THE COMPLETE WORKS OF E. F. BENSON (Illustrated Edition). Эдвард Бенсон
As for herself, she knew she could trust her firm slow pulses never to beat wild measures for anybody.
* * *
She reached home to find that Adele had already arrived, and pausing only to tell her servant to ring up Stephen and ask him to come round at once, she went upstairs.
"Dearest Adele," she said, "a million pardons. I have been in the Divorce Court all day. Too thrilled. Babs, dear Babs Shyton, was wonderful. They got nothing out of her at all —"
"No: Lord Middlesex has got everything out of her already," observed Adele.
"Ah, how can you say that?" said Lucia. "Lord Middlesex — Woof-dog, you know — was just as wonderful. I feel sure the jury will believe them. Dear Babs! I must get her to come here some night soon and have a friendly little party for her. Think of that horrid old man who had lunch in the middle of the night! How terrible for her to have to go back to him. Dear me, what is her address?"
"She may not have to go back to him," said Adele. "If so, 'care of Woof-dog' would probably find her."
Adele had been feeling rather cross. Her husband had announced his intention of visiting his friends and relations in England, and she did not feel inclined to make a corresponding journey to America. But as Lucia went on, she forgot these minor troubles, and became enthralled. Though she was still talking about Babs and Woof-dog, Adele felt sure these were only symbols, like the dreams of psychoanalysts.
"My sympathy is entirely with dear Babs," she said. "Think of her position with that dreadful old wretch. A woman surely may be pardoned, even if the jury don't believe her for —"
"Of course she may," said Adele with a final spurt of ill-temper. "What she's not pardoned for is being found out."
"Now you're talking as everybody talked in that dreadful play I went to last night," said Lucia. "Dear Olga was there: she is singing tomorrow, is she not? And you are assuming that Babs is guilty. How glad I am, Adele, that you are not on the jury! I take quite the other view: a woman with a wretched home like that must have a man with whom she is friends. I think it was a pure and beautiful affection between Babs and Woof-dog, such as any woman, even if she was happily married, might be proud to enjoy. There can be no doubt of Lord Middlesex's devotion to her, and really — I hope this does not shock you — what their relations were concerns nobody but them. George Sands and Chopin, you know. Nelson and Lady Hamilton. Sir Andrew Moss — he was the judge, you know — dined here the other night; I'm sure he is broad-minded. He gave me an admission card to the court . . . Ah, Stephen, there you are. Come in, my dear. You know Lady Brixton, don't you? We were talking of Babs Shyton. Bring up your chair. Let me see, no sugar, isn't it? How you scolded me when I put sugar into your tea by mistake the other day!"
She held Stephen's hand for as long as anybody might, or, as Browning says, "so very little longer," and Adele saw a look of faint surprise on his face. It was not alarm, it was not rapture, it was just surprise.
"Were you there?" he said. "No verdict yet, I suppose."
"Not till tomorrow, but then you will see. Adele has been horrid about her, quite horrid, and I have been preaching to her. I shall certainly ask Babs to dine some night soon, and you shall come, if you can spare an evening, but we won't ask Adele. Tell me the news, Stephen. I've been in Court all day."
"Lucia's quite misunderstood me," said Adele. "My sympathy is entirely with Babs: all I blame her for is being found out. If you and I had an affair, Mr Merriall, we should receive the envious sympathy of everybody, until we were officially brought to book. But then we should acquiesce in even our darling Lucia's cutting us. And if you had an affair with anybody else — I'm sure you've got hundreds — I and everybody else would be ever so pleased and interested, until — Mark that word 'until.' Now I must go, and leave you two to talk me well over."
Lucia rose, making affectionate but rather half-hearted murmurs to induce her to stop.
"Must you really be going, Adele?" she said. "Let me see, what am I doing tomorrow — Stephen, what is tomorrow, and what am I doing? Ah yes, Bertie Alton's private view in the morning. We shall be sure to meet there, Adele. The wretch has done two caricatures of Peppino and me. I feel as if I was to be flayed in the sight of all London. Au revoir, then, dear Adele, if you're so tired of us. And then the opera in the evening: I shall hardly dare to show my face. Your motor's here, is it? Ring, Stephen, will you. Such a short visit, and I expect Olga will pop in presently. All sorts of messages to her, I suppose. Look in again, Adele: propose yourself."
* * *
On the doorstep Adele met Tony Limpsfield. She hurried him into her motor, and told the chauffeur not to drive on.
"News!" she said. "Lucia's going to have a lover."
"No!" said Tony in the Riseholme manner
"But I tell you she is. He's with her now."
"They won't want me then," said Tony. "And yet she asked me to come at half-past five."
"Nonsense, my dear. They will want you, both of them . . . Oh Tony, don't you see? It's a stunt."
Tony assumed the rapt expression of Luciaphils receiving intelligence.
"Tell me all about it," he said.
"I'm sure I'm right," said she. "Her poppet came in just now, and she held his hand as women do, and made him draw his chair up to her, and said he scolded her. I'm not sure that he knows yet. But I saw that he guessed something was up. I wonder if he's clever enough to do it properly . . . I wish she had chosen you, Tony, you'd have done it perfectly. They have got — don't you understand? — to have the appearance of being lovers, everyone must think they are lovers, while all the time there's nothing at all of any sort in it. It's a stunt: it's a play: it's a glory."
"But perhaps there is something in it," said Tony. "I really think I had better not go in."
"Tony, trust me. Lucia has no more idea of keeping a real lover than of keeping a chimpanzee. She's as chaste as snow, a kiss would scorch her. Besides, she hasn't time. She asked Stephen there in order to show him to me, and to show him to you. It's the most wonderful plan; and it's wonderful of me to have understood it so quickly. You must go in: there's nothing private of any kind: indeed, she thirsts for publicity."
Her confidence inspired confidence, and Tony was naturally consumed with curiosity. He got out, told Adele's chauffeur to drive on, and went upstairs. Stephen was no longer sitting in the chair next to Lucia, but on the sofa at the other side of the tea table. This rather looked as if Adele was right: it was consistent anyhow with their being lovers in public, but certainly not lovers in private.
"Dear Lord Tony," said Lucia — this appellation was a halfway house between Lord Limpsfield and Tony, and she left out the "Lord" except to him — "how nice of you to drop in. You have just missed Adele. Stephen, you know Lord Limpsfield?"
Lucia gave him his tea, and presently getting up, reseated herself negligently on the sofa beside Stephen. She was a shade too close at first, and edged slightly away.
"Wonderful play of Tchekov's the other day," she said. "Such a strange, unhappy atmosphere. We came out, didn't we, Stephen, feeling as if we had been in some remote dream. I saw you there, Lord Tony, with Adele who had been lunching with me."
Tony knew that: was not that the birthday of the Luciaphils?
"It was a dream I wasn't sorry to wake from," he said. "I found it a boring dream."
"Ah, how can you say so? Such an experience! I felt as if the woe of a thousand years had come upon me, some old anguish which I had forgotten. With the effect, too, that I wanted to live more fully and vividly than ever, till the dusk closed round."
Stephen waved his hands, as he edged a little further away from Lucia. There was something strange about Lucia today. In those few minutes when they had been alone she had been quite normal, but both before, when Adele was here, and now after Lord Limpfield's entry, she seemed to be implying a certain intimacy, to which he felt he ought to respond.
"Morbid fancies, Lucia," he said, "I