University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII
HONORIA AGAIN

7, Fig Tree Court, Temple.
March 20, 1902.

DEAR HONORIA,--

I am going down to spend Easter with my people in South Wales. Before I leave I should so very much like a long talk with you where we can talk freely and undisturbed. That is impossible at the Office for a hundred reasons, especially now that Beryl Claridge has taken to working early in her new-found zeal, while Bertie Adams deems it his duty to stay late. I am--really, truly--grieved to hear that your mother is so ill again. I would not ask to meet her--even if she was well enough to receive people--because she does not know me and when one is as ill as she is, the introduction to a stranger is a horrid jar. But if you could fit in say an hour's detachment from her side--is it "bed-side" or is she able to get up?--and could receive me in your own sitting-room, why then we could have that full and free talk I should like on your affairs and on mine and on the joint affairs of Fraser and Warren.

Yours sincerely,
D. V. W.

DEAR DAVID,--

Come by all means. The wish for a talk is fully reciprocated on my side. Mother generally tries to sleep in the afternoon between three and six, and a Nurse is then with her.

Yours sincerely,
H. F.

"Mr. David Williams wishes to see you, Miss," said a waiter, meeting Honoria on a Thursday afternoon, as she was emerging into their tiny hall from her mother's room.

"Show him up, please.... Ah there you are, David. We must both talk rather low as mother is easily waked. Come into my study; fortunately it is at the other end of the flat."

* * * * *

They reach the study, and Honoria closes the door softly but firmly behind them.

"We never do kiss as a rule, having long ago given up such a messy form of greeting; but certainly we wouldn't under these circumstances lest we could be seen from the opposite windows and thought to be 'engaged'; but though I may seem a little frigid in greeting you, it is only because of the clothes you are wearing'--You understand, don't you--?"

"Quite, dearest. We cannot be too careful. Besides we long ago agreed to be modern and sanitary in our manners."

"Won't you smoke?"

"Well, perhaps it would be more restful," said David, "more manly; but as a matter of fact of late I have been rather 'off' smoking. It is very wasteful, and as far as I am concerned it never produced much effect--either way--on the nerves. Still, it gives one a nice manly flavour. I always liked the smell of a smoking-room.... And your mother: how is she?"

"Very bad, I fear. The doctor tells me she can't last much longer, and hypocritical as the phrase sounds I couldn't wish her to, unless these pains can be mitigated, and this dreadful distress in breathing.... I wonder if some day I shall be like that, and if behind my back a daughter will be saying she couldn't wish me to live much longer, unless, etc. I shall miss her frightfully,

if she does die.... Armstrong has been more than kind. He has got a woman's heart for tenderness. He thinks every day of some fresh palliative until the doctors quite dislike him. Fortunately his kindness gives mother a fleeting gleam of pleasure. She wants me to marry him--I don't know, I'm sure.... Whilst she's so bad I don't feel I could take any interest in love-making--and I suppose we should make love in a perfunctory way--We're all of us so bound by conventions. We try to feel dismal at funerals, when often the weather is radiant and the ride down to Brookwood most exhilarating. And love-making is supposed to go with marriage ... heigh-ho! What should you say if I did marry--Major Armstrong...? Did you ever hear of such a ridiculous name as Petworth? I should have to call him 'Pet' and every one would think I had gone sentimental in middle age. How can parents be so unthinking about Christian names? He can't see the thing as I do; it is almost the only subject on which he is 'huffy.' You are the other, about which more anon. He says the Petworth property meant everything to the Armstrongs, to his branch of the Armstrongs. But for that, they might have been any other kind of Armstrong--it always kept him straight at school and in the army, he says, to remember he was an Armstrong of Petworth. They have held that poor little property (I call it) alongside the Egmonts and the Leconfields for three hundred years, though they've been miserably poor. His second name is James--Petworth James Armstrong. But he loathes being called 'Jimmy.'

"Of course, dear, I've no illusions. I'm not bad to look at--indeed I sometimes quite admire my figure when I see myself after my bath in the cheval glass--but I'm pretty well sure that one of the factors in Pet's admiration for me was my income. Mother, it seems, has a little of her own, from one of her aunts, and if

the poor darling is taken--though it is simply horrid considering that if--only that she has talked so freely to Army--I think I like 'Army' far better than 'Pet'--Well I mean she's been trying to tell him ever since he first came to call that when she is gone I shall have, all told, in my own right, Five thousand a year. So I took the first opportunity of letting him know that Two thousand a year of that would be held in reserve for the work of the firm and for the Woman's Cause generally.... Look here, I won't babble on much longer.... I know you're dying to make me confidences.... We'll ring for tea to be sent in here, and whilst the waiter is coming and going--Don't they take such a time about it, when they're de trop?--we'll talk of ordinary things that can be shouted from the house tops.

"I haven't been to the Office for three days. Does everything seem to be going on all right?"

David: "Quite all right. Bertie Adams tries dumbly to express in his eyes his determination to see the firm and me through all our troubles and adventures. I wish I could convey a discreet hint to him not to be so blatantly discreet. If there were a Sherlock Holmes about the place he would spot at once that Adams and I shared a secret.... But about Beryl--" (Enter waiter....)

Honoria (to waiter): "Oh--er--tea for two please. Remember it must be China and the still-room maids must see that the water has been fresh-boiled. And buttered toast--or if you've got muffins...? You have? Well, then muffins; and of course jam and cake. And--would you mind--you always try, I know--bringing the things in very quietly--here--? Because Lady Fraser is so easily waked..."

(The Swiss waiter goes out, firmly convinced that Honoria's anxiety for her lady mother is really due to the desire that the mother should not interrupt a flirtation and a clandestine tea.)

Honoria: "Well, about Beryl?"

David: "Beryl, I should say, is going to become a great woman of business. But for that, and--I think--a curious streak of fidelity to her vacillating architect ('How happy could I be with either,' don't you know, he seems to feel--just now they say he is living steadily at Storrington with his wife No. 1, who is ill, poor thing) ... but for that and this, I think Beryl would enjoy a flirtation with me. She can't quite make me out, and my unwavering severity of manner. Her cross-questioning sometimes is maddening--or it might become so, but that with both of us--you and me--retiring so much into the background she has to lead such a strenuous life and see one after the other the more important clients. Of course--here's the tea..."

(Brief interval during which the waiter does much unnecessary laying out of the tea until Honoria says: "Don't let me keep you. I know you are busy at this time. I will ring if we want anything.") David continues: "Of course I come in for my share of the work after six. On one point Beryl is firm; she doesn't mind coming at nine or at eight or at half-past seven in the morning, but she must be back in Chelsea by half-past five to see her babies, wash them and put them to bed. She has a tiny little house, she tells me, near Trafalgar Square, and fortunately she's got an excellent and devoted nurse, one of those rare treasures that questions nothing and is only interested in the business in hand. She and a cook-general make up the establishment. Before Mrs. Architect No. 1 became ill, Mr. Architect used to visit her there pretty regularly, and is assumed to be Mr. Claridge.... Well: to finish up about Beryl: I think you--we--can trust her. She may be odd in her notions of morality, but in finance or business she's as honest--as--a man."

"My dear Vivie--I mean David--what a strange

thing for you to say! I suppose it is part of your make-up--goes with the clothes and that turn-over collar, and the little safety pin through the tie--?"

David: "No, I said it deliberately. Men are mostly hateful things, but I think in business they're more dependable than women--think more about telling a lie or letting any one down. The point for you to seize on is this--if you haven't noticed it already: that Beryl has become an uncommonly good business woman. And what's more, my dear, you've improved her just as you improved me" (Honoria deprecates this with a gesture, as she sits looking into the fire). "Beryl's talk is getting ever so much less reckless. And she takes jolly good care not to scandalize a client. She finds Adams--she tells me--so severe at the least jest or personality that she only talks to him now on business matters, and finds him a great stand-by; and the other day she told Miss A.--as you call the senior clerk--she ought to be ashamed of herself, bringing in a copy of the Vie Parisienne. The way she settled Mrs. Gordon's affairs--you remember, No. 3875 you catalogued the case--was masterly; and Mrs. G. has insisted on paying 5 per cent. commission on the recovered property. And it was Beryl who found out that leakage in the 'Variegated Tea Rooms' statement of accounts. I hadn't spotted it. No. I think we needn't be anxious about Beryl, especially whilst I am in Wales and you are giving yourself up--as you ought to do--to your mother. But it's coming to this, Honoria--" (Enter waiter. David says "Oh, damn," half audibly. Waiter is confirmed in his suspicions, but as he likes Honoria immensely resolves to say nothing about them in the Steward's room. She is such a kind young lady. He explains he has come to take the tea things away, and Honoria replies "Capital idea! Now, David, you'll be able to have the whole table for your accounts!").... "It's coming to this, Honoria,"

says David, clearing his throat, "that you will soon be wanting not to be bothered any more with the affairs of Fraser and Warren, and after I really get into the Law business I too shall require to detach myself. Let us therefore be thankful that Beryl is shaping so well. I rather think this summer you will have to get more office accommodation and give her some more responsible women to help her.... Now finish what you were saying about Major Armstrong."

Honoria: "Of course I shall marry him some day. I suppose I felt that the day after I first met him. But it amuses me to be under no illusion. I am sure this is what happened two years ago--or whenever it was he came back wounded from your favourite haunt, South Africa. Michael Rossiter--who likes 'Army' enormously--I think they were at school or college together--said to Linda, his wife: 'Here's Armstrong. One of the best. Wants to marry. Wife must have a little money, otherwise he'll have to go on letting Petworth Manor. And here's Honoria Fraser, one of the finest women I've ever met. Getting a little long in the tooth--or will be soon. Let's bring 'em together and make a match of it.'

"So we are each convoked for a luncheon, with a projected adjournment to Kew--which you spoilt--and there it is. But joking apart, 'Army' is a dear and I am sure by now he wants me even more than my money--and I certainly want him. I'm rising thirty and I long for children and don't want 'em to come to me too late in life."

David: "You said he didn't like me..."

Honoria: "Oh that was half nonsense. When we all met last Sunday at the Rossiters he became very jealous and suspicious. Asked who was that whipper-snapper--I said you neither whipped nor snapped, especially if kindly treated. He said then who was that

Madonna young man--a phrase it appears he'd picked up from Lord Cromer, who used to apply it to every new arrival from the Foreign Office--Armstrong was once his military secretary. I was surprised to hear he thought you womanish--I spoke of your fencing, riding,--was just going to add 'hockey,' and 'croquet': then remembered they might be thought feminine pastimes, so referred to your swimming. Military men always respect a good swimmer; I fancy because many of them funk the water.... I was just going on to explain that you were a cousin of a great friend of mine and helped me in my business, when a commissionaire came from Quansions in a hansom to say that mother was feeling very bad again. 'Army' and I went back in the hansom, but I was crying a little and being a gentleman he did not press his suit..."

Enter Lady Fraser's nurse on tiptoe. Says in a very hushed voice "Major Armstrong has called, Miss Fraser. He came to ask about Lady Fraser. I said if anything she was a bit better and had had a good sleep. He then asked if he might see you."

Honoria: "Certainly. Would you mind showing him in here? It will save my ringing for the waiter."

Enter Major Armstrong. At the sight of David he flushes and looks fierce.

Honoria: "So glad you've come, dear Major. I hear mother has had a good nap. I must go to her presently. You know David Vavasour Williams?--Davy! You really must leave out your second name! It gets so fatiguing having to say it every time I introduce you."

Armstrong bows stiffly and David, standing with one well-shaped foot in a neat boot on the curb of the fireplace, looks up and returns the bow.

Honoria: "This won't do. You are two of my dearest friends, and yet you hardly greet one another. I always determined from the age of fifteen onwards I

would never pass my life as men and women in a novel do--letting misunderstandings creep on and on where fifty words might settle them. Army! You've often asked me to marry you--or at least so I've understood your broken sentences. I never refused you in so many words. Now I say distinctly 'Yes'--if you'll have me. Only, you know quite well I can't actually marry you whilst mother lies so ill..."

Major Armstrong, very red in the face, in a mixture of exultation, sympathy and annoyance that the affairs of his heart are being discussed before a whipper-snapper stranger--says: "Honoria! Do you mean it? Oh..."

Honoria: "Of course I mean it! And if I drew back you could now have a breach-of-promise-of-marriage action, with David as an important witness. D.V.W.--who by the bye is a cousin of my greatest friend--my friend for life, whether you like her--as you ought to do--or not--Vivie Warren.... David is reading for the Bar; and besides being your witness to what I have just said, might--if you deferred your action long enough--be your Counsel.... Now look here," (with a catch in the voice) "you two dear things. My nerves are all to bits.... I haven't slept properly for nights and nights. David, dear, if you must talk any more business before you go down to Wales, you must come and see me to-morrow.... Darling mother! I can't bear the thought you may not live to see my happiness." (David discreetly withdraws without a formal good-bye, and as he goes out and the firelight flickers up, sees Armstrong take Honoria in his arms.)