The Cords of Vanity. A Comedy of Shirking

She frowned,—an untrustworthy frown that was tinged with laughter. 'One meets so many people! Yes, it really is frightfully warm, Colonel Grimshaw; they ought to open some of the windows.'

'Er—haw—hum! Didn't see you at the Anchesters.'

'No; I am usually lucky enough to be in bed with a sick headache when Mrs. Anchester entertains. Of two evils one should choose the lesser, you know.'

In the manner of divers veterans Colonel Grimshaw evinced his mirth upon a scale more proper to an elephant; and relapsed, with a reassuring air of having done his duty once and for all.

'I never,' she suggested, tentatively, 'heard any more of your poem, about—?'

'Oh, I finished it; every magazine in the country knows it. It is poor stuff, of course, but then how could I write of Helen when Helen had disappeared?'

The lashes exhibited themselves at full length. 'I looked her up,' confessed their owner, guiltily, 'in the encyclopaedia. It was very instructive—about sun-myths and bronzes and the growth of the epic, you know, and tree-worship and moon-goddesses. Of course'—here ensued a flush and a certain hiatus in logic,—'of course it is nonsense.'

'Nonsense?' My voice sank tenderly. 'Is it nonsense, Elena, that for two years I have remembered the woman whose soft body I held, for one unforgettable moment, in my arms? and nonsense that I have fought all this time against—against the temptations every man has,—that I might ask her at last—some day when she at last returned, as always I knew she would—to share a fairly decent life? and nonsense that I have dreamed, waking and sleeping, of a wondrous face I knew in Ilium first, and in old Rome, and later on in France, I think, when the Valois were kings? Well!' I sighed, after vainly racking my brain for a tenderer fragment of those two-year-old verses, 'I suppose it is nonsense!'

'The salt, please,' quoth she. She flashed that unforgotten broadside at me. 'I believe you need it.'

'Why, dear me! of course not!' said I, to Mrs. Dumby; 'immorality lost the true cachet about the same time that ping-pong did. Nowadays divorces are going out, you know, and divorcees are not allowed to. Quite modish women are seen in public with their husbands nowadays.'

'H'mph!' said Mrs. Dumby; 'I've no doubt that you must find it a most inconvenient fad!'

I ate my portion of duck abstractedly. 'Thus to dive into the refuse-heap of last year's slang does not quite cover the requirements of the case. For I wish—only I hardly dare to ask—'

'If I were half of what you make out,' meditatively said she, 'I would be a regular fairy, and couldn't refuse you the usual three wishes.'

'Two,' I declared, 'would be sufficient.'

'First?'

'That you tell me your name.'

'I adore orange ices, don't you? And the second?' was her comment.

'Well, then, you' re a pig,' was mine. 'You are simply a nomenclatural Berkshire. But the second is that you let me measure your finger—oh, any finger will do. Say, the third on the left hand.'

'You really talk to me as if—' But this non-existent state of affairs proved indescribable, and the unreal condition lapsed into a pout.

'Oh, very possibly!' I conceded; 'since the way in which a man talks to a woman—to the woman—depends by ordinary upon the depth—'

'The depth of his devotion?' she queried, helpfully. 'Of course!'

I faced the broadside, without flinching. 'No,' said I, critically; 'the depth of her dimples.'

'Nonsense!' Nevertheless, the dimples were, and by a deal, the more conspicuous. We were getting on pretty well.

I bent forward; there was a little catch in my voice. Aunt Marcia was listening. I wanted her to listen.

'You must know that I love you,' I said, simply, 'I have always loved you, I think, since the moment my eyes first fell upon you in that—other pink thing. Of course, I realize the absurdity of my talking in this way to a woman whose name I don't know; but I realise more strongly that I love you. Why, there is not a pulse in my body which isn't throbbing and tingling and leaping riotously from pure joy of being with you again, Elena! And in time, you will love me a little, simply because I want you to,—isn't that always a woman's main reason for caring for a man?'

She considered this, dubious and flushed.

'I will not insist,' said I, with a hurried and contented laugh, 'that you were formerly an Argive queen. I mean I will not be obstinate about it, because that, I confess, was a paraphrase of my verses. But Helen has always been to me the symbol of perfect loveliness, and so it was not unnatural that I should confuse you with her.'

'Thank you, sir,' said she, demurely.

'I half believe it is true, even now; and if not—well, Helen was acceptable enough in her day, Elena, but I am willing to Italianise, for I have seen you and loved you, and Helen is forgot. It is not exactly the orthodox pace for falling in love,' I added, with a boyish candour, 'but it is very real to me.'

'You—you couldn't have fallen in love—really—'

'It was not in the least difficult,' I protested.

'And you don't even know my name—'

'I know, however, what it is going to be,' said I; 'and Mrs. 'Enry 'Awkins, as we'll put it, has found favour in the judgment of connoisseurs. So after dinner—in an hour—?'

'Oh, very well! since you're an author and insist, I will be ready, in an hour, to decline you, with thanks.'

'Rejection not implying any lack of merit,' I suggested. 'This is damnable iteration; but I am accustomed to it.'

But by this, Mrs. Provis was gathering eyes around the table, and her guests arose, with the usual outburst of conversation, and swishing of dresses, and the not always unpremeditated dropping of handkerchiefs and fans. Mrs. Clement Dumby bore down upon us now, a determined and generously proportioned figure in her notorious black silk.

'Really,' said she, aggressively, 'I never saw two people more engrossed. My dear Mrs. Barry-Smith, you have been so taken up with Mr. Townsend, all during dinner, that I haven't had a chance to welcome you to Lichfield. Your mother and I were at school together, you know. And your husband was quite a beau of mine. So I don't feel, now, at all as if we were strangers—'

And thus she bore Elena off, and I knew that within ten minutes Elena would have been warned against me, as 'not quite a desirable acquaintance, you know, my dear, and it is only my duty to tell you that as a young and attractive married woman—'

2

'And so,' I said in my soul, as the men redistributed themselves, 'she is married,—married while you were pottering with books and the turn of phrases and immortality and such trifles—oh, you ass! And to a man named Barry-Smith—damn him, I wonder whether he is the hungry scut that hasn't had his hair cut this fall, or the blancmange-bellied one with the mashed-strawberry nose? Yes, I know everybody else. And Jimmy Travis is telling a funny story, so laugh! People will think you are grieving over Rosalind…. But why in heaven's name isn't Jimmy at home this very moment,—with a wife and carpet-slippers and a large-size bottle of paregoric on his mantelpiece,—instead of here, grinning like a fool over some blatant indecency? He ought to marry; every young man ought to marry. Oh, you futile, abject, burbling twin-brother of the first patron that procured a reputation for Bedlam! why aren't you married—married years ago,—with a home of your own, and a victoria for Mrs. Townsend and bills from the kindergarten every quarter? Oh, you bartender of verbal cocktails! I believe your worst enemy flung your mind at you in a moment of unbridled hatred.'

So I snapped the stem of my glass carefully, and scowled with morose disapproval at the unconscious Mr. Travis, and his now-applauded and very Fescennine jest….