VII.
He sat down to the pianisto with a strange and agreeable sense ofsecurity. It is true that, owing to the time of year, the drawing-roomhad been, in the figurative phrase, turned upside down by the process ofspring-cleaning, which his unexpected arrival had surprised in fullestactivity. But he did not mind that. He abode content among rolledcarpets, a swathed chandelier, piled chairs, and walls full of palerectangular spaces where pictures had been. Early that morning, after abrief night spent partly in bed and partly in erect contemplation of hisimmediate past and his immediate future, he had hurried back to hispianisto and his home--to the beings and things that he knew and thatknew him.
In the train he had had the pleasure of reading in sundry newspapersthat "The Orient Pearl," by Carlo Trent (who was mentioned in terms ofstartling respect and admiration), had been performed on the previousevening at the dramatic _soiree_ of the Azure Society, with all theusual accompaniments of secrecy and exclusiveness, in its privatetheatre in Kensington, and had been accepted on the spot by Mr. E. H.Machin ("that most enterprising and enlightened recruit to the ranks oftheatrical managers ") for production at the new Regent Theatre. Andfurther, that Mr. Machin intended to open with it. And still further,that his selection of such a play, which combined in the highest degreethe poetry of Mr. W. B. Yeats with the critical intellectuality of Mr.Bernard Shaw, was of excellent augury for London's dramatic future, andthat the "upward movement" must on no account be thought to have failedbecause of the failure of certain recent ill-judged attempts, by personswho did not understand their business, to force it in particulardirections. And still further, that he, Edward Henry, had engaged forthe principal part Miss Rose Euclid, perhaps the greatest emotionalactress the English-speaking peoples had ever had, but who unfortunatelyhad not been sufficiently seen of late on the London stage, and thatthis would be her first appearance after her recent artistic successesin the United States. And lastly, that Mr. Marrier (whose name would beremembered in connection with ... etc., etc.) was Mr. E. H. Machin'sacting manager and technical adviser. Edward Henry could trace the handof Marrier in all the paragraphs. Marrier had lost no time.
Mrs. Machin, senior, came into the drawing-room just as he was adjustingthe "Tannhaeuser" overture to the mechanician. The piece was one of hismajor favourites.
"This is no place for you, my lad," said Mrs. Machin grimly, glancinground the room. "But I came to tell ye as th' mutton's been cooling atleast five minutes. You gave out as you were hungry."
"Keep your hair on, Mother," said he, springing up.
Barely twelve hours earlier he had been mincing among the elect and theselect and the intellectual and the poetic and the aristocratic; amongthe lah-di-dah and Kensingtonian accents; among rouged lips and bluehose and fixed simperings; in the centre of the universe. And he hadconducted himself with considerable skill accordingly. Nobody, on theprevious night, could have guessed from the cut of his fancy waistcoat,or the judiciousness of his responses to remarks about verse, that hiswife often wore a white apron, or that his mother was--the woman shewas! He had not unskillfully caught many of the tricks of thatmetropolitan environment. But now they all fell away from him, and hewas just Edward Henry--nay, he was almost the old Denry again.
"Who chose this mutton?" he asked as he bent over the juicy and richjoint and cut therefrom exquisite thick slices with a carving-knife likea razor.
"_I_ did, if ye want to know," said his mother. "Anything amiss withit?" she challenged.
"No. It's fine."
"Yes," said she, "I'm wondering whether you get aught as good as that inthese grand hotels, as you call 'em."
"We don't," said Edward Henry. First, it was true, and secondly he wasanxious to be propitiatory, for he had a plan to further.
He looked at his wife. She was not talkative, but she had received himin the hall with every detail of affection, if a little absent-mindedly,owing to the state of the house. She had not been caustic, like hismother, about this male incursion into spring-cleaning. She had notinformed the surrounding air that she failed to understand why them aswere in London couldn't stop in London for a bit, as his mother had.Moreover, though the spring-cleaning fully entitled her to wear a whiteapron at meals, she was not wearing a white apron, which was a sign tohim that she still loved him enough to want to please him. On thewhole, he was fairly optimistic about his plan of salvation.Nevertheless, it was not until nearly the end of the meal, when one ofhis mother's ample pies was being consumed, that he began to try tobroach it.
"Nell," he said, "I suppose you wouldn't care to come to London withme?"
"Oh!" she answered smiling, a smile of a peculiar quality. It wasastonishing how that simple woman could put just one-tenth of one percent. of irony into a good-natured smile. "What's the meaning of this?"Then she flushed. The flush touched Edward Henry in an extraordinarymanner.
("To think," he reflected, incredulously, "that only last night I wastalking in the dark to Elsie April--and here I am now!" And heremembered the glory of Elsie's frock, and her thrilling voice in thegloom, and that pose of hers as she leaned dimly forward.)
"Well," he said aloud, as naturally as he could. "That theatre'sbeginning to get up on its hind legs now, and I should like you to seeit."
A difficult pass for him, as regards his mother! This was the first timehe had ever overtly spoken of the theatre in his mother's presence. Inthe best bedroom he had talked of it, but even there with a certainself-consciousness and false casualness. Now his mother stared straightin front of her with an expression of which she alone among human beingshad the monopoly.
"I should like to," said Nellie generously.
"Well," said he, "I've got to go back to town to-morrow. Wilt come withme, lass?"
"Don't be silly, Edward Henry," said she. "How can I leave Mother in themiddle of all this spring-cleaning?"
"You needn't leave Mother. We'll take her too," said Edward Henrylightly.
"You won't!" observed Mrs. Machin.
"I _have_ to go to-morrow, Nell," said Edward Henry. "And I wasthinking you might as well come with me. It will be a change for you."
(He said to himself: "And not only have I to go to-morrow, but youabsolutely must come with me, my girl. That's the one thing to do.")
"It would be a change for me," Nellie agreed. She was beyond doubtflattered and calmly pleased. "But I can't possibly come to-morrow. Youcan see that for yourself, dear."
"No, I can't!" he cried impatiently. "What does it matter? Mother'llbe here. The kids'll be all right. After all, spring cleaning isn'tthe day of judgment."
"Edward Henry," said his mother, cutting in between them like a thinblade, "I wish you wouldn't be blasphemous. London's London, andBursley's Bursley." She had finished.
"It's quite out of the question for me to come to-morrow, dear. I musthave notice. I really must."
And Edward Henry saw with alarm that Nellie had made up her mind, andthat the flattered calm pleasure in his suggestion had faded from herface.
"Oh, dash these domesticated women!" he thought, and shortly afterwardsdeparted, brooding, to the offices of the Thrift Club.