Chapter I

The Little Rift

Fog of the colour known as pea-soup--in reality amber mixed with lemon-peel and delicately tinted with smut--pervaded the genial shades of Kensington Gardens and cast a halo of breathless romance over many a "long, unlovely street" and many a towering pile of crudely hideous flats in the regions round about. It sneaked down chimneys, stalked insolently through front doors, regardless of locks, curtains and screens; it wandered noiselessly about houses, penetrating even to my lady's chamber; it permeated cosy drawing-rooms and snug dining-rooms with gloom like that of an ancestral ghost, or an unforgettable sorrow, or--the haunting horror of unpaid bills.

"Yes, _that_ is the true, the inevitable simile, the fitting word," Ermengarde said to herself with melancholy triumph, from her downy nest in the deep warm Chesterfield by the fire, "the haunting horror of unpaid bills. 'Haunting horror' is good. And it's not so much the unpaidness of the bills as the size of them--and the kind of them. The butcher's bill, for instance--how _enormous_--and yet Arthur takes it as coolly as the collection in church, or the waiter's tip, that just means a finger slipped into a waistcoat pocket and out again, without even looking. When one thinks of the lovely things one might buy with the butcher's quarterly bill and can't!"

Looking up at the ceiling as if in ecstatic vision of lovely things, she sighed deeply, and wished that man was not carnivorous, and wondered why the world went so thwartingly, and what was the matter with everything, and if civilization was worth that last, worst penalty of a real London fog--an ideally high and gamey one like this, that you might smell all the way across Dover Straits--as least, so Arthur once averred of a fog of less powerful bouquet.

All of a sudden, out of the hidden heart of darkness, whence those heavy fog-folds rolled, came, on the wings of some evil spirit of the nether pit, the deadly thought--was Arthur worth--worth what? the pains and penalties of wedded bliss? Poor old Arthur! No, no, that was unthinkable; the downy depths of the Chesterfield suddenly became void of the resting form; there was quick pacing to and fro in fire-gleam and shadow, with knitted brow and troubled glance.

The Demon Influenza was to blame for much, for everything--yes, everything, even that little rift within the lute of household joy and peace. For the little rift was there. But could the Influenza Demon be blamed for those five successive and expensive hats, that in the space of half as many weeks had to be discarded, each after either, as impossible--with her complexion--or for those two gowns, creations of a tailor of European renown, that on the second Wearing made her an absolute frump? Had the Demon so irrevocably impaired her looks and altered her figure? That was conceivable; but not Arthur's conduct on the occasion. No demon, nothing, short of original sin, could be answerable for that.

Memory flashed upon her brain a vivid picture of the Day of Judgment face with which he had contemplated those five brand-new, chic and costly hats arraigned in a row before him--the man had actually disinterred them from various dark recesses in wardrobes--and, instead of offering the balm of sympathy demanded by this five-fold affliction, had snapped out the curt, harsh condemnation, "Could any allowance stand that?" and walked off in wrath and gloom.

It was not as if she had complained of the allowance or ever so remotely suggested its augmentation by a penny. She had simply fled for succour in a crisis of ill-fortune to the one being on earth from whom she had a right to expect it--in the form of hard cash; she had asked the bread of sympathy and received the stone of condemnation--damnation, she muttered bitterly--from the man who--a sob checked the current of reflection, but was gulped down.--And he should have remembered that the Flu Demon had left her weak and depressed, a condition liable to be greatly aggravated by unbecoming hats.

He had been distinctly nasty about those hats, hatefully sarcastic over the number, as if some special devilry resided in the sum of twice two and one over. By virtue of some ingrained perversity he had censured her for a run of ill-luck--such runs will occur, as every woman knows, in clothes, as well as in cards, commerce, horses, hunting, everything not exclusively feminine--he had censured her for an inevitable misfortune common to the race; he might as well have found fault with her for being liable to death, disease and bad husbands.

Many sorrows had in these last days fallen to Ermengarde's lot. She had been losing steadily at bridge; her last At Home had been a fiasco; hockey had become impossible to her; her cook had been ill; there were no golf-links within reach, and the motor flight, planned for her across Europe by an intimate friend, had come to nothing in consequence of the chauffeur being under arrest for manslaughter. Meditating on these griefs in the lemon and smut-coloured dusk, her heart sank, and she had just dried two very large tears on one very small handkerchief, when the door opened and a visitor was announced--that is, he would have been, had he not shot himself into the room with the indecent vigour of aggressive good spirits, squeezed her hand to a jelly, and filled the room with boisterously cheerful observations, before there was time for the correct and aggrieved maid to do anything but maliciously switch on a savage glare of electric light and vanish.

"Not bucked up yet after that disastrous Flu? You want sunshine, colour, fresh life. Why not try a winter at Cairo? Nothing like desert air--like champagne--cheers but not inebriates. Yes, I'm off again, bag and baggage, easel and golf-clubs. Make Allonby take you to Egypt--you wouldn't know yourself in the sunshine."

"Any more than in the darkness; but, should I know you?"

"Well, you'd see me in a better light. Not that I say a word against the poetry and mysticism--misty schism, not bad, eh?--of our native fogs. Still, you can have too much of a good thing--when it's fog."

"Or optimism," she sighed, switching off the light, and restoring the glamour of ever-thickening fog, till the entrance of another aggravatingly cheerful being obliged her to light one of the two umbrella lamps that impeded progress in that part of the room not entirely blocked by screens and potted palms and small and easily upsettable tables, laden with frail and cherished trifles and phalanxes of photographs, such as strew the suburban pilgrim's progress from door to fireplace with stumbling-blocks, pitfalls and stones of offence.

Just because Ermengarde's head ached and she had fallen into a vein of pleasing melancholy and wanted to think things out in the firelight that afternoon, people came trooping in, all breathing visible breath and complaining of the fog, each alluding to its density, dirt and inconvenience, as if it were an entirely new and startling experience, peculiar to each separate individual.

An elderly woman in costly sables had to sit and cough in a corner for five solid minutes before she was capable of receiving or imparting instructions in the natural history of fog. She was going, she said, when able to speak, to try a winter in Algiers. The sooner she began to try the better, Ermengarde thought. A ruddy John Bull friend was off to Hyères--or Cannes--he was not sure which--for golf; a grey retired general, purple from semi-asphyxiation, was bound for the same place for the same reason. People were going to San Remo, to Alassio, to Bordighera, to Nice, to Biarritz, to Davos, chiefly, to judge from their remarks, to find congenial British society and avoid foreigners--especially Germans. Somebody was going to motor to Rome, thence through Florence, Venice and Dalmatia, going on to Athens, and taking Buda-Pesth, Innspruck, the Tyrol, the Black Forest, Belgium and Holland on the return journey; "that is, if we ever do return," one of the party thoughtfully observed. Hotels, routes, the vexatiousness of Customs, the iniquitous slowness of Continental trains, the wholesale plundering of baggage in the native land of brigands, and the drawbacks of foreign cookery and sanitation, were discussed and illustrated by personal experience, until Ermengarde felt that she had been everywhere and there was nowhere in particular to go to, though she was longing to go there again.

"I should like a little sun," she said plaintively at dinner; whereupon Arthur observed, with the jocular and banal brutality of his kind, that he should prefer a little daughter, and that their Charlie was quite handful enough, and Ermengarde returned haughtily that people should be above chestnuts, especially when they were Joe Millers.

Then, prompted by some malicious demon, Arthur asked if she would like some more hats, and Ermengarde rejoined that of all ill propensities incidental to fallen humanity she especially disliked nagging.

Arthur looked frowningly on a table-centre, nicely embroidered in gold by one of His Majesty's Oriental subjects, and silence reigned till dessert.

When a silence of this kind occurs in a society entirely composed of two people, it is difficult to put an end to it gracefully, or even naturally; the longer it lasts the more difficult it becomes. First there is a question of which ought to begin; and, as each always decides that the other should, matters are not advanced. Next is the question of what to say; and that is almost as insoluble unless some lucky accident, such as fire, burglars, or an explosion of gas on the premises, should furnish unexpected impersonal matter of interest. Ermengarde almost wished that the kitchen boiler would burst, or the cook be discovered drunk and disorderly on the kitchen stairs--the frost had not been hard enough to burst the water-pipes, and the man never calls for the rates at that hour--for then Arthur would have to say something, though it would probably be unsuitable for publication; while the miserable Arthur could think of no topic unconnected with hats--"What became of those beastly hats of yours? Why not sell the lot?"--cudgel his brains and tear his moustache as he might.

Small minds may consider hats as too petty and insignificant to be of any moment in human affairs, but large minds think on a corresponding scale, and even hats bulk grandly in commanding intellects. The Pope has three, for what is a tiara but a hat in full dress? And what intrigues and schemes, what ambitions, heart-burnings and disappointments, what strifes and despairs may encircle the hat of one single Cardinal! Then there is the hat of Gessler upon the historic pole--not the human--how it brightens the dull page of history to the youthful mind, and what exciting things resulted from its transference from its natural elevation to the wooden eminence so familiar on the pictured page of childish memory! The triple hat of a lost industry, that of the extinct Old Clo' man, how rich it was in symbolism! The Quaker tile, immovable as a rock in the presence of man or woman however august, and retained at considerable personal inconvenience in hot rooms and public buildings, how full of meaning and mystery is, or rather was, the Quaker tile! And that hat of the gorgeous East, the turban, with its next-of-kin, the fez or the tarbush; and the metal-pot of the warrior of so many ages and countries, the brazen helmet of the Greek warrior and the modern fireman, and the darker helm of the British soldier and the policeman--are they nothing? Then the busby of the Guardsman, and the feather bonnet of the Highlander, should they be held lightly? And what of the plumed and aitchless hat of the cockney maiden, the cause of Homeric battles, tears, alarms, and excursions to pawnshops; surely that is a serious matter. Moreover, is not the lovely and lustrous headgear, known as the chimney-pot, the sign and symbol of our present civilization? Has not the dusky and otherwise garbless savage been known to stalk among his peers in proud consciousness of full civilized costume, clad solely in the chimney-pot hat? And who, that has ever been privileged to enjoy histrionic art in the vicinity of dames of high degree, can deny the possibilities of terror, wrath, and doom lurking in that Hat of the Mighty, that lofty and awe-inspiring structure, the _Matinée Hat_?

Let no man think lightly of hats.

So Arthur reflected, gloomily sipping his modest glass, and wondering if it was a _Matinée Hat_ that Jezebel assumed on the unfortunate occasion when she painted her face and tired her head before looking out of the window. To ask Ermengarde's solution of this question would be impolitic; to remind her of national and individual tragedies connected with the ownership of those jewelled and golden hats, styled crowns, diadems, and coronets, equally so. But his head was too full of hats to allow the entrance of any other subject, which was wrong--hats should be on heads, not in them. Stealthily and with apparent absence of mind he drew a dish of biscuits out of his wife's reach. She liked to nibble a biscuit after dinner; so he hoped that consuming desire of some might constrain her to say, "Please pass the biscuits." She, on the other hand, was hoping that common civility might prompt him to the question, "Won't you have a biscuit?"

So, while he waited for her to say, "Please pass the biscuits," and she waited for him to say "Won't you have a biscuit?" nothing passed but time, who waits for no man, though often on insufficient warrant expected to wait for women.

Time on this occasion passed at a snail's gallop, and yet he arrived at the moment when Ermengarde was wont to rise from table before Arthur had decided whether to withhold the usual ceremony of opening the door for her or, in apparent mental preoccupation, to perform it in stately and withering silence.

The consequence was that, just as he had decided on the latter course, the indignant rustle and whisk of vanishing skirts accused him to his conscience of being a beast and a cad, and made him address several words of doubtful propriety to his pipe, which, not having been lighted, obstinately refused to draw.

How easily the rift widens in the conjugal lute! Ermengarde sank in the Chesterfield by the fire, and wondered why she had been allowed to marry in her teens. She had had no youth, she told herself; all her brightest years had been sacrificed--to an elderly man, devoid of sympathy. Her health was gone; she was prematurely aged; she thought she had detected a grey hair while brushing her locks that morning; she was almost sure that crow's feet were gathering round her eyes; her face was thin, pale, and haggard, her beauty lost; the elderly man she had thoughtlessly married already neglected her. Charlie would soon be a man--he was eight already--he would storm out into the world and be independent of her; he had long hated to be kissed, and generally ducked his head when she tried.

And Arthur could jest on the subject of having no daughter. What a world!

Being so thoroughly used to this man she seemed always to have been married to him, and could only dimly recall a time when she was not Mrs. Allonby, and thought of marriage as a vague and distant possibility, like death. But those dim maiden days had surely been sweeter than the married years that followed. Though he was nine years older than she, the idea that Arthur was elderly had only just occurred to her; for in those maiden days the homage of a man old enough to have lived and beaten out a path for himself in the world, had seemed a great thing. First a soldier, then for a brief while a rancher in the Far West, lastly a knight of the pen, this strong, spare, bronzed man seemed to the inexperienced girl to know everything, and to have been everywhere. To see such a man stammer and turn white and tremble at a word or a look of hers went dizzily to her head.

"I suppose I must have married him out of pity," she mused, "or was it the pride of power? The important thing is that I did marry him--to be denied hats and refused sympathy; to be expected to dress on twopence ha'penny a year; to be derided for misfortune--and can't unmarry him, not even in the United States, merely because he nags when I am out of luck, and sulks whenever my head aches."

Yet the remembrance of the wooing was not without charm. How the man had trembled, that sunny afternoon in the garden by the rose-beds, and how she had pretended not to know that he was trembling, while she gathered the roses and chattered about nothing, until even her powers of chattering about nothing came to an end, and she was silent, knowing that he must speak or die of it in another moment. It was then that an intrusive, short-sighted parent had come upon the scene and spoilt the climax.

Arthur was to have left early next morning, and there was to be no further opportunity of being alone with him. How exciting and tragical it had been, as the day wore on and the man grew more and more distraught, and at last, as the hour of separating approached, in desperation slipped into her hand, where she sat at the piano to accompany somebody's song, a scrap of paper inscribed:

"I'd crowns resign To call thee mine."

And with what coolness and self-possession she had glanced at the paper held under the keyboard in one hand, while running over the keys with the other; and then, as one with a life-long experience of intrigue and plotting, had idly pencilled her reply on the same scrap, that she casually let fall, while directing the singer's attention to the music, for Arthur to pick up!

"I'd gowns decline To call me thine."

"It was so like her," Arthur said afterwards; "so quick and bright, and so superior to grammar." But he said that in postnuptial days.

Her retrospections were interrupted by the subject of them, who was immediately followed by tea. This harmless domestic beverage was taken in stony silence, broken at last by a sudden desperate exclamation in a bass voice of, "What the deuce is the matter with you, Ermengarde?" that made her literally sit up.

"Nothing," she replied, quickly recovering; and speaking sadly. "At least, only what is usual after influenza."

"Headaches? Try that old port."

"I'd rather try a new port, a foreign port--sunshine, thorough change--something bright and cheering."

"Well, that's out of the question. I can't get off just now, as you know," she heard, and replied that she might advertise for a fellow-traveller or go alone. As for expense, what more expensive than illness? Besides, the thing was so cheaply done nowadays; there was no occasion to go far, the Mediterranean was quite far enough for her, somewhere in the _Côte d'Azur_--Nice, Hyères--a day's journey, nothing more.

"What more could the lady want?" he quoted in his detestably ironic way, and suggested visits to country friends or a week at Bournemouth, before slipping behind his _Times_, and thence into peaceful slumber.

"Quite seriously, Arthur," she said a day or two later, after perusal of some travel prospectuses with fascinating illustrations of _Trains de Luxe_, "I not only wish, but intend, to go to the Riviera this winter."

"And leave me?" he asked in blank astonishment.

"Why not? I scarcely ever see you now. You are at the office two nights a week regularly, and when you do dine at home, the moment you leave the table you rush off to the typewriter, or dictate to a secretary in your study till the middle of the night. What can you want with me?"

He muttered something about fireside comfort and repose; then he laughed and told her not to be ridiculous. She retorted hotly; he spoke angrily in return; and another silence ensued, the breach widening and widening after every such silence until their mutual mental atmosphere was so charged with electricity that thunder and lightning might break out at any moment.

"He is tired of me," she thought. He remembered that nervous prostration sometimes resulted in estrangement and family dissensions. Neither of them put it down to hats.

About this time he became preoccupied, absent, gloomy in manner; he spoke little, often answering at random when spoken to. His evenings at home were fewer and fewer; sometimes, when he paused in the act of putting on his coat before going out, and looked blankly at her, she fancied that he was trying to bring himself to make some painful disclosure beyond his courage. Her imagination, stimulated by the sight of letters--the handwriting was a woman's, she was sure--that increased his preoccupation, and were always hustled out of her sight, suggested causes she would rather not think of for his evident weariness of her society.

Yet there were moments when she longed to ask him to tell her all, to let her know the worst that was weighing on him; but courage always halted till opportunity fled.

So that one Sunday afternoon, when she was looking through the illustrations in the last _Traveller's Journal_, thinking him absorbed in _Spectators_ and _Outlooks_, she was startled to hear him suddenly begin: "If you are still hankering after this trip to the South, for which you are manifestly quite unfit--I think you ought to know this----"

He broke off; she looked up. "Well?" she asked, impatient of a prolonged pause.

"That it is at present absolutely impossible----" He seemed about to add something, then broke off again.

"Everything that I suggest is absolutely impossible," she thought. Something in his voice and manner, added to a recent discovery of graver cause for alienation, of which more hereafter, and joined to the memory of recent bursts of irritation, told her that the end of all confidence and affection was come; nothing but mutual toleration and the bond of common everyday interests remained now; however deftly the lute might be touched, the music was mute at last. The little bickerings of comedy were over, the deep note of tragedy boomed heavily in the distance. She could not face it; there was instant need of flight and absence, of something to block out the misery of this moment of revelation, which must darken all their life.

"It seems scarcely kind," she said presently, "to set yourself so fiercely against this small project of mine;" then quietly and lucidly she pointed out the necessity of doing something to recover her health and spirits.

He replied that the time was unpropitious; that he had already suggested, with good reason, the need for diminishing expenses.

"We began, it is true, with a clean slate after that plunge in hats," he said.

"Oh, expense!" she interrupted, with the crimson the mention of those unlucky head-dresses always brought to her face. "Surely we have heard enough of expense. Besides," with bitterness, "it won't affect you. I shall manage the finance myself. No need to come upon the parish yet."

He started as if stung, and got up and went to the window, his face turned so that the pain in it was invisible to her.

"As you will," he said presently, in a hard voice. "No doubt you will regret it. But perhaps it is best. And remember this, Ermengarde, the worst possible economy is cheap travel."

With that he went out of the room, leaving her, far from being elated at having gained her point, with the best mind in the world to cry.