A Young Man's Year
"I fancy it's meant to appeal to ladies of another sort."
"Is it? Don't they wear just what we do? Well, just a little more so, perhaps!" She stood eyeing the gown with a whimsical smile. "It is rather naughty, isn't it?" She moved on again. He watched her face now. She had wiped away the tear, no more came; she was smiling, not brightly, but yet with a pensive amusement. Presently she asked him a question.
"By what you said there – in the café, you know – did you mean that you wanted me to run away with you?"
He was rather surprised at her returning to the subject. "I meant that I wanted to take you away with me. There'd be no running about it."
"What, to do it, – openly?"
"Anything else wouldn't be at all according to my ideas. Still – " He shrugged his shoulders again; he was not sure whether, under stress of temptation, he would succeed in holding to his point.
She began to laugh, but stopped hastily when she saw that he looked angry. "Oh, but you are absurd, you really are," she told him in a gentle soothing fashion.
"I don't see that anybody could call it absurd," he remarked, frowning. "Some good folk would no doubt call it very wicked."
"Well, I should, for one," said Bernadette, "if that's of any importance."
She made him laugh again, as she generally could. "I believe I could convince you, if that's the obstacle," he began.
"I don't suppose it is really – not the only one anyhow. Oh, here's the shop!"
She stopped, but did not give him her hand directly. She was smiling, but her eyes seemed large with alarm and apprehension.
"I do wish you'd promise me never to say another word about this." There was no doubt of her almost pitiful sincerity. It made him very remorseful.
"I wish to God I could, Bernadette," he answered.
"You're very strong. You can," she whispered, her face upturned to his.
He shook his head; now her eyes expressed a sort of wonder, as if at something beyond her understanding. "I'm very sorry," he muttered in compunction.
She sighed, but gave him her hand with a friendly smile. "No, don't be unhappy about it – about having told me, I mean. I expect you couldn't help it. Au revoir– in London!"
"Couldn't we dine, or go to the play, or something, to-night?" It was hard to let her out of his sight.
"I'm engaged, and – " She clasped her hands for a moment as though in supplication. "Please not, Oliver!" she pleaded.
He drew back a little, taking off his hat. Her cheeks were glowing again as she turned away and went into the shop.
CHAPTER X
THE HERO OF THE EVENING
That same afternoon – the day before Bernadette was to return from Paris – Marie Sarradet telephoned to Arthur asking him to drop in after dinner, if he were free; besides old friends, a very important personage was to be there, Mr. Claud Beverley, the author of the wonderfully funny farce; Marie named him with a thrill in her voice which even the telephone could not entirely smother. Arthur was thrilled too, though it did cross his mind that Mr. Claud Beverley must have rechristened himself; authors seldom succeed in achieving such suitable names as that by the normal means. Though he was still afraid of Mr. Sarradet and still a little embarrassed about Marie herself, he determined to go. He put on one of his new evening shirts – with pleats down the front – and one of his new white evening waistcoats, which was of extremely fashionable cut, and sported buttons somewhat out of the ordinary; these were the first products of the five hundred pounds venture. He looked, and felt, very well turned-out.
Old Mr. Sarradet was there this time, and he was grumpy. Marie seized a chance to whisper that her father was "put out" because Raymond had left business early to go to a race-meeting and had not come back yet – though obviously the races could not still be going on. Arthur doubted whether this were the whole explanation; the old fellow seemed to treat him with a distance and a politeness in which something ironical might be detected; his glance at the white waistcoat did not look wholly like one of honest admiration. Marie too, though as kind and cordial as possible, was perhaps a shade less intimate, less at ease with him; any possible sign of appropriating him to herself was carefully avoided; she shared him, almost ostentatiously, with the other girls, Amabel and Mildred. Any difference in Marie's demeanour touched his conscience on the raw; the ingenious argument by which he had sought to acquit himself was not quite proof against that.
Nothing, however, could seriously impair the interest and excitement of the occasion. They clustered round Mr. Beverley; Joe Halliday saw to that, exploiting his hero for all he was worth. The author was tall, gaunt, and solemn-faced. Arthur's heart sank at the first sight of him – could he really write anything funny? But he remembered that humorists were said to be generally melancholy men, and took courage. Mr. Beverley stood leaning against the mantelpiece, receiving admiration and consuming a good deal of the champagne which had been produced in his special honour. Joe Halliday presented Arthur to him with considerable ceremony.
"Now we're all here!" said Joe. "For I don't mind telling you, Beverley, that without Lisle's help we should be a long way from – from – well, from standing where we do at present."
Arthur felt that some of the limelight – to use a metaphor appropriately theatrical – was falling on him. "Oh, that's nothing! Anything I could afford – awfully glad to have the chance," he murmured, rather confusedly.
"And he did afford something pretty considerable," added Joe, admiringly.
"Of course I can't guarantee success. You know what the theatre is," said Mr. Beverley.
They knew nothing about it – and even Mr. Beverley himself had not yet made his bow to the public; but they all nodded their heads wisely.
"I do wish you would tell us something about it, Mr. Beverley," said impulsive Amabel.
"Oh, but I should be afraid of letting it out!" cried Mildred.
"The fact is, you can't be too careful," said Joe. "There are fellows who make a business of finding out about forthcoming plays and stealing the ideas. Aren't there, Beverley?"
"More than you might think," said Mr. Beverley.
"I much prefer to be told nothing about it," Marie declared, smiling. "I think that makes it ever so much more exciting."
"I recollect a friend of mine – in the furniture line – thirty years ago it must be – taking me in with him to see a rehearsal once at the – Now, let's see, what was the theatre? A rehearsal of – tut – Now, what was the play?" Old Mr. Sarradet was trying to contribute to the occasion, but the tide of conversation overwhelmed his halting reminiscences.
"But how do you get the idea, Mr. Beverley?"
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