Studies in Wives Part 12

Oliver stared down at the piece of paper. Insensibly he straightened his shoulders as if to meet calmly a physical blow. "Are these pounds?" he asked.

She nodded.

"But Bella, it's an enormous sum,--over four thousand."

"I suppose it is," she said listlessly.

Her husband put the paper in his breast pocket; then he hesitated a moment, and Bella thought he was perhaps going to hand her back the envelope and its contents. But that also, to her chagrin, disappeared into his pocket.

"I suppose the money Buck brought you to-day is included in this amount?"

Bella shook her head sadly. "I hadn't time to put it down," she said.

"Well, I'll see what can be done."

"I suppose you mean to pay it all back? I suppose"--her voice was trembling with self-pity--"that we shall have to go and live in the country now?"

He said nothing,--only looked at her with that same cold look of surprise and alienation.

He was leaving the room when a cry from her brought him back. She clutched his hand.

"You've never said you're sorry for the horrible thing you said to me----" and, as he looked at her, still silent, "Oliver! you surely don't think that Rabbit----Why, he's never even squeezed my hand!"

"Stop!" he cried roughly. "Don't be silly, Bella. Of course I don't think anything of the kind. I accept absolutely what you tell me of your relations with Henry Buck."

"Why, there have been no relations with Henry Buck and me," she cried, protesting. "What a hateful word to use, Oliver!"

But he was already out of the door, making his way to the only human being in whom he still felt complete confidence, who, he knew, loved him, in the good old homely sense of the word.

"My dear boy, what _is_ the matter?"

f.a.n.n.y sat up. She had been lying down on the sofa in the sitting-room of her lodgings. Oliver had explained to the servant that he was Mrs.

Burdon's brother, and he had been allowed to make his own way up to the drawing-room floor.

"There's a good deal the matter," he said. "The fact is I've made a fool of myself, f.a.n.n.y,--and I've come to you for help."

f.a.n.n.y looked up at him, and what she saw checked the words on her lips.

She was wide awake now, but rather painfully conscious that she looked untidy. Her smart voile gown--voile was the "smart" material that season--was crumpled. And Oliver's wife, Bella, was always so dreadfully, so unnaturally, tidy and neat,--it was one of the things that perhaps made people think her so much prettier than she really was.

"Of course I will help you," she answered briskly. "Tell me all about it."

"Have you still that five thousand pounds Cousin Andrew left you?"

"Why of course I have,--and it's rather more now, for luckily we didn't put it into Consols; we put it into a Canadian security."

"Is it invested in d.i.c.k's name?"

d.i.c.k's wife laughed. "No, of course it isn't," she said. "Why should it be?"

"Could you get at it without d.i.c.k's knowing?"

"Yes, I suppose I could." There was a touch of wonder in her voice.

"f.a.n.n.y, I want you to lend me four thousand pounds." Oliver spoke huskily. He was staring out of the window.

His sister looked at him rather queerly for a moment: "Yes, of course I will," she said. And, as he turned to her, his face working,--"You needn't make a fuss about it, dear old boy. You'll pay me back all right, I know that."

"I'll insure against it, and I'll pay you proper interest for it--whatever you're getting now," he said. "And we'll get a lawyer to see that it's all made safe."

"That'll be all right," said f.a.n.n.y, and then again she gave him that curious, considering look.

Germaine pulled himself together. "You'll think I've been a fool," he exclaimed abruptly,--he had to say something in answer to that look,--"and so I have. But you know--at least you don't know, luckily for you--what it's like to be mixed up with a lot of fellows who are all richer than one is oneself;" and then in a very different tone, one in which his sister felt the ring of truth, "Are you sure d.i.c.k won't know, f.a.n.n.y? I don't want d.i.c.k to know."

"Of course he won't know," f.a.n.n.y smiled. "You don't suppose I tell d.i.c.k everything?"

Oliver stared at his sister. He was rather shocked by her admission; till to-day he had thought that all husbands and wives who loved one another told each other everything; and yet, here was f.a.n.n.y, who hadn't a thought in the world beyond d.i.c.k, the children, the dogs--and, and, yes, her brother----

"It's none of d.i.c.k's business what I choose to do with my own money--not that he'd mind."

"I think of spreading the re-payment over five years."

"That would be rather too soon," she said; and added, looking away as she spoke, "I don't think it would be fair to Bella."

Oliver reddened, a man's dusky unbecoming blush.

"Bella's been good about it," he said briefly. "She said herself that we should have to go and live in the country. Still, let's make it seven years. I say, f.a.n.n.y, you _are_ a brick," and sitting down by the table, Oliver Germaine broke into hard, painful sobs.

f.a.n.n.y got up off the sofa. She felt rather shy.

"Don't be so worried," she said. "Bella's a very good sort, and awfully fond of you, old boy. She'll like the country better than you think. Her looks will last twice as long there, and, and--if I were you, Oliver--you and Bella I mean," f.a.n.n.y got rather mixed, and very red--"well, I'd try and have a baby. Bella would look awfully sweet with a baby. And a baby's no trouble in the country--less trouble than a puppy!"

"Yes, that's true," he said, raising his head, and feeling vaguely comforted. His sister f.a.n.n.y had a lot of sense. Oliver had always known that.

IV

ACCORDING TO MEREDITH

"Certainly, however, one day these present conditions of marriage will be changed. Marriage will be allowed for a certain period, say ten years."--Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH in the _Daily Mail_ of September 24th, 1904.

"Give you some heads? My dear fellow, there need be no question of heads! This is to be a model will. You need simply put down, in as few words as are legally permissible--I know nothing of such things--that I leave all of which I die possessed to my wife."

Philip Dering threw his head back, and gave the man to whom he was speaking, and opposite to whom he was standing, a confident smiling glance. Then he turned and walked quickly over to the narrow, old-fashioned, balconied window which, commanding the wide wind-blown expanse of Abingdon Street, exactly faced the great cavity formed by the arch of the Victoria Tower.