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Lady of the Basement Flat

<h3>Chapter Twelve.</h3> <h4>A Revelation.</h4> The Vicar has called to tell us that Delphine has made up her accounts, and that the fête has cleared fifty pounds more than the smaller affair last year. He seemed pleased and proud, and I was delighted, too, and immensely relieved, because I had really been horribly afraid there would be no profit at all! Curious to think where all the money came from to pay heavy expenses, and still clear so much! It just shows how small sums add up. I asked if Delphine were very pleased, and he hesitated, and said:— “She seems tired. Feeling the reaction, no doubt. She worked so hard.” An imp of curiosity tempted me to see if he were really as blind as he appeared. “She made a splendid hostess. And didn’t she look charming, too? I am sure you were proud of her in that lovely new frock!” His eyes softened with a deep glowey look, which was reserved for Delphine alone. “I am always proud of her. She always looks charming; but the dress—I am afraid I must plead guilty. I know nothing about her dress.” “Really? Truly? You couldn’t tell what it was like?” “Not for a thousand pounds!” I stared at him, frowning. “If I had a husband I should like him to know. I should be furious if I made a special effort, and he didn’t even notice that I had anything new.” He smiled with a forbearing air. “Surely not! I think better of you, Miss Wastneys. Dress is altogether unimportant.” “Not to me. Not to your wife. There are some women to whom it is the greatest temptation in life.” He looked outraged, disgusted, and changed the subject with a resolute air, but I was glad that I had spoken. A husband can be too unworldly, and lost in the clouds. It would be the best thing in the world for Delphine if he did notice, and that in more ways than one! In the afternoon Charmion and I called at the vicarage to congratulate Delphine, and found her distinctly the worse for wear. Pale, heavy-eyed, and inclined to snap, a very different creature from the radiant butterfly of three days ago. She was glad to see me, however, I was someone to snap at, which was what she wanted most at the moment, and she worked off quite a lot of steam, hectoring me about things I might have done better, or not done at all, and impressing on me for future occasions that I should be less independent, and take more advice. She likewise informed us, quite incidentally and “by the way,” that Mrs Ross had disliked my hat and Mrs Bruce had asked if Charmion were anaemic—such a colourless skin!—and Mrs Someone Else thought it so “queer” that we should live together! Altogether she behaved like a spoiled, ill-tempered child, but she looked so young and worried and pretty through it all, that on the whole I felt more sorry for her than myself. As for Charmion, she smiled, with an air of listening from an illimitable distance, which I can quite understand has an exasperating effect on people who do not understand and care. It exasperated Delphine now. I saw the blue eyes flash, and the pink lips set, with a peevish desire to “hit back!” “Mrs Bruce said her family know the Fane family quite well. They come from the same county. She was telling them about you, but, of course, not knowing your husband’s Christian name made it difficult. She thought it so queer to have your own Christian name printed on your cards—” “Did she?” said Charmion blandly. “It is an American custom,” I put in hastily. “I should do the same if I had such a fascinating name.” “I wouldn’t!” Delphine said—“it’s so queer. Unless, of course, one’s husband had a hideous name—Elisha, or Jonathan, or something like that. Even then one might leave it out.” “I shouldn’t dream of marrying anyone called Elisha.” “What was—is—your favourite man’s name?” “Jacky,” said Charmion naughtily. Delphine’s eyes flashed. “Was that your husband’s name?” “Oh no.” The pink lips opened to ask a further, more definite question, but it died unsaid. The steady gaze of Charmion’s eyes prevented that. She would be a bold woman who could defy that silent challenge! We made our escape, and walked home in silence. Charmion seemed very depressed, and went to bed at nine o’clock. Next time I see Delphine Merrivale, I shall tell her plainly that I will—not—have Mrs Fane annoyed with questions about the past! Last night we dined at the Hall. Last night things happened. We started feeling quite festive and excited, for, after a strictly domestic life for nearly five months, it becomes quite thrilling to dine in another house, and to eat food which one has not ordered oneself. As we drove along the lanes, we amused ourselves like schoolgirls, guessing what we “would have,” and who would “take us in”. Charmion, as the married woman, would obviously fall to the Squire. I hoped I should be at the other end of the table, with a partner who was sweet tempered and appreciative. Bridget had come back from posting a letter, bearing the thrilling news that the Squire’s car had been to the station to meet a party of guests. Two fine, upstanding ladies, and a gentleman with a figure like a wooden Noah in the Ark. The shoulders of him!—that square you might have cut them with a knife! It was refreshing to know that we were to meet people who did not live within a radius of five miles. I rather hoped those shoulders would fall to my share! They did. He is an American. I might have guessed that by the description, and one of the “fine upstanding ones” is his bride, and they have been “doing” England for a few weeks, before starting on a year’s honeymoon in the East. The explanation of their appearance at the Hall is that they “chanced” to have met the Squire years ago in America, and wished to renew the acquaintance. So things came about! Mr Elliott is an interesting man, and, like all Americans, loves to talk about his own country. He was pained and shocked to hear I had never crossed the Atlantic, until I told him that half myself, in the person of an only sister, had gone in my place. I was just going to add that Charmion also had spent a great part of her life in the States, when—something stopped me—one of those mysterious impulses which, at times, lay a finger on our lips, and check the coming words. Charmion sat on one side of the Squire, Mrs Elliott on the other. I was half-way down the table, sandwiched in between a dozen comfortable, middle-aged worthies, who were all intimate friends, if not actually related to each other, and their conversation, though interesting to themselves, was not thrilling to an outsider. I saw the American’s quick eye dart from one to the other, and hoped he was not classifying the company as typical English wits! The dinner itself was long, heavy, and unenterprising; a Victorian feast, even to the “specimen glass” decorations. One rose and one spray of maidenhair, in a tall thin glass, before each separate diner. Charmion and the Squire talked and laughed together, and seemed quite happy. She is a lovely creature when she is animated; there is a dainty charm about every movement which makes her seem of a different clay from human creatures. Even to see Charmion eat is a beautiful thing! All the same, that dinner was a trial of patience, and I was thankful when it was over. In the old-fashioned way, we left the men to their smoke, and wandered through the drawing-room into a big domed palm-house, which in its fragrant dimness, with the giant palms reaching to the very roof, looked much more inviting than the drawing-room with its glaring incandescent lights. The American bride attached herself to me and chatted amusingly enough. Before her marriage she had lived “out west,” so I plied her with questions about ranch life. Kathie writes regularly enough, but she is a wretch about answering questions, and is not half detailed enough to satisfy my curiosity. We stood leaning against one of the tiered flower-stands, enjoying the scent and the beauty, chatting together so lightly and calmly, blankly unsuspicious, as we so often are in the big moments of life, of what lies immediately ahead. Between the spreading branches I caught sight of Charmion looking at me with raised, inquiring brows. She had noted my eagerness, and was wondering what point of interest had been discovered between the wordy American and myself. I raised my voice, and cried happily:— “Oh, Charmion! Mrs Elliott knows Kathie’s home. She has stayed there herself. I am asking her all about it.” She smiled, and moved forward as if to join us. Mrs Elliott gave a little start, and repeated curiously, “Charmion! Is Mrs Fane called Charmion? That’s a very unusual name. I have only heard it once before. Very sweet, isn’t it, but association goes for so much!” “It does. In this case it makes the name all the more charming.” “Why, yes, that is so. Mrs Fane is a lovely woman. But I guess I was less fortunate in my specimen. I never met her myself, but she married a man I knew well, and—ran away from him on their honeymoon!” I laughed. I am so glad I laughed. So glad there was time to say lightly, “She was soon tired!” before, between the spreading leaves of a palm, I caught Charmion’s eyes—my Charmion!—staring into mine, and knew that she had overheard—knew more—knew, in a blundering flash of intuition, that the words which had just been spoken referred to no stranger, but to herself! Fortunately for us both, Mrs Elliott was facing me, so she did not see, as I did, the sudden pause, the blanching face, the dumb appeal of the stricken eyes. I flashed back reassurement, and at once led the way forward—out of the conservatory, back to the drawing-room, affecting to be tired, to want to sit down. Mrs Elliott followed, unperturbed. It didn’t matter to her where she went, the one indispensable necessity was to talk, and to have someone to listen. She continued her history with voluble emphasis. “I should think it was soon! Well, I guess she might have thought it out before she went so far. Too hard on a man to be treated like that. Kind of humiliates him before his friends, that a woman couldn’t put up with him one month—” “I shouldn’t worry about his pride,” I said curtly. “What about hers? It would be worse than humiliating for a woman to be obliged to go! He must have been a poor thing!” “Well, I don’t know. He was a real popular man. He may have been a bit careless and extravagant; quite a good many young men are that, but they settle down into staid, steady-going husbands if the right woman comes along to help. Doesn’t seem to me, Miss Wastneys, that it’s possible for any man to be so bad, that in three weeks the woman who had promised to stick to him till death should throw up the sponge!” It did not seem so to me, either, so I made no comment. I should not have been human if I had not burned to ask questions, but I would not allow myself to do it. What Charmion wished me to hear, she would tell me herself. The time had come when she would tell me. I knew that. This chance encounter had decided the moment when her silence should be broken. Mrs Elliott smothered a yawn, and straightened a diamond bracelet on her wrist. The diamonds were massed together so heavily that the weight dragged them to the inside of her arm, leaving only the plain gold band in sight, a hiding of treasures which did not please the owner. “Well,” she said deliberately once more, “I guess it was a real cruel trick. Whatever he’d done, she put herself in the wrong that time. The poor fellow’s not done a mite of good ever since.” I had to hold myself tight to prevent a start. Not done! She talked of the man in the present case, as though he were alive, as though—stupefying thought!—Charmion was not a widow after all! The thought was stupefying, but even as it passed through my brain, I realised that no word of her own had been responsible for my conviction that her husband was dead. It was rather because she never did mention him that Kathie and I had made so sure that he did not exist. My thoughts dived into the past, recalling faded impressions. I remembered how Kathie had said, “She must have loved him dreadfully not to be able to refer to him even now!” And how I had been silent, fighting the impression that it was the ghost of sorrow, rather than of joy, which sealed Charmion’s lips. The door opened, and the men came into the room. The different groups broke up and drifted here and there; into the palm-house to look at the flowers, back into the drawing-room to talk, drink coffee, and glance surreptitiously at the clock. In this old-fashioned household, no one thought of providing any other amusement for a dinner party than the dinner itself. Having been well fed, the guests were expected to amuse themselves for the hour that <ANTIMG src="images/bflat165.jpg" alt=""> remained. In an ordinary way I could have taken my share in the amusing; I like talking, and am never troubled by not knowing what to say. Given people to listen, and look appreciative, I can monologue for an indefinite time. But—to-night! Inside the palm-house I could see Charmion’s grey figure reclining in a wicker chair, her face ivory-white against the cushions. She was waving her fan to and fro, and listening with apparent attention to the conversation of her companions. I guessed how little she would hear; how bitter must be the dread at her heart; how endlessly, interminably long the moments must seem. “Miss Wastneys, would you care to see the picture we were talking about at dinner?” It was Mr Maplestone’s voice. I looked up and saw him standing by my side, and rose at once, thankful for any movement which would pass the time. We left the room together, walked to the end of the long corridor, and drew up before the picture of an uninteresting old man with several chins, and the small, steel-blue eyes which seem a family inheritance. This was a celebrated Romney, which had been the subject of a protracted law-suit between different branches of the family, which had cost the losing party over a thousand pounds. I thought, but did not say, that I would have been obliged to anyone who would have taken him away, free, gratis, for nothing, rather than that he should hang on my walls. Spoken comment, under the circumstances, was a little difficult and halting! “This is the Romney.” “Oh yes.” “My grandfather.” “I see. Yes. How interesting.” He laughed—a short, derisive bark. “That’s the last thing you can call it! A more uninteresting production I never beheld. What right had he to waste good canvas? That is one point in which we do show more common sense than our ancestors. We do not consider it necessary to inflict our portraits on posterity.” “No. We don’t. At least—” He swung round, facing me, with his back to the open drawing-room door, his face suddenly keen and alert. “Miss Wastneys—never mind the picture! I brought you out as an excuse. I wanted to ask—Whats the matter?” The question rapped out, short and sharp. I looked at him, made a big effort to be bright, and natural, and defiant, and realised suddenly that I was trembling; that, while my cheeks were hot, my hands were cold as ice; that, in short, the shock and excitement of the last half-hour was taking its physical revenge. For two straws I could have burst out crying there and then. It is a ridiculous feminine weakness to be given to tears at critical moments, but if you have it, you have it, and so far I have not discovered a cure. I could have kept going if he had taken no notice, and gone on talking naturally; but that question knocked me over, so I just stared at him and gulped, and pressed my hands together, with that awful, awful sensation which comes over one when one knows it is madness to give way, and yet feels that the moment after next you are just going to do it, and nothing can stop you! I thought of Charmion, sitting calm and quiet in the palm-house; I thought of that first horrible interview in the inn parlour; I thought of my heroic ancestors. It was no use; every moment I drew, nearer and nearer to the breaking-point. I still stared, but the Squire’s face was growing misty, growing into a big, red-brown blur. Then suddenly a hand gripped my arm, and a voice said sharply:— “Don’t cry, please! No necessity to cry. You are tired. I will order the car. It shall be round in five minutes. You can surely pull yourself together for five minutes?” The voice was like a douche of cold water. I shivered under it, but felt wonderfully braced. “Oh, thank you, but we ordered a fly.” “That’s all right. I’ll see to that. No one shall know anything about it. You will leave earlier than you expected—that’s all. I’m sorry”—his lean face twitched—“the time has seemed so long!” “It’s not”—I said feebly—“it’s not that!” But he led the way back to the drawing-room, taking no notice. Five minutes later “Mrs Fane’s carriage” was announced, and we bade a protesting hostess good-night. Charmion and I sat silent, hand in hand, all the way home. She felt cold as ice, but she clung to me; her fingers closed over mine. Just as we reached our own door she whispered a few words. “I’ll come to your room, dear. Wait up for me.” The time had come when I was to hear Charmion’s story from her own lips! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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