by E. F. Benson
“Not a thing,” said he. “He just steps in. He’ll find a sovereign on my dressing table, I believe, if he looks, and a box of cigars in a drawer of my writing table which he’s welcome to. One doesn’t bother about things like that.”
That was the worst: the parade of generosity could not go further than saying that there was no parade at all. Dora could not reply any more to that: she could only repeat.
“It’s awfully kind of you,” she said again. “We must go and dress if we are to be in time for the first act.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THOUGH it was true that Claude’s kindness in lending Austell his flat did not cost him anything, it conferred a great convenience on his beneficiary, and Jim, who had been living at the Bath Club, had his luggage packed without pause, and wrote the letter of acceptance and thanks to Claude from the flat itself on Claude’s writing paper. The letter was quite genuine and heart-felt, or at the least pocket-felt, for Jim had had some slight difference of opinion with his mother on the subject of being seen in a hansom with a young lady who in turn was sometimes seen on the stage, and Eaton Place, where he had meant to spend those weeks, was closed to him. But Claude’s flat filled the bill exactly; it was far more comfortable than his mother’s house, and there was nothing to pay for lodging, so that it was better than the club. His satisfaction was complete when he found that Claude had left his cook there, with no instructions whatever except to go on cooking, nor any orders to have catering bills sent to the tenant. So Jim made himself charming to the cook, gave her the sovereign which he had at once found on Claude’s dressing table when he explored his bedroom, and said he would be at home for lunch. Plovers’ eggs? Yes, by all means, and a quail, and a little macédoine of fruit. And by way of burying the hatchet with his mother, and incidentally making her green with envy (for it would have suited her very well if Claude had offered her the flat, since somebody wanted to take her house), he instantly telephoned asking her to lunch, and mentioned that he was in Mount Street till the end of July. The lunch she declined, and made no comment on the other, but Jim heard her sigh into the telephone. She could not hear him grin.
As had been mentioned before, Jim had no liking for Claude, and up till the present he had done little living upon him. But this loan of the flat — especially since there was free food going — was extremely opportune, for at the present moment Jim was particularly hard up, having been through a Derby week of the most catastrophic nature. He had done nothing rash, too, which made his misfortunes harder to bear; he had acted on no secret and mysterious tips from the stables, but had with the most plebeian respectability backed favourites only. But the favourites had behaved in the most unaccountable manner, and their blighted careers had very nearly succeeded in completely blighting his. But he had raised money on the rent of Grote which would be paid him at the end of the month, and had paid up all his debts. That process, however, had made fearful inroads on his receipts for the next quarter, and strict economy being necessary, Claude’s kindness had been most welcome. And as he ate his quail, Jim planned two or three pleasant little dinner parties. He would certainly ask Claude and Dora to one of them, or was that a rather ironical thing to do, since Claude would be paying for the food that they all ate? He would pay for the wine as well, it seemed, for a bottle of excellent Moselle had appeared, since he had expressed a preference that way, coming, he supposed, from Claude’s cellar.
Jim looked round the room as he ate and drank, pleased to find himself in this unexpected little haven of rest, but feeling at the same time envious of and rather resentful towards its possessor. He quite sympathised with the doctrine of Socialism, and asked himself why it should be given to Claude to live perpetually in that diviner air where financial anxieties are unknown, where no bills need ever remain unpaid except because it was a nuisance to have to dip a pen in the ink and draw a cheque, whereas he himself was as perpetually in want of money. The particular reason why he was in this moment in want of it, namely because he had had a very bad week at Epsom, did not present itself to his mind, or, if it did, was dismissed as being an ephemeral detail. Perhaps in this one instance that was the reason why just now he was so absurdly hard up, but the general question was what occupied him. Claude was rich, he was poor; where was the justice of it? He liked prints, too, and why should Claude be able to cover his dining room walls with these delightful first impressions, while he could not? Indeed, he had no dining room at all in which he could hang prints even if he possessed them. His dining room was let to Mr. Osborne, who, it was said, was going to be made a peer, and on their walls hung the stupendous presentments of him and his wife. And Claude had married his sister: everything came to those who had cheque-books. Well, perhaps the Ascot week would make things pleasanter again; he had a book there which could hardly prove a disappointment. If it did — but so untoward a possibility presented no features that were at all attractive to contemplate.
He finished his lunch and then made a more detailed tour of the flat. It was delightfully furnished (probably Uncle Alf was responsible for all this, since it was clearly out of the ken of any other Osborne), and everything breathed of that luxurious sort of simplicity which is so far beyond the reach of those who have to make sovereigns exercise their utmost power of purchase. By the way, he had taken a sovereign which was lying about on Claude’s dressing-table and given it to the cook; he must remember to tell Claude that (for Claude might remember, if he did not), and pay him. Next that room was the bathroom, white-walled and white-tiled, with all manner of squirts and douches to refresh and cool. Then came a second bedroom, then the dining room in which he had just now so delicately fed, then the drawing room, out of which opened a smaller sitting room, clearly Claude’s. There was a big writing table in it, with drawers on each side, and Jim amused himself by opening these, for they were all unlocked, and looking at their contents. Certainly Claude did things handsomely when he lent his flat, for in the first drawer that Jim opened was a box of cigarettes, and one of cigars. These latter smelt quite excellent, and Jim put back the cigarette he had taken from the other box and took a cigar instead. In another drawer were paper and envelopes stamped with a crest (no doubt the outcome of the ingenuity of the Herald’s College), in another a pile of letters, some of which Jim recognized to be Dora’s handwriting. This drawer he closed again at once: it was scarcely a temptation not to do so since he only cared quite vaguely to know what Dora found to say to her promerso. In another drawer were a few photographs, a few invitation cards, an engagement book, and a cheque-book. This latter was apparently an old one, for it was stiff and full toward the back with counterfoils, while the covers drooped together halfway down it.
Jim could not resist opening this, nor did he try to: he wanted to know (and there was no harm done if he did) what sort of sums Claude spent. But on opening it he saw that it was not quite empty of its cheques yet, the last but one in the book had not been tom out, but was blank, as was also the counterfoil. Then came the last counterfoil, on which was written the date, which was yesterday, and a scrawled “Books, Dora,” and an item of some £150. Then he turned over the earlier counterfoils: there was a big cheque to Daimler, no doubt for his car, another (scandalously large it seemed to Jim) to his tailor, more “Books,” several entered simply as “Venice,” and several on which there was nothing written at all. Apparently, in such instances, Claude had just drawn a cheque and not worried to fill in the counterfoil. That again was the sort of insouciance that Jim envied: it was only possible to very rich people or remarkably careless ones, whereas he was poor, but remarkably careful as to the payment of money. The blank cheque, forgotten apparently, for the cheque-book, tossed away with a heap of old invitation cards, looked as if it was thought to be finished with, was an instance the more of this enviable security about money matters. And Jim felt more Socialistic than ever.
He shut the drawer up, and examined the rest of the room, having lit the cigar which he had taken from the box and which he f
ound to be as excellent to the palate as it was to the nostril. The room reeked of quiet opulence: there was a bookcase full of well-bound volumes, a pianola of the latest type, two or three more prints, the overflow from the dining room, and a couple of Empire arm-chairs, in which comfort and beauty were mated, and on the floor was an Aubusson carpet. And though feeling envious and Socialistic, Jim felt that it would be quite possible to be very comfortable here for the next six or seven weeks.
Like most people who have suffered all their lives from want of money, and have yet managed to live in a thoroughly extravagant manner, Jim had been so often under obligations to others that Heaven, suiting, we must suppose, the back to the burden, had made him by this time unconscious of such. He accepted such offers as this of the flat with a gay light-heartedness that was not without its charm, and made also the undoubted difficulty of conferring, no less than accepting, a favour gracefully, easy to the giver. But he did not like Claude, and had a sufficiently firm conviction that Claude did not like him, to take the edge off his enjoyment. Why Claude should not like him, he could not tell: he had always been more than pleasant to his brother-in-law, and when they met, they always, owing to a natural and easy knack of volubility which Jim possessed, got on quite nicely together.
This minute inspection of the flat had taken Jim some time, and when it was completed he strolled out to pay a call or two, see if there was any racing news of interest, and go round to the Osbornes to have a talk to Dora, whom he had not seen since she had returned from Venice, and in person express his gratitude for the timely gift of the flat. He found her in, but alone: Mr and Mrs. Osborne were expected that afternoon.
“It was really extremely kind of Claude to think of it,” he said, “and most opportune. I had the rottenest Epsom, and really was at my wits’ end. You are probably beginning to forget what that means. Oh, by the way, I found a sovereign of Claude’s on his dressing table and gave it to the cook in order to promote good feeling — or was it ten shillings?”
Dora laughed. This was characteristic of Jim, but she was used to it, and did not make sermon to him.
“I feel quite certain it was a sovereign, Jim,” she said. “I will bet, if you like. We will ask the cook what you gave her.”
“I daresay you are right. Ah, you expect Claude, though. I will give it him when he comes in. Have you seen mother? She and I are not on terms just now. But it does not matter, as I have Claude’s flat.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Nothing; she did it all. I hadn’t the least wish to cut her. In fact, I wanted to stay in Eaton Place, until the flat came along, and when it did, I wished to give her a slice of my luck, and I asked her to lunch. She said ‘No,’ but sighed. The sigh was not about lunch but about the flat. She would have liked it. By Jove, Dora, you’re nicely housed here. It’s a neat little box, as Mr. O. would say.”
Dora gave a short laugh, not very merry in tone.
“Ah, that’s one of the things we mustn’t say,” she observed. “I’ve been catching it from Claude. He says he’s respectful to my family, but I’m not respectful to his.” Jim paused with his cup in his hand.
“Been having a row?” he asked. “Make it up at once. Say you were wrong.”
“But I wasn’t,” said she.
“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you should let the purseholders have everything all their own way. Then everything slips along easily and comfortably.”
“Oh money! “she said. “Who cares about the money?” Jim opened his eyes very wide.
“I do very much,” he said, “and so did you up till a year ago. It is silly to say that money doesn’t matter just because you have a lot. It’s only the presence of a lot that enables you to say so.”
“Yes, that’s true,” she said, “and it adds to one’s pleasure. But it doesn’t add to one’s happiness, not one jot. I’m just as capable of being unhappy now as ever I was. Not that I am unhappy in the least.”
Jim nodded sympathetically.
“You look rather worried,” he said. “So you’ve been having a bit of a turn-up with Claude. That’s the worst of being married; if I have a shindy with anyone I walk away, and unless the other fellow follows, the shindy stops. But you can’t walk away from your husband.” Dora was silent a moment, considering whether she should talk to her brother about these things which troubled her or not. She had tried to find a solution for them by herself, but had been unable, and she had a great opinion of his practical shrewdness. It was not likely that he would suggest anything fine or altruistic because he was not of that particular build, but he might be able to suggest something.
“Yes, we’ve been having a bit of a turn-up, as you call it,” she said. “That doesn’t matter so much; but what bothers me rather is our totally different way of looking at things. I’m awfully fond of Dad, I am really, but it would be childish if I pretended that I don’t see — well — humorous things about him. You see, one has either to be amused by such things — I only learned that yesterday from Uncle Alf — or else take them tragically. At Venice I took them tragically. I thought it dreadful that he liked to see the sugar factory better than anything else. And if it isn’t dreadful, it’s got to be funny: it’s either funny or vulgar. There’s nothing else for it to be. And then Claude — oh, dear! I told him he was at liberty to laugh at you and mother as much as he chose, but he didn’t appear to want to. I don’t think he’s got any sense of humour: there are heaps and heaps of ridiculous things about you both.”
“Good gracious! You never thought he had any sense of humour, did you?” asked Jim earnestly.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I thought about it at all. And that’s not the worst.”
Jim put his head on one side, and Dora’s estimate of his shrewdness was justified.
“Do you mean that you are beginning to mind about his being — er — not quite — ?” he asked delicately.
Dora nodded.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said.
“What a pity! I hoped you wouldn’t mind. You appeared not to at first. One hoped you would get used to it before it got on your nerves. Can’t you put it away, wrap it up and put it away?”
“Do you suppose I keep it in front of me for fun?” she asked. “Oh, Jim, is it beastly of me to tell you? There’s really no one else to tell. I couldn’t tell mother because she’s — well, she’s not very helpful about that sort of thing, and talks about true nobility being the really important thing, that and truth and honour and kindness. That is such parrot-talk, you know; it is just repeating what we have all heard a million of times. No doubt it is true, but what if one can’t realize it? I used always to suppose Shakespeare was a great author, till I saw ‘Hamlet,’ which bored me. And I had to tell somebody. What am I to do?”
“Why, apply to Claude what you’ve been saying about Mr. Osborne,” said he. “There are things about him which are dreadful unless you tell yourself they are funny. Well, tell yourself they are funny. I hope they are. Won’t that help?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it might. But there are things that are funny at a little distance which cease to amuse when they come quite close. Uncle Alf made me think that the humorous solution would solve everything. But it doesn’t really; it only solves the things that don’t really matter.”
Dora dined quietly at home that night with Mr and Mrs. Osborne and Claude, and after dinner had a talk to her mother-in-law while the other two lingered in the dining room.
“Why, it was like seeing a fire through the window to welcome you when you got home of a cold evening,” said Mrs. Osborne cordially, “to see your face at the head of the stairs, my dear. Mr. Osborne’s been wondering all the way up whether you and Claude would be dining at home to-night. Bless you, if he’s said it once he’s said it fifty times.”
“I love being wanted,” said Dora quickly.
“Well, it’s wanted that you are, by him and me and everyone else. And, my dear, I’m glad to think you
’ll be by my elbow at all my parties, to help me, and say who’s who. And we lead off to-morrow with a big dinner. There’s thirty to table and a reception after, just to let it be known as how the house is open again, and all and sundry will be welcome. Of course, you’ll have your own engagements as well, my dear, and many of them, I’m sure, and no wonder, and there’s nothing I wish less than to stand in the way of them, but whenever you’ve an evening to spare, you give a thought to me, and say to yourself, ‘Well, if I’m wanted nowhere else, there’s mother’ll be looking out for me at the head of the stairs.’” Dora laughed.
“I accept your invitations to all your balls, and all your concerts, and as many as possible of your dinners,” she said. “You’ll get sick of the sight of my face before the season is over.”
“That I never shall, my dear,” said Mrs. Osborne, “nor afterward, neither. And you’ll come down to Grote, won’t you, after July, and stay quiet there till the little blessed one comes, if you don’t mind my alluding to it, my dear, as I’m going to be its grandmother, though it’s a thing I never should do if there was anybody else but you and me present. Lord, and it seems only yesterday that I was expecting my own first-born, and Mr. O. in such a taking as you never see, and me so calm and all, just longing for my time to come, and thinking nothing at all of the pain, for such as there is don’t count against seeing your baby. But you leave Claude to me, and I’ll pull him through. Bless him, I warrant he’ll need more cheering and comforting than you. And are you sure your rooms are comfortable here, dearie? I thought the suite at the back of the house would be more to your liking than the front, being quieter, for, to be sure, if you are so good as to come and keep us old folks company, the least we can do is to see that you have things to your taste and don’t get woke by those roaring motor-buses or the stream of vegetables for the market.”
“But they are delightful,” said Dora. “They’ve given me the dearest little sitting room with bedroom and bathroom all together.”