Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

“You are going away, Lyndhurst?” she asked.

  He made a ghastly attempt to devise a reasonable answer, and thought he succeeded.

  “Yes, I’m going — going to your cousin’s to shoot. I told you he had asked me. You objected to my going, but I’m going all the same. I should have left you a note. Back to-morrow night.”

  Then she felt she knew all, as certainly as if he had told her.

  “Since when has Cousin James been giving shooting parties on Sunday?” she asked. “Please don’t lie to me, Lyndhurst. It makes it much worse. You are not going to Cousin James, and — you are not going alone. Shall I tell you any more?”

  She was not guessing: all the events of the last month, the Shakespeare ball, Harrogate, their own quarrel, and on the top this foolish lie about a shooting party made a series of data which proclaimed the conclusion. And the suddenness of the discovery, the magnitude of the issues involved, but served to steady her. There was an authentic valour in her nature; even as she had stood up to interrupt the political meeting, without so much as dreaming of shirking her part, so now her pause was not timorous, but rather the rallying of all her forces, that came eager and undismayed to her summons.

  Apparently Lyndhurst did not want to be told any more: he did not, at any rate, ask for it. Just then Parker came in with the mended sponge. She gave it him, and he stood with sponge-bag in one hand, sponge in the other.

  “Shall I bring up tea, ma’am?” she said to Mrs. Ames.

  “Yes, take it to the drawing-room now. And send the cab away. The Major won’t want it.”

  Lyndhurst crammed the sponge into its bag.

  “I shall want the cab, Parker,” he said. “Don’t send it away.”

  Mrs. Ames whisked round on Parker with amazing rapidity.

  “Do as I tell you, Parker,” she said, “and be quick!”

  It was a mere conflict of will that, for the next five seconds, silently raged between them, but as definite and as hard-hitting as any affair of the prize ring. And it was impossible that there should be any but the one end to it, for Mrs. Ames devoted her whole strength and will to it, while from the first her husband’s heart was not in the battle. But she was fighting for her all, and not only her all, but his, and not only his, but Millie’s. Three existences were at stake, and the ruin of two homes was being hazarded. And when he spoke, she knew she was winning.

  “I must go,” he said. “She will be waiting at the station.”

  “She will wait to no purpose,” said Mrs. Ames.

  “She will be” — no word seemed adequate— “be furious,” he said. “A man cannot treat a woman like that.”

  Any blow would do: he had no defence: she could strike him as she pleased.

  “Elsie comes home next week,” she said. “A pleasant home-coming. And Harry will have to leave Cambridge!”

  “But I love her!” he said.

  “Nonsense, my dear,” she said. “Men don’t ruin the women they love. Men, I mean!”

  That stung; she meant that it should.

  “But men keep their word,” he said. “Let me pass.”

  “Keep your word to me,” said she, “and try to help poor Millie to keep hers to her husband. It is not a fine thing to steal a man’s wife, Lyndhurst. It is much finer to be respectable.”

  “Respectable!” he said. “And to what has respectability brought us? You and me, I mean?”

  “Not to disgrace, anyhow,” she said.

  “It’s too late,” said he.

  “Never quite too late, thank God,” she said.

  Mrs. Ames gave a little sigh. She knew she had won, and quite suddenly all her strength seemed to leave her. Her little trembling legs refused to uphold her, a curious buzzing was in her ears, and a crinkled mist swam before her eyes.

  “Lyndhurst, I’m afraid I am going to make a goose of myself and faint,” she said. “Just help me to my room, and get Parker—”

  She swayed and tottered, and he only just caught her before she fell. He laid her down on the floor and opened the door and window wide. There was a flask of brandy in his portmanteau, laid on the top, designed to be easily accessible in case of an inclement crossing of the Channel. He mixed a tablespoonful of this with a little water, and as she moved, and opened her eyes again, he knelt down on the floor by her, supporting her.

  “Take a sip of this, Amy,” he said.

  She obeyed him.

  “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “I am better. So silly of me.”

  “Another sip, then.”

  “You want to make me drunk, Lyndhurst,” she said.

  Then she smiled: it would be a pity to lose the opportunity for a humorous allusion to what at the time had been so far from humour.

  “Really drunk, this time,” she said. “And then you can tell Cousin James he was right.”

  She let herself rest longer than was physically necessary in the encircling crook of his arm, and let herself keep her eyes closed, though, if she had been alone, she would most decidedly have opened them. But those first few minutes had somehow to be traversed, and she felt that silence bridged them over better than speech. It was appropriate, too, that his arm should be round her.

  “There, I am better,” she said at length. “Let me get up, Lyndhurst. Thank you for looking after me.”

  She got on to her feet, but then sat down again in his easy-chair.

  “Not quite steady yet?” he said.

  “Very nearly. I shall be quite ready to come downstairs and give you your tea by the time you have unpacked your little portmanteau.”

  She did not even look at him, but sat turned away from him and the little portmanteau. But she heard the rustle of paper, the opening and shutting of drawers, the sound of metallic articles of toilet being deposited on dressing-table and washing-stand. After that came the click of a hasp. Then she got up.

  “Now let us have tea,” she said.

  “And if Millie comes?” he asked.

  She had been determined that he should mention her name first. But when once he had mentioned it she was more than ready to discuss the questions that naturally arose.

  “You mean she may come back here to see what has happened to you?” she asked. “That is well thought of, dear. Let us see. But we will go downstairs.”

  She thought intently as they descended the staircase, and busied herself with tea-making before she got to her conclusion.

  “She will ask for you,” she said, “if she comes, and it would not be very wise for you to see her. On the other hand, she must be told what has happened. I will see her, then. It would be best that way.”

  Major Ames got up.

  “No, I can’t have that,” he said. “I can’t have that!”

  “My dear, you have got to have it. You are in a dreadful mess. I, as your wife, am the only person who can get you out of it. I will do my best, anyhow.”

  She rang the bell.

  “I am going to tell Parker to tell Millie that you are at home if she asks for you, and to show her in here,” she said. “There is no other way that I can see. I do not intend to have nothing more to do with her. At least I want to avoid that, if possible, for that is a weak way out of difficulties. I shall certainly have to see her some time, and there is no use in putting it off. I am afraid, Lyndhurst, that you had better finish your tea at once, or take it upstairs. Take another cup upstairs; you have had but one, and drink it in your dressing-room, in the comfortable chair.”

  There was an extraordinary wisdom in this minute attention to detail, and it was by this that she was able to rise to a big occasion. It was necessary that he should feel that her full intention was to forgive him, and make the best of the days that lay before them. She had no great words and noble sentiment with which to convey this impression, but, in a measure, she could show him her mind by minute arrangements for his comfort. But he lingered, irresolute.

  “You have got to trust me,” she said. “Do as I tell you, my dear.”

  She had n
ot long to wait after he had gone upstairs. She heard the ring at the bell, and next moment Millie came into the room. Her face was flushed, her breathing hurried, her eyes alight with trouble, suspense, and resentment.

  “Lyndhurst,” she began. “I waited—”

  Then she saw Mrs. Ames, and turned confusedly about, as if to leave the room again. But Amy got up quickly.

  “Come and sit down at once, Millie,” she said. “We have got to talk. So let us make it as easy as we can for each other.”

  Millie was holding her muff up to her face, and peered at her from above it, wild-eyed, terrified.

  “It isn’t you I want,” she said. “Where is Lyndhurst? I — I had an appointment with him. He was late — we — we were going a drive together. What do you know, Cousin Amy?” she almost shrieked; “and where is he?”

  “Sit down, Millie, as I tell you,” said Mrs. Ames very quietly. “There is nothing to be frightened at. I know everything.”

  “We were going a drive,” began Millie again, still looking wildly about. “He did not come, and I was frightened. I came to see where he was. I asked you if you knew — if you knew anything about him, did I not? Why do you say you know everything?”

  Suddenly Mrs. Ames saw that there was something here infinitely more worthy of pity than she had suspected. There was no question as to the agonized earnestness that underlay this futile, childish repetition of nonsense. And with that there came into her mind a greater measure of understanding with regard to her husband. It was not so wonderful that he had been unable to resist the face that had drawn him.

  “Let us behave like sensible women, Millie,” she said. “You have come down from the station. Lyndhurst was not there. Do you want me to tell you anything more?”

  Millie wavered where she stood, then she stumbled into a chair.

  “Has he given me up?” she said.

  “Yes, if you care to put it like that. It would be truer to say that he has saved you and himself. But he is not coming with you.”

  “You made him?” she asked.

  “I helped to make him,” said Mrs. Ames.

  Millie got up again.

  “I want to see him,” she said. “You don’t understand, Cousin Amy. He has got to come. I don’t care whether it is wicked or not. I love him. You don’t understand him either. You don’t know how splendid he is. He is unhappy at home; he has often told me so.”

  Mrs. Ames took hold of the wretched woman by both hands.

  “You are raving, Millie,” she said. “You must stop being hysterical. You hardly know whom you are talking to. If you do not pull yourself together, I shall send for your husband, and say you have been taken ill.”

  Millie gave a sudden gasp of laughter.

  “Oh, I am not so stupid as you think!” she said. “Wilfred is away. Where is Lyndhurst?”

  Mrs. Ames did not let go of her.

  “Millie,” she said, “if you are not sensible at once, I will tell you what I shall do. I shall call Parker, and together we will put you into your cab, and you shall be driven straight home. I am perfectly serious. I hope you will not oblige me to do that. You will be much wiser to pull yourself together, and let us have a talk. But understand one thing quite clearly. You are not going to see Lyndhurst.”

  The tension of those wide, childish eyes slowly relaxed, and her head sank forward, and there came the terrible and blessed tears, in wild cataract and streaming storm. And Mrs. Ames, looking at her, felt all her righteousness relax; she had only pity for this poor destitute soul, who was blind to all else by force of that mysterious longing which, in itself, is so divine that, though it desires the disgraceful and the impossible, it cannot wholly make itself abominable, nor discrown itself of its royalty. Something of the truth of that, though no more than mere fragments and moulted feather, came to Mrs. Ames now, as she sat waiting till the tempest of tears should have abated. The royal eagle had passed over her; as sign of his passage there was this feather that had fallen, and she understood its significance.

  Slowly the tears ceased and the sobs were still, and Millie raised her dim, swollen eyes.

  “I had better go home,” she said. “I wonder if you would let me wash my face, Cousin Amy. I must be a perfect fright.”

  “Yes, dear Millie,” said she; “but there is no hurry. See, shall I send your cab back to your house? It has your luggage on it; yes? Then Parker shall go with it, and tell them to take it back to your room and unpack it, and put everything back in place. Afterwards, when we have talked a little, I will walk back with you.”

  Again the comfort of having little things attended to reached Millie, that and the sense that she was not quite alone. She was like a child that has been naughty and has been punished, and she did not much care whether she had been naughty or not. What she wanted primarily was to be comforted, to be assured that everybody was not going to be angry with her for ever. Then, returning, Mrs. Ames made her some fresh tea, and that comforted her too.

  “But I don’t see how I can ever be happy again,” she said.

  There was something childlike about this, as well as childish.

  “No, Millie,” said the other. “None of us three see that exactly. We shall all have to be very patient. Very patient and ordinary.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I must tell you one thing,” said Millie, “though I daresay that will make you hate me more. But it was my fault from the first. I led him on — I — I didn’t let him kiss me, I made him kiss me. It was like that all through!”

  She felt that Mrs. Ames was waiting for something more, and she knew exactly what it was. But it required a greater effort to speak of that than she could at once command. At last she raised her eyes to those of Mrs. Ames.

  “No, never,” she said.

  Mrs. Ames nodded.

  “I see,” she said baldly. “Now, as I said, we have got to be patient and ordinary. We have got, you and I, to begin again. You have your husband, so have I. Men are so easily pleased and made happy. It would be a shame if we failed.”

  Again the helpless, puzzled look came over Millie’s face.

  “But I don’t see how to begin,” she said. “Tomorrow, for instance, what am I to do all to-morrow? I shall only be thinking of what might have happened.”

  Mrs. Ames took up her soft, unresisting, unresponsive hand.

  “Yes, by all means, think what might have happened,” she said. “Utter ruin, utter misery, and — and all your fault. You led him on, as you said. He didn’t care as you did. He wouldn’t have thought of going away with you, if he hadn’t been so furious with me. Think of all that.”

  Some straggler from that host of sobs shook Millie for a moment.

  “Perhaps Wilfred would take me away instead,” she said. “I will ask him if he cannot. Do you think I should feel better if I went away for a fortnight, Cousin Amy?”

  Mrs. Ames’ twisted little smile played about her mouth.

  “Yes,” she said. “I think that is an excellent plan. I am quite sure you will feel better in a fortnight, if you can look forward like that, and want to be better. And now would you like to wash your face? After that, I will walk home with you.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  It was a brisk morning in November, and Mr. and Mrs. Altham, who breakfasted at half-past eight in the summer, and nine in the winter, were seated at breakfast, and Mr. Altham was thinking how excellent was the savour of grilled kidneys. But he was not sure if they were really wholesome, and he was playing an important match at golf this afternoon. Perhaps two kidneys approached the limits of wisdom. Besides, his wife was speaking of really absorbing things; he ought to be able to distract his mind from the kidneys he was proposing to deny himself, under the sting of so powerful a counter-interest.

  “And to think that Mrs. Ames isn’t going to be a Suffragette any more!” she said. “I met Mrs. Turner when I took my walk just now, and she told me all about it.”

  A word of explanation is necessary.
The fact was that Swedish exercises, and a short walk on an empty stomach, were producing wonderful results in Riseborough at the moment, especially among its female inhabitants. They now, instead of meeting in the High Street before lunch, to stand about on the pavement and exchange news, met there before breakfast, when on these brisk autumn mornings it was wiser not to stand about. They therefore skimmed rapidly up and down the street together, in short skirts and walking boots. Rain and sunny weather, in this first glow of enthusiasm, were alike to them, and they had their baths afterwards. These exercises gave a considerable appetite for breakfast, and produced a very pleasant and comfortable feeling of fatigue. But this fatigue was a legitimate, indeed, a desirable effect, for their systems naturally demanded repose after exertion, and an hour’s rest after breakfast was recommended. Thus this getting up earlier did not really result in any actual saving of time, though it made everybody feel very busy, and they all went to bed a little earlier.

  Mr. Altham found he got on very nicely without these gymnastics, but then he played golf after lunch. It was no use playing tricks with your health if it was already excellent: you might as well poke about in the works of a punctual watch. He had already had a pretty sharp lesson on this score, over the consumption of sour milk. It had made him exceedingly unwell, and he had sliced his drive for a fortnight afterwards. Just now he weaned his mind from the thoughts of kidneys, and gave it in equitable halves to marmalade and his wife’s conversation. To enjoy either, required silence on his part.

  “She went to a meeting yesterday,” said Mrs. Altham, “so Mrs. Turner told me, and said that though she had the success of the cause so deeply at heart as ever, she would not be able to take any active part in it. That is a very common form of sympathy. I suppose, from what one knows of Mrs. Ames, we might have expected something of the sort. Do you remember her foolish scheme of asking wives without husbands, and husbands without wives? I warned you at the time, Henry, not to take any notice of it, because I was sure it would come to nothing, and I think I may say I am justified. I don’t know what you think.”

  Mr. Altham, by a happy coincidence, had finished masticating his last piece of toast at this moment, and was at liberty to reply.