Part 49 (1/2)
But this, I say, was a little matter. What exercised him much more was to discover Helen quite terribly in evening dress.
The young lady had let her imagination rove Londonward, and this costume was perhaps an antic.i.p.ation of that clever little flat not too far west which was to become the centre of so delightful a literary and artistic set. It was, of all the feminine costumes present, most distinctly an evening dress. One was advised Miss Wals.h.i.+ngham had arms and shoulders of a type by no means despicable, one was advised Miss Wals.h.i.+ngham was capable not only of dignity but charm, even a certain glow of charm. It was, you know, her first evening dress, a tribute paid by Wals.h.i.+ngham finance to her brightening future. Had she wanted keeping in countenance, she would have had to have fallen back upon her hostess, who was resplendent in black and steel. The other ladies had to a certain extent compromised. Mrs. Wals.h.i.+ngham had dressed with just a refined, little V and Mrs. Bindon Botting, except for her dear mottled arms, confided scarcely more of her plump charm to the world. The elder Miss Botting stopped short of shoulders, and so did Miss Wace. But Helen didn't. She was--had Kipps had eyes to see it--a quite beautiful human figure; she knew it and she met him with a radiant smile that had forgotten all the little difference of the afternoon. But to Kipps her appearance was the last release. With that, she had become as remote, as foreign, as incredible as a wife and mate, as though the Cnidian Venus herself, in all her simple elegance, was before witnesses, declared to be his. If, indeed, she had ever been credible as a wife and mate.
She ascribed his confusion to modest reverence, and having blazed smiling upon him for a moment turned a shapely shoulder towards him and exchanged a remark with Mrs. Bindon Botting. Ann's poor little half sixpence came against Kipps' fingers in his pocket and he clutched at it suddenly as though it was a talisman. Then he abandoned it to suppress his Order of the Brace. He was affected by a cough. ”Miss Wace tells me Mr. Revel is coming,” Mrs. Botting was saying.
”Isn't it delightful?” said Helen. ”We saw him last night. He's stopped on his way to Paris. He's going to meet his wife there.”
Kipps' eyes rested for a moment on Helen's dazzling deltoid, and then went enquiringly, accusingly almost to Coote's face. Where, in the presence of this terrible emergency, was the gospel of suppression now--that Furtive treatment of Religion and Politics, and Birth and Death and Bathing and Babies, and ”all those things” which const.i.tutes your True Gentleman? He had been too modest even to discuss this question with his Mentor, but surely, surely this quintessence of all that is good and nice could regard these unsolicited confidences only in one way. With something between relief and the confirmation of his worst fears he perceived, by a sort of twitching of the exceptionally abundant muscles about Coote's lower jaw, in a certain deliberate avoidance of one particular direction by these pale, but resolute, grey eyes, by the almost convulsive grip of the ample, greenish white gloves behind him, a grip broken at times for controlling pats at the black-bordered tie and the back of that s.p.a.cious head, and by a slight but increasing disposition to cough, that _Coote did not approve_!
To Kipps Helen had once supplied a delicately beautiful dream, a thing of romance and unsubstantial mystery. But this was her final materialisation, and the last thin wreath of glamour about her was dispelled. In some way (he had forgotten how and it was perfectly incomprehensible) he was bound to this dark, solid and determined young person whose shadow and suggestion he had once loved. He had to go through with the thing as a gentleman should. Still----
And when he was sacrificing Ann!
He wouldn't stand this sort of thing, whatever else he stood.... Should he say something about her dress to her--to-morrow?
He could put his foot down firmly. He could say, ”Look 'ere. I don't care. I ain't going to stand it. See?”
She'd say something unexpected, of course. She always did say something unexpected.
Suppose for once he overrode what she said? Simply repeated his point?
He found these thoughts battling with certain conversational aggressions from Mrs. Wace, and then Revel arrived and took the centre of the stage.
The author of that brilliant romance, ”Red Hearts a-Beating,” was a less imposing man than Kipps had antic.i.p.ated, but he speedily effaced that disappointment by his predominating manners. Although he lived habitually in the vivid world of London, his collar and tie were in no way remarkable, and he was neither brilliantly handsome nor curly nor long-haired. His personal appearance suggested arm chairs, rather than the equestrian exercises and amorous toyings and pa.s.sionate intensities of his masterpiece; he was inclined to be fat, with whitish flesh, muddy coloured straight hair, he had a rather shapeless and truncated nose and his chin was asymmetrical. One eye was more inclined to stare than the other. He might have been esteemed a little undistinguished looking were it not for his beeswaxed moustache, which came amidst his features with a pleasing note of incongruity, and the whimsical wrinkles above and about his greater eye. His regard sought and found Helen's as he entered the room and they shook hands presently with an air of intimacy Kipps, for no clear reason, found objectionable. He saw them clasp their hands, heard Coote's characteristic cough--a sound rather more like a very, very old sheep, a quarter of a mile away, being blown to pieces by a small charge of gunpowder than anything else in the world--did some confused beginnings of a thought, and then they were all going in to dinner and Helen's s.h.i.+ning bare arm lay along his sleeve. Kipps was in no state for conversation. She glanced at him, and, though he did not know it, very slightly pressed his elbow. He struggled with strange respiratory dislocations. Before them went Coote, discoursing in amiable reverberations to Mrs. Wals.h.i.+ngham, and at the head of the procession was Mrs. Bindon Botting talking fast and brightly beside the erect military figure of little Mr. Wace. (He was not a soldier really, but he had caught a martinet bearing by living so close to Shorncliffe.) Revel came last, in charge of Mrs. Wace's queenly black and steel, politely admiring in a flute-like cultivated voice the mellow wall paper of the staircase. Kipps marvelled at everybody's self-possession.
From the earliest spoonful of soup it became evident that Revel considered himself responsible for the table talk. And before the soup was over it was almost as manifest that Mrs. Bindon Botting inclined to consider his sense of responsibility excessive. In her circle Mrs.
Bindon Botting was esteemed an agreeable rattle, her manner and appearance were conspicuously vivacious for one so plump, and she had an almost Irish facility for humorous description. She would keep people amused all through an afternoon call, with the story of how her jobbing gardener had got himself married and what his home was like, or how her favourite b.u.t.t, Mr. Stigson Warder, had all his unfortunate children taught almost every conceivable instrument because they had the phrenological b.u.mp of music abnormally large. ”They got to trombones, my dear!” she would say, with her voice coming to a climax. Usually her friends conspired to draw her out, but on this occasion they neglected to do so, a thing that militated against her keen desire to s.h.i.+ne in Revel's eyes. After a time she perceived that the only thing for her to do was to cut in on the talk, on her own account, and this she began to do. She made several ineffectual s.n.a.t.c.hes at the general attention and then Revel drifted towards a topic she regarded as particularly her own, the ordering of households.
They came to the thing through talk about localities. ”We are leaving our house in The Boltons,” said Revel, ”and taking a little place at Wimbledon, and I think of having rooms in Dane's Inn. It will be more convenient in many ways. My wife is furiously addicted to golf and exercise of all sorts, and I like to sit about in clubs--I haven't the strength necessary for these hygienic proceedings--and the old arrangement suited neither of us. And, besides, no one could imagine the demoralisation the domestics of West London have undergone during the last three years.”
”It's the same everywhere,” said Mrs. Bindon Botting.
”Very possibly it is. A friend of mine calls it the servile tradition in decay and regards it all as a most hopeful phenomenon----”
”He ought to have had my last two criminals,” said Mrs. Bindon Botting.
She turned to Mrs. Wace while Revel came again a little too late with a ”Possibly----”
”And I haven't told you, my dear,” she said, speaking with voluble rapidity, ”I'm in trouble again.”
”The last girl?”
”The last girl. Before I can get a cook, my hard won housemaid”--she paused--”chucks it.”
”Panic?” asked young Wals.h.i.+ngham.
”Mysterious grief! Everything merry as a marriage bell until my Anagram Tea! Then in the evening a portentous rigour of bearing, a word or so from my Aunt, and immediately--Floods of Tears and Notice!” For a moment her eye rested thoughtfully on Kipps, as she said: ”Is there anything heartrending about Anagrams?”
”I find them so,” said Revel. ”I----”
But Mrs. Bindon Botting got away again. ”For a time it made me quite uneasy----”