Bird of Paradise Part 12

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you put it away. Otherwise you would have shown it to me.

n.o.body cares to show an uncompromising love-letter--with a lukewarm signature."

"At any rate," said Madeline, gliding over the point and leaving the letter in its cover, "your taking us out last night was a very great help. I feel I've made progress; he thinks more of me."

"Yes, I thought it would be a good thing to do. Now you'd better not answer the letter, and please don't show any anxiety if you don't see him for a little while, either."

"I sha'n't be a bit anxious, Bertha, especially if it's only racing, or something of that sort. Or, in fact, anything, unless I get afraid he's seeing Miss Chivvey. Do you ever think that Rupert still takes an interest in Miss Chivvey?"

"A little, but I don't think it matters. I think she's needed as a contrast to you. She surprises and shocks him, and that amuses him, but she isn't his real taste. I don't think Miss Chivvey's dangerous, seriously. She uses cheap scent."

"Oh!" cried Madeline, delighted. "There's nothing so awful as cheap scent!"

"Except expensive scent, because it's stronger," said Bertha.

Madeline looked at her admiringly.

"How extraordinary you are, Bertha! It's wonderfully sweet of you to take such an interest in my wretched little romance. You might have so many of your own, if you cared to."

"Ah, but I don't care to. I'm rather exacting in a way, but I don't want variety. I've no desire for an audience. I don't want a little of everybody. All I want is the whole of one person."

"Is that all! Well, you've got it," replied Madeline.

"I hope so," she answered, rather seriously. "I'm not altogether satisfied. I can't settle down to the idea of a dull, humdrum sort of life--and of Percy's being fond of me casually."

"Oh, good gracious, I'm sure he isn't casual! What a strange idea of yours!"

"I hope I'm wrong. I believe I want something that's very nearly impossible. I've always had a sort of ideal or dream of making an ordinary average married life into a romance."

"Well, and can't it be?"

"I don't really see why it shouldn't. But there's no doubt there are immense difficulties in the way. It seems to be necessary, first of all, for there to be not only one exceptional temperament, but two. And that's a good deal to expect. Of course, the obvious danger is the probability of people getting tired of anything they've got. I'm afraid that's human nature. The toys the children see in the shop-window always seem much less wonderful when they're home in the nursery. As a brother of mine used to say a little vulgarly, 'You don't run after an omnibus when once you've caught it.'"

"Perhaps not."

"As soon as you belong to a person, obviously, Madeline, they don't value you _quite_ in the same kind of way. The glamour seems to go."

"But you don't want necessarily always to be _run after_, surely? You want to be treasured and valued--all that sort of thing."

"Yes, I know! But my ideal would be that there should be just as much excitement and romance and _fun_ after marriage as before--if it were possible."

"Oh, good heavens, Bertha! then, if one were to go by that horrible theory of your brother's, one ought never to marry the person one loves, if one wants to keep them."

"No, in theory, one ought not. But then, where are you if he goes and marries someone else? After all, you'd rather he got tired of _you_ than of the other person! Wouldn't you prefer he should make _your_ life miserable than any other woman's? Besides, one must take a risk. It's worth it."

"I should think it is, indeed!" cried Madeline. "Why, I would marry Rupert if I thought I should never see him again after a month or two--if I knew for a fact he would get tired of me!"

"Of course you would, and quite right too. But remember people are not all alike. There are any number of men who are absolutely incapable of being really in love with anyone who belongs to them. They simply can't help it. It's the instinct of the chase. And it's mere waste of time and energy to attempt to change them."

"Are you speaking of men or husbands?"

"Either, really. But don't let's forget that there are a great many others, on the other hand, who care for nothing and no one who isn't their own. Collectors, rather than hunters. Surely you've noticed that, Madeline? It's a pa.s.sion for property. The kind of man who thinks _his_ house, _his_ pictures, _his_ cook, even his mother, everything connected with him must be better than the possessions of anyone else. Well, this kind of man is quite capable of remaining very devoted to his own wife, and in love with her, if she's only decently nice to him; and even if she's not. I mean the sort of man one sometimes sees at a party, pointing out some utterly insignificant person there, and declaring that Gladys or Jane, or whoever it is, takes the shine out of everyone else, and that there's no one else in the room to touch her. His wife, of course. I don't mean out of devotion--that's another, finer temperament--but simply and solely because she belongs to him."

"Well, Bertha, I don't care what his reason is, I _like_ that man!"

"Oh, rather! So do I. And very often he's not a bit appreciated; though he would be by us. Perhaps the most usual case of all is for the husband, if he's married for love, to remain in love for the first two or three years, and for the love then to turn gradually into a warm friendship, or even a deep affection, which may go on growing deeper--it's only the romance and the glamour and sparkle that seems to go--the excitement. And that's such a pity. I can't help thinking in many cases it really needn't be. More often than not, I believe, it's the woman's mistake. Just at first, she's liable to take too much advantage of the new sort of power she feels."

"Do you mean, Bertha, that the woman generally doesn't take enough trouble with the house to make it pleasant for him at home--and all that?"

"I _didn't_ mean that, though it might be so. But sometimes it's just the other way. More often than not she takes a great deal too much trouble about the home, and bothers him about it. There's far too much domesticity. It's like playing at houses at first, but soon it grows tedious. At any rate the whole thing is worth studying very deeply. I can tell you I haven't given it up yet."

"You? Oh, Bertha, I can't think what fault you have to find. You, as you say, certainly are exacting."

"I blame myself, solely. I feel that, somehow or other, I've allowed things to get too prosaic. Percy takes everything for granted: everything goes on wheels. Of course, if I were satisfied to settle down at twenty-eight with complete contentment at the prospect of a humdrum existence, it would be all right; but I'm not. In another few years Percy will be getting on very well as a barrister, taking himself seriously, and regarding me just as part of the furniture at home. You know he always calls me a canary; that shows his point of view. Well, then, he might get a little interested in a wilder kind of bird, and I shouldn't like it!"

"What would your idea be, then? Would you flirt to make him jealous?"

"No, I certainly shouldn't. That's frightfully obvious and common. If I ever did flirt, it wouldn't be for such a silly reason as that. It would be for my own amus.e.m.e.nt and for nothing else, but I don't think I ever shall. I think it's a fatal mistake for a woman to lower herself in any way in the other person's eyes. Her lasting hold and best one, is that he must think her perfection; it's the safest link with a really nice man. Anyone can be worse than you are, but it's not easy when you take the line that none can be _better_! because no one else is going to try!

But if, after all, he still gets tired of her, as they sometimes do, well--it's very hard--but I am afraid she must manage badly."

"I never should have dreamed you thought of all these things, Bertha.

You seem so serene and happy."

"I am. It's the one subject I ever worry about. I'm always prepared for the worst."

"And I'm quite sure you've no cause to be. Why not wait till trouble comes?" suggested Madeline.

"Why, then it would be too late. No, I want to ward it off long before there's any danger."

"I think it's very unlike you--almost morbid--bothering about possibilities that will never happen."

"I daresay it is, in a way. But, you know, I fancy I've second sight sometimes. What I feel with us is that things are too smooth, too calm, a little dull. Something ought to happen."

"You're looking so pretty, too," said Madeline rather irrelevantly.

"I'm glad to hear it; but I only want one person to think so."

"But it's obvious that he does; he's very proud of you."

"I sometimes think he's too much accustomed to me. He takes me as a matter of course."

"If that is so, I daresay you'll be able to alter matters," said Madeline, getting up to go.

"Yes, I daresay I shall; it only needs a little readjusting," Bertha said.

They shook hands in cordial fashion. They did not belong to the gushing school, and, notwithstanding their really deep mutual affection, neither would ever have dreamed of kissing the other.