingly, and appeared to Aurea to read to the bottom of her soul and not find it worth reading.
“Oh, you did, did you?” she returned. “Val keeps his friends in very watertight compartments, and what the heart doesn’t see the eye doesn’t grieve, or words to that effect.”
Mrs. Howard, who had finished her letter and joined the others, came to her child’s rescue by saying “Fanny!” in a reproving voice.
“Sorry,” said Fanny, collapsing, “I forgot.”
“What’s the time?” asked Mrs. Howard.
“Nearly seven,” said Arthur.
“Will,” said Mrs. Howard, “you ought to go and dress. Fanny, do you want to come with me?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Howard, I’ll come to your room and remove the traces of emotion with a powder puff. Besides, I’ve something amusing to tell you.”
They went out together, laughing. Mr. Howard looked suspicious, and said he would go and finish his letters.
“But, papa darling, you’ll be late for dinner,” said Aurea.
“Plenty of time, my dear, plenty of time. You and your mother do fuss so.”
Aurea and Arthur exchanged smiles as Mr. Howard left the room with offended dignity.
“Come and be quiet for a moment, Arthur,” she said. “Everyone is on the jump tonight.”
“Cigarette?”
“No, thanks, I still don’t smoke.”
“Sorry. Do you mind if I do?”
“Of course not. Why this politeness? Sit down here and be peaceful. I need it.”
“I’m sorry it’s your last night,” said Arthur presently.
“Oh, so am I. No need to rub it in.”
“Sorry.”
After another short pause Arthur continued, “We haven’t seen much of you.”
“There hasn’t been much time, has there? But I have one heavenly weekend to thank you for. It was perfect.”
“I’m glad it was perfect,” said Arthur, in a carefully controlled voice. “You were perfect too.”
“A momentary suspicion flashed through Aurea’s mind. Arthur couldn’t conceivably be going to be silly, could he? She decided that he couldn’t, and it was only her nerves that were jumpy.
“That’s very sweet of you, Arthur,” she said kindly.
“True, that’s all.”
And conversation languished again. Certainly Arthur was heavy going. But it was far better for people to be remote and taciturn than to shock and terrify one as Arthur did, when he said, “Aurea, there isn’t much time, and I want to tell you that I think I have guessed.”
Aurea’s heart appeared to perform a series of violent gymnastic exercises, winding up with the high jump, which it missed. How could he have guessed? She had never said anything. There had been that evening at the Vampire when Valentine was dancing with that horrible Mounsey girl, and she had told Arthur she was unhappy, but there might be a thousand reasons for unhappiness, and surely the fact that she was leaving her parents was quite enough. Hadn’t he asked her, though, whether her unhappiness had anything to do with the we
ekend at Waterside? Oh, heavens, was it possible that she had betrayed herself and Valentine? It never occurred to her for a moment that Valentine could have given her secret away, and in this she did him no less than justice.
“Guessed what?” she said feebly, and was conscious of a flaming face. But perhaps by artificial light one’s blushes didn’t show so much.
“About your unhappiness, my dear.”
“Oh, I don’t think you do. It’s all rather complicated. I couldn’t possibly explain it.”
“Let me explain,” said Arthur in a voice of deep manly emotion for which Aurea could willingly have choked him.
“You?” she said. “But you don’t know what it is.”
Arthur was just beginning to enjoy himself. He had made up his mind to speak to Aurea before she left, but there had been no opportunity. Now his chance had come, and he was determined to use it. He would never have dreamt that his love would care for him still, if she hadn’t almost told him so at the Vampire in so many words. It was a miracle, of course, but one just had to accept miracles and do one’s best to live up to them. She was goddess and child. The goddess had stooped to him, but the child was afraid to reach out her hand. He had debated long with himself whether he should remain a worshipper on his knees, or touch the image and bring her to life. Of his own powers to bring her to life he had no doubt. He knew quite well that he had no business to make or receive vows of affection with Aurea, but his feelings had got the better of him and, for the moment, he thought as little of Fanny as Aurea had been thinking of Ned. Like Valentine, and indeed like most of his sex, he was a bad gardener, and could not resist pulling up his plants to look at the roots.
Accordingly he answered, “I think I do. And you mustn’t mind my having guessed. It’s all quite all right, and not your fault. These things just happen to one and it can’t be helped.”
This was surely clear enough. Now the goddess would put her warm hand in his, and be a woman.
Aurea was horrified. It was surely clear enough. Arthur had seen the feeling between Valentine and herself, and was trying to tell her tactfully. If he had seen it, who else might not know? Had she and Valentine been burrowing their heads in the sand in vain for all those weeks? Did everyone who saw them together say, “Ha ha, those people are in love?”
“Oh, Arthur,” she exclaimed piteously, “if you know, then other people must. How awful!”
Arthur would help her. He was an old and trusted friend and wouldn’t let things go any further. He was only telling her as a warning to be careful, and a hint that he would screen and shield her. But his next words were a thunderbolt.
“I don’t think so, Aurea. But I shall tell Fanny, of course.”
Arthur felt too noble for words as he said this. In one breath he was having the blessed relief of avowing a pent-up passion, and at the same time securing absolution from his wife in advance. With a rare flight of imagination he could see himself, when Aurea had gone, telling Fanny that he had cared for Aurea more than a little, and she, poor girl, for him. Fanny would probably lecture him vigorously, but it was, after all, she who had more or less schemed for him and Aurea to revive a dead flame, and she couldn’t be resentful if her own plans worked so well. Then he would take Fanny to her favorite dancing place, and they would eat and drink and dance and go home together, and the incident would be closed.
Aurea could only express her stupefaction in the questioning word “Fanny?”
“Naturally,” said Arthur, “I shall tell her, though I expect she will hardly be surprised. But she will absolutely understand. She is wonderfully broad minded.”
Aurea’s horror may better be imagined than described. Arthur would tell Fanny that she, Aurea, loved Valentine Ensor? Oh, it was outrageous, impossible. Fanny was the worst gossip in London. No malice, but an insatiable appetite for snapping up news, and great generosity in broadcasting it again. What was Arthur thinking of? But she mustn’t be too indignant. She must show tact, diplomacy and finesse — however one did these things — and perhaps he would take a less serious view.
“But how could you think of telling her, Arthur?” she said. “I mean I am terribly fond of Fanny and she has been a perfect dear to me, but — excuse me, Arthur — she does talk.”
“Oh, yes,” said Arthur, “Fanny does talk, but you needn’t worry about that. In a matter that touches herself she is very discreet.”
Because, he argued to himself, Fanny won’t be so anxious to tell all her friends that I have been in love with another woman. She boasts about her own affairs, but she would hardly boast about mine. Or yet, perhaps, would she? A slight chill struck to his heart as he reflected that his Fanny would sacrifice almost anything to make a good story. Would it really be wiser not to tell her? He thought it would.
A chill also struck to Aurea’s heart. If her and Valentine’s affection was a matter that touched Fanny personally, that meant that her worst fears were confirmed. Fanny did care for Valentine and now was her chance with Aurea out of England. With her mocking tongue she would make all her circle laugh about Valentine’s last little affair. Sooner than be ridiculed by her, Valentine would return to his old allegiance, and she would be forgotten for evermore. Quite desperate she looked from side to side.
“Oh, Arthur, this is dreadful. If Fanny knows, I shall die.”
Arthur felt very sorry for the goddess, now a frightened child, and tried to reassure her.
“Perhaps I had better not tell her then,” he said magnificently. “Of course she had probably guessed, but then she only likes new gossip, and this is so old.”
Old enough, twenty years old, and Fanny must be tired by now of laughing at him for his calf-love.
“Old?” said Aurea, in utter bewilderment, “Old? But how could it be old? I’ve only been in England a few weeks.”
Could Fanny have got it into her head that she had lost her heart to Valentine twenty years ago, as she had, just a little, lost it then to Arthur? The idea was too preposterous. Arthur didn’t help her confusion by adding: “I don’t mean this time only. I mean long ago as well.”
He was, he felt, getting on nicely, and managing it all with infinite tact.
“I shall go mad,” said Aurea resignedly. “What has long ago to do with it?”
Now was the moment. She understands so well what you mean, but dares not confess it. One touch more and she is yours.
“Only,” he said, and found to his annoyance that his voice was so husky that he had to cough violently and start again, “only that I cared for you so much when we were both young —”
“Oh — Arthur —” gasped his unhappy idol, upon whom the whole hideous misunderstanding was just beginning to dawn.
“— and in a sense I’ve never stopped, and I think it has been the same with you.”
Relief, mortification, fury, surged in Aurea’s mind. Fool that she had been to think that Arthur was talking about her and Valentine — as if men ever talked about any man but themselves. Fool that she had been not to see whither Arthur’s approaches led. What a horrible muddle he was landing her in. Fool that Arthur was, to think that she had any tender feeling for him; fool, if loving her hadn’t sharpened his wits enough to see that her eyes and heart were only for his friend.
“You mean,” said Aurea, slowly and looking him full in the face, determined to get it right this time, “You mean, that is why I’m unhappy at leaving England?”
“I do.”
“Oh, my God,” said Aurea.
Aurea began to register nobility again. “I hate to think of your being unhappy,” he said with revolting tenderness, though Aurea blamed herself for feeling revolted, “but I can’t help being proud that you care so much.”
“And do you think Fanny knows all this?”
Arthur was a little annoyed at Aurea’s want of tact in harping on his wife. It would have been far more becoming in her, he thought, to lay her head on his shoulder with a sigh, like a dove coming home to roost, if that is what they do
.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “she must have some idea. But she would approve.” (The idea of being approved by Fanny!) “She likes me to have my friends separately sometimes, because it gives her a chance to amuse herself with hers — with Val for one.”
It is almost impossible ever to feel the same towards a man who has exhibited the fatuousness of a successful lover — unless, of course, the lady burns with an equal flame. In these few moments Arthur had succeeded in destroying all Aurea’s long cherished romance about him. He was too old a friend for her to dislike him, but never again could she feel safe as she used to do. Whenever they met again, next year, or after twenty years, she would be on the defensive. She would say goodby tonight to a dear lover, whose embrace she would never know. Was not this hard enough, without at the same time an eternal barrier being placed by Arthur’s folly between her and one of her oldest friends? And Valentine. What did Arthur mean by saying that Fanny liked to amuse herself with him?
“Oh, hell, oh, hell,” she said plaintively, getting up and walking about.
Arthur looked surprised. This was hardly the result he had anticipated. The goddess had not melted, and indeed seemed more remote than ever.
Aurea began to laugh. “Fanny — and Valentine — and you — and I. Oh, it’s too funny,” she said, in a loud hard voice, unlike her own. “I’ll have to laugh.”
“Hold on, Aurea,” said Arthur anxiously.
“You are such a dear,” said Aurea, in her hard, breathless voice. “And I’m so wretched — and it’s all so upside-down and wrong — and it’s so amusing.”
In proof of the amusement she laughed again very uncontrolledly.
Arthur now understood. It was her exquisite sense of right and wrong that was shocked. What a brute he had been to try her so cruelly. He must reassure her at all costs. Poor child, how earnestly she took it all, how unmodern she was.
“Not really wrong, Aurea,” said he kindly and patronizingly. “You are doing nothing wrong in still caring for a very old friend, who cares very much for you.”
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