He went up-stairs and sat down before ‘The White Monkey.’ In that strategic position he better perceived the core of his domestic moment. Fleur had to be first–had to take precedence. No object in her collection must live a life of its own! He was appalled by the bitterness of that thought. No, no! It was only that she had a complex–a silver spoon, and it had become natural in her mouth. She resented his having interests in which she was not first; or rather, perhaps, resented the fact that they were not her interests too. And that was to her credit, when you came to think of it. She was vexed with herself for being egocentric. Poor child! ‘I’ve got to mind my eye,’ thought Michael, ‘or I shall make some modern-novel mess of this in three parts.’ And his mind strayed naturally to the science of dishing up symptoms as if they were roots–ha! He remembered his nursery governess locking him in; he had dreaded being penned up ever since. The psychoanalysts would say that was due to the action of his governess. It wasn’t–many small boys wouldn’t have cared a hang; it was due to a nature that existed before that action. He took up the photograph of Fleur that stood on his desk. He loved the face, he would always love it. If she had limitations–well! So had he–lots! This was comedy, one mustn’t make it into tragedy! Surely she had a sense of humour, too! Had she? Had she not? And Michael searched the face he held in his hands…
But, as is usual with husbands, he had diagnosed without knowledge of all the facts.
Fleur had been bored at Lippinghall, even collection of the Minister had tried her. She had concealed her boredom from Michael. But self-sacrifice takes its revenge. She reached home in a mood of definite antagonism to public affairs. Hoping to feel better if she bought a hat or two, she set out for Bond Street. At the corner of Burlington Street, a young man bared his head.
“Fleur!”
Wilfrid Desert! Very lean and very brown!
“You!”
“Yes. I’m just back. How’s Michael?”
“Very well. Only he’s in Parliament.”
“Great Scott! And how are you?”
“As you see. Did you have a good time?”
“Yes. I’m only perching. The East has got me!”
“Are you coming to see us?”
“I think not. The burnt child, you know.”
“Yes; you ARE brown!”
“Well, good-bye, Fleur! You look just the same, only more so. I’ll see Michael somewhere.”
“Good-bye!” She walked on without looking back, and then regretted not having found out whether Wilfrid had done the same.
She had given Wilfrid up for–well, for Michael, who–who had forgotten it! Really she was too self-sacrificing!
And then at three o’clock a note was brought her:
“By hand, ma’am; answer waiting.”
She opened an envelope, stamped ‘Cosmopolis Hotel.’
“MADAM,
“We apologise for troubling you, but are in some perplexity. Mr. Francis Wilmot, a young American gentleman, who has been staying in this hotel since early October, has, we are sorry to say, contracted pneumonia. The doctor reports unfavourably on his condition. In these circumstances we thought it right to examine his effects, in order that we might communicate with his friends; but the only indication we can find is a card of yours. I venture to ask you if you can help us in the matter.
“Believe me to be, Madam,
“Your faithful servant,
“(for the Management).”
Fleur stared at an illegible signature, and her thoughts were bitter. Jon had dumped Francis on her as a herald of his happiness; her enemy had lifted him! Well, then, why didn’t that Cat look after him herself? Oh! well, poor boy! Ill in a great hotel–without a soul!
“Call me a taxi, Coaker.”
On her way to the Hotel she felt slight excitement of the ‘ministering angel’ order.
Giving her name at the bureau, she was taken up to Room 209. A chambermaid was there. The doctor, she said, had ordered a nurse, who had not yet come.
Francis Wilmot, very flushed, was lying back, propped up; his eyes were closed.
“How long has he been ill like this?”
“I’ve noticed him looking queer, ma’am; but we didn’t know how bad he was until today. I think he’s just neglected it. The doctor says he’s got to be packed. Poor gentleman, it’s very sad. You see, he’s hardly there!”
Francis Wilmot’s lips were moving; he was evidently on the verge of delirium.
“Go and make some lemon tea in a jug as weak and hot as you can; quick!”
When the maid had gone, she went up and put her cool hand to his forehead.
“It’s all right, Francis. Much pain?”
Francis Wilmot’s lips ceased to move; he looked up at her and his eyes seemed to burn.
“If you cure me,” he said, “I’ll hate you. I just want to get out, quick!”
She changed her hand on his forehead, whose heat seemed to scorch the skin of her palm. His lips resumed their almost soundless movement. The meaningless, meaningful whispering frightened her, but she stood her ground, constantly changing her hand, till the maid came back with the tea.
“The nurse has come, miss; she’ll be up in a minute.”
“Pour out the tea. Now, Francis, drink!”
His lips sucked, chattered, sucked. Fleur handed back the cup, and stood away. His eyes had closed again.
“Oh! ma’am,” whispered the maid, “he IS bad! Such a nice young gentleman, too.”
“What was his temperature; do you know?”
“I did hear the doctor say nearly 105. Here is the nurse, ma’am.”
Fleur went to her in the doorway.
“It’s not just ordinary, nurse–he WANTS to go. I think a love-affair’s gone wrong. Shall I stop and help you pack him?”
When the pneumonia jacket had been put on, she lingered, looking down at him. His eyelashes lay close and dark against his cheeks, long and innocent, like a little boy’s.
Outside the door, the maid touched her arm. “I found this letter, ma’am; ought I to show it to the doctor?”
Fleur read:
“MY POOR DEAR BOY,
“We were crazy yesterday. It isn’t any good, you know. Well, I haven’t got a breakable heart; nor have you really, though you may think so when you get this. Just go back to your sunshine and your darkies, and put me out of your thoughts. I couldn’t stay the course. I couldn’t possibly stand being poor. I must just go through it with my Scotsman and travel the appointed road. What is the good of thinking we can play at children in the wood, when one of them is “Your miserable (at the moment)
“MARJORIE.
“I mean this–I mean it. Don’t come and see me any more, and make it worse for yourself. M.”
“Exactly!” said Fleur. “I’ve told the nurse. Keep it and give it him back if he gets well. If he doesn’t, burn it. I shall come tomorrow.” And, looking at the maid with a faint smile, she added: “I am not that lady!”
“Oh! no, ma’am–miss–no, I’m sure! Poor young gentleman! Isn’t there nothing to be done?”
“I don’t know. I should think not…”
She had kept all these facts from Michael with a sudden retaliatory feeling. He couldn’t have private–or was it public–life all to himself!
After he had gone out with his ‘Good God!’ she went to the window. Queer to have seen Wilfrid again! Her heart had not fluttered, but it tantalised her not to know whether she could attract him back. Out in the square it was as dark as when last she had seen him before he fled to the East–a face pressed to this window that she was touching with her fingers. ‘The burnt child!’ No! She did not want to reduce him to that state again; nor to copy Marjorie Ferrar, who had copied her. If, instead of going East, Wilfrid had chosen to have pneumonia like poor Francis! What would she have done? Let him die for want of her? And what ought she to do about Francis, having seen that letter? Tell Michael? No, he thought her frivolous and irresponsible. Well! She would show him! And that sister–who had married Jon? Ought she to be cabled to? But this would have a rapid crisis, the nurse had said, and to get over from America in time would be impossible! Fleur went back to the fire. What kind of girl was this wife of Jon’s? Another in the new fashion–like Norah Curfew; or just one of those Americans out for her own way and the best of everything? But they would have the new kind of woman in America, too–even though it didn’t come from Paris. Anne Forsyte! – Fleur gave a little shiver in front of the hot fire.
She went up-stairs, took off her hat, and scrutinised her image. Her face was coloured and rounded, her eyes were clear, her brow unlined, her hair rather flattened. She fluffed it out, and went across into the nursery.
The eleventh baronet, asleep, was living his private life with a very determined expression on his face; at the foot of his cot lay the Dandie, with his chin pressed to the floor, and at the table the nurse was sewing. In front of her lay an illustrated paper with the photograph inscribed: “Mrs. Michael Mont, with Kit and Dandie.”
“What do you think of it, nurse?”
“I think it’s horrible, ma’am; it makes Kit look as if he hadn’t any sense–giving him a stare like that!”
Fleur took up the paper; her quick eyes had seen that it concealed another. There on the table was a second effigy of herself: “Mrs. Michael Mont, the pretty young London hostess, who, rumour says, will shortly be defendant in a Society lawsuit.” And, above, yet another effigy, inscribed: “Miss Marjorie Ferrar, the brilliant granddaughter of the Marquis of Shropshire, whose engagement to Sir Alexander MacGown, M. P., is announced.”
Fleur dropped paper back on paper.
Chapter XI.
SHADOWS
The dinner, which Marjorie Ferrar had so suddenly recollected, was MacGown’s, and when she reached the appointed restaurant, he was waiting in the hall.
“Where are the others, Alec?”
“There are no others,” said MacGown.
Marjorie Ferrar reined back. “I can’t dine with you alone in a place like this!”
“I had the Ppynrryns, but they fell through.”
“Then I shall go to my Club.”
“For God’s sake, no, Marjorie. We’ll have a private room. Go and wait in there, while I arrange it.”
With a shrug she passed into a little ‘lounge.’ A young woman whose face seemed familiar idled in, looked at her, and idled out again, the ormolu clock ticked, the walls of striped pale grey stared blankly in the brilliant light, and Marjorie Ferrar stared blankly back–she was still seeing Francis Wilmot’s ecstatic face.
“Now!” said MacGown. “Up those stairs, and third on the right. I’ll follow in a minute.”
She had acted in a play, she had passed an emotional hour, and she was hungry. At least she could dine before making the necessary scene. And while she drank the best champagne MacGown could buy, she talked and watched the burning eyes of her adorer. That red-brown visage, square, stiff-haired head, and powerful frame–what a contrast to the pale, slim face and form of Francis! This was a man, and when he liked, agreeable. With him she would have everything she wanted except–what Francis could give her. And it was one or the other–not both, as she had thought it might be. She had once crossed the ‘striding edge’ on Helvellyn, with a precipice on one side and a precipice on the other, and herself, doubting down which to fall, in the middle. She hadn’t fallen, and–she supposed–she wouldn’t now! One didn’t, if one kept one’s head!
Coffee was brought; and she sat, smoking, on the sofa. Her knowledge of private rooms taught her that she was now as alone with her betrothed as money could make them. How would he behave?
He threw his cigar away, and sat down by her side. This was the moment to rise and tell him that he was no longer her betrothed.
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