Celibates Part 42

'Yes; that he'd like to see me upstairs. I told my maid to say that he was to come down to my room, but she brought back word that the Major couldn't come down, would I go up to him. So I had to go up to his garret. You never saw such a place. At last I got tired of listening to him--I couldn't stand there in the cold any longer--I was catching cold.'

'But you haven't told me what he said.'

'The usual thing: that it was the loss of his money that had brought him where he was; that if he only had a little money, if he could only keep himself, he would take his daughter away to live with him. He didn't know what would become of her in this house. Oh, he did go on.

At last he burst into tears, he threw himself at my feet and said he'd forgive me everything if I'd only think of my daughter.'

'What did you say?'

'I said the best way to consider his daughter's interests, was by avoiding all scandal and wearing proper clothes.'

'And he promised he would wear the new suit?'

'Yes; he promised he would. He said that he knew all I said was true.

That it wasn't my fault, that a woman couldn't be expected to respect a man who couldn't keep her, that he felt the shame of his position in the house, that it had broken his heart, that if he had lost his money it was not his fault, that the world was full of rogues, you know-- you've heard him go on.'

'I should think I had. I don't know how I put up with him. Very often it is as much as I can do to prevent myself from running out of the room.'

Mrs. Lahens looked at her lover angrily.

'You don't think what I have to put up with. You come here when you like, you go away when you like.... Men are always the same, they only think of themselves. You don't think of me, you do not remember what I have put up with for your sake, of the sacrifices I have made for you.

I should have left him years ago when he lost his money if it hadn't been for fear of compromising you.'

'He never would have divorced you. He'd have been left without a cent if he had, and he couldn't have got anything out of me.'

'Whatever my husband's faults are, he's not mercenary. There are many who think more of money and its advantages than he.'

'Now, what are you angry about, Olive?' and Lord Chadwick laid his hand on her shoulder.

'I don't like unjust accusations, not even against my husband. The Major is a fool, but he is not dishonourable; he is the most honourable man that comes to this house. It was not on account of my money that he did not divorce me.'

'On account of you, then.'

'Partly, strange as that may seem to you, and on account of his daughter.'

Lord Chadwick did not answer. The conversation was taking a disagreeable turn, and as he looked into the fire he thought how he might change it.

'So Agnes returns home to-day?'

'Yes, her father insisted... She, poor dear, begged and prayed to be allowed to become a nun, but he would not listen to her any more than he would to me.... There was no use arguing.... You know what the Major is; you are never sure when he'll turn on you. If I opposed him he might come down some evening when there was a party, and inform my guests that I kept my daughter imprisoned in a convent, that I wouldn't let her out. No; I daren't oppose him on this point. Agnes must come home for a while. But the experiment won't succeed. I daresay you think so too. But for all that I'm right, as time will prove. A mother knows more about her own daughter than any one else, and I tell you that Agnes is no more fitted for the world than I am for a convent. I shall have to drag her about for a season or two. She won't succeed, and she'll be wretchedly unhappy. I shall be put to any amount of trouble and expense, that will be all.'

'And then?'

'I don't know. Even if I did give you up, I don't see what would be gained. All I could do would be to ask you not to come to the house any more.'

'That is nonsense.'

'Of course it is nonsense. Can I go back on my whole life? can I change all my friends? If I did I should only collect more exactly like them, and without knowing I was doing it. Lie low for a month or so, and then pursue the same old way. With the best intentions in the world we cannot change ourselves.' 'But you don't intend to give me up, Olive?'

'Do you want me to, Reggie?'

'No, dearest, we've held together a long time--seven years--we cannot give each other up.'

'We can't give each other up,' said Mrs. Lahens. 'It never shall be broken off, unless you break it off.'

Lord Chadwick asked himself if he desired to break with her? He looked at her, and thought that he had never seen her look so old; but he could not imagine his life without her. Apart from her, there was nothing for him. His name had been mixed up in questionable city transactions; his wife had divorced him, and he was over forty...

Notwithstanding his t.i.tle, he'd find it difficult to marry a girl with money; he couldn't marry one without. Besides, he loved Olive as well as a man could love a woman whose lover he has been for seven years.

... Mrs. Lahens looked at him, and wondered what there was in him that attached her so firmly. They had once loved each other pa.s.sionately.

All that was over now... But still she loved him. ... He was all she had in the world. To live with her husband without Reggie! no, she could not think of it. Even if she did, Agnes would profit nothing by it. Every one knew of their _liaison_. No one talked about it any more, it had been in a way accepted, and for them to separate would only serve to set Mayfair gossiping again.

'I know I appear selfish,' she said; 'not to want to see my daughter must seem selfish. But I am not selfish, Reggie. I've never been selfish where you have been concerned, have I?'

'I at least can't accuse you of selfishness, Olive. You've always been a good friend to me. There was my bankruptcy---'

'Do not speak of it. I only did for you what you would have done for me. I have been very unlucky; I was cursed with a husband who was a fool, and who lost all his money--no one can say he's in his right mind. They say that I have driven him out of his mind, but that is not so, you know that it is not so; I've not driven you out of your mind.

There never was such a fool as my husband. He has acted as stupidly about his daughter as he did about his money. First he takes her away from me--I'm not good enough for her, this house isn't good enough for her; he shuts her up in a convent, and never has her home for fear she should hear or see anything that was not pious and good. Then, when she wants to become a nun, and her mind is made up, and her character is formed, he insists that she shall come home, and that I shall give up my lover and bring her into society. But not into the society that comes to my house, but into some other society, some highly respectable society that neither he nor I knows anything about. And to make my task the more easy, he insists on living in a servant's room, buying the butler's overcoat, and running down the street whistling for cabs, and carrying my trunks on his shoulder. There never was such madness; G.o.d knows how it will all end.'

She turned her head slightly when her husband entered the room, and, without getting off the arm of Lord Chadwick's chair, said:

'Doesn't he look well in that suit of clothes, Reggie?'

The Major was a short man, shorter by nearly two inches than his wife or Lord Chadwick. His hair had once been red; it was now faded, and the tall forehead showed bald amid a slight gleaning. His beard and moustaches were thick, unkempt, and full of grey hair. The nose was small and aquiline, and the eyes, shallow and pale blue, wore a silly and vacant stare. The skin was coloured everywhere alike, a sort of conventional tone of flesh-colour seemed to have been poured over the face, forehead, and neck. His short thick hands were covered with reddish hair. They fidgeted at the trousers and waistcoat, too tightly strained across his little round stomach; and he did not desist till his wife said:

'I hope you will have finished dressing before our guests arrive.'

'Whom have you asked? Not the tall thin man who---'

'Why not?'

'You surely don't think he is a fit companion for Agnes?'

'Companion for Agnes! no; but I don't intend every one that comes here to lunch as a companion for Agnes. I'm sick of hearing of that girl.

I've heard of nothing else for the last week--the people she should meet--what we should say and not say before her. If we aren't good enough for her she should have remained in the convent. But what fault, may I ask, do you find with Moulton?'

'Only what you've told me.... Am I not right, Reggie?'

'Oh, Reggie will agree with you--he hates Moulton.'

'I don't like the man.'

'The truth is that he sent a note asking if he might come, and I knew if I refused he'd have nothing to eat.... You ought to be able to judge Moulton more fairly, for it is want of money that has reduced him to his present position. He was born a gentleman, and his uncle only allows him fifteen shillings a week. This pays for his lodging-- one room, which costs five shillings a week--another five shillings a week goes for current expenses, a cup of tea in the morning, and a few omnibus fares; the remaining five shillings goes towards his clothes.

So every day he finds himself face to face with the problem where he shall lunch, where he shall dine. He's good-looking, women like him, and any little present they make him is welcomed, I can a.s.sure you. He said the other day, "Look at my boot, there's a hole in it; I shall be laid up with a cold. You don't know what it is to be ill in a room for which you pay five shillings a week." What could I do but to tell him that he might order a pair at my shoemaker's?'

'And he ordered a pair that cost three pounds,' said Lord Chadwick.

'Yes; I did think that he might have chosen a cheaper pair. But you're rather hard on him,' said Mrs. Lahens; 'he's not the only man in London who takes money from women.'

'I wonder he doesn't go to Mashonaland or to Canada?' said the Major.

'If every one who could not make his living here went to Mashonaland or Canada, the London drawing-rooms would be pretty empty.'