Part 6 (1/2)

Accordingly the Honourable Mrs. Drayton, to whom oddness was a crime, and the voice of Lady Gower as the voice of duty, sacrificed her inclinations on the social shrine, laced the new costumes tight across her aching heart, and went down into society.

But the Honourable Mrs. Drayton achieved not the success of former seasons. Her small talk grew so very small, that even Park Lane found it unsatisfying. Her famous laugh rang mechanically. She smiled at the wisdom of dukes, and became sad at the funny stories of millionaires.

Society voted her a good wife but bad company, and confined its attentions to cards of inquiry. And for this relief the Honourable Mrs.

Drayton was grateful, for Billy waned weaker and weaker. In the world of shadows in which she moved, he was the one real thing. She was of very little practical use, but it comforted her to think that she was helping to nurse him.

But Billy himself it troubled.

”I do wish you would go out more,” he would say. ”It makes me feel that I'm such a selfish brute, keeping you tied up here in this dismal little house. Besides,” he would add, ”people miss you; they will hate me for keeping you away.” For, where his wife was concerned, Billy's knowledge of the world availed him little. He really thought society craved for the Honourable Mrs. Drayton, and would not be comforted where she was not.

”I would rather stop with you, dear,” would be the answer; ”I don't care to go about by myself. You must get well quickly and take me.”

And so the argument continued, until one evening, as she sat by herself, the nurse entered softly, closed the door behind her, and came over to her.

”I wish you would go out to-night, ma'am,” said the nurse, ”just for an hour or two. I think it would please the master; he is worrying himself because he thinks it is his fault that you do not; and just now”--the woman hesitated for a moment--”just now I want to keep him very quiet.”

”Is he weaker, nurse?”

”Well, he is not stronger, ma'am, and I think--I think we must humour him.”

The Honourable Mrs. Drayton rose, and, crossing to the window, stood for a while looking out.

”But where am I to go, nurse?” she said at length, turning with a smile.

”I've no invitations anywhere.”

”Can't you make believe to have one?” said the nurse. ”It is only seven o'clock. Say you are going to a dinner-party; you can come home early then. Go and dress yourself, and come down and say good-bye to him, and then come in again about eleven, as though you had just returned.”

”You think I must, nurse?”

”I think it would be better, ma'am. I wish you would try it.”

The Honourable Mrs. Drayton went to the door, then paused.

”He has such sharp ears, nurse; he will listen for the opening of the door and the sound of the carriage.”

”I will see to that,” said the nurse. ”I will tell them to have the carriage here at ten minutes to eight. Then you can drive to the end of the street, slip out, and walk back. I will let you in myself.”

”And about coming home?” asked the other woman.

”You must slip out for a few minutes before eleven, and the carriage must be waiting for you at the corner again. Leave all that to me.”

In half an hour the Honourable Mrs. Drayton entered the sick-room, radiant in evening dress and jewels. Fortunately the lights were low, or ”Blase-Billy” might have been doubtful as to the effect his wife was likely to produce. For her face was not the face that one takes to dinner-parties.

”Nurse tells me you are going to the Grevilles this evening. I am so glad. I've been worrying myself about you, moped up here right through the season.”

He took her hands in his and held her out at arm's length from him.

”How handsome you look, dear!” he said. ”How they must have all been cursing me for keeping you shut up here, like a princess in an ogre's castle! I shall never dare to face them again.”